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. Tantalisingprospectives 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 thecoup 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, carefullyputting 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 satisfactiondid 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.)
T. H. Hooijer.(De Gids, 1881.)
T. H. Hooijer.(De Gids, 1881.)
T. H. Hooijer.
(De Gids, 1881.)