THE DRAMATIC MOMENT
Mr. Pindar, as has already been said, was to call on Miss Wax that
evening for her answer; but Mr. Homer was before him, for this was
Friday evening, which the little gentleman invariably spent with his
life-long friend. Punctually at a quarter before eight he appeared, and
found Miss Wax ready for him, sitting under the portrait, with her elbow
resting on the little table. Her silk dress, of the kind called _chine_,
displayed bunches of apple-blossoms on a pale purple ground; she wore a
scarf of rose-colored crape, and a profusion of hair jewelry. Mr. Homer,
as he advanced to greet her, made his usual mental comment that she was
an elegant female, and pressed her hand cordially; Miss Bethia returned
the pressure, and inquired anxiously for his health. "I trust you are
feeling better, Homer," she said, kindly; "all this excitement is very
disturbing to you, I am sure. But it will soon be over now."
Mr. Homer sighed, as he took his accustomed seat. "Either it or I must
soon be over, Miss Bethia," he said, mournfully. "I feel that I cannot
much longer cope with--a--the present circumstances. I am aware that I
should have more fortitude; more--a--longanimity; but--as the lamented
Keats has it, 'Misery most drowningly doth sing in my lone ear.' The cup
of joy, Miss Bethia, has become a poisoned chalice. The firmament
outblackens Erebus; the brooks utter a gorgon voice. Many phrases which
I have formerly considered as mere poetical ebullitions,--a--wafts of
the Wings of Poesy, if I may so express myself,--now seem to me the fit
expression,--a--realization,--a--I may say concretion,--of my present
state of mind. I thought I appreciated the great Keats before, but--" He
waved his hands and shook his head in speechless emotion.
"Can you not dismiss the subject from your mind for a time, Homer?"
asked Miss Bethia, soothingly. "Your studies have always sustained you,
and have been of great benefit, I am sure, to your friends as well as
yourself. Have you written any more of the Epic, the 'Death of
Heliogabalus'? I was in hopes you might have another scene to read to me
this evening."
Mr. Homer shook his head. "I have not touched the Epic," he said,
"since--since the events which have recently concatenated, if I may so
express myself. I sometimes think that I shall never touch it again,
Miss Bethia."
"Oh, don't say that, Homer!" Miss Wax protested; but the little
gentleman went on, with an agitated wave.
"I sometimes feel as if the Muse had deserted me; had--a--ceased to gild
with her smile the--shall I say the peaks of my fancy? I have endeavored
to woo her back. My brother Pindar is most anxious that I should write
an--an ode--for this celebration which he is planning; but the numbers
in which I have been in the habit of lisping, and which--I may
say to you, my valued friend--were wont in happier days to
flow,--to--a--meander,--to--a--babble o'er Pirene's sands, with ease
and--and alacrity, now hesitate;--a--reluctate;--a--refuse the meed of
melody which--which the occasion demands. My brother Pindar,--you have
seen him, Miss Bethia?"
"Oh, yes!" said Miss Wax, softly. "He was here yesterday. He asked--he
was so good as to invite me to appear in the Festival Procession as--as
Minerva."
Mr. Homer looked up eagerly. "And you replied?" he asked.
"I asked for time to consider," said Miss Wax, looking down. "I need not
say to you, Homer, that it is not easy to refuse Pindar's first request,
after so many years of absence;" she sighed gently; "but--but reflection
has convinced me that it would not be altogether--shall I say suitable?
I have never appeared in public, Homer, and I hardly feel--"
She paused, for Mr. Homer was waving his hands and opening and shutting
his mouth in great agitation.
"Precisely so!" he cried. "Oh, very much so indeed, my dear friend. It
is an unspeakable consolation to find that you share my sentiments on
this subject. May I, Miss Bethia,--with friendship's key,--unlock, so to
speak, the counsels of my--my bleeding breast? We are old friends: we
twa--if I may quote Burns in this connection--ha' paidl't i' the
burn,--I speak metaphorically, my dear lady, as I need not assure
you,--frae mornin' sun till dine; the poets refuse occasionally the
bonds of grammar, and both rhyme and metre require the verb in this
instance, as you will readily perceive, even though--"
Mr. Homer waved the subject to its conclusion, and hurried on: "You have
also known Pindar from childhood, and have always felt--may I not say
kindly, toward the wayward but high-souled lad?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Miss Bethia, softly, with another gentle sigh.
"This being so," Mr. Homer went on, "I may say to you without hesitation
that this whole matter of the celebration is a--is a nightmare to me! I
have led a secluded life, Bethia, as befits a votary of the Muse. Blest
with a limited but sufficient number of congenial friends, principally
ladies,--though William Jaquith and Thomas Candy have been as sons to me
of late, as sons,--I have kept, Miss Bethia, the noiseless tenor of my
way,--the expression is Gray's, as you are well aware, and is commonly
misquoted, _even_ tenor being the customary, though wholly incorrect
version;--a--where was I? Oh, yes, as I was about to say, I have kept
the noiseless tenor of my way, in peace and pleasantness, hitherto.
"'For indeed,' as the lamented Keats observes in an early poem which is
too little known:
"'For indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.'
That peculiar pleasure, Miss Bethia, has been mine up to the present
time. My brother Pindar's course has been far different. At an early
age, as you are aware, he sought the maddening throng; the--a--busy hum;
the--a--in short, the roaring mart. I understand that much of his time
has been devoted to music, and the remainder to histrionic art. He is
permanently employed, as I understand, at a--a metropolitan place of
amusement, where he occasionally takes part in Shakespearian
representations (he has played the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' he tells me), and
at other times performs upon the--in short, the kettledrums. You will
readily perceive, my dear friend, that such a life conduces to the
development of ideas which are discrepant;--a--divergent
from,--a--devoid of commensurability with, the _genius loci_, the spirit
which hovers, or has hitherto hovered, over Elm--I would say Quahaug.
Miss Bethia, we are not a dramatic community. With the exception of Mrs.
Jarley's Wax Works, some thirty years ago, and an Old Folks' Concert at
a somewhat later period, I am unable to recall any occurrence of a--of
a histrionic nature in our--shall I say midst? And now,--Miss Bethia,
I love my brother tenderly, and am anxious, deeply anxious, to
respond to the feeling, the--a--propendency, the--kindling of
affection's torch, which has led him to seek his early home. I also
respect,--a--revere,--a--entertain the loftiest sentiments in regard to
the Muse; but when I am asked to appear in public, clad in draperies
which--in short, of domestic origin,"--he waved further detail
delicately away,--"and crowned with bays, I--Miss Bethia, I assure you
my spirit faints within me. Nor can I feel that the proposed
demonstration would in any way have commended itself to my cousin
Marcia. It is borne in upon me--strenuously, I may say--that, if my
cousin Marcia were present at this time in the--a--fleshly tabernacle,
she would receive this whole matter in a spirit of--levity;
of--a--derision; of--a--contumely. Am I wrong in this supposition, Miss
Bethia?"
"I feel positive that you are right, Homer!" said Miss Wax. "I speak
with conviction. In fact, it was the thought of--of Her we honor,"--she
glanced at the trophy with an introductory wave,--"that brought me to a
decision on the point. I do feel for you, Homer, and share with you the
distress of having to--to deny Pindar anything he desires. He will be
here soon, and perhaps if we speak to him gently on the subject, he may
see it in the light in which it presents itself to us. Probably this
side has not been suggested to him." (Has it not? Oh, Miss Prudence!
Miss Prudence!) "I think that if we compose our thoughts to a greater
degree of calm, we may have more effect. A little music, Homer?"
Mr. Homer put his hand to his head with a sigh. "Miss Bethia," he said,
"a little music would be balm to the thirsty soul;--a--wings to the
rainbow-hued spirit; a--oil which runs down the--" He waved the rest of
the simile away. "I thank you, my elegant and valued friend. May I
conduct you to the instrument?"
It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Homer conducting Miss Bethia Wax to
the instrument. After a profound bow (his feet in the first position in
dancing), he held out his hand; she laid the tips of her long fingers
delicately in it, and, thus supported, glided across the room; a
courtesy of thanks, a bow of acknowledgment, and she sank gracefully on
the music-stool, while Mr. Homer returned to his favorite chair, drew a
long breath, and sank back with folded hands and closed eyes.
Miss Wax's instrument was one of Mr. Homer's chief sources of
inspiration, and I must give it a word of description, for perhaps there
never was another precisely like it. Tommy Candy called it a
barrel-organ, and indeed it was not wholly unlike an idealized barrel of
polished rosewood, standing erect on four slender legs. The front was
decorated with flutings of red silk; the wood was inlaid with flowers
and arabesques in mother-of-pearl. Beneath the silk flutings appeared an
ivory handle, and it was by turning this handle that Miss Bethia
"performed." "Cecilia's Bouquet" was the name inscribed on the front in
flourishing gilt letters; and Miss Bethia had often been told that, when
playing on the instrument, she reminded her hearers of the saint of that
name. It was perhaps on this account that she was in the habit of
assuming a rapt expression at such times, her head thrown back, her eyes
raised to the level of the cornice. Thus seated and performing, Miss
Bethia was truly a pleasant sight; and the melodies that came faltering
out from the old music-box (for really it was nothing else!) were as
pensive, mild, and innocent as the good lady herself. "The Maiden's
Prayer," "The Sorrowful Shepherd," "Cynthia's Roundelay," and "The
Princess Charlotte's Favorite;" these were among them, I remember, but
there were twelve airs, and it took quite half an hour to play them all
through.
On this occasion, long before the half-hour was over, Mr. Homer's brow
had cleared, and his face grown as placid as Miss Bethia's own. "The
Princess Charlotte's Favorite" was also his (a most melancholy air I
always thought it, as if the poor princess had foreseen her early death,
and bewailed it, a Jephthah's Daughter in hoop and powder), and he
followed it with pensive pleasure, bowing his head and waving his hands
in time to the music, and occasionally joining in the melody with a thin
but sweet falsetto. "Ta-ta, ta-tee, ta-ta, ta-tum!" warbled Mr. Homer,
and Miss Bethia's gentle heart rejoiced to hear him.
The two friends were so absorbed that they did not hear the
door-bell,--indeed, it rang in the kitchen, and was a subdued tinkle at
that,--nor Peggy's steps as she went to answer the call; and it was only
when the "Princess Charlotte's Favorite" had faltered to its dismal
conclusion that Mr. Homer, chancing to raise his eyes, saw his brother
standing in the doorway. The vision was a disconcerting one. Mr. Pindar
stood with his arms folded in his little cloak, his head bent forward,
peering up through his eyebrows with a keen and suspicious look. Thus he
stood for an instant; but, on meeting his brother's eyes, he flung up
both arms as if in invocation,--whether of blessing or malediction was
not clear to Mr. Homer's perturbed gaze,--the cloak fluttered in batlike
sweeps, and he was gone.
Mr. Homer sprang to his feet with an exclamation of dismay; and Miss
Bethia, whose back had been turned to the door, rose also in wonder and
distress. "What is the matter, Homer?" she asked. "You appear disturbed.
Is--is any one there?" she added, seeing his look still fixed on the
empty doorway.
"It was my brother!" replied Mr. Homer. "It was Pindar. He was
apparently--moved;--a--agitated;--a--under stress of emotion. I fear he
is ill, Miss Bethia; I must hasten after him."
"Pindar ill!" cried Miss Bethia. "Oh, Homer, bring him back, will you
not? bring him back, and let me give him some of my Raspberry
Restorative! Do hasten!"
Mr. Homer promised to return if it were possible, and hurried away,
leaving his hostess wringing her hands and uttering plaintive murmurs.
He hastened along the quiet street. The moon was up, and he could see a
figure fluttering on ahead of him, with waving cloak and hasty,
disordered steps.
"Pindar!" cried Mr. Homer. "My dear brother! wait for me, I implore you.
It is I, Homer; I entreat you to pause!"
The figure wavered, halted; finally turned round, and stood with folded
arms till Mr. Homer hurried up, anxious and breathless.
"Are you ill, Pindar?" cried the little gentleman. "Some sudden seizure,
my dear brother? I am truly distressed: let me support you!"
But Mr. Pindar waved him aside with a lofty gesture. "I require no
support, Brother!" he said. "My corporal envelope is robust, I am
obliged to you."
"Then why--why this sudden appearance and disappearance?" asked Mr.
Homer, bewildered. "Miss Wax was expecting you; we were both expecting
you, sir!"
"Were you?" said Mr. Pindar, bitterly. "I should hardly have thought it.
I judged that I intruded, sir. It appeared to me that tender passages
were in progress. I inferred that the advent of the Wanderer was
unwelcome, sir, unwelcome."
Mr. Homer attempted to speak, but Mr. Pindar waved him off, and hurried
on, a real feeling struggling through the pompous structure of his
sentences. "It would appear that I was in error, sir, when I requested
you to compose an ode. I should have demanded an epithalamium; flute and
clarionet, sir:
"Tweedle, tweedle, toodle turn,
Clash the cymbal, bang the drum!
Cupid and his antic choir
Sing for Homer and Bethia!
But you might have told me, Homer; you might have told me, sir!"
Mr. Homer Hollopeter blushed very red all over; if it is discreet even
to allude to Mr. Homer's toes, I am quite sure that even they must have
grown rosy. He looked gravely at his brother, who was waving his cloak
in great excitement.
"My dear brother," he said, slowly, "it--I--I fail to find words in
which to express the--the--_enormousness_ of your misconception. I
regard Miss Wax, sir, as a sister, an esteemed and valued sister."
At the place where Mr. Homer had overtaken his brother, stood a
watering-trough, a hollowed section of a huge oak-tree, through which
ran a tiny crystal stream. The companion oak, still vigorous,
overshadowed the trough, making a pleasant circle of shade, and around
this oak ran a rustic seat. It was a favorite gathering-place of the
village boys, but now the boys were in bed, and all was still save for
the gurgle of the little rill as it babbled along the trough.
To Mr. Homer's utter amazement and discomfiture, Mr. Pindar now flung
himself down upon this seat, and, pulling out a large blue cotton
handkerchief, buried his face in it and burst into tears.
"Nobody is glad to see me!" cried Mr. Pindar, sobbing violently.
"Everybody thinks I am mad. Prudence Pardon called me a--a gonoph, and
refused to make tunics for the Village Elders. A horrible fat
woman--rightly named Weight--_horresco referens!_--wished to be Goddess
of Liberty, and, when I shrank appalled, she robbed me of the pretty
child who should have been my Psyche. I am--unappreciated, sir. I am
mocked at and derided. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanche, and
Sweetheart--I returned to benefit my native heath: to cause--blossoms of
histrionic art to spring up in the--arid pathways--oyster shells!"--he
indicated by a wave the white and glittering paths which led to one and
another silent house, and which are indeed the pride of the village. "I
have piped to everybody, and nobody will dance, except--hideous persons
who squint. I came for comfort and sympathy to Bethia Wax, the playmate
of my early days; I found--" He waved his arms with a gesture of
despair. "And I am so tired of playing the kettledrum!" said the poor
gentleman; and he wept afresh.
Mr. Homer sat down by his brother's side, and laid his hand on his
shoulder. "Don't cry!" he said. "Don't cry, Pindy! Mother wouldn't like
to have you cry."
His voice, faltered on the long-unspoken diminutive; but, at the sound
of it, Mr. Pindar, still holding the handkerchief to his eyes with his
right hand, held out his left; Mr. Homer grasped it, and the two sat
silent, hand in hand, while the little stream trickled cheerfully along,
and the black leaf-shadows flickered on the white road.
Mr. Homer opened and shut his mouth several times, and patted his
brother's hand, before he spoke again. At length he said, very gently:
"My dear boy, my dear fellow, you are unnerved. Compose yourself,
compose yourself! I also have been sadly unnerved, Pindy. An hour ago I
could have mingled my tears with yours freely, sir, freely. But music
hath charms, as you are aware, to soothe the--Savagery is far from my
breast at the present time, sir, but the quotation is too familiar to
require elucidation. Our friend Miss Wax has been performing upon the
instrument, and an hour spent in her society, when thus employed, is
invariably soothing to the wounded spirit. I wish, my dear brother, that
you had come earlier in the evening."
Mr. Pindar groaned, and dried his eyes, but made no reply. Mr. Homer,
pausing, looked carefully about him, as if struck by a sudden thought.
"Pindar," he said, in an altered tone, "do you know where we are
sitting? Look about you!"
Mr. Pindar looked around, then up at the tree which bent friendly over
them. "It is the oak-seat!" he exclaimed. "The oak-seat and the
watering-trough. Muffled drums! Enter Homeless Wanderer, weeping."
"Do you remember the day when Silas Candy ducked Ephraim Weight?" said
Mr. Homer, disregarding the last remark. "We were sitting here, Pindar,
and we did not interfere. I have sometimes reflected that it was a--an
error, sir; a--a faltering in the way; a--a dereliction from
the--a--star-y-pointing path; but we were young, sir, and Ephraim
was--shall I say unattractive? But--Pindy, when Silas came along--I
remember it as if it were yesterday--I had just been cutting some
initials in the tree. Upon my word, they are here still!" With a
trembling finger he pointed out some half-obliterated letters. "B. H.,
sir; do you see them? Bethia Hollopeter!"
Mr. Pindar nodded gloomily, and, putting away the blue handkerchief,
crossed his arms on his breast. "I see them, sir," he said. "Why turn
the dagger in the wound? I see them!"
"What was my thought, Brother," Mr. Homer went on, growing more and more
animated, "when I made those letters; when I--a--wounded the oaken
breast which--which--not precisely nourished, but certainly cheered and
comforted me? Brother, I fancied Bethia as your bride. Stay! hear me!"
as Mr. Pindar made a hasty gesture of dissent. "I knew later that--that
your affections, like my own, were placed elsewhere; but--but Fate, sir,
planted an arrow, of a highly barbed description, in our twin breasts.
No more of that. Miss Bethia Wax, sir, has been the friend, the elegant
and valued friend, of my entire life. Since the lamented death of our
cousins, Phoebe and Vesta, and recently the irreparable loss I have
sustained in the death of Cousin Marcia, we--Miss Bethia and I--have
been brought into yet closer and more sympathetic companionship. Aside
from the devoted tenderness of Thomas and William, and the--the
faithful, if occasionally violent ministrations of Direxia Hawkes, Miss
Bethia has been my chief stay and comfort in these troublous days. But I
assure you, sir, with my hand on my heart,"--Mr. Homer suited the action
to the word,--"that nothing of a tender nature has ever passed, or will
ever pass, between me and my elegant and valued friend. Yet once more
hear me, Brother! It is my firm belief, Pindar, that one image, and one
only, has remained since youth implanted in--in that bosom, sir, to
which I allude with the highest respect; that image, sir, I believe to
be yours!"
Mr. Homer paused, much moved. Mr. Pindar waved his cloak in protest, but
his countenance brightened perceptibly.
"Not so!" he murmured. "Not so! Thunder. Exit Homeless Wanderer, pursued
by furies. Brother, I will return to my hated task. Enough! I thank you,
but I go."
"Brother, I implore you not so to do!" cried Mr. Homer, earnestly. "I
believe that other and happier things are in store for you. I have a
vision, sir, of a home replete with elegant comfort. Miss Bethia, though
not opulent, is possessed of a comfortable competence--though Mammon is
far from my thoughts!" cried Mr. Homer, blushing again. "A home, I say,
sir, brightened by the society of--of Woman, and by every evidence of a
refined and cultivated taste. My dear brother, return with me now to
the--the bower, if I may so express myself, of our esteemed and valued
friend. Miss Bethia urged, I may say, implored, me to bring you back."
"Not so!" murmured Mr. Pindar. "Alarums and excursions. Exit--"
But Mr. Homer interrupted him, a sudden fire shining in his mild eyes.
"Brother Pindar," he cried, "you have many times alluded, since your
return, to the Dramatic Moment; you have commented upon the absence of
the dramatic element in my composition. But, sir, it is borne in upon me
strongly at this instant that a Dramatic Moment is now striking in--in
your life and that of our esteemed and valued friend. As you yourself
would observe, hark to it, sir! it strikes;--a--resounds;--a--larums,
sir, larums."
The two brothers had risen, and stood facing each other in the
moonlight. They waved their arms with an identical gesture; never had
they looked so alike. "It larums!" repeated Mr. Pindar, solemnly.
Suddenly he seized his brother's hand, and motioned him forward.
"Flourish and a sennet!" he cried. "Possible joy-bells! Brother, set
on!"