ABOUT VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC
There was a concert in Brentor village in aid of that hungry creature
the Church, which resembles so many tin- and copper-mines, inasmuch as
much more money goes into it than ever comes out. Brentor is overdone
with churches. There is one in the village, and the little one on the
tor outside. Maids like to be married on the tor. They think it gives
them a good start in life, but that idea is owing to tradition, which
connects Brentor with the worship of Baal. The transition from Paganism
to Christianity was gradual, and in many cases the old gods were merely
painted up and made to look like new. The statue of Jove was bereft of
its thunderbolt, given a bunch of keys, and called Peter; the goddess of
love became a madonna; the sun-temple was turned into a church. Where
the original idea was lost sight of a legend was invented; such as that
of the merchant who, overtaken by a storm when beating for shore, vowed
to build a church upon the first point of land which should appear in
sight. There is no getting away from sun-worship upon Dartmoor, and no
easy way of escape from tradition either. That is why maids like to be
sacrificed upon Brentor, even when the wind is threatening to sweep them
down its cliffs.
Local talent was not represented at the concert. People from Tavistock
came to perform; all sorts and conditions of amateurs in evening dress
and muddy boots. The room was crowded, as it was a fine evening, and
therefore there was nothing to prevent the inhabitants of the two holy
Tavys from walking across the moor, and a jabbering cartload had come
from Lydford also. There was no chattering in the room. The entire
audience became appalled by respectability as represented by gentlemen
with bulging shirt-fronts and ladies with visible bosoms. They stared,
they muttered hoarsely, they turned to and fro like mechanical figures;
but they did not chatter. They felt as if they were taking part in a
religious ceremony.
The young lady who opened proceedings, after the inevitable duet on the
piano--which, to increase the sense of mystery, was called on the
practically illegible programme a pianoforte--with a sentimental song,
made an error. She merely increased the atmosphere of despondency. When
she had finished some of the audience became restless. They were
wondering whether the time had come for them to kneel.
"Bain't him a cruel noisy thing?" exclaimed Mary, with a certain amount
of enthusiasm. "What du'ye call 'en?" she asked a small, dried-up
ancient man who sat beside her, while indicating the instrument of music
with an outstretched arm.
The old man tried to explain, which was a thing he was famous for doing.
He was a superannuated school-master of the nearly extinct type, the
kind that knew nothing and taught as much, but a brave learned man
according to some of the old folk.
Peter sat by his sister, trying to look at his ease; and he too listened
intently for what school-master had to say. Peter and Mary were
blossoming out, and becoming social and gregarious beings.
This was the first grand entertainment they had ever attended. Tickets
had been given them, or they would certainly not have been there. As
Peter had failed in his efforts to sell the tickets they had decided to
use them, although dressing for the event was something of an ordeal.
Mary had a black hat and a silk dress, both of early Victorian
construction, and beneath, her huge nailed boots innocent of blacking.
Peter wore a tie under his chin, and a wondrous collar some three inches
lower down. The rest of his costume was also early nineteenth century in
make, but effectual. He was very much excited by the music, but
dreadfully afraid of showing it.
"That there box," said Master, with an air of diving deep in the well of
wisdom "he'm full o' wires and hammers."
"My dear life!" gasped Mary. "Full o' wires and hammers! Du'ye hear,
Peter?"
Her brother replied in the affirmative, although in a manner which
suggested that the information was superfluous.
"Volks hit them bones, and the bones dra' on the hammers, and the
hammers hit the wires," proceeded Master.
"Bain't that artful now?" cried Mary.
"Sure 'nuff," agreed Peter, unable to restrain his admiration.
"Couldn't ye mak' one o' they? You'm main cruel larned wi' your hands,"
Mary went on.
Peter admitted that was so. Given the material, he had no doubt of his
ability to turn out a piano capable of producing that music which his
sister described as cruel noisy.
"It taketh a scholard to understand how to mak' they things," said
Master, with some severity. "See all that carved wood on the front of
him? You couldn't du that, and the piano wouldn't mak' no music if
'twasn't for the carved wood. 'Twould mak' a noise, you see, Peter, but
not music. 'Tis the noise coming out through the carving what makes the
music. Taketh a scholard to du that."
"Look at she!" cried Mary violently, as another lady rose to warble.
This songster had a good bust, and desired to convince her audience of
the fact. "Her ha' grown out of her clothes sure 'nuff. Her can't hardly
cover her paps."
"Shet thee noise, woman," muttered Peter.
"Her be in full evening dress," explained Master.
Mary subsided in deep reflection. She knew perfectly well what "full"
meant. There were plenty of full days upon Tavy Cleave. It meant a heavy
wet mist which filled everything so that nothing was visible. For Mary
every word had only one meaning. She could not understand how the word
"full" could bear two exactly opposite meanings.
The back seats were overflowing. Only threepence was charged there, but
seats were not guaranteed. The majority stood, partly to show their
independence, chiefly to look as if they had just dropped in, not with
any idea of being entertained, but that they might satisfy themselves
there was nothing objectionable in the programme. Several men stood
huddled together as near the door as possible, showing their disapproval
of such frivolity in the usual manner, by standing in antagonistic
attitudes and frowning at the performers. Chegwidden was there,
containing sufficient liquor to make him grateful for the support of the
wall. He had tried to get in for nothing, by explaining that he was a
member of the Board of Guardians, and had been from his youth a
steadfast opponent of the Church as by law established. These excuses
having failed, he had paid the threepence under protest, explaining at
the same time that if he heard anything to shock his innocent mind he
should demand his money back, visit his solicitor when next in Tavistock
with a view to taking action against those who had dared to pervert the
public mind, and indite letters to all the local papers. The
entertainment committee had a troublesome threepennyworth in Farmer
Chegwidden. He had already spent a couple of shillings in liquor, and
would spend another couple when the concert was over. That was money
spent upon a laudable object. But the threepence demanded for admission
was, as he loudly proclaimed, money given to the devil.
Near him stood Pendoggat, his head down as usual, and breathing heavily
as if he had gone to sleep. He looked as much at home there as a bat
flitting in the sunlight among butterflies. Every one was surprised to
see Pendoggat. Members of his own sect decided he was there to collect
material for a scathing denunciation of such methods from the pulpit of
Ebenezer. Chegwidden pushed closer, and asked hoarsely, "What do 'ye
think of it, varmer?"
"Taking money in God's name to square the devil," answered Pendoggat.
"Just what I says," muttered Chegwidden, greatly envying the other's
powers of expression. "Immortality! That's what it be, varmer. 'Tis a
hard word, but there ain't no other. Dirty immortality!" He meant
immorality, but was confused by righteous indignation, the music, and
other things.
"Can't us do nought?" Chegwidden went on. "Us lets their religion bide.
They'm mocking us, varmer. That there last song was blasphemy, and
immortality, and a-mocking us all through."
Pendoggat muttered something about a demonstration outside later on, to
mark their disapproval of such infamous attempts to seduce young people
from the paths of rectitude. Then he relapsed into taciturnity, while
Chegwidden went on babbling of people's sins.
Most of the ill-feeling was due to the fact that the room had been used
several years back as a meeting-house, where the pure Gospel had flowed
regularly. Chegwidden's father had carried his Bible into a front seat
there. Souls had been saved in that room; anniversary teas had been held
there; services of song had been given; young couples, whose
Nonconformity was unimpeachable, had conducted their amours there; and
upon the outside of the door had been scrawled shockingly crude
statements concerning such love-affairs, accompanied by anatomical
caricatures of the parties in question. It was holy ground, and
representatives of a hostile sect were defiling it.
Greater evils followed. An eccentric gentleman rose and recited a story
about a lady trying to mount an overcrowded street-car, and being
dragged along the entire length of a street, chatting to the conductor
the while; quite a harmless story, but it made Brentor to grin.
Church-people laughed noisily, and even Methodists tittered.
Nonconformist maids of established reputations giggled, and their young
men cackled like geese. It was in short a laughing audience. The
threepenny-bits shivered. Fire from heaven was already overdue. Complete
destruction might be looked for at any moment. One nervous old woman
crept out. She had heard the doctrine of eternal punishment expounded in
that place, and she explained she could remain there no longer and
listen to profanity. The performer again obliged; this time with a comic
song which set the seal of blasphemy upon the whole performance.
Chegwidden turned his face to the wall, moaned, and demanded of a
neighbour what he thought of it all.
"Brave fine singing," came the unscrupulous answer, which seemed to
denote that the speaker had also been carried away by enthusiasm.
This was the last straw. Even the lights of Ebenezer were flickering and
going out. Chegwidden and Pendoggat appeared to be the only godly men
left. The farmer turned upon the irreligious speaker, and crushed him
with weighty words.
"'Twas here father prayed," he said, in a voice unsteady with grief and
alcohol. "Twice every Sunday, and me with 'en, and he've a-shook me in
this chapel, and punched my ear many a time when I was cracking nuts in
sermon time. Father led in prayer here, and he've a-told me how he once
prayed twenty minutes by the clock. Some said 'twas nineteen, but father
knew 'twas twenty, 'cause he had his watch in his hand, and never took
his eyes off 'en. Never thought he'd do the last minute, but he did.
They was religious volks in them days. Father prayed here, I tells ye,
and I learnt Sunday-school here, and 'twas here us all learnt the
blessed truths of immorality."--again he blundered in his meaning--"and
now it be a place for dancing, and singing, and play-acting, and us will
be judged for it, and weighed in the balances and found wanting."
"Us can repent," suggested the neighbour.
Chegwidden would not admit this. "Them what have laughed here to-night
won't die natural, not in their beds," he declared. "They'll die sudden.
They'll be cut off. They've committed blasphemy, which is the sin what
ain't forgiven."
Then Chegwidden turned upon the doorkeeper and demanded his money back.
He was not going to remain among the wicked. He was going to spend the
rest of the evening respectably at the inn.
After that the programme continued for a little without interruption.
Then a young lady, who had been especially imported for the occasion,
obliged with a violin solo. She played well, but made the common mistake
of amateurs before a rural audience; preferring to exhibit her command
over the instrument by rendering classical music, instead of playing
something which the young men could whistle to. It was a very soft
piece. The performer bent to obtain the least possible amount of sound
from a string; and at that critical moment a loud weary voice startled
the religious silence of the room--
"Aw, my dear life! Bain't it a shocking waste o' time?"
It was Mary, who was feeling bored. The novelty of the performance had
worn off. She was prepared to sit there and hear a good noise. She liked
the piano when it was giving forth plenty of crashing chords; but that
whining scraping sound was intolerable. It was worse than any old cat.
There was some commotion in the front seats, and shocked faces were
turned upon Mary, while the performer almost broke down. She made
another effort, but it was no use, for Mary continued at the top of her
voice--
"Ole Will Chanter had a fiddle like thikky one. Du'ye mind, Peter?"
Indignant voices called for silence, but Mary only looked about in some
amazement. She couldn't think what the people were driving at. As she
was not being entertained there was nothing to prevent her from talking,
and it was only natural that she should speak to Peter; and if the folks
in front did not approve of her remarks they need not listen. The
violinist had dropped her arms in despair; but when she perceived
silence was restored she tried again.
"Used to play 'en in Peter Tavy church," continued Mary, with much
relish. "Used to sot up in the loft and fiddle cruel. Didn't 'en,
Master? Don't ye mind ole Will Chanter what had a fiddle like thikky
one? His brother Abe sot up wi' 'en, and blowed into a long pipe. Made a
cruel fine noise, them two."
Mary was becoming anecdotal, and threatening to address the audience at
some length, so the violinist had to give up and make way for a vocalist
with sufficient voice to drown these reminiscences of a former
generation.
After the concert there were disturbances outside. One faction cheered
the performers; another hooted them. Then a light of Ebenezer kindled
into religious fire and hit an Anglican postman in the eye. The response
of the Church Militant loosened two Nonconformist teeth. Chegwidden
reappeared on horseback, swaying from side to side, holding on by the
reins, and raising the cry of down with everything except Ebenezer and
liquor-shops.
Pendoggat stood aloof, looking on, hoping there would be a fight. He did
not mix in such things himself. It was his custom to stand in the
background and work the machinery from outside. He liked to see men
attacking one another, to watch pain inflicted, and to see the blood
flow. Turning to the man whose mouth had been damaged he muttered: "Go
at him again."
"I'm satisfied," came the answer.
"He called you a dirty monkey," lied Pendoggat.
The insult was sufficient. The Anglican postman was walking away, having
fought a good fight for the faith that was in him, by virtue of two
shillings a week for various duties, and his Opponent seizing the
opportunity attacked him vigorously from the rear. Peter and Mary
watched the conflict, and their savage souls rejoiced. This was better
than all the pianos and fiddles in the world. They felt at last they
were getting value for their free tickets.
Sport was terminated by the sudden appearance of the Maggot. He had been
drafting a prospectus of the "Tavy Nickel Mining Company, Limited," and
had issued forth to look for the managing director. He stopped the fight
and lectured the combatants in spiritual language. He comprehended how
the ex-chapel had been desecrated that night by godless people, and he
appreciated the zeal which had prompted a member of his congregation to
defend its sanctity; but he explained that it was not lawful for
Christians to brawl upon the streets. To take out a summons for assault
was far holier. The man with the loosened teeth explained that he should
do so. It was true he had incited the postman to fight by striking him
first; but then he had struck him with Christian charity in the eye,
which entailed only a slight temporary discomfort and no permanent loss;
whereas the postman had struck him with brutal ferocity on the mouth,
depriving him of the services of two teeth; and had moreover added
obscene language, as could be proved by impartial witnesses. Pezzack
assured him that the teeth Bad fallen in a good cause; men and women had
been tortured and burnt at the stake for their religion; and he quoted
the acts of Bloody Mary, that bigoted lady who has become the hardy
perennial of Nonconformist sermons, with a strong emphasis upon the
qualifying, adjective. The champion went away delighted. He had won his
martyr's crown, and his teeth were not so very loose after all. A little
beer would soon tighten them.
The crowd was dwindling away with its grievances. The folks would
chatter furiously for a few days; then the affair would drop and be
forgotten, and a fresh scandal would fill the vacancy. They would never
bite so long as they had liberty to bark. Chegwidden had galloped off
across the moor in his usual wild way. Every week he would visit some
inn, upon what might have been called his home circuit, and at closing
time would commit his senseless body to his horse with the certain hope
of being carried home. To gallop wildly over Dartmoor at night might be
ranked as an almost heroic action. The horse had brains fortunately.
Chegwidden was only the clinging monkey upon its back. The farmer had
fallen on several occasions, but had escaped with bruises. One night he
would break his neck, or crack his head upon a boulder, and die as he
had lived--drunk. Drunkenness is not a vice upon Dartmoor; nor a fault
even. It is a custom.
The Maggot found Pendoggat. They greeted one another in a fraternal way,
then began to walk down from the village. The night was clear ahead of
them, but above Brentor, with its church, which looked rather like an
exaggerated locomotive in that light, the sky, or "widdicote," as Mary
might have called it, was red and lowering.
"Well, what about business?" said Pendoggat.
"I am not finding it easy, Mr. Pendoggat," said the minister. "Folks are
nervous, and, as you know, there is not much money about. But they trust
me, Mr. Pendoggat. They trust me," he repeated fervently.
"Got any promises?"
"A few half-promises. I could do better if I was able to show them the
mine. If you would come forward, with your wisdom and experience, I
think we should do well. I mentioned that you were interested."
"I told you to keep my name out of it," said Pendoggat.
"But that is impossible. I cannot tell a lie, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli,
with the utmost deference.
"You're suspicious," said the other sharply. "You don't trust me. Say it
out, Pezzack."
"I do trust you, Mr. Pendoggat. I have given you this 'and," said Eli,
extending a clay-like slab. "I have seen with my own eyes the sides of
that cave gleaming with precious metal like the walls of the New
Jerusalem. I can take your 'and now, and look you in the heye, and say
'ow I trust you. We 'ave prayed side by side, and you 'ave always prayed
fair. Now that we are working side by side I know you'll work fair. But
I 'ave thought, Mr. Pendoggat, 'ow you seem to be putting too much upon
me."
"I'll tell you how it is. I'm pushed," Pendoggat muttered. "Nobody knows
it, but I'm deep in debt. Do you think I'd be such a fool as to give
this find of mine away for nothing, as you might say, unless I'd got
to?" he went on sullenly. "I've known of it for years. I've spent days
planting willows and fern about the entrance to that old shaft, to close
it up and make folk forget it's there. I meant to bide my time till I
could get mining folk in London to take it up and make a big thing out
of it. I'm a disappointed man, Pezzack. I'm in debt, and I've got to
suffer for it."
He paused, scowling sullenly at his companion.
"My 'eart bleeds for you, Mr. Pendoggat," said simple Eli. He thought
that was a good and sympathetic phrase, although he somewhat exaggerated
the actual state of his feelings.
"I've kept 'em quiet so far," said Pendoggat. "I've paid what I can, and
they know they can't get more. But if 'twas known about this mine, and
known I was running it, they'd be down on me like flies on a carcase,
and would ruin the thing at once. The only chance for me was to look out
for a straight man who could float the scheme in his name while I did
the work. I knew only one man I could really trust, and that man is
you."
"It is very generous of you, Mr. Pendoggat," said the buttered Eli.
They had reached the railway bridge, and there stopped, being upon the
edge of the moor. Beneath them was Brentor station gone to sleep;
beyond, in its cutting, that of Mary Tavy. The lines of two rival
companies ran needlessly side by side, silently proclaiming to the still
Dartmoor night the fact that railway companies are quite human and hate
each other like individuals. Pendoggat was looking down as usual,
therefore his eyes were fixed upon the rival lines. Possibly he found
something there to interest him.
"I'll get you some samples. You can take them about with you," he went
on. "We'll have a meeting too."
"At the Barton?" suggested Eli.
"The chapel," said Pendoggat.
"Commencing with a prayer-meeting," said Eli. "That is a noble thought,
Mr. Pendoggat. We will seek a blessing on the work."
"The chapel must be rebuilt," said Pendoggat.
"The Lord's work first. Yes, that is right. That is like you, Mr.
Pendoggat. I will communicate with some friends in London. I 'ave an
uncle who is a retired grocer. He lives at Bromley, Mr. Pendoggat. He
will invest part of his savings, I am convinced. He has confidence in
me. He had me educated for the ministry. He will persuade others to
invest, perhaps."
Pendoggat moved forward, and set his face towards the moor. "I must get
on," he said. "I'll see you on Sunday. Have something to tell me by
then."
"Let us seek a blessing before we part," said Pezzack.
Pendoggat turned back. He was always ready to obtain absolution. They
stood upon the bridge, removed their hats, while Eli prayed with vigour
and sincerity. He did not stop until the rumble of the night mail
sounded along the lines and the metals began to hum excitedly. The
"widdicote" above St. Michael's was still red and lowering. The church
might have been a furnace, emitting a strong glow from fires within its
tower.