in every paper—in the Incorruptible in bold type—appeared the advertisement, shouting: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known." Then a correspondence was started in the X-köpings Miscellaneous, reproaching the metropolitan papers with being hard on young authors. "Gustav Sjöholm is simply a genius," affirmed the hot-headed correspondent, "in spite of all that dogmatic blockheads might say to the contrary." On the next day the advertisement again appeared in all the papers, bawling: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known, etc. (Grey Bonnet)." "Gustav Sjöholm is a genius, etc. (X-köpings Miscellaneous)." The cover of the next number of the magazine Our Land, one of Smith's publications, bore the notice: "We are pleased to be in a position to inform our numerous subscribers that the brilliant young author Gustav Sjöholm has promised us an original novel for our next number, etc." And then again the advertisement in the papers. Finally, when at Christmas the almanac Our People appeared, the authors mentioned on the title page were: Orvar Odd, Talis Qualis, Gustav Sjöholm, and others. It was a fact. In the eighth month Gustav Sjöholm was made. And the public was powerless. It had to swallow him. It was impossible to go into a bookseller's and look at a book without reading his name; impossible to take up a newspaper without coming across it. In all circumstances and conditions of life that name obtruded itself, printed on a slip of paper; it was put into the housewives' market baskets on Saturdays; the servants carried it home from the tradespeople; the crossing-sweeper swept it off the street, and the man of leisure went about with it in the pockets of his dressing-gown.
Being well aware of Smith's great power, the young man climbed the dark stairs of the publisher's house close to the Great Church, not without misgivings. He had to wait for a long time in an outer office, a prey to the most unpleasant meditations, until suddenly the door was burst open and a young man rushed out of an inner office, despair on his face and a roll of paper under his arm. Shaking in every limb, Falk entered the sanctum, where the despot received his visitors, seated on a low sofa, calm and serene as a god; he kindly nodded his grey head, covered by a blue cap, and went on smoking, peacefully, as if he had never shattered a man's hopes or turned an unhappy wretch from his door.
"Good morning, sir, good morning!"
His divinely flashing eyes glanced at the newcomer's clothes and approved; nevertheless he did not ask him to sit down.
"My name is—Falk."
"Unknown to me! What is your father?"
"My father is dead."
"Is he? Good! What can I do for you, sir?"
Falk produced a manuscript from his breast pocket and handed it to Smith; the latter sat on it without looking at it.
"You want me to publish it? Verse? I might have guessed it! Do you know the cost of printing a single page, sir? No, you don't."
And he playfully poked the ignoramus with the stem of his pipe.
"Have you made a name, sir? No! Have you distinguished yourself in any way? No!"
"The Academy has praised these verses."
"Which Academy? The Academy of Sciences? The one which publishes all that stuff about flints?"
"About flints?"
"Yes, you know the Academy of Sciences! Close to the Museum, near the river. Well, then!"
"Oh, no, Mr. Smith! The Swedish Academy, in the Exchange...."
"I see! The one with the tallow candles! Never mind; no man on earth can tell what purpose it serves! No, my dear sir, the essential thing is to have a name, a name like Tegnér, like Ohrenschlägel, like—Yes! Our country has many great poets, but I can't remember them just at the moment; but a name is necessary. Mr. Falk? H'm! Who knows Mr. Falk? I don't, and I know many great poets. As I recently said to my friend Ibsen: 'Now just you listen to me, Ibsen'—I call him Ibsen, quite plainly—'just you listen to me, write something for my magazine. I'll pay you whatever you ask!' He wrote—I paid—but I got my money back."
The annihilated young man longed to sink through the chinks in the floor when he realized that he was standing before a person who called Ibsen quite plainly "Ibsen." He longed to recover his manuscript, and go his way, as the other young man had done, away, far away, until he came to running water. Smith guessed it.
"Well, I've no doubt you can write Swedish, sir. And you know our literature better than I do. Good! I have an idea. I am told of great, beautiful, spiritual writers who lived in the past, let's say in the reign of Gustav Eriksson and his daughter Christina. Isn't that so?"
"Gustavus Adolfus."
"Gustavus Adolfus, so be it! I remember there was one with a great, a very great name; he wrote a fine work in verse, on God's Creation, I believe! His Christian name was Hokan!"
"You mean Haquin Spegel, Mr. Smith! 'God's Works and Rest.'"
"Ah, yes! Well, I've been thinking of publishing it. Our nation is yearning for religion these days; I've noticed that; and one must give the people something. I have given them a good deal of Hermann Francke and Arndt, but the great Foundation can sell more cheaply than I can, and now I want to bring out something good at a fair price. Will you take the matter in hand?"
"I don't know where I come in, as it is but a question of a reprint," answered Falk, not daring to refuse straight out.
"Dear me, what ignorance! You would do the editing and proof-reading, of course. Are we agreed? You publish it, sir! What? Shall we draw up a little agreement? The work must appear in numbers. What? A little agreement. Just hand me pen and ink. Well?"
Falk obeyed; he was unable to offer resistance. Smith wrote and Falk signed.
"Well, so much for that! Now, there's another thing! Give me that little book on the stand! The third shelf! There! Now look here! A brochure—title: "The Guardian Angel." Look at the vignette! An angel with an anchor and a ship—it's a schooner without any yards, I believe! The splendid influence of marine insurance on social life in general is well known. Everybody has at one time or other sent something more or less valuable across the sea in a ship. What? Well! Everybody doesn't realize this. No! Consequently it is our duty to enlighten those who are ignorant; isn't that so? Well! We know, you and I; therefore it is for us to enlighten those who don't. This book maintains that everybody who sends things across the water should insure them. But this book is badly written. Well! We'll write a better one. What? You'll write me a novel of ten pages for my magazine Our Land, and I expect you to have sufficient gumption to introduce the name Triton—which is the name of a new limited liability company, founded by my nephew, and we are told to help our neighbours—twice, neither more nor less; but it must be done cleverly and so that it is not at all obvious. Do you follow me?"
Falk found the offer repulsive, although it contained nothing dishonest; however, it gave him a start with the influential man, straight away, without any effort on his part. He thanked Smith and accepted.
"You know the size? Sixteen inches to the page, altogether a hundred and sixty inches of eight lines each. Shall we write a little agreement?"
Smith drew up an agreement and Falk signed.
"Well, now! You know the history of Sweden? Go to the stand again—you will find a cliché there, a wood block. To the right! That's it! Can you tell me who the lady is meant for? She is supposed to be a queen."
Falk, who saw nothing at first but a piece of black wood,
