The feeling of drama grew in the church, an almost unbearable tension.
Then, one by one, Mr. Haas let the pamphlets drop to the floor. He moved slightly, and stood upon them. The malicious smiles, here and there, faded, were replaced by frowns, or blankness. Friederich, who had sat motionless, stirred.
Now there was silence in the church. Mr. Haas was no longer speaking. His hands were on the edge of the pulpit. He was leaning on them heavily. He surveyed the people, as if studying them, measuring them, commanding them.
“You have heard me read hatred in this church,” said Mr. Haas, and now his voice, breaking the silence, began to mount. “You have heard me read lies and all viciousness and cruelty. You have heard me read the manifesto of the enemy.
“I have quoted the words of the secret enemy in ambush. I have had to profane the sanctity of this Church with the ugly cries of the wicked and the debased, those who would set a man against his brother, a nation against other nations, a people against their Lord and their Savior. You have heard me read the program of murder.”
He paused. “There are some among you, I know, who will think I speak extravagantly, and that I ought not to have given any attention to these foul things upon which I stand. You are good people, reasonable, tolerant, just But you are blind, in spite of this.
“There are many here who would never believe falsehood, and would refuse to hate. But in the end, when hatred becomes widespread, the good are caught in the whirlwind, and they, too, are destroyed by the enemy. In truth, the good are the first victims of the enemy, for evil cannot exist in the presence of virtue.
“We are threatened, all of us, good, bad, and indifferent, by the murderers who have written and issued these pamphlets. There is not a church anywhere, a synagogue, which is not in jeopardy. There is not a man of God, a faithful man, a kind man, a man of integrity, who does not stand in dreadful danger today, this last Sunday of August, in the year of Our Lord 1913.”
Again, he paused. Very slowly, and carefully, Charles turned his head and scanned the church. He saw all those faces, very clearly, now, in the brilliant light that streamed through the windows and the doors. He saw moved faces, thoughtful and concerned, faces full of sternness and disgust, dismayed faces, frightened and confused faces. He saw ashamed faces, bent aside and embarrassed, and for these he was more thankful than for all the others. And then, here and there, like sores, like spots of blight, he saw ridiculing or malevolent faces, faces full of hate, defiantly sneering.
The palm-leaf fans were held in petrified hands. No one moved. It was so quiet that everyone could hear the minister draw a long and exhausted breath.
He said: “To set a man against his neighbor, his brother, is an unpardonable thing before the face of God. The Roman Catholic Church has its list of the seven deadly sins, but the deadliest of all sins is hatred, for it not only injures the hated but it destroys the soul of the hater. It sets him apart from his God. It puts him outside the pale of humanity. It brands him with the stigmata of beasthood.
“It is not fashionable, any longer, to believe in a personal devil, just as it is becoming fashionable in some ‘advanced’ quarters to smile at the idea of a personal God. But there is indeed a personal devil. Each man who hates is that personal devil. Evil has a way, in this world, of often being more powerful than good. It can reach wider, and it can strike deeper. The supreme terror, hatred, has emptied more churches, devastated more cities, murdered more multitudes, killed more innocents, and evoked more tears and mourning, than the black plague and all the plagues put together. Why this is so I do not understand completely, but I feel it is because it is an evil more intolerable to God than any other evil, and one He will never countenance or forgive. There is no mercy for it, for it is without mercy.”
Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the frozen rows of the people. Sternly and accusingly, he picked out the faces that jeered at him silently and malignantly.
His voice rose higher, rang back from the walls:
“It has been suggested to me that this present wave of hatred is organized for a sinister and hidden purpose. The design is as yet dark to me. I pray to Almighty God that it will never be revealed to any of us, that it will fall apart impotently before its perpetrators kill us.
“Let me repeat to you the words of William Penn, the great founder of our State: ‘Those people who are not governed by God will be ruled by tyrants.’
“Those who hate are not governed by God. They are in danger of tyrants, or they are the potential tyrants. The enemy of God.”
Mr. Haas lifted up his hands in a gesture of simple but terrible warning:
“Those of you who are the enemy—search your hearts. And may God have mercy upon your souls before it is too late.”
The choir’s voice rolled out into the church, hushed and portentous. It swelled to the ceiling. Mr. Haas stood there, alone, shaken and white, but still indomitable. Then his eyes met those of Charles.
Charles did not look at his relatives. Usually, there were hushed greetings in the aisles when the services were finished, and the people left the church. But no one spoke; hardly anyone bowed. Gravely, and silently, all streamed out into the hot sunlight. Charles went down the walk with his son. Then, halfway down, he stood and waited.
Jochen was red-faced with rage. He came up to Charles and exploded loudly: “Well! Of all the outrageous performances! The minister of a church, our church! My God! There’s nothing for him to do now but resign, of course—”
“Why?” asked Charles, blandly.
“Why?” cried Jochen, disbelievingly. A number of Charles’ friends, knowing him as the President of the Board, were gathering about him, listening.
“I’m shocked, shocked to the heart. It was disgusting,” said Isabel, putting her hand to her breast as if faint. “How dared he talk like that in a church?”
“Why?” repeated Charles.
Now he saw Friederich coming towards him, and he watched him come. Jochen was clamoring again, Isabel was incredulous, Phyllis was silent. But Charles saw only Friederich.
“So,” said Friederich, significantly. All the muscles in his face were tremulous with fury. “That’s your minister, is it? That’s the man you helped appoint, is it?”
“Yes, ‘it’ is,” said Charles. He kept his voice down. More and more people were gathering about the family group now. “I am proud to say he is our minister.”
Jochen turned to Friederich. “He’s ‘proud,’ he says. You heard him.”
Charles looked at Friederich. “I think Mr. Haas hit home. What do you think, Fred? See, there are our friends, listening. They want to hear what you have to say.”
No one spoke, not even the blustering Jochen. All looked at Friederich, and all, including the increasing group about the family, looked at him. He saw them, waiting. His eyelids began to twitch; he clenched his fists. His stare was one glaze of hatred as it fixed itself upon Charles.
“You come so seldom to this church, Fred,” said Charles, after he had let Friederich’s silence become significant. “We’d like your opinion. Well?”
Jochen opened his mouth. Then he closed it again.
Never had the nervous Friederich been so still. Now Charles detected fear in him, and crafty apprehension, as well as hatred. His sallow skin whitened.
Then, without a word he turned, pushed his way violently through the considerable and increasing crowd about the Wittmanns, and rapidly moved down the walk. All saw him go. People stopped everywhere to look after him, and then to look at Charles. Many joined the crowd, frowning and hesitant.
Charles saw several of the officers of the church among the men. One said, seriously: “Your brother Fred, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Schweitzer hesitated. “Strong language, wasn’t it? Right for a church sermon, Charlie?”
Charles said: “Do you think a minister shouldn’t point out evil to his people, and warn them against it? Do you think he shouldn’t imitate Christ?
”
Mr. Snyder said, doubtfully: “Well, I don’t know, Charlie. After all, maybe what was in those pamphlets is true. I don’t know. Don’t think I’m bigoted, Charlie. Some of my best friends—”
“Are Catholics,” Charles said, quickly. He smiled. He glanced at his fellow officers. They had immense respect for him. “I think we should give him a vote of gratitude, don’t you?” added Charles.
Jochen, still uneasy, still puzzled, at what had transpired between Charles and Friederich, said angrily: “I think we should ask him to resign. That performance was disgraceful.”
“We go to church to hear of spiritual matters,” said Isabel.
Phyllis spoke for the first time. “And evil has nothing to do with the destruction of the human spirit?” she asked gently.
Isabel glanced at her, haughtily. “I really don’t understand you, Phyllis. But I hardly think this is the time or the place to discuss this very serious matter. Jochen, shall we go?”
She put her hand on Jochen’s arm. He looked about him. “I’m not an officer of this church. But if that man remains here I’ll go to another church, where there’s some respect for—”
“For what?” asked Charles. “Respect for convention? Is our minister to stand in his pulpit and congratulate us for the ‘nice’ people we certainly are not? Dare he never call his soul his own, and act with his conscience, or speak the truth as he sees it? Dare he never call his people what they need to be called, or warn them? Is a minister a minister, or a panderer to our high opinion of ourselves?”
He stood there, stolid and braced, his legs apart, his face flushed and quietly aroused.
Mr. Schweitzer said: “When you put it that way, Charlie, of course—”
Mr. Snyder said: “I guess you’re right, Charlie.” He remembered that Charles had signed a large note for him a year ago, when his hardware business was tottering.
Jochen glared at them. They were smiling at his brother. “I leave this church,” he said, sullenly.
“Good,” said Charles. “Perhaps you’ll be able to find a church where the minister is so afraid of his people that his church is half empty. Plenty of room to move around, Joe. No crowding in the pews. And no one, of course, of any importance.”
Isabel flung up her head grandly. “You misunderstood Jochen, Charles,” she said, blushing with irritation. “He is naturally perturbed.”
Jochen walked away with her, muttering. Isabel’s head was high.
Charles surveyed his officers. They were all small business or professional men. “If anyone wants to leave this church, that is his privilege. But news gets around in this town. And there are quite a number of Catholics here, too, and more coming all the time. It might hurt some of us if the Catholics learned we left this church, or persecuted our minister for defending their rights as Americans.”
One of the officers laughed half-heartedly. “And it might annoy our Protestant customers to find out we didn’t.”
Charles said: “I don’t think so. You haven’t much respect for your fellow Protestants when you say that, Johnnie. We aren’t all liars or hypocrites or haters, you know. Some of us are quite decent people. Or don’t you think so?”
“Still, I think the sermon was, well, sensational,” put in Mr. Schweitzer, confused.
“Truth usually is,” said Charles.
He went away with Jimmy. Jimmy said, softly: “You had a hand in that, didn’t you, Dad? I saw you look at Mr. Haas.”
Charles laughed a little. He began to bow to the ladies, greeted their husbands. They watched him closely. Then they were relieved. If Charles Wittmann, so dependable, so important, so respected, approved of Mr. Haas’ sermon, then it followed that all respectable people should approve of it, also. Certainly, one did not wish to be classed with those whom Mr. Haas had called “outside the pale of humanity.” Charles began to hear approbatory comments upon the sermon, meant for his ears.
Very simple people, he thought. Most of us mean well. Very few of us rascals. It only needs a man like Haas to show us the way. But how many are there, like him? Men who are not afraid of their Boards, and the women?
He said to Jimmy: “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, son. Perhaps Mr. Haas just decided to have a little courage, that’s all.” He added: “Not even the haters will leave the church. It would make them so conspicuous. And besides, it’s Andersburg’s ‘society’ church!”
CHAPTER XX
When Charles and Jimmy reached the curb they saw Wilhelm Wittmann’s carriage drawing up. Charles had forgotten Phyllis, but now he turned to look for her. She was approaching with a lady whom Charles immediately recognized as Mrs. Braydon Holt, who had sat beside him at Wilhelm’s dinner.
She waved her shut parasol at him, and cried out, loudly: “You, Charlie Wittmann! Don’t you dare run away!”
The many people still lingering turned immediately to look at Mrs. Braydon Holt with surprise and respect. They had not noticed her before; she was not a member of this church. In fact, this short, fat lady in her late forties did not belong to any church at all. This had always seemed rather “irregular” and baffling, for not only was Mr. Braydon Holt the wealthiest man in Andersburg, but his wife was the acknowledged social leader. In a woman less prominent, this would have invited open censure. But Mrs. Holt was only called “independent” or “peculiar in her ways,” and always in a tone of servility. Mr. Holt, who was not active in business, owned many oil fields in Pennsylvania, and collected modern statuary.
Isabel Wittmann might often suavely boast of her “friendship” with Mrs. Holt, on the slight basis of having met her once at Wilhelm’s home, and having encountered her once more in a shop. But she was Phyllis’ friend, and Wilhelm’s. This, Charles knew. Mrs. Holt had never concealed her liking for him, either, when she had seen him on a few occasions, but he had never had “much use” for her husband who, at fifty-five, ought, Charles believed, to be “doing something useful besides filling his house with chunks of silly stone.” Consequently, he had gone but once to the Holt house, and had been bored to actual slumber in his chair.
However, he liked Mrs. Holt, though she had a loud, hearty voice, and, perhaps, in a way, because of it. There was something so direct about her, so without hypocrisy, even if she shouted when she laughed. Seeing her now, he liked her more than ever. Her big face was scarlet under the brim of her wide straw hat, which was laden with bunches of green leaves and stuffed birds. She was proud of having no taste, and her buff-colored linen suit was entirely too small for her figure, which made up in width what it lacked in height. Her light-brown hair was untidily and unsteadily arranged by a series of very visible black hairpins, and blew out in whiffs under her hat. She tried to control them, as she rolled rapidly towards Charles, and the glove on her hand was conspicuously soiled. Her black buttoned boots, out of keeping with her skirts, had scuffed toes. But she had clear blue eyes, round and sharp, a fetching retroussé nose, and a big mouth full of remarkably excellent teeth.
Phyllis could hardly keep up with her, and so she was breathless when she said to Charles: “Minnie came to church with me—”
“Heard it was going to be something worthwhile!” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, unconscious of or indifferent to the stares behind and around her. “How are you, Charlie, you rascal?” And she held out her hand, which he shook heartily. “Your boy?”
“Yes. Jimmy. This is Mrs. Holt, son.”
Jimmy bowed gravely while Mrs. Holt gave him a critical scrutiny. “Nice, well-set-up boy,” she finally announced. “Doesn’t look as if he’d cause you much trouble. Young people usually do, these days, you know. I mean, cause their parents trouble.” But she gave the boy a kind smile, and turned briskly to Charles.
“I didn’t see you in our pew,” said Charles.
She laughed, poked his arm with the handle of her parasol. People were drifting unobtrusively nearer, in order to catch the conversation. Charles was embarrassed; he hated to be overheard. Mrs. Holt went on: “Saw
there wasn’t going to be any room. Besides, was afraid that other sister-in-law of yours would start exercising her graces on me. Bores me to death, that woman.”
Charles was more and more embarrassed, especially when he saw distant, furtive smiles. He cleared his throat, glanced at Phyllis, who said, quickly: “Minnie wasn’t at all disappointed in Mr. Haas’ sermon. She—”
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” cried Mrs. Holt, with noisy enthusiasm. “Never thought the man had it in him. Always tried to avoid him when I could. Sleek and bland, like a fat, friendly cat. I take it all back now, though. I’d like to tell him what I thought about his sermon. Courageous. Things like that. Honest. Yes, I’d like to tell him—”
“Why don’t you, Mrs. Holt?” asked Charles, forgetting the eavesdroppers.
“Eh?” she said, blankly.
“Write him. Or call him on the telephone. Or go to see him, and tell him to his face,” said Charles. “Ministers get plenty of criticism, but little praise. He did a—a fine thing, and he ought to be told, especially by people like you, Mrs. Holt.”
She pushed out her lips, and frowned thoughtfully. “If I do that, first thing you know he’ll be after us to join his church.” She shook her head.
“And what would be wrong with that?” asked Charles, smiling.
“Well, I was christened a Presbyterian, for one thing.” She shook her head again. “I don’t go to church. I never go. You know. Dull, and all that.”
“You didn’t find it dull, today?”
“Certainly not! Didn’t I tell you it was wonderful?”
“Well, Mrs. Holt, if Mr. Haas had people like you in our church, and if he knew he had your support, his sermons might always be ‘wonderful.’”
She grinned at him, craftily. “Oh, I know you, Charlie Wittmann.” Then she became serious. “In a way, I suppose you’re right. Ministers are usually scared to death of their congregations. Must just flatter them, or bore them politely, and never, never make them think or it’ll get them mad and they’ll be out looking for a new church sooner than you could say Jack Robinson.”