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

“You are a strange man! I can’t help confessing that you’re right in what you’re saying, although I don’t agree with you.”

“What do you say to Anthony’s speech over the body of Caesar? Isn’t it remarkable?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to speak about. You seem to be able to read my thoughts.”

“Exactly what I was telling you just now. And is it so wonderful considering that all men think the same, or at any rate say the same thing? Well, what do you find in it of any great depth?”

“I can’t explain in words.⁠ ⁠…”

“Don’t you think it a very commonplace piece of sarcastic oratory? One expresses exactly the reverse of one’s meaning, and if the points are sharpened, they are bound to sting. But have you ever come across anything more beautiful than the dialogue between Juliet and Romeo after their wedding night?”

“Ah! You mean where he says, ‘It is the nightingale and not the lark⁠ ⁠…’ ”

“What other passage could I mean? Doesn’t everyone quote that? It is a wonderful poetical conception on which the effect depends. Do you think Shakespeare’s greatness depends on poetical conceptions?”

“Why do you break up everything I admire? Why do you take away my supports?”

“I am throwing away your crutches so that you may learn to walk without them. But let me ask you to keep to the point.”

“You are not asking, you are compelling me to do so.”

“Then you should steer clear of me. Your parents are against your taking this step?”

“Yes! How do you know?”

“Parents always are. Why overrate my judgment? You should never exaggerate anything.”

“Do you think we should be happier if we didn’t?”

“Happier? Hm! Do you know anybody who is happy? Give me your own opinion, not the conventional one.”

“No!”

“If you don’t believe anybody is happy, how can you postulate such a condition as being happier? Your parents are alive then? It’s a mistake to have parents.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think it unfair of an older generation to bring up a younger one in its antiquated inanities? Your parents expect gratitude from you, I suppose?”

“And doesn’t one owe it to one’s parents?”

“For what? For the fact that with the connivance of the law they have brought us into this world of misery, have half-starved us, beaten us, oppressed us, humiliated us, opposed all our wishes? Believe me, a revolution is needed⁠—two revolutions! Why don’t you take some absinthe? Are you afraid of it? Look at the bottle! It’s marked with the Geneva cross! It heals those who have been wounded on the battlefield, friends and foes alike; it lulls all pain, blunts the keen edge of thought, blots out memories, stifles all the nobler emotions which beguile humanity into folly, and finally extinguishes the light of reason. Do you know what the light of reason is? First, it is a phrase, secondly, it is a will-o’-the-wisp; one of those flames, you know, which play about spots where decaying fish have engendered phosphoretted hydrogen; the light of reason is phosphoretted hydrogen engendered by the grey brain substance. It is a strange thing. Everything good on this earth perishes and is forgotten. During my ten years’ touring, and my apparent idleness, I have read through all the libraries one finds in small towns, and I find that all the twaddle and nonsense contained in the books is popular and constantly quoted; but the wisdom is neglected and pushed aside. Do remind me to keep to the point.⁠ ⁠…”

The clock went through its diabolical tricks and thundered seven. The door was flung open and a man lurched noisily into the room. He was a man of about fifty, with a huge, heavy head, fixed between a pair of lumpy shoulders like a mortar on a gun carriage, with a permanent elevation of forty-five degrees, looking as if it were going to throw bombs at the stars. To judge from the face, the owner was capable of all possible crimes and impossible vices, but too great a coward to commit any. He immediately threw a bombshell at the melancholy man, and harshly ordered a glass of grog made of rum, in grammatical, uncouth language and in the voice of a corporal.

“This is the man who holds your fate in his hands,” whispered the melancholy man to Rehnhjelm. “This is the tragedian, actor-manager, and my deadly foe.”

Rehnhjelm could not suppress a shudder of disgust as he looked at the terrible individual who, after having exchanged a look of hatred with Falander, now closed the passage of arms by repeated expectorations.

The door opened again, and in glided the almost elegant figure of a middle-aged man with oily hair and a waxed moustache. He familiarly took his place by the side of the actor-manager, who gave him his middle finger on which shone a ring with a large cornelian.

“This is the editor of the Conservative paper, the defender of throne and altar. He has the run of the theatre and tries to seduce all the girls on whom the actor-manager hasn’t cast his eye. He started his career as a government official, but had to resign his post, I’m ashamed to tell you why,” explained Falander. “But I am also ashamed to remain in the same room with these gentlemen, and, moreover, I have asked a few friends here, tonight, to a little supper in celebration of my recent benefit. If you care to spend the evening in bad company, among the most unimportant actors, two notorious ladies and an old blackguard, you are welcome at eight.”

Rehnhjelm hesitated a moment before he accepted the invitation.

The spider on the wall climbed through his net as if to examine it and disappeared. The fly remained in its place a little longer. The sun sank behind the cathedral, the meshes of the net were undone as if they had never existed, and the aspens outside the window shivered. The great man and stage-director raised his voice and shouted⁠—he had forgotten how to speak:

“Did you see the