That an old country schoolmaster should sometimes be a little too
self-confident is not surprising: for well nigh a lifetime he has
imparted knowledge and given advice to his fellowmen. He sees that
all the peasants are living by what he has taught, and that not one
among them knows more than what he, their schoolmaster, has told
them. How can he help but regard all the people in the parish as
mere school children, however old they may have grown? It is only
natural that he should consider himself wiser than every one else.
It seems almost an impossibility for one of these regular old
school persons to treat any one as a grown-up, for he looks upon
each and every one as a child with dimpled cheeks and wide innocent
baby eyes.
One Sunday, in the winter, just after service, the pastor and the
schoolmaster stood talking together in the vestry; the conversation
had turned upon the Salvation Army.
"It's a singular idea to have hit upon," the pastor remarked. "I
never imagined that I should live to see anything of that sort!"
The schoolmaster glanced sharply at the pastor; he thought his
remark entirely irrelevant. Surely the pastor could never think
that such an absurd innovation would find its way into their
parish.
"I don't believe you are likely to see it, either," he said
emphatically.
The pastor, knowing that he himself was a weak and broken-down man,
let the schoolmaster have things pretty much his own way, but all
the same, he could not refrain from chaffing him a little,
occasionally.
"How can you feel so cocksure that we shall escape the Salvation
Army, Storm?" he said. "You see, when pastor and schoolmaster stand
together, there's no fear of any nuisance of that sort crowding in.
Yet I'm not altogether certain, Storm, that you do stand by me. You
preach to suit yourself in your Zion."
To this the schoolmaster did not reply at once. Presently he said,
quite meekly: "The pastor has never heard me preach."
The mission house was a veritable rock of offence. The clergyman
had never set foot in the place. And now that this mooted question
had come up, both men were sorry they had said anything to hurt
each other's feelings. "Perhaps I'm unjust to Storm," thought the
pastor. "During the four years that he has been holding his
afternoon Bible Talks, on Sundays, there has been a larger
attendance at the morning church services than ever before, and I
haven't seen the least sign of division in the church. Storm has
not destroyed the parish, as I feared he would. He is a faithful
friend and servant, and I mean to show him how much I appreciate
him."
The little misunderstanding of the forenoon resulted in the
pastor's attending the schoolmaster's meeting in the afternoon.
"I'll give Storm a pleasant surprise," he thought. "I will go to
hear him preach in his Zion."
On the way to the mission house the pastor's thoughts went back to
the time it was built. How full the air had been of prophecies, and
how firmly he had believed that God had intended it to be something
great! But nothing much had happened. "Our Lord must have changed
His mind," he thought, amused at his entertaining such queer ideas
regarding our Lord.
The schoolmaster's Zion was a large hall with light-coloured walls.
On either side hung wood engravings of Luther and Melanchton, in
fur-trimmed cloaks; along the borders, close to the ceiling, ran
highly illuminated Bible texts, embellished with flowers and
heavenly trumpets and bassoons. At the front of the room, above the
speaker's platform, hung an oleograph representing the Good
Shepherd.
The large bare room was full of people, which was all that seemed
necessary to create an atmosphere of impressive solemnity. Most of
the people were dressed in the picturesque peasant costume of the
parish, and the starched and flaring white headgear of the women
made the room look as if it were filled with large white-winged
birds.
Storm had already commenced his address, when he saw the pastor
come down the aisle, and take a seat in the front row.
"You're a wonderful man, Storm!" thought the school-master.
"Everything comes your way. Here's the pastor himself to do you
honour."
During the time that the schoolmaster had been holding meetings,
he had explained the Bible from cover to cover. That afternoon he
spoke of the Heavenly Jerusalem and everlasting bliss, as given in
the Book of the Revelation. He was so pleased at the parson having
come, that he kept thinking to himself: "For my part I shouldn't
ask for anything better than to stand on a platform through all
eternity, teaching good and obedient children; and if, on occasion,
our Lord Himself should drop in to hear me, as the pastor has done
to-day, no one in heaven would be more delighted than I."
The pastor became interested when the schoolmaster began to talk
about Jerusalem, and the strange misgivings which he had had long
ago flashed through his mind again. In the middle of the service
the door opened, and a number of people came in. There were about
twenty, and they stopped at the door so as not to disturb the
meeting. "Ah!" thought the parson. "I knew something was going to
happen."
Storm had no sooner said "Amen" than a voice, coming from some one
in the group down by the door, piped up: "I should very much like
to say a few words."
"That must be Hök Matts Ericsson," thought the pastor, and others
with him. For no one else in the parish had such a sweet and
childlike treble.
The next moment a little meek-faced man made his way up to the
platform, followed by a score of men and women who seemed to be
there for the purpose of supporting and encouraging him.
The pastor, the schoolmaster, and the entire congregation sat in
suspense. "Hök Matts has come to tell us of some awful calamity,"
they thought. "Either the king is dead, or war has been declared,
or perhaps some poor creature has fallen into the river and been
drowned." Still Hök Matts did not look as if he had any bad news to
impart. He seemed to be in earnest and somewhat stirred, but at the
same time he looked so pleased that he could hardly keep from
smiling.
"I want to say to the schoolmaster and to the congregation," he
began, "that Sunday before last, while I was sitting at home with
my family, the Spirit descended upon me, and I began to preach. We
couldn't get down here to listen to Storm, on account of the ice
and sleet, and we sat longing to hear the Word of God. Then all at
once I had the feeling that I could speak myself. I've been
preaching now for two Sundays, and all my folks at home and our
neighbours, too, have told me that I ought to come down here and
let all the people hear me."
Hök Matts also said he was astonished that the gift of speech
should have fallen upon so humble a man. "But the schoolmaster
himself is only a peasant," he added, with a little more
confidence.
After this preamble, Hök Matts folded his hands and was ready to
begin preaching at once. But by that time the schoolmaster had
recovered from his first shock of surprise.
"Do you think of speaking here now, Hök Matts--immediately?"
"Yes, that's my intention," the man replied. He grew as frightened
as a child when Storm glowered at him. "It was my purpose, of
course, to first ask leave of the schoolmaster and the rest," he
stammered.
"We're all through for the day," said Storm, conclusively.
Then the meek little man began to beg with tears in his voice:
"Won't you please let me say a few words? I only want to tell of
the things that have come to me when walking behind the plow and
when working by myself at the kiln; and now they want to come out."
But the schoolmaster, though he had had such a day of triumph
himself, felt no pity for the poor little man. "Matts Ericsson
comes here with his own peculiar notions, and claims that they are
messages from God," he declared rebukingly.
Hök Matts dared not venture a protest, and the schoolmaster opened
the hymnbook.
"Let us all join in singing hymn one hundred and eighty-seven,"
he said. Whereupon he read out the hymn in stentorian tones, then
he began to sing at the top of his voice, "Are your windows open
toward Jerusalem."
Meanwhile, he thought: "It was well after all that the pastor
happened in to-day; now he can see that I know how to maintain
order in my Zion."
But no sooner was the hymn finished than a man jumped to his feet.
It was proud and dignified Ljung Björn Olafsson, who was married to
one of the Ingmar girls, and was the owner of a large farmstead in
the heart of the parish.
"We down at this end think that the schoolmaster might have
consulted our wishes before turning Matts Ericsson down," he
mildly protested.
"Oh, you think so, do you, Sonny?" The schoolmaster spoke in
just the kind of tone he would have used in reproving some young
whippersnapper. "Then let me tell you that no one but myself has
any say here, in this hall."
Ljung Björn turned blood red. He had not meant to provoke a quarrel
with Storm, but had simply wished to soften the blow for Hök Matts,
who was an inoffensive man. Just the same, he could not help
feeling chagrined over the reply he had got; but before he could
think of a retort, one of the men who had come in with Hök Matts
spoke up:
"Twice I have heard Hök Matts preach, and must say that he is
wonderful. I believe that every one present would be helped by
hearing him."
The schoolmaster answered pleasantly enough, but in the old
admonishing tone of the classroom: "Surely you understand, Krister
Larsson, that I can't allow this. Were I to let Hök Matts preach
to-day, then you, Krister, would want to preach next Sunday, and
Ljung Björn the Sunday after!"
At this several persons laughed; but Ljung Björn was ready with a
sharp rejoinder: "I see no reason why Krister and I shouldn't be
as well qualified to preach as the schoolmaster," he said.
Thereupon Tims Halvor arose and tried to quiet them and to prevent
possible strife. "Those of us who have furnished the money to build
and run this mission should be consulted before any new preacher is
allowed to speak."
By that time Krister Larsson had become aroused and was on his feet
again. "I recall to mind that when we built this hall we were all
agreed that it should be a free-for-all meetinghouse and not a
church where only one man is allowed to preach the Word."
When Krister had spoken every one seemed to breathe freer. Only one
short hour before it had not occurred to them that they could ever
wish to hear any speaker but the schoolmaster. Now they thought it
would be a treat to hear something different. "We'd like to hear
something new and to see a fresh face behind the rostrum," somebody
muttered.
In all likelihood there would have been no further disturbance if
only Bullet Gunner had remained away that day. He, too, was a
brother-in-law of Tims Halvor and a tall, gaunt-looking fellow,
with a swarthy skin and piercing eyes. Gunner, as well as every one
else, liked the schoolmaster, but what he liked even more was a
good scrap.
"There was a lot of talk about freedom while we were building this
house," said Gunner "but I haven't heard a liberal word since the
place was first opened."
The schoolmaster grew purple. Gunner's remark was the first
evidence of any actual hostility or revolt. "Let me remind you,
Bullet Gunner, that here you have heard the true freedom preached,
as Luther taught it; but here there has been no license to preach
the kind of new-fangled ideas that spring up one day and fall to
the ground the next."
"The schoolmaster would have us think that everything new is
worthless as soon as it touches upon doctrine," Gunner replied
soothingly and half regretfully. "He approves of our using new
methods of caring for our cattle, and wants us to adopt the latest
agricultural machinery; but we are not allowed to know anything
about the new implements with which God's acres are now being
tilled."
Storm began to think that Bullet Gunner's bark was worse than his
bite. "Is it your meaning," he said, adopting a facetious tone,
"that we should preach a different doctrine here from the
Lutheran?"
"It is not a question of a new doctrine," roared Gunner, "but as to
who shall preach; and, as far as I know, Matts Ericsson is as good
a Lutheran as either the schoolmaster or the parson."
For the moment the schoolmaster had forgotten about the parson; but
now he glanced down at him. The clergyman sat quietly musing, his
chin resting upon the knob of his cane. There was a curious gleam
in his eyes, which were fixed upon Storm, never leaving him for a
second.
"After all, perhaps it would have been just as well if the parson
hadn't come to-day," thought the schoolmaster. What was then taking
place reminded Storm of something he had experienced before. It
could be just like this in school sometimes, on a bright spring
morning, when a little bird perched itself outside the schoolroom
window and warbled lustily. Then all at once the children would
tease and beg to be excused from school; they abandoned their
studies and made so much fuss and noise that it was almost
impossible to bring them to order. Something of the same sort had
come over the congregation after Hök Matts's arrival. However, the
schoolmaster meant to show the pastor and all of them that he was
man enough to quell the mutiny. "First, I will leave them alone and
let the ringleaders talk themselves hoarse," he thought, and went
and sat down on a chair behind the table on which the water bottle
stood.
Instantly there arose against him a perfect storm of protests; for
by that time every one had become inflated with the idea that they
were all of them just as good as the schoolmaster. "Why should he
alone be allowed to tell us what to believe and what not to
believe!" they shouted.
These ideas seemed to be new to most of them, yet from the talk it
became evident that they had been germinating in their minds ever
since the schoolmaster had built the mission house, and shown them
that a plain, ordinary man can preach the Word of God.
After a bit Storm remarked to himself: "The tempest of the children
must have spent itself by this. Now is the time to show them who is
master here." Whereupon he rose up, pounded the table with his
fist, and thundered: "Stop! What's the meaning of all this
racketing? I'm going now, and you must go, too, so that I may put
out the lights and lock up."
Some of them actually did get up, for they had all gone to Storm's
school, and knew that when their teacher rapped on the table it
meant that everybody had to mind. Yet the majority stoically kept
their seats.
"The schoolmaster forgets that now we are grown men," said one;
"but he still seems to think we should run just because he happens
to rap on the table!" said another.
They went right on talking about their wanting to hear some new
speakers, and which ones they should call in. They were already
quarrelling among themselves as to whether it should be the
Waldenstromites or colporteurs from the National Evangelical
Union.
The schoolmaster stood staring at the assemblage as if he were
looking at some weird monstrosity. For up to that time he had seen
only the child in each individual face. But now all the round baby
cheeks, the soft baby curls, and the mild baby eyes had vanished,
and he saw only a gathering of adults, with hard, set faces; he
felt that over such as these he had no control. He did not even
know what to say to them.
The tumult continued, growing louder and louder. The schoolmaster
kept still and let them rage. Bullet Gunner, Ljung Björn, and
Krister Larsson led the attack. Hök Matts, who was the innocent
cause of all the trouble, rose to his feet time and again and
begged them to be quiet, but no one listened to him.
Once again the schoolmaster glanced down at the parson, who was
still quietly musing, the same gleam in his eyes, which were fixed
on the schoolmaster.
"He's probably thinking of that evening four years ago when I told
him I would build a mission," thought Storm. "He was right, too.
Everything has turned out just as he said it would: heresy, revolt,
and division. Perhaps we might have escaped all this if I hadn't
been so bent upon building my Zion."
The instant this became clear to the schoolmaster, his head went
up and his backbone straightened. He drew from his pocket a small
key of polished steel. It was the key to Zion! He held it toward
the light so that it could be seen from all parts of the hall.
"Now I'm going to lay this key upon the table," he said, "and I
shall never touch it again, for I see now that it has unlocked the
door to everything which I had hoped to shut out."
Whereupon the schoolmaster put the key down, took up his hat, and
walked straight over to the pastor.
"I want to thank you, Parson, for coming to hear me to-day," he
said; "for if you hadn't come to-day you never could have heard
me."