“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 Medieval 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 bookkeeper 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 Nyström!”—and then to Falk:
“I shall be disengaged in five minutes. Will you come with me to the warehouse?”
And to the bookkeeper:
“Zululu is charging?”
“Brandy,” answered the bookkeeper 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
