Egholm and his God
Egholm and his
God
Translated from the Danish of
Johannes Buchholtz
By W. W. Worster
New York
Alfred · A · Knopf
1922
EGHOLM AND HIS GOD
I
Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the windowledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair,and looking down at the muddy court below.
Not a soul.
He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindropssplashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter.
Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only thesullen November drizzle, flung now and then intogusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain.
But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out intothe grey desolation, highly amused at it all.
Now he purses up his lips and whispers something,raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, andgiggles.
Let him, for Heaven’s sake, as long as he can,thinks his mother.
And Sivert finds it more amusing still. Wonderful,so much there is going on inside him. He shakeshis poodle mop of hair, and gives way to a long-drawn,gasping laugh—simply can’t help it—leans his forehead[2]against the pane, thrusts both hands suddenlydeep into his pockets, and gives a curious wriggle.
“You great big boy, what’s the matter now?”says his mother gently.
Sivert turns his head away and answers with anevasive laugh:
“All that rain ... it tickles so.”
Fru Egholm does not question him again; for amoment she really feels as if the boy were right.And, anyhow, it would be no use asking him. If onlyhe can find his little pleasure in it, so much the better.
And there’s no saying how long ... Egholm hadsaid it was time the boy found something to do, nowhe was confirmed. Find him a place at once. AndSivert, poor weakly lad—how would it go withhim?
Fru Egholm shakes her head, and sends a lovingglance at the boy, who is plainly busy in his mind withsomething new and splendid.
Then suddenly his face changes, as if at the touchof death itself. His eyes grow dull, his jaw drops;the childish features with their prematurely agedlook are furrowed with dread as he stares down atsomething below.
“Is it Father?” she whispers breathlessly.“Back already?”
She lays down her sewing and hurries to thewindow; mother and son stand watching withfrightened eyes each movement of the figure below.
Egholm walks up from the gate, lithe and erect,just as in the old days when he came home from theoffice. But at every step his knees give under him,he stumbles, and his wet cloak hangs uncomfortablyabout him. At last he comes to a standstill, heedlessof the fact that his broad boots are deep in a puddleof water.
Once he looks up, and Sivert and his mother holdtheir breath. But the flower-pots in the windowhide them. His head droops forward, he standsthere still. A little after, they see him trudgingalong close to the wall, past his own door.
The watchers stand on tiptoe, pressing theirtemples against the cold glass, straining to see whatnext.
Egholm stops at the Eriksens’ gate, glances round,and kneels.
Kneels down full in the mire, while the galeflings the cape of his ulster over his head.