Ivy Compton-Burnett: Dolores

The other local families of not ungentle blood were chiefly members of the church; holding the relation of friendship only to Mr Hutton, merely of patients to Dr Cassell, and hardly any relation to Mr Blackwood; to whose mind in their turn they had a negligible bearing on things in their practical aspect, since such was the extent of their connection with the meeting-house and the chapel. Mr Hutton was held by most of them in strong esteem; Mr Blackwood in half contemptuous disregard; and Dr Cassell in views so various, that the best to be done is to quote two typical comments uttered one morning within an hour of each other, — a gentleman observing, that any skill Cassell might have in physic was balanced by his unprofessional trick of obtruding his grandmother’s notions; and a lady, that “the doctor” was such a dear friend and counsellor — really as good as a physician and a clergyman put together.

Now the moment may be meet for a word of warning given in kindness, lest there occur any waste of superior sentiment. Upon Mr Blackwood and Dr Cassell would be wasted both the disdain of philosophy and the indulgence of charity. They would have been as proof against the one as oblivious of the other. Let us think of them, simply, that they are of a race which has lived straightly and is dying hard; and whose death, if it marks a progressive step in our vulgar dogmatics, must rob our kind — if not of its most beneficent — of its most ingenuous and blithe. For it were idle to try and bring home with what exquisite innocent experience they would mount the extemporised platform in the building in the field — the subtle delectation involved in the staying of the cravings of the inward self, in its rarest and happiest union, with a sense of suppressing, and being known to suppress that self in disinterested effort; or to scan the present or past for men of gentler domestic living, and doings more cleanly and kind. Let us follow them down the country road as far as their ways are the same: for the burial service has come to its close; its rustic attendants are dispersing in gossiping groups; and the Reverend Cleveland Hutton and the Reverend James Hutton are walking up the path that leads from the churchyard to the parsonage.

“Poor Hutton!” said Mr Blackwood, in the loud emphatic voice which he employed when he felt he was giving the gist of a matter—“poor Hutton! This has been about as great a blow to him as any he could have had. We shall see him altered, I expect — I expect we shall see him altered.”

“Yes,” said Dr Cassell, who did not excel in conversational parts, unless they were employed in an amiably didactic direction—“yes, yes, that is so. That can hardly be otherwise.”

“Well,” continued Mr Blackwood in the same tone, “a funeral is a solemn thing — a solemn thing. Whatever our religion is, and whatever opinions we have on other subjects, that is the same for us all. A funeral is a universally solemn thing.”

“Curiously enough,” said Dr Cassell, coming to a pause in the road, as was his wont when in the grip of the didactic spirit; and employing his didactic tone, which was marked by pauses tending to occur at unnatural junctures, and had a peculiar, neutral sound as if he had withdrawn his own personality from it; “curiously enough; it is not universally solemn. Among some early races — I do not recollect at this moment exactly to what nations they belonged — it is, or rather it was, the custom to rejoice over death and to mourn at birth. It would seem rather — dissentient with our notions, would it not?”

“Ah,” said Mr Blackwood, walking on, “there is a great deal of truth underlying that notion — a great deal of truth, I daresay. Those old ancients could have taught us a great deal — there’s no doubt of that. When we mourn at death, we mourn for ourselves — there is no getting out of that. But still a funeral is a solemn thing in every way — at any rate for those who are left behind to see it; there is no getting out of that either.”

“I fancy there have been — on some occasions — episodes to relieve the solemnity,” said Dr Cassell, coming to a pause, in which his friend complied this time with less alacrity; and summoning a twinkle to his eyes; his compunction on yielding to levity drowned in the flood of his ideas. “A country parson was once — leaving the churchyard, after burying one of the villagers;—and — meeting another at the gate, observed: ‘Well, Johnson, so Roberts is no longer amongst us — has joined the great majority, eh?’ and was somewhat startled at receiving the reply: ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. He was a good sort of man, wasn’t he, as far as anybody could judge?’”

Mr Blackwood laughed with good-natured heartiness, though not with full approval; for he happened to be an exception to the rule that enthusiasm for religious subjects is coupled with a tendency to pleasantry upon them. Dr Cassell walked on, trying to repress a twitch about his mouth, under a sense of having in the last minutes done himself justice.

“Well, Doctor,” resumed Mr Blackwood after a minute’s silence — he always addressed Dr Cassell emphatically as “Doctor,” and the Reverend Cleveland Hutton as “Vicar”—“are you coming to support us at the temperance meeting next Wednesday? I am engaged to speak, you know. It was very much against my will, I am sure; but people seemed to desire that I should; and I could not refuse my services to such a cause, so I shall just do my best — and make a terrible hash of the business into the bargain, I daresay.” Mr Blackwood paused, awaiting contradiction of the conclusion of his speech, rather than an answer to its opening question; but Dr Cassell chose to give the latter.

“No, I think not,” he replied—“I think not.”

“Well, but come now, Doctor,” said Mr Blackwood in loud, genial tones, laying a stress upon occasional words, as was his custom in argument. “You can’t deny that the cause of Temperance is one of the finest causes in the country. There’s no possibility of expressing in words the harm that the drink does to the nation; and as for the harm it does to individuals — well, there is no need to tell a man of your knowledge of life that.”

“Perhaps not,” said Dr Cassell, unable but to recognise something in this ending which did not call for the throwing of doubt; “but one cannot always judge — of the right and wrong of principles — by the amount of apparent good or harm resulting from them.”

“Oh, come now, Doctor,” said Mr Blackwood, not choosing to adopt a philosophic standpoint, “you have to look at these things practically . The amount of practical benefit done by the fighting of the drink is enormous . Why, only last week, when I was visiting the place where I used to live, and where I used to give a weekly address on Temperance, an old fellow came up to me — an old Irish fellow, I think he was — a working man, and a fine-looking old fellow too; and he said: ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I have to thank you for something — if you call the saving of myself and my wife and the whole of my family from ruin something. I went once or twice to your addresses,’ he said, ‘and I assure you that I was a different man from that time.’” Mr Blackwood brought the fist of one hand down upon the palm of the other. “I can tell you the old fellow was grateful, and it did me good to hear him; it did that, upon my word. It was encouraging — very encouraging — I can tell you.”

“Talking of the drink in connection with Irishmen,” said Dr Cassell, coming to a pause; and interposing quickly without regard to congratulations; “have you heard of the Irishman in the barn and his bottle of whisky?”