Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
– a fisher of men. And I’ve my little gift of tongues as well – and need it, or the fishes wouldn’t bite as they do.
“Hear my little speech this evening? Not much in it to speak of. But then I’d finished really, by the time you came. But I’ve got another on hand that’ll do the trick. The Word, what?”
“Yes,” sighed Egholm accommodatingly.
“Well, you know yourself,” said the Evangelist, with a little laugh, “for you were simply done for when I began. You can’t deny it!”
“God’s own words – ” began Egholm.
“Of course, my dear good man, of course. But who picked them out? God’s words, you say, but there’s any amount of words; no end of words. The thing is to pick out the right ones – just as you’d pick out the right sort of bait for the right sort of fish. God’s words – huh! The Bible’s like a pack of cards; doesn’t mean anything till it’s been dealt round.”
Egholm spoke up at this. “I wouldn’t like, myself,” he said, “to compare the Bible to a pack of cards. But – as far as I know – I’d say there’s no card to beat the ace of clubs.”
The Evangelist laughed heartily. “If spades are trumps, a bit of a smudgy black knave’s enough to do for your ace of clubs. There’s one coming along this evening – I’ve been working on her for over two years now, and all she cared for was the fear of Hell. You’ve got to deal with them according to their lights, and there’s 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, it’s all the same, as long as…”
Karlsen broke off in distraction every time the door opened.
“As long as the Lord gets your souls. And Father, he’ll see to that.”
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.
“If I can keep behind her,” thought Egholm to himself as he rose, “I might get through. Just to thank him…”
“Thought it was her,” whispered Karlsen in his ear.
“Eh?”
With a look of unspeakable cunning, Karlsen brought his face closer, blinked his eyes, and whispered again:
“A goldfish! And, on my word, the best we’ve had up to now. The one I told you about before.”
Egholm forgot all else. “A lady, you mean? Who? Coming to-night?”
“A lady, yes,” said Karlsen, almost stifling with pride. “A real lady, and no fudge.” He made a gesture that might have been mere helplessness. “But whether she’ll come or not, well, time will show.”
A little after, he lapsed into his natural dialect, and said frankly:
“I’m simply bursting to see if she’ll come.”
“But who is it?” asked Egholm impatiently.
“Her name – is – Fru Westergaard!”
“What? You don’t mean – the Distillery?”
“Hundred thousand,” said Karlsen, patting an imaginary pocket-book. “Widow of the late Distiller Westergaard, yes!” Then suddenly he broke into his platform tone, an imitation of Angel Karlsen’s tear-stifled voice.
“Fru Westergaard’s soul was hungered and athirst after Zion. And for two years past I’ve 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 I’ve been to the villa!”
He grasped Egholm’s 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 boy’s. 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, Meilby’s contributions rarely amounting to more than a fretful “Heh,” “Haw,” or “Ho” – a kind of barking, incomprehensible to ordinary mortals.
“D’you know Meilby at all?” 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.
“Naughty, naughty dog! Outside, Mirre, Mirre, do you hear!”
She faced round, and waved her dripping umbrella at an eager poodle with its tongue hanging out.
“Here she is!” 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.
“Dog’s all right,” he said, with reassuring ease of manner. “Don’t bother about him. Late? Not a bit of it; we’ve hardly begun. Just sitting talking, heart to heart, you understand. Come along in, both of you. Know me, doggy, don’t you, eh?”
He bent down and ruffled the dog’s ears.
“He – he must have slipped out and followed me. I’d no idea…”
Young Karlsen’s 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.
Madam1 Kvist, her eyes starting out behind her glasses, asked aloud, in unaffected wonder:
“Why – what in the name of mercy will she be wanting here?”
And Madam Strand, the dustman’s wife, a little black figure of a woman, was curtseying and mumbling continually: “Such an honour, did you ever, such an honour…”
Most of those present inwardly endorsed the sentiment.
Egholm drew himself up and sought to catch Fru Westergaard’s 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,
“Madam,” the title used for elderly – strictly speaking, married – women of the working class, as distinct from “Fru” (Mrs.), which is – or was – reserved for ladies of higher social standing.