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

to feast on bad salmon and uncorked wine. The deeply moved hero of the day (vide Grey Bonnet) received on the same occasion a present of 20,000 crowns (in shares) for the foundation of a Home for Fallen Boys of the Evangelical Denomination.

I was present at the banquet, and saw a sight I had never seen before⁠—I saw Isaac the worse for drink! He shouted that he hated me, and you, and Falk, and all “Whites”; he alternately called us “whites,” and “natives,” and roche; I had never heard the last word before, but no sooner had he uttered it than a large number of “blacks” crowded round us, looking so ominous that Isaac thought it better to take me into an adjoining room. There he poured out all his soul to me; he spoke of his sufferings as a schoolboy; of the ill-treatment to which master and schoolfellows had subjected him, the daily knocks and cuffs from the street arabs. But what roused my indignation more than anything else was an incident which had happened to him during his military service; he was called up to the front at vespers and ordered to recite the Lord’s Prayer. As he did not know it, he was scoffed and jeered at. His account made me change my opinion of him and his race.

Religious swindle and charitable fraud are more rampant than ever, and make life in our country very unpleasant. You will remember two imps of Satan, Mrs. Falk and Mrs. Homan, the two pettiest, vainest and most malicious creatures who ever idled away their days. You know the crèche they had founded and its end. Their latest achievement is a Home for Fallen Women, and the first inmate⁠—received on my recommendation⁠—was Marie! The poor girl had lent all her savings to a fellow who absconded with them. She was only too happy to find a home where she would be kept free of charge, and be able to retrieve her character. She told me that she did not mind all the religious palaver, which is, unfortunately, inseparable from an enterprise of this sort, as long as she could count on her cup of coffee in the morning.

The Rev. Skore, whom you will no doubt remember, has not been made pastor primarius, and from sheer annoyance he is begging for funds to build a new church. Printed begging-letters, signed by all the wealthiest magnates of Sweden, are sent out to appeal to the charitable public. The church, which is to be three times the size of the church on the Blasieholm and connected with a sky-high tower, is to be built on the old site of St. Catherine’s. The latter is supposed to be too small to satisfy the great spiritual needs from which the Swedish nation is suffering at the moment, and is, therefore, to be pulled down. The sum collected has already reached such dimensions that a treasurer had to be appointed (with free lodging and fuel). Who do you think is the treasurer? You would never guess! Struve!

Struve has become somewhat religious these days⁠—I say somewhat, because it is not much⁠—only just enough for his position, for he is patronized by the faithful. This does, however, not interfere with his journalism and his drinking. But his heart is not soft, on the contrary, he is most bitter against all those who have not come down; between you and me, he has very much deteriorated; therefore he hates you and Falk, and he has sworn to slate you next time you are heard of. He had to submit to the marriage ceremony for the sake of the free lodging and fuel. He was married to his wife in the White Mountains. I was one of the witnesses. His wife, too, has been converted, for she is under the impression that religion is good form.

Lundell has left the religious sphere, and is painting nothing but portraits of directors; he has been made assistant at the Academy of Arts. He has also become immortal, for he has managed to smuggle a painting of his into the National Museum. It was accomplished by a very simple trick and ought to encourage imitators. Smith made a present to the National Museum of one of Lundell’s genre pictures, a service which Lundell repaid by painting his portrait gratis! Splendid! Isn’t it?

The end of a romance. One Sunday morning, at the hour when the Sabbath peace is not disturbed by the terrible church bells, I was sitting in my room, smoking. There was a knock at the door, and a tall, well-made man, whose face seemed familiar to me, entered⁠—it was Rehnhjelm. We cross-examined each other. He is manager of a large factory and quite satisfied with his lot.

Presently there was another knock. It was Falk. (More of him later on.)

We revived old memories and discussed mutual friends. But by and by there was a pause, that strange silence which so frequently occurs after a lively conversation. Rehnhjelm took up a book, turned over the leaves and read out:

“A Caesarean Operation: An academic treatise which, with the permission of the illustrious medical faculty, will be publicly discussed in the little lecture room of the University.” What horrible diagrams! “Who in the world is the unfortunate being cursed thus to haunt the living after his death?”

“You will find it on page 2,” I said.

He went on reading.

“The pelvis which, as No. 38, is preserved in the pathological collection of the Academy.⁠ ⁠…” No⁠—that can’t be it. “Agnes Rundgren, spinster.⁠ ⁠…”

The man’s face turned as white as chalk. He got up and drank some water.

“Did you know the woman?” I asked, in order to distract his thoughts.

“Did I know her? She was on the stage, and I knew her at X-köping; after leaving X-köping, she was engaged in a Stockholm café, under the name of Beda Petterson.”

Then you should have seen Falk! It came to a scene which ended in Rehnhjelm’s cursing all women, and Falk, greatly excited,