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

a third figure, Love, of which there was no trace, and for which there could have been no room; moreover, it was proved by specimens from the rich collection of arrowheads in the historical museum, that the fragment in question was not an anchor, but an arrowhead, which forms a part of the weapons belonging to the symbols of Unbelief. The shape of the arrowhead, which resembled in every detail those from the period of the Vice-Regent Sture, removed the last doubt as to the age of the figure.

It was my task to make a statue of Unbelief, as a companion to the figure of Faith, in accordance with the directions of the professors. I was given my instructions and I did not hesitate. I looked for a male model, for the figure was to be a man; I had to look for a long time, but I found him in the end; I really believe I met the personification of Unbelief⁠—and I succeeded brilliantly.

And there he now stands, Falander, the actor, to the left of the altar, with a Mexican bow (used in the drama Ferdinand Cortez) and a robber’s cloak (from Fra Diavolo), but the people say that it is Unbelief throwing down his arms before Faith. And the Deputy-Superintendent, who preached the inaugural sermon, spoke of the splendid gifts which God sometimes gives to man, and which, in this case, he had given to me; and the Count, who gave the inaugural dinner, declared that I had created a masterpiece, fit to stand side by side with the antiques (he’s been in Italy); and a student who occupies some post in the Count’s household, seized the opportunity to write and circulate some verses, in which he developed the conception of the Sublimely Beautiful, and gave a history of the Myth of the Devil.

Up to now I have, like a true egoist, spoken only of myself. What am I to say about Lundell’s altarpiece? I will try to describe it to you. Christ (Rehnhjelm) hangs on the cross in the background; to the left is the impenitent thief (I; and the rascal has made me worse-looking than I am); to the right the repenting thief (Lundell himself, squinting with hypocritical eyes at Rehnhjelm); at the foot of the cross Mary Magdalene (you will remember Marie⁠—in a very low dress), and a Roman centurion (Falander) on horseback (stallion belonging to Alderman Olsson).

I cannot describe the awful impression made on me when, after the sermon, the picture was unveiled, and I saw all these well-known faces staring from the wall above the altar at the community rapturously listening to the words of the preacher on the great importance of art, particularly art in the service of religion. As far as I am concerned, a veil has been lifted from many things; I will tell you by and by my thoughts on Faith and Unbelief. I am going to embody my views on art and its high mission in an essay, and read it at some public hall as soon as I am back in town.

It goes without saying that Lundell’s religious sense has tremendously developed during those “dear” days. He is, comparatively speaking, happy in his colossal self-deception, and has no idea what a rascal he really is.

I think I have told you everything now; anything else verbally when we meet. Until then, goodbye. I hope you are in good health and spirits.

Your friend,

Olle Montanus.

P.S. I must not forget to tell you the result of the antiquarian research. The end of it all was that old Jan, an inmate of the almshouses, remembered having seen the figures when he was a child. He said there had been three: Faith, Hope, and Love; and as Love was the greatest of these, it had stood above the altar. In the first decade of this century a flash of lightning had struck Love and Faith. The figures had been the work of his father who was a carver of figureheads in the naval port Karlskrona.

O. M.

When Falk had read the letters, he sat down at his writing-table, examined his lamp to see whether there was plenty of oil in it, lit his pipe, took a manuscript from his table-drawer, and began to write.

XIX From Churchyard to Public-House

The September afternoon lay grey and warm and still over the capital as Falk climbed the hills in the south. When he had arrived at the churchyard of St. Catherine’s he sat down to rest; he noticed with a feeling of genuine pleasure that the maples had turned colour during the recent cold nights, and he welcomed autumn with its darkness, its grey clouds, and falling leaves.

Not a breath stirred; it was as if Nature were resting, tired after the work of the short summer. Everything was asleep; the dead were lying beneath the sod, calm and peaceful, as if they had never been alive; he wished that he had all men there, and that he, himself, was with them.

The clock on the tower chimed the hour, and he rose and continued his walk. He went down Garden Street, turned into New Street⁠—which looked as if it had been new a hundred years ago at least⁠—crossed the New Market, and came to the White Mountains.

He stood still before the spotted house, listening to the children’s chatter, for, as usual, there were children playing about the street; they talked loudly and unreservedly while they were busy polishing little pieces of brick, presently to be used in a game of hopscotch.

“What did you have for dinner, Janne?”

“That’s my business!”

“Your business? Did you say it was your business? Mind what you’re about or you’ll get a hiding.”

“Don’t brag! You with your eyes!”

“Who shoved you into the lake the other day?”

“Oh! shut up!”

Janne received a thrashing, and peace was restored.

“I say! You stole cress in the churchyard the other day, didn’t you, Janne?”

“That cripple Olee split on me!”

“And