Scene IV.--SENTIMENTAL COMEDY

Praise undeserved is satire in disguise.--_Broadhurst_.

Implicit faith had never become rooted in Dr. Berry’s mind. He had sought ordination because “out of these Convertites there is much matter to be heard and learned,” and the disposition of his mind towards retirement seemed to him a call sufficient. He believed that it was necessary to pay tribute for the delights of Nature, the flowers, the trees, and the sight of the sun. This was a debt which might be discharged by accommodating the will to that of the higher influences, and by living in tune with the unseen.

The scholar was gentle, charitable, and forgiving. He would have emptied his pockets to benefit an unworthy beggar, and have travelled far out of his way to relieve suffering, and yet in many things he remained more ignorant than a child.

During the past twenty years he had changed, both outwardly and inwardly. The greater part of his time had been spent in the imaginative world within the influence of the Strath, until the day had come when he could not clearly distinguish between shadow and substance. Gradually the tension between mind and body had relaxed while the light across the past had become correlatively stronger. He could not give up the Strath, nor was he able to understand the dangers which threatened him there.

His friendship with Maude had introduced another change into his strange existence. He had been very near the borderland when she had come to signal him back to the material world. He had however passed too far away ever to return as a rational being. He could only look back. And she could not advance to him, because she was made of stuff which would not float across the gulf which spread between them. He was deceived, and she was dazzled. He knew that he wanted to be near her, and listen to the silly prattle, which by process of filtration through his brain became wisdom. Her mind throbbed in response to his; she, he believed, was filled with the divine fire of poetry; they met, he assured himself, upon common ground.

“But that’s not real,” she exclaimed, breaking in upon his reading; and he paused to set a query against that line.

“And that jingles.”

He pencilled upon the margin the words, “More dignity required.”

“That’s heavenly!”

And happily he marked the verse “Good.”

Maude was only speaking whatever came into her head, lolling among cushions, eating chocolate, twisting her pretty hair round slender pink-tipped fingers, and thinking how handsome he looked with the sunlight upon his head.

When she informed him that her husband was coming down on Saturday, she was a little disappointed when he absently remarked, “Indeed.” She would have been astounded had she known that he did not even consider the affinity she had so plainly suggested. Husband to him was a word, such as man or woman. Had Mr. Juxon entered that room, the scholar would have greeted the financier with his invariable courtliness, and have proceeded to appropriate Maude to himself as before.

“I’m coming to Church on Sunday,” said Maude triumphantly, as though the idea appeared to her worthy of a reward for originality.

“I will, in that case, select a sermon which I am sure will interest you,” came the grave reply. “A careful inquiry into the nature of the Bacchanalian Mysteries.”

“It sounds nice,” said she dubiously.

“I will have cushions placed for you in the front seat underneath the pulpit.”

“And I’ll wear my new hat,” she rattled joyously. “How about the donkeys? Where shall I put them up?”

“There is a small stable at the rectory. I will tell the sexton to wait for you by the lich-gate.”

“The what gate?” said Lady Ignorant.

“The gate of the churchyard. We still call it by the Anglo-Saxon name.”

“Oh yes,” said Maude, reaching towards the bell. “Now we will have supper. You will stop for supper.”

Sunday morning there was a jingling of silver bells in Thorlund valley, and Maude made her entry in a pink and white hat and a radiant costume. A stout man was packed into the cart with her, he who provided for her luxuries, and received in return upon that particular day the assurance that he was crushing her dress, added to instructions that he should make himself as small as nature would permit. Mr. Juxon had pointed out the propriety of accompanying his wife to church.

The stockbroker had few natural advantages. He was neither elegant nor learned; but he was very true to his wife and sincere in his love for her. Indeed she was everything to him. He had made the mistake of giving way to her always, and at the outset had failed to show her that without his purse she could do nothing. Juxon was not a saint; he did not object to a certain amount of chicanery in the transaction of business; but in private life he was thoroughly upright. He had caught Psyche in his hand, and when she struggled he let her go, lest he should damage the beauty of her wings.

Dr. Berry came down to the porch and entered with them, retaining Maude’s hand in his affectionate manner, and grasping the arm of her husband as he walked between them to their cushioned pew. The stockbroker’s eyes were upon him, but the rector did not feel them. Both men were perfectly honest in their different ways. The scholar made no secret of his admiration for Maude. The husband was mistrustful, but when Dr. Berry left them, after an invitation to luncheon, his suspicions gave way to wonder. Either this learned man was the simplest soul incarnate or a consummate knave. The latter supposition was reduced to an absurdity by one glance at the pale face uplifted in the pulpit. Then the unpleasant thought occurred that fault, if fault there was, lay entirely with his wife. He looked at her. The sunlight was slanting across the little church, and in the midst of a dusty beam sat Maude, a vision of innocence in pink, her head tilted back, her lips apart, her ears filled with the music of Dr. Berry’s rich tones. There was no colour in the stained windows to be compared with hers; there was no cherub weeping, or flambeau-waving, over the recumbent effigies of the Hoopers more modest or free from guile.

The rector’s sermon was paganism from beginning to end. It was an account of the birth and early history of the drama. He began by remarking upon the prevalence of mankind to bow down before the works of their own hands; to worship the seen, in preference to the unseen. He pointed out that the drama in its original form was the direct result of idol-worship; and not only the drama, but all the arts--sculpture, painting, poetry, and architecture--came into existence, and were inspired, by the worship of false gods.

Being unable to form any clear notion of divinity, men endeavoured to represent the subjects of their thoughts under the human form.

The divinity would need a dwelling-place among them; therefore they built temples.

He would require their gratitude and worship; and so poetry came into being, also the music and dance which accompanied it. A hymn accompanied by music was the first state of the dramatic performance.

Such exhibitions were invariably connected with the celebration of religious duties; and the theatre in which they were performed was a temple dedicated to Bacchus. In the earliest times it was the custom for the entire population of a city to meet together in some public place, and praise the gods with songs and dances. These songs were martial, but tinged with religious feeling; and the god to whom they were usually offered was Apollo. They were accompanied by the lyre, because Apollo was not only the god of the sun, but the god of music also. Later this religion became slightly altered, and moon-worship was introduced into Greece, very possibly from Egypt. Then Bacchus, or Dionysus, was adopted as the sun-god, in place of Apollo, and Demeter his sister became the moon-goddess. It was a natural transition in a wine-producing country. The sun ripened the grapes, and Bacchus was the god of wine. Demeter was the earth which grew the vine. So the Bacchic festivals in honour of the wine-god came into being; the lesser festival, accompanied by the song and dance, and procession of the fig-wood phallus, was held to celebrate the vintage; the greater festival was held in the spring, when Bacchus was worshipped as the Deliverer, because he had brought the people safely through the winter. The former was a country festival, and from it comedy originated; the latter was held in the city, and it was the beginning of tragedy.

As the god of wine, light, and procreation, the festivals of Bacchus were accompanied by liveliness and mirth. The sun-god was supposed to be attended by certain grotesque creatures; the Sileni, represented as old men generally intoxicated, who were not very appropriately regarded as the deities presiding over running streams; and the Satyrs, half-men and half-goats, who were not divinities, but merely representatives of the original worshippers, who were goat-herds, and during the festival assumed the skins of the goats which they had sacrificed as an offering to the god of wine.

The earliest state of the drama was therefore a hymn to Bacchus, which was called the Dithyramb; who invented the hymn is not known, nor is the precise meaning of the name. It was danced in a wild fashion by a chorus around a fiery altar, and accompanied by the flute. The poet Arion introduced many striking changes into the Dithyramb, the most important of which was a tragic style of declamation. He substituted the soft lyre for the shrill flute, and decency and order in place of irregularity and licentiousness. The name of Bacchus was dropped, and the deeds of semi-divine heroes were exploited in the hymn; there were no actors; it remained a chorus, but of a mimetic nature, and led by the exarchus--the forerunner of the principal character--who was the best dancer and mimic. The others took their cue from him. Thus, in the course of lamentation, when the exarchus struck himself as a sign of grief the rest of the chorus would imitate his example.

While the feast of Bacchus was thus developing another cause contributed to the birth of the drama. This was the recitation of Homer’s poetry by wandering minstrels. These men carried a staff as the symbol of their business, and chanted the national poetry with musical accompaniment. As these recitations increased in popularity many of the living poets became themselves minstrels in order to make their own works known; every kind of poetry was recited; and the musical accompaniment was dropped. Minstrelsy became a profitable trade. On great occasions, when a large number of the rhapsodes, as they were called, came together, different parts would be assigned, which were recited alternately; making the first approach towards a theatrical dialogue. The next step was to unite the methods of the minstrels with the Bacchanalian goat-song; and it was that blending which brought the drama into life.

The man who accomplished this was Thespis, but his action was probably the result of an accident. He discovered that the Bacchanalian chorus became tired of singing in the course of the festival, and so he introduced a minstrel, or an actor, to rest them. This actor was himself. He disguised his face with pigments, and prepared a mask in order that he might be able to sustain more than one character. He addressed himself to the chorus, which stood near the thymele or altar of Bacchus, and that the singers might have no difficulty in hearing him he stood upon a table, which was the origin of the stage.

Thus tragedy became established; but after a time the lower classes grew discontented with the serious performances, and missed the buffoonery of the Satyrs, which was the principle feature of the vintage festival. They considered also that Bacchus was not sufficiently honoured by performances which dealt with heroes and other gods. To remove their discontent the Satyrical drama was introduced, that is to say plays in which the chorus was composed of Satyrs. In the meantime comedy, which at the outset was nothing more than a Bacchanalian orgy, was gaining ground. At the festival of the vintage the countryfolk went about from one village to another in carts, or on foot, making jesting and abusive speeches and singing licentious songs. Such a song was called Comus. The same word signified also a night revel. Young men would go into the streets after supper with torches, and sing to the flute and lyre. Such a party was called a Comus. Thus the Bacchic reveller was known as a Comodus or comus-singer, just as the singer of the Dithyramb was known as a Tragodus or wearer of a goat-skin.

The orgies of the vintage were still confined to the country and the lower classes. They were unspeakably coarse, and consisted largely in the abuse of public characters. For that reason comedy was subsequently introduced to the city. One political party in Athens desired to attack its opponents, and could think of no better method than the introduction of the lower order of country-folk, to repeat their performance in the town, and to speak the words which were put into their mouths. This led to the recognition and establishment of comedy, which in its then form was little more than the scurrilous abuse of some unpopular demagogue; the aim of comedy being to exhibit individuals in a ridiculous light, and worse than they were; while tragedy showed them as sublime, and better than men could be.

The preacher went on to consider the subject of representation, pointing out that the performances, which it was the duty of every citizen to attend, were of a religious character; the actors wore the festal robes used in the Bacchanalian processions; the theatre was the temple of the god; and its central point was the smoking altar. He went on to trace the connection between religion and art; and concluded his strange sermon, which interested nobody, except the only one who understood it and that was himself, with a discussion upon the scenic accessories and the dramatic incidents connected with public worship, both in pagan temples and Christian churches, from the earliest times to the present day.

Service over--neither Conway nor Drayton attended, because the Strath was no observer of the first day in the week--the rector joined the Juxons in the churchyard, and escorted them to the rectory, talking with unusual brightness. He demanded Maude’s opinion upon his sermon, and she replied that it had been too long. At that Juxon interposed with a few quiet words of praise, but the rector maintained that Maude was right. There was much extraneous matter which should have been removed. He ought to have remembered that his sermon was to be heard by a gifted critic. He feared that long association with rustics had dulled the edge of his intellect. The stockbroker listened with increasing amazement.

Whatever doubts he might still have entertained regarding Dr. Berry’s attitude towards his wife were to be set at rest that afternoon. After luncheon they sat upon the lawn, and the stockbroker politely introduced the subject of Greece, although he knew little about the country, beyond the fact that its bonds were not easily negotiable; and the conversation naturally passed to the poet’s special period and the great work of his life.

“You should read some of Dr. Berry’s poems,” remarked Maude, who was beginning to feel neglected.

From that moment she had no cause for complaint upon that score.

“Mine is not the intellect,” said the scholar. “I am little more than a translator. It has been my effort to express in our own tongue the thoughts of the ancient singers.” Again he placed his hand upon Juxon’s arm. “In my recent endeavours this lady has been an inspiration. Before she came into my life I worked in a groove, which I can now perceive was leading me towards the dangers of commonplace. I lacked tenderness; the softer qualities were altogether lacking. I was neither sufficiently broad-minded nor sympathetic. But she has shown me my faults.”

Maude became scarlet. She cast an agonised glance upon her husband, but his head was down.

“Upon the occasion of our first meeting she expressed great interest in my work,” went on the musical voice. “She was good enough to invite me to her house. I confess I hesitated. It may seem strange to you, but throughout my previous life I had refrained from female society. To my shame be it said I could not believe that the analytical faculty could be found highly developed within any beautiful woman. Fortunately for me I went to this lady’s house, and she convinced me I was wrong. I found appreciation, a tender listener, a sympathetic critic, an affectionate adviser. Such a help-meet was the one thing wanting in my life, though I had not known it.”

“Yes,” said Juxon.

Maude was digging her sun-shade into the turf. It was horrible to know she could say nothing in self-defence. She was painfully conscious how often she had told her husband she could not tolerate being read to, she absolutely never had an opinion to give, she hated reading, and thought all learning a bore. Now she was being extolled before her husband as an efficient critic upon one of the most brain-vexing periods of history.

“I went again and again to this lady’s house,” Dr. Berry continued, lifting his hat reverently and gazing into the sky. “Not content with rendering me very much valuable assistance, she showered upon me her hospitality also. The welcome I have always received from her has made a very deep impression upon my heart. Quite recently we spent a memorable evening together, I in reading my translations--for I find she has not as yet made herself thoroughly conversant with the earlier Greek--she in suggesting alterations and improvements, dealing chiefly with the necessity for introducing more natural tenderness of feeling. Afterwards we had supper, and her conversation I remember was beautiful and inspiring.”

“I am glad my wife has been of such service to you,” said Juxon.

“She has been a guiding star,” said Dr. Berry, putting out his white hand and touching Maude’s fingers tenderly. “And I trust she will ever remain so. I have become a changed man of late. My studious interests have redoubled. Formerly I was working for myself alone. Now I have her approbation to secure. Through the light of her mind I am enabled to see many truths which formerly were hidden from my eyes. I have been callous; but she has quickened me with new life. I have to thank her for my present insight into the tender mysteries of devotional love.”

“Herbert,” Maude cried with a gasp. “I think we ought to be going.”

“I hope,” said the scholar, closing his fingers affectionately round Juxon’s fat hand, “that you also have realised this happiness. I understand now that there is help for every man in this world, when he has been led to that one of his species whose being throbs in unison with his own. Our most secret ambition may be realised through the mind of a faithful friend.”

Juxon rose. He looked at his wife, and their eyes met. He was not angry with her then. He was sorry for himself. She had won the heart of a far more intellectual man than himself, and he had given her nothing beyond that which he now believed her soul despised. He had given her liberty to move about the world, a certain position, the very clothes she stood in. He compared his flabby features and half-bald head with the grave handsome face, the sensitive mouth, and silvered hair of his dreamy host, and the mystery became solved. He understood that women require something besides luxuries and freedom; and he had neither fascination nor charm of tongue to offer.

Again the silver bells jingled through Thorlund and the donkeys presently stopped their trot, to walk the long hill. Maude was indignant because she felt she had been made ridiculous. She had not a word to say, until the cart reached the grass-grown road which led to Queensmore, then she lashed her diminutive team spitefully, and exclaimed, “I suppose Dr. Berry is mad.”

“I thought him original,” answered her husband quietly, “but remarkably sane.”

“That is just the sort of exasperating remark I might have expected,” said Maude angrily. “He made a perfect idiot of me. Why didn’t you change the subject?”

“He regards you as a saint. It was not for me to disagree with him,” her husband answered. “I must own I was astonished to find you held up as an art critic,” he added with a gentle, and perfectly legitimate, touch of irony.

“It was all utterly idiotic,” said Maude. “And I will never ask him to the cottage again. I am not going home, I want to go and see Flora.”

The following morning Juxon returned to his business, which just then was engrossing all the attention which he was able to bestow; and after his solitary dinner he sat down and wrote a long letter to Maude. For a man of his temperament it was easier to write than to speak.

When Flora came over on Tuesday morning she found her friend simmering with indignation and a sense of injury.

“I have had a ridiculous letter from Herbert,” she began at once, “He talks of my duty to him and to our child. I’m sure Peggy is much happier with a nurse than she could ever be with me. Besides it makes one feel old and ugly to have a growing child hanging to one’s skirts and crumpling them. He says, as I am so fond of the country, he will take a house within easy reach of London, and go backwards and forwards. That is altogether absurd. If the weather happened to be bad he would stop at home whole days and ruin his business. And I don’t want to be planted down. I like to go about. And he says he knows I mean nothing, but I ought not to encourage Dr. Berry’s visits and this poetry reading. What rubbish, Flora! Dr. Berry’s voice is so soothing, and I like to watch his face. Do you know he said all sorts of nice things about me on Sunday--called me his guiding star, and--and angel of inspiration, and Herbert was there and had to listen! Sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Thereupon the little weathercock favoured her friend with an account of the scene in the rectory garden, adding her own airy touches of imagination to what she could remember of the scholar’s actual utterances.

“I always thought you were a wicked person, and now I am sure of it,” said Flora, when the pink lady had done bubbling. “You had much better make the best of your husband and be good. As for Dr. Berry, I should advise you to leave him severely alone. You know you are just a little bit fascinated, and he might become dangerous, and you might be stupid, and Mr. Juxon would hear of it--and then, where would Miss Maudie be then, poor thing?” she concluded flippantly.

“You are always preaching,” said her friend pettishly. “You have changed altogether, and I don’t like you now.”

“Givers of advice are often unpopular,” Miss Neill admitted. “But you are right about my preaching. I have been lecturing uncle on the condition of his study, and advising Mr. Conway to destroy that house. By the way he has been trying, in a weird sort of way, to approach.”

“What! Proposing?” cried Maude, forgetting her own tribulations.

“Something rather like it. You will please remember I am still a line moving through space, and Mr. Conway has chosen to establish himself as my curve for the time being. It is the duty of the curve to remain motionless, but he has forgotten propriety and jumped out to meet me.”

“With the result that you jumped back?”

Flora nodded.

“The idea of calling me wicked!” exclaimed Mrs. Juxon indignantly. “A married woman has certain flirting privileges, but an unmarried girl has none. You will play your game too long, and some day you will wake up and find yourself growing old and ugly, and then you may whistle as much as you like but no one will come to you. I have a heart, Flora, and yours is just a horrid cold lump of stone. You will become a nasty old crabbed spinster, sitting at a window, knitting socks for missionaries, keeping cats and canaries, and saying atrocious things about your neighbours.”

“You may threaten,” said the fair-haired girl loftily. “Remember what I said to you at home. The sympathies will not be forbidden. If you are married without love, some state of the soul will assert itself.”

“Rubbish,” said the little lady. “Go into the garden, while I write no-thank-you to Herbert, and pick me some roses.”

“You know I cannot touch roses.”

“Then do, for goodness sake, take a piece of string and play with the kitten.”

So Flora went on her way, Maude Juxon on hers; and the Strath waited for them both.