“Well, yes; but such artificiality is needed in these days of easy communication and cosmopolitan races. The tribes of mankind are not now isolated each from each as in former times, when that very isolation forced them, uninfluenced by contact with alien tribes, to develop their own special race-nature in literature, music, and art. Mixed races produce mixed results, splendid, I own, in many cases, but not so severely unique and classic as would be the case with untamed tribes.”
“Did not Disraeli discuss this question in ‘Coningsby’?”
“Touching the Semitic race,—yes, I think so; but it is so long since I have read the book that I almost forget his line of argument. But we have strayed from our subject, which was physical and not intellectual perfection; and I verily believe that if as much attention were given to the breeding of humanity as is given to the rearing of race-horses, the race of mankind would be much benefited thereby.”
Justinian had quite a mania regarding this question of race, and Maurice would gladly have continued the interesting argument, but the play was shortly about to begin, so he deferred the discussion until a more fitting occasion, and meanwhile examined the theatre with careful attention.
The stage facing the semicircle was long and narrow, with slender columns on either side supporting the pediment, which, unfortunately, was quite plain, as Justinian’s theories had not yet developed a Pheidias to sculpture the red limestone into god-like forms of hero and deity. A broad flight of steps led downward to the orchestra, which had entrances to the right and left for the convenience of the chorus; while a veritable altar of Dionysius, wreathed with sculptured grapes and nude figures of dancing faun and nymph, taken, doubtless, from some ruined temple, stood on a raised platform fronting the stage, and on it burned a small fire, whereon incense was occasionally flung.
“Is that not rather pagan?” asked Maurice, referring to the altar.
“Everything herein is ideal, not real,” replied the Demarch wisely. “When you see the chorus throw incense on the altar, think not that they are sacrificing to the wine-god of their ancestors. No, they are all of the Orthodox Church, and obey devoutly the precepts of Papa Athanasius; but I like to carry out the old ceremonies, even to this altar, which means nothing, and is highly characteristic of the antique festival.”
As Crispin, Helena, and Caliphronas were all actors for the day, the Demarch and Maurice sat alone in the centre of the semicircle, surrounded by the sailors, who were much puzzled at the strangeness of this stately, open-air theatre, so different from the air-tight boxes to which they had been accustomed in London.
“If it was only an Adelphi melodrama!” said Dick, whose inclinations leaned to the bloodthirsty play; “but I suppose it will be something like that squalling they called singing yesterday.”
“Or a moosic ’all,” observed Gurt, chewing his quid reflectively. “I seed a gal in one of ’em down Wappin’ way as guv a song called, ‘Tap me on the shoulder, Bill.’ My eyes, but it were a good un, that ’ere.”