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

“Much embarrassed.”

“And he himself?”

“He took us into the corridor and promised to pay if we never called on him there again.”

“Indeed! He spends two hours a week there, and receives six thousand crowns, because his name is Stjernborst. Let’s see! It’s Saturday today. Be at the Triton punctually at half-past twelve; if you should see me there, which I expect you will, not a flicker of an eyelid. Do you understand? Right! Any fresh business?”

“Thirty-five new requests.”

“Yes, yes, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.”

Falk turned over a bundle of promissory notes; every now and then he smiled, or muttered a word.

“Good Heavens! Has he come to that? And this one⁠—and that one⁠—who was looked upon as such a steady fellow! Yes, yes⁠—hard times are in store for all of us. Oh! He, too, wants money? Then I shall buy his house.⁠ ⁠…”

Another knock at the door. The desk was closed, papers and catechism vanished into thin air, and Nyström disappeared through the secret door.

“At half-past twelve,” whispered Falk, as he went. “One thing more! Have you finished the poem?”

“Yes,” replied a muffled voice.

“Right! Keep Levin’s promissory note in readiness, so that it can be submitted to his head office at any time. Some day I shall smash him. The rascal’s deceitful.”

He arranged his tie, pulled out his cuffs and opened the door leading to a little waiting-room.

“Ah! Good morning, Mr. Lundell! Very glad to see you! Please come in! How are you? I had locked my door for a few moments.”

It really was Lundell; Lundell dressed in the height of fashion like a shop assistant; he wore a watch-chain, rings, gloves and overshoes.

“I am not calling at an inconvenient time, I hope?”

“Not at all! Do you think, Mr. Lundell, that you will be able to finish it by tomorrow?”

“Must it be finished by tomorrow?”

“It absolutely must! It will be a red-letter day for the crèche tomorrow; Mrs. Falk will publicly present my portrait to the institution, to be hung in the dining-room.”

“Then we must not let any obstacles stand in our way,” replied Lundell, taking an easel and an almost finished canvas from a cupboard. “If you will sit to me for a few moments, sir, I will give the picture the finishing touches.”

“With all the pleasure in the world.”

Falk sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, threw himself into the attitude of a statesman and tried to look aristocratic.

“Won’t you talk, sir? Although your face is an exceedingly interesting one when at rest, yet the more characteristics I can bring out, the better.”

Falk smirked; a glimmer of pleasure and gratification lit up his coarse features.

“I hope you’ll be able to dine with us on bank holiday, Mr. Lundell?”

“Thank you.⁠ ⁠…”

“You’ll be able to study the faces of many men of distinction, then, men whose features deserve being fixed on canvas far more than mine do.”

“Perhaps I may have the honour of painting them?”

“You will, if I recommend you.”

“Oh, do you really think so?”

“Certainly I do!”

“I just caught a new expression in your face. Try and keep it for a few moments. There! This is excellent! I’m afraid I shall have to work at this portrait all day long. There are so many details which one only discovers gradually. Your face is rich in interesting features.”

“In that case we had better dine together! We must see a good deal of each other, Mr. Lundell, so that you may have an opportunity of studying my face for a second edition, which it is always well to have. Really, I must say, there are few people to whom I felt so strongly drawn from the first moment, as I did to you, Mr. Lundell.”

“Oh, my dear sir!”

“And let me tell you that my eyes are keen and well able to distinguish truth from flattery.”

“I knew that from the first,” answered Lundell unscrupulously. “My profession has given me an insight into human character.”

“You are a very keen observer indeed. Not everybody understands me. My wife, for instance.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh! Women cannot be expected.⁠ ⁠…”

“No, that wasn’t altogether what I meant. But may I offer you a glass of good old port?”

“Thank you, sir; I never drink when I’m working, on principle.⁠ ⁠…”

“Quite right! I respect this principle⁠—I always respect principles⁠—all the more because I share it.”

“But when I’m not at work, I enjoy a glass.”

“Just as I do.”

It struck half-past twelve. Falk rose.

“Excuse me, I must leave you for a short time, on business. I shall be back almost immediately.”

“Certainly, business first.”

Falk put on his hat and coat and went. Lundell was left alone.

He lit a cigar and studied the portrait. No observer, however keen, could have guessed his thoughts; he had acquired sufficient knowledge of the art of life to hide his opinions even when he was alone; nay, more than that, he was afraid of coming to a clear understanding with himself.

They had arrived at the dessert. The champagne sparkled in the glasses which reflected the rays of light from the chandelier in Nicholas Falk’s dining-room. Arvid was greeted on all sides with friendly handshakes, compliments and congratulations, warnings and advice; everybody wanted to be present and share in his triumph, for he had had a decided success.

“Assessor Falk! I’m delighted!” said the President of the Board of Payment of Employees’ Salaries, nodding to him across the table. “I fully appreciate your talent.”

Arvid tranquilly pocketed the insulting compliment.

“Why are your poems so melancholy?” asked a young beauty on the poet’s right. “One might almost think you were suffering from an unhappy love-affair.”

“Assessor Falk, allow me to drink your health,” said the chief editor of the Grey Bonnet, from the left, stroking his long, blond beard. “Why don’t you write for my paper?”

“I shouldn’t think you would print my articles,” replied Arvid.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

“Our opinions differ so very widely.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh! That isn’t half as bad as you think. One compromises. We have no opinions.”

“Your health, Falk!” shouted the excited Lundell, from the other side of the table. “Your health!”

Levi and Borg had to