He disliked most of his class. They were too rustic or too pious, too inquisitive about his monthly trips to the city of Monarch or simply too dull. Elmer liked the company of what he regarded as intellectual people. He never understood what they were saying, but to hear them saying it made him feel superior.
The group which he most frequented gathered in the room of Frank Shallard and Don Pickens, the large corner room on the second floor of Smut Hall.
It was not an esthetic room. Though Frank Shallard might have come to admire pictures, great music, civilized furniture, he had been trained to regard them as worldly, and to content himself with art which “presented a message,” to regard Les Miserables as superior because the bishop was a kind man, and The Scarlet Letter as a poor book because the heroine was sinful and the author didn’t mind.
The walls were of old plaster, cracked and turned deathly gray, marked with the blood of mosquitoes and bedbugs slain in portentous battles long ago by theologians now gone forth to bestow their thus uplifted visions on a materialistic world. The bed was a skeleton of rusty iron bars, sagging in the center, with a comforter which was not too clean. Trunks were in the corners, and the wardrobe was a row of hooks behind a calico curtain. The grass matting was slowly dividing into separate strands, and under the study table it had been scuffed through to the cheap pine flooring.
The only pictures were Frank’s steel engraving of Roger Williams, his framed and pansy-painted copy of Pippa Passes, and Don Pickens’ favorite, a country church by winter moonlight, with tinsel snow, which sparkled delightfully. The only untheological books were Frank’s poets: Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, in standard volumes, fine-printed and dismal, and one really dangerous papist document, his Imitation of Christ, about which there was argument at least once a week.
In his room squatting on straight chairs, the trunks, and the bed, on a November evening in 1905, were five young men besides Elmer and Eddie Fislinger. Eddie did not really belong to the group, but he persisted in following Elmer, feeling that not even yet was everything quite right with the brother.
“A preacher has got to be just as husky and pack just as good a wallop as a prizefighter. He ought to be able to throw out any roughneck that tries to interrupt his meetings, and still more, strength makes such a hit with the women in his congregation—of course I don’t mean it any wrong way,” said Wallace Umstead.
Wallace was a student-instructor, head of the minute seminary gymnasium and “director of physical culture”; a young man who had a military mustache and who did brisk things on horizontal bars. He was a state university B.A. and graduate of a physical-training school. He was going into Y.M.C.A. work when he should have a divinity degree, and he was fond of saying, “Oh, I’m still one of the boys, you know, even if I am a prof.”
“That’s right,” agreed Elmer Gantry. “Say, I had—I was holding a meeting at Grauten, Kansas, last summer, and there was a big boob that kept interrupting, so I just jumped down from the platform and went up to him, and he says, ‘Say, Parson,’ he says, ‘Can you tell us what the Almighty wants us to do about prohibition, considering he told Paul to take some wine for his stomach’s sake?’ ‘I don’t know as I can,’ I says, ‘but you want to remember he also commanded us to cast out devils!’ and I yanked that yahoo out of his seat and threw him out on his ear, and say, the whole crowd—well, there weren’t so awfully many there, but they certainly did give him the ha-ha! You bet. And to be husky makes a hit with the whole congregation, men’s well as women. But there’s more’n one high-toned preacher that got his pulpit because the deacons felt he could lick ’em. Of course praying and all that is all ok, but you got to be practical! We’re here to do good, but first you have to cinch a job that you can do good in!”
“You’re commercial!” protested Eddie Fislinger, and Frank Shallard: “Good heavens, Gantry, is that all your religion means to you?”
“Besides,” said Horace Carp, “you have the wrong angle. It isn’t mere brute force that appeals to women—to congregations. It’s a beautiful voice. I don’t envy you your bulk, Elmer—besides, you’re going to get fat—”
“I am like hell!”
“—but what I could do with that voice of yours! I’d have ’em all weeping! I’d read ’em poetry from the pulpit!”
Horace Carp was the one High Churchman in the Seminary. He was a young man who resembled a water spaniel, who concealed Saints’ images, incense, and a long piece of scarlet brocade in his room, and who wore a purple velvet smoking-jacket. He was always raging because his father, a wholesale plumber and pious, had threatened to kick him out if he went to an Episcopal seminary instead of a Baptist fortress.
“Yes, you prob’ly would read ’em poetry!” said Elmer. “That’s the trouble with you highfalutin’ guys. You think you can get people by a lot of poetry and junk. What gets ’em and holds ’em and brings ’em to their pews every Sunday is the straight gospel—and it don’t hurt one bit to scare ’em into being righteous with the good old-fashioned Hell!”
“You bet—providing you encourage ’em to keep their bodies in swell shape, too,” condescended Wallace Umstead. “Well, I don’t want to talk as a prof—after all I’m glad I can still remain just one of the Boys—but you aren’t going to develop any very big horsepower in your praying tomorrow morning if you don’t get your sleep. And me to my little downy! G’night!”
At the closing of the door, Harry
