IV

Now for another question (much argued, you will remember, a few

years ago) 'Is there--can there be--such a thing as a Static

Theatre, a Static Drama?'

Most of you (I daresay) remember M. Maeterlinck's definition of

this and his demand for it. To summarise him roughly, he contends

that the old drama--the traditional, the conventional drama--

lives by action; that, in Aristotle's phrase, it represents men

doing, [Greek: prattontas], and resolves itself into a struggle

of human wills--whether against the gods, as in ancient tragedy,

or against one another, as in modern. M. Maeterlinck tells us--

There is a tragic element in the life of every day that is far

more real, far more penetrating, far more akin to the true self

that is in us, than is the tragedy that lies in great

adventure.... It goes beyond the determined struggle of man

against man, and desire against desire; it goes beyond the

eternal conflict of duty and passion. Its province is rather to

reveal to us how truly wonderful is the mere act of living, and

to throw light upon the existence of the soul, self-contained

in the midst of ever-restless immensities; to hush the

discourse of reason and sentiment, so that above the tumult may

be heard the solemn uninterrupted whisperings of man and his

destiny.

To the tragic author [he goes on, later], as to the mediocre

painter who still lingers over historical pictures, it is only

the violence of the anecdote that appeals, and in his

representation thereof does the entire interest of his work

consist.... Indeed when I go to a theatre, I feel as though I

were spending a few hours with my ancestors, who conceived life

as though it were something that was primitive, arid and

brutal.... I am shown a deceived husband killing his wife, a

woman poisoning her lover, a son avenging his father, a father

slaughtering his children, murdered kings, ravished virgins,

imprisoned citizens--in a word all the sublimity of tradition,

but alas how superficial and material! Blood, surface-tears and

death! What can I learn from creatures who have but one fixed

idea, who have no time to live, for that there is a rival, a

mistress, whom it behoves them to put to death?

M. Maeterlinck does not (he says) know if the Static Drama of his

craving be impossible. He inclines to think--instancing some

Greek tragedies such as "Prometheus" and "Choephori"--that it

already exists. But may we not, out of the East--the slow, the

stationary East--fetch an instance more convincing?

V

The Drama of Job opens with a "Prologue" in the mouth of a

Narrator.

There was a man in the land of Uz, named Job; upright,

God-fearing, of great substance in sheep, cattle and oxen; blest

also with seven sons and three daughters. After telling of their

family life, how wholesome it is, and pious, and happy--

The Prologue passes to a Council held in Heaven. The Lord sits

there, and the sons of God present themselves each from his

province. Enters Satan (whom we had better call the Adversary)

from his sphere of inspection, the Earth, and reports. The Lord

specially questions him concerning Job, pattern of men. The

Adversary demurs. 'Doth Job fear God for nought? Hast thou not

set a hedge about his prosperity? But put forth thy hand and

touch all that he hath, and he will renounce thee to thy face.'

The Lord gives leave for this trial to be made (you will recall

the opening of "Everyman"):

So, in the midst of his wealth, a messenger came to job and

says--

The oxen were plowing,

and the asses feeding beside them:

and the Sabeans fell upon them,

and took them away;

yea, they have slain the servants with the edge of the sword;

and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said,

The fire of God is fallen from heaven,

and hath burned up the sheep, and the servants,

and consumed them;

and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said,

The Chaldeans made three bands,

and fell upon the camels,

and have taken them away,

yea, and slain the servants with the edge of the sword;

and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said,

Thy sons and thy daughters

were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother's house:

and, behold,

there came a great wind from the wilderness,

and smote the four corners of the house,

and it fell upon the young men,

and they are dead;

and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and

fell down upon the ground, and worshipped; and he said,

Naked came I out of my mother's womb,

and naked shall I return thither:

the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;

blessed be the name of the Lord.

So the Adversary is foiled, and Job has not renounced God. A

second Council is held in Heaven; and the Adversary, being

questioned, has to admit Job's integrity, but proposes a severer

test:

Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his

life. But put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone and

his flesh, and he will renounce thee to thy face.

Again leave is given: and the Adversary smites job with the most

hideous and loathsome form of leprosy. His kinsfolk (as we learn

later) have already begun to desert and hold aloof from him as a

man marked out by God's displeasure. But now he passes out from

their midst, as one unclean from head to foot, and seats himself

on the ash-mound--that is, upon the Mezbele or heap of refuse

which accumulates outside Arab villages.

'The dung,' says Professor Moulton, `which is heaped upon

the Mezbele of the Hauran villages is not mixed with straw,

which in that warm and dry land is not needed for litter,

and it comes mostly from solid-hoofed animals, as the

flocks and oxen are left over-night in the grazing places. It

is carried in baskets in a dry state to this place ... and

usually burnt once a month.... The ashes remain.... If the

village has been inhabited for centuries the Mezbele

reaches a height far overtopping it. The winter rains reduce

it into a compact mass, and it becomes by and by a solid

hill of earth.... The Mezbele serves the inhabitants for a

watchtower, and in the sultry evenings for a place of

concourse, because there is a current of air on the height.

There all day long the children play about it; and there the

outcast, who has been stricken with some loathsome malady, and

is not allowed to enter the dwellings of men, lays himself down

begging an alms of the passers-by by day, and by night

sheltering himself among the ashes which the heat of the sun

has warmed.'

Here, then, sits in his misery 'the forsaken grandee'; and here

yet another temptation comes to him--this time not expressly

allowed by the Lord. Much foolish condemnation (and, I may add,

some foolish facetiousness) has been heaped on Job's wife. As a

matter of fact she is _not_ a wicked woman--she has borne her

part in the pious and happy family life, now taken away: she has

uttered no word of complaint though all the substance be

swallowed up and her children with it. But now the sight of her

innocent husband thus helpless, thus incurably smitten, wrings,

through love and anguish and indignation, this cry from her:

Dost thou still hold fast thine integrity? renounce God, and

die.

But Job answered, soothing her:

Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What?

shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not

receive evil?

So the second trial ends, and Job has sinned not with his lips.

But now comes the third trial, which needs no Council in Heaven

to decree it. Travellers by the mound saw this figure seated

there, patient, uncomplaining, an object of awe even to the

children who at first mocked him; asked this man's history; and

hearing of it, smote on their breasts, and made a token of it and

carried the news into far countries: until it reached the ears of

Job's three friends, all great tribesmen like himself--Eliphaz

the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite.

These three made an appointment together to travel and visit Job.

'And when they lifted up their eyes afar off, and knew him not,

they lifted up their voice, and wept.' Then they went up and sat

down opposite him on the ground. But the majesty of suffering is

silent:

Here I and sorrows sit;

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it....

No, not a word.... And, with the grave courtesy of Eastern men,

they too are silent:

So they sat down with him upon the ground seven days and

seven nights, and none spake a word unto him: for they saw

that his grief was very great.

The Prologue ends. The scene is set. After seven days of silence

the real drama opens.