The Red Room, August Strindberg [the mitten read aloud txt] 📗

weary eyes fell on Sellén and remained riveted on the velvet waistcoat, which gave him plenty of food for thought for the remainder of the evening. His face brightened momentarily as if he had met an old friend; but the light on it went out as Sellén buttoned up his coat “because there was a draught.”

Ygberg took care that Olle had some supper, and never tired of urging him to help himself and to fill his glass.

As the evening advanced music and conversation grew more and more lively.

This state of semi-stupor had a great charm for Falk; it was warm, light, and noisy here; he was in the company of men whose lives he had prolonged for a few more hours and who were therefore gay and lively, as flies revived by the rays of the sun. He felt that he was one of them, for he knew that in their inner consciousness they were unhappy; they were unassuming; they understood him, and they talked like human beings and not like books; even their coarseness was not unattractive; there was so much naturalness in it, so much innocence; even Lundell’s hypocrisy did not repulse him; it was so naive and sat on him so loosely, that it could have been cast off at any moment.

And the evening passed away and the day was over which had pushed Falk irrevocably on to the thorny path of the writer.

VII 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 10:27, 28, 29.

First Corinth. 6:3, 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 tomorrow 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 signboards: “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 1s. 6d. a pound obtainable from the porter. Black dress-coats for confirmation candidates let out. Unfermented wine (Mat. xix. 32) at 9½d. 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 passersby. 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 bookkeepers. 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 keyboard 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