THE IMITATION OF CHRIST
On the following morning Falk was awakened by a maid servant who
brought him a letter. He opened it and read:
Timothy x. 27, 28, 29.
First Corinth. vi. 3, 4, 5.
DEAR BROTHER,
The grace and peace of our Lord J. C., the love of the father and
the fellowship of the H. G., etc., Amen.
I read last night in the _Grey Bonnet_ that you are going to edit
the _Torch of Reconciliation_. Meet me in my office to-morrow
morning.
Your saved brother,
NATHANAEL SKORE.
Now he partially understood Lundell's riddle. He did not know Skore,
the great champion of the Lord, personally; he knew nothing of the
_Torch of Reconciliation_, but he was curious and decided to obey the
insolent request.
At nine o'clock he was in Government Street, looking at the imposing
four-storied house, the front of which, from cellar to roof, was
covered by sign-boards: "Christian Printing office, _Peace_, Ltd.,
second floor. Editorial office, _The Inheritance of the Children of
God_, half-landing floor. Publishing office, _The Last Judgment_, first
floor. Publishing office, _The Trump of Peace_, second floor. Editorial
office of the children's paper, _Feed My Lambs_, first floor. Offices
of the Christian Prayer House Society, Ltd., _The Seat of Mercy_. Loans
granted against first securities, third floor. _Come to Jesus_, third
floor. Employment found for respectable salesmen who can offer
security. Foreign Missions Society, Ltd., _Eagle_, distribution of the
profits of the year 1867 in coupons, second floor. Offices of the
Christian Mission Steamer _Zululu_, second floor. The steamer will
leave, D.V., on the 28th. Goods received against bill of lading and
certificate at the shipping offices close to the landing-bridge where
the steamer is loading. Needlework society 'Ant Heap' receives gifts,
first floor. Clergymen's bands washed and ironed by the porter. Wafers
at 1_s._ 6_d._ a pound obtainable from the porter. Black dress-coats
for confirmation candidates let out. Unfermented wine (Mat. xix. 32) at
91/2_d._ per quart; apply to the porter. (Bring your own jug.)"
On the ground floor, to the left of the archway, was a Christian
bookshop. Falk stopped for a few moments and read the titles of the
books exhibited in the window. It was the usual thing. Indiscreet
questions, impudent charges, offensive familiarities. But his attention
was mainly attracted to a number of illustrated magazines with large
English woodcuts, displayed in the window in order to attract the
passers-by. More especially the children's papers had an interesting
table of contents, and the young man in the shop could have told anyone
who cared to know that old men and women would pass hours before this
window, lost in contemplation of the illustrations, which appeared to
move their pious hearts and awaken memories of their vanished--and
perhaps wasted--youth.
He climbed the broad staircase between Pompeian frescoes reminiscent of
the path which does not lead to salvation, and came to a large room
furnished with desks like a bank, but so far unoccupied by cashiers and
book-keepers. In the centre of the room stood a writing-table, of the
size of an altar, resembling an organ with many stops; there was a
complete key-board with buttons and semaphores with trumpet-like
speaking-tubes, connected with all parts of the building. A big man in
riding-boots was standing at the writing-desk. He wore a cassock
fastened with one button at the neck which gave it a military
appearance; the coat was surmounted by a white band and the mask of a
sea captain, for the real face had long ago been mislaid in one of the
desks or boxes. The big man was slapping the tops of his boots with his
horsewhip, the handle of which was in the form of a symbolical hoof,
and sedulously smoking and chewing a strong regalia, probably to keep
his jaws in trim. Falk looked at the big man in astonishment.
This, then, was the last fashion in clergymen, for in men, too, there
is a fashion. This was the great promulgator, who had succeeded in
making it fashionable to be sinful, to thirst for mercy, to be poor and
wretched, in fact, to be a worthless specimen of humanity in every
possible way. This was the man who had brought salvation in vogue! He
had discovered a gospel for smart society. The divine ordinance of
grace had become a sport! There were competitions in viciousness in
which the prize was given to the sinner. Paper chases were arranged to
catch poor souls for the purpose of saving them; but also, let us
confess it, battues for subjects on whom to demonstrate one's
conversion in a practical manner, by venting on them the most cruel
charity.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Falk," said the mask. "Welcome, dear friend! Perhaps
you would like to see something of my work? Pardon me, I hope you are
saved? Yes, this is the office of the printing works. Excuse me a
second."
He stepped up to the organ and pulled out several stops. The answer was
a long whistle.
"Just have a look round."
He put his mouth to one of the trumpets and shouted: "The seventh
trumpet and the eighth woe! Composition Mediaeval 8, titles Gothic,
names spaced out."
A voice answered through the same trumpet: "No more manuscript." The
mask sat down at the organ, and took a pen and a sheet of foolscap. The
pen raced over the paper while he talked, cigar in mouth.
"This activity--is so extensive--that it would soon--be beyond my
strength--and my health--would be worse--than it is--if I did--not look
after it--so well."
He jumped up, pulled out another stop and shouted into another trumpet:
"Proofs of 'Have you paid your Debt?'" Then he continued writing and
talking.
"You wonder--why--I--wear riding-boots. It's first--because--I take
riding exercises--for the sake of--my health...."
A boy appeared with proofs. The mask handed them to Falk. "Please read
that," he said, speaking through his nose, because his mouth was busy,
while his eyes shouted to the boy: Wait!
"... secondly--(a movement of the ears plainly conveyed to Falk that he
had not lost the thread), because--I am of opinion--that a spiritually
minded man should not--be conspicuous--by his appearance--for this
would be--spiritual pride--and a challenge--to the scoffers."
A book-keeper entered. The mask acknowledged his salutation by a
wrinkling of his forehead, the only part of his face which was
unoccupied.
For want of something else to do, Falk took the proofs and began to
read them. The cigar continued talking:
"Everybody--wears--riding-boots. I won't--be conspicuous--by
my--appearance. I wear--riding-boots--because--I'm no humbug."
He handed the manuscript to the boy and shouted--with his lips: "Four
sticks--Seventh trumpet for Nystroem!"--and then to Falk:
"I shall be disengaged in five minutes. Will you come with me to the
warehouse?"
And to the book-keeper:
"Zululu is charging?"
"Brandy," answered the book-keeper in a rusty voice.
"Everything all right?"
"Everything all right."
"In God's name, then! Come along Mr. Falk."
They entered a room the walls of which were lined with shelves, filled
with piles of books. The mask touched them with his horsewhip and said
proudly:
"I've written those! What do you think of that? Isn't it a lot? You,
too, write--a little. If you stick to it, you might write as much."
He bit and tore at his cigar and spat out the tiny flakes which filled
the air like flies and settled on the backs of the books. His face wore
a look of contempt.
"The _Torch of Reconciliation_! Hm! I think it's a stupid name! Don't
you rather agree with me? What made you think of it?"
For the first time Falk had a chance of getting in a word, for like all
great men, the mask answered his own questions. His reply was in the
negative but he got no further; the mask again usurped the
conversation.
"I think it's a very stupid name. And do you really believe that it
will draw?"
"I know nothing whatever about the matter; I don't know what you are
talking about."
"You don't know?"
He took up a paper and pointed to a paragraph.
Falk, very much taken aback, read the following advertisement:
"Notice to subscribers: The _Torch of Reconciliation_. Magazine for
Christian readers, about to appear under the editorship of Arvid Falk
whose work has been awarded a prize by the Academy of Sciences. The
first number will contain 'God's Creation,' by Hokan Spegel, a poem of
an admittedly religious and profoundly Christian spirit."
Falk had forgotten Spegel and his agreement; he stood speechless.
"How large is the edition going to be? What? Two thousand, I suppose.
Too small! No good! My _Last Judgment_ was ten thousand, and yet I
didn't make more than--what shall I say?--fifteen net."
"Fifteen?"
"Thousand, young man!"
The mask seemed to have forgotten his part and reverted to old habits.
"You know," he continued, "that I'm a popular preacher; I may say that
without boasting, for all the world knows it. You know, that I'm very
popular; I can't help that--it is so! I should be a hypocrite if I
pretended not to know what all the world knows! Well, I'll give you a
helping hand to begin with. Look at this bag here! If I say that it
contains letters from persons--ladies--don't upset yourself, I'm a
married man--begging for my portrait, I have not said too much."
As a matter of fact it was nothing but an ordinary bag which he touched
with his whip.
"To save them and me a great deal of trouble, and at the same time for
the sake of doing a fellow-man a kindness, I have decided to permit you
to write my biography; then you can safely issue ten thousand copies of
your first number and pocket a clear thousand."
"But, my dear pastor--he had it on the tip of his tongue to say
captain--I know nothing at all about this matter."
"Never mind! Never mind! The publisher has himself written to me and
asked me for my portrait. And you are to write my biography! To
facilitate your work, I asked a friend to write down the principal
points. You have only to write an introduction, brief and eloquent--a
few sticks at the most. That's all."
So much foresight depressed Falk; he was surprised to find the portrait
so unlike the original, and the friend's handwriting so much like that
of the mask.
The latter, who had given him portrait and manuscript, now held out his
hand expecting to be thanked.
"My regards to--the publisher."
He had so nearly said Smith, that a slight blush appeared between his
whiskers.
"But you don't know my views yet," protested Falk.
"Views? Have I asked what your views are? I never ask anybody about his
views. God forbid! I? Never!"
Once more he touched the backs of his publications with his whip,
opened the door, let the biographer out and returned to his service at
the altar.
Falk, as usual, could not think of a suitable answer until it was too
late; when he thought of one, he was already in the street. A cellar
window which happened to stand wide open (and was not covered with
advertisements) received biography and portrait into safe keeping.
Then Falk went to the nearest newspaper office, handed in a protest
against the _Torch of Reconciliation_, and resigned himself to starve.