Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
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 Karlsen’s 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 Egholm’s head caught the light, however, he drew back with a jerk of disappointment, yawned, thrust his hands resignedly into his pockets, and went on:
“Consequently, my dear friends, as I have said – ”
Egholm stepped softly to a rickety seat, and sheltered himself behind Fru Laursen’s 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 élan 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 “last four” 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 Assistants’ 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 Brethren’s 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 “Evangelist,” 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: “Dear friends.” 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 manœuvre.
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 Evangelist’s 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 prophet’s 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 cobbler’s 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 Laursen’s 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 Karlsen’s 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 Egholm’s bench, and was enjoying the effect. The wrinkles in the young apostle’s 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.
“Straight to the heart,” he said admiringly. “That’s the sort of goods, what? It fetches them.”
Egholm dried his eyes bashfully.
“That’s the way to drive a lot like this. But” – a sudden gleam of contempt shone in his blue-and-watery