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

the latter.

“You will, when you are members of the Academy, and your names appear in the Directory.”

XXIII Audiences

Nicholas Falk was sitting in his office; it was the morning of the day before Christmas Eve. He was a little changed; time had thinned his fair hair, and the passions had delved little channels in his face, for the acids which the parched soil distilled. He was stooping over a little book of the shape and size of the Catechism, and his busy pen seemed to prick out designs.

There was a knock at the door; immediately the book disappeared beneath the flap of his writing-desk, and was replaced by the morning paper. Falk was absorbed in its perusal when his wife entered.

“Take a seat,” he said, politely.

“No, thank you; I’m in a hurry. Have you read the morning paper?”

“No!”

“But you are reading it at this very minute!”

“I’ve only just taken it up.”

“Have you seen the review of Arvid’s poems?”

“Yes.”

“Well? They were much praised.”

“He wrote the review himself.”

“You said the same thing last night when you were reading the Grey Bonnet.”

“What have you come here for?”

“I’ve just met the admiral’s wife; she’s accepted our invitation and said she would be delighted to meet the young poet.”

“Did she really?”

“She did, indeed.”

“Hm! Of course it’s possible to make a mistake, although I don’t admit that I made one. I suppose you’re again wanting money?”

“Again? How long ago is it since you gave me any?”

“Here you are, then! But now go, and don’t bother me again before Christmas; you know it’s been a bad year.”

“Indeed! I don’t know that at all! Everybody says it’s been a splendid year.”

“For the agriculturist yes, but not for the insurance societies. Run away now!”

Mrs. Falk went, making way for Fritz Levin, who entered cautiously, as if he were afraid of a trap.

“What have you come for?” asked Falk.

“Oh, I just wanted to wish you a good morning in passing.”

“A good idea! I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Have you really?”

“You know young Levi?”

“Of course I do!”

“Read this paper, aloud, please!”

Levin read, in a loud voice: “Magnificent bequest: With a generosity which is not now infrequently met with among the merchant class, the wholesale merchant Mr. Charles Nicholas Falk, in order to commemorate the anniversary of a happy marriage, has bequeathed to the crèche Bethlehem the sum of twenty thousand crowns, one half of it to be paid at once, and the other half after the death of the generous donor. The bequest is all the more significant as Mrs. Falk is one of the founders of the philanthropic institution.”

“Will that do?” asked Falk.

“Splendidly! The new year will bring you the order of Vasa!”

“I want you to take the deed of gift and the money to the Administrative Committee of the crèche, that is to say, to my wife, and then go and find young Levi. Do you understand?”

“Quite.”

Falk gave him the deed of gift, written on parchment, and the amount.

“Count the money to see whether it is right.”

Levin opened a packet of papers and stared, wide-eyed, at fifty sheets covered with lithographic designs, in all possible colours.

“Is that money?” he asked.

“These are securities,” answered Falk; “fifty shares at two hundred crowns each in the Triton, which I bequeath to the crèche Bethlehem.”

“Haha! It’s all over with the Triton, then, and the rats are leaving the sinking ship!”

“I didn’t say that,” replied Falk, laughing maliciously.

“But if it should be the case, the crèche will be bankrupt.”

“That doesn’t concern me, and it concerns you even less. But there is something else I want you to do. You must⁠—you know what I mean when I say you must.⁠ ⁠…”

“I know, I know, bailiffs, promissory notes⁠—go on!”

“You must induce Arvid to come here to dinner on Bank Holiday.⁠ ⁠…”

“It will be about as easy as bringing you three hairs out of the giant’s beard. Now do you admit that I was wise when I refused to give him your message of last spring? Haven’t I always predicted this?”

“Did you? Well, never mind, hold your tongue and do as you are told! So much for that! There’s another thing! I have noticed symptoms of remorse in my wife. She must have met her mother, or one of her sisters. Christmas is a sentimental season. Go to my mother-in-law and stir up a little strife!”

“A very unpleasant commission!”

“Off you go! Next man.⁠ ⁠…”

Levin went. The next visitor was schoolmaster Nyström, who was admitted by a secret door in the background. At his entrance the morning paper was dropped, and the long, narrow book reappeared.

Nyström had gone to pieces. His body was reduced to a third of its former size, and his clothes were extremely shabby. He remained humbly standing at the door, took a much-used pocketbook out of his pocket and waited.

“Ready?” asked Falk, keeping the place in the book with his first finger.

“Ready,” replied Nyström, opening the pocketbook.

“No. 26. Lieutenant Kling, 1,500 crowns. Paid?”

“Not paid.”

“Prolong, with extra interest and commission. Call at his private address.”

“Never receives at home.”

“Threaten him by post with a visit at the barracks.”

“No. 27. Judge Dahlberg, 800 crowns. Let’s see. Son of the wholesale merchant Dahlberg, estimated at 35,000. Grant a respite at present, but see that he pays the interest. Keep an eye on him.”

“He never pays the interest.”

“Send him a postcard to his office.”

“No. 28. Captain Stjernborst, 4,000. Good for nothing fellow, that! Paid?”

“Not paid.”

“Good. Instructions: Call on him at noon at the guards room. Dress⁠—you that is⁠—compromisingly. Your red overcoat with the yellow seams, you know what I mean.”

“No use! I’ve called on him at the guards room in the depth of the winter without any overcoat.”

“Then go to his guarantors!”

“I’ve been and they told me to go to hell. They said that a guarantee was only a matter of form.”

“Then call on him on a Wednesday afternoon at one o’clock at the offices of the Triton; take Andersson with you, then there’ll be two of you.”

“Been done already.”

“Has it? How did the directors take it?” asked Falk, rising.

“They were embarrassed.”

“Really?