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

the uneven paving-stones; noise and uproar in the fish market, sails and flags on the water outside; the screams of the seagulls, bugle-calls from the dockyard, the turning out of the guard, the clattering of the wooden shoes of the workingmen⁠—all this produced an impression of life and bustle, which seemed to rouse the young man’s energy; his face assumed an expression of defiance, cheerfulness and resolution, and as he leaned over the barrier and looked at the town below, he seemed to be watching an enemy; his nostrils expanded, his eyes flashed, and he raised his clenched fist as if he were challenging or threatening the poor town.

The bells of St. Catherine’s chimed seven; the splenetic treble of St. Mary’s seconded; the basses of the great church, and the German church joined in, and soon the air was vibrating with the sound made by the seven bells of the town; then one after the other relapsed into silence, until far away in the distance only the last one of them could be heard singing its peaceful evensong; it had a higher note, a purer tone and a quicker tempo than the others⁠—yes, it had! He listened and wondered whence the sound came, for it seemed to stir up vague memories in him. All of a sudden his face relaxed and his features expressed the misery of a forsaken child. And he was forsaken; his father and mother were lying in the churchyard of St. Clara’s, from whence the bell could still be heard; and he was a child; he still believed in everything, truth and fairy tales alike.

The bell of St. Clara’s was silent, and the sound of footsteps on the gravel path roused him from his reverie. A short man with side-whiskers came towards him from the verandah; he wore spectacles, apparently more for the sake of protecting his glances than his eyes, and his malicious mouth was generally twisted into a kindly, almost benevolent, expression. He was dressed in a neat overcoat with defective buttons, a somewhat battered hat, and trousers hoisted at half-mast. His walk indicated assurance as well as timidity. His whole appearance was so indefinite that it was impossible to guess at his age or social position. He might just as well have been an artisan as a government official; his age was anything between twenty-nine and forty-five years. He was obviously flattered to find himself in the company of the man whom he had come to meet, for he raised his bulging hat with unusual ceremony and smiled his kindliest smile.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting, assessor?”

“Not for a second; it’s only just struck seven. Thank you for coming. I must confess that this meeting is of the greatest importance to me; I might almost say it concerns my whole future, Mr. Struve.”

“Bless me! Do you mean it?”

Mr. Struve blinked; he had come to drink a glass of toddy and was very little inclined for a serious conversation. He had his reasons for that.

“We shall be more undisturbed if we have our toddy outside, if you don’t mind,” continued the assessor.

Mr. Struve stroked his right whisker, put his hat carefully on his head and thanked the assessor for his invitation; but he looked uneasy.

“To begin with, I must ask you to drop the ‘assessor,’ ” began the young man. “I’ve never been more than a regular assistant, and I cease to be even that from today; I’m Mr. Falk, nothing else.”

“What?”

Mr. Struve looked as if he had lost a distinguished friend, but he kept his temper.

“You’re a man with liberal tendencies.⁠ ⁠…”

Mr. Struve tried to explain himself, but Falk continued:

“I asked you to meet me here in your character of contributor to the liberal Red Cap.”

“Good heavens! I’m such a very unimportant contributor.⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ve read your thundering articles on the working man’s question, and all other questions which nearly concern us. We’re in the year three, in Roman figures, for it is now the third year of the new Parliament, and soon our hopes will have become realities. I’ve read your excellent biographies of our leading politicians in the Peasant’s Friend, the lives of those men of the people, who have at last been allowed to voice what oppressed them for so long; you’re a man of progress and I’ve a great respect for you.”

Struve, whose eyes had grown dull instead of kindling at the fervent words, seized with pleasure the proffered safety-valve.

“I must admit,” he said eagerly, “that I’m immensely pleased to find myself appreciated by a young and⁠—I must say it⁠—excellent man like you, assessor; but, on the other hand, why talk of such grave, not to say sad things, when we’re sitting here, in the lap of nature, on the first day of spring, while all the buds are bursting and the sun is pouring his warmth on the whole creation! Let’s snap our fingers at care and drink our glass in peace. Excuse me⁠—I believe I’m your senior⁠—and⁠—I venture⁠—to propose therefore.⁠ ⁠…”

Falk, who like a flint had gone out in search of steel, realized that he had struck wood. He accepted the proposal without eagerness. And the new brothers sat side by side, and all they had to tell each other was the disappointment expressed in their faces.

“I mentioned a little while ago,” Falk resumed, “that I’ve broken today with my past life and thrown up my career as a government employee. I’ll only add that I intend taking up literature.”

“Literature? Good Heavens! Why? Oh, but that is a pity!”

“It isn’t; but I want you to tell me how to set about finding work.”

“H’m! That’s really difficult to say. The profession is crowded with so many people of all sorts. But you mustn’t think of it. It really is a pity to spoil your career; the literary profession is a bad one.”

Struve looked sorry, but he could not hide a certain satisfaction at having met a friend in misfortune.

“But tell me,” he continued, “Why are you throwing up a career which promises a man honours as well as influence?”

“Honours to those