Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
her bag, all ready counted out. Handing them to Angel Karlsen, she said:
“And you’re quite sure there’s no Hell, really?”
“No Hell…”
Young Karlsen was standing on a bench, puffing at one of the lights. He turned warningly towards his father.
“No,” he cried. “That’s right. No Hell. You know, we talked it over…”
Angel Karlsen bowed his head in silence, but Fru Westergaard stared wildly before her.
“Hell, hell fire, all yellow flames…”
Egholm could contain himself no longer. He would show the lady and the rest of them how a true disciple settled up his accounts with God. With a smile and a gesture as if he had been casting a rose into his mistress’ lap, he flung his paper bag of money into the Angel’s casket. The bag burst with the shock, and the coins came twirling out; the old man had to use both hands to guard them, and could hardly close the box.
“Wait, there’s more yet!” cried Egholm, and his voice broke. He held the silver spoon aloft in two fingers, then pressed it in through the crack at the lid of the box.
But the box was full to repletion, and the bowl of the spoon would not go in.
Egholm felt there had never been so magnificent an offering.
Yet another of the Brethren passed by that strait place – Meilby, the photographer. Not one single copper øre did he put in, but Angel Karlsen only turned his eyes meekly to the other side.
III
February had set in. Fru Egholm’s seventh was making ever stronger demands on her heart’s blood. While she toiled at her work, the young citizen to come was pleased to kick about occasionally, or turn over on the other side, making her faint and dizzy. But, recovering, she would smile, and whisper softly: “There there, now, bide your time, little man.” She had her own convictions that it was to be a boy.
Egholm stood in front of the mirror, smoothing his wreath of hair. His pupil was due for the English lesson.
“The Pupil” was a subject of considerable importance in the house, especially to Egholm’s own mind. It was no other than Meilby, the sharp-tongued photographer, who had started taking lessons in the previous November. After many mysterious hints, and exacting a promise of silence, he had confided to Egholm that he was going to America in a few months’ time. Egholm had grabbed at him avidly and without ceremony, as a chance of work. Regarded as a pupil, he was by no means promising. He had but the faintest conception of any difference between parts of speech such as substantives and adjectives, and whenever his mentor touched on genitives and possessives, he would glance absently towards the door. Furthermore, he never paid any fees, which was a subject of constant tribulation between Anna and her husband.
“But it’s a good thing to have a little outstanding. Like capital in the bank, against a rainy day.”
Anna made no answer to this. It seemed to her mind that the days were rainy enough to call for all the capital by any means available.
Egholm sniffed vigorously, and postponed the matter further. But now it was February, and he must raise the question somehow. He smoothed his hair with extra attention, to make the most of his dignity when the pupil arrived. Unfortunately, he could hardly point to the goods delivered and demand payment in cash – the goods were so little in evidence.
It passed off better than he had expected. Meilby said “Good evening” in English when he arrived, and laughed a little nervously, as if dismayed at his own courage. Egholm snatched at the opening, and came to the point at once:
“That’s right, that’s right – you’re getting on. Getting on, yes. But don’t you think, now, you might let me have a little on account?”
Meilby laughed no more. Money – it was always such a nuisance about money. There didn’t seem to be any money these days. Money was a thing extinct, he said.
“On earth, yes,” Egholm admitted.
But no need to bother about that. It would be all right. Only wait to the end of the month, and then it would be decided. “Whether I’m to go or not,” said Meilby.
Of course, he didn’t want to go. Much rather stay where he was. But, of course, he would go all the same. What else could he do? And if he went, why, then, of course, Egholm would get his money. That was how it stood. How else could it be?
Egholm was very far from understanding, but he gave it up. Opening the book, he got to work at the lesson, but with less careful attention, perhaps, than usual. And after a little he broke in, cutting short his pupil in the middle of a sentence:
“But about the money – how will you get the money if you do go?”
“Why, then, of course, I shall sell all my apparatus.”
So that was it. Egholm still seemed troubled in his mind. He knew the collection of things that formed Meilby’s stock-in-trade. There was one item in particular – that devilish camera of his. It was quite a small one, but with a breadth of focus that could almost look round a corner. Fancy having that for his own! There would be an end of poverty then!
The windows of heaven should be opened, and the flood pour in – oh, in no time. He knew it, he felt sure of it. But the belly was not to be put off, not for so much as a day. And his hands were impatient too; there was a nervous thrill at the roots of the nails, or a deadly chill in the fingers from sheer inactivity. Every morning he raced about after the situations vacant in the papers, but always in vain. With Meilby’s apparatus, he could make money – ay, though his studio had no roof but the February sky.
He grew quite genial towards his pupil, and praised him more than was properly his due. When they had finished with their brainwork for the evening, he said anxiously:
“But, promise me you don’t go selling them without letting me know.”
Meilby would bear it in mind.
“Yes, but suppose you forgot?”
“Why, we’ll be none the less friends for that,” said Meilby, with an amiable smile.
“You’ll get nothing out of him, you see,” said Anna when he had gone. “It’ll be just the same with him as with young Karlsen, when he came to learn English, too. Huh! It was you that learned something that time, if you ask me.”
“He’s an artful one,” said Egholm, with a laugh. “He tricked the doctor when he went to be examined. But, after all – what’s a trifle like that when a man stands firm on the rock of truth?”
“Do you think Meilby does? You think it’s for any good he’s going running off to America like that?”
Egholm, law-abiding man, paled at the thought, but said, with an attempt at liveliness:
“I’ll get him to stay, then.”
“But he won’t pay you at all unless he goes.”
That, again, was true – painfully true. No … anyhow, Egholm would have nothing to do with any doubtful affairs. Not for any price. Better let Meilby go his own gait as soon as he pleased.
But even as he formed the thought, he seemed to feel the milled edges of the screws that set the camera between his fingers, and with a sigh he breathed the resolution from him once more.
One morning, a few days later, Egholm came back from his usual round.
“No luck, I suppose?”
“No, no, no,” he snarled, flinging off his hat. Then he took down the Bible.
What could have happened to make his hands shake like that?
A few minutes later came the explanation.
“I went after a job – Hansen and Tvede, it was – as errand boy. Told them they could have me a full day’s work just for my food. But they laughed at me. Oh, and there was a beast of a fellow in riding-boots – the manager, perhaps. You should have seen his face.”
“Perhaps