The Red Room. August Strindberg
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if he were draining a cup filled to the brim with ingratitude.
"You're not up to the mark, Nyström," he said.
"No, he was far wittier on your thirty-eighth birthday," agreed Levin, guessing what Falk was driving at.
Falk's glance penetrated into the most hidden recesses of Levin's soul, trying to discover whether any lie or fraud lay hidden there—and as his eyes were blinded by pride, he saw nothing.
"Quite true," he acquiesced: "I never heard anything more witty in all my life; it was good enough to be printed; you really ought to get your things printed. I say, Nyström, surely you know it by heart, don't you?"
Nyström had a shocking memory, or, to tell the truth, he had not yet had enough wine to commit the suggested outrage against decency and good form; he asked for time. But Falk, irritated by his quiet resistance, had gone too far to turn back, and insisted on his request. He was almost sure that he had a copy of the verses with him; he searched his pocket-book and behold! There they lay. Modesty did not forbid him to read them aloud himself; it would not have been for the first time; but it sounded better for another to read them. The poor dog bit his chain, but it held. He was a sensitive man, this schoolmaster, but he had to be brutal if he did not want to relinquish the precious gift of life, and he had been very brutal. The most private affairs were fully and openly discussed, everything in connexion with the birth of the hero, his reception into the community, his education and up-bringing were made fun of; the verses would have disgusted even Falk himself if they had treated of any other person, but the fact of their celebrating him and his doings made them excellent. When the recitation was over, his health was drunk uproariously, in many glasses, for each member of the little party felt that he was too sober to keep his real feelings under control.
The table was now cleared and an excellent supper consisting of oysters, birds, and other good things, was served. Falk went sniffing from dish to dish, sent one or two of them back, took care that the chill was taken off the stout, and that the wines were the right temperature. Now his dogs were called upon to do their work and offer him a pleasant spectacle. When everybody was ready, he pulled out his gold watch and held it in his hand while he jestingly asked a question which his convives had heard many times—so very many times:
"What is the time by the silver watches of the gentlemen?"
The anticipated reply came as in duty bound, accompanied by gay laughter: the watches were at the watch-maker's. This put Falk into the best of tempers, which found expression in the not at all unexpected joke:
"The animals will be fed at eight."
He sat down, poured out three liqueurs, took one and invited his friends to follow his example.
"I must make a beginning myself, as you both seem to be holding back. Don't let's stand on ceremony! Tuck in boys!"
The feeding began. Charles Nicholas who was not particularly hungry, had plenty of time to enjoy the appetite of his guests, and he continually urged them to eat. An unspeakably benevolent smile radiated from his bright, sunny countenance as he watched their zeal, and it was difficult to say what he enjoyed more, the fact of their having a good meal, or the fact of their being so hungry. He sat there like a coachman on his box, clicking his tongue and cracking his whip at them.
"Eat, Nyström! You don't know when you'll get a meal next. Help yourself, Levin; you look as if you could do with a little flesh on your bones. Are you grinning at the oysters? Aren't they good enough for a fellow like you? What do you say? Take another! Don't be shy! What do you say? You've had enough? Nonsense! Have a drink now! Take some stout, boys! Now a little more salmon! You shall take another piece, by the Lord Harry, you shall! Go on eating! Why the devil don't you? It costs you nothing!"
When the birds had been carved, Charles Nicholas poured out the claret with a certain solemnity. The guests paused, anticipating a speech. The host raised his glass, smelt the bouquet of the wine and said with profound gravity:
"Your health, you hogs!"
Nyström responded by raising his glass and drinking; but Levin left his untouched, looking as if he were secretly sharpening a knife.
When supper was over Levin, strengthened by food and drink, his senses befogged by the fumes of the wine, began to nurse a feeling of independence; a strong yearning for freedom stirred in his heart. His voice grew more resonant; he pronounced his words with increasing assurance, and his movements betrayed greater ease.
"Give me a cigar!" he said in a commanding tone; "no, not a weed like these, a good one."
Charles Nicholas, regarding his words as a good joke, obeyed.
"Your brother isn't here to-night," remarked Levin casually. There was something ominous and threatening in his voice; Falk felt it and became uneasy.
"No!" he said shortly, but his voice was unsteady.
Levin waited for a few moments before striking a second blow. One of his most lucrative occupations was his interference in other people's business; he carried gossip from family to family; sowed a grain of discord here and another there, merely to play the grateful part of the mediator afterwards. In this way he had obtained a great deal of influence, was feared by his acquaintances, and managed them as if they were marionettes.
Falk felt this disagreeable influence and attempted to shake it off; but in vain. Levin knew how to whet his curiosity; and by hinting at more than he knew, he succeeded in bluffing people into betraying their secrets.
At the present moment Levin held the whip and he promised himself to make his oppressor feel it. He was still merely playing with it, but Falk was waiting for the blow. He tried to change the subject of conversation. He urged his friends to drink and they drank. Levin grew whiter and colder as his intoxication increased, and went on playing with his victim.
"Your wife has visitors this evening," he suddenly remarked.
"How do you know?" asked Falk, taken aback.
"I know everything," answered Levin, showing his teeth. It was almost true; his widely extending business connexions compelled him to visit as many public places as possible, and there he heard much; not only the things which were spoken of in his society, but also those which were discussed by others.
Falk was beginning to feel afraid without knowing why, and he thought it best to divert the threatening danger. He became civil, humble even, but Levin's boldness still increased. There was no alternative, he must make a speech, remind his companions of the cause of the gathering, acknowledge the hero of the day. There was no other escape. He was a poor speaker, but the thing had to be done. He tapped against the bowl, filled the glasses, and recollecting an old speech, made by his father when Falk became his own master, he rose and began, very slowly:
"Gentlemen! I have been my own master these eight years; I was only thirty years old...."
The change from a sitting position to a standing one caused a rush of blood to his head; he became confused; Levin's mocking glances added to his embarrassment. His confusion grew; the figure thirty seemed something so colossal that it completely disconcerted him.
"Did I say thirty? I didn't—mean it. I was in my father's employ—for many years. It would take too long to recount everything—I suffered during those years; it's the common lot. Perhaps you think me selfish...."
"Hear! hear!" groaned Nyström who was resting his heavy head on the table.
Levin puffed the smoke of his cigar in the direction of the speaker, as if he were spitting in his face.
Falk, really intoxicated now, continued his speech; his eyes seemed to seek a distant goal without being able to find it.
"Everybody is selfish, we all know that. Ye-es! My father, who made a speech when I became my own master, as I was just saying——"
He pulled out his gold watch and took it off the chain. The two listeners opened their eyes wide. Was he going to make a present of it to Levin?
"Handed me