The Red Room

As you know, I regard mankind with calm indifference; men are to me geological preparations, minerals; some crystallize under one condition, others under another; it all depends on certain laws or circumstances which should leave us completely unmoved. I don’t weep over the lime-spar, because it is not as hard as a rock-crystal.

Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back. He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth, his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dustbin—standing like a coffin—with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter. His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt, stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above—there was nothing but the empty, blue void

The winter passed; slowly for the sufferers, more quickly for those who were less unhappy. Spring came with its disappointed hopes of sun and verdure, and in its turn made room for the summer which was but a short introduction to the autumn.