The Red Room - August Strindberg (best summer reads TXT) 📗

lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Araignée matin: chagrin,” said Falander. “Have you never heard that?”

“What does that mean?” asked Agnes.

“A spider on the morrow: grief and sorrow.”

“Hm!”

Again they grew silent. The only sound which disturbed the stillness was the sound of the rain beating in gusts against the windows.

“I read an awfully tragic book last night,” presently remarked Falander. “I hardly slept a wink.”

“What book was that?” asked Rehnhjelm, without betraying very much interest.

“Its title was Pierre Clément, and its subject the usual woman’s game. But it was told so well that it made a great impression on me.”

“May I ask what the usual woman’s game is?” said Agnes.

“Faithlessness and treachery!”

“And this Pierre Clément?”

“He was, of course, betrayed. He was a young artist, in love with another man’s mistress.⁠ ⁠…”

“I remember the book; I liked it very much. Wasn’t she later on engaged to a man whom she really loved? Yes, that was it, and during all the time she kept up her old liaison. The author wanted to show that a woman can love in two ways; a man only in one. That’s true enough, isn’t it?”

“Certainly! But the day came when her fiancé was going to compete with a picture. To cut my tale short, she gave herself to the president, and Pierre Clément was happy and could be married.”

“And by this the author wanted to show that a woman will sacrifice everything to the man she loves⁠—a man, on the other hand.⁠ ⁠…”

“That is the most infamous statement I ever heard!” burst out Falander.

He rose, went to his writing-desk, threw open the flap and took out a black box.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Agnes; “go home and rid the world of a monster.”

“What’s that?” laughed Agnes, opening the box and taking out a six-barrelled revolver. “I say, what a sweet thing! Didn’t you use this as Carl Moor? I believe it is loaded.”

She raised the revolver and fired up the chimney.

“Lock it up,” she said, “this is no toy, my friends.”

Rehnhjelm had watched the scene speechlessly. He understood the meaning well enough, but he was unable to say a word; and he was so much under the girl’s spell, that he could not even feel angry with her. He realized that he had been stabbed, but he had as yet not had time to feel the pain.

The girl’s impudence disconcerted Falander; he wanted time to recover; his moral execution had been a complete failure, and his coup de théâtre had been disastrous to himself.

“Hadn’t we better go now?” asked Agnes, straightening her hat before the glass.

Falander opened the door.

“Go and be damned to you!” he said. “You have ruined an honest man’s peace of mind.”

“What are you talking about? Shut the door! It’s none too warm here.”

“I see, I have to speak more plainly. Where were you last night?”

“Hjalmar knows, and it’s no business of yours.”

“You were not at your aunt’s! You had supper with the manager!”

“It’s a lie!”

“I saw you at nine in the vaults of the Town-Hall.”

“I say it’s a lie! I was at home at that time! Go and ask aunt’s maid who saw me home.”

“I should never have expected this from you!”

“Hadn’t we better stop talking nonsense now and be off? You shouldn’t read stupid books all night; then you wouldn’t be in a bad temper on the next day. Put on your hats and come.”

Rehnhjelm put his hand to his head to feel whether it was in its accustomed place, for everything seemed to him to be turned upside down. When he found that it was still there, he attempted to come to a clear understanding of the matter, but he was unable to do so.

“Where were you on the sixth of July?” asked Falander, with the sternness of a judge.

“What an idiotic question to ask! How can I remember what happened three months ago?”

“You were with me, but you told Hjalmar you were with your aunt.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Agnes, going up to Rehnhjelm and caressing him. “He’s talking nonsense.”

Rehnhjelm’s hand shot out; he seized her by the throat and flung her on her back behind the stove, where she fell on a little pile of wood and remained lying still and motionless.

He put on his hat, but Falander had to help him with his coat, for he trembled violently.

“Come along, let’s be off,” he said, spitting on the hearthstone.

Falander hesitated for a moment, felt Agnes’ pulse and then followed Rehnhjelm with whom he caught up in the lower hall.

“I admire you!” he said; “the matter was really beyond discussion.”

“Then let it for ever remain so! We haven’t much time to enjoy each other’s company. I am leaving for home by the next train, to work and to forget! Let’s go to the vaults now.”

They went to the vaults and engaged a private room, where breakfast was served to them.

“Has my hair turned grey?” asked Rehnhjelm, passing his hand over his hair which was damp and clung closely to his skull.

“No, old man, that doesn’t often happen; even I’m not grey.”

“Is she hurt?”

“No!”

“It was in this room⁠—I met her for the first time.”

He rose from the table, staggered to the sofa, and threw himself on his knees by the side of it. Burying his head in the cushions, he burst into tears like a child crying in his mother’s lap.

Falander took his head in both his hands, and Rehnhjelm felt something hot and scalding dropping on his neck.

“Where’s your philosophy now, old fellow? Out with it! I’m drowning! Give me a straw to clutch at!”

“Poor boy! poor old boy!”

“I must see her! I must ask her forgiveness! I love her in spite of it! In spite of it! Are you sure she isn’t hurt? Oh! my God, that one can be so unhappy and yet not die!”

At three o’clock in the afternoon Rehnhjelm left for Stockholm. Falander slammed the carriage door behind him and turned the handle.

XXII Hard Times

To Sellén also the autumn had