is preposterous! Are we to continue this farce? Some of the brethren
must yield for the general good. I would cheerfully withdraw my
candidature, but for one consideration. You all know that the temporal
affairs of the See have fallen into confusion. Our late excellent
prelate was not a man of business, and there has been alienation, and
underletting, and racking out of church lands, which I have marked with
anxiety, and which I am desirous to remedy. You all know that I have
this one good quality, I am a business man, understand account keeping,
and look sharp after the pecuniary interests of the Chapter lands. It is
essential that the lands of the See should be attended to by some
practical man like myself, therefore I do not withdraw from my
candidature, but therefore only--"
Then up sprang Hartwig Juel, and said, "The very Reverend the Dean has
well said, this farce must not continue. Some must yield if a bishop is
to be elected. I would cheerfully withdraw from candidature but for one
little matter. I hold in my hand a letter received this morning from my
brother, who tells me that his most gracious majesty, King Christian,
expressed himself to my brother in terms of hope that I should be
elected. You, my reverend brothers, all know that we are living in a
critical time when it is most necessary that a close relation, a
cordial relation, should be maintained between the Church and the State.
Therefore, in the political interests of the See, but only in these
interests, I cannot withdraw my candidature."
Then all eyes turned on Olaf Petersen. His face was pale, his lips set.
He stood up, and leaning forward said firmly, "The pecuniary and the
political interests of the See are as nothing to me, its spiritual
interests are supreme. Heaven is my witness, I have no personal ambition
to wear the mitre. I know it will cause exhausting labour and terrible
responsibilities, from which I shrink. Nevertheless, seeing as I do that
this is a period in the history of the Church when self-seeking and
corruption have penetrated her veins and are poisoning her life-blood,
seeing as I do that unless there be a revival of religion, and an
attempt at reform be made within the Church, there will ensue such a
convulsion as will overthrow her, therefore, and only therefore do I
feel that I can not withdraw from my candidature."
"Very well," said the Dean in a crusty tone. "There is nothing for it
but for us to vote again. Now at least we have clear issues before us,
the temporal, the political, and the spiritual interests of the Church."
The votes were again taken, and stood thus.
The temporal interests, 5.
The political interests, 5.
The spiritual interests, 5.
Here was a dead lock. It was clear that parties were exactly divided,
and that none would yield.
After a pause of ten minutes, Jep Mundelstrup was again helped to his
feet. He looked round the Chapter with blinking eyes, and opened and
shut his mouth several times before he came to speak. At last he said,
in faltering tones, "My reverend brethren, it is clear to me that my
resignation has complicated, rather than helped matters forward. Do not
think I am about to renew my candidature, _that_ I am not, but I am
going to make a proposition to which I hope you will give attentive
hearing. If we go on in this manner, we shall elect no one, and then his
Majesty, whom God bless, will step in and nominate."
"Hear, hear!" from the adherents of Hartwig Juel.
"I do not for a moment pretend that the nominee of his Majesty would not
prove an excellent bishop, but I do fear that a nomination by the crown
would be the establishment of a dangerous precedent."
"Hear! hear!" from the adherents of Olaf Petersen.
"At the same time it must be borne in mind that the temporal welfare of
the See ought to be put in the hands of some one conversant with the
condition into which they have been allowed to lapse."
"Hear! hear!" from the adherents of Thomas Lange.
"I would suggest, as we none of us can agree, that we refer the decision
to an umpire."
General commotion, and whispers, and looks of alarm.
"How are we to obtain one at once conversant with the condition of the
diocese, and not a partizan?" asked the Dean.
"There is a wretched little village in the midst of the Roager Heath,
cut off from communication with the world, in which lives a priest named
Peter Nielsen on his cure, a man who is related to no one here, belongs,
I believe, to no gentle family, and, therefore, would have no family
interests one way or the other to bias him. He has the character of
being a shrewd man of business, some of the estates of the Church are on
the Roager Heath, and he knows how they have been treated, and I have
always heard that he is a good preacher and an indefatigable parish
priest. Let him be umpire. I can think of none other who would not be a
partizan."
The proposition was so extraordinary and unexpected that the Chapter, at
first, did not know what to think of it. Who was this Peter Nielsen? No
one knew of him anything more than what Jep Mundelstrup had said, and
he, it was believed, had drawn largely on his imagination for his facts.
Indeed, he was the least known man among the diocesan clergy. It was
disputed whether he was a good preacher. Who had heard him? no one. Was
it true that he was not a gentleman by birth? No one knew to what family
he belonged. In default of any other solution to the dead lock in which
the Chapter stood, it was agreed by all that the selection of a bishop
for Ribe should be left to Peter Nielsen of Roager.
That same day, indeed as soon after the dissolution of the meeting as
was possible, one of the Canons mounted his horse, and rode away to the
Roager Heath.
The village of Ro or Raa-ager, literally the rough or barren field, lay
in the dead flat of sandy heath that occupies so large a portion of the
centre and west coast of Jutland, and which goes by various names, as
Randböll Heath and Varde Moor. In many places it is mere fen, where the
water lies and stagnates. In others it is a dry waste of sand strewn
with coarse grass and a few scant bushes. The village itself consisted
of one street of cottages thatched with turf, and with walls built of
the same, heather and grass sprouting from the interstices of the
blocks. The church was little more dignified than the hovels. It was
without tower and bell. Near the church was the parsonage.
The Canon descended from his cob; he had ridden faster than was his
wont, and was hot. He drew his sleeve across his face and bald head, and
then threw the bridle over the gate-post.
In the door of the parsonage stood a short, stout, rosy-faced, dark-eyed
woman, with two little children pulling at her skirts. This was Maren
Grubbe, the housekeeper of the pastor, at least that was her official
designation. She had been many years at Roager with Peter Nielsen, and
was believed to manage him as well as the cattle and pigs and poultry of
the glebe. From behind her peered a shock-headed boy of about eight
years with a very dirty face and cunning eyes.
The Canon stood and looked at the woman, then at the children, and the
woman and children stood and looked at him.
"Is this the house of the priest, Peter Nielsen?" he asked.
"Certainly, do you want him?" inquired the housekeeper.
"I have come from Ribe to see him on diocesan business."
"Step inside," said the housekeeper curtly. "His reverence is not in the
house at this moment, he is in the church saying his offices."
"That's lies!" shouted the dirty boy from behind. "Dada is in the
pigstye setting a trap for the rats."
"Hold your tongue, Jens!" exclaimed the woman, giving the boy a cuff
which knocked him over. Then to the Canon she said, "Take a seat and I
will go to the church after him."
She went out with the two smaller children staggering at her skirts,
tumbling, picking themselves up, going head over heels, crowing and
squealing.
When she was outside the house, the dirty boy sat upright on the floor,
winked at the Canon, crooked his fingers, and said, "Follow me, and I
will show you Dada."
The bald-headed ecclesiastic rose, and guided by the boy went into a
back room, through a small window in which he saw into the pig-styes,
and there, without his coat, in a pair of stained and patched breeches,
and a blue worsted night-cap, over ankles in filth, was the parish
priest engaged in setting a rat-trap. Outside, in the yard, the pigs
were enjoying their freedom. Leisurely round the corner came the
housekeeper with the satellites. "There, Peers!" said she, "There is a
reverend gentleman from the cathedral come after thee."
"Then," said the pastor, slowly rising, "do thou, Maren, keep out of
sight, and especially be careful not to produce the brats. Their
presence opens the door to misconstruction."
The Canon stole back to his seat, mopped his brow and head, and thought
to himself that the Chapter had put the selection of a chief pastor into
very queer hands. The nasty little boy began to giggle and snuffle
simultaneously. "Have you seen Dada? Dada saying his prayers in there."
"Who are you?" asked the ecclesiastic stiffly of the child.
"I'm Jens," answered the boy.
"I know you are Jens, I heard your mother call you so. I presume that
person is your mother."
"That is my mother, but Dada is not my dada."
"O, Jens, boy, Jens! Truth above all things. Magna est veritas et
prævalebit." The Reverend Peter Nielsen entered, clean, in a cassock,
and with a shovel hat on his head.
"The children whom you have seen," said Peter Nielsen, "are the nephews
and nieces of my worthy housekeeper, Maria Grubbe. She is a charitable
woman, and as her sister is very poor, and has a large family, my Maren,
I mean my housekeeper, takes charge of some of the overflow."[15]
"It is a great burden to you," said the Canon.
Peter Nielsen shrugged his shoulders. "To clothe the naked and give
food to the hungry are deeds of mercy."
"I quite understand, quite," said the Canon.
"I only mentioned it," continued the parish priest, "lest you should
suppose--"
"I quite understand," said the Canon, interrupting him, with a bow and a
benignant smile.
"And now," said Peter Nielsen, "I am at your service."
Thereupon the Canon unfolded to his astonished hearer the nature of his
mission. The pastor sat listening attentively with his head bowed, and
his hands planted on his knees. Then, when his visitor had done
speaking, he thrust his left hand into his trouser pocket and produced a
palmful of carraway seed. He put some into his mouth, and began to chew
it; whereupon the whole room became scented with carraway.
"I am fond of this seed," said the priest composedly, whilst he turned
over the grains in his hand with the five fingers of his right. "It is
good for the stomach, and it clears the brain. So I understand that
there are three parties?"
"Exactly, there is that of Olaf Petersen, a narrow, uncompromising man,
very sharp on the morals of the clergy; there is also that of the Dean,
Thomas Lange, an ambitious and scheming ecclesiastic; and there is
lastly that of the Archdeacon Hartwig Juel, one of the most amiable men
in the world."
"And you incline strongly to the latter?"
"I do--how could you discover that? Juel is not a man to forget a friend
who has done him a favour."
"Now, see!" exclaimed Peter Nielsen, "See the advantage of chewing
carraway seed. Three minutes ago I knew or recollected nothing about
Hartwig Juel, but I do now remember that five years ago he passed
through Roager, and did me the honour of partaking of such poor
hospitality as I was able to give. I supplied him and his four
attendants, and six horses, with refreshment. Bless my soul! the
efficacy of carraway is prodigious! I can now recall all that took
place. I recollect that I had only hogs' puddings to offer the
Archdeacon, his chaplain, and servants, and they ate up all I had. I
remember also that I had a little barrel of ale which I broached for
them, and they drank the whole dry. To be sure!--I had a bin of oats,
and the horses consumed every grain! I know that the Archdeacon
regretted that I had no bell to my church, and that he promised to send
me one. He also assured me he would not leave a stone unturned till he
had secured for me a better and more lucrative cure. I even sent a side
of bacon away with him as a present--but nothing came of the promises. I
ought to have given him a bushel of carraway. You really have no notion
of the poverty of this living. I cannot now offer you any other food
than buck-wheat brose, as I have no meat in the house. I can only give
you water to drink as I am without beer. I cannot even furnish you with
butter and milk, as I have not a cow."
"Not even a cow!" exclaimed the Canon. "I really am thankful for your
having spoken so plainly to me. I had no conception that your cure was
so poor. That the Archdeacon should not have fulfilled the promises he
made you is due to forgetfulness. Indeed, I assure you, for the last
five years I have repeatedly seen Hartwig Juel strike his brow and
exclaim, 'Something troubles me. I have made a promise, and cannot
recall it. This lies on my conscience, and I shall have no peace till I
recollect and discharge it.' This is plain fact."
"Take him a handful of carraway," urged the parish priest.
"No--he will remember all when I speak to him, unaided by carraway."
"There is one thing I can offer you," said Peter Nielsen, "a mug of
dill-water."
"Dill-water! what is that?"
"It is made from carraway. It is given to infants to enable them to
retain their milk. It is good for adults to make them recollect their
promises."
"My dear good friend," said the Canon rising, "your requirements shall
be complied with to-morrow. I see you have excellent pasture here for
sheep. Have you any?"
The parish priest shook his head.
"That is a pity. That however can be rectified. Good-bye, rely on me.
_Qui pacem habet, se primum pacat._"
When the Canon was gone, Peter Nielsen, who had attended him to the
door, turned, and found Maren Grubbe behind him.
"I say, Peers!" spoke the housekeeper, nudging him, "What is the meaning
of all this? What was that Latin he said as he went away?"
"My dear, good Maren," answered the priest, "he quoted a saying
familiar to us clergy. At the altar is a little metal plate with a cross
on it, and this is called the Pax, or Peace. During the mass the priest
kisses it, and then hands it to his assistant, who kisses it in turn and
passes it on so throughout the attendance. The Latin means this, 'Let
him who has the Pax bless himself with it before giving it out of his
hands,' and means nothing more than this: 'Charity begins at Home,'
or--put more boldly still, 'Look out for Number I.'"
"Now, see here," said the housekeeper, "you have been too moderate,
Peers, you have not looked out sufficiently for Number I. Leave the next
comer to me. No doubt that the Dean will send to you, in like manner as
the Archdeacon sent to-day."
"As you like, Maren, but keep the children in the background. Charity
that thinketh no ill, is an uncommon virtue."
Next morning early there arrived at the parsonage a waggon laden with
sides of bacon, smoked beef, a hogshead of prime ale, a barrel of
claret, and several sacks of wheat. It had scarcely been unloaded when a
couple of milch cows arrived; half an hour later came a drove of sheep.
Peter Nielsen disposed of everything satisfactorily about the house and
glebe. His eye twinkled, he rubbed his hands, and said to himself with a
chuckle, "He who blesses, blesses first himself."
In the course of the morning a rider drew up at the house door. Maren
flattened her nose at the little window of the guest-room, and
scrutinized the arrival before admitting him. Then she nodded her head,
and whispered to the priest to disappear. A moment later she opened the
door, and ushered a stout red-faced ecclesiastic into the room.
"Is the Reverend Pastor at home?" he asked, bowing to Maren Grubbe; "I
have come to see him on important business."
"He is at the present moment engaged with a sick parishioner. He will be
here in a quarter of an hour. He left word before going out, that should
your reverence arrive before his return--"
"What! I was expected!"
"The venerable the Archdeacon sent a deputation to see my master
yesterday, and he thought it probable that a deputation from the very
Reverend the Dean would arrive to-day."
"Indeed! So Hartwig Juel has stolen a march on us."
"Hartwig Juel had on a visit some little while ago made promises to my
master of a couple of cows, a herd of sheep, some ale, wine, wheat, and
so on, and he took advantage of the occasion to send all these things to
us."
"Indeed! Hartwig Juel's practice is sharp."
"Thomas Lange will make up no doubt for dilatoriness."
"Humph! and Olaf Petersen, has he sent?"
"His deputation will, doubtless, come to-morrow, or even this
afternoon."
The Canon folded his hands over his ample paunch, and looked hard at
Maren Grubbe. She was attired in her best. Her cheeks shone like
quarendon apples, as red and glossy; full of health--with a threat of
temper, just as a hot sky has in it indications of a tempest. Her eyes
were dark as sloes, and looked as sharp. She was past middle age, but
ripe and strong; for all that.
The fat Canon sat looking at her, twirling his thumbs like a little
windmill, over his paunch, without speaking. She also sat demurely with
her hands flat on her knees, and looked him full and firm in the face.
"I have been thinking," said the Canon, "how well a set of silver chains
would look about that neck, and pendant over that ample bosom."
"Gold would look better," said Maren, and shut her mouth again.
"And a crimson silk kerchief--"
"Would do," interrupted the housekeeper, "for one who has not
expectations of a crimson silk skirt."
"Quite so." A pause, and the windmills recommenced working. Presently
squeals were heard in the back premises. One of the children had fallen
and hurt itself.
"Cats?" asked the Canon.
"Cats," answered Maren.
"Quite so," said the Canon. "I am fond of cats.'
"So am I," said Maren.
Then ensued an uproar. The door burst open, and in tumbled little Jens
with one child in his arms, the other clinging to the seat of his
pantaloons. These same articles of clothing had belonged to the Reverend
Peter Nielsen, till worn out, when at the request of Maren, they had
been given to her and cut down in length for Jens. In length they
answered. The waistband was under the arms, indeed, but the legs were
not too long. In breadth and capacity they were uncurtailed.
"I cannot manage them, mother," said the boy. "It is of no use making me
nurse. Besides, I want to see the stranger."
"These children," said Maren, looking firmly in the face of the Canon,
"call me mother, but they are the offspring of my sister, whose husband
was lost last winter at sea. Poor thing, she was left with fourteen, and
I--"
She put her apron to her eyes and wept.
"O, noble charity!" said the fat priest enthusiastically. "You--I see it
all--you took charge of the little orphans. You sacrifice your savings
for them, your time is given to them. Emotion overcomes me. What is
their name?"
"Katts."
"Cats?"
"John Katts, and little Kristine and Sissely Katts."
"And the worthy pastor assists in supporting these poor orphans?"
"Yes, in spite of his poverty. And now we are on this point, let me ask
you if you have not been struck with the meanness of this parsonage
house. I can assure you, there is not a decent room in it, upstairs the
chambers are open to the rafters, unceiled."
"My worthy woman," said the Canon, "I will see to this myself. Rely upon
it, if the Dean becomes Bishop, he will see that the manses of his best
clergy are put into thorough repair."
"I should prefer to see the repairs begun at once," said Maren. "When
the Dean becomes Bishop he will have so much to think about, that he
might forget our parsonage house."
"Madam," said the visitor, as he rose, "they shall be executed at once.
When I see the charity shown in this humble dwelling, by pastor and
housekeeper alike, I feel that it demands instantaneous acknowledgment."
Then in came Peter Nielsen, and said, "I have not sufficient
cattle-sheds. Sheep yards are also needed."
"They shall be erected."
Then the Canon caught up little Kirsten and little Sissel, and kissed
their dirty faces. Maren's radiant countenance assured the Canon that
the cause of Thomas Lange was won with Maren Grubbe.
He took the parish priest by the hand, pressed it, and said in a low
tone, "_Qui pacem habet, se primum pacat_. You understand me?"
"Perfectly," answered Peter Nielsen, with a smile.
Next morning early there arrived at Roager a party of masons from Ribe,
ready to pull down the old parsonage and build one more commodious and
extensive. The pastor went over the plans with the master mason,
suggested alterations and enlargements, and then, with a chuckle, he
muttered to himself, "That is an excellent saying, _Qui pacem habet, se
primum pacat_." Then looking up, he saw before him an ascetic,
hollow-eyed, pale-faced priest.
"I am Olaf Petersen," said the new comer. "I thought best to come over
and see you myself; I think the true condition of the Church ought to be
set before you, and that you should consider the spiritual welfare of
the poor sheep in the Ribe fold, and give them a chief pastor who will
care for the sheep and not for the wool."
"I have got a flock of sheep already," said Peter Nielsen, coldly.
"Hartwig Juel sent it me."
"I think," continued Olaf, "that you should consider the edification of
the spiritual building."
"I am going to have a new parsonage erected," said Peter Nielsen,
stiffly; "Thomas Lange has seen to that."
"The Bishop needed for this diocese," Olaf Petersen went on, "should
combine the harmlessness of the dove with the wisdom of the serpent."
"If he does that," said Nielsen, roughly, "he will be half knave and
half fool. Let us have the wisdom, that is what we want now; and one of
the first maxims of wisdom in Church and State is, _Qui pacem habet, se
primum pacat_. You take me?"
Olaf sighed, and shook his head.
"Do you see this plan," said Peter Nielsen. "I am going to have a byre
fashioned on that, with room for a dozen oxen. I have but two cows;
stables for two horses, I have not one; a waggon shed, I am without a
wheeled conveyance. I shall have new rooms, and have no furniture to put
in them. Now, to stock and furnish farm and parsonage will cost much
money. I have not a hundred shillings in the world. What am I to do? The
man who would be Bishop of Ribe should consider the welfare of one of
the most influential, learned, and moral of the priests in the diocese,
and do what he can to make him comfortable. Before we choose a cow we go
over her, feel her, examine her parts; before we purchase a horse we
look at the teeth and explore the hoofs, and try the wind. When we
select a bishop we naturally try the stuff of which he is made, if
liberal, generous, open-handed, amiable. You understand me?"
Olaf sighed, and drops of cold perspiration stood on his brow. A contest
was going on within. Simony was a mortal sin. Was there a savour of
simony in offering a present to the man in whose hands the choice of a
chief pastor lay? He feared so. But then--did not the end sometimes
justify the means? As these questions rose in his mind and refused to be
answered, something heavy fell at his feet. His hand had been plucking
at his purse, and in his nervousness he had detached it from his girdle,
and had let it slip through his fingers. He did not look down. He seemed
not to notice his loss, but he moved away without another word, with
bent head and troubled conscience. When he was gone, Peter Nielsen bowed
himself, picked up the pouch, counted the gold coins in it, laughed,
rubbed his hands, and said, "He who blesses, blesses first himself."