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

The candidate had remained at the door; he had taken off his gloves, put down his stick, blown his nose, and put back the handkerchief into his pocket without taking the least notice of Struve’s repeated attempts to introduce him; he believed that he was still in the entrance hall; but now he took his hat, scraped the floor with his foot and made a step into the room.

“Good morning, Jenny! How are you?” he said, seizing Mrs. Struve’s hand with as much eagerness as if it were a matter of life and death. He bowed, hardly perceptibly, to Falk, with the snarl of a dog who sees a strange dog in its yard.

Young Mr. Levi followed at the heels of the candidate, responding to his smiles, applauding his sarcasms, and generally kowtowing to his superiority.

Mrs. Struve opened a bottle of hock and filled the glasses. Struve raised his glass and welcomed his guests. The candidate opened his mouth, made a canal of his tongue, poured the contents of the glass on it, grinned as if it were physic and swallowed it.

“It’s awfully sour and nasty,” said Mrs. Struve; “would you prefer a glass of punch, Henrik?”

“Yes, it is very nasty,” agreed the candidate, and Levi eagerly seconded him.

The punch was brought in. Borg’s face brightened; he looked for a chair, and immediately Levi brought him one.

The party sat down round the dining-table. The strong scent of the stocks mingled with the smell of the wine; the candles were reflected in the glasses, the conversation became lively, and soon a column of smoke stood above the candidate’s chair. Mrs. Struve glanced uneasily at the little sleeper near the window, but nobody saw her look.

Presently a coach stopped in the street outside the house. Everybody rose except the candidate. Struve coughed, and in a low voice, as if he had something unpleasant to say, he whispered:

“Shall we get ready now?”

Mrs. Struve went to the coffin and stooped over it, weeping bitterly; when, in drawing back, she saw her husband standing behind her with the coffin lid, she burst into loud sobs.

“There, there, compose yourself,” said Struve, hastening to screw down the lid as if he wanted to hide something. Borg, looking like a yawning horse, gulped down another glass of punch. Mr. Levi helped Struve to screw down the lid, displaying quite extraordinary skill; he seemed to be packing a bale of goods.

The men shook hands with Mrs. Struve, put on their overcoats and went; the woman warned them to be careful in going downstairs; the stairs were old and rotten.

Struve marched in front, carrying the coffin; when he stepped into the street and became aware of the little crowd which had collected before the house, he felt flattered, and the devil of pride took possession of him. He scolded the driver who had omitted to open the door and let down the steps; to heighten the effect of his words, he spoke with contemptuous familiarity to the tall man in livery who, hat in hand, hastened to carry out his commands.

From the centre of the crowd, where the boy Janne was standing, came a short, scornful cough; but when the boy saw that he was attracting universal attention, he raised his eyes towards the chimneys, and seemed to be eagerly looking for the sweep.

The door of the coach slammed behind the four men; a lively conversation broke out between some of the younger members of the mass-meeting, who now felt more at their ease.

“I say, what a swell coffin! Did you see it?”

“Yes! But did you see that there was no name on it?”

“Wasn’t there?”

“No! Didn’t you see it? It was quite plain.”

“Why was that, then?”

“Don’t you know? Because he was a bastard.⁠ ⁠…”

The whip cracked, and the coach rumbled off. Falk’s eyes strayed to the window; he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Struve, who had already removed some of the sheets, blowing out the candles; and he saw the two cubs standing by the side of her, each with a glass of wine in his hand.

The coach rattled along, through street after street; nobody attempted to speak. Struve, sitting with the coffin on his knees, looked embarrassed; it was still daylight; he longed to make himself invisible.

It was a long journey to the churchyard, but it finally came to an end. They arrived.

A row of coaches stood before the gate. They bought wreaths and the gravedigger took possession of the coffin. After a lengthy walk, the small procession stopped quite at the back on the north side of the churchyard, close to a new sandfield.

The gravedigger placed the coffin in position.

Borg commanded:

“Hold tight! Ease off! Let go!”

And the little nameless child was lowered three yards into the ground.

There was a pause; all heads were bowed and all eyes looking into the grave, as if they were waiting for something.

A leaden sky gloomed dismally over the large, deserted sandfield, the white poles of which looked like the shadows of little children who had lost their way. The dark wood might have been the background in a magic lantern show; the wind was hushed.

All of a sudden a voice rose, tremulous at first, but growing in clearness and intensity, as if it were speaking from an inner conviction. Levi was standing on the pall, bareheaded:

“In the safe keeping of the Most High, resting in the shadow of His omnipotence, I say to the Eternal: Oh, Thou my stronghold, my defence in all eternity, my God in whom I trust⁠—Kaddisch. Lord, Almighty God, let Thy holy name be worshipped and sanctified in the whole world. Thou wilt, in Thy own time, renew the world. Thou wilt awaken the dead and call them to a new life. Everlasting peace reigns in Thy kingdom. Give us and all Israel Thy peace. Amen.

“Sleep soundly, little one, to whom no name had been given. He who knoweth His own will give you a name; sleep soundly in the autumn night, no evil spirits will trouble you, although you never received the holy water; rejoice