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

are they bemoaning? Their incapacity to achieve a success? Success? That is the word! Have they produced one single thought, capable of benefiting their fellow-creatures; the age in which they live? If they had but once championed the cause of the helpless, their sins might be forgiven them; but they have not. Therefore they are as sounding brass⁠—nay, they are as a clanking piece of tin and the cracked bell of a fool’s cap⁠—for they have no other love than the love of the next edition of their books, the love of the Academy and the love of themselves.’ ”

“That’s sarcasm, isn’t it? What?”

“It’s unjust,” said Falk.

“I find it very impressive,” said the stout man. “You can’t deny that it is well written. Can you? He wields a pen which pierces shoe-leather.”

“Now, lads, stop talking and write; afterwards you shall have coffee and liqueurs.”

And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts as if they were breaking eggshells.

Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back. He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth, his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dustbin⁠—standing like a coffin⁠—with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter. His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt, stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above⁠—there was nothing but the empty, blue void.

Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline “Theatre,” when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:

“Come along, I want to speak to you!”

He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently determined not to let him go.

“May I introduce.⁠ ⁠…” began Falk.

“No, you may not,” interrupted Borg, “I don’t want to know any drunken scribblers, come along.”

He drew Falk to the door.

“Where’s your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!”

They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes. This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and butter.

“This,” said Borg, “is the cutter Urijah; it’s an ugly name, but she is a good boat and she is insured in the Triton. There sits her owner, the Hebrew lad Isaac, reading a Latin grammar⁠—the idiot wants to go to college⁠—and from this moment you are engaged as his tutor for the summer⁠—and now we’ll be off for our summer residence at Nämdö. All hands on board! No demur! Ready? Put off!”

XXVI Correspondence

Candidate Borg to Journalist Struve

Nämdö, June 18⁠—

Old scandalmonger!⁠—As I am convinced that neither you nor Levin have paid off your instalments of the loan made by the Shoemakers’ Bank, I am sending you herewith a promissory note, so that you may raise a new loan from the Architects’ Bank. If there is anything over after the instalments have been paid up, we will divide it equally amongst us. Please send me my share by steamer to Dalarö, where I will call for it.

I have now had Falk under treatment for a month, and I believe he is on the road to recovery.

You will remember that after Olle’s famous lecture he left us abruptly and, instead of making use of his brother and his brother’s connections, went on the staff of the Workman’s Flag, where he was ill-treated for fifty crowns a month. But the wind of freedom which blew there must have had a demoralizing effect on him, for he became morose and neglected his appearance. With the help of the girl Beda I kept my eye on him, and when I considered him ripe for a rupture with the communards, I went and fetched him away.

I found him in a low public-house called “The Star,” in the company of two scandal writers with whom he was drinking brandy⁠—I believe they were writing at the same time. He was in a melancholy condition, as you would say.

As you know, I regard mankind with calm indifference; men are to me geological preparations, minerals; some crystallize under one condition, others under another; it all depends on certain laws or circumstances which should leave us completely unmoved. I don’t weep over the lime-spar, because it is not as hard as a rock-crystal.

Therefore I cannot regard Falk’s condition as melancholy; it was the outcome of his temperament (heart you would say) plus the circumstances which his temperament had created.

But he was certainly “down” when I found him. I took him on board our cutter and he remained passive. But just as we had pushed off, he turned round and saw Beda standing on the shore, beckoning to him; I can’t think how she got there. On seeing her, our man went clear out of his mind. Put me ashore! he screamed, threatening to jump overboard. I seized him by the arms, pushed him into the cabin and locked the door.

As we passed Vaxholm, I posted two letters; one to the editor of the Workman’s Flag, begging him to excuse Falk’s absence, and the other to his landlady, asking her to send him his clothes.

In the meantime he