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.
A breathless silence reigned among the congregation when Angel Karlsen
began to pray, while the remaining Elders seated themselves in a
half-circle. The Copenhagen Prophet, evidently on easy and familiar
terms with platforms, thrust his coat-tails carelessly aside, polished
his gold pince-nez with a handkerchief of brilliant whiteness, and did
other things hitherto unknown in those surroundings. Young Karlsen,
for instance--not to speak of Potter Kaasmose--would have been utterly
unable to imitate the elegant movement with which he flung one leg
over the other, after first pulling up the legs of his trousers. He
had chosen his seat on the extreme right, like the first violin in an
orchestra. His interesting appearance could hardly fail to draw off
some attention from the prayer, but was no doubt edifying in itself.
“Amen,” said Angel Karlsen.
“And having now concluded this prayer which Thou Thyself hast taught
us, we further pray that this our ancient congregation, founded by
St. John the Apostle, and lasting even unto this day in despite of
the deluge of sin and the drought of indifference, may likewise
henceforward so prevail against the ravages of the wolf that steals
abroad by night, that neither sheep nor lamb may fall a prey.
“All ye who were present here last evening know what I mean. But for
those others who do not, I will briefly set forth the matter which has
called us Elders to gather in conclave here to-night.”
Egholm sat gasping as if half stunned. “Present here _last
evening_!...” Then they had called a meeting, without his knowledge--a
meeting where they had betrayed him and his great cause, and sowed
the seed of hatred against him in all the hearts of those who had no
judgment of their own. In the midst of his anger, indignation, and
fear, Egholm yet tried to frame a prayer for strength and courage. But
he could do no more than mumble helplessly: “I’m in the right, you know
I am. Lord God, you know I’m in the right.”
Meanwhile, old Karlsen was reciting a pretty parable about the wolf
that took upon itself sheep’s clothing, that it might deceive the
unwary--ay, even the shepherd himself, that he might open the door of
the fold and let that monster enter in, with kindly words: “Enter,
poor strayed sheep, and be refreshed with the grass of this pleasant
fold.” But then one day the shepherd looked into the eyes of that wolf
in sheep’s clothing, and lo! they were eyes of fire. And another day
he looked at its teeth, and lo! they were the teeth of a wolf. But
the monster believed itself still safe and unsuspected--even until
to-night. “And so it comes here amongst us at this moment, and says to
the sheep: ‘Follow me. I know a place where the grass is richer and
more pleasant; make haste and leave that evil shepherd, who shears you
of your fleece. I will lead you; I will be your shepherd!’”
When the Angel had finished, Egholm rose, pale and ill at ease, and
begged leave to speak. But his seat was so far back, and his voice so
weak, that those on the platform might be excused for overlooking him.
All heard, however, when young Karlsen called out the number of a hymn,
and though Egholm repeated his request in a slightly louder voice, the
congregation began singing:
“‘Up, ye Christians, up and doing,
Warriors of the Lord, to arms!
Lo, the foeman’s host pursuing,
All the power of war’s alarms.
Draw and smite
For the right,
Hell is arming ’gainst the Light.
Follow in your leader’s train,
Trusting in his strength to win,
Satan hopes the day to gain,
Up, and smite the host of sin!
Here at hand
Still doth stand
One who can all powers command!’”
Egholm had lost patience. As the hymn concluded, he sprang up and
roared across the hall:
“Look here, do you mean to say _I’m_ Satan?”
There was a stir as all in the hall turned round. Fru Westergaard’s
chair rocked suddenly, and a bench crashed down, but after that
followed a moment of icy silence, cleft immediately by Karlsen’s angel
trumpet:
“Guilty conscience, Egholm?”
A new silence, Egholm stammering and gurgling, but finding no
appropriate answer. Then the Evangelist let loose a shower of insulting
laughter. Strangely enough, this had the effect of bringing Egholm to
his senses.
“I was the first to ask; it’s your place to answer. D’you mean to say
I’m Satan?”
And before any of the Elders on the platform could pull themselves
sufficiently together, he went on:
“Do you know this book here? It’s an old one, and the title-page is
missing. You think, perhaps, it’s St. Cyprian, but I can tell you,
it’s the Holy Scripture. Yes, that’s what it is. And what I have to
say to you now is just the words of the Scriptures, and no more. Holy
Scripture, pure and undefiled. I’ll read it out, and you can judge for
yourselves. I tell you, you haven’t got a shepherd at all; you’ve a
_butcher_!”
At the first exchange of words, the congregation had been confused and
uneasy, quivering this way and that like a magnetic needle exposed to
intermittent current. Now, Egholm had, it is true, most of them facing
his way, but many looked up to the Elders, and especially to the Angel,
partly to see the effect of Egholm’s words, and partly to gain some
hint as to which way their own feeling should tend. The congregation
was thus divided, but Egholm wanted it united. Accordingly, he left his
place between Deaf Maren and the stove, and advanced by jerks, still
speaking, up towards his foes.
Yes, he knew it was a serious thing to call Angel Karlsen--Egholm
shook a little at the venerable words--a butcher. But it was plain
to him now, after what had passed, that Angel Karlsen was not acting
in good faith as regards the point in dispute: whether tithe should
be paid, or if tithe had been abolished by God’s own word, and was
consequently foolish--nay, wicked. But if the Angel knew God’s will,
and did not act upon it, and open the eyes of the Brotherhood to the
same, then no words could be too strong.
Egholm spoke for twenty minutes. He had got right to the front, and
stepped up on to the first of the beer boxes, making, as it were, an
act drop of his body in front of those on the platform. The audience
could only see their shadows, and hear a slight sound when the
Copenhagen Prophet cleared his throat. Once young Karlsen tried his
devilish laugh, but was sternly suppressed by his venerable sire.
There was no real disturbance of any sort; the congregation made
but one listening, eager face. The Elders were exorcised already.
Victory--victory!
But at the very moment when the thought first thrilled him, Egholm’s
eloquence suddenly ran dry. With a spasm of dread he realised that he
could say no more. The source within him, that he had imagined endless,
had ceased. He had not firmness enough to begin again, and the texts
and parables he had chosen for his purpose had been rehearsed so often
in his mind for the occasion that he could not now remember what he had
actually said and what he could still use.
The emptiness that followed was almost physically oppressive--Egholm
gasped once or twice as if the very air about him were gone. Then came
the voice of the Angel, calm and firm:
“Have you any more to say?”
“No,” said Egholm, paling as he spoke. “I hope now you have understood.”
And with that he stepped down from his elevation, sighed, wiped his
forehead nervously, and leaned up against the wall at the side.
Old Karlsen delivered a prayer longer and more powerful than ever
before. It gathered like a cloud above the congregation, gradually
obscuring all that Egholm had said. Not until he noticed that the cloud
had condensed here and there to a mild rain of tears did the Angel pass
over imperceptibly to mention of Egholm’s onslaught.
“And now, now--well, you have heard the leader of your flock, the
shepherd and Angel of the Brotherhood, referred to as a butcher. Here,
in our own house, and out of the mouth of one whom we regarded as a
brother. Why do I not lift up my hand against him, and drive him forth,
even as the Master drove out those from the Temple who defiled its holy
places? No! For it is written: _Blessed are the meek_.”
The Angel’s prayer had opened the hearts of the flock. Thereupon
Finck the Prophet stepped forward. He wore a reddish-brown beard, his
eyebrows were bushy, and his eyes glittered behind his glasses. It
seemed as if he had hitherto affected lordly indifference, but was now
so moved that he could no longer control his emotion, and his anger
burst forth in a torrent.
“In days gone by,” he began, “when I realised that the Established
Church of Denmark was being suffered to drift like a ship without a
compass, I declined to stay on board. And before leaving, I warned my
fellow-travellers, and the captain and the mate. I told them in plain,
bold words that they were drifting towards shipwreck. Many believed
that my words were over-bold. A conflict raged about my name, as some
of you may perhaps remember. But, now, we have heard a man whose words
were not bold, but only brutal and coarse--a man who, I think I am
qualified to say, lacks the very rudiments of ability to understand
what he reads. This ignoramus takes upon himself to pick out a verse
here and a verse there, and then adds them together in a fashion of his
own. We may compare him with the man who read one day in his Bible:
‘Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him’--and the next:
‘Go thou and do likewise.’...”
The sum and essence of Finck’s oration was that the rendering of tithe
was a jewel of price reserved for the Brotherhood of St. John apart
from all others. To cast away that jewel now would be sheer madness.
Egholm stood quivering with impatience to answer. His mind was clear
now as to what he should say. And as soon as Finck had ended, he sprang
forward.
“It seems to me that Hr. Finck, the Prophet, in spite of all his claims
to learning, and his libellous attack....”
“Silence, man!” roared Finck, his voice echoing roundly from the walls.
“We will hear no more. You have said your last word here. Go!”
“My turn now,” said young Karlsen, with a swaggering fling of his
shoulders.
But the venerable Angel could not find it in his heart to deny Egholm a
last word. He found it preferable to let him wreak his own destruction.
And with his keen perception of the feeling among the congregation, he
was confident that this would be the result.
“Beloved Brethren,” he said, “there is but a quarter of an hour left
us--one poor quarter of an hour. I had endeavoured to secure the hall
for another hour, but other and more worldly matters intervened. I
think, then, we should let Egholm say what his conscience permits him,
and then conclude with the old hymn: ‘All is in the Father’s hand.’”
“I should just like to ask Prophet Finck,” said Egholm furiously, “how
_he_ would interpret and explain....”
“What’s that?” said Finck loftily.
“The leading point, the essence of the whole thing, namely, the text
found by me in the Epistle to the Hebrews--you have not said a word
about that, really. I am firmly convinced that I am right, but, all the
same, I should like to hear how you propose to explain away....”
“Write it down,” broke in Finck sharply.
Egholm obeyed involuntarily. He found a stump of lead pencil in his
waistcoat pocket, and began scrawling on the faded paper at the back of
his Bible. He was a facile writer ordinarily, but in his present state
of emotion he could hardly frame his question. Two or three times he
struck out what he had written and began again. Suddenly he heard young
Karlsen clearing his throat, and then:
“Now, then, we’d better....”
“No, no!” cried Egholm.
“Throw that man out,” commanded Finck.
“You cowards, you’re afraid to let me speak!”
“Oh, go and heave him out, Johannes,” called young Karlsen, leaning
over the footlights.
But Johannes, the postman, was paralysed already by the unwonted
tumult, and did not move. There were others in the hall, however, who
seemed eager enough to respond to the invitation, seeing that Karlsen
himself was to be responsible.
“You miserable traitor,” hissed Egholm, “give me back my tithes, give
me my money, and I’ll go. But not before. Give me my four hundred
_kroner_.”
“Turn him out, the wretch!”
“‘All is in the Father’s hand,
All things answer His command....’”
The Angel made a brave attempt to start the hymn, but the congregation
appeared more interested in the conflict, and no one followed his lead.
“My money--give me my money, you thieves!”
“Pot calling the kettle black!” cried the Evangelist, with a sneer.
“Liar, slanderer, scoundrel!” roared Egholm, seeing in this last remark
a reference to the manner of his dismissal from the railway service.
And, beside himself with fury, he raised the heavy Bible to throw at
Karlsen, when a diversion took place which drew off his attention and
that of the audience.
A confused but violent noise came from the back of the hall, and then
repeated shouts that rose above the din.
“You lanky black beast! You filthy devil! What about the seventh
commandment? Yes; it’s you I mean, you filthy, incontinent swine! You
evangelical hypocrite! What about Metha, eh? She’s lying there at home
now and asking for you--for you!”
The words were plain and to the point; everyone in the hall stared in
amazement at the backsliding photographer, who was standing on a bench
and waving clenched fists in the air. It was evident that he had been
drinking.
Then they turned to look at young Karlsen. His face was drawn awry.
Egholm was so moved at this unexpected reinforcement that the tears
flowed down his cheeks. He found voice again and took up the cry.
“They’re a lot of criminals, all of them. Setting themselves up against
God’s laws that I’ve discovered. I’ll have you up, that I will. Give me
my money, my money!”
Young Karlsen lost his self-control. He sprang in long leaps down
through the hall, and flung himself upon Egholm, thrusting his head
forward like a bull about to charge.
“You shut yo’ jaw!” he cried, lapsing into his country dialect.
“Lauritz, be careful!” cried the Angel warningly. But it was too late.
Finck came up to take part, and Egholm was borne towards the door,
still shouting, and hanging on with arms and legs to the benches as he
passed.
A little party of Brethren carried Meilby in similar fashion to the
door. Serve him right, the sneak, always behindhand with his tithes....
The hall was filled with shouts and oaths, cries, and the barking of a
dog.
The Histrionics gathered open mouthed about the doorway. It was their
dress-rehearsal night for the coming performance of _The Lovers’
Secret_.