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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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]