The Doom of the Griffiths
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Elizabeth Gaskell >> The Doom of the Griffiths
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1896 "Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales" Macmillan and Co. edition.
THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
by Elizabeth Gaskell
CHAPTER I.
I have always been much interested by the traditions which are
scattered up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain
Glendwr is the national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into
the feeling which makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the
hero of his country. There was great joy among many of the
inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of the Welsh prize
poem at Oxford, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to
be "Owain Glendwr." It was the most proudly national subject that
had been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even
in the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate
countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says
himself--or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing
-
'At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
Of burning cressets . . .
. . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.'
And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of
asking Hotspur's irreverent question in reply.
Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh
hero's character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to
this tale. When Sir David Gam, "as black a traitor as if he had been
born in Builth," sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one
with him whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with
his enemies. Rhys ap Gryfydd, his "old familiar friend," his
relation, his more than brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir
David Gam might be forgiven, but one whom he had loved, and who had
betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read
in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the loathing
and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse. The
mark of Cain was upon him.
But before he went forth--while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering
beneath his conscience before Owain Glendwr--that chieftain passed a
doom upon him and his race:
"I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou
shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn
of all good men. The very children shall point to thee with hissing
tongue, and say, 'There goes one who would have shed a brother's
blood!' For I loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd!
Thou shalt live on to see all of thy house, except the weakling in
arms, perish by the sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each
generation shall see their lands melt away like snow; yea their
wealth shall vanish, though they may labour night and day to heap up
gold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the
earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the veins of any human
being. In those days the last male of thy race shall avenge me. The
son shall slay the father."
Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr's speech to his
once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been
fulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they
would, the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous--indeed that
their worldly stock diminished without any visible cause.
But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring
power of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards
of Memory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family;
and in the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly
destroyed, by the marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss
Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an
heiress--to no considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make
the prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her husband removed
from his small patrimonial estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage
in Caernarvonshire, and for a time the prophecy lay dormant.
If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial
church of Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the
mountains, which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay.
This tract of land has every appearance of having been redeemed at no
distant period of time from the sea, and has all the desolate
rankness often attendant upon such marshes. But the valley beyond,
similar in character, had yet more of gloom at the time of which I
write. In the higher part there were large plantations of firs, set
too closely to attain any size, and remaining stunted in height and
scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly
had died, and the bark had fallen down on the brown soil neglected
and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly appearance, with their
white trunks, seen by the dim light which struggled through the thick
boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed a more open,
though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked dark and overhung
by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and even a farm-
house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a
landscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part
of the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his
wife. In the higher part of the valley was situated the family
mansion, or rather dwelling-house, for "mansion" is too grand a word
to apply to the clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was
square and heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament
necessary to distinguish it from the mere farm-house.
In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons--
Llewellyn, the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for
the Church. The only difference in their situation, up to the time
when Robert was entered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was
invariably indulged by all around him, while Robert was thwarted and
indulged by turns; that Llewellyn never learned anything from the
poor Welsh parson, who was nominally his private tutor; while
occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of enforcing
Robert's diligence, telling him that, as he had his bread to earn, he
must pay attention to his learning. There is no knowing how far the
very irregular education he had received would have carried Robert
through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in this
respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of
the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by
a hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it
seemed quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for
him to "earn his bread by his learning," that he should not return to
Oxford. So the half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man
continued at home, during the short remainder of his parent's
lifetime.
His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent,
and easily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were
vehement and fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself,
and in common hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger--so much
did he dread losing his self-control. Had he been judiciously
educated, he would, probably, have distinguished himself in those
branches of literature which call for taste and imagination, rather
than any exertion of reflection or judgment. As it was, his literary
taste showed itself in making collections of Cambrian antiquities of
every description, till his stock of Welsh MSS. would have excited
the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which
I write.
There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted
to note, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard
drinker; whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that
his partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its
attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert
Griffiths was habitually sober--a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was
almost shunned as a churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of
his time in solitude.
About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the
Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his
agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had
charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only
a few days at her father's house, they were sufficient to decide his
affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he
brought home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a
gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom,
nevertheless, she stood something in awe, partly arising from the
difference in their ages, partly from his devoting much time to
studies of which she could understand nothing.
She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called
Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years
in the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all
declared that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore
the son and heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother's death:
she had been ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she
seemed to lack the buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her
round after her time of trial. Her husband, who loved her all the
more from having few other claims on his affections, was deeply
grieved by her early death, and his only comforter was the sweet
little boy whom she had left behind. That part of the squire's
character, which was so tender, and almost feminine, seemed called
forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who stretched
out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that happier
children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost
neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to
his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so
accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By
night and by day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and
increasing years seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an
unnatural life for the child, seeing no bright little faces peering
into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, five or six years
older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything but
bright), hearing no din of clear ringing voices, but day after day
sharing the otherwise solitary hours of his father, whether in the
dim room, surrounded by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his
little feet to keep up with his "tada" in his mountain rambles or
shooting excursions. When the pair came to some little foaming
brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the father
carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the lad
was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father's arms, or the
Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy
was indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his
wish of sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this
indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and
not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face
of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his information
was of an imaginative and speculative character. His father
delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how
far they were healthy for so young a mind.
Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was
to be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it
when among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay
nearer to his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong
imagination rendered him peculiarly impressible on such subjects;
while his judgment, seldom exercised or fortified by severe thought,
could not prevent his continually recurring to it. He used to gaze
on the half-sad countenance of the child, who sat looking up into his
face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the
old legend swelled around his heart, and became too painful for him
not to require sympathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to
the child seemed to demand fuller vent than tender words; it made him
like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for the fearful contrast
foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend, in a half-jesting
manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over the wild
heaths in the autumn days, "the saddest of the year," or while they
sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics that
gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was
wrought into the boy's mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear
it told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with
caresses and questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words
and actions were cut short by his father's light yet bitter speech--
"Get thee away, my lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this
love."
When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of
the parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on
Squire Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had
many congenial tastes with his parishioner, and was his only
intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he succeeded in convincing the
Squire that the unnatural life Owen was leading was in every way
injurious. Unwillingly was the father wrought to part from his son;
but he did at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor, then
under the management of an excellent classic. Here Owen showed that
he had more talents than the rector had given him credit for, when he
affirmed that the lad had been completely stupefied by the life he
led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to the school in the
peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous. But he was not
popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, to a
certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle,
except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to
those of his father) forced their way.
On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year
or so at Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued
Augharad was about to be married to a gentleman of South Wales,
residing near Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but
Owen thought of the many slights with which he had requited the
patient Augharad, and he gave way to bitter regrets, which, with a
selfish want of control over his words, he kept expressing to his
father, until the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the
repeated exclamations of "What shall we do when Augharad is gone?"
"How dull we shall be when Augharad is married!" Owen's holidays
were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he might be present at the
wedding; and when all the festivities were over, and the bride and
bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his father really felt how
much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so
many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their daily
comfort depended; and now she was gone, the household seemed to miss
the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamed
about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer
the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very
fires burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of
gray ashes. Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and
this also the mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a
selfish parent.
Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received
one during his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his
father paid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor
even a letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and
then he was astounded by the intelligence that his father was married
again.
Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its
effects upon his character because it could find no vent in action.
Independently of slight to the memory of the first wife which
children are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had
hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the first object of
his father's life. They had been so much to each other; and now a
shapeless, but too real something had come between him and his father
there for ever. He felt as if his permission should have been asked,
as if he should have been consulted. Certainly he ought to have been
told of the intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his
constrained letter which had so much increased the bitterness of
Owen's feelings.
With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had
never seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in
the bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her
manners, to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among
the families of the few antiquarians with whom his father visited,
were so fascinating that he watched her with a sort of breathless
admiration. Her measured grace, her faultless movements, her tones
of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated with their sweetness, made
Owen less angry at his father's marriage. Yet he felt, more than
ever, that the cloud was between him and his father; that the hasty
letter he had sent in answer to the announcement of his wedding was
not forgotten, although no allusion was ever made to it. He was no
longer his father's confidant--hardly ever his father's companion,
for the newly-married wife was all in all to the Squire, and his son
felt himself almost a cipher, where he had so long been everything.
The lady herself had ever the softest consideration for her stepson;
almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes, but still
he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances. There
was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught when
she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little
circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in
his stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her
little child by her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He
was one of those elfish, observant, mocking children, over whose
feelings you seem to have no control: agile and mischievous, his
little practical jokes, at first performed in ignorance of the pain
he gave, but afterward proceeding to a malicious pleasure in
suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious
notion of some of the common people that he was a fairy changeling.
Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He
saw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had
passed on to college), that a great change had taken place in the
outward manifestations of his father's character; and, by degrees,
Owen traced this change to the influence of his stepmother; so
slight, so imperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in
its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his wife's humbly advanced
opinions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying
all argument and opposition. It was the same with her wishes; they
met their fulfilment, from the extreme and delicate art with which
she insinuated them into her husband's mind, as his own. She
sacrificed the show of authority for the power. At last, when Owen
perceived some oppressive act in his father's conduct toward his
dependants, or some unaccountable thwarting of his own wishes, he
fancied he saw his stepmother's secret influence thus displayed,
however much she might regret the injustice of his father's actions
in her conversations with him when they were alone. His father was
fast losing his temperate habits, and frequent intoxication soon took
its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the spell of his
wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his passion,
yet she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and
directed it hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of
the tendency of her words.
Meanwhile Owen's situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth
whose early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present
state. As a child, he had been elevated to the consequence of a man
before his years gave any mental check to the selfishness which such
conduct was likely to engender; he could remember when his will was
law to the servants and dependants, and his sympathy necessary to his
father: now he was as a cipher in his father's house; and the
Squire, estranged in the first instance by a feeling of the injury he
had done his son in not sooner acquainting him with his purposed
marriage, seemed rather to avoid than to seek him as a companion, and
too frequently showed the most utter indifference to the feelings and
wishes which a young man of a high and independent spirit might be
supposed to indulge.
Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these
circumstances; for an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned
enough to be perfectly observant. But he became moody and soured;
brooding over his unloved existence, and craving with a human heart
after sympathy.
This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left
college, and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As
the heir, there was no worldly necessity for exertion: his father
was too much of a Welsh squire to dream of the moral necessity, and
he himself had not sufficient strength of mind to decide at once upon
abandoning a place and mode of life which abounded in daily
mortifications; yet to this course his judgment was slowly tending,
when some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bodowen.
It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even
in appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as
Owen, and his wary stepmother, when he had once left college, and
come, not as a visitor, but as the heir to his father's house. Some
cause of difference occurred, where the woman subdued her hidden
anger sufficiently to become convinced that Owen was not entirely the
dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there was no peace
between them. Not in vulgar altercations did this show itself; but
in moody reserve on Owen's part, and in undisguised and contemptuous
pursuance of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was no longer
a place where, if Owen was not loved or attended to, he could at
least find peace, and care for himself: he was thwarted at every
step, and in every wish, by his father's desire, apparently, while
the wife sat by with a smile of triumph on her beautiful lips.
So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, sometimes roaming about on
the shore or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be,
but oftener "stretched in indolent repose" on the short, sweet grass,
indulging in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would fancy that this
mortified state of existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from
which he should awake and find himself again the sole object and
darling of his father. And then he would start up and strive to
shake off the incubus. There was the molten sunset of his childish
memory; the gorgeous crimson piles of glory in the west, fading away
into the cold calm light of the rising moon, while here and there a
cloud floated across the western heaven, like a seraph's wing, in its
flaming beauty; the earth was the same as in his childhood's days,
full of gentle evening sounds, and the harmonies of twilight--the
breeze came sweeping low over the heather and blue-bells by his side,
and the turf was sending up its evening incense of perfume. But
life, and heart, and hope were changed for ever since those bygone
days!
Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of the rocks on Moel
Gest, hidden by a stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from
general observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his
feet, and a straight precipice of rock rising just above. Here would
he sit for hours, gazing idly at the bay below with its back-ground
of purple hills, and the little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing
white in the sunbeam, and gliding on in such harmony with the quiet
beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out an old school-volume,
his companion for years, and in morbid accordance with the dark
legend that still lurked in the recesses of his mind--a shape of
gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth in
distinct outline--would he turn to the old Greek dramas which treat
of a family foredoomed by an avenging Fate. The worn page opened of
itself at the play of the OEdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt with the
craving disease upon the prophecy so nearly resembling that which
concerned himself. With his consciousness of neglect, there was a
sort of self-flattery in the consequence which the legend gave him.
He almost wondered how they durst, with slights and insults, thus
provoke the Avenger.