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

could realize what he was doing, he had docked off all the ear lobes. When he perceived what he had done, he painted the wounds with gum and watched it drying in the sun.

He vaguely wondered for a few moments how he was to get dinner, for he had strayed on to that path which leads to destruction, so-called poor circumstances. Finally he lit a pipe and watched the soothing smoke rising and bathing, for a few seconds in the sunshine. It made him feel more tolerant of poor Sweden, as she expressed herself in these daily, weekly, and monthly reports, called the Press.

He put the scissors aside and threw the papers into a corner; he shared the contents of the earthen water-bottle with the aloe; the miserable object looked like a creature whose wings had been clipped; a spirit standing in a bog on its head, digging for something; for pearls, for instance, or at any rate, for empty shells.

Then despair, like a tanner, seized him again with a long hook, and pushed him down into the vat, where he was to be prepared for the knife, which should scrape his skin off and make him like everybody else. And he felt no remorse, no regret at a wasted life, but only despair at having to die in his youth, die the spiritual death, before he had had an opportunity of being of use in the world; despair that he was being cast into the fire as a useless reed.

The clock on the German church struck eleven, and the chimes began to play “Oh Blessed Land” and “My Life a Wave”; as if seized by the same idea, an Italian barrel-organ, with a flute accompaniment, began to play “The Blue Danube.” So much music put new life into the tinsmith below, who began hammering his iron-sheet with redoubled energy.

The din and uproar prevented Falk from becoming aware of the opening of the door and the entrance of two men. One of them had a tall, lean figure, an aquiline nose and long hair; the other one was short, blond, and thick set; his perspiring face much resembled the quadruped which the Hebrews consider more unclean than any other. Their outward appearance betrayed an occupation requiring neither much mental nor great physical strength; it had a quality of vagueness, pointing to irregularity of work and habits.

“Hsh!” whispered the tall man, “are you alone?”

Falk was partly pleased, partly annoyed at the sight of his visitors.

“Quite alone; the Red One’s left town.”

“Has he? Come along then and have some dinner.”

Falk had no objection; he locked the office and went with his visitors to the nearest public-house, where the three of them sat down in the darkest corner.

“Here, have some brandy,” said the thickset man, whose glazed eyes sparkled at the sight of the brandy bottle.

But Falk who had only joined his friends because he was yearning for sympathy and comfort, paid no attention to the proffered delights.

“I haven’t been as miserable as this for a long time,” he said.

“Have some bread and butter and a herring,” said the tall man. “We’ll have some caraway cheese. Here! Waiter!”

“Can’t you advise me?” Falk began again. “I can’t stand the Red One any longer, and I must.⁠ ⁠…”

“Here! Waiter! Bring some black bread! Drink, Falk, and don’t talk nonsense.”

Falk was thrown out of the saddle; he made no second attempt to find sympathy with his mental difficulties, but tried another, not unusual way.

“Your advice is the brandy bottle?” he said. “Very well, with all my soul, then!”

The alcohol flowed through his veins like poison, for he was not accustomed to take strong drink in the morning; the smell of cooking, the buzzing of the flies, the odour of the faded flowers, which stood by the side of the dirty table-centre, induced in him a strange feeling of well-being. And his low companions with their neglected linen, their greasy coats, and their unwashed gaol-bird faces harmonized so well with his own degraded position, that he felt a wild joy surging in his heart.

“We were in the Deer Park last night and, by Jove! we did drink,” said the stout man, once more enjoying the past delights in memory.

Falk had no answer to this, and moreover, his thoughts were running in a different groove.

“Isn’t it jolly to have a morning off?” said the tall man, who seemed to be playing the part of tempter.

“It is, indeed!” replied Falk, trying to measure his freedom, as it were, with a glance through the window; but all he saw was a fire-escape and a dustbin in a yard which never received more than a faint reflection of the summer sky.

“Half a pint! That’s it! Ah! Well and what do you say to the Triton? Hahaha!”

“Don’t laugh,” said Falk; “many a poor devil will suffer through it.”

“Who are the poor devils? Poor capitalists? Are you sorry for those who don’t work, but live on the proceeds of their money? No, my boy, you are still full of prejudices! There was a funny tale in the Hornet about a wholesale merchant, who bequeathed to the crèche Bethlehem twenty thousand crowns, and was given the order of Vasa for his munificence; now it has transpired that the bequest was in Triton shares with joint liability, and so the crèche is of course bankrupt. Isn’t that lovely? The assets were twenty-five cradles and an oil painting by an unknown master. It’s too funny! The portrait was valued at five crowns! Hahahaha!”

The subject of conversation irritated Falk, for he knew more of the matter than the two others.

“Did you see that the Red Cap unmasked that humbug Schönström who published that volume of miserable verses at Christmas?” said the stout man. “It really was a rare pleasure to learn the truth about the rascal. I have more than once given him a sound slating in the Copper-Snake.”

“But you were rather unjust; his verses were not as bad as you said,”