The Red Room by August Strindberg (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

was concerned, was first to be addressed as schoolmaster when there were other people present; secondly, to be polite and submissive; thirdly, to borrow a little every now and then; never exceeding a fiver; it was one of Falk’s fundamental needs that people should borrow money from him occasionally, only a little, of course; and, fourthly, to write verses on festive occasions; and the latter was not the least of the component parts of his mission.

Charles Nicholas Falk sat enthroned on his leather sofa, very conscious of the fact that it was his leather sofa, surrounded by his staff; or his dogs, as one might have said. Levin found everything splendid; the bowl, the glasses, the ladle, the cigars⁠—the whole box had been taken from the mantelpiece⁠—the matches, the ashtrays, the bottles, the corks, the wire⁠—everything. The schoolmaster looked content; he was not called upon to talk, the other two did that; he was merely required to be present as a witness in case of need.

Falk was the first to raise his glass and drink⁠—nobody knew to whom⁠—but the schoolmaster, believing it to be to the hero of the day, produced his verses and began to read “To Fritz Levin on the Day of his Promotion.”

Falk was attacked by a violent cough which disturbed the reading and spoiled the effect of the wittiest points; but Nyström, who was a shrewd man and had foreseen this, had introduced into his poem the finely felt and finely expressed reflection: “What would have become of Fritz Levin if Charles Nicholas hadn’t befriended him?” This subtle hint at the numerous loans made by Falk to his friend, soothed the cough; it subsided and ensured a better reception to the last verse which was quite impudently dedicated to Levin, a tactlessness which again threatened to disturb the harmony. Falk emptied his glass as if he were draining a cup filled to the brim with ingratitude.

“You’re not up to the mark, Nyström,” he said.

“No, he was far wittier on your thirty-eighth birthday,” agreed Levin, guessing what Falk was driving at.

Falk’s glance penetrated into the most hidden recesses of Levin’s soul, trying to discover whether any lie or fraud lay hidden there⁠—and as his eyes were blinded by pride, he saw nothing.

“Quite true,” he acquiesced: “I never heard anything more witty in all my life; it was good enough to be printed; you really ought to get your things printed. I say, Nyström, surely you know it by heart, don’t you?”

Nyström had a shocking memory, or, to tell the truth, he had not yet had enough wine to commit the suggested outrage against decency and good form; he asked for time. But Falk, irritated by his quiet resistance, had gone too far to turn back, and insisted on his request. He was almost sure that he had a copy of the verses with him; he searched his pocketbook and behold! There they lay. Modesty did not forbid him to read them aloud himself; it would not have been for the first time; but it sounded better for another to read them. The poor dog bit his chain, but it held. He was a sensitive man, this schoolmaster, but he had to be brutal if he did not want to relinquish the precious gift of life, and he had been very brutal. The most private affairs were fully and openly discussed, everything in connection with the birth of the hero, his reception into the community, his education and upbringing were made fun of; the verses would have disgusted even Falk himself if they had treated of any other person, but the fact of their celebrating him and his doings made them excellent. When the recitation was over, his health was drunk uproariously, in many glasses, for each member of the little party felt that he was too sober to keep his real feelings under control.

The table was now cleared and an excellent supper consisting of oysters, birds, and other good things, was served. Falk went sniffing from dish to dish, sent one or two of them back, took care that the chill was taken off the stout, and that the wines were the right temperature. Now his dogs were called upon to do their work and offer him a pleasant spectacle. When everybody was ready, he pulled out his gold watch and held it in his hand while he jestingly asked a question which his convives had heard many times⁠—so very many times:

“What is the time by the silver watches of the gentlemen?”

The anticipated reply came as in duty bound, accompanied by gay laughter: the watches were at the watchmaker’s. This put Falk into the best of tempers, which found expression in the not at all unexpected joke:

“The animals will be fed at eight.”

He sat down, poured out three liqueurs, took one and invited his friends to follow his example.

“I must make a beginning myself, as you both seem to be holding back. Don’t let’s stand on ceremony! Tuck in boys!”

The feeding began. Charles Nicholas, who was not particularly hungry, had plenty of time to enjoy the appetite of his guests, and he continually urged them to eat. An unspeakably benevolent smile radiated from his bright, sunny countenance as he watched their zeal, and it was difficult to say what he enjoyed more, the fact of their having a good meal, or the fact of their being so hungry. He sat there like a coachman on his box, clicking his tongue and cracking his whip at them.

“Eat, Nyström! You don’t know when you’ll get a meal next. Help yourself, Levin; you look as if you could do with a little flesh on your bones. Are you grinning at the oysters? Aren’t they good enough for a fellow like you? What do you say? Take another! Don’t be shy! What do you say? You’ve had enough? Nonsense! Have a drink now! Take some stout, boys! Now a little more salmon! You shall take another piece, by the Lord Harry,