He was surprised and ashamed that he was not grieved with his father for saying that, nor with his mother, if it were true. He knew that he ought to rouse himself to protest or sympathy, but could not, because he understood it all so well.
But Cordt crossed the room with a firm stride:
“Heaven is not what Fru Adelheid thinks, nor where she seeks it,” he said. “Perhaps you will not understand me until you have lived longer in the world; but look here, Finn ... what I have seen of God in my life I have seen most in those who denied Him. In their sense of responsibility, in their humanity ... in their pride I have seen God’s splendor. The others, those who confess His name and fill His house ... they masked Him from me so closely, when they ought to glorify Him, made Him so small, when they praised His might....”
He talked about this for a time. Finn sat dumb and helpless in his chair and wished his father would cease. He felt like one who has inadvertently witnessed something he ought not to see, or like one who is receiving a confidence under a false pretence.
And deep down within him lay a little ironical astonishment at the fire and authority with which his father was talking.
But, at that moment, Cordt sat down in front of him with both his hands in his own and sad and gentle eyes and words as soft and humble as though he were a sinner begging for peace:
“I don’t know, Finn. I cannot really tell you anything about it. I can never talk with you about these things. A father is a poor creature, Finn, and I am a poor father. I cannot tell you that the forest is green and that the birds sing and that there is nothing behind the blue sky. I dare not, Finn. I do not think I have the right to. I cannot go to church with you, either ... nor even be glad when you go with your mother.”
He pressed Finn’s hands nervously. They lay dead in his and Finn did not know what to do with his eyes.
“But I must talk to you a little ... just this once ... to-day, when I have confessed to you and made up your parents’ accounts. If you will try to understand me ... and to forgive me ... to forgive us, because we are not so rich as our child could expect ... since we have a child.... You love the bells, Finn. When they ring, you fall a-dreaming; they ring you far away from where you are. You were like that ever since you were a little boy. And I can well understand it. I love them, too. I am glad because they are there. But ... Finn ... Finn, there are so many bells in the world besides those which summon us to church. Every man has his own, which are his and his only ... which he alone can hear, which call no one but him. There are men, opulent, charming men, for whom the bells ring wherever they set foot. They lead more powerful lives than we and prouder lives. They suffer us ... those of us who love them. But there is not in the world a man so small but that the bells call him. One has them in his work, Finn. And one in his child ... and one in his love. For one they hang in a neat little room where his mother lives and where he can only come for an hour, perhaps ... on a Sunday.... It is not the same for the one as for the other, Finn, but the bells are there always. They call their man back when he has strayed from the way he should go, or, if that is too late, they ring for his remorse. They ring to the banquet and they ring their music when he is tired and sad.... But the church-bells ... they ring for the man whose ears life has deafened ... and life makes such a terrible noise. They ring on Sundays to remind us of that which we have forgotten throughout the week.... And it is well that they are there.... But ... Finn ... it is so tragic when the church-bells drive and tumble people together who once had each his own sacred church. It is just as when a home breaks up and the old find a refuge in the workhouse. The sun shines through the windows and it is warm indoors and there are flowers in the casement. But there was once something that was better.... For your mother and me, Finn ... for us the bells used to ring in the old room.”