CHAPTER X
THE FEAST
At ten in the morning next day the feast began with a drama fromSophocles, which was performed in the open air. The theatre was in thegardens between the wall and the inner stockade; the spectators sat onthe slope, tier above tier; the actors appeared upon a green terracebelow, issuing from an arbour and passing off behind a thick box-hedgeon the other side of the terrace. There was no scenery whatever.
Aurora had selected the Antigone. There were not many dramatists fromwhom to choose, for so many English writers, once famous, had droppedout of knowledge and disappeared. Yet some of the far more ancient Greekand Roman classics remained because they contained depth and originalityof ideas in small compass. They had been copied in manuscripts bythoughtful men from the old printed books before they mouldered away,and their manuscripts being copied again, these works were handed down.The books which came into existence with printing had never been copiedby the pen, and had consequently nearly disappeared. Extremely long anddiffuse, it was found, too, that so many of them were but enlargementsof ideas or sentiments which had been expressed in a few words by theclassics. It is so much easier to copy an epigram of two lines than aprinted book of hundreds of pages, and hence it was that Sophocles hadsurvived while much more recent writers had been lost.
From a translation Aurora had arranged several of his dramas. Antigonewas her favourite, and she wished Felix to see it. In some indefinablemanner the spirit of the ancient Greeks seemed to her in accord with thetimes, for men had or appeared to have so little control over their ownlives that they might well imagine themselves overruled by destiny.Communication between one place and another was difficult, the divisionof society into castes, and the iron tyranny of arms, prevented theindividual from making any progress in lifting himself out of the groovein which he was born, except by the rarest opportunity, unless speciallyfavoured by fortune. As men were born so they lived; they could notadvance, and when this is the case the idea of Fate is alwayspredominant. The workings of destiny, the Irresistible overpowering boththe good and the evil-disposed, such as were traced in the Greek drama,were paralleled in the lives of many a miserable slave at that day. Theywere forced to endure, for there was no possibility of effort.
Aurora saw this and felt it deeply; ever anxious as she was for the goodof all, she saw the sadness that reigned even in the midst of the freshfoliage of spring and among the flowers. It was Fate; it was Sophocles.
She took the part of the heroine herself, clad in Greek costume; Felixlistened and watched, absorbed in his love. Never had that ancient dramaappeared so beautiful as then, in the sunlight; the actors stepped uponthe daisied sward, and the song of birds was all their music.
While the play was still proceeding, those who were to form the usualprocession had already been assembling in the court before the castle,and just after noon, to the sound of the trumpet, the Baron, with hisyoungest son beside him (the eldest was at Court), left the porch,wearing his fur-lined short mantle, his collar, and golden spurs, andthe decoration won so many years before; all the insignia of his rank.He walked; his war-horse, fully caparisoned, with axe at the saddle-bow,was led at his right side, and upon the other came a knight carrying thebanneret of the house.
The gentlemen of the house followed closely, duly marshalled in ranks,and wearing the gayest dress; the leading retainers fully armed, broughtup the rear. Immediately upon issuing from the gate of the wall, theprocession was met and surrounded by the crowd, carrying large branchesof may in bloom, flowers, and green willow boughs. The flowers theyflung before him on the ground; the branches they bore with them,chanting old verses in honour of the family. The route was through thetown, where the Baron stopped at the door of the Court House, andproclaimed a free pardon to all serfs (who were released within a fewminutes) not guilty of the heavier crimes.
Thence he went to the pasture just beyond, carefully mown close andswept for the purpose, where the May-pole stood, wreathed with flowersand green branches. Beneath it he deposited a bag of money fordistribution upon a carved butt placed there, the signal that the gameswere open. Instantly the fiddles began to play, and the feast reallycommenced. At the inns ale was served out freely (at the Baron'scharge), carts, too, came down from the castle laden with ale and cookedprovisions. Wishing them joy, the Baron returned by the same road to thecastle, where dinner was already served in the hall and the sheds thathad been erected to enlarge the accommodation.
In the afternoon there were foot-races, horse-races, and leapingcompetitions, and the dances about the May-pole were prolonged far intothe night. The second day, early in the morning, the barriers wereopened, and trials of skill with the blunt sword, jousting with theblunt lance at the quintain, and wrestling began, and continued almosttill sunset. Tournament with sharpened lance or sword, when thecombatants fight with risk of serious wounds, can take place only in thepresence of the Prince or his deputy. But in these conflictssufficiently severe blows were given to disable the competitors.
On the third day there was a set battle in the morning between fifteenmen on each side, armed with the usual buckler or small shield, andstout single-sticks instead of swords. This combat excited more interestthan all the duels that had preceded it; the crowd almost broke down thebarriers, and the cheering and cries of encouragement could be heardupon the hills. Thrice the combatants rested from the engagement, andthrice at the trumpet call started again to meet each other, at leastthose who had sustained the first onslaught.
Blood, indeed, was not shed (for the iron morions saved their skulls),but nearly half of the number required assistance to reach the tentspitched for their use. Then came more feasting, the final dinnerprolonged till six in the evening, when the company, constantly risingfrom their seats, cheered the Baron, and drank to the prosperity of thehouse. After the horn blew at six, the guests who had come from adistance rapidly dispersed (their horses were already waiting), for theywere anxious to pass the fifteen miles of forest before nightfall. Thoseon foot, and those ladies who had come in covered waggons, stayed tillnext morning, as they could not travel so speedily. By seven or eightthe castle courtyard was comparatively empty, and the Baron, weary fromthe mere bodily efforts of saying farewell to so many, had flung himselfat full length on a couch in the drawing-room.
During the whole of this time Felix had not obtained a single momentwith Aurora; her time, when not occupied in attending to the guests, wasalways claimed by Lord Durand. Felix, after the short-lived but purepleasure he had enjoyed in watching her upon the grass-grown stage, hadendured three days of misery. He was among the crowd, he was in thecastle itself, he sat at table with the most honoured visitors, yet hewas distinct from all. There was no sympathy between them and him. Thegames, the dancing, the feasting and laughter, the ceaseless singing andshouting, and jovial jostling, jarred upon him.
The boundless interest the people took in the combats, and especiallythat of the thirty, seemed to him a strange and inexplicable phenomenon.It did not excite him in the least; he could turn his back upon itwithout hesitation. He would, indeed, have left the crowd, and spent theday in the forest, or on the hills, but he could not leave Aurora. Hemust be near her; he must see her, though he was miserable. Now hefeared that the last moment would come, and that he should not exchangea word with her.
He could not, with any show of pretext, prolong his stay beyond thesunset; all were already gone, with the exceptions mentioned. It wouldbe against etiquette to remain longer, unless specially invited, and hewas not specially invited. Yet he lingered, and lingered. His horse wasready below; the groom, weary of holding the bridle, had thrown it overan iron hook in the yard, and gone about other business. The sunperceptibly declined, and the shadow of the beeches of the forest beganto descend the grassy slope. Still he stayed, restlessly moving, now inthe dining chamber, now in the hall, now at the foot of the staircase,with an unpleasant feeling that the servants looked at him curiously,and were watching him.
Oliver had gone lon
g since, riding with his new friend Lord Durand; theymust by now be half-way through the forest. Forced by the inexorableflight of time, he put his foot upon the staircase to go up to thedrawing-room and bid farewell to the Baroness. He ascended it, step bystep, as a condemned person goes to his doom. He stayed to look out ofthe open windows as he went by; anything to excuse delay to himself. Hereached the landing at last, and had taken two steps towards the door,when Aurora's maid, who had been waiting there an hour or more for theopportunity, brushed past him, and whispered, "The Rose arbour."
Without a word he turned, hastened down the stairs, ran through thecastle yard, out at the gate, and, entering the gardens between the walland the inner stockade, made for the arbour on the terrace where thedrama had been enacted. Aurora was not there; but as he looked round,disappointed, she came from the Filbert walk, and, taking his arm, ledhim to the arbour. They sat down without a word. In a moment she placedher head upon his shoulder; he did not respond. She put her arm (howwarm it felt!) about his neck; he yielded stiffly and ungraciously tothe pressure; she drew down his head, and kissed him. His lips touchedbut did not press hers; they met, but did not join. In his sullen andangry silence he would not look. She drew still nearer, and whisperedhis name.
Then he broke out: he pushed her away; his petty jealousy and injuredself-esteem poured out upon her.
"I am not the heir to an earldom," he said; "I do not ride with a scoreof gentlemen at my back. They have some wonderful diamonds, have theynot--_Countess?_"
"Felix!"
"It is no use. Yes, your voice is sweet, I know. But you, all of you,despise me. I am nothing, no one!"
"You are all, _everything_, to me."
"You were with--with Durand the whole time."
"I could not help myself."
"Not help yourself! Do you think I believe that?"
"Felix, dear. I tell you I could not help myself; I could not, indeed.You do not know all--"
"No, probably not. I do not know the terms of the marriage contract."
"Felix, there is no such thing. Why, what has come to you? How pale youlook! Sit down!" for he had risen.
"I cannot, Aurora, dear; I cannot! Oh, what shall I do? I love you so!"