Produced by Henry Flower and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Egholm and his God Egholm and his God Translated from the Danish of Johannes Buchholtz By W. W. Worster [Illustration] New York Alfred Â· A Â· Knopf 1922 EGHOLM AND HIS GOD I Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the window ledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair, and looking down at the muddy court below. Not a soul. He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindrops splashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter. Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only the sullen November drizzle, flung now and then into gusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain. But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out into the grey desolation, highly amused at it all. Now he purses up his lips and whispers something, raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, and giggles. Let him, for Heavenâs sake, as long as he can, thinks his mother. And Sivert finds it more amusing still. Wonderful, so much there is going on inside him. He shakes his poodle mop of hair, and gives way to a long-drawn, gasping laugh--simply canât help it--leans his forehead against the pane, thrusts both hands suddenly deep into his pockets, and gives a curious wriggle. âYou great big boy, whatâs the matter now?â says his mother gently. Sivert turns his head away and answers with an evasive laugh: âAll that rain ... it tickles so.â Fru Egholm does not question him again; for a moment she really feels as if the boy were right. And, anyhow, it would be no use asking him. If only he can find his little pleasure in it, so much the better. And thereâs no saying how long ... Egholm had said it was time the boy found something to do, now he was confirmed. Find him a place at once. And Sivert, poor weakly lad--how would it go with him? Fru Egholm shakes her head, and sends a loving glance at the boy, who is plainly busy in his mind with something new and splendid. Then suddenly his face changes, as if at the touch of death itself. His eyes grow dull, his jaw drops; the childish features with their prematurely aged look are furrowed with dread as he stares down at something below. âIs it Father?â she whispers breathlessly. âBack already?â She lays down her sewing and hurries to the window; mother and son stand watching with frightened eyes each movement of the figure below. Egholm walks up from the gate, lithe and erect, just as in the old days when he came home from the office. But at every step his knees give under him, he stumbles, and his wet cloak hangs uncomfortably about him. At last he comes to a standstill, heedless of the fact that his broad boots are deep in a puddle of water. Once he looks up, and Sivert and his mother hold their breath. But the flower-pots in the window hide them. His head droops forward, he stands there still. A little after, they see him trudging along close to the wall, past his own door. The watchers stand on tiptoe, pressing their temples against the cold glass, straining to see what next. Egholm stops at the Eriksensâ gate, glances round, and kneels. Kneels down full in the mire, while the gale flings the cape of his ulster over his head. Now he snatches off his hat and crushes it in his fingers; his bald head looks queerly oblong, like a pumpkin, seen from above. âHeâs praying!â And the two at the window shudder, as if they were witnessing some dreadful deed. âWhere am I to hide?â blubbers Sivert. The mother pulls herself together--she must find strength for two. âYou need not hide to-day. Take your little saw and be doing some work. Youâll see, it will be all right to-day.â âBut suppose he counts the money?â âOh, heaven...!â âHadnât we better tell him at once? Shout out and tell him as soon as he comes in, and say Hedvig took it?â âNo, no.â âOr go and kill ourselves?â âNo, no. Sit still, Sivert dear, and donât say a word. Maybe God will help us. We might put something over the bowl ... no. Better leave it as it is.â Heavy steps on the stairs outside. Egholm walks in, strong and erect again now. He hangs up his wet things, and fumbles with a pair of sodden cuffs. âDidnât get a place, I suppose?â asks his wife, looking up from the machine. Sivert sits obediently at a little table at the farther end of the room. âIs it likely?â Egholmâs face is that of one suffering intensely. And he speaks in an injured tone. âI only thought.... Youâre home earlier than usual.â No answer. Egholm walks over to the window and stares into the greyness without, his long, thin fingers pulling now and again at his dark beard. Lost in thought.... His wife does not venture to disturb him, though he is shutting out the fading light. She keeps the machine audibly in motion, making pretence of work. A long, long time he stands there. Sivert has been sawing away conscientiously all the time, but at last he can bear it no longer, and utters a loud sigh. Fru Egholm reaches stealthily for the matches, and lights the lamp. Her fingers tremble as she lifts the glass. Egholm turns at the sound. And now he is no longer Egholm the upright, nor Egholm the abject; _Egholm the Great_ he is now. His eyes glow like windows in a burning house; he stands there filling the room with Egholm; Egholm the invincible. The mother cowers behind her sewing-machine; and her seam runs somewhat awry. What terrible thing can he be thinking of now? The âSect,â as usual?--Heaven have mercy on them, now that Egholm has joined the Brotherhood. Surely something terrible must happen soon; he has rarely been as bad as this before. He moves, and his wife looks up with a start. But now he has changed again, to something less terrible now--not quite so deadly terrible as before. He is far away in his dreamings now, without a thought for his earthbound fellow-creatures. He stands in his favourite attitude, with one hand on his hip, as if posing to a sculptor. A fine figure of a man. His watch-chain hangs in a golden arc from one waistcoat pocket to the other. Only one who knew of the fact would ever notice that one of the oval links is missing, and a piece of string tied in its place. After a little he begins walking up and down, stopping now and again at the window, with a gesture of the hand, as if addressing an assembly without. Then suddenly he swings round, facing his wife, and utters these words: âNow I know what it means. At last!â Fru Egholm checks the wheel of her machine, and looks up at him with leaden-grey, shadow-fringed eyes. But he says no more, and she sets the machine whirring once more. Peace for a little while longer, at any rate, she thinks to herself. Sivert looks up stealthily every time his father turns his back; the boy is flushed with repressed excitement, the tip of his tongue keeps creeping out. âMark you,â says Egholm after a long pause, âIâm wiser perhaps--a good deal wiser--than you take me for.â He throws out his chest with conscious dignity, lifting his head, and placing one hand on his hip as before. Oh, so heâs still thinking of that quarrel of theirs this morning. Well, well, of course it would be something to do with the Brotherhood some way or other. âYou said I was wasting my time.â âI didnât say that.â âYou said I was throwing money out of the window.â Fru Egholm shifts in her seat, pulling nervously at her work. She would like to mitigate the sharpness of her words, and yet, if possible, stand by what she had said. Sivert wakes to the fact that he is dribbling down over his hand, and sniffs up hastily. âDidnât you say it was throwing money out of the window?â âI said, it was hard taking money where there was none.â âYou said it was throwing money away. But do you know what Iâm doing with that money all the time? Iâm putting it in the bank.â âIn the bank?...â âIn the _Bank of Heaven_--where the interest is a thousand--nay, tens of thousands--per cent.! If it wasnât for that, Iâd never have thought of joining the Brotherhood at all.â âBut--I canât help it, but I donât believe in him, that Evangelist man. Young Karlsen, I mean.â Egholm breathed sharply, and quickened his steps. The answer did not please him. âYou talk about young Karlsen: I am talking of Holy Writ.â âBut it was Karlsen that....â âYes, and I shall thank him for it till my dying day. He it was that opened my eyes, and showed me I was living the life of one accursed; pointed out the goal I can reach--cannot fail to reach--if only I will pay my tithe. Do you know what it says in Malachi? Shall I give you the words of Malachi the Prophet?â âYe--es ... if you please,â answers his wife confusedly. âYes ... if you please,â echoes Sivert in precisely the same tone. He has a painful habit of taking up his motherâs words when anything excites him. But Egholm had no time now to punish the interruption; he stood forth and spoke, with threatening sternness: ââ_Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings._â ââ_Ye are cursed with a curse...._â âCursed!â Egholm struck the table with his fist in condemnation. âDo you hear? They are accursed who would rob the Lord--_in tithes and offerings!_â âItâs solemn hard words,â said the mother, with a sigh. âNo harder than it should be. Just and right!â âI was only thinking--the New Testament--perhaps there might be something there to make it easier.â âMake it easier! Godâs Law to be made easier! Are you utterly lost in sin, woman? Or do you think I would tamper with the Holy Scriptures? Read for yourself--there!â He snatched the old Bible from its shelf and flung it down on the sewing-machine. Fru Egholm looked at the thick, heavy tome with something like fear in her eyes. âI only meant ... if it was really Godâs will that we should starve to find that money for Karlsen.â âStarve--and whatâs a trifle of starvation when the rewardâs so much the greater? What does it say there, only a little farther on: â_Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it_â? âIsnât that a glorious promise? Perhaps the finest in the whole Bible. Are you so destitute of imagination that you cannot see the Lord opening the windows of heaven, and the money pouring out like a waterfall, like a rainbow, over us poor worms that have not room enough to receive it?â âMoney?--but it doesnât say anything about money.â âYes, it does--if you read it aright. Itâs there all right, onlyâ--Egholm drew his lips back a little, baring his teeth--âonly, of course, it needs a little sense in oneâs head to read the Bible, just as any other book. It wasnât all quite easy to me at first, but now I understand it to the full. Thereâs not a shadow of doubt, but the Bible means _ready money_. What else could it be? The blessing of the Lord, you say. Well, thereâs more than one of the Brethren in the congregation thinks the same--and thatâs what makes them slow in paying up _their_ tithes and offerings. They think the blessing is just something supernatural; an inner feeling of content--foolsâ nonsense! Do you suppose I could be content, with duns and creditors tearing at me like dogs about a carcase? No; ready money, thatâs what it means. Money we give, and money shall be given unto us in return; we shall receive our own with usury, as it is written.â âDo you really mean....â Egholm grasped eagerly at the hint of admission that he fancied lay behind her doubt. He strode to the chest of drawers, and, picking up the crystal bowl, held it out towards the light as if raising it in salutation. The tithe-money showed like some dark wine at the bottom. âI swear unto you,â he said, with great solemnity, âit is even so.â Fru Egholm meets his burning glance, and is confused. âIt would be a grand thing, sure enough, if we could come by a little money.â And she sighs. âBut itâs not a little,â says Egholm. The impression he has made on her is reacting now with added force upon himself. âNot altogether little; no. I can feel it; there is a change about to come. And a change, with me, must be a change for the better. It means I am to be exalted. âFriend, come up higher!ââ Again he strides up and down, seeking an outlet for his emotion. He sets down the bowl, and picks up the Bible instead, presses the book to his breast, and slaps its wooden cover, shaking out a puff of worm-eaten dust. âBeautiful book,â he says tenderly--âbeautiful old book. By thee I live, and am one with thee!â And, turning to his wife, he goes on: âAfter all, itâs simple enough. If I do my duty by God, Heâs got to do His by me, and Iâd like to see how He can get out of it.â There was a rattle of the door below. Fru Egholm listened ... yes, it was Hedvig, coming back from her work. There--wiping her boots on Eriksensâ mat, the very thing sheâd been strictly forbidden. And dashing upstairs three steps at a time and whistling like a boy. No mistaking Hedvig. Fru Egholm signed covertly to Sivert to go out in the kitchen. She could give the children their food there, without being noticed. What you donât hear you donât fear, as the saying goes. And that was true of Egholm; it always irritated him when Sivert made a noise over his food. Poor child--a good thing heâd the heart to eat and enjoy it. Hedvig came tumbling in, with a clatter of wooden shoes. âPuh, what a mess! Iâm drenched to the skin. Look!â She ducked forward, sending a stream of water from the brim of her hat. Her hair, in two heavy yellow plaits, slipped round on either side, the ends touching the floor; then with a toss of her head she threw it back, and stood there laughing, in the full glare of the lamp. Glittering white teeth and golden eyelashes. The freckles round her nose gave a touch of boyishness to her face. âMy dear child, what can we give you to put on?â âOh, Iâll find some dry stockings--thereâs a pair of mine in the settee.â âSivert borrowed those, dear, last Sunday, you know. But you can ask him--heâs outside in the kitchen.â Egholm, too, must have his meal. He had a ravenous appetite. The pile of bread and dripping vanished from his plate as a cloud passes from the face of the moon. Possibly because he was reading, as he ate, of the land of Canaan, a land flowing with milk and honey. The rain spattered unceasingly against the panes. âWhat are you hanging about here for?â asked Hedvig. Sivert was standing huddled up by the sink. âHeâll find out in a minute,â whispered the boy. âHeâs waving his arms and legs about, and talking all about money.â âPuh--let him. We must eat, so thereâs an end of it. Heâll have forgotten by to-morrow how much there was.â âBut heâll count it to-night. Heâs going to the meeting.â âTo-night--hâm. Thatâs a nasty one,â said Hedvig thoughtfully. Sivert showed a strange reluctance to hand over the stockings. âTheyâve been confirmed,â he explained. âI wore them last Sunday. You canât have them back now after theyâve been to my confirmation. Itâs a great honour.â âYou take them off, and that sharp! You can see mine are wet through.â âMine are ... theyâre wet, too.â âWet, too? Why, what have you been doing?â âI--I couldnât help it,â snivelled Sivert shamefacedly. âIt came of itself, when Father took the bowl....â Hedvig drew away from him, turning up her nose in disgust. âUgh! You baby!â âMother! Is she to call me a baby now Iâm grown up and confirmed?â âHold your noise, out there!â cried his father. âRun down to Eriksensâ and ask the time.â Sivert hurried away, and brought back word: half-past seven. âI must be off,â said Egholm, with an air of importance. Mother and children looked with a shiver of dread towards the cut-glass bowl. But Egholm was quietly putting on his still dripping coat, looking at himself in the glass, as he always did. It was a game of blind manâs buff, where all save the blind man know how near the culprit stands. âLeave out the key, Anna, if Iâm not....â âOh, Iâll be waiting up all right.â âWell, if you like.â Egholm moved to the door; he grasped the handle. A flicker of hope went through them; he had forgotten his tithe and offering. To-morrow it wouldnât matter so much.... But Egholm stood there still, pulling at his beard, straining himself to think.... âAh--I mustnât forget the chiefest of all.â In the midst of a ghastly silence he took the bowl from its place, shook out the little heap of coppers, and with a satisfied air stacked them up in orderly piles, ready to count. He counted all through, counted over again, and moved the piles in different order, pulled at his beard, and glowered. The mother kept her eyes fixed on her work, but the children were staring, staring at their fatherâs hands. âHow much was it he lent us on the clock last time? Three _kroner_, surely?â âYes; I think it was three,â said Fru Egholm, trying her hardest to speak naturally. âWhat do you mean?--âyou _think_ it was!ââ Her husband rose to his feet with a threatening mien. âYes, yes, I remember now. It _was_ three _kroner_.â âAnd did you put the thirty-_Ã¸re_ tithe in the bowl, as I ordered?â Fru Egholm felt instinctively that it would be best to insist that the money had been put in the bowl. But another and stronger instinct led her at this most unfortunate moment to hold forth in protest against the giving of tithes at all, and more especially tithe of moneys received on pawned effects. And very soon she had floundered into a slough of argument that led no way at all. Egholm strode fuming up and down the room. âYou didnât put it in at all.â âI did. To the last _Ã¸re_.â Now this was perfectly true. The money _had_ been put in.... âThen you must have stolen it again after.â âGod wouldnât have it, I know. Itâs blood money.â âWouldnât He? He shall--Iâll see that He does! Youâve stolen money from the Lord! What have you done with it?â âWhat do you think we should do with it?â âWhoâs been out buying things?â he thundered, turning to the children. âIt wasnât me--not quite,â said Sivert, with one thumb deep in his mouth. âThat means it was you, you little whelp. What did you buy with the money?â âI didnât buy two eggs.â Sivert was steadfastly pleading not guilty. Egholm called to mind that he had had an egg with his dinner. The depth of villainy was clear and plain. Fru Egholm could hold out no longer. âI--I thought you needed something strengthening, Egholm; youâve been looking so poorly. And I took out the thirty _Ã¸re_ again and bought two eggs. One you had, and one I gave the children. They need it, too, poor dears.â Egholm felt his brain seething; he gripped his head with both hands, as if fearing it might burst. Every nerve seemed to shudder as at the touch of glowing iron. â_Ye are cursed with a curse_,â he said in a hollow voice. âEgholm, do be calm....â But his wifeâs well-meaning effort only made him the more furious. He picked up his stick and struck the table with a crash. âYou should be struck down and smitten to earth--you have brought a curse upon my house!â âEgholm, do be careful. Itâs not for my own sake I say it, but remember the state Iâm in....â âWhat have I to do with the state youâre in?â he thundered inconsequently, but laid down his stick. âOut with the money this minute! Do you hear? The money, the money you took!â âBut you know yourself we used all we had for the rent, or I wouldnât have touched the other. I canât dig up money out of the ground.â âThen give me the silver spoon.â This was a little childâs spoon, worn thin, and bearing the date of Fru Egholmâs christening. âTake it, then,â she said, weeping. The children had been looking on with frightened eyes. Sivert, in his confusion, now began sawing again. âWhat--you dare--at such a time! Stop that at once!â cried his father. And by way of securing immediate obedience, he twined his fingers in the boyâs hair and dragged him backwards out of his chair, till his wooden shoes rattled against the flap of the table. Fru Egholm sprang towards them; the linen she was at work on tore with a scream. âFor Heavenâs sake!â she cried desperately, picking up the boy in her arms. âGive me the spoon and letâs have no more nonsense,â said Egholm, and strode out. The three stood listening, as to the echoes of retreating thunder. First the slam of the door below, then the heavier clang of the gate across the yard. âO--oh!â said Hedvig, âhe ought to be _thrashed_!â And she drew a deep breath, as of cleaner air. âDonât speak like that, child. After all, heâs your father.â II Egholm descended the stairs, each step carrying him so much farther down from the heights of his rage. By the time he had crossed the stone paving, and let the street door clang behind him, he was as gentle as any hermit of the dale. A gust of wind sent him staggering over to the outflow of a gutter pipe, which greeted him with an icy shower; he took it as one might take the jest of a friend. What matter, either, that the same wind thrust a chilly feeler in under his collar, right down to the armhole, or slapped him flat-handed on the mouth and left him breathless? He was not moved to anger when the streams and puddles he was wading through followed the law of nature and filled his leaky boots within to the level of the waters without. Meekly he pressed his hat more firmly down, bowed his head submissively, and walked in all humility close to the house walls, lest he should hinder the wind in its task. The tumult within him had subsided, leaving no more than the ordinary eagerness of a man in a hurry--a man intent on getting to a meeting in good time. Street after street, with the same wet breath in his face. He crossed over Vestergade, where the shop windows flared in a row on either side, and a carriage on its way to the theatre nearly knocked him down. Then he burrowed once more into the side streets, emerging at last, by way of a narrow passage, into a yard, where lights were burning in the windows of a stable--a stable converted, being now the hall and meeting-place of the Brethren of St. John. The unlighted entry gave out a thick smell of mildew and plaster. Egholm felt a childish nervousness as he realised that the meeting had already begun. He smoothed his wreath of hair, and wiped the water from his face with his cape; then, fumbling for the handle of the door, he walked in. The hall was half-full of people; young Karlsen was standing on the stage, delivering a sort of homily. This was young Karlsenâs usual opening, designed to pass the time until old Karlsen could get away from the shop. Everybody knew it, and all bore it patiently, excepting young Karlsen himself, who longed most earnestly for the hour of his deliverance. At the sound of the door, he stooped and bent forward, trying to see beneath the lamps and make out who had come in. But he made no pause in his sermon; only, his delivery became somewhat strained and disconnected. When the bald top of Egholmâs head caught the light, however, he drew back with a jerk of disappointment, yawned, thrust his hands resignedly into his pockets, and went on: âConsequently, my dear friends, as I have said----â Egholm stepped softly to a rickety seat, and sheltered himself behind Fru Laursenâs ample figure. The hall was not large, but all were heartily welcome there. On Saturdays and Sundays its rotten floor-boards shook beneath the feet of factory girls, with high wooden heels, and lads from the slaughterhouse, with neckties slipping up at the back. Both parties sweated profusely as they danced, and mine host from the dramshop across the courtyard sat on an upturned box next the door uncorking bottled beer. On Wednesdays, from six to eight, a drill sergeant fumed over a class of unpromising pupils from the Peasant Welfare Schools, who walked, and on the toes rose, and from the hips bent, as they were told, yet never managing to attain that explosive _Ã©lan_ which alone maketh the heart of a drill sergeant to rejoice. When the Brethren of St. John arrived at eight, the air would be foggy with chalk precipitated in the sweat of peasant brows; it might even happen that the âlast fourâ were still gaspingly at work dragging the vaulting-horse back into place. For three hours, no more, the congregation of Brethren held the hall in peace; a few minutes past eleven, and figures uncouthly garbed thrust pale but insistent faces in at the door. These were the Histrionics--the Amateur Dramatic Society of the Trade and Commercial Assistantsâ Union, who with true business talent had chosen Wednesday for their rehearsals, in order to enjoy the warmth provided beforehand by the Brethren. They were not interested in other of the Brethrenâs manifestations. Any extension of the service or proceedings beyond time limit would be greeted with whistlings, cat-calls, and slamming of doors--while nothing could exceed the eager politeness with which the waiting Histrionics made way for the Brethren as they left. The hall was further used as an auction room. Egholm was often present on such occasions; he had an inclination towards the feverish excitement of the hammer. Karlsen was still on his feet. Egholm let his glance wander absently from the ropes and trapeze to the ragged fringe of the stage curtain, that waved in the draught like the fin of a fish. He was not an attentive listener; he freely admitted that, when he came to the meetings, it was not so much to hear the edifying speeches of the âEvangelist,â as because the door to the treasury of the Lord was here to be found. And the depth of faith in his heart--that was the key.... With a sudden impulse, he felt in his pocket for the tithe-money. Yes, thank Heaven, it was there. Karlsen was taking an unpardonable time about it this evening. There was an ever-recurring phrase he used: â_Dear friends._â He used it like the knots in the climbing-rope that hung from the ceiling, as something to rest on by the way. And there was often quite an appreciable pause before he could spit on his hands and go on. It was plain to see that his speech would never carry him beyond the roof, but, for all that, his face, bluely unshaven, and furrowed with intercrossing wrinkles, showed a degree of cunning as if he were solving a difficult problem, or recounting the details of a complicated business manÅuvre. Egholm knew that Karlsen had been a travelling pedlar selling woollen goods from his pack along the roads, before he turned Evangelist. And in some ways, the tricks of his old trade clung to him yet. He would hand out eternal truths as if it were a pair of flannel unmentionables--pure wool, unshrinkable, everlasting wear.... Having nothing now with which to occupy his hands, the Evangelist thrust them in his pockets and gesticulated with them under cover there. Now he would clench his fist, till the pocket bulged as if with a heavy revolver; now he would draw out his breeches sideways like a concertina. And in the pauses he could be seen to scratch himself assiduously, first with one hand, then with the other. At last--at last he came to an end, and led the singing from a little thin book. The congregation livened up a little, with a clearing of throats and shifting in seats. Half-way through the hymn, the door was heard. The Evangelist ducked down again to look, and when suddenly he pulled his hands out of his pockets, all knew who it was that had arrived. Old Karlsen, the Evangelistâs father, was the eldest of the flock, and holder of its highest dignity--that of Angel. Also, apart from his connection with the Brethren, proprietor of a very paying little ironmongery business. Slowly he strode through the hall; the singing faces turned towards him as he came. His black clothes gave him an air of distinction; his silvery hair and prophetâs beard were outward and visible signs of holiness. It would be hard to imagine a figure more suited in its dignity to the weighty name of Angel. The only access to the stage was by way of three beer cases set stairwise to its edge. But under the footsteps of the prophet they were transformed to golden steps of a ladder leading heavenward. Young Karlsen murmured a few words, glanced at his watch, and disappeared like one cast forth as unworthy. And old Karlsen prayed with his earnest, almost tearful voice for the welfare of the congregation. Egholm was thrilled. This--this was surely communion with the Lord. The eyes of the prophet shone in the glare from the footlights--or perhaps it was rather that he saw God, as it had been promised to the pure in heart. There came a sound of weeping from behind; Egholm turned to see. It was Lystrup, the cobbler. His flat, brown fingers clutched and curled convulsively, and his bony head, with the queer feathery hair, rocked to and fro, as he wept and moaned, without covering his face. The cobblerâs emotion spread to those around. Within a second it had reached the hindmost bench, where the old women from the almshouses sat. There was a flutter of movement among the shawls, accompanied by a low wailing. Egholm noticed with some surprise that deaf old Maren was weeping with the best. Evidently, the influence of Angel Karlsen could manifest itself in other ways than that of common speech. Egholm was greatly moved; he withdrew his gaze, and looked down at the floor as if in search of something fixed and immovable. But Fru Laursenâs back began to work, and soon her bulky frame was slopping incontinently about in front of him. Egholm felt an ache within him, something comparable to hunger; he raised his eyes and seemed to see, through tears, great folded angel-wings behind Karlsenâs back. This was too much; Egholm surrendered himself utterly, and wept. And his weeping was louder and more passionate than the weeping of those about him; some there were who ceased at the sound, and watched him. Young Karlsen had planted himself against the wall by the end of Egholmâs bench, and was enjoying the effect. The wrinkles in the young apostleâs face were ceaselessly at play, forming new and intricate labyrinths without end. As soon as the Angel had finished his prayer, young Karlsen slipped in close to Egholm and sat down beside him. âStraight to the heart,â he said admiringly. âThatâs the sort of goods, what? It fetches them.â Egholm dried his eyes bashfully. âThatâs the way to drive a lot like this. Butâ--a sudden gleam of contempt shone in his blue-and-watery sheepâs eyes--âitâs about the only thing he can do. Angel, indeed! Once heâs got you here, heâs good for something, Iâll allow. But who is it fills the hall?--eh, young man? Who is it gets them here to start with? Jutland and the half of Fyn, thatâs my district. Iâm an Evangelist--a fisher of men. And Iâve my little gift of tongues as well--and need it, or the fishes wouldnât bite as they do. âHear my little speech this evening? Not much in it to speak of. But then Iâd finished really, by the time you came. But Iâve got another on hand thatâll do the trick. The Word, what?â âYes,â sighed Egholm accommodatingly. âWell, you know yourself,â said the Evangelist, with a little laugh, âfor you were simply done for when I began. You canât deny it!â âGodâs own words----â began Egholm. âOf course, my dear good man, of course. But who picked them out? Godâs words, you say, but thereâs any amount of words; no end of words. The thing is to pick out the right ones--just as youâd pick out the right sort of bait for the right sort of fish. Godâs words--huh! The Bibleâs like a pack of cards; doesnât mean anything till itâs been dealt round.â Egholm spoke up at this. âI wouldnât like, myself,â he said, âto compare the Bible to a pack of cards. But--as far as I know--Iâd say thereâs no card to beat the ace of clubs.â The Evangelist laughed heartily. âIf spades are trumps, a bit of a smudgy black knaveâs enough to do for your ace of clubs. Thereâs one coming along this evening--Iâve been working on her for over two years now, and all she cared for was the fear of Hell. Youâve got to deal with them according to their lights, and thereâs a power of difference sometimes. Now, you, for instance--you were easy enough. Windows of heaven opening, that was your line. Ho, I remember! Well, well, itâs all the same, as long as....â Karlsen broke off in distraction every time the door opened. âAs long as the Lord gets your souls. And Father, heâll see to that.â Egholm began to feel uncomfortable. The congregation had broken up into groups, centring more particularly about the neighbourhood of the Angel. Johannes, the postman, glared furiously, with distended greenish eyes, at Fru Laursen wading like a cow among the reeds. âIf I can keep behind her,â thought Egholm to himself as he rose, âI might get through. Just to thank him....â âThought it was her,â whispered Karlsen in his ear. âEh?â With a look of unspeakable cunning, Karlsen brought his face closer, blinked his eyes, and whispered again: âA goldfish! And, on my word, the best weâve had up to now. The one I told you about before.â Egholm forgot all else. âA lady, you mean? Who? Coming to-night?â âA lady, yes,â said Karlsen, almost stifling with pride. âA real lady, and no fudge.â He made a gesture that might have been mere helplessness. âBut whether sheâll come or not, well, time will show.â A little after, he lapsed into his natural dialect, and said frankly: âIâm simply bursting to see if sheâll come.â âBut who is it?â asked Egholm impatiently. âHer name--is--Fru Westergaard!â âWhat? You donât mean--the Distillery?â âHundred thousand,â said Karlsen, patting an imaginary pocket-book. âWidow of the late Distiller Westergaard, yes!â Then suddenly he broke into his platform tone, an imitation of Angel Karlsenâs tear-stifled voice. âFru Westergaardâs soul was hungered and athirst after Zion. And for two years past Iâve cried aloud to her in the wilderness, making ready the way before her--the way to the blessed Brotherhood of St. John. And now, at last, my words have brought forth fruit in her heart. Yes, and _Iâve been to the villa!_â He grasped Egholmâs hand and pressed it in a long, firm grip--a way they had among the Brethren. Again the door opened, but it was only Meilby, the photographer. The Evangelist turned up his nose in scorn, and looked another way. Meilby was another uncommon figure in his way. Here, among a congregation of contritely stooping sinners, he walked as stiffly upright as a well-drilled recruit. Even his eyes had nothing of that humility which might be expected in the house of the Lord, but looked about him sharply, as if in challenge, though ordinarily they were mildly blue as a boyâs. What did he want here, night after night? Was he drawn by some higher power, and yet sought, like Saulus, to kick against the pricks? Maybe. Egholm looked after him with a shake of the head, as he tramped through the hall, shut his cigar-case with a click, and seated himself irreverently on the vaulting-horse. Egholm often walked home with Meilby after the meetings, but it was he who did the talking, Meilbyâs contributions rarely amounting to more than a fretful âHeh,â âHaw,â or âHoâ--a kind of barking, incomprehensible to ordinary mortals. âDâyou know Meilby at all?â asked Egholm. Karlsen twirled one finger circlewise in front of his forehead, but he had not time to explain himself further; just at that moment Fru Westergaard arrived. She stopped just inside the door, and turned her wet veil up over her eiderdown toque--a tall, thin woman, with the angular movements of an old maid, and clothes that looked as if she slept in them. âNaughty, naughty dog! Outside, Mirre, Mirre, do you hear!â She faced round, and waved her dripping umbrella at an eager poodle with its tongue hanging out. âHere she is!â cried young Karlsen. And at once the room was so still that the scraping of the dog could be heard against the flooring. All mouths stood open, as if in one long indrawn breath of astonishment. Still scolding under her breath, she walked with some embarrassment a few steps forward. Young Karlsen thrust Egholm aside, and hurried to meet her with a bow. âDogâs all right,â he said, with reassuring ease of manner. âDonât bother about him. Late? Not a bit of it; weâve hardly begun. Just sitting talking, heart to heart, you understand. Come along in, both of you. Know me, doggy, donât you, eh?â He bent down and ruffled the dogâs ears. âHe--he must have slipped out and followed me. Iâd no idea....â Young Karlsenâs eyeballs rolled about, to see what impression the lady made upon the congregation. And he was not disappointed. If St. John the Apostle, the traditional founder of the sect, had appeared in their midst, it could hardly have created a greater sensation. Egholm had himself been something of a thunderbolt--an ex-official of the railway service suddenly appearing in this assembly of hunchbacked tailors and lame shoemakers, relics from the almshouses, and all that was worn out and faded--always excepting, of course, the prosperous ironmonger at their head. But Fru Westergaard was as an earthquake that sent them flat on their faces at once. Not a child in the town but knew her and her villa and her dog, that took its meals with her at table. Johannes, the postman, stood leaning against the wall, helpless, as if in terror. Madam[1] Kvist, her eyes starting out behind her glasses, asked aloud, in unaffected wonder: [1] âMadam,â the title used for elderly--strictly speaking, married--women of the working class, as distinct from âFruâ (Mrs.), which is--or was--reserved for ladies of higher social standing. âWhy--what in the name of mercy will she be wanting here?â And Madam Strand, the dustmanâs wife, a little black figure of a woman, was curtseying and mumbling continually: âSuch an honour, did you ever, such an honour....â Most of those present inwardly endorsed the sentiment. Egholm drew himself up and sought to catch Fru Westergaardâs eye. He did not manage it, but let off his bow all the same. Only the incorrigible photographer sat swinging his legs on the vaulting-horse, with an expression of cold disapproval on his face. Angel Karlsen stood by the three steps, ready, like another St. Peter, to receive the approaching soul. He took both the ladyâs hands and pressed them warmly. âThereâs rejoicing here on earth and in the mansions of the Lord,â he said, with emotion, âat the coming of this our new disciple.â When he spoke, his great white beard went up and down, as if emphasising his words. âAnd now the usual word of thanksgiving. Sit down here in front, _Frue_.â The new disciple was still talking nervously about the dog--it was leaving footmarks all over the place, but then, you know, in such weather.... She had galoshes for it, really, only to-night.... She moved to sit down, but the others rose hurriedly as she did so, and the bench rocked. No, no, she couldnât sit there--no, not there; she couldnât. No.... Fru Westergaard allowed herself the luxury of some eccentricities. She had remained unmarried until her six-and-fortieth year. Egholm had been prepared for the trouble about the seat. Sprightly as a youth, he dashed out of the hall and across the courtyard to the taproom in front. âA chair; lend me a chair, will you? Fru Westergaardâs there.â âFru Westergaard!â âFru Westergaard!â He came back, breathless, with an American rocking-chair, which he proffered humbly. The congregation had meanwhile arranged itself in a phalanx formation like wild geese on the wing. In the forefront of all sat the new disciple in her restless chair. On the next bench were Evangelist Karlsen and Egholm alone, and behind them again came the rest of the dearly beloved, in order of precedence according to dignity or ambition. The entire flock seemed shaping its course towards the sun, in the person of Angel Karlsen, who was up on the platform praying and preaching, tearful and affecting as ever. â_As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God._ â_My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God; when shall I come and appear before God?_â He wrung his hands in a great agony, and hid his face. â_My tears have been my meat day and night...._â Egholm was touched. He, too, knew what it was to weep for meat. Karlsen the Elder closed with the Lordâs Prayer; and another hymn was sung. âNow, itâs me again,â whispered the young Evangelist. âYou see me let her have it this time.â His speech seemed actually to have gained force and balance; there was an evident purpose in it. The opening was weak, perhaps, for here he still clung to his âDear friendsâ from force of habit, though every word was addressed to Fru Westergaard only. âAnd now, in conclusion, I thank you, my dear friends, for coming here among us the first time. I hope, dear friends, it may not be the last. In the midst of all your wealth and luxury and manifold delights out at the villa, you have yet felt the lack of a word--the word of the Spirit. Yes, dear friends, it is even so. You go to church and you go back home again, and your need is not fulfilled. âBut then one day there comes to your door--out at the villa--a poor Evangelist, an unlearned man. And lo--a strange thing, dear friends--_he_ has the word--the word of the Spirit!â Having thus laid down a flattering position for himself, young Karlsen went on to praise his new convert as one docile and of a good heart. She had come this evening of all evenings--a first Wednesday--on purpose that she might pay her tithe. No, there was no drawing back. And in truth it would be a foolâs game to try it on. The Lord, He could see straight through a drawer in a table or the cover of a bank-book, never fear of that. And what was His, that He was going to have. Yes, that was His way. And woe unto him that falleth into the hands of the living God! Far down by the door, old Karlsen was modestly seated on the extreme end of a bench. In his lap was a japanned tin box. There was a slight rattle during the next hymn, as he took out his keys and opened the casket. The bench was so placed that the disciples could only pass by in single file. The old women from the almshouses, who had been sitting farthest back, were now the first to pass. As a matter of fact, they were exempt from the tithe contribution, having no income beyond their food and lodging. But most of them, nevertheless, managed to deposit a copper two or five _Ã¸re_ piece with the Angel as they went out, though he never so much as looked up. Why should he look? The money was not for himself, but for God. He was only sitting there holding the black tin box. There was a clicking of purse-clips, and a soft ring of coin. Lystrup, the cobbler, dropped his money, and crawled miserably over the floor beneath the benches, looking for that which was lost. Those who had paid stopped behind to see the others share their fate. Fru Westergaard, Egholm, and the Evangelist came down together. âBut--but how do you manage when it doesnât work out exactly?â said the lady, nervously trying to do sums in her head. âIt always works out exactly,â said Karlsen, with superior calm. âAs long as itâs _kroner_, of course, I understand. But when itâs _kroner and Ã¸re_?â She gave it up as hopeless, and drew out a crumpled book from the little bag she carried. âHere you are; you can see. I get my money from the bank, you know; itâs in a book like this.â Egholm craned up on tiptoe. The Evangelist wormed up closer, his face a curious mingling of venom and sweetness; even old Karlsen thrust the box under his arm and rose to his feet. âMy spectacles!â And he slapped his pockets so that the money rattled in the box. Two hundred and sixty-six _kroner_ thirty _Ã¸re_. That was the figure that showed again and again down the page in the cross-shaded columns, with Fru Westergaardâs signature after. There was a murmur from the waiting crowd. âHow much was it?â âEh, to think now! And every month!â âOver two hundred and fifty, that is,â explained Lystrup, the cobbler. âThat will be twenty-six _kroner_ sixty-three to us,â said the Evangelist, as if it were the merest trifle. âNot sixty-three _Ã¸re_?--that canât be,â said the disciple energetically, looking round for support. Egholm could not meet her eyes; it pained him that Karlsen was so evidently right. âBut I only get thirty _Ã¸re_, and you say Iâm to pay out sixty-three! No, thank you, thatâs trying it on, I know.â âItâs the law--itâs the law.â Old Karlsen drummed on his box. âOh, I wonât put up with it!â Fru Westergaardâs grey cheeks flushed with a red spot. âNot an _Ã¸re_ less.â Young Karlsen stood planted in the opening between the bench and the wall. He wore high boots, with his trousers thrust into them, and stood with his feet a little apart. There was something ominous written, as it were, between the lines in his face. His shoulders were slightly raised--a very respectable pair of shoulders had young Karlsen. Fru Westergaard tucked away her book again with trembling hands. âPerhaps youâll let me pass?â âItâs twenty-six sixty-three, all the same,â said the Evangelist, without moving an inch. âI wonât give more than twenty-six thirty!â She stamped her foot. Mirre growled softly, and sniffed round and round Karlsenâs legs. âTwenty-six sixty-three.â âSh!â old Karlsen intervened. âWeâll take what _Fruen_ thinks is right. The Lord is long-suffering.... Lauritz, you can be putting out the corner lights.â Thus did the Angel, by his wisdom and gentleness, save one soul for the congregation of the Brethren. Fru Westergaard had, it appeared, the money in a separate compartment of her bag, all ready counted out. Handing them to Angel Karlsen, she said: âAnd youâre quite sure thereâs no Hell, really?â âNo Hell....â Young Karlsen was standing on a bench, puffing at one of the lights. He turned warningly towards his father. âNo,â he cried. âThatâs right. No Hell. You know, we talked it over....â Angel Karlsen bowed his head in silence, but
{'title': 'Egholm and his God by Johannes Buchholtz', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}