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

P.S. Falk has shaved his American beard and no longer raises his hat to the fishermen.

You’ll not hear from me again from Nämdö. We are returning to town on Monday.

It was autumn again. On a clear November morning Arvid Falk was walking from his elegantly furnished rooms in Great Street to⁠ ⁠… man’s Boarding School near Charles XII Market, where he had an appointment as master of the Swedish language and history.

During the autumn months he had made his way back into civilized society, a proceeding which had brought home to him the fact that he had become a perfect savage during his wanderings. He had discarded his disreputable hat and bought a high one which he found difficult, at first, to keep on his head; he had bought gloves, but in his savagery he had replied “fifteen” when the shopgirl asked for his size, and blushed when his reply brought a smile to the face of every girl in the shop.

The fashion had changed, since he had last bought clothes; as he was walking through the streets, he looked upon himself as a dandy, and every now and then examined his reflection in the shop windows, to see whether his garments set well.

Now he was strolling up and down the pavement before the Dramatic Theatre and waiting for the clock on St. James’ Church to strike nine; he felt uneasy and embarrassed, as if he were a schoolboy going to school himself; the pavement was so short, and as again and again he retraced his footsteps he compared himself to a dog on a chain.

For a moment he had a wild thought of taking a wider range, a very much wider range, for if he went straight on, he would come to Lill-Jans, and he remembered the spring morning when that very pavement had led him away from society, which he detested, into liberty, nature, and⁠—slavery.

It struck nine. He stood in the corridor; the schoolroom doors were closed; in the twilight he saw a long row of children’s garments hanging against the wall: hats, boas, bonnets, wraps, gloves, and muffs were lying on tables and window sills, and whole regiments of button boots and overshoes stood on the floor. But there was no smell of damp clothes and wet leather as in the halls of the Parliamentary Buildings and in the Workingmen’s Union “Phœnix,” or⁠—he became conscious of a faint odour of newly mown hay⁠—it seemed to come from a little muff lined with blue silk and trimmed with tassels, which looked like a white kitten with black dots. He could not resist taking it in his hand and smelling the perfume⁠—new-mown hay⁠—when the front door opened and a little girl of about ten came in accompanied by a maid.

She looked at the master with big fearless eyes, and dropped a coquettish little curtsey; the almost embarrassed master replied with a bow which made the little beauty smile⁠—and the maid, too. She was late; but she was quite unconcerned and allowed her maid to take off her outdoor garments and overshoes as calmly as if she had come to a dance.

From the classroom came a sound which made his heart beat⁠—what was it? Ah! The organ⁠—the old organ! a legion of children’s voices were singing “Jesus, at the Day’s Beginning.⁠ ⁠…” He felt ill at ease, and forced himself to fix his mind on Borg and Isaac in order to control his feelings.

But matters went from bad to worse: “Our Father, which art in Heaven.⁠ ⁠…” The old prayer⁠—it was long ago.⁠ ⁠…

The silence was so profound that he could hear the raising of all the little heads and the rustling of collars and pinafores; the doors were thrown open; he looked at a huge, moving flowerbed composed of little girls between eight and fourteen. He felt self-conscious like a thief caught in the act, when the old headmistress shook hands with him; the flowers waved to and fro, and there was much excited whispering and exchanging of significant glances.

He sat down at the end of a long table, surrounded by