Egholm and his God

“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 he meant it wasn’t the sort of thing they could offer you. Something better,” hinted Fru Egholm.

He made no answer, but strove to calm his indignation by strenuous attention to the Bible. If that didn’t help him, why, then… But he was nearly through with it now – it was the Epistle to the Hebrews.

The letters danced and crept like ants before his eyes.

“And verily they that are of the sons of Levi, who receive the office of the priesthood, have a commandment to take tithes of the people according to the law, that is, of their brethren…”

“Ha ha! Riding-boots and all! No, ’twasn’t that he meant, giving me something better. The beast! I shan’t forget him!”

“For the priesthood being changed, there is made of necessity a change also of the law…”

“‘I see from the paper you’re wanting an errand boy’ – that’s what I said to him. And asked if I would do. And I crushed my hat in my hands and stood up. Then, of course, what he ought to have said was, ‘What, you looking for a place as errand boy? No, no. Couldn’t think of it. I’ll take you on in the office, as a clerk. You shall be cashier. I’ve taken a fancy to you, the way you stand there modestly as could be.’ But he didn’t say that, not a word of it. Good Lord, no! The worst of it was, he saw through me. He winked at me!”

“For there is verily a disannulling of the commandment going before for the weakness and unprofitableness thereof.

“For the law made nothing perfect, but the bringing in of a better hope did; by the which we draw nigh unto God.”

Egholm sighed, and passed his hand over his face. Alas, he noted to his shame how his thoughts had strayed from the Bible’s lofty theme.

What could it be for a commandment, that was disannulled for the weakness and unprofitableness thereof, he wondered. H’m, it would say farther on, no doubt. And he read on, but it did not appear to say. Then he went back and began again, reading slowly, in a whisper, the same verses over again. And of a sudden, his heart contracted violently, forcing a spout of blood to his temples. What – what was this? Was it the tithe that was abolished?

He read it through again and again.

“Anna” – he dared not trust his own senses now – “Anna, come here and look at this. Quick – read from there to there.” He stood as if about to strike; there were red spots on his pale face. Anna trembled with fear, and fell to reading about Melchisedec, the Levites, and the rest, without understanding a word of it all.

“Well, why don’t you speak, woman?” broke in Egholm, when she had been reading a few seconds. “Are you asleep? – or, perhaps it doesn’t interest you? Eh? Now, then, what is it you’re reading? – what do you make of it? Eh?”

“Yes, yes, I see,” stammered Fru Egholm, her eyes flitting to another part altogether in her confusion – “something about the Tabernacle…”

“Is the tithe abolished? – that’s what I want to know,” said Egholm insistently. “Does it say there, or does it not, that the tithe is weak and unprofitable?”

“Why, yes – but that’s what I’ve always said,” answered she, with marvellous presence of mind. “Was it only that you wanted me to see?”

Egholm looked her up and down contemptuously.

A moment later he was tearing down the street with the big family Bible all uncovered under one arm.

Oh, but this was the most wonderful day of his life! The Bible itself had revealed its darkest secrets to him —to him alone. What would they say, all those whose minds were yet in darkness? what would old Angel Karlsen say? what would young Evangelist Karlsen look like with his wrinkled face – when they heard that the Community of the Brethren of St. John was built on sand – nay, upon a swamp, into the bottomless depth of which their money sank never to be seen again? He, Egholm, was a new Luther, wielding the Bible as a mighty club against heresy and false doctrine. They would have to make him Angel, ay, Archangel, after this. In every land where the Brethren of St. John were known, his name would be named with honour. He would write a new Book of Laws for the Brotherhood, and it should be translated into seven tongues. Into seven tongues! Almost like a new Bible.

Karlsen’s shop was at a corner of the market square. It was a very old house, with a steep red roof. At the bottom two small windows had been let in to make it look like a shop, and through them one could discern, in spite of a thick layer of cobwebs and dust, the rows of shelves with yellow jars in all sizes. The modest store was suited to the taste of the peasant customers. They could stand for ages pondering over the choice of a shovel or rake, and weighing it in the hand. Karlsen was understood to be a wealthy man.

Egholm inquired of a chilblainy youth if he could speak with Angel Karlsen.

H’m. He didn’t know. Would go in and ask.

“Say it’s something of importance,” said Egholm.

As the door in the corner was opened, Egholm heard a sound of voices in dispute from the office beyond. Two voices – and he could not recognise either. Or was it – yes, surely that was old Karlsen’s, after all? Egholm listened in wonder, as one might listen to a familiar air played out of time or at a different pace.

“Call me a scoundrel if you like,” shouted the one, a nasal trumpeting voice with a twang of city jargon – “call me a thief, a convict, or anything you damn well please, but I won’t be called a fool!”

“But the contract, the contract, the contract!” screamed out the angelic voice of Karlsen the Elder.

No, the young man was sorry, Hr. Karlsen could not possibly see him just now. He was engaged with one of the travellers.

“Well, I must see him, anyhow,” said Egholm more soberly.

They were at it again inside, and his knock was unheeded. Then suddenly the whole seemed to collapse in a cascade of laughter.

He knocked again, and walked in. There was old Karlsen, his face unevenly flushed, with a fat cigar sticking out of his beard, and before him a bright-eyed, elegantly dressed commercial traveller, who slapped the Angel’s outstretched hand repeatedly, both men laughing at the top of their voices.

“Beg pardon, Hr. Karlsen – er – would you kindly read this?..” Where was it now? Egholm began helplessly turning the pages of his Bible.

“Hullo, here’s somebody wants to save our souls, by the look of it,” said the elegant one, with a tentative laugh.

“Didn’t my young man out there tell you I was engaged?” said old Karlsen angrily, turning aside.

“But it’s a discovery I’ve made – it’s of the utmost importance. A wonderful find – here in the Holy Scripture itself. Read it, here – it’s only a few lines. I can hardly believe my own senses. Read it – there!”

“But, my dear friend,” said the Angel, “you can see for yourself I’m engaged. We’re in the middle of important business.”

“Let me read just three words to you.”

“No, no, no, I won’t have it, I say.”

Egholm stood with hectic cheeks; his former respect for the Angel still checked any actual outburst of fury, but from the look of him, it was doubtful what might happen next.

“This is not the proper place to discuss the word of God, nor the proper time, nor the mood for it, either. Come round again this evening, my dear Egholm. At eight, say, and then we can talk over whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

The commercial plucked him by the sleeve. “I thought you were coming round to the hotel —Postgaarden, you said.”

“Er – well, we might say to-morrow evening at eight,” corrected the Angel. “Yes, come round to-morrow, Egholm; that will do.”

Egholm drew himself up and shot sparks, but said nothing. He shut up the clasp of his Bible with a snap.

“Have a cigar, won’t you?” said the Angel, offering the box.

“No, thank you.”

“Yes, yes, do. They’re none so bad – what, Hr. Nathan?”

Hr. Nathan uttered a curious sound – an articulate shudder, as it were – and looked quizzically at the box.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Well, then, a glass of port?”

“I’ve other things to think about than drinking wine. The fate of the Brotherhood lies in my hand. In my hand. I’m going round to the Deacon now.”

“No, really? He he! Are you really? Well, well,” said Karlsen, with that strangely jovial angel voice of his, that Egholm knew so well, and yet found strange…

IV

But Egholm was so shaken by his interview with the Angel that he did not go round to the Deacon after all. The Deacon was a pottery worker, living at a village just outside the town.

He went back home to look again and make sure it was right. He clutched the Bible tightly under his arm as he walked, as if in dread lest the all-important text might drop out.

Yes, there it was. He read through the passage again in wonder, and fell to musing anew.

That same evening Evangelist Karlsen came round.

Egholm shook his head nervously.

“It’s no good, Karlsen. No. I’m not going to give in.”

Young Karlsen stood staring open mouthed.

“No. I’ve settled up with myself once and for all. I won’t give in. I know well enough what you’ve come for.”

“But, my dear friends, what on earth are you talking about? Anything wrong?”

“Karlsen, you know as well as I do it’s your father sent you round,” said Egholm almost pleadingly.

“I swear I know nothing of the sort. I’ve only just got back this evening. From Veile. Know Justesen, the horsedealer, there? Been seeing him. And then on the way – I’ve been dragging my bag along, and it’s heavy. I thought I’d just look in for a breather.”

“Let Sivert carry it for you,” said Fru Egholm.

“No, thanks, it’s all right outside on the stairs. I never like to leave it very long.”

Egholm put his hand to his eyes; the cracked and furrowed countenance of the Evangelist always distracted his attention. Then he began telling of his discovery – first, in mysterious roundabout hints, then suddenly breaking out into fiery declamation, with the open book before him, and his finger-nail underlining the words.

Karlsen was thunderstruck. And he thought he knew his Bible… Never in his life had he come across that place. He stamped about the room, spitting into all four corners.

Egholm went further; he drew up an outline of the new laws, the entire reorganisation…

“It’ll be a hard struggle for me, I know. But I’ll…”

“Oh, we’ll manage it all right,” said Karlsen cheerfully.

“Eh? D’you mean to say … you’re on my side?”

“Oh, I’m on the side of the Bible, of course.”

And there was Egholm with the enemy’s leading general won over, without a blow!

“It’s the only thing to do, anyway,” explained Karlsen, “as things are now. There’s been some talk about you having my place when I moved up. But I don’t know what they’ll say to that now…”

“Me! Evangelist!” Egholm turned stiff all over.

“Yes,” said Karlsen quietly.

“I’ve never heard a word about it before.”

“Well, the Elders have gathered together… But it was to be a surprise, you understand?”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Egholm faintly. Again it overwhelmed him for the moment, but he recovered himself, and said, with a laugh:

“Who knows, they might make me Angel now.”

“Almost sure to, I should say,” opined the dark Evangelist.

Egholm felt calm and strong now, no longer dizzy as he had been during the morning. And Karlsen was really a jolly sort, after all. Here he was, actually gloating over the face his respected father, the Angel, would set up when the bombshell burst.

The upshot of it was that they worked out a plan together.

Egholm was to prepare a grand speech for the meeting next Wednesday. Karlsen knew – now he came to think of it – quite a lot of first-rate texts that could be used, in support of the new discovery.

“But don’t you think” – Egholm lowered his voice confidentially – “wouldn’t it be better if I went round to the Brethren, and just let them know how it stands?”

Karlsen pondered.

“H’m. I should say, the best way’s to take the whole congregation by surprise, all at once. Better effect, you know, when you can stand there and throw out a hand and there it is! And you’ve quite a decent platform manner, to my mind.”

“Yes,” agreed Egholm, beaming.

“Anyhow, I’ll trot round and tackle a few of the thickest heads myself. I’ve a certain amount of influence, you know, and authority, and all that. I know how to manage them.”

“Why, then, it’s as good as done!” Egholm’s voice was almost a song.

“Easy as winking,” said Karlsen confidently.

“You don’t know how glad I am you came over to the right side at once.”

“Oh, never mind about that. You can always do me a little service some time in return.”

They stayed up till nearly midnight. Egholm strode up and down, filling the room with words. Possibly he was already rehearsing for the coming Wednesday. Karlsen smoked, and drank many cups of black coffee. The children hung over the table, limp and heavy with drowsiness, casting greedy glances at the settee. Their mother tore at her sewing more violently than usual, and sighed aloud.

At last Karlsen took his leave. Egholm could not bear to break off even then, but went out with him. He waved his arms in the air, and tripped about, now and then actually circling round his companion as they walked.

Did he think, now, the Bible Society would care to have a dissertation on the two conflicting points? There ought, at any rate, to be some kind of indication, an asterisk, say, in the first place, to save others from confusion.

Karlsen thought they very likely would.

The street lamps glowed red in the fog. A policeman appeared at a corner, waved to them cheerfully, and said sympathetically: “Get along home; that’s the best place for you.”

“Thinks we’re drunk,” said Egholm, and stopped for breath. “But – we’ve been talking, and never thought … your bag. We’ve forgotten all about it.”

“Bag? Oh yes… No; that’s all right. I spotted the old man’s cart just outside the station, and sent it home by that.”

“Good! Then that’s all right.” Egholm’s thoughts were at once occupied with something else. His brain was fluttering with innumerable winged thoughts.

“Well, better say good-night.”

“Good-night, Karlsen. And thanks, thanks. You shall be Angel, if I can put in a word.”

Egholm looked round, confused. Where had they got to now? These big houses … it wasn’t the way…

“I’ll see you right home,” he offered.

“Well – er – I’m not exactly going home just yet,” said the Evangelist, with some embarrassment. “Just a hand at cards with a few friends, that’s all.” He sighed guiltily. “But if I do win a kroner, say, it means ten øre to the Brethren… Oh, I forgot, that’s all over now, of course.”

“But – d’you mean to say there’s anybody up at this time of night?” asked Egholm in astonishment.

“Only a couple of friends – Brethren in the Lord.”

“But where?”

“In the red room at the Hotel Postgaarden,” said Karlsen innocently.

V

Going round to the meeting on the following Wednesday, Egholm was surprised to find the hall already full, though it was not yet eight o’clock. He was also surprised, and agreeably so, to perceive that his entry created some stir. Evidently, Karlsen had let fall a word of what was to happen. Unless, indeed, it were the Lord Himself that had given hint of it to each individually. Anyhow, it was just as well to have plenty of witnesses in a case like this.

But where – where were the Elders of the flock?

Egholm sat down at the back of the hall, by the stove; it was a pious impulse that had come to him, having in mind the promise that whoso humbleth himself shall be exalted. And it was a good idea in other ways, he thought. The little group of paupers would form an excellent background.

“Angel Karlsen – hasn’t he come yet?” he whispered to a shawl-wrapped crone at his side.

The woman looked round, showing a face weather-worn and overgrown like a relic of the past. A single tooth showed like a stone wedge in her half-open mouth. She made no answer.

Egholm repeated his question, with no more result than before. Oh, but, of course, it was Deaf Maren. He had forgotten for the moment. But how ugly she looked to-night – and what a malicious glance she gave him. And the others, too, all with the same forbidding look – why couldn’t they answer? It was plain to see they had heard his question, and that they knew enough to tell him if they would. But every one of them turned away, or looked down at the floor – until at last Madam Strand, the gipsy woman, who was sitting on a bench at the extreme left, crept up to him with a submissive curtsey.

“They’re in there – all of them,” she said, with a shake of her thin grey locks. “All the God-fearing lot – the Angel, and the Prophet from Copenhagen – bless ’em – and the Deacon and young Karlsen. Talking and talking and making their plans. Such a fuss they’re making to-night – enough to make a body quake all over.”

She passed her wrinkled skinny hand over his wrist as she spoke.

Egholm felt his heart beat faster. He glanced over towards the door Madam Strand had indicated; it led to a little anteroom that was used, among other things, as a dressing-room for the gymnasium class. He fancied he could hear voices. A moment ago he had felt something like pity for all these people, whose conviction he would now be called upon to shatter and replace by another. But already he found himself in need of courage, seeking comfort from the fact that, after all, the weapon was in his hand. What did it matter if there were many who came up against him? And young Karlsen, no doubt, would help to bear the brunt of it.

This last was merely a sort of aside to himself. But Egholm felt his doubts of the Evangelist’s honesty suddenly grown stronger than ever.

Those artful round eyes of his – and the queer look in them when he had said good-night that evening outside Hotel Postgaarden. What could one expect from a man who went off to play cards at twelve o’clock at night at hotels? And what sort of companions could he find for the same? “Brethren in the Lord,” indeed! It was an expensive place, too, that one could hardly expect the poorer Brethren to frequent. Wait a bit, though: Postgaarden … wasn’t it there the commercial traveller man was going to meet old Karlsen that same evening?.. To sum up, then, nothing more nor less than a neat piece of spying, and carrying the whole tale to his father immediately after! After which, of course, he had simply been sent round to all these simple souls, to set their minds against him, Egholm…

It would be a hard fight now.

Fru Westergaard and Mirre, the dog, passed by. Egholm rose and bowed, but received only a half-glance in return. Fru Westergaard made her way through to her privileged chair, and sat down carefully, arranging her skirts about the dog’s head.

Her arrival was like that of the bride at a wedding, the signal for proceedings to begin. At the same moment, the door of the little room opened, and a little troop of men – looking, to tell the truth, more like mutes at a funeral than anything to do with weddings – marched in close order up on to the stage. At their head the Angel, wrapped in his beard, which seemed alive with electric tension. After him marched the Prophet from Copenhagen – a quondam priest by the name of Finck – together with the Deacon, Potter Kaasmose, whose long hair was plastered down and cut as if to the rim of one of his own pots. Of the remaining five, Egholm knew only two – Dideriksen, the Apostle, and Karlsen, the Evangelist. Dideriksen was a very pious man, as was apparent, for instance, in his habit of constantly stroking downwards over his face. Karlsen had put on a glaring red tie, which gave him a martial touch. He looked as if he were gloating over some great disaster. The stairs had been widened with a further consignment of beer boxes, so that the procession could mount the platform in something like order.