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The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole

H >> Hugh Walpole >> The Cathedral




And all this was in no sort of fashion for the Archdeacon's personal
advancement or ambition. He was contented with Polchester, and quite
prepared to live there for the rest of his days and be buried, with proper
ceremonies, when his end came. With all his soul he loved the Cathedral,
and if he regarded himself as the principal factor in its good governance
and order he did so with a sort of divine fatalism--no credit to him that
it was so. Let credit be given to the Lord God who had seen fit to make
him what he was and to place in his hands that great charge.

His fault in the matter was, perhaps, that he took it all too simply, that
he regarded these men and the other figures in Polchester exactly as he
saw them, did not believe that they could ever be anything else. As God
had created the world, so did Brandon create Polchester as nearly in his
own likeness as might be--there they all were and there, please God, they
would all be for ever!

Bending his mind then to this new campaign, he thought that he would go
and see the Dean. He knew by this time, he fancied, exactly how to prepare
the Dean's mind for the proper reception of an idea, although, in truth,
he was as simple over his plots and plans as a child brick-building in its
nursery.

About three o'clock one afternoon he prepared to sally forth. The Dean's
house was on the other side of the Cathedral, and you had to go down the
High Street and then to the left up Orange Street to get to it, an
irrational roundabout proceeding that always irritated the Archdeacon.
Very splendid he looked, his top-hat shining, his fine high white collar,
his spotless black clothes, his boots shapely and smart. (He and Bentinck-
Major were, I suppose, the only two clergymen in Polchester who used boot-
trees.) But his smartness was in no way an essential with him. Clothed in
rags he would still have the grand air. "I often think of him," Miss
Dobell once said, "as one of those glorious gondoliers in Venice. How
grand he would look!"

However that might be, it is beyond question that the ridiculous clothes
that a clergyman of the Church of England is compelled to wear did not
make him absurd, nor did he look an over-dressed fop like Bentinck-Major.

Miss Dobell's gondolier was, on this present occasion, in an excellent
temper; and meeting his daughter Joan, he felt very genial towards her.
Joan had observed, several days before, that the family crisis might be
said to be past, and very thankful she was.

She had, at this time, her own happy dreams, so that father and daughter,
moved by some genial impulse, stopped and kissed.

"There! my dear!" said the Archdeacon. "And what are you doing this
afternoon, Joan?"

"I'm going with mother," she said, "to see Miss Ronder. It's time we
called, you know."

"I suppose it is." Brandon patted her cheek. "Everything you want?"

"Yes, father, thank you."

"That's right."

He left the house, humming a little tune. On the second step he paused, as
he was in the habit of doing, and surveyed the Precincts--the houses with
their shining knockers, their old-fashioned bow-windows and overhanging
portals, the Cathedral Green, and the towering front of the Cathedral
itself. He was, for a moment, a kind of presiding deity over all this. He
loved it and believed in it and trusted it exactly as though it had been
the work of his own hands. Halfway towards the Arden Gate he overtook poor
old shambling Canon Morphew, who really ought, in the Archdeacon's
opinion, to have died long ago. However, as he hadn't died the Archdeacon
felt kindly towards him, and he had, when he talked to the old man, a
sense of beneficence and charity very warming to the heart.

"Well, Morphew, enjoying the sun?"

Canon Morphew always started when any one spoke to him, being sunk all day
deep in dreams of his own, dreams that had their birth somewhere in the
heart of the misty dirty rooms where his books were piled ceiling-high and
papers blew about the floor.

"Good afternoon...good afternoon, Archdeacon. Pray forgive me. You came
upon me unawares."

Brandon moderated his manly stride to the other's shuffling steps.

"Hope you've had none of that tiresome rheumatism troubling you again."

"Rheumatism? Just a twinge--just a twinge.... It belongs to my time of
life."

"Oh, don't say that!" The Archdeacon laughed his hearty laugh. "You've
many years in front of you yet."

"No, I haven't--and you don't mean it, Archdeacon--you know you don't. A
few months perhaps--that's all. The Lord's will be done. But there's a
piece of work...a piece of work...."

He ran off into incoherent mumblings. Suddenly, just as they reached the
dark shadows of the Arden Gate, he seemed to wake up. His voice was quite
vigorous, his eyes, tired and worn as they were, bravely scanned Brandon's
health and vigour.

"We all come to it, you know. Yes, we do. The very strongest of us. You're
a young man, Archdeacon, by my years, and I hope you may long live to
continue your good work in this place. All the same, you'll be old
yourself one day. No one escapes.... No one escapes...."

"Well, good-day to you," said the Archdeacon hurriedly. "Good-day to
you.... Hope this bright weather continues," and started rather
precipitately down the hill, leaving Morphew to find his way by himself.

His impetuosity was soon restrained. He tumbled immediately into a crowd,
and pulling himself up abruptly and looking down the High Street he saw
that the pavement on both sides of the street was black with people. He
was not a man who liked to be jostled, and he was the more uncomfortable
in that he discovered that his immediate neighbour was Samuel Hogg, the
stout and rubicund landlord of the "Dog and Pilchard" of Seatown. With him
was his pretty daughter Annie. Near to them were Mr. John Curtis and Mr.
Samuel Croppet, two of the Town Councillors. With none of these gentlemen
did the Archdeacon wish to begin a conversation.

And yet it was difficult to know what to do. The High Street pavements
were narrow, and the crowd seemed continually to increase. There was a
good deal of pushing and laughter and boisterous good-humour. To return up
the street again seemed to have something ignominious about it. Brandon
decided to satisfy his curiosity, support his dignity and indulge his
amiability by staying where he was.

"Good afternoon, Hogg," he said. "What's the disturbance for?"

"Markisses Circus, sir," Hogg lifted his face like a large round sun.
"Surely you'd 'eard of it, Archdeacon?"

"Well, I didn't know," said Brandon in his most gracious manner, "that it
was this afternoon.... Of course, how stupid of me!"

He smiled round good-naturedly upon them all, and they all smiled back
upon him. He was a popular figure in the town; it was felt that his
handsome face and splendid presence did the town credit. Also, he always
knew his own mind. _And_ he was no coward.

He nodded to Curtis and Croppet and then stared in front of him, a fixed
genial smile on his face, his fine figure triumphant in the sun. He looked
as though he were enjoying himself and was happy because he liked to see
his fellow-creatures happy; in reality he was wondering how he could have
been so foolish as to forget Marquis' Circus. Why had not Joan said
something to him about it? Very careless of her to place him in this
unfortunate position.

He looked around him, but he could see no other dignitary of the Church
close at hand. How tiresome--really, how tiresome! Moreover, as the timed
moment of the procession arrived the crowd increased, and he was now most
uncomfortably pressed against other people. He felt a sharp little dig in
his stomach, then, turning, found close beside him the flushed anxious,
meagre little face of Samuel Bond, the Clerk of the Chapter. Bond's
struggle to reach his dignified position in the town had been a severe
one, and had only succeeded because of a multitude of self-submissions and
abnegations, humilities and contempts, flatteries and sycophancies that
would have tired and defeated a less determined soul. But, in the
background, there were the figures of Mrs. Bond and four little Bonds to
spur him forward. He adored his family. "Whatever I am, I'm a family man,"
was one of his favourite sayings. In so worthy a cause much sycophancy may
be forgiven him. To no one, however, was he so completely sycophantic as
to the Archdeacon. He was terrified of the Archdeacon; he would wake up in
the middle of the night and think of him, then tremble and cower under the
warm protection of Mrs. Bond until sleep rescued him once more.

It was natural, therefore, that however numerous the people in Polchester
might be whom the Archdeacon despised, he despised little Bond most of
all. And here was little Bond pressed up against him, with the large
circumference of the cheerful Mr. Samuel Hogg near by, and the ironical
town smartness of Messrs. Curtis and Croppet close at hand. Truly a
horrible position.

"Ah, Archdeacon! I didn't see you--indeed I didn't!" The little breathless
voice was like a child's penny whistle blown ignerantly. "Just fancy!--
meeting you like this! Hot, isn't it, although it's only February. Yes....
Hot indeed. I didn't know you cared for processions, Arch-deacon----"

"I don't," said Brandon. "I hadn't realised that there was a procession.
Stupidly, I had forgotten----"

"Well, well," came the good-natured voice of Mr. Hogg. "It'll do us no
harm, Archdeacon--no harm at all. I forget whether you rightly know my
little girl. This is Annie--come out to see the procession with her
father."

The Archdeacon was compelled to shake hands. He did it very graciously.
She was certainly a fine girl--tall, strong, full-breasted, with dark
colour and raven black hair; curious, her eyes, very large and bright.
They stared full at you, but past you, as though they had decided that you
were of insufficient interest.

Annie thus gazed at the Archdeacon and said no word. Any further
intimacies were prevented by approach of the procession. To the present
generation Marquis' Circus would not appear, I suppose, very wonderful. To
many of us, thirty years ago, it seemed the final expression of Oriental
splendour and display.

There were murmurs and cries of "Here they come! Here they come! 'Ere they
be!" Every one pressed forward; Mr. Bond was nearly thrown off his feet
and caught at the lapel of the Archdeacon's coat to save himself. Only the
huge black eyes of Annie Hogg displayed no interest. The procession had
started from the meadows beyond the Cathedral and, after discreetly
avoiding the Precincts, was to plunge down the High Street, pass through
the Market-place and vanish up Orange Street--to follow, in fact, the very
path that the Archdeacon intended to pursue.

A band could be heard, there was an astounded hush (the whole of the High
Street holding its breath), then the herald appeared.

He was, perhaps, a rather shabby fellow, wearing the tarnished red and
gold of many a procession, but he walked confidently, holding in his hand
a tall wooden truncheon gay with paper-gilt, having his round cap of cloth
of gold set rakishly on one side of his head. After him came the band,
also in tarnished cloth of gold and looking as though they would have been
a trifle ashamed of themselves had they not been deeply involved in the
intricacies of their music. After the band came four rather shabby riders
on horseback, then some men dressed apparently in admiring imitation of
Charles II.; then, to the wonder and whispered incredulity of the crowd,
Britannia on her triumphal car. The car--an elaborate cart, with gilt
wheels and strange cardboard figures of dolphins and Father Neptune--had
in its centre a high seat painted white and perched on a kind of box.
Seated on this throne was Britannia herself--a large, full-bosomed,
flaxen-haired lady in white flowing robes, and having a very anxious
expression of countenance, as, indeed, poor thing, was natural enough,
because the cart rocked the box and the box yet more violently rocked the
chair. At any moment, it seemed, might she be precipitated, a fallen
goddess, among the crowd, and the fact that the High Street was on a slope
of considerable sharpness did not add to her ease and comfort. Two stout
gentlemen, perspiration bedewing their foreheads, strove to restrain the
ponies, and their classic clothing, that turned them into rather tattered
Bacchuses, did not make them less incongruous.

Britannia and her agony, however, were soon forgotten in the ferocious
excitements that followed her. Here were two camels, tired and dusty, with
that look of bored and indifferent superiority that belongs to their
tribe, two elephants, two clowns, and last, but of course the climax of
the whole affair, a cage in which there could be seen behind the iron bars
a lion and a lioness, jolted haplessly from side to side, but too deeply
shamed and indignant to do more than reproach the crowd with their burning
eyes. Finally, another clown bearing a sandwich-board on which was printed
in large red letters "Marquis' Circus--the Finest in the World--Renowned
through Europe--Come to the Church Meadows and see the Fun"--and so on.

As this glorious procession passed down the High Street the crowd
expressed its admiration in silent whispering. There was no loud applause;
nevertheless, Mr. Marquis, were he present, must have felt the air
electric with praise. It was murmured that Britannia was Mrs. Marquis,
and, if that were true, she must have given her spouse afterwards, in the
sanctity of their privacy, a very grateful account of her reception.

When the band had passed a little way down the street and their somewhat
raucous notes were modified by distance, the sun came out in especial
glory, as though to take his own peep at the show, the gilt and cloth of
gold shone and gleamed, the chair of Britannia rocked as though it were
bursting with pride, and the Cathedral bells, as though they too wished to
lend their dignified blessing to the scene, began to ring for Evensong. A
sentimental observer, had he been present, might have imagined that the
old town was glad to have once again an excuse for some display, and
preened itself and showed forth its richest and warmest colours and
wondered, perhaps, whether after all the drab and interesting citizens of
to-day were not minded to return to the gayer and happier old times. Quite
a noise, too, of chatter and trumpets and bells and laughter. Even the
Archdeacon forgot his official smile and laughed like a boy.

It was then that the terrible thing happened. Somewhere at the lower end
of the High Street the procession was held up and the chariot had suddenly
to pull itself back upon its wheels, and the band were able to breathe
freely for a minute, to gaze about them and to wipe the sweat from their
brows; even in February blowing and thumping "all round the town" was a
warm business.

Now, just opposite the Archdeacon were the two elephants, checked by the
sudden pause. Behind them was the cage with the lions, who, now that the
jolting had ceased, could collect their scattered indignities and roar a
little in exasperated protest. The elephants, too, perhaps felt the
humility of their position, accustomed though they might be to it by many
years of sordid slavery. It may be, too, that the sight of that
patronising and ignorant crowd, the crush and pack of the High Street, the
silly sniggering, the triumphant jangle of the Cathedral bells, thrust
through their slow and heavy brains some vision long faded now, but for an
instant revived, of their green jungles, their hot suns, their ancient
royalty and might. They realised perhaps a sudden instinct of their power,
that they could with one lifting of the hoof crush these midgets that
hemmed them in back to the pulp whence they came, and so go roaming and
bellowing their freedom through the streets and ways of the city. The
larger of the two suddenly raised his head and trumpeted; with his dim
uplifted eyes he caught sight of the Archdeacon's rich and gleaming top-
hat shining, as an emblem of the city's majesty, above the crowd. It
gleamed in the sun, and he hated it. He trumpeted again and yet again,
then, with a heavy lurching movement, stumbled towards the pavement, and
with little fierce eyes and uplifted trunk heaved towards his enemies.

The crowd, with screams and cries, fell back in agitated confusion. The
Archdeacon, caught by surprise, scarcely realising what had occurred,
blinded a little by the sun, stood where he was. In another movement his
top-hat was snatched from his head and tossed into air....

He felt the animal's hot breath upon his face, heard the shouts and cries
around him, and, in very natural alarm, started back, caught at anything
for safety (he had tumbled upon the broad and protective chest of Samuel
Hogg), and had a general impression of whirling figures, of suns and roofs
and shining faces and, finally, the high winds of heaven blowing upon his
bare head.

In another moment the incident was closed. The courtier of Charles II. had
rushed up; the elephant was pulled and hustled and kicked; for him swiftly
the vision of power and glory and vengeance was over, and once again he
was the tied and governed prisoner of modern civilisation. The top-hat
lay, a battered and hapless remnant, beneath the feet of the now advancing
procession.

Once the crowd realised that the danger was over a roar of laughter went
up to heaven. There were shouts and cries. The Archdeacon tried to smile.
He heard in dim confusion the cheery laugh of Samuel Hogg, he caught the
comment of Croppet and the rest.

With only one thought that he must hide himself, indignation, humiliation,
amazement that such a thing could be in his heart, he backed, turned,
almost ran, finding at last sudden refuge in Bennett's book-shop. How
wonderful was the dark rich security of that enclosure! The shop was
always in a half-dusk and the gas burnt in its dim globes during most of
the day. All the richer and handsomer gleamed the rows of volumes, the
morocco and the leather and the cloth. Old Mr. Bennett himself, the son of
the famous man who had known Scott and Byron, was now a prodigious age (in
the town his nickname was Methusalem), but he still liked to sit in the
shop in a high chair, his white beard in bright contrast with the chaste
selection of the newest works arranged in front of him. He might himself
have been the Spirit of Select Literature summoned out of the vasty deep
by the Cultured Spirits of Polchester.

Into this splendid temple of letters the Archdeacon came, halted,
breathless, bewildered, tumbled. He saw at first only dimly. He was aware
that old Mr. Bennett, with an exclamation of surprise, rose in his chair.
Then he perceived that two others were in the shop; finally, that these
two were the Dean and Ronder, the men of all others in Polchester whom he
least wished to find there.

"Archdeacon!" cried the Dean.

"Yes--om--ah--an extraordinary thing has occurred--I really--oh, thank
you, Mr. Wilton...."

Mr. Frank Wilton, the young assistant, had offered a chair.

"You'll scarcely believe me--really, I can hardly believe myself." Here
the Archdeacon tried to laugh. "As a matter of fact, I was coming out to
see you...on my way...and the elephant..."

"The elephant?" repeated the Dean, who, in the way that he had, was
nervously rubbing one gaitered leg against the other.

"Yes--I'm a little incoherent, I'm afraid. You must forgive me...
breathless too.... It's too absurd. So many people..."

"A little glass of water, Mr. Archdeacon?" said young Wilton, who had a
slight cast in one eye, and therefore gave the impression that he was
watching round the corner to see that no one ran off with the books.

"No, thank you, Wilton.... No, thank you.... Very good of you, I'm sure.
But really it was a monstrous thing. I was coming to see you, as I've just
said, Dean, having forgotten all about this ridiculous procession. I was
held up by the crowd just below the shop here. Then suddenly, as the
animals were passing, the elephant made a lurch towards me--positively,
I'm not exaggerating--seized my hat and--ran off with it!"

The Archdeacon had, as I have already said, a sense of fun. He saw, for
the first time, the humour of the thing. He began to laugh; he laughed
more loudly; laughter overtook him altogether, and he roared and roared
again, sitting there, his hands on his knees, until the tears ran down his
cheek.

"Oh dear...my hat...an elephant...Did you ever hear----? My best hat...!"
The Dean was compelled to laugh too, although, being a shy and hesitating
man, he was not able to do it very heartily. Young Mr. Wilton laughed,
but in such a way as to show that he knew his place and was ready to be
serious at once if his superiors wished it. Even old Mr. Bennett laughed
as distantly and gently as befitted his great age.

Brandon was conscious of Ronder. He had, in fact, been conscious of him
from the very instant of his first perception of him. He was giving
himself away before their new Canon; he thought that the new Canon,
although he was smiling pleasantly and was standing with becoming modesty
in the background, looked superior....

The Archdeacon pulled himself up with a jerk. After all, it was nothing of
a joke. A multitude of townspeople had seen him in a most ludicrous
position, had seen him start back in terror before a tame elephant, had
seen him frightened and hatless. No, there was nothing to laugh about.

"An elephant?" repeated the Dean, still gently laughing.

"Yes, an elephant," answered Brandon rather testily. That was enough of
the affair, quite enough. "Well, I must be getting back. See you to-
morrow, Dean."

"Anything important you wanted to see me about?" asked the Dean,
perceiving that he had laughed just a little longer than was truly
necessary.

"No, no...nothing. Only about poor Morrison. He's very bad, they tell
me...a week at most."

"Dear, dear--is that so?" said the Dean. "Poor fellow, poor fellow!"

Brandon was now acutely conscious of Ronder. Why didn't the fellow say
something instead of standing silently there with that superior look
behind his glasses? In the ordinary way he would have greeted him with his
usual hearty patronage. Now he was irritated. It was really most
unfortunate that Ronder should have witnessed his humiliation. He rose,
abruptly turning his back upon him. The fellow was laughing at him--he was
sure of it.

"Well--good-day, good-day." As he advanced to the door and looked out into
the street he was aware of the ludicrousness of going even a few steps up
the street without a hat.

Confound Ronder!

But there was scarcely any one about now. The street was almost deserted.
He peered up and down.

In the middle of the road was a small, shapeless, black object.

...His hat!




Chapter V

Mrs. Brandon Goes Out to Tea



Mrs. Brandon hated her husband. No one in Polchester had the slightest
suspicion of this; certainly her husband least of all. She herself had
been first aware of it one summer afternoon some five or six years ago
when, very pleasantly and in the kindest way, he had told her that she
knew nothing about primroses. They had been having tea at the Dean's, and,
as was often the case then, the conversation had concerned itself with
flowers and ferns. Mrs. Brandon was quite ready to admit that she knew
nothing about primroses--there were for her yellow ones and other ones,
and that was all. The Archdeacon had often before told her that she was
ignorant, and she had acquiesced without a murmur. Upon this afternoon,
just as Mrs. Sampson was asking her whether she liked sugar, revelation
came to her. That little scene was often afterwards vividly in front of
her--the Archdeacon, with his magnificent legs spread apart in front of
the fireplace; Miss Dobell trying to look with wisdom upon a little bundle
of primulas that the Dean was showing to her; the sunlight upon the lawn
beyond the window; the rooks in the high elms busy with their nests; the
May warmth striking through the misty air--all was painted for ever
afterwards upon her mind.

"My dear, you may as well admit at once that you know nothing whatever
about primroses."

"No, I'm afraid I don't--thank you, Mrs. Sampson. One lump, please."

She had been coming to it. Of course, a very long time before this--very,
very far away, now an incredible memory, seemed the days when she had
loved him so passionately that she almost died with anxiety if he left her
for a single night. Almost too passionate it had been, perhaps. He himself
was not capable of passionate love, or, at any rate, had been quite
satisfied to be _not_ passionately in love with _her_. He pursued
other things--his career, his religion, his simple beneficence, his
health, his vigour. His love for his son was the most passionately
personal thing in him, and over that they might have met had he been able
to conceive her as a passionate being. Her ignorance of life--almost
complete when he had met her--had been but little diminished by her time
with him. She knew now, after all those years, little more of the world
and its terrors and blessings than she had known then. But she did know
that nothing in her had been satisfied. She knew now of what she was
capable, and it was perhaps the thought that he had, by taking her,
prevented her fulfilment and complete experience that caused her, more
than anything else, to hate him.

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