Three More John Silence Stories | Page 7

intently.
"But it produced one result that I have never wholly lost," he continued
self-consciously, "and am grateful for."
"Ach! Wie so, denn?"
"The constant inner pain threw me headlong into your religious life, so
that the whole force of my being seemed to project itself towards the
search for a deeper satisfaction--a real resting-place for the soul. During
my two years here I yearned for God in my boyish way as perhaps I
have never yearned for anything since. Moreover, I have never quite
lost that sense of peace and inward joy which accompanied the search. I
can never quite forget this school and the deep things it taught me."
He paused at the end of his long speech, and a brief silence fell between
them. He feared he had said too much, or expressed himself clumsily in
the foreign language, and when Bruder Kalkmann laid a hand upon his
shoulder, he gave a little involuntary start.
"So that my memories perhaps do possess me rather strongly," he
added apologetically; "and this long corridor, these rooms, that barred
and gloomy front door, all touch chords that--that--" His German failed
him and he glanced at his companion with an explanatory smile and
gesture. But the Brother had removed the hand from his shoulder and
was standing with his back to him, looking down the passage.
"Naturally, naturally so," he said hastily without turning round. "Es ist
doch selbstverständlich. We shall all understand."
Then he turned suddenly, and Harris saw that his face had turned most
oddly and disagreeably sinister. It may only have been the shadows
again playing their tricks with the wretched oil lamps on the wall, for
the dark expression passed instantly as they retraced their steps down

the corridor, but the Englishman somehow got the impression that he
had said something to give offence, something that was not quite to the
other's taste. Opposite the door of the Bruderstube they stopped. Harris
realised that it was late and he had possibly stayed talking too long. He
made a tentative effort to leave, but his companion would not hear of it.
"You must have a cup of coffee with us," he said firmly as though he
meant it, "and my colleagues will be delighted to see you. Some of
them will remember you, perhaps."
The sound of voices came pleasantly through the door, men's voices
talking together. Bruder Kalkmann turned the handle and they entered a
room ablaze with light and full of people.
"Ah,--but your name?" he whispered, bending down to catch the reply;
"you have not told me your name yet."
"Harris," said the Englishman quickly as they went in. He felt nervous
as he crossed the threshold, but ascribed the momentary trepidation to
the fact that he was breaking the strictest rule of the whole
establishment, which forbade a boy under severest penalties to come
near this holy of holies where the masters took their brief leisure.
"Ah, yes, of course--Harris," repeated the other as though he
remembered it. "Come in, Herr Harris, come in, please. Your visit will
be immensely appreciated. It is really very fine, very wonderful of you
to have come in this way."
The door closed behind them and, in the sudden light which made his
sight swim for a moment, the exaggeration of the language escaped his
attention. He heard the voice of Bruder Kalkmann introducing him. He
spoke very loud, indeed, unnecessarily,--absurdly loud, Harris thought.
"Brothers," he announced, "it is my pleasure and privilege to introduce
to you Herr Harris from England. He has just arrived to make us a little
visit, and I have already expressed to him on behalf of us all the
satisfaction we feel that he is here. He was, as you remember, a pupil in
the year '70."

It was a very formal, a very German introduction, but Harris rather
liked it. It made him feel important and he appreciated the tact that
made it almost seem as though he had been expected.
The black forms rose and bowed; Harris bowed; Kalkmann bowed.
Every one was very polite and very courtly. The room swam with
moving figures; the light dazzled him after the gloom of the corridor,
there was thick cigar smoke in the atmosphere. He took the chair that
was offered to him between two of the Brothers, and sat down, feeling
vaguely that his perceptions were not quite as keen and accurate as
usual. He felt a trifle dazed perhaps, and the spell of the past came
strongly over him, confusing the immediate present and making
everything dwindle oddly to the dimensions of long ago. He seemed to
pass under the mastery of a great mood that was a composite
reproduction of all the moods of his forgotten boyhood.
Then he pulled himself together