I am, or rather, was a minister, and was settled in an active, wide-awake town with a bright parish and a charming young wife. At first it was all delightful, but as my duties increased I found myself leading a double life—one for my parish, whom I loved, and the other for a vague public, for whom I did not care two straws.
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The argument by design, it may be granted, establishes a reasonable ground for accepting the existence of God. It makes belief, at all events, quite as intelligible as unbelief.
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Whoever is familiar with Central European popular literature has tucked away in his memory some part or parcel of the story of Barbara Ubrik. The romance of her life and parentage has furnished material for countless novels, plays, short stories, tales and poems of the imaginative kind. Bits of her history appear in more serious literature, in religious and social polemics, even in the memoirs of personages.
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There remains to be told the story of my conversion and how I came to write the foregoing history of my life.
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The words “church” and “fortress” used to be synonymous in Transylvania, so the places of worship might accurately have been described as churches militant.
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I have said that the poetry which safeguards Christianity from destruction today was borrowed from the ancient Jews, authors of the two Testaments. But there was a long period during which it was overshadowed by purely logical ideas, many of them of a sort that would be called bolshevistic today.
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The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Överaas. He appeared in the priest’s study one day, tall and earnest.
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