I
AS he tramped back to Babylon that evening, Elmer did not enjoy his
deliverance so much as he had expected. But he worked manfully at
recalling Lulu’s repetitious chatter, her humorless ignorance, her
pawing, her unambitious rusticity, and all that he had escaped.
. . . To have her around—gumming his life—never could jolly the
congregation and help him—and suppose he were in a big town with a
swell church— Gee! Maybe he wasn’t glad to be out of it! Besides!
Really better for her. She and Floyd much better suited . . .
He knew that Dean Trosper’s one sin was reading till late, and he came
bursting into the dean’s house at the scandalous hour of eleven. In the
last mile he had heroically put by his exhilaration; he had thrown
himself into the state of a betrayed and desolate young man so
successfully that he had made himself believe it.
“Oh, how wise you were about women, Dean!” he lamented. “A terrible
thing has happened! Her father and I have just found my girl in the arms
of another man—a regular roué down there. I can never go back, not even
for Easter service. And her father agrees with me. . . . You can ask
him!”
“Well, I am most awfully sorry to hear this, Brother Gantry. I didn’t
know you could feel so deeply. Shall we kneel in prayer, and ask the
Lord to comfort you? I’ll send Brother Shallard down there for the
Easter service—he knows the field.”
On his knees, Elmer told the Lord that he had been dealt with as no man
before or since. The dean approved his agonies very much.
“There, there, my boy. The Lord will lighten your burden in his own good
time. Perhaps this will be a blessing in disguise—you’re lucky to get
rid of such a woman, and this will give you that humility, that deeper
thirsting after righteousness, which I’ve always felt you lacked,
despite your splendid pulpit voice. Now I’ve got something to take your
mind off your sorrows. There’s quite a nice little chapel on the edge of
Monarch where they’re lacking an incumbent. I’d intended to send Brother
Hudkins—you know him; he’s that old retired preacher that lives out by
the brickyard—comes into classes now and then—I’d intended to send him
down for the Easter service. But I’ll send you instead, and in fact, if
you see the committee, I imagine you can fix it to have this as a
regular charge, at least till graduation. They pay fifteen a Sunday and
your fare. And being there in a city like Monarch, you can go to the
ministerial association and so on—stay over till Monday noon every
week—and make fine contacts, and maybe you’ll be in line for assistant
in one of the big churches next summer. There’s a morning train to
Monarch—10:21, isn’t it? You take that train tomorrow morning, and go
look up a lawyer named Eversley. He’s got an office—where’s his
letter?—his office is in the Royal Trust Company Building. He’s a
deacon. I’ll wire him to be there tomorrow afternoon, or anyway leave
word, and you can make your own arrangements. The Flowerdale Baptist
Church, that’s the name, and it’s a real nice little modern plant, with
lovely folks. Now you go to your room and pray, and I’m sure you’ll feel
better.”
II
It was an hilarious Elmer Gantry who took the 10:21 train to Monarch, a
city of perhaps three hundred thousand. He sat in the day-coach planning
his Easter discourse. Jiminy! His first sermon in a real city! Might
lead to anything. Better give ’em something red-hot and startling. Let’s
see: He’d get away from this Christ is Risen stuff—mention it of
course, just bring it in, but have some other theme. Let’s see: Faith.
Hope. Repentance—no, better go slow on that repentance idea; this
Deacon Eversley, the lawyer, might be pretty well-to-do and get sore if
you suggested he had anything to repent of. Let’s see: Courage.
Chastity. Love—that was it—love!
And he was making notes rapidly, right out of his own head, on the back
of an envelope:
_Love_:
a rainbow
AM & PM star
from cradle to tomb
inspires art etc. music voice of love
slam atheists etc. who not appreciate love
“Guess you must be a newspaperman, Brother,” a voice assailed him.
Elmer looked at his seatmate, a little man with a whisky nose and
asterisks of laughter-wrinkles round his eyes, a rather sportingly
dressed little man with the red tie which in 1906 was still thought
rather the thing for socialists and drinkers.
He could have a good time with such a little man, Elmer considered. A
drummer. Would it be more fun to be natural with him, or to ask him if
he was saved, and watch him squirm? Hell, he’d have enough holy business
in Monarch. So he turned on his best good-fellow smile, and answered:
“Well, not exactly. Pretty warm for so early, eh?”
“Yuh, it certainly is. Been in Babylon long?”
“No, not very long.”
“Fine town. Lots of business.”
“You betcha. And some nice little dames there, too.”
The little man snickered. “There are, eh? Well, say, you better give me
some addresses. I make that town once a month and, by golly, I ain’t
picked me out a skirt yet. But it’s a good town. Lot’s of money there.”
“Yes-sir, that’s a fact. Good hustling town. Quick turnover there, all
right. Lots of money in Babylon.”
“Though they do tell me,” said the little man, “there’s one of these
preacher-factories there.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Yump. Say, Brother, this’ll make you laugh. Juh know what I thought
when I seen you first—wearing that black suit and writing things down?
I thought maybe you was a preacher yourself!”
“Well—”
God, he couldn’t stand it! Having to be so righteous every Sunday at
Schoenheim—Deacon Bains everlastingly asking these fool questions about
predestination or some doggone thing. Cer’nly had a vacation coming! And
a sport like this fellow, he’d look down on you if you said you were a
preacher.
The train was noisy. If any neighboring cock crowed three times, Elmer
did not hear it as he rumbled:
“Well, for the love of Mike! Though—” In his most austere manner: “This
black suit happens to be mourning for one very dear to me.”
“Oh, say, Brother, now you gotta excuse me! I’m always shooting my mouth
off!”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
“Well, let’s shake, and I’ll know you don’t hold it against me.”
“You bet.”
From the little man came an odor of whisky which stirred Elmer
powerfully. So long since he’d had a drink! Nothing for two months
except a few nips of hard cider which Lulu had dutifully stolen for him
from her father’s cask.
“Well, what is your line, Brother?” said the little man.
“I’m in the shoe game.”
“Well, that’s a fine game. Yes-sir, people do have to have shoes, no
matter if they’re hard up or not. My name’s Ad Locust—Jesus, think of
it, the folks named me Adney—can you beat that—ain’t that one hell of
a name for a fellow that likes to get out with the boys and have a good
time! But you can just call me Ad. I’m traveling for the Pequot Farm
Implement Company. Great organization! Great bunch! Yes-sir, they’re
great folks to work for, and hit it up, say! the sales-manager can drink
more good liquor than any fellow that’s working for him, and, believe
me, there’s some of us that ain’t so slow ourselves! Yes-sir, this fool
idea that a lot of these fly-by-night firms are hollering about now,
that in the long run you don’t get no more by drinking with the
dealers—All damn’ foolishness. They say this fellow Ford that makes
these automobiles talks that way. Well, you mark my words: By 1910 he’ll
be out of business, that’s what’ll happen to him; you mark my words!
Yes-sir, they’re a great concern, the Pequot bunch. Matter of fact,
we’re holding a sales-conference in Monarch next week.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Yes-sir, by golly, that’s what we’re doing. You know—read papers about
how to get money out of a machinery dealer when he ain’t got any money.
Heh! Hell of a lot of attention most of us boys’ll pay to that junk!
We’re going to have a good time and get in a little good earnest
drinking, and you bet the sales-manager will be right there with us!
Say, Brother—I didn’t quite catch the name—”
“Elmer Gantry is my name. Mighty glad to meet you.”
“Mighty glad to know you, Elmer. Say, Elmer, I’ve got some of the best
Bourbon you or anybody else ever laid your face to right here in my hip
pocket. I suppose you being in a highbrow business like the shoe
business, you’d just about faint if I was to offer you a little
something to cure that cough!”
“I guess I would, all right; yes-sir, I’d just about faint.”
“Well, you’re a pretty big fellow, and you ought to try to control
yourself.”
“I’ll do my best, Ad, if you’ll hold my hand.”
“You betcha I will.” Ad brought out from his permanently sagging pocket
a pint of Green River, and they drank together, reverently.
“Say, jever hear the toast about the sailor?” inquired Elmer. He felt
very happy, at home with the loved ones after long and desolate
wanderings.
“Dunno’s I ever did. Shoot!”
“Here’s to the lass in every port,
And here’s to the port-wine in every lass,
But those tall thoughts don’t matter, sport,
For God’s sake, waiter, fill my glass!”
The little man wriggled. “Well, sir, I never did hear that one! Say,
that’s a knock-out! By golly, that certainly is a knock-out! Say, Elm,
whacha doing in Monarch? Wancha meet some of the boys. The Pequot
conference don’t really start till Monday, but some of us boys thought
we’d kind of get together today and hold a little service of prayer and
fasting before the rest of the galoots assemble. Like you to meet ’em.
Best bunch of sports _you_ ever saw, lemme tell you that! I’d like for
you to meet ’em. And I’d like ’em to hear that toast. ‘Here’s to the
port-wine in every lass.’ That’s pretty cute, all right! Whacha doing in
Monarch? Can’t you come around to the Ishawonga Hotel and meet some of
the boys when we get in?”
Mr. Ad Locust was not drunk; not exactly drunk; but he had earnestly
applied himself to the Bourbon and he was in a state of superb
philanthropy. Elmer had taken enough to feel reasonable. He was hungry,
too, not only for alcohol but for unsanctimonious companionship.
“I’ll tell you, Ad,” he said. “Nothing I’d like better, but I’ve got to
meet a guy—important dealer—this afternoon, and he’s dead against all
drinking. Fact—I certainly do appreciate your booze, but don’t know’s I
ought to have taken a single drop.”
“Oh, hell, Elm, I’ve got some throat pastilles that are absolutely
guaranteed to knock out the smell—absolutely. One lil drink wouldn’t do
us any harm. Certainly would like to have the boys hear that toast of
yours!”
“Well, I’ll sneak in for a second, and maybe I can foregather with you
for a while late Sunday evening or Monday morning, but—”
“Aw, you ain’t going to let me down, Elm?”
“Well, I’ll telephone this guy, and fix it so’s I don’t have to see him
till long ’bout three o’clock.”
“That’s great!”
III
From the Ishawonga Hotel, at noon, Elmer telephoned to the office of Mr.
Eversley, the brightest light of the Flowerdale Baptist Church. There
was no answer.
“Everybody in his office out to dinner. Well, I’ve done all I can till
this afternoon,” Elmer reflected virtuously, and joined the Pequot
crusaders in the Ishawonga bar. . . . Eleven men in a booth for eight.
Every one talking at once. Every one shouting, “Say, waiter, you ask
that damn’ bartender if he’s _making_ the booze!”
Within seventeen minutes Elmer was calling all of the eleven by their
first names—frequently by the wrong first names—and he contributed to
their literary lore by thrice reciting his toast and by telling the best
stories he knew. They liked him. In his joy of release from piety and
the threat of life with Lulu, he flowered into vigor. Six several times
the Pequot salesmen said one to another, “Now there’s a fellow we ought
to have with us in the firm,” and the others nodded.
He was inspired to give a burlesque sermon.
“I’ve got a great joke on Ad!” he thundered. “Know what he thought I was
first? A preacher!”
“Say, that’s a good one!” they cackled.
“Well, at that, he ain’t so far off. When I was a kid, I did think some
about being a preacher. Well, say now, listen, and see if I wouldn’t’ve
made a swell preacher!”
While they gaped and giggled and admired, he rose solemnly, looked at
them solemnly, and boomed:
“Brethren and Sistern, in the hustle and bustle of daily life you guys
certainly do forget the higher and finer things. In what, in all the
higher and finer things, in what and by what are we ruled excepting by
Love? What is Love?”
“You stick around tonight and I’ll show you!” shrieked Ad Locust.
“Shut up now, Ad! Honest—listen. See if I couldn’t’ve been a
preacher—a knock-out—bet I could handle a big crowd well’s any of ’em.
Listen. . . . What is Love? What is the divine Love? It is the rainbow,
repainting with its spangled colors those dreary wastes where of late
the terrible tempest has wreaked its utmost fury—the rainbow with its
tender promise of surcease from the toils and travails and terrors of
the awful storm! What is Love—the divine Love, I mean, not the carnal
but the divine Love, as exemplified in the church? What is—”
“Say!” protested the most profane of the eleven, “I don’t think you
ought to make fun of the church. I never go to church myself, but maybe
I’d be a better fella if I did, and I certainly do respect folks that go
to church, and I send my kids to Sunday School. You God damn betcha!”
“Hell, I ain’t making fun of the church!” protested Elmer.
“Hell, he ain’t making fun of the church. Just kidding the preachers,”
asserted Ad Locust. “Preachers are just ordinary guys like the rest of
us.”
“Sure; preachers can cuss and make love just like anybody else. I know!
What they get away with, pretending to be different,” said Elmer
lugubriously, “would make you gentlemen tired if you knew.”
“Well, I don’t think you had ought to make fun of the church.”
“Hell, he ain’t making fun of the church.”
“Sure, I ain’t making fun of the church. But lemme finish my sermon.”
“Sure, let him finish his sermon.”
“Where was I? . . . What is Love? It is the evening and the morning
star—those vast luminaries that as they ride the purple abysms of the
vasty firmament vouchsafe in their golden splendor the promise of higher
and better things that—that—Well, say, you wise guys, would I make a
great preacher or wouldn’t I?”
The applause was such that the bartender came and looked at them
funereally; and Elmer had to drink with each of them. That is, he drank
with four of them.
But he was out of practise. And he had had no lunch.
He turned veal-white; sweat stood on his forehead and in a double line
of drops along his upper lip, while his eyes were suddenly vacant.
Ad Locust squealed, “Say, look out! Elm’s passing out!”
They got him up to Ad’s room, one man supporting him on either side and
one pushing behind, just before he dropped insensible, and all that
afternoon, when he should have met the Flowerdale Baptist committee, he
snored on Ad’s bed, dressed save for his shoes and coat. He came to at
six, with Ad bending over him, solicitous.
“God, I feel awful!” Elmer groaned.
“Here. What you need’s a drink.”
“Oh, Lord, I mustn’t take any more,” said Elmer, taking it. His hand
trembled so that Ad had to hold the glass to his mouth. He was conscious
that he must call up Deacon Eversley at once. Two drinks later he felt
better, and his hand was steady. The Pequot bunch began to come in, with
a view to dinner. He postponed his telephone call to Eversley till after
dinner; he kept postponing it; and he found himself, at ten on Easter
morning, with a perfectly strange young woman in a perfectly strange
flat, and heard Ad Locust, in the next room, singing “How Dry I Am.”
Elmer did a good deal of repenting and groaning before his first drink
of the morning, after which he comforted himself, “Golly, I never will
get to that church now. Well, I’ll tell the committee I was taken sick.
Hey, Ad! How’d we ever get here? Can we get any breakfast in this dump?”
He had two bottles of beer, spoke graciously to the young lady in the
kimono and red slippers, and felt himself altogether a fine fellow. With
Ad and such of the eleven as were still alive, and a scattering of
shrieking young ladies, he drove out to a dance-hall on the lake, Easter
Sunday afternoon, and they returned to Monarch for lobster and
jocundity.
“But this ends it. Tomorrow morning I’ll get busy and see Eversley and
fix things up,” Elmer vowed.
IV
In that era long-distance telephoning was an uncommon event, but
Eversley, deacon and lawyer, was a bustler. When the new preacher had
not appeared by six on Saturday afternoon, Eversley telephoned to
Babylon, waited while Dean Trosper was fetched to the Babylon central,
and spoke with considerable irritation about the absence of the
ecclesiastical hired hand.
“I’ll send you Brother Hudkins—a very fine preacher, living here now,
retired. He’ll take the midnight train,” said Dean Trosper.
To Mr. Hudkins the dean said, “And look around and see if you can find
anything of Brother Gantry. I’m worried about him. The poor boy was
simply in agony over a most unfortunate private matter . . .
apparently.”
Now Mr. Hudkins had for several years conducted a mission on South Clark
Street in Chicago, and he knew a good many unholy things. He had seen
Elmer Gantry in classes at Mizpah. When he had finished Easter morning
services in Monarch, he not only went to the police and to the hospitals
but began a round of the hotels, restaurants, and bars. Thus it came to
pass that while Elmer was merrily washing lobster down with California
claret, stopping now and then to kiss the blonde beside him and (by
request) to repeat his toast, that evening, he was being observed from
the café door by the Reverend Mr. Hudkins in the enjoyable rôle of
avenging angel.
V
When Elmer telephoned Eversley, Monday morning, to explain his sickness,
the deacon snapped, “All right. Got somebody else.”
“But, well, say, Dean Trosper thought you and the committee might like
to talk over a semi-permanent arrangement—”
“Nope, nope, nope.”
Returned to Babylon, Elmer went at once to the office of the dean.
One look at his expression was enough.
The dean concluded two minutes of the most fluent description with:
“—the faculty committee met this morning, and you are fired from
Mizpah. Of course you remain an ordained Baptist minister. I could get
your home association to cancel your credentials, but it would grieve
them to know what sort of a lying monster they sponsored. Also, I don’t
want Mizpah mixed up in such a scandal. But if I ever hear of you in any
Baptist pulpit, I’ll expose you. Now I don’t suppose you’re bright
enough to become a saloon-keeper, but you ought to make a pretty good
bartender. I’ll leave your punishment to your midnight thoughts.”
Elmer whined, “You hadn’t ought—you ought not to talk to me like that!
Doesn’t it say in the Bible you ought to forgive seventy times seven—”
“This is eighty times seven. Get out!”
So the Reverend Mr. Gantry surprisingly ceased to be, for practical
purposes, a Reverend at all.
He thought of fleeing to his mother, but he was ashamed; of fleeing to
Lulu, but he did not dare.
He heard that Eddie Fislinger had been yanked to Schoenheim to marry
Lulu and Floyd Naylor . . . a lonely grim affair by lamplight.
“They might have _ast_ me, anyway,” grumbled Elmer, as he packed.
He went back to Monarch and the friendliness of Ad Locust. He confessed
that he had been a minister, and was forgiven. By Friday that week Elmer
had become a traveling salesman for the Pequot Farm Implement Company.