A Glastonbury Romance by Powys John Cowper

Author:Powys John Cowper [Cowper, Powys John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The girl was right. Not oblivious of the dramatic effect of allowing their sacred interlude to follow quickly on the heels of Geard's last words John Crow had taken upon himself—oblivious as to whether the Dubliners or Ned Athling or Paul Capporelli were ready—to give the sign to begin. And the beginning of their elaborately rehearsed “Mystery” was really a very impressive spectacle.

The Dye-Works strikers, however, saw nothing of it. Turning their backs to it altogether and this time followed instead of led, by the banner denouncing “Mummery,” they made their way hurriedly down the hill towards the big refreshment tent. Elphin and Steve—this latter delighted to play so prominent a part in the affairs of Mr. Geard—ran on in front of them to warn the Cantles of their arrival.

It was at this point that all eyes were concentrated upon the stage. And there entered upon it first a legion of Roman soldiers marching behind their centurion, then—issuing forth from the other pavilion—the chief priests and rulers of the Jewish people, and finally, approaching by himself, attended only by Momus, the comic Roman soldier who served as his bodyguard, the Procurator of Jerusalem, Pontius Pilate. The part of Pontius Pilate was played by the assistant schoolmaster in St. Benignus' church-school, a man who had been chosen for this part by the eloquent Dr. Sodbury largely on account of his imposing countenance, a countenance which in its juristic dignity might certainly have belonged to the supercilious Procurator of Judea. The Roman legionaries grouped themselves around Pilate who now, accompanied by his bodyguard Momus, ascended the wooden rostrum or judgment-seat.

“It's like a magnified Punch-andjudy show,” whispered Will Zoyland to Nell; nor were the Bastard's words without point, for in their mutual elevation above the soldiers, and above the group of Jewish Elders who stood apart from the soldiers, the liss figures of Pilate and Momus appeared to be isolated in a a tesque Punchinello-like proscenium.

IN ell made no reply. She was wondering what Sam was feeling at this moment while Momus-Capporelli was out-jesting Pontius Pilate in that ridiculous puppet-box, and players and audience alike were awaiting breathlessly the appearance of the condemned God-Man. If she had known what Sam was feeling her heart would have been less heavy than it was. For such was the contradictoriness of human emotion that the soldiers' Roman swords and the elders' turbans made the whole thing so fantastic and unreal to him that in his bitter coldness and deep melancholy his heart turned wistfully to Nell and her child. His father sitting by his side felt the same sort of distaste; only with him it was more positive. Both these big, bare-headed men —for though the sun was smiting them with that mid-afternoon heat which seems hotter than noon, they held their hats in their hands—had something in them that felt deep aversion for this Passion Play. Mat hated it as a silly, frivolous blasphemy. Sam hated it as a lifeless and ghastly parody upon the death of his God.

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