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

replying, that there were two kinds of women, which differed from each other as much as angels and devils. He was so moved that Rehnhjelm’s eyes filled with tears.

And now to Falk! I purposely left him to the last. He is engaged to be married! How did it happen? He himself says: “We just met one another!”

As you know, I have no rigid opinions, but cultivate an open mind; but from what I have seen up to now, it is undeniable that love is something of which we bachelors know nothing⁠—what we call love is nothing but frivolity. You may laugh if you like, you old scoffer!

Only in very bad plays have I seen such a rapid development of character, as I had occasion to watch in Falk. You won’t be surprised to hear that his engagement was not all plain sailing. The girl’s father, an old widower, a selfish army pensioner, looked upon his daughter as an investment, hoping that she would marry well and thereby secure him a comfortable old age. (Nothing at all unusual!) He therefore bluntly refused his consent. You should have seen Falk! He called on the old man again and again; he was kicked out, and yet he called again and told the old egoist to the face that he would marry his daughter without his consent, if he continued to object. I am not sure, but I believe it actually came to fisticuffs.

One evening Falk had accompanied his sweetheart home. They had both spent the evening at the house of one of the girl’s relatives to whom Falk had introduced himself. When they turned the corner of the street in which the girl lives, they saw by the light of the street lamp that her father was leaning out of the window⁠—he lives in a small house which belongs to him. Falk knocked at the garden gate; but nobody came to open it. At last he climbed over and was on the other side attacked by a large dog; he got the better of the brute and shut it up in the dustbin. (Imagine the nervous Falk.) Then he compelled the porter to get up and open the gate. Now they had gained the yard and stood before the front door. He hammered it with a large stone, but no reply came from within; he searched the garden and found a ladder, by means of which he reached the old man’s window. Open the door, he shouted, or I’ll smash the window!

“If you smash the window, you rascal,” yelled the old man, “I’ll shoot you!”

Falk immediately smashed the window.

For a few moments there was silence. Finally a voice came from within the fortress:

“You are my man! I consent.”

“I’m not fond of smashing windows,” explained Falk, “but there’s nothing I would not do to win your daughter.”

The matter was settled, and they became engaged.

I don’t know whether you know that Parliament has carried through its reorganization of the public offices, doubling the salaries and the number of posts, so that a young man in the first division is now in a position to marry. Falk is going to be married in the autumn.

His wife will keep her post at the school. I know next to nothing of the Woman’s Question⁠—it doesn’t interest me⁠—but I believe that our generation will get rid of the last remnant of the Eastern conception which still clings to marriage. In the days to come, husband and wife will enter into a partnership where both will retain their independence; they will not try to convert each other, but will mutually respect their weaknesses, and live together in a lifelong friendship which will never be strained by the demands of one of the partners for amorous demonstrations.

I look upon Mrs. Nicholas Falk, the charitable she-devil, as nothing more than a femme entretenue, and I am sure she does so herself. Most women marry for a home where they need not work⁠—be their own mistress, as it is called. The fact that marriage is on the decline is as much the woman’s fault as the man’s.

But I cannot make Falk out. He is studying numismatics with an almost unnatural zeal; he told me the other day that he was engaged in writing a textbook on numismatics, which he would endeavour to introduce into the schools where this science is to be taught.

He never reads a paper; he does not know what is going on in the world, and he seems to have abandoned the idea of writing. He lives only for his work and his fiancée, whom he worships.

But I don’t trust his calm. Falk is a political fanatic, well aware that he would be consumed if he allowed the fire to burn freely; therefore he tries to stifle it with hard, monotonous work; but I don’t think that he will succeed; in spite of all his restraint the day is bound to come when he will cast aside all self-control and burst out into fresh flames.

Between you and me⁠—I believe he belongs to one of those secret societies which are responsible for the reaction and militarism on the Continent. Not very long ago, at the reading of the King’s Speech in Parliament, I saw him, dressed in a purple cloak, with a feather in his hat, sitting at the foot of the throne (at the foot of the throne!) and I thought⁠—no, it would be a sin to say what I thought. But when the Prime Minister read his Majesty’s gracious propositions respecting the state of the country and its needs, I saw a look in Falk’s eyes which plainly said: What on earth does his Majesty know of the condition and needs of the country?

That man, oh! that man!

I conclude my review without having forgotten anybody. Enough for today. You shall soon hear from me again.

H. B. 1879.

XXX Epilogue

Doubtless there is not another street in Stockholm as ugly, and not another