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

writhe like a worm trodden under foot, and without knowing it you have committed a wrong; therefore, even happiness is poisoned. Be comforted in misfortune by the thought that every piece of ill-luck which falls to your share is equivalent to a good action, even though it be a good action committed without your knowing it; and the thought of a good action is the only pure enjoyment which is given to us mortals.”

“I don’t want to do any good actions! I don’t want any pure joys! I have the same right to success as everybody else! And I⁠—will⁠—be successful!”

“At any price?”

“I won’t play your mistress’s maid at any price.”

“You’re jealous! Learn to bear failure gracefully! That’s greater⁠—and much more interesting.”

“Tell me one thing! Is she in love with you?”

“I’m afraid she loves me only too well.”

“And you?”

“I? I shall never love any woman but you!”

He seized her hand.

She jumped up from the sofa, showing her stockings.

“Do you believe in what is called love?” she asked, gazing at him with distended pupils.

“I believe there are several kinds of love.”

She crossed the room towards the door.

“Do you love me wholly and entirely?” She put her hand on the door-handle.

He pondered for two seconds. Then he replied:

“Your soul is evil, and I don’t love evil.”

“I don’t care a fig for my soul! Do you love me? Me?”

“Yes! So deeply.⁠ ⁠…”

“Why did you send me Rehnhjelm?”

“Because I wanted to find out what life without you would be like.”

“Did you lie when you said you were tired of me?”

“Yes, I lied.”

“Oh! You old devil!”

She took the key out of the lock and he drew down the blind.

XVIII Nihilism

As Falk was walking home one rainy September evening and turning into Count-Magni-Street, he saw to his amazement that his windows were lit up. When he was near enough to be able to cast a glance into his room from below, he noticed on the ceiling the shadow of a man which seemed familiar, although he could not place it. It was a despondent-looking shadow, and the nearer he came the more despondent it looked.

On entering his room he saw Struve sitting at his writing-table with his head on his hands. His clothes were soaked with rain and clung heavily to his body; there were little puddles on the floor which slowly drained off through the chinks. His hair hung in damp strands from his head, and his usually English whiskers fell like stalactites on his damp coat collar. He had placed his black hat beside him on the table; it had collapsed under its own weight, and the wide crape band which it was wearing suggested that it was mourning for its lost youth.

“Good evening,” said Falk. “This is an unexpected honour.”

“Don’t jeer at me,” begged Struve.

“And why not? I see no reason why I should spare you.”

“I see! You’re done!”

“Yes! I shall turn Conservative too, before long. You’re in mourning, I see; I hope I may congratulate you.”

“I’ve lost a little son.”

“Then I’ll congratulate him! But what do you want here? You know I despise you! I expect you do yourself. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do! But isn’t life bitter enough without our unnecessarily embittering it still further? If God, or Providence, is amused at it, need it follow that man should equally degrade himself?”

“That sounds reasonable and does you honour. Won’t you put on my dressing-gown while you are drying your clothes? You must be cold.”

“Thank you! But I mustn’t stay.”

“Oh! Stay a little while! It will give us a chance of having things out.”

“I don’t like talking about my misfortunes.”

“Then talk about your crimes!”

“I haven’t committed any!”

“Oh, yes, you have! You have committed great crimes! You have put your heavy hand on the oppressed; you have kicked the wounded; you have sneered at the wretched. Do you remember the last strike when you were on the side of power?”

“The side of the law, brother!”

“Haha! The law! Who has dictated the law which governs the life of the poor man, you fool! The rich man! That is to say, the master made the law for the slave.”

“The law was dictated by the whole nation and the universal sense of right. God gave the law.”

“Save your big words when you talk to me. Who wrote the law of 1734? Mr. Kronstedt! Who is responsible for the law of corporal punishment? Colonel Sabelman⁠—it was his Bill, and his friends, who formed the majority at that time, pushed it through. Colonel Sabelman is not the nation and his friends are not the universal sense of right. Who is responsible for the law concerning joint stock companies? Judge Svindelgren. Who is responsible for the new Parliamentary laws? Assessor Vallonius. Who has written the law of ‘legal protection,’ that is to say the protection of the rich from the just claims of the poor? Wholesale merchant grocer. Don’t talk to me! I know your claptrap. Who has written the new law of succession? Criminals! The forest laws? Thieves! The law relating to bills of private banks? Swindlers! And you maintain that God has done it? Poor God!”

“May I give you a piece of advice, bought with my own experience, advice which will be useful to you all your life? If you want to escape self-immolation, a fate which in your fanaticism you are fast approaching, change your point of view as soon as possible. Take a bird’s-eye view of the world, and you will see how small and insignificant everything is. Start with the conviction that the whole world is a rubbish heap; that men are the refuse, no better than eggshells, carrot stalks, cabbage leaves, rags; then nothing will take you by surprise, you will never lose an illusion; but, on the contrary, you will be filled with a great joy whenever you come across a fine thought, a good action; try to acquire a calm contempt of the world⁠—you needn’t be afraid of growing callous.”

“I have not yet attained to that point of