A STUDENT’S LODGINGS SIXTY YEARS SINCE.
The burghers of the university town—at least those whose houses, at the beginning of the summer vacation, are adorned with cards bearing the inscription “Cubicula locanda”—can, during nine months of the year, be looked on only to a limited extent as masters in their own dwellings. It is the student, or the officer, as the case may be, who is established in the best room, who attracts all the attention of passers by, and the neighbours over the way,—who sits at the window, is seen to go in and out at the front door, carries the key, rules, gives orders, receives his friends and acquaintances, and, in a word, conducts himself as the principal person, while the owner or lessee of the house is banished to a back room or some little subterraneous den in the basement. It is to the best room, then, that we must make our way, though the approach to it is not an attractive one. Our way lies, first, through a narrow passage, where we run the risk of stumbling over a doorstep, evidently placed there with the sole object of teaching children and visitors to be careful of their steps. Then we have to seek a dark and narrow stairway, and, having found it, to ascend it. It receives, by day, only a dim and doubtful light from the basement; by night, it is perfectly dark, and its worn and slippery steps follow one another at such strangely unequal intervals, that one is tempted to think the architect must have been interested in the problem how to pile on one another, in a given space, a given number of irregular parallelograms in the most heterogeneous manner possible. When we have succeeded, after having knocked our heads not more than three or four times against all sorts of fantastically projecting rafters and angles, in reaching what is ironically called the bel étage, we find ourselves in front of a door which opens very easily and noiselessly, but can never be closed without five or six violent thrusts or tugs, according as you are inside or out. We once more hit our toes against an unexpected doorstep, and at last enter the first of the two rooms inhabited by Gerlof Bol, S.S. Theol. cand.
It is evening; the two sash windows, divided by a narrow space of wall, are hidden behind unpainted shutters, on which, here and there, a square, worm-eaten, or dirt-stained spot shows where a hasp or bolt has been, but is no more. These shutters curve outwards, and threaten every moment to escape from the control of the bars (bent crooked as though with their weight), and fling themselves in the face of the incautious person who should venture too near. The walls are covered with a dirty yellow paper, on which green and blue flowers alternate in diagonal lines. Now and then, where the paper has been torn, another piece of the same pattern has been pasted on upside down, probably for the sake of securing a pleasing variety; while in other cases the damage has not been repaired, and an earlier wall decoration, in orange and black, is apparent in patches. On the wall hang the portraits of Van Der Palm and Borgen[[20]] in one frame, the lecture list, fastened up with three pins, and a variety of college notices secured in the same way. Near the door is a tolerably roomy alcove, containing the occupant’s chief treasures,—in the first place, his books, which, in so far as they consist of quartos, octavos, and duodecimos, are ranged on three shelves against the wall, while the folios stand on the ground in the company of sundry maps in cases; in the second place, two baskets, one of which is full of burnt-out clay pipes, the other of foul ditto awaiting their burning. Item, a closed card-table, bought cheap at a second-hand dealer’s, which can never stand on more than two legs at the same time; while the superficies of the once green baize with which it is covered offers a remarkable assemblage of mathematical figures, such as circles formed by the setting down of wet punch or wine glasses, ellipses or squares arising from the dropping of wax, grease, or ink, or the contact with various objects not previously dusted. Item, an umbrella without a knob, whose whalebone ribs, for the most part, have either repudiated all connection with the covering, or shamelessly protrude through it. Furthermore, a trio of eccentric-looking canes, a couple of broken German pipes, a little tin box, a small writing-desk heaped with dictata, MS. notes, and dilapidated books; a large reading desk, holding the editio princeps of the States Bible;[[21]] and, last not least, as the English say, a small basket containing full, and a large one with empty, wine bottles.
The said alcove is provided with a double door, and when the latter is closed, peculiar skill, or else a lucky conjuncture of circumstances, is necessary to open it, seeing that the handle usually displays a remarkable degree of obstinacy, and calmly turns round in one’s hand unnumbered times without lifting the latch.
As to the other furniture of the room, the following is an accurate inventory:—
1. A small mirror in a polished wooden frame,—the glass consisting of two sections, each of a different colour. If you see yourself in the lower half you have a purple countenance, in the upper a green one, and in either case your features are cruelly distorted; in fact, no one ever looked into this mirror, either above or below, who did not instantly look out of it again,—so frightfully ugly does every one find him or herself, as the case may be.
2. A mahogany sécretaire, which, though it has lost some of the convolutions of the carved fretwork finishing it off at the top, is still, on the whole, tolerably fit for use, and has no other defects than these, that the lower drawer will not shut, that one of the hinges of the flap is loose,—necessitating great care in opening and closing,—and that one of the feet has long ago declined further service and preferred a horizontal to an upright position,—in spite of which, however, the article of furniture can be made to stand tolerably steady if propped up against the wall. On the top stands a bunch of paper flowers (the landlady’s property), protected by a glass shade, flanked to right and left by plaster busts of Homer and Cicero, and surrounded with several teacups, bearing in gilt letters such touching mottoes as “Many happy returns of the day,” “A trifle—but a token of good-will,” “Walk on roses,” “A token of respect,” &c. &c.
3. A white-wood corner cupboard, with a fluted sliding-door, which, if you go about to open it quietly, refuses to move, whereas if you use force you push the whole cupboard from its place. Only long experience, added to unwearying patience, will enable any one to bring to light the glasses, plates, and knives, or whatever the contents of the receptacle may be.
4. A tiled stove, whose top is pointed out as a frequent resting-place for glasses by a variety of circular stains. Next the stove stands a wooden tub containing coals, and behind it lie a heap of peats and a few blocks of wood, also a poker and tongs. The latter cannot be handled without pinching the skin of one’s forefinger, and the legs slip across each other as soon as one tries to pick up anything with them.
5. An arm-chair, and six chairs with plush seats, showing their stuffing through numerous wounds,—all of them venerable invalids, full of infirmities, and especially weak in the back.
6. A square table, with flaps which can be turned up; its upper surface painted green with white spots, and the edges reddish-brown. In the middle of this table we see a lamp and two black-japanned candlesticks with tallow candles in them; further, a broken pair of snuffers, a wooden tobacco-box, a brazier, and an inkstand with other writing materials; and round it are seated several students, all members of the “rhetorical chamber”[[22]] entitled, “The Thirsty Pleiades.”
J. Van Lennep.
The Vicissitudes of Klaasje Zevenster (1866).
A COLONIAL PRIZE-GIVING.
“Another day on the rack!” Heer Doornik had said that morning to his wife,—not however in so tragic a manner as the tenor of the ejaculation would seem to indicate, as he was just then busy pulling on a particularly intractable boot.
“Is your speech ready?” asked Mevrouw Doornik, in the act of fastening his necktie for him.
“Yes, my address is prepared,” he replied, solemnly.
You must know, reader, that Doornik had been, in his young days, a member of a “rhetorical chamber” at Dinxperlo or Buren, I do not exactly remember which, and had reaped harvests of laurels at various lectures—laurels offered to him along with cups of muddy chocolate and cadetjes with cream cheese.
This circumstance had stood in his way all his life. The man, whose manifest destiny was to become a schoolmaster, believed himself a second Mirabeau. He would have liked to become a popular orator, or a member of the Second Chamber, or failing that at least a minister. But his ideals had gone the way of the cadetjes and the chocolate, they had vanished into nothingness; the future Mirabeau became, first, a pupil in a training-college, then third, and then second master; and, at last, with much labour, he gained his head-mastership.
“I have at last this consolation, that I am to-day once more placed in a position to show the public what the art of oratory is.”
This last sentence was uttered with such an elevation of his voice, that his wife thought it necessary to damp his enthusiasm a little.
“I’m afraid the pine-apple tartlets are burnt,” she said, “and the cabinet-pudding, too, is not as it should be.”
But her husband did not hear her. In one hand he had a hair-brush and in the other a comb, and with these objects he went through all sorts of evolutions, his eyes fixed on the mirror, and his long figure most eccentrically contorted. His wife left him alone; she was well acquainted with this manœuvre, and twenty years’ experience of married life had taught her not to disturb her husband when seized by inspirations.
The Indies are not the place for unappreciated genius; all that they could give the great man (except a good salary and an easy life, which, of course, did not count) was the chairmanship of a few committees, and a place in the church council and other assemblies, which got through more talking than business. Besides this, he was a Freemason, and thus at last he had the satisfaction of being able to speak “in public,” taking one week with another, at least once a week.
The day of the school examination was therefore, in his opinion, especially suited to this purpose, and he had not practised so long for nothing. His speech was going to be brilliant, his eloquence indescribable, his gestures and facial expression would do the rest. It was only a pity that Hendriks (the second master) had come to worry him, for, above all things, he needed quiet in those days when he was going to show the public what good speaking is.
At last the proceedings were to begin.
The children sang one or two songs very prettily, and the effect would have been exceedingly good, had not the head-master been of opinion that his voice—not a bad one, but just now fairly hoarse with nervousness—ought to be heard above all the rest.
Then the examination proper began, and the usual incidents took place. Great exhibitions of dumbness on the part of the girls, fearful embarrassment on that of the boys, extreme exasperation among the masters, suppressed giggling among the ladies of the audience, and unnaturally solemn faces among the members of the school committee, who had evidently made up their minds to remain serious whatever might happen.
“IN ONE HAND A HAIR-BRUSH, IN THE OTHER A COMB.”
In the first-class sat eight boys, between the ages of twelve and fifteen. But it soon became apparent that six of the eight were mere lay figures; the questions were addressed to all, but the answers, evidently, expected from Anton van Duijn and William Ochtenraat only.
They represented two distinct types, as they sat there side by side. William had a fresh, rosy face, large blue eyes, and a white forehead, crowned with blonde curls,—he was a prize specimen of a Dutch boy. Anton, with his dark hair and jet-black eyes, clear-cut brown face, and tall slight figure, was a handsome sinjo; for he had inherited his looks more from his Creole mother than his Dutch father.
Mevrouw Ochtenraat had spoken truth when she assured Mevrouw van Duijn just now that it gave her much pleasure to see how clever and hard-working Anton was.
To-day, however, it seemed as though Anton did not know so much more than his schoolfellow. Was it the fault of the questions put by the master, who seemed still more agitated than common, and became so amazingly tragic in his simplest movements and gestures that he seemed to be reciting one of Racine’s tragedies rather than conducting a school examination?
Or was it the way the master knitted his brows and rolled his eyes, wriggled and writhed and stretched himself, that confused Anton?
Or could it have been the little piece of paper that had just been put into his hand, and on which Heer Hendriks had written in pencil, “Keep cool, don’t let them make you lose your head!”—could that have been the reason why Anton every now and then failed to answer a question?
William Ochtenraat, on the other hand, seemed in particularly good spirits that morning. Again and again the master managed to bring him round to one or other of the few subjects in which he was at home. He made him tell the story of Alexander the Great’s horse, and of the faithful hound who died on the grave of William the Silent, and, finally, of the turf-boat by means of which Breda was surprised. William’s eyes sparkled as he told of Bucephalus; and his mother would have liked to kiss him when he nearly choked over William of Orange’s dog; and when he laughed over the discomfiture of the Spaniards, the whole room laughed with him.
Meanwhile, poor Anton became more and more uneasy; he no longer nodded encouragingly to his mother, as he had done at first, but his anxious looks sought Heer Hendriks, who was quite as pale as he.
The arithmetic began. Here dogs, horses, and jokes were alike out of place; the thing, therefore, was to ask the Governor’s son as few questions as possible.
“Now I shall be all right!” thought Anton; for this was the subject in which he most excelled. But even now things continued to go wrong; time after time he found he could not answer, and something began to glitter in his eyes which ought to have warned Heer Doornik.
Again the master put a question. And the boy cried, pale with that terrible bluish paleness one only sees where there is coloured blood,—“I can’t answer that question, sir; and you know I can’t, because it’s not on what I’ve learned.”
“But perhaps one of the other boys can,—William, for instance?” asked Hendriks.
“Why, no,” cried Willie, “I never heard of it.”
Heer Doornik—in spite of his fondness for speeches in general—was far from pleased with this speech; he understood how every one must feel that there was something behind this, and shortly afterwards brought the examination to a somewhat precipitate close by giving his wife the sign to order up the refreshments.
Whoever else may have taken bread and butter, or pine-apple tart,—whoever else was regaled with the cabinet-pudding,—neither Anton nor his mother tasted them.
“Don’t be uneasy, madam,” said the Governor, to the widow, as he called one of the boys to bring her a glass of wine and water, seeing that she trembled in every limb. “Don’t be uneasy, Anton is sure to get the prize.”
The examination was over, the bread and butter and cakes had disappeared, the scholars having displayed in their extermination a far greater zeal and endurance than in the ordeal of answering questions. Now came the distribution of prizes, and—the Speech!
Many a time had people seen Heer Doornik nervous, and heard him get entangled in his sentences, but the display he made to-day was absolutely unprecedented.
The oration lasted fully a quarter of an hour, and it was not the heat alone which made the ladies look so flushed and uncomfortable.
Some new-comers to the place were seriously alarmed lest the man should break a blood-vessel, or dislocate his left arm,—which came in for the hardest of the work,—or lose his balance in some of his sudden evolutions; the children sat staring at him open-mouthed, the gentlemen nudged one another, the ladies effaced themselves more and more behind their colossal fans. Mevrouw Doornik, alone, sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing in silent admiration at the man of her choice.
The Widow Van Duijn, too, was listening in the greatest excitement, till she felt he was going beyond her comprehension altogether; and Anton stood, never taking his burning eyes from the master’s face, waiting for his sentence.
It came at last, after many a long circuit. Considering this, and weighing that, and giving its due prominence to this circumstance, and noticing why, and not forgetting how the two boys in the first-class, who alone had any claim to the prize, had learned what they had learned, and answered as they had answered, he thought he was acting in harmony with the esteemed head of the government, and all the gentlemen and ladies who had honoured the school with their presence, by handing the first prize herewith to the most industrious and highly gifted pupil—William Ochtenraat!
Therewith he handed the boy a handsomely bound book, with a gesture so powerful, so violent a swaying of his whole person, that one was reminded of Samson at the moment when he seized the pillars of the temple.
There was a sudden stillness in the spacious school building. The master looked at the Governor. The latter let his glance rest on William, who, more amazed than delighted, looked first at the glittering volume, and then at the deathly pale boy who sat next him, motionless, with clenched fists and set teeth.
Already Heer Doornik, mopping his face all the time with his handkerchief, was approaching the prize-winner to offer his congratulations,—already there were sounds of sniffling and rustling, caused by ladies and gentlemen rising to congratulate the parents, when Heer Ochtenraat slowly rose in his place, and, with a quiet gesture of his delicate white hand, asked for a hearing.
Once more there was silence as of death.
“William,” said the Governor, in his clear, resonant voice, “William, tell me honestly, have you earned that prize?”
One moment the boy hesitated, with a glance at the book.
“No, papa!”
“Well, my boy, give the book to the one who has earned it.”
Without stopping to think for one moment, the boy went up to Anton van Duijn, and put the book into his hand.
It needs a good deal to excite an East Indian audience, but when Heer Hendriks, with a pale face, and a suspicious look of moisture about his eyes, made his way forward, wrung Anton’s hand, and cried aloud, “Hurrah! three cheers for the Governor,” the universal enthusiasm found vent in long and loud cheering. Heer Ochtenraat immediately rose to go; he looked at the head-master coldly and sternly, and passed him without a word.
Annie Foore.
HOW MATHIS KNOUPS TURNED “LIBERAL” AND THEN “CATHOLIC” AGAIN.
Every one in Limburg who is not “Catholic” is “liberal”—that is an established fact. There may be a few Protestants here and there; but these are gueux, interlopers, mostly from the direction of Hertogenbosch, and therefore Hollanders,[[23]] who have accidentally come into the country at one time or another. Gueux means one who has fallen away from the Roman Catholic faith, and therefore from Christianity. Also, among other rarities, one finds here and there a few Jews; but they, of course, do not count. A “liberal” is one who is not always and altogether of the same opinion as the parish priest and his Kapelaan (curate)—outside church matters, that is to say, for if he were to differ from their reverences on any point of doctrine, he would be no liberal, but a heretic. Also that person is a liberal who, for instance, may, on occasion, give his opinion of a sermon thus,—“Oh! yes, they”—i.e., the clergy—“must find something to talk about, I suppose.” Or likewise he who, instead of going regularly to high mass, contents himself, on Sundays and festivals, with a “snap-mass,”—a little, short service; or he who dares to declare, with a smile, that he cannot think how all the fast-days came into existence. There are indeed even a few, but only a few, and those only to be found in towns, who recognise no fast-days at all, entirely godless and irreligious people, who never go to church, and do not even attend confession at Easter. Such people as those are worse than any liberals or heretics,—they are, in one word, bad.
Thus, whoever is not a liberal is a Catholic; but there are Catholics, and good Catholics. A Catholic is any man who faithfully performs his religious duties; who would not, for any money, presume to differ in opinion from the parish priest, and never asks whence that gentleman gets the text of his sermons, or how the church fasts originated. But any one who, in addition to all this, also walks in procession with a lighted torch or leads the prayers as master of the confraternity of St Joseph or St Rochus, who duly informs the villagers whom the priest would like elected into the parish council, who comes to the Holy Communion at least once a month, and, in the tavern, of an evening, can describe all liberals, gueux, freemasons, and all such like rabble, in their true colours, that man is a good Catholic.
Mathis Knoups, master-carpenter, and landlord of the “Sun” at Haffert, did not belong to this category; he was a Catholic tout court. He went to high mass on Sundays, and four times in the year to confession. This, he said, was doing no more than his duty; and, for the rest, he had no time to take any further trouble about the church or religion,—every man must know what he is about, and he had to think of his children.... There were plenty of other men to carry torches in the procession,—fast-days had always existed, and did not seem to have made people leaner or less healthy,—and he was willing to take for granted that what M. le Curé said in his sermons was true, provided he were not obliged to listen to them. Also, he was quite ready to vote for Jan, Piet, or Klaas, just as M. le Curé pleased,—he had no quarrel with any of the three, and so it was all the same to him.
This was Knoups’ way of reasoning, when the question was discussed by the guests who came to take their evening glass of beer at the “Sun.” On such occasions, the surveyor Hommels, well known in the town for a “great liberal,” would usually answer, “Yes, yes, you village people let yourselves be finely humbugged and led by the nose!”
“Oh! Lord!” Knoups would then retort, “you have been bitten by that dog too!” And then, with a smile of complete assurance and self-satisfaction, he would add, “One has to keep one’s soul clean, you see!” Whereupon the ex-burgomaster Kormann would signify his approval in the words,—
“Very good, Master Knoups! the man who does not need that, is not called on to take any trouble about it!”
“Then don’t let him trouble himself with my affairs,” answered Knoups.
Master Knoups’ inn was about twenty minutes’ walk from the little town, at the point where the “grintweg” leading to Haffert branches off from the high-road. Among the other advantages of this situation was a toll-gate, which was farmed by Mathis. What Limburg carter would not willingly turn in for a half-pint of beer or a dram, at the place where he has to stop and pay “barrière”? Thus the “Sun” was always full of “coming and going folk.”
Knoups let his wife attend to the taproom and the toll-gate; he himself was all day long in his workshop, when not busy on his bit of land. Well, Geutruu (Gertrude) was a handy woman, who helped him to provide for the children, had a pleasant word for every one,—if there was a cent to be earned anyhow,—but who let no one steal the cheese off her bread.
“M. LE CURÉ.”
In the evening there assembled at the “Sun” the “permanent company”—the ex-burgomaster Kormann of Haffert, the surveyor Hommels, Spinwek the baker, and one or two other gentlemen from the town, who would sit playing at cards, sometimes till eleven, and frequently asked the landlord to take a hand.
Besides the field, the carpenter’s trade, the toll-gate, and the usual custom of the inn, there was another great annual source of income, the Haffert kermis (fair) at St Rochustide in August, when the burghers with their wives and daughters, and the young men from the city, streamed to the village for three days following. And the man who did not put up at the “Sun” had not been at the Haffert kermis.
If on these occasions Knoups did not, taking one day with another, tap his six casks of beer per day, he had every reason to shake his head, pass his thumb over his forefinger as though he had been counting money, drop his under-lip, and sigh:
“It’s bad times with people, ... they’re short of money.”
“Knoups,” Hommels had sometimes said to him, “you ought to have dance-music at St Rochus. Then you might tap ten casks in a day, or even twelve.”
Knoups looked serious, pulled somewhat harder at his pipe, considered for a moment, and replied:
“Thirty casks! ... it would be a good deal.”
Next year, having used up twenty casks in the three days, he said to Geutruu:
“Wife, we must have the dancing next year.”
“You know best, I suppose,” said Geutruu; “every cask counts. But what will the Pastoor say?”
Whereto Knoups replied:
“Well, every one ought to know what he’s about, and I have to think of the children.”
“THEIR EVENING GLASS OF BEER AT THE ‘SUN.’”
Next year there was music and dancing at the “Sun,” and some forty-two casks of beer were tapped.
Knoups and Geutruu laughed in their sleeves.
All the same, it had been a frightful moment for them, when they sat side by side at early mass, and the Curé had preached against dancing, and hinted at the risks run as regards the next world by those who took part in such amusements. Geutruu did not know where to hide her head for shame, and kept bending lower and lower over her prayer-book. Mathis cast a furious glance at the preacher, but the latter stared at the couple till the whole congregation had turned their eyes in their direction; and Mathis himself at last, fiery red at one moment and deadly pale the next, cast down his eyes and bowed his head.
But now that he and Geutruu were home again, and counting the Brabant and Prussian cents—the groschen, half-francs, and couranten—which went to make up the payment for forty-two casks of beer, he exploded with laughter, and said, pointing to the money:
“Geutruu, the Curé may give us another sermon for that.”
Well, the people from the town had never troubled their heads about the Curé of Haffert’s preaching, and the peasants said, “If the burghers dance, why should we keep away?”
When All Saints’ Day came, Mathis and Geutruu went to confession as usual.
“If he speaks about the dancing, we’ll say that we don’t know yet what we’re going to do next year,” said Mathis at the church door.
However, it was not so easy to get absolution. The Curé was terribly angry, and the confession lasted more than half-an-hour; however, for this once, his reverence at last showed himself willing to lean to the side of mercy.
“But,” he added, “if you let the devil loose in my parish again next year, I can do nothing more for you.”
“THE CURÉ MAY GIVE US ANOTHER SERMON FOR THAT.”
At Christmas, Easter, and Ascensiontide they again went to confession, but on none of these occasions was anything said about dancing.
In the beginning of August, a fortnight before St Roch’s Day, Mathis said to his wife:
“Wife, we must have the dancing again.”
“You know best,” answered Geutruu, as before; “but what will M. le Curé say?”
To which he gave the same answer as last year.
And there was dancing at the “Sun.” The Curé preached with all his might, but the townspeople went first and the peasants followed, and no less than forty-five casks of beer were consumed at the “Sun.” Such a thing had not happened anywhere in the neighbourhood within the memory of man.
But, alas! for the following All Saints’ Day. As soon as the Curé caught sight of Mathis Knoups through the grating of the confessional, he closed the slide in his face. Geutruu received absolution, after many entreaties and arguments, because she could plead that she had warned her husband.
“That’s his own business,” said Mathis; “every one must know what he is about.”
Henceforth Knoups went to confession only once a year—at Easter.
“Once is a man’s duty,” said he; “but to be turned away four times in the year is only mere waste of time and trouble.”
Again the wicket was shut in his face. Hommels, in the tavern parlour that evening, laughed over it, and said:
“Well, M. le Curé keeps you all in order like a flock of sheep.”
Knoups smiled, and replied, shortly:
“The stayer wins. We shall see who’ll hold out longest.”
These strained relations between Knoups and the Curé lasted some four or five years, and then another incident occurred.
Hubertienke, Knoups’ eldest girl, was now nine, and went to school at Haffert. The master said that she was one of the cleverest and best-behaved children that had ever come under his care. And now that she went twice a week to M. le Chapelain’s “Christian doctrine” class, it was quite likely that next St Rochus’ Day she would walk with the other children as a “little bride” in the procession, and carry a little flag, a shepherd’s crook, perhaps even a cornucopia, or a great crimson heart with gold flames. The child had talked and dreamed of this possibility for a whole year or so, and Geutruu had had a little white dress and white satin shoes made for her in town, and bought a wreath of May-blossom from the milliner.
But Geutruu and her little daughter had reckoned without their host—that is to say, without the Curé. Two days before St Rochus, his reverence had sent for Vrouw Knoups, and asked her whether Mathis was going to have the dance-music again. Whereupon, embarrassed and confused, she had answered, “I think so, M. le Curé.”
“Then Hubertine can’t walk in the procession,” was the Curé’s verdict. “If the father doesn’t keep his Easter, the child can’t be a ‘little bride.’”
Geutruu came home with the tears in her eyes.
“Bad luck to the whole thing!” raged Mathis. “Geutruu, you dress the child properly, and take her to the church. We’ll see what the Curé does then.”
The wife did as he had said—dressed the child in the white frock, put on the satin shoes, and fastened the wreath into her hair. Then she went with Hubertienke to high mass, and when the procession started Hubertienke took her place with the other children of the “catechising.”
Scarcely however had the procession got out of the church, and reached the market-place, when the Curé entered the ranks of the “little brides,” took Hubertienke by the hand, and made the child take her place behind the file of school children who did not yet come to “Christian doctrine,” and were posted a long way in advance at the head of the procession, in their black or dark blue Sunday frocks.
“DRESSED THE CHILD IN THE WHITE FROCK.”
All this was clearly seen by Mathis Knoups, standing among the crowd of spectators. He rushed up, looking daggers, fetched his child out of the procession, and, grinding his teeth, made his way homewards with Hubertienke.
He could scarcely eat his dinner for the next three days.
When Hommels began touching on the occurrence in the evening, Mathis cried, his lips trembling:
“Fine religion that! As he can’t be revenged on me, he wreaks his spite on my child! If that’s our religion, I’d rather not have no more religion at all!”
From that day forth the publican-carpenter went neither to church nor to confession, not even at Easter, and was in the eyes of every one “a downright liberal.” At the elections, he filled in his voting ticket with his own name. When Hommels abused the Curé, and scoffed at religion, then Knoups laughed till he shook all over. And when the ex-burgomaster Kormann exhorted him to return to the bosom of Holy Church, Mathis would answer:
“Paja! the whole business isn’t worth a cent!” or, “Mind your own business, and let me attend to mine—every one ought to know what he’s about!”
That every one ought to know his own business best, he maintained with equal consistency when Geutruu went with Hubertienke and the other children to church on Sundays. Hommels, indeed, laughed at this curious compromise between man and wife; but Geutruu would reply, when teased on the subject:
“I can’t bring up the children like heathen savages, can I?”
The breach between Mathis Knoups and the Church had lasted quite three years, when, one baking day in July, the lightning struck Haffert church, and the whole roof was burnt off.
Knoups looked important and thoughtful, as he remarked:
“I should like to know who’s going to put the new roof on?”
“Why, I suppose the Curé will somehow beg the money for it!” said Hommels, who did not exactly see the connection.
The thought of the new roof pursued Mathis night and day. He knew very well how he would do it—he had some choice timber lying by that would just do—he trimmed the rafters—he made all sorts of calculations, and was able to tell his guests to a cent that evening how much the new roof ought to cost—not an oortje[[24]] more. But, when talking to his wife alone, he said, half vexed and half sad:
“The Curé is sure to take care to get another builder into Haffert this time!”
A week before St Rochus, Knoups went to the brewer in the town to order the kermis beer for the dancing-tent as usual. There was no brewery at Haffert, or Knoups would certainly not have gone outside the village.
“I have nothing but new beer for you, Master Knoups,” said the brewer; “you will find there’s going to be sharp competition this year.”
“How so?” asked Knoups.
“Why, you know, don’t you, that Stamel-Joob has rented the piece of land just opposite your house, on the other side of the Haffert road?”
Knoups nodded an affirmative.
“Stammering Joob is going into partnership with Crippled Manes, and they mean to get a big dancing-tent over from Prussia, and set it up there.”
The landlord of the “Sun” stared at the brewer with all his eyes. He was vainly seeking for arguments to combat his own inner conviction that Stammering Joob the never-sober host of the “City of Algiers,” and Crippled Manes the recruiting-sergeant, who also did a good business as a kind of broker in procuring substitutes for unwilling conscripts, were two dangerous opponents, and capable of anything.
“Where should they get the money from?” he suddenly exclaimed.
The brewer shrugged his shoulders.
Mathis became lost in thought for some minutes, and at last whispered, looking at his purveyor with flashing eyes,—
“Do you think the Curé of Haffert could be mixed up in this?”
Once more the brewer shrugged his shoulders.
“All that I know,” said he, “is that Stammering Joob and Crippled Manes have ordered sixty casks of beer of me.”
Mathis ordered only twenty casks for the present, and returned home with a long face.
Two days before St Rochus, three great Prussian freight-waggons, laden with planks and battens and canvas, passed through Haffert, and stopped at the Schei, right opposite the “Sun” inn. A moment after, Crippled Manes was seen hobbling up from another direction, with an old police-cap on his head, and followed by a number of schoolboys and loafers from the town, where the rumour of the arrival of the “foreign dancing-tent” had already spread. A large number of hands went to work at once; timbers were unloaded, posts set up, canvas spread out; and in the middle of all the bustle the lame recruiting-sergeant moved about with his bottle of Hollands, encouraging the workmen, and sometimes garnishing the offered glass with some such facetious remark as, “To the health of M. le Curé of Haffert;” or, “To the health of Mathis Knoups, our neighbour!”
However, Mathis Knoups, who, with compressed lips, stood on the watch behind the door of his workshop, could not hear what he said.
But all this was nothing to the commotion which was caused on the following day—the Eve of St Rochus—in Haffert and on the Schei, by the arrival of twelve Prussian musicians, in faded light-green coats, sky-blue caps, and all sorts of brass instruments,—one or two of them of such a size that they curled all round the blower like serpents. They marched through Haffert playing all the way, drew up in a line before the dancing-tent, which was decked with flags and pennons, and then entered the town, accompanied by Crippled Manes, who now, armed with a big stick, marched in front, and acted the part of drum-major.
All through the night Mathis could still hear the shrill sound of the clarionet and the booming of the great bass instruments.
No need to ask whether Haffert kermis was crowded! Everybody went to dance in the Prussian tent. The brewer had to go over twice a day with fresh supplies; and when Knoups came to complain to him, on the third day, that he had only tapped eight casks, it was resolved to cart eight casks away from the “Sun” to the tent over the way.
“Of course,” laughed Manes, “neighbours ought to help each other!”
When, two days later, the three heavily-laden waggons had rumbled off over the Prussian frontier, and Stammering Joob and Crippled Manes were marching away to the town, arm in arm, and not very sober, the latter turned back and shouted:
“Good-bye, Master Knoups! next year we’ll be neighbours again, for a time!”
“Low riff-raff, that come to steal the bread out of a man’s mouth!” said Knoups—who had heard it this time—to Geutruu. “Well, that article’s spoilt for good and all; I shall have to put all my strength into my own trade!”
The following week, a notice, posted up on the Haffert Raadhuis, announced to all and sundry that tenders for the new roofing of the church were to be sent in to the authorities by that day fortnight.
“It’s no good my sending in a paper,” thought Mathis; “the Curé and the burgomaster are all in the same boat, and the Curé will take good care I don’t get the contract.”
It may be supposed, therefore, that he looked amazed when Geutruu, returning from the town one rainy afternoon, stood still, right in front of him, and said:
“Now I’m going to tell you something! You’ll have to send in your paper for the church roof!”
“I!—for the roof!” cried Mathis.
“You, for the roof!” repeated Geutruu. “Just listen now. I had just got outside the gate when it began to rain. I was going to turn my skirt up over my head, when somebody came running after me, and called out, ‘Vrouw Knoups! Vrouw Knoups!’ I turned round, and who should it be but M. le Curé’s sister, Joffer Marianneke. ‘Come along under my umbrella,’ says she, ‘and I’ll walk home with you!’ I said, ‘Too much honour, Joffer Marianneke,’ and ‘Thank you, Joffer Marianneke,’—but it was no use, I had to come along under her umbrella. And then she told me that M. le Curé quite expects you to send in your paper for the contract, and that it grieves him so much that there should be a black sheep in the congregation; and she is coming next week to drink coffee with us. And what do you say now?”
Knoups listened, astonished, and at the same time excited.
“H’m!” he said then, “... we must just think over that ... one ought to know what one is about!”
It was a very busy day for Geutruu, when Mam’selle Marianne, the Curé’s sister, came to coffee. She had baked special cakes—vlaai and krintemik; and, when her guest had arrived, she went herself to fetch Mathis out of his workshop. Mathis laid aside his apron, wiped his forehead with it, and followed his wife indoors.
“Serviteur, Joffer Marianneke,” said he, accomplishing with some difficulty an awkward kind of bow.
“I’ve just looked in to see how you are getting on, Master Knoups,” said the Curé’s sister, taking a bite at her slice of currant-loaf.
“Very kind, I’m sure, Joffer Marianneke! and I wish you a good appetite!” replied Knoups.
“To-morrow M. le Curé is going round with the alms-bag, Master Knoups, for the new roof to the church. Are you going to give something too?”
“H’m, h’m! If M. le Curé does not pass my door, we’ll see what we shall do, Joffer Marianneke!”
Next day came M. le Curé with the alms-bag.
“Master Knoups, I am going to all our parishioners.” He emphasised the “all.” “Will you contribute something towards the new roof for the church?”
Now that Knoups was standing before his enemy, it seemed as though something boiled up in him,—as though he would have to say something quite different from what he had thought out beforehand,—and yet there was such a tightness at his throat that he could not bring out a word.
He kept his eyes fixed on the priest, made one or two great efforts to swallow the lump in his throat, and at length burst out, clinching his fist convulsively:
“M. le Curé, why did you revenge yourself on my child for the grudge you had against me?”
And at the last words he struck his clinched hand against his chest.
“Chut! chut! Master Knoups,” said the Curé, with a deprecating wave of the hand; “I have duties to fulfil,—and, after all, you had been warned.”
“If you had said publicly, in the pulpit, Master Knoups is a heretic,—if you had turned me out of your church, some Sunday, in the middle of high mass, I could forgive it; but ... my child....”
“Come, come, Knoups, don’t go dragging drowned cows out of the ditch,—think of the new church roof. You’re a carpenter, and if I meant ill towards you I would not have come to you with the alms-bag.”
These words soothed Knoups somewhat. He silently offered the Curé a chair, and sat down opposite him. Then he put his hand under his blue blouse into his jacket pocket, took out a paper, unfolded it, and laid it before the priest.
“M. le Curé,” he said, “here is my tender for the contract If the work is given to me, I will deduct twenty gulden from the sum, as my contribution to the roof.”
“And then, Knoups, and then?” asked the Curé, in a tone of serious admonition.
“How do you mean, M. le Curé?”
“Are you going to have the dancing again?”
“M. le Curé,” answered Knoups, “I am quite willing to live in peace and friendship with every one; but I ought to be allowed to earn a few stivers when I want them.”
“And do you think, Knoups, that this dancing business is all profit? Do you know that people of position are shy of your house for that very reason? Why do the professors from St Aloysius’ College, and all their students,—and the Christian Brothers, and all their schoolboys—why do they always pass the ‘Sun’ by? You have a good head for reckoning, I’ve often heard, Master Knoups. Did you ever figure out what it would come to in a year if two hundred young fellows were to come every week, or say every fortnight, to have a glass of beer?”
Knoups’ whole face shone with excitement.
“Why, one could lay out a skittle-ground with that!” he cried.
“Well, are you going to repent of your ways, and come to church again, Knoups?”
“Would you give me absolution if I did?”
“If you had no more dancing—why, there would be no further reason for refusing it.”
Knoups sat still, and thought for a little. Then he took his broad carpenter’s pencil, wrote on the paper, “less twenty gulden for the roof,” and said:
“We’ll see, M. le Curé, we’ll see. And, after all, I’m not the worst.”
The same evening, in the “Sun,” Hommels was talking about the elections.
“Pooh!” cried he, “convictions! I hate the sound of the word. Money is all they care about, or the honour of sitting in the council and having their say in everything!... There you have the burgomaster Driemans; he has been liberal three times, and clerical three times, and every time he got in!... and the rentier, Lankmans, formerly president of a dramatic society, who ate meat on Fridays, chosen as a defender of the Faith!... and our deputy, Judge Stechelmans, who formerly, when he was a school inspector, cursed and swore when he found a crucifix hanging in a school, he too is a pillar of the Church! And the priests know all that very well, but what do they care? such men are of use to them, and that’s enough!... Sufficit, you know!”
“So, so,” said Knoups, in a naïvely satirical tone, half shutting his eyes, “is that what they mean by politics,—a question of money?”
Knoups sent in his tender for the contract for the new church roof. There was indeed an offer made at a lower figure by a builder in the town, but the Curé and the burgomaster said that Knoups had the best timber on hand—even though it had been bought with the proceeds of the dancing, as Knoups said—and gave the contract to him. Knoups turned his dancing-floor into a skittle-ground, went to confession on All Saints’ Day, and got his absolution all right.
Since that time Mathis Knoups has become a Catholic again. Hommels does not frequent the “Sun” now.
“One can’t put one’s foot down there without tumbling over a professor from the College, or one of the Christian Brothers’ boys,” he said. And when he makes his appearance, now and then, to tease Mathis, and asks, “How do you feel now, Mathis, as a New Catholic?” Mathis answers:
“Yes, you may laugh, Mynheer Hommels, but just wait till you come to die—then you’ll be frightened too.... And one must look after one’s soul,—isn’t it so, Geutruu?”[[25]]
Emile Seipgens.
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR.
Otherwise Engaged.
Police-Magistrate—“What insolence! to break into a house, in a busy street, in the middle of the day!”
Thief—“I was already engaged for the evening.”
Wedded Love.
Jan—“Oh, Julie! how pleased I am to see you!”
Julie—“Is that true, Jan?”
Jan—“Yes, my little wife, my——”
Julie—“If we were out at sea, and I were to fall overboard, what would you do?”
Jan—“First, I should see what time it was; then I should inform the captain that there was some one overboard, and ask whether the vessel could be stopped. When it was stopped, I would have a boat let down, and row back to the place where you had fallen into the water. It would be quite easy to find, because I should have noticed the time at which we were there, the rate we were going at, and the direction the ship was taking. If you were still floating, it would be all right; if you had sunk, we should have to wait till bubbles——”
Julie—“Oh! you heartless scoundrel! You murderer! I’ll never go anywhere with you!”
(And then she went to her mother and told her that Jan was a fellow of uncommon sense and shrewdness, who could not fail to make his fortune, &c. &c.)
Tybaert de Kater.
Professor (at Medical lecture)—“What would you do, if you found the condition of the patient in this case had become worse?”
Student—“I should thank Heaven I was not in his skin.”
“OTHERWISE ENGAGED.”
On the Steam-Tram.
“Hallo!—Conductor!”
“What is it, sir?”
“Why is the tram stopping here? There is no station—I can only see one house.”
“Oh, we’re stopping because Farmer Verschueren’s wife wants to come to town.”
“I wish she’d make haste, then!”
“Yes—but she wants to take a dozen eggs to market, and she has only eleven. The hen is on the nest, and as soon as she has laid the egg we are going on.”
Tybaert.
A lawyer had had his photograph taken. He was wearing his morning coat, and had his hands in the pockets.
“Is it not a good likeness?” asked the photographer, showing it to one of his friends.
“Speaking—as far as the face is concerned; but, for the rest, there is something wrong about it.”
“What is that?”
“A lawyer never puts his hands in his own pockets.”
At the Chemistry Class.
“What is found in salt-water besides the chloride of iodine we have just been speaking of?”
Youngest Pupil—“Herrings, sir.”
Overheard in the Street.
“Good-morning, William. Why! how changed you are!”
“Don’t be offended—but my name is not William!”
“Well, now!—he has changed even his very name!”
“Bonifacius,” said Madame Snobs, “the way you are taking to drink is disgraceful! You didn’t come home till nearly morning, and now you want to go out again before dinner-time! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If I was a man like that, I would drop into the ground for shame!”
“You are quite right, wife,” said Snobs; “just give me the key of the cellar.”
Snobs was for some time Justice of the Peace at Bommerskonten, and is now Mayor of that village. The first time he celebrated a marriage there, he asked the bride—
“Do you take Kobe Kullemans, who is standing beside you, for your husband?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the bride.
“Prisoner at the bar,” continued Snobs, “what have you to say in your defence?”
Snobs—“What clever answers that fellow Snugger can give, to be sure, when one asks him anything!”
Madame Snobs—“Why—I have never noticed that.”
Snobs—“Indeed it is so. Yesterday I asked him if he would lend me twenty francs. He did not say either yes or no, but he asked me if I thought he was mad.”
Practical.
“John,” said the lady of the house to the new man-servant, who had several times startled her by falling into the room like a bombshell, “when you come in, you must knock first, and wait till you hear some one say, ‘Come in.’”
When the lady and her husband are seated at dinner, John comes up to the door, opens it just wide enough to put his head through, draws back, shuts the door, and knocks.
“Come in!” cries the mistress, in amazement. “Didn’t you understand me? You were to knock, and then wait till I said, ‘Come in,’—instead of that, you peep round the door first. What do you mean by it?”
“Why, I had to see if there was any one in the room to tell me to come in!”
Uilenspiegel.
Jewish Courtship.
Rachel—“But, Moses lad, you say you are so fond of me—would you really go through the fire for me?”
Moses—“Of course, Rachel, darling—that is to say, if I was well insured.”
“JEWISH COURTSHIP.”
Mother Spons—“What do I see, Mother Snaps!—you look quite well to-day, and yet I was told you could not get out of your bed.”
Mother Snaps—“Well—and no more I can,—for as soon as ever I get up, that husband of mine will carry it straight to the pawnbroker’s!”
“Who wrote the Psalms?” asked Pater Dodd, somewhat sharply, of his class. All were silent, and the good priest repeated the question.
“It was not I, sir,” responded Janneke Snobs, beginning to cry.
“I ask you who wrote them!” repeated the priest.
“Yes, sir,” said Janneke, heroically, at last, “I did it, but I’ll never do it again, as long as I live!”
At School.
The master is explaining the arithmetical operation of subtraction:—
“Now, Jantje, if your mother gives you five slices of bread and butter, and you eat two, how many will you have left?”
“Mother never gives me so many, sir.”
“Well, then, if you have five marbles in your pocket, and take out two, how many will there be left in it?”
“None at all, sir,—there’s a hole in my pocket.”
A.—“Our business is so extensive that we have to keep a man on purpose to thrash the apprentices, and he’s at it all day.”
B.—“That’s nothing to ours! Our establishment is so immense that we have to keep St Bernard dogs in the corridors to look for the customers who lose themselves there!”
A man who had repeatedly called on a nobleman to obtain payment of a debt, was refused access by the well-drilled footman, in the words, “The Baron does not receive to-day.”
“That is all the same to me,” replied the creditor; “I don’t care,—as long as he will give.”
At a Restaurant.
Snugger (who has been waiting over an hour for his beefsteak)—“Look here, waiter, are you the same that put this plate on the table?”
Waiter—“Yes, sir.”
Snugger—“Heavens! you’ve grown out of all knowledge since then!”
A Pleasant Trade.
A small boy goes howling along the street. Our friend Snobs accosts him with, “What is the matter, my little man?”
Boy howls.
“Where do you live?”
Boy howls still.
“What is your father’s name?”
More howling.
“What is your mother’s name?”
Still more.
“What does your father do?”
“Beats mother. Ow! ow! ow!”
Disconsolate.
Kind-hearted Farmer’s Wife—“Pietje, my boy, what’s the matter?”
Pietje (howling)—“Can’t eat any more apples.”
“Well, put them in your pockets, can’t you?”
“Oh! oh! oh! My pockets are full! Oh! oh! oh! oh!”
Judge—“But why in the world did you go so far to steal wine, when you might easily have got it in your master’s cellar?”
Prisoner—“I knew my master’s wine too well to steal even one bottle of it.”
Allemansvriend.
Judge (to convicted thief)—“You seem to understand your business.”
Prisoner—“Yes, my lord, and if you could steal as well as I, you wouldn’t care to sit on the bench any longer.”
Vlaamsche Illustratie.
In the Confessional.
Boy—“Rev. Father, I have stolen twenty-five yards of stuff from farmer Klaas.”
Priest—“Oh! that is very bad.”
Boy—“Yes; mother said it was bad, when she saw it, but still she thought it would do to make sacks of.”
Allemansvriend.
Never estimate a man’s value according to the silk umbrella he carries; he has probably left a cotton one somewhere in place of it.
We are all ready to set up as moral physicians, and each of us can give his advice; but a University diploma is necessary before you can cure a child of the stomach-ache.
Many a man who says that he works like a barge-horse, is probably thinking of the time when the barge-horse is standing in the stall eating oats.
A word is enough for the wise. This is probably the reason why an advocate has to plead for half a day before a jury.
Kobe Snullemans was about to be married, but he had only two francs, and the priest asked a fee of twenty.
“Oh! your reverence!” said Kobe, “just marry me a little then, as much as you can for two francs!”
Tybaert.
Janneke Snobs—“Mamma, how do the niggers on the Congo know when it is Sunday? they have no clean shirts to put on.”
Conductor (to his clerk)—“Did you give the hundred francs to the chairman of the Board of Works?”
Clerk—“Yes, sir.”
Con.—“What sort of a face did he make?”
Clerk—“He looked very much offended.”
Con.—“Didn’t he say anything?”
Clerk—“Yes, sir.”
Con.—“What did he say?”
Clerk—“That you and I ought to go to jail!”
Con.—“And what did he do then?”
Clerk—“He took the money.”
Uilenspiegel.
Unnecessary.
Kapblok, the butcher’s man, is running, knife in hand, after Snugger’s dog, who has stolen a piece of meat out of his shop.
Snugger—“Kapblok, where are you running to with that knife?”
Kapblok—“Don’t you see the beast has got hold of a piece of the best beef?”
Snugger—“Is that all? Just put your knife back again; he never cuts his meat, he can worry it down well enough without that.”
“KAPBLOK, THE BUTCHER’S MAN.”
Janneke Snobs (on his grandfather’s birthday)—“Grandfather dear, I have come to wish you many happy returns of the day, and I hope you may live a long time this year!”
Tybaert.
In the Carnival.
“Well, Krelis, are you going to put on a mask?”
A Voice—“If he would just wash himself for once, and put on a clean collar, no one would know him.”
A Heart-Felt Petition.
When Mané was still a minister, he was tolerably well known as a henpecked man. In church, on one occasion, he closed his extempore prayer with the following words:—“And now, O Lord! we pray for the wives of preachers. Some people think they are angels, but Thou, who knowest the hearts, art well aware that....”
History does not record what took place between Mané and his wife when he returned home that day.
Inspecting General (to Private)—“Are you satisfied with your rations?”
Private—“Yes, sir.”
General—“How about the meat? Does every one get served alike? or does one get much and another little?”
Private—“No, sir; we all get very little.”
Sentry—“My good woman, what do you want with the pillar-box? You’ve been standing there half-an-hour at least.”
Old Woman—“Well, I don’t mind if I tell you, sir. I put a letter in, and I’m waiting for the answer.”
Tall Barrister—“Not so fast, my friend. You know I could easily put you in my pocket.”
Short Ditto—“If my learned brother were to do so, he would have more law in his pocket than in his head.”
“Professor, I have come to express my gratitude. All that I know, I owe to you.”
Professor—“Come, come, friend, don’t mention it. Such a trifle is really not worth remembering.”
“INSPECTOR GENERAL: ‘ARE YOU SATISFIED WITH YOUR RATIONS?’”
At the Hatter’s.
“What! you say this hat is thirty florins?”
“Yes, sir; real Panama.”
“But I don’t see any holes in the top.”
“Holes, sir?”
“Of course; the man who is ass enough to pay as much as that will want holes to let his ears through.”
Lawyer—“My friend, you are an ass!”
Witness—“Do you mean, sir, that I am your friend because I am an ass? or that I am an ass because I am your friend?”
Waiter—“Why, sir, there was a gentleman here last week painting this very place.”
Painter (absently)—“Yes. Was he an artist?”
Waiter—“An artist? No, sir; he was a very respectable man.”
The Uncle (from whom one has expectations)—“My dearest boy, I have thought over the matter for some time, but I really cannot give you the sum you want. I never depart from my principles, and one of them is, not to undress before I go to bed.”
Nephew (constrainedly)—“Very sorry, very sorry, indeed.... (With an effusive grasp of the hand.) Good-night, uncle! Good-night!”
On a River Steamer.
Gentleman (first-class)—“Captain, I say! this is an unpardonable want of delicacy. Can’t you direct this cursed smoke towards the second-class passengers?”
The Next Regiment.
Country Lass—“Soldier, may I give you this pound of tobacco to take to my cousin Jan? He’s in the 3rd, and I see you’re in the 2nd; so you’re just next to him.”
Soldier—“With pleasure, lass; give it here. I’ll see that he don’t have anything to pay for carriage.” (He rides away, in a state of total indifference to Cousin Jan, and all that concerns him. Jan’s cousin goes home, happy in the thought that he is going to get his tobacco so cheaply.)
Very Select.
“Do tell me, Baron, is there not a very clever surgeon living in the village near your castle?”
“I am told so, madam, but ... you understand ... a country practitioner like that ... I cannot put any confidence in him.... I only have him sent for when one of the servants is ill.”
Shopkeeper (catching boy with both hands in the till)—“You young scoundrel, what do you want there?”
Boy—“I ... I ... I’m looking for my cap.”
Shopkeeper—“It’s on your head all the time, gallows-bird.”
Boy—“On my head? Oh, no! you’re out there. That’s not my cap; that’s one I borrowed till I could find my own.”
An Incorruptible Official.
Suitor (from the country)—“Sir, here is a bit of a ham, home-cured, just to thank you for——”
Official—“What? Idiot! rascal! Do you think a sworn civil servant is going to let himself be bribed? Hand over the ham at once! Hand it over, I say! And now out with you! There’s the door! Out you go! March!”
Silent reflections of a member of the dangerous classes.—“It’s mighty queer; this makes five times I’ve been had up for stealing, and each time they’ve let me off.... Hanged if I understand it; but it does seem as if they meant me to go on!”
College Porter—“Yes, sir; our late colleague was one who always discharged the duties of his office with the greatest zeal. And now he is dead, and has not left a cent to pay for his funeral. We have therefore resolved to get up a subscription; and I have taken the liberty of coming to you, thinking you would contribute something towards so worthy an object. We still want ten guilders.”
Student (in a voice trembling with emotion)—“Ten guilders ... I am deeply touched ... instead of ten I’ll give you a hundred; but do please bury a few more college porters with the money.”
On Parade.
Short Subaltern (to tall recruit)—“Fellow, how dare you have the impudence to look down on me like that? Come, stand up straight—eyes right—look straight before you.”
Recruit—“Good-bye, sir!”
Short S.—“Are you mad, you scoundrel?”
Recruit—“No, sir; but if I am to keep looking straight in front of me, sir, I’d better say good-bye, sir, please sir, for I’ll never see you again in my life, sir!”
Tenant—“Gracious goodness! You have raised the rent again ... and what for?”
Landlord—“What for?—you want to know what for? Why, for one thing, there’s the new clock-tower and clock right in front of your window. Do you think I intend to make you a present of that?”
Mistress (giving out provisions for the kitchen)—“Don’t you want any butter, Mie?”
Maid—“No, thank you, Mevrouw. I belong to the Temperance Society, and must not take anything strong.”
1st Soldier (in the country)—“What are those things in the field over there?”
2nd Soldier—“Those are traps to catch moles.”
1st S.—“That’s just one of your larks again! Just as though the moles would be fools enough to go and get caught in that little spot of ground, when there are acres of fields all round.”
2nd S.—“Well, how is it that, when the town is so big and the cell at the police-station so small, you’re always in it?”
A Double Misfortune.
“Do you not think it a deeply significant fact, Henri,” said the poet to his friend, “that I was born on the same day on which Goethe died?”
Henri—“Both events are cruel misfortunes to literature.”
Mrs A.’s housemaid has come round with a message:—
“Mistress’s compliments, and she would like to know if you will come to spend to-morrow evening?”
Mrs B.—“Very pleased, I am sure.... Are there more people coming?”
Housemaid—“I have them here on a list.”
Mrs B.—“Let me see.... Why, there are at least thirty names here!”
Housemaid—“Yes, but most of them know that the children have the chicken-pox, and mistress was reckoning on that!”
At the Solicitor’s.
“Good-morning, sir! May I ask you to advise me what compensation is due when another person’s dog does damage in any one’s house?”
“Certainly, sir. The injured party is entitled to two guilders compensation.”
“May I ask you for that sum, then? It is your dog that I have to complain of.”
“Ah! Then it is your property that my dog has damaged? Nothing can be fairer than that I should pay you the legal compensation. Here are twenty cents.”
“Twenty cents!”
“Yes. As thus:—
| Your claim is | fl. 2 0 |
| My fee, for advice | 1 80 |
| Balance due to you | 0 20.” |
A Slight Mistake.
A man, who thought himself a scientist, gave a public lecture on electricity. The hall was at first tolerably well filled, but the audience were not long in finding out with whom they had to do, and began to go out one by one. At last only one man remained, who listened with the greatest attention, and thus encouraged the lecturer to continue. At the end of half-an-hour he interrupted himself, and said politely—
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I hope I am not trespassing on your kindness? I shall have finished in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes! You can go on for another hour—or all night, if you like—so long as you don’t forget that you engaged me by the hour!”
The unhappy man perceived too late that it was the cabman who had driven him down to the lecture-hall.
Horseman (passing window of farmhouse)—“I say, you stupid lout, I want to know why you are always laughing when I ride past?”
Peasant—“Why, sir, it is because you always happen to ride past when I am laughing.”
A.—“How are you, old fellow? Have you heard who has got that situation in the Home Office that you were trying for?”
B.—“Some ass or other, I suppose, who doesn’t in the least deserve it!”
A.—“Of that you should be the best judge; you are the lucky man!”
THE CANDIDATE.
It is now full two years since Dominie Groshaus departed this life. For forty years the worthy man had tended his flock at Harder, without a thought of laying aside his staff, and quite resolved to edify his congregation for another ten years or so. But Death was not of the same opinion as the deaf old gentleman. One fine morning he came along, and gently took the staff out of the shepherd’s hand.
“Le roi est mort, vive le roi,” now came true at Harder. Scarcely had the grave closed over Dominie Groshaus, when they began to think of choosing a new pastor. This time it must be a liberal; that was plain as a pikestaff. The Harder people wished to show that they could advance with the times. But where to find him—that was the question. The stipend was not large, and the number of “advanced” candidates exceedingly small,—a bitter disappointment for the Harder parishioners, for your farmer knows no greater enjoyment than in listening to the trial sermons of a “whole regiment” of candidates. As matters stood, however, there was nothing for it but to cut their coat according to their cloth, and six probationers were accordingly invited to display their gifts. The Harder people were not fortunate; for, behold, the last of the six had already arrived, and been quartered at the schoolmaster’s, and they had not yet found the right man! It will be understood that they were waiting the last trial sermon in a state of great excitement. No one’s heart, however, beat so high as Mr Slop’s, for the last candidate pleased the schoolmaster uncommonly well—yes, uncommonly. He had enjoyed a most delightful evening in the young fellow’s company. The conversation went as if on wheels. Tantalising prospectives of instructive conversations, profitable exchange of thought—of society such as he had often vainly longed for—opened themselves to the master’s mental vision. Therefore it was his most ardent wish that this candidate should succeed. He was just considering what he could do to promote his success, when the probationer suddenly put a question to him point-blank.
“Can you tell me, sir, the reason why my friend Burgers did not give satisfaction here?”
“Oh! well—what can I say to you?—the man was the victim of a stupid joke. His hair is, as I suppose you are aware,...”
“Red—yes, fiery red,” sighed the probationer, with a faint smile. “Yes—that hair of his!”
“Well,” pursued the schoolmaster, “on the day Mr Burgers was preaching here, Jaap Stricker, a farmer, who is known as the worst joker in the village, happened to be sitting in the pew just behind the elders. When the young man, who was certainly doing his best, rather raised his voice at the end of his sermon, and at the same time threw his arms out quickly, Jaap Stricker bent over to the burgomaster, and whispered to him, ‘The fire is bursting out.’ That joke, sir, was the coup de grâce.”
“Il n’y a pire que le ridicule,” thought the probationer, “even among these farmers.” And suddenly—as the schoolmaster drew the little stove towards him in order to light his pipe—there rose up before him the image of Hein Burgers, the rejected, as he used to sit at students’ gatherings, with his honest, jovial face, crowned—alas! with locks of too brilliant a colour. He saw once more the gloomy Van Overveen pretending, with his melancholy smile, to light his cigar at Hein Burgers’ flaming head; he heard one and the other call out, on finding that his pipe had gone out, “Just pass Hein this way, will you?”...
“I was just saying,” the schoolmaster continued, carefully putting the cover on his pipe, after a vigorous pull or two,—“I was saying that was the finishing touch. For even if Mr Burgers’ hair had been black instead of red, the man’s chance was gone. In the first place, he forgot, when he entered the church, to salute the elders—ahem!—just nod to them, you know!”
“Aha!” said the candidate, making a mental note of the fact.
“And, besides that, there was something in his sermon the burgomaster did not like.”
Here the schoolmaster’s lips opened, and the pipe slid into the corner of his mouth. His eyes wandered over the ceiling, while he exhibited that vibration of the diaphragm which, according to Darwin, is the symptom of suppressed mirth.
“Pah!” ... he continued, after a pause, emitting a thick cloud of smoke, under shelter of which his face came back into its normal condition. “You must know that there occurred in his sermon an allusion to Galileo. This was what offended the burgomaster.”
“Galileo!” exclaimed the probationer, springing from his seat. “Galileo! what earthly objection can the burgomaster have to Galileo?”
“Much more than you think,” returned Mr Slop, with a solemn countenance, but laughter in his eyes. “Much more than you can conjecture. Our burgomaster has, along with many good qualities, a weakness—a prejudice—what shall I call it? The fact is, that he does not believe that the earth turns round....”
The shout of laughter emitted by his hearer reduced the schoolmaster to silence.
The two men looked at each other. The master laughed too—the probationer’s mirth was infectious—but not so loud. And while the young man continued to give free rein to his emotions, Slop quietly groaned to himself.
“Could a man have done a more unlucky thing?” he went on at last. “Why need he have dragged in Galileo at all? As soon as I heard the name, I thought to myself, ‘There goes your chance, my dear young gentleman!’ And if he had confined himself to mentioning the name, no harm would have been done; but he did worse—he called Galileo’s opponents narrow-minded people! And at last, as if to complete the disaster, he uttered it as his settled conviction that there was no one among his hearers who believed in the stability of the earth. Then I could see that it was all up with him, for the burgomaster flushed up, red as fire. Moreover, he nodded twice, and looked at the preacher with angry defiance.”
“Stop, sir! stop!” cried the candidate, holding his sides. “But surely, then, your burgomaster—what’s the man’s name?—Gorter—surely this Gorter is an original of the first water?”
“He is indeed. Let us only hope that Galileo has not brought the whole modern movement into discredit with him. I sadly fear that such is the case. At any rate, sir, you are warned. If he enters on the subject to-morrow—as he is almost certain to do—keep a good look-out, and mind you don’t fall into the snare.”
On the following morning the church was as full as it could hold. The candidate gave particular satisfaction. His delivery was more than satisfactory; his voice was as clear as a bell. Such was the verdict of the parishioners. Very well content, and with a great air of mystery, the elders received the preacher at the end of the service. For when the farmer has once made his choice, he takes good care not to give the slightest hint of it—sly diplomat that he is! The candidate was to dine at Burgomaster Gorter’s. Aaltje, the good-natured, bashful, kindly wife of that dignitary, had prepared ribs of pork. With heartfelt satisfaction did the couple take note of the young man’s hearty appetite. He did not require any pressing, and played as good a knife and fork as if he had been at home. This pleased the burgomaster well. A good appetite is usually the sign of good health. Who would buy an unhealthy cow? And what person in his senses would wish to possess an unhealthy minister?
At the end of the repast, a walk in the orchard was proposed. The burgomaster, pipe in mouth, stumped along in his wooden shoes, solemn and dignified—a sphinx in a peaked cap—beside his guest, and took him to see the pigs. Then they slowly returned to the house, the farmer still preserving an air of tremendous mystery.
At last Mijnheer Gorter broke the ominous silence.
“I was very well-pleased with your discourse this morning,” he said.
“Were you, sir? I’m glad to hear that.”
“They want a modern man in this place. Well—I’m modern, too!” The burgomaster’s chin moved backwards into his black silk neckcloth, while a smile of grim self-satisfaction played about his lips. “I’m modern, and progressive too,” he went on. “But there is one thing I can’t get over. I don’t believe that the earth turns round. No one can make a fool of me about that. Every morning when I go out into the fields, I see it with my own eyes lying perfectly still. Now that has nothing to do with modern thought,—that turning round, I suppose,—has it?”
“Oh!” replied the candidate, fairly driven into a corner, “it certainly does have a little to do with it; but, after all, it’s not the principal point. One may be a good and honest and religious man, and yet be of opinion—I mean, believe—that the earth stands still. St Paul, for example——”
“There you are!” roared the burgomaster, bringing his hand vigorously down on his companion’s shoulder in the fulness of his satisfaction.
And thus, through his well-timed consideration of the burgomaster’s hobby, the sixth candidate was elected to the parish of Harder.
T. H. Hooijer.
(De Gids, 1881.)
EPIGRAMS.
(Sneldichten.)
Tys was a painter—a doctor then he became,
And said to his friends, who murmured at the same,
“My faults as a painter, sure, every one could see,
But now my errors are underground, the better ’tis for me.”
Trop de Zèle.
Hans boasts he skated from Cologne
In one day to the Hague. “In one,”
His man confirms him, “true as you stand here—
But ’twas the longest day of all the year!”
’Twas asked, Which was the longest day?
My farmer friend, who would not stay
Till I had searched the calendar aright,
Said, “Why, sir, ’tis the one that has the shortest night.”
Dirck once was given to language most profane;
I strove to turn him from his evil ways in vain.
After long years I was successful. How?
With this one word: “Tis not the mode in Paris now.”
To a Preacher.
Ye preach so long, good sir, that we the opening have forgot,
And therefore when ye reach the end, we understand it not.
Pete ran against me in the street one day,
Nor moved aside: “He would not yield the way
To every fool.” “I can—and do!” said I—
Stepped from the path, and let the fool pass by.
Old Father Jan did chide his son because he sleeping lay,
Instead of getting up to work at dawning of the day,
And told him how a certain boor, at daybreak in the field,
Had found his fallow ground a pot of gold did yield.
“Yes, father,” said young Jack, “’twas early, it may be,
But sure the man that lost the gold was earlier than he!”
Jan will take where’er he can,
Out of purse and out of sack,
Out of cupboard, chest or pack,
Out of kettle, pot, and pan,—
Jan’s a very taking man.
Clothes and Men.
The tailor’s shop for highest praise, say I,
With royal courts doth vie;
Best skill boast which of these two can?
There the man makes the clothes; here the clothes make the man.
Dirck went out once to buy a hat, ’tis known,
And sought to pay for it with words alone.
“Nay,” said the mercer, “I’ll not come to that,
To meet you and uncover to my hat!”
How can a miller be a thief?
Methinks the thing were past belief;
What use for gold or gear can find
The man who lives upon the wind?
Prudent Ignorance.
Peter knows nought, and will know nought;
I know the reason why:
He fears distress and injury,
And has not the old saw forgot—
What a man knows not hurts him not.
The Courtship of Jan and Griet.
“Well, is it ne’er to be?” said Jan;
“I’ve faithfully done all I can:
I’ve served you as a friend,” quo’ he,
“So long in all humility,
And serve you still!” “Tis true,” said she,
“And yet you will not serve for me!”
A knight, a doctor, a new nobleman,
A duke, a count, to make of any man,
Is no great art, and this can princes do.
Would Heaven grant us but some princes, who
Could by authority of ring and seal,
With men of sense provide the commonweal!
“My parents,” Andrew said, “were drowned at sea,
Therefore no vessel, ship, or boat, for me!”
“My father and my mother,” Adrian said,
“Died in their beds: shall I not go to bed?”
Twelve men to try a crime is British use:—
A thief was asked his jury for to choose.
“The twelve apostles—honest men they be.”
Then said a man: “But those we shall not see
Before the day of judgment.” “Gentlemen,
I’ll gladly wait the trial until then.”
Once poor, and kind of heart, thou’rt rich and greedy, Jan!
The touchstone proves the gold, the gold doth prove the man.
Constantijn Huygens, 1596–1687.
I met a kinsman of mine but now,
And asked him where he lived, and how?
“Like any prince,” so said my friend,
“I have enough to eat and drink, and debts without an end.”
“I MET A KINSMAN OF MINE.”
Said Jan, twice wedded to a scolding wife,
“Church-going’s the great pleasure of my life;
’Tis strange and sweet to see a man, O rare!
Keep full five hundred women quiet there!”