The Red Room, August Strindberg [the mitten read aloud txt] 📗

retained her there for a few moments in order to ask her opinion of the new furniture. Mrs. Homan wasted no time on the solid oak sideboard dating from the time of Charles XII, with the tall Japanese vases, because she felt small by the side of it; she looked at the chandelier which she found too modern, and the dining-table, which, she said, was not in keeping with the prevailing style; in addition to this she considered that the oleographs were out of place among the old family portraits, and took quite a long time to explain the difference between an oil painting and an oleograph. Mrs. Falk’s new silk-lined velvet dress swished against every corner within reach without succeeding in attracting her friend’s attention. She asked her whether she liked the new Brussels carpet in the drawing-room; Mrs. Homan thought it contrasted too crudely with the curtains; at last Mrs. Falk felt annoyed with her and dropped her questions.

They sat down at the drawing-room table, clutching at life-buoys in the guise of photographs, unreadable volumes of verse, and so on. A little pamphlet fell into Mrs. Homan’s hands; it was printed on gold-edged pink paper and bore the title: “To the wholesale merchant Nicholas Falk, on his fortieth birthday.”

“Ah! These are the verses which were read at your party! Who wrote them?”

“A very clever man, a friend of my husband’s. His name’s Nyström.”

“Hm! How queer that his name should be quite unknown! Such a clever man! But why wasn’t he at your party?”

“Unfortunately he was ill, my dear; so he couldn’t come.”

“I see! But, my dear Eugenia, isn’t it awfully sad about your brother-in-law? I hear he’s so very badly off.”

“Don’t mention him! He’s a disgrace and a grief to the whole family! It’s terrible!”

“Yes; it was quite unpleasant when everybody asked about him at your party. I was so sorry for you, dear.⁠ ⁠…”

This is for the oak sideboard, dating from the time of Charles XII, and the Japanese vases, thought the controller’s wife.

“For me! Oh, please don’t! You mean for my husband?” interrupted Mrs. Falk.

“Surely, that’s the same thing!”

“Not at all! I can’t be held responsible for all the black sheep in his family.”

“What a pity it was that your parents, also, were ill and couldn’t come! How’s your dear father?”

“Thanks. He’s quite well again. How kind of you to think of everybody!”

“Well, one shouldn’t think of oneself only! Is he delicate, the old⁠—what is his title?”

“Captain, if you like.”

“Captain! I was under the impression that my husband said he was⁠—one of the crew of the flagship, but very likely it’s the same thing. But where were the girls?”

That’s for the Brussels carpet, mentally reflected the controller’s wife.

“They are so full of whims, they can never be depended on.”

Mrs. Falk turned over the leaves in her photograph album; the binding cracked; she was in a towering rage.

“I say, dear, who was the disagreeable individual who read the verses on the night of your party?”

“You mean Mr. Levin; the royal secretary; he’s my husband’s most intimate friend.”

“Is he really? Hm! How strange! My husband’s a controller in the same office where he’s a secretary; I don’t want to vex you, or say anything unpleasant; I never do; but my husband says that Levin’s in such bad circumstances that it’s not wise for your husband to associate with him.”

“Does he? That’s a matter of which I know nothing, and in which I don’t interfere, and let me tell you, my dear Evelyn, I never interfere in my husband’s affairs, though I’ve heard of people who do.”

“I beg your pardon, dear, I thought I was doing you a service by telling you.”

That’s for the chandelier and the dining-table. There only remains the velvet dress.

“Well,” the controller’s wife took up the thread again, “I hear that your brother-in-law.⁠ ⁠…”

“Spare my feelings and don’t talk of the creature!”

“Is he really such a bad lot? I’ve been told that he associates with the worst characters in town.⁠ ⁠…”

At this juncture Mrs. Falk was reprieved; the footman announced Lady Rehnhjelm.

Oh! How welcome she was! How kind of her it was to come!

And Mrs. Falk really was pleased to see the old lady with the kindly expression in her eyes; an expression only found in the eyes of those who have weathered the storms of life with true courage.

“My dear Mrs. Falk,” said her ladyship taking a seat; “I have all sorts of kind messages for you from your brother-in-law.”

Mrs. Falk wondered what she had done to the old woman that she, too, evidently wanted to annoy her.

“Indeed?” she said, a little stiffly.

“He’s a charming young man. He came to see my nephew today, at my house; they are great friends! He really is an excellent young man!”

“Isn’t he?” joined in Mrs. Homan, always ready for a change of front. “We were just talking about him.”

“Indeed? What I most admire in him is his courage in venturing on a course where one easily runs aground; but we need have no apprehensions so far as he is concerned; he’s a man of character and principle. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Falk?”

“I’ve always said so, but my husband thinks differently.”

“Oh! Your husband has always had peculiar views,” interposed Mrs. Homan.

“Is he a friend of your nephew’s, Lady Rehnhjelm?” asked Mrs. Falk eagerly.

“Yes, they both belong to a small circle, some of the members of which are artists. You must have heard about young Sellén, whose picture was bought by his Majesty?”

“Of course, I have! We went to the Exhibition on purpose to have a look at it. Is he one of them?”

“Yes; they’re often very hard up, these young fellows, but that’s nothing new in the case of young men who have to fight their way in the world.”

“They say your brother-in-law’s a poet,” went on Mrs. Homan.

“Oh, rather! He writes excellent verse! The academy gave him a prize; the world will hear of him in time,” replied Mrs. Falk with conviction.

“Haven’t I always said so?” agreed Mrs. Homan.

And Arvid Falk’s talents were enlarged upon, so that he had arrived in the Temple of Fame