There ran through his character a vein of something steady and profound, which inspired all who came near him with a sense of quiet persistent strength. This, with an equable, unfailing pressure, restrained or controlled whatever company surrounded him. It was like the regular current of a full but silent tide, or like the consistent power of a good helmsman. It may be called his personal force. To most men and women of our circle, that force was a sustenance and a blessing; to ill-regulated or worldly men with whom he might come in contact, it acted as a salutary irritant, though rarely to so intense a degree as to give rise to scenes. I must unfortunately except the case of the Rural Dean of Bosham, whose notorious excess was the more lamentable from the fact that the Council of the S.P.C.A. is strictly non-sectarian, and whose excuse that the ink-pot was not thrown but brushed aside is, to speak plainly, a tergiversation.
The recent unhappy war in South Africa afforded an excellent opportunity for the exercise of the qualities I mean. He was still active and alert; still guiding men and maidens during its worse days. His tact was admirable. He suffered from the acute divisions of his congregation, but he suffered in powerful silence; and throughout those dark-days his sober necquid nimis[4] was like a keel and ballast for us all.
A young radical of sorts was declaiming at his table one evening against the Concentration Camp. Dr. Caliban listened patiently, and at the end of the harangue said gently, “Shall we join the ladies?” The rebuke was not lost.[5]
On another occasion, when some foreigner was reported in the papers as having doubted Mr. Brodrick’s figures relative to the numbers of the enemy remaining in the field, Dr. Caliban said with quiet dignity, “It is the first time I have heard the word of an English gentleman doubted.”
It must not be imagined from these lines that he defended the gross excesses of the London mob—especially in the matter of strong waters—or that he wholly approved of our policy. “Peace in our time, Oh, Lord!” was his constant cry, and against militarism he thundered fearlessly. I have heard him apply to it a word that never passed his lips in any other connection—the word Damnable.
On the details of the war, the policy of annexation, the advisability of frequent surrenders, the high salaries of irregulars, and the employment of national scouts, he was silent. In fine, one might have applied to him the strong and simple words of Lord Jacobs, in his Guildhall speech.[6] One main fact stood out—he hated warfare. He was a man of peace.
The tall, broad figure, inclining slightly to obesity, the clear blue northern eyes, ever roaming from point to point as though seeking for grace, the familiar soft wideawake, the long full white beard, the veined complexion and dark-gloved hands, are now, alas, removed from the sphere they so long adorned.
Dr. Caliban’s affliction was first noticed by his family at dinner on the first of last September—a date which fell by a strange and unhappy coincidence on a Sunday. For some days past Miss Goucher had remarked his increasing volubility; but on this fatal evening, in spite of all the efforts of his wife and daughters, he continued to speak, without interruption, from half-past seven to a quarter-past nine; and again, after a short interval, till midnight, when he fell into an uneasy sleep, itself full of mutterings. His talk had seemed now a sermon, now the reminiscence of some leading article, now a monologue, but the whole quite incoherent, though delivered with passionate energy; nor was it the least distressing feature of his malady that he would tolerate no reply, nay, even the gentlest assent drove him into paroxysms of fury.
Next day he began again in the manner of a debate at the local Liberal Club, soon lapsing again into a sermon, and anon admitting snatches of strange songs into the flow of his words. Towards eleven he was apparently arguing with imaginary foreigners, and shortly afterwards the terrible scene was ended by the arrival of a medical man of his own persuasion.
It is doubtful whether Dr. Caliban will ever be able to leave Dr. Charlbury’s establishment, but all that can be done for him in his present condition is lovingly and ungrudgingly afforded. There has even been provided for him at considerable expense, and after an exhaustive search, a companion whose persistent hallucination it is that he is acting as private secretary to some leader of the Opposition, and the poor wild soul is at rest.