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

view, it’s true, but I have a contempt for the world. But that is my misfortune; for directly I hear of a single act of generosity or kindness, I love humanity again, and overrate my fellowmen, only to be deceived afresh.”

“Be more selfish! Let the devil take your fellowmen!”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Try another profession; join your brother; he seems to get on in this world. I saw him yesterday at the church council of the Parish of St. Nicholas.”

“At the church council?”

“Yes; that man has a future. The pastor primarius nodded to him. He’ll soon be an alderman, like all landed proprietors.”

“What about the Triton?”

“They work with debentures now; but your brother hasn’t lost anything by it, even though he hasn’t made anything. No, he’s other fish to fry!”

“Don’t let us talk of that man.”

“But he’s your brother!”

“That isn’t his merit! But now tell me what you want.”

“My boy’s funeral is tomorrow, and I have no dress-coat.⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ll lend you mine.”

“Thank you, brother. You’re extricating me from an awkward position. That was one thing, but there is something else, of a rather more delicate nature.⁠ ⁠…”

“Why come to me, your enemy, with your delicate confidences? I’m surprised.⁠ ⁠…”

“Because you are a man of heart.”

“Don’t build on that any longer! But go on.”

“How irritable you’ve grown! You’re not the same man; you used to be so gentle.”

“We discussed that before! Speak up!”

“I want to ask you whether you would come with me to the churchyard.”

“I? Why don’t you ask one of your colleagues from the Grey Bonnet?”

“There are reasons. I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. I’m not married.”

“Not married! You! The defender of religion and morality, have broken the sacred bonds!”

“Poverty, the force of circumstances! But I’m just as happy as if I were married! I love my wife and she loves me, and that’s all. But there’s another reason. The child has not been baptized; it was three weeks old when it died, and therefore no clergyman will bury it. I don’t dare to tell this to my wife, because she would fret. I’ve told her the clergyman would meet us in the churchyard; I’m telling you this to prevent a possible scene. She, of course, will remain at home. You’ll only meet two other fellows; one of them, Levi, is a younger brother of the director of the Triton, and one of the employees of that society. He’s a decent sort, with an unusually good head and a still better heart. Don’t laugh, I can see that you think I’ve borrowed money from him⁠—and so I have⁠—he’s a man you’ll like. The other one is my old friend, Dr. Borg, who treated the little one. He is very broad-minded, a man without any prejudices; you’ll get on with him! I can count on you, can’t I? There’ll be four of us in the coach, and the little coffin, of course.”

“Very well, I’ll come.”

“There’s one more thing. My wife has religious scruples and is afraid that the little one won’t go to heaven because he died without baptism. She asks everybody’s opinion on the subject, so as to ease her mind.”

“But what about the Augsburg Confession?”

“It’s not a question of confessions.”

“But in writing to your paper, you always uphold the official faith.”

“The paper is the affair of the syndicate; if it likes to cling to Christianity, it may do so for all I care! My work for the syndicate is a matter apart. Please agree with my wife if she tells you that she believes that her child will go to heaven.”

“I don’t mind denying the faith in order to make a human heart happy, particularly as I don’t hold it. But you haven’t told me yet where you live.”

“Do you know where the White Mountains are?”

“Yes! Are you living in the spotted house on the mountain rock?”

“Do you know it?”

“I’ve been there once.”

“Then perhaps you know Ygberg, the Socialist, who leads the people astray? I am the landlord’s deputy⁠—Smith owns the property⁠—I live there rent free on condition that I collect the rents; whenever the rents are not forthcoming, the people talk nonsense which he has put into their heads about capital and labour, and other things which fill the columns of the Socialistic press.”

Falk did not reply.

“Do you know Ygberg?”

“Yes, I do. But won’t you try on my dress-coat now?”

Struve tried it on, put his own damp coat over it, buttoned it up to the chin, lit the chewed-up end of his cigar, impaled on a match, and went.

Falk lighted him downstairs.

“You’ve a long way to go,” he said, merely to say something.

“The Lord knows it! And I have no umbrella.”

“And no overcoat. Would you like my winter coat?”

“Many thanks. It’s very kind of you.”

“You can return it to me by and by.”

He went back to his room, fetched the overcoat and gave it to Struve, who was waiting in the entrance hall. After a brief good night they parted.

Falk found the atmosphere in his room stifling; he opened the window. The rain was coming down in torrents, splashing on the tiles and running down into the dirty street. Tattoo sounded in the barracks opposite; vespers were being sung in the lodgment; fragments of the verses floated through the open window.

Falk felt lonely and tired. He had been longing to fight a battle with a representative of all he regarded as inimical to progress; but the enemy, after having to some extent beaten him, had fled. He tried to understand clearly what the quarrel was about, but failed in his effort; he was unable to say who was right. He asked himself whether the cause he served, namely, the cause of the oppressed, had any existence. But at the next moment he reproached himself with cowardice, and the steady fanaticism which glowed in him burst into fresh flames; he condemned the weakness which again and again had induced him to yield. Just now he had held the enemy in his hand, and not only had he not shown