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 with a sharp effort and entered into the
conversation that had begun again to buzz round him. Moreover, he
entered into it with keen pleasure, for the Brothers--there were perhaps
a dozen of them in the little room--treated him with a charm of manner
that speedily made him feel one of themselves. This, again, was a very
subtle delight to him. He felt that he had stepped out of the greedy,
vulgar, self-seeking world, the world of silk and markets and
profit-making--stepped into the cleaner atmosphere where spiritual
ideals were paramount and life was simple and devoted. It all charmed
him inexpressibly, so that he realised--yes, in a sense--the degradation
of his twenty years' absorption in business. This keen atmosphere under
the stars where men thought only of their souls, and of the souls of
others, was too rarefied for the world he was now associated with. He
found himself making comparisons to his own disadvantage,--comparisons
with the mystical little dreamer that had stepped thirty years before
from the stern peace of this devout community, and the man of the world
that he had since become,--and the contrast made him shiver with a keen
regret and something like self-contempt. He glanced round at the other faces floating towards him through tobacco
smoke--this acrid cigar smoke he remembered so well: how keen they were,
how strong, placid, touched with the nobility of great aims and
unselfish purposes. At one or two he looked particularly. He hardly knew
why. They rather fascinated him. There was something so very stern and
uncompromising about them, and something, too, oddly, subtly, familiar,
that yet just eluded him. But whenever their eyes met his own they held
undeniable welcome in them; and some held more--a kind of perplexed
admiration, he thought, something that was between esteem and deference. This note of respect in all the faces was very flattering to his vanity. Coffee was served presently, made by a black-haired Brother who sat in
the corner by the piano and bore a marked resemblance to Bruder
Schliemann, the musical director of thirty years ago. Harris exchanged
bows with him when he took the cup from his white hands, which he
noticed were like the hands of a woman. He lit a cigar, offered to him
by his neighbour, with whom he was chatting delightfully, and who, in
the glare of the lighted match, reminded him sharply for a moment of
Bruder Pagel, his former room-master. "_Es ist wirklich merkwürdig_," he said, "how many resemblances I see,
or imagine. It is really _very_ curious!" "Yes," replied the other, peering at him over his coffee cup, "the spell
of the place is wonderfully strong. I can well understand that the old
faces rise before your mind's eye--almost to the exclusion of ourselves
perhaps." They both laughed presently.