# Emanuel, or Children of the Soil/Book 4, Chapter 1

When Villing opened his shop early in the morning, on the Sunday after the Meeting, he found the usual little group of ragged, miserable creatures, both men and women, at the foot of the steps, waiting impatiently, with empty bottles hidden under their coats and aprons, till the shop opened.
They slunk in past him, one by one, with a silent and timorous salute, and laid their greasy coins on the counter with shaking hands; meanwhile the shop-boy filled the bottles from the brandy cask, and then they crept out again, hurrying off—each taking his own road over the fields. Villing remained standing on the stone step in embroidered slippers, and a grey linen cap pressed down on his fat head. His thumbs, as ​usual, were stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat, while he drummed upon his chest with his fingers, and gave his morning glance round about the village. From his door he could overlook almost the whole village; he could smell what was boiling and frying on every stove, and decide at once whether the coffee beans or the spices were bought in his shop. Veilby only consisted of seven or eight farms and a few cottages. The farms were all built on one and the same pattern, of the same dull yellow brick, with a long row of tiresome windows looking towards the pond, the same high cement plinth and a slate roof. They had a small strip of garden either in front or at the side of each, with a few newly planted trees like broomsticks, giving neither shelter nor shade. The whole village had been destroyed by fire in a single night a few years ago. Only the church, the parsonage, and a few high lying cottages had been spared. Although it was only seven o'clock the sun was quite hot. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the slightest puff of wind raised a cloud of dust over the village and the adjoining fields. The grass on the dykes round the gardens, and especially the high hawthorn hedge round the parsonage, looked as if they had been white-washed; the surface of the water in the village pond was covered with an oily film, which glittered in the sun with all the colours of the rainbow. A man was polishing harness in one of the gateways; and by the ​gable of another farm, a man was brushing his Sunday clothes and whistling the while. The festive bustle of Sunday was to be seen on every side.
Villing was not to be taken in by this seeming carelessness. A strained and uneasy expression overspread his potatoe-like face with the little yellow whiskers; his outspread fingers drummed mournful tunes on his waistcoat, and he turned a troubled glance on the red roof of the Parsonage which shone majestically among the trees of the Park.
Oh, if he only knew what was to happen to-day! He would gladly give a hundred crowns to the poor for one peep into what he was pleased to call the "dim chaos of the future"—having a weakness for high sounding phrases. There was no longer any doubt that the Provst meant to use all his power to crush the spirit of revolt among the congregation—since he had nailed up an announcement on the smithy, that for the future he would preach in both churches himself, beginning with Skibberup today. But would he succeed? Had not the movement gone too far for opposition to have any effect? Notwithstanding that he was a firm adherent of the Provst, his spirits sank when,he thought of the coming contest.
He went back again into the shop and vented his ill-humour, as usual, on the shop-boy, a thin bleached-looking child from the Copenhagen ​slums, who had lately been entrusted to his care "by the direction of the Almighty," as Villing expressed it, and by which he meant an advertisement in the daily paper.
Little by little the customers dropped in, and up to church-time the shop was crammed. Most of them came, more to wile away a leisure hour than to deal. The shop was the common meeting place for the men, where they went at least once a day to hear the news, fetch the letters, and learn the day's prices.
The public mind was unusually depressed to-day. Rumours were afloat as to the preparations for war between the Provst and the people of Skibberup. One thing was certain, and that was, that the Provst had lodged a formal complaint with the Bishop about Emanuel, and had asked that he might be removed at once. Any one could see that the Skibberup people would not let this insult pass unnoticed.
According to some, the weaver had said with his malicious smile that there would not be peace in the parish till the Provst was driven out of Veilby Parsonage,—and what the weaver promised with a smile he usually performed.
Villing went about his business behind the counter with his ears pricked up to follow the various conversations. But neither he nor his wife—who had appeared in the shop like a sunbeam in a pink cotton gown—forgot to look ​after their business, and to take advantage of the number of customers.
Above the din of heavy boots, wooden shoes, and rough voices, Villing might be constantly heard giving orders to the bewildered shopboy: "Ludwig, a quid of tobacco for Hans Olsen—the best kind, finest quality! and half a pound of sugar candy! full measure, do you understand? no pinching for Hans Olsen, I beg"—or the soft persuasive voice of the mistress: "I think I may guarantee that you will not get the equal of this calico anywhere, at double the price. But the principle we go on is, when we have done a good bit of business ourselves, we give our customers the benefit of it."
Down by the door a man exclaimed: "Here comes the Provst."
The conversation stopped at once, and all turned to the windows.
A moment after, the Provst rolled by in an open carriage. He was alone on the broad seat, leaning complacently back in the carriage.