Red room strindberg pdf

It was an evening in the beginning of May. The little garden on "Moses Height," on the south side of the town had not yet been thrown open to the public, and the flower-beds were still unturned. The snowdrops had worked through the accumulations of last year's dead leaves, and were on the point of closing their short career and making room for the crocuses which had found shelter under a barren pear tree; the elder was waiting for a southerly wind before bursting into bloom, but the tightly closed buds of the limes still offered cover for love-making to the chaffinches, busily employed in building their lichen-covered nests between trunk and branch.

No human foot had trod the gravel paths since last winter's snow had melted, and the free and easy life of beasts and flowers was left undisturbed. The sparrows industriously collected all manner of rubbish, and stowed it away under the tiles of the Navigation School. They burdened themselves with scraps of the rocket-cases of last autumn's fireworks, and picked the straw covers off the young trees, transplanted from the nursery in the Deer Park only a year ago— nothing escaped them.

They discovered shreds of muslin in the summer arbours; the splintered leg of a seat supplied them with tufts of hair left on the battlefield by dogs which had not been fighting there since Josephine's day. What a life it was! Now look here! A brochure—title: "The Guardian Angel. An angel with an anchor and a ship—it's a schooner without any yards, I believe!

The splendid influence of marine insurance on social life in general is well known. Everybody has at one time or other sent something more or less valuable across the sea in a ship. Everybody doesn't realize this. Consequently it is our duty to enlighten those who are ignorant; isn't that so? We know, you and I; therefore it is for us to enlighten those who don't. This book [64] maintains that everybody who sends things across the water should insure them.

But this book is badly written. We'll write a better one. You'll write me a novel of ten pages for my magazine Our Land , and I expect you to have sufficient gumption to introduce the name Triton —which is the name of a new limited liability company, founded by my nephew, and we are told to help our neighbours—twice, neither more nor less; but it must be done cleverly and so that it is not at all obvious.

Do you follow me? Falk found the offer repulsive, although it contained nothing dishonest; however, it gave him a start with the influential man, straight away, without any effort on his part. He thanked Smith and accepted. Sixteen inches to the page, altogether a hundred and sixty inches of eight lines each.

Shall we write a little agreement? You know the history of Sweden? To the right! That's it! Can you tell me who the lady is meant for? She is supposed to be a queen. Falk, who saw nothing at first but a piece of black wood, finally made out some human features and declared that to the best of his belief it represented Ulrica Eleonora. The block has been used for Elizabeth, Queen of England, in an American popular edition. I've bought it cheaply, with a lot of others.

I'm going to use it for Ulrica Eleonora in my People's Library. Our people are splendid; they are so ready to buy my books. Will you write the letterpress? Although Falk did not like the order, his super-sensitive conscience could find no wrong in the proposal. We'd better make out a little [65] agreement. Sixteen pages octavo, at three inches, at twenty-four lines each.

Falk, realizing that the audience was over, made a movement to recover his manuscript on which Smith had all along been sitting. But the latter would not give it up; he declared that he would read it, although it might take him some time.

I made him the same offers I just made to you, sir; do you know what he said? He told me to do something unmentionable. He did, indeed, and rushed out of the office.

He'll not live long, that young man! Good day, good day! Don't forget to order a copy of Hoken Spegel! Well, good day, good day. He did not walk away with light footsteps. The wood-block in his pocket was heavy and weighed him down, kept him back. He thought of the pale young man with the roll of manuscript who had dared to say a bold thing to Smith, and pride stirred in his heart.

But memories of old paternal warnings and advice whispered the old lie to him that all work was equally honourable, and reproved him for his pride.

He laid hold of his common sense and went home to write a hundred and ninety-two inches about Ulrica Eleonora. As he had risen early he was at his writing-table at nine o'clock. He filled a large pipe, took two sheets of paper, wiped his steel nibs and tried to recall all he knew about Ulrica Eleonora. He looked her up in Ekelund and Fryxell.

There was a great deal under the heading Ulrica Eleonora, but very little about her personally. At half-past nine he had exhausted the subject. He had written down her birthplace, and the place where she died, when she came to the throne, when she abdicated, the names [66] of her parents and the name of her husband.

It was a commonplace excerpt from a church register—and filled three pages, leaving thirteen to be covered. He smoked two or three pipes and dragged the inkstand with his pen, as if he were fishing for the Midgard serpent, but he brought up nothing. He was bound to say something about her personally, sketch her character; he felt as if he were sitting in judgment on her. Should he praise or revile her?

As it was a matter of complete indifference to him, his mind was still not made up when it struck eleven. He reviled her—and came to the end of the fourth page, leaving twelve to be accounted for. He was at his wits' end.

He wanted to say something about her rule, but as she had not ruled, there was nothing to be said. He had not yet filled half the required space. He hated the woman! More pipes! Fresh steel nibs! He went back to remoter days, passing them in review, and being now in a thoroughly bad temper, he overthrew his old idol, Charles XII, and hurled him in the dust; it was done in a few words, and only added one more page to his pile.

There still remained nine. He anticipated events and criticised Frederick I. Half a page! He glanced at the paper with unhappy eyes; he glimpsed half-way house, but could not reach it.

He had written seven and a half small pages; Ekelund had only managed one and a half. He flung the wood-block on the floor, kicked it underneath his writing-table, crawled after it, dusted it and put it in its former place. It was torture! His soul was as dry as the block. He tried to work himself up to views which he did not hold; he tried to awaken some sort of emotion in his heart for the dead queen, but her plain, dull features, cut into the wood, made no more impression on him than he on the block.

He realized his incapacity and felt despondent, degraded. And this was the career of [67] his choice, the one he had preferred to all others. With a strong appeal to his reason, he turned to the guardian angel. The brochure was originally written for a German society, the "Nereus," and the argument was as follows: Mr.

Castle had emigrated to America, where they acquired a large estate. To make the story possible, they had sold their land, and, very unpractically, invested the total amount realized in costly furniture and objects of art. They left Liverpool and all went well until they came to Skagen Point.

The latter, rejoicing at their parents' foresight, arrived at Hamburg in good spirits, eager to take possession of the insurance money and the property which they had inherited from their parents. Imagine their consternation when they were told that the Washington had been wrecked a fortnight before their arrival on Dogger Bank; their whole fortune, which had been left uninsured, was lost.

All that remained was the life insurance money. They hurried to the Company's agents. A fresh disaster! They were told that their parents had not paid the last premium which—oh, fateful blow!

The distressed children bitterly mourned their parents, who had worked so hard for them. They embraced each other with tears and made a solemn vow that henceforth all their possessions should be insured, and that they would never neglect paying their life insurance premiums.

The devil of pride whispered to him not to be a blackguard and to leave the business alone, but this voice was silenced by another, which came from the region of his empty stomach, and was accompanied by a gnawing, stinging sensation. He drank a glass of water and smoked another pipe. But his discomfort increased. His thoughts became more gloomy; he found his room uncomfortable, the morning dull and monotonous; he was tired and despondent; everything seemed repulsive; his ideas were spiritless and revolved round nothing but unpleasant subjects; and still his discomfort grew.

He wondered whether he was hungry? It was one o'clock. He never dined before three. He anxiously examined his purse. Threepence halfpenny! For the first time in his life he would have to go without dinner! This was a trouble hitherto unknown to him. But with threepence halfpenny there was no necessity to starve.

He could send for bread and beer. That would not do; it was infra dig. Go to a dairy? He knew nobody who would lend. No sooner had he realized this than hunger began to rage in him like a wild beast let loose, biting him, tearing him and chasing him round the room.

He smoked pipe after pipe to stupefy the monster; in vain. A rolling of drums from the barracks yard told him that the guardsmen were lining up with their copper vessels to receive their dinner; every chimney was smoking; the dinner bell went in the dockyard; [69] a hissing sound came from his neighbour's, the policemen's kitchen; the smell of roast meat penetrated through the chinks of the door; he heard the rattling of knives and plates in the adjacent room, and the children saying grace.

The paviours in the street below were taking their after-dinner nap with their heads on their empty food baskets. The whole town was dining; everybody, except he. He raged against God. But all at once a clear thought shot through his brain. He seized Ulrica Eleonora and the guardian angel, wrapped them in paper, wrote Smith's name and address on the parcel, and handed the messenger his threepence halfpenny. And with a sigh of relief he threw himself on his sofa and starved, with a heart bursting with pride.

Lundell was calmly working at his "Descent from the Cross"; he had already sent three pictures to the Exhibition and, like many others, he was awaiting their sale with a certain amount of excitement. The subject was simple and grand. The picture represented a stretch of drifting sand on the coast of Halland with the sea in the background; it was full of the feeling of autumn; sunbeams were breaking through riven clouds; the foreground was partly drift sand and newly washed-up seaweed, dripping wet and lit by the sun; in the middle distance lay the sea, with huge crested waves—the greater part in deep shadow; but in the background, on the horizon, the sun was shining, opening up a per [71] spective into infinity; the only figures were a flock of birds.

No unperverted mind who had the courage to face the mysterious wealth of solitude, had seen promising harvests choked by the drifting sand, could fail to understand the picture. It was painted with inspiration and talent; the colouring was the result of the prevailing mood, the mood was not engendered by the colouring.

Paint in a figure; a girl by preference; I'll help you if you don't know how to do it. Look here What's the good of petticoats in a high wind? You're mad on petticoats! Nobody can tell what sort of birds these are. Picture the red storks' legs against the dark cloud!

What a contrast! Have I ever sold anything? Am I the worse for it? Do you think I don't know that I should sell if I painted like everybody else? Do you think I can't paint as badly as everybody else? I just don't want to! You owe Mr. Lund of the 'Sauce-Pan' several hundred crowns. But unfortunately inclinations and tastes differ here below.

I find your 'Crucifixion' an execrable performance, you find it beautiful. Nobody can blame you for it. Tastes differ! Lund refused to give me credit yesterday, and I don't know how I'm to get a dinner to-day.

He's a nice chap; moreover, he has talent. There's much originality in his verses; I have read some of them these last few evenings. But I'm afraid he's not hard enough to get on in this world.

He's too sensitive, the rascal! It's outrageous how you spoilt that young Rehnhjelm in so short a time. I hear you are encouraging him to go on the stage. The little devil! He'll get on if he remains alive; but that's not so simple when one has so little to eat! God's death! I've no more paint! Can you spare any white? Merciful Lord! All the tubes are empty!

You must give me some, Lundell! If you weren't so wasteful your tubes would go further. A pair of boots! We'll get twopence halfpenny on them; they'd better be sold. You can't take them," objected Lundell, who had meant to put them on in the afternoon when he was going up to town. He'll be getting money for them.

What's in this parcel? A velvet waistcoat! A beauty! I shall keep it for myself and then Olle can pawn mine. Collars and cuffs? A pair of socks! Here, Olle, twopence halfpenny! Wrap them in the waistcoat! You can sell the empty bottles—I think the best thing would be to sell everything.

Have you no sense of right and wrong? But it isn't enough yet. We must take the sheets off the bed. Why not? We don't want any sheets! Here, Olle, cram them in! Olle very skilfully made a bag of one of the sheets and stuffed everything into it, while Lundell went on eagerly protesting. When the parcel was made, Olle took it under his arm, buttoned his ragged coat so as to hide the absence of a waistcoat, and set out on his way to the town.

Hurry up, Olle! Olle turned round and waved his hat with as much assurance as if he had the feast already safely in his pockets.

He scraped his palette and cast envious glances at the lost glory. But it was something else he was trying to speak of; something else, which was very difficult to mention. Where does the light come from? From the clothes, from the flesh! It's crazy! What do these people breathe? I see no air! What do you think of the composition? I [75] don't want the Academy models, the whole world knows them, and, besides, the subject is a religious one.

Are you mad? Among all those men She must be dressed in something Oriental, and bend down as if she were picking up something, show her shoulders, her neck, and the first vertebra, I understand. Religious like the Magdalene! Bird's-eye view! You shall have your model, for it's impossible to paint without one. You, yourself, don't know one. Your religious principles don't allow you to look for one; therefore Rehnhjelm and I, the two black sheep, will find you one.

We will see what we can do, the day after to-morrow, when we shall be in funds. And they went on painting, quietly, diligently, until four—until five. Every now and then their anxious glances swept the road. But why do you always send the poor devil?

Why can't you run your own errands? And besides, let me tell you, nobody can say how Olle's going to turn out. He has great schemes, and he may be on his feet any day; then it will be a good thing to have him for a friend. What great work is he going to accomplish? I can quite believe that Olle will [76] become a great man, although not a great sculptor. But where the devil is he? Do you think he's spending the money?

He's had nothing for a long time and perhaps the temptation was too strong," answered Lundell, tightening his belt by two holes, and wondering what he would do in Olle's place. I must have paint, even if I have to steal it. I'll go and see Falk. You robbed him yesterday for your frame.

And it wasn't a small sum you borrowed. I am compelled to cast all feelings of shame to the winds; there's no help for it. One has to put up with a good deal. However, Falk is a great-hearted fellow who understands that a man may suddenly find himself in Queer Street. Anyhow, I'm going. If Olle returns in the meantime, tell him he's a blockhead.

So long! Come to the Red Room and we'll see whether our master will be graciously pleased to give us something to eat before the sun sets. Lock the door, when you leave, and push the key underneath the mat. He went, and before long he stood before Falk's door in Count Magni Street. He knocked, but received no reply. He opened the door and went in. It's you. I must have had a strange dream. Good evening! Sit down and smoke a pipe!

Is it evening already? He really did not know whether he had dreamt it or whether he had actually been there; but he was glad that he had said it, for he was ashamed of his position. The words "rolls and butter" awakened Falk to consciousness; he did not feel hungry, only a little shaky and faint. But he did not like the subject of conversation and changed it.

He could not have understood the recklessness of carrying so much money outside one's waistcoat. But his thoughts were following a definite course, and he continued:. But we carelessly pledged our winter overcoats on the first sunny day in April. To Falk the room seemed to be turning round.

He had to sit down. Then he pulled out his gold watch. You shouldn't pawn your things for my sake. If you'll turn them into cash, you'll do me a service. Pull yourself together, old chap! Life is hard at times, I don't deny it; but we go through with it.

He patted Falk's shoulder with a cordiality which did not often pierce the scorn with which he had enveloped himself. By the time they had concluded the business it was seven o'clock. They bought the paint and repaired to the Red Room.

Here, every evening after seven, crowds of young people met who lived in that abnormal transition stage which begins on leaving the parental roof and ends with the foundation of a new home and family; here were numbers of young men who had escaped from the solitude of their room or attic to find light and warmth and a fellow-creature to talk to.

The proprietor had made more than one attempt to amuse his patrons by pantomimic, gymnastic, ballet, and other performances; but he had been plainly shown that his guests were not in search of amusement, but in quest of peace; what was wanted was a consulting-room, where one was likely every moment to chance on a friend.

The band was tolerated because it did not stop conversation, but rather stimulated it, and gradually it became as much a component of the Stockholm evening diet, as punch and tobacco. In this way Berns' Salon became the bachelors' club of all Stockholm. Every circle had its special corner; the colonists of Lill-Jans had usurped the inner chess room, usually called the Red Room on account of its red furniture and for the sake of brevity.

It was a safe meeting-ground even if during the whole day the members had been scattered like chaff. When times were hard and funds had to be raised at any cost, regular raids were made from this spot round the room. A chain was formed: two members skirmished in the galleries, and two others attacked the room lengthways.

One might have said they dredged the room with a ground-net, and they rarely dredged in vain, for there was a constant flow of new arrivals during the evening.

After having acted a little [80] farce on the subject of what they were going to drink, they came to the conclusion that they must have something to eat first. DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url.

If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed. Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to classics, fiction lovers.

Your Rating:. In Sweden, Strindberg is known as an essayist, painter, poet, and especially as a novelist and playwright, but in other countries, he is known mostly as a playwright.

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