Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
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.
Madam[1] 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, like another St. Peter, to receive the approaching soul. He took both the lady’s hands and pressed them warmly.
“There’s rejoicing here on earth and in the mansions of the Lord,” he said, with emotion, “at the coming of this our new disciple.” When he spoke, his great white beard went up and down, as if emphasising his words.
“And now the usual word of thanksgiving. Sit down here in front, Frue.”
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 couldn’t sit there—no, not there; she couldn’t. 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.
“A chair; lend me a chair, will you? Fru Westergaard’s there.”
“Fru Westergaard!”
“Fru Westergaard!”
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.
“As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God.
“My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God; when shall I come and appear before God?”
He wrung his hands in a great agony, and hid his face.
“My tears have been my meat day and night. …”
Egholm was touched. He, too, knew what it was to weep for meat.
Karlsen the Elder closed with the Lord’s Prayer; and another hymn was sung.
“Now, it’s me again,” whispered the young Evangelist. “You see me let her have it this time.”
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 “Dear friends” from force of habit, though every word was addressed to Fru Westergaard only.
“And 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