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

“Who’s to prevent me?”

“I! Yes, I! I shan’t let you ruin his clothes. It’s a beastly shame!”

“His clothes,” laughed Falk. “Isn’t it my coat? Didn’t I give it to him?”

“You’re going too far!” said Levin, rising to go.

“So you’re going now! You’ve had enough to eat, you can’t drink any more, you don’t want me any longer tonight. Didn’t you want to borrow a fiver? What? Am I to be deprived of the honour of lending you some money? Didn’t you want me to sign something? Sign, eh?”

At the word sign, Levin pricked up his ears. Supposing he tried to get the better of him in his excited condition? The thought softened him.

“Don’t be unjust, brother,” he recommenced. “I’m not ungrateful; I fully appreciate your kindness; but I’m poor, poorer than you’ve ever been, or ever can be; I’ve suffered humiliations which you can’t even conceive; but I’ve always looked upon you as a friend. I mean a friend in the highest sense of the word. You’ve had too much to drink tonight and so you’re cross; this makes you unjust, but I assure you, gentlemen, in the whole world there beats no kinder heart than that of Charles Nicholas. And I don’t say this for the first time. I thank you for your courtesy tonight, that is to say, if the excellent supper we have eaten, the magnificent wines we have drunk, have been eaten and drunk in my honour. I thank you, brother, and drink your health. Here’s to you, brother Charles Nicholas! Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You’ve not done it in vain! Mark my words!”

Strange to say, these words, spoken in a tremulous voice⁠—tremulous with emotion⁠—produced good results. Falk felt good. Hadn’t he again been assured that he had a kind heart? He firmly believed it.

The intoxication had reached the sentimental stage; they moved nearer together; they talked of their good qualities, of the wickedness of the world, the warmth of their feelings, the strength of their good intentions; they grasped each other’s hands. Falk spoke of his wife; of his kindness to her; he regretted the lack of spirituality in his calling; he mentioned how painfully aware he was of his want of culture; he said that his life was a failure; and after the consumption of his tenth liqueur, he confided to Levin that it had been his ambition to go into the church, become a missionary, even. They grew more and more spiritual. Levin spoke of his dead mother, her death and funeral, of an unhappy love-affair, and finally of his religious convictions, as a rule jealously guarded as a secret. And soon they were launched on an eager discussion of religion.

It struck one⁠—it struck two⁠—and they were still talking while Nyström slept soundly, his arms on the table, and his head resting on his arms. A dense cloud of tobacco smoke filled the countinghouse and robbed the gas flames of their brilliancy. The seven candles of the seven-armed candelabrum had burnt down to the sockets and the table presented a dismal sight. One or two glasses had lost their stems, the stained tablecloth was covered with cigar ash, the floor was strewn with matches. The daylight was breaking through the chinks of the shutters; its shafts pierced the cloud of smoke and drew cabbalistic figures on the tablecloth between the two champions of their faith, busily engaged in re-editing the Augsburg Confession. They were now talking with hissing voices; their brains were numbed; their words sounded dry, the tension was relaxing in spite of their diligent recourse to the bottle. They tried to whip up their souls into an ecstasy, but their efforts grew weaker and weaker; the spirit had died out of their conversation; they only exchanged meaningless words; the stupefied brains which had been whirling round like teetotums, slackened in their speed and finally stopped; one thought alone filled their minds⁠—they must go to bed, if they did not want to loathe the sight of each other; they must be alone.

Nyström was shaken into consciousness; Levin embraced Charles Nicholas and took the opportunity to pocket three of his cigars. The heights which they had scaled were too sublime to allow them to talk of the bill just yet. They parted⁠—the host let his guests out⁠—he was alone! He opened the shutters⁠—daylight poured into the room; he opened the window; the cool sea-breeze swept through the narrow street, one side of which was already illuminated by the rising sun. It struck four, he listened to that wonderful striking only heard by the poor wretch who yearns for the day on a bed of sickness or sorrow. Even Long Street East, that street of vice, of filth and brawls, lay in the early morning sun, still, desolate and pure. Falk felt deeply unhappy. He was disgraced⁠—he was lonely! He closed window and shutters, and as he turned round and beheld the state of the room, he at once began setting it straight. He picked up the cigar ends and threw them into the grate; he cleared the table, swept the room, dusted it and put everything in its place. He washed his face and hands, and brushed his hair; a policeman might have thought him a murderer, intent on effacing all traces of his crime. But all the while he thought, clearly, firmly and logically. When he had straightened the room and himself, he formed a resolution, long brooded over, but now to be carried into effect. He would wipe away the disgrace which had fallen on his family; he would rise in the world and become a well-known and influential man; he would begin a new life; he would keep his reputation unstained and he would make his name respected. He felt that only a great ambition could help him to keep his head erect after the blow he had received tonight. Ambition had been latent in his heart; it had been awakened and henceforth it