My People: Stories of the Peasantry of West Wales/The Glory That Was Sion's

by Caradoc Evans

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THE GLORY THAT WAS SION’S

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THE GLORY THAT WAS SION’S

Twm Tybach was abhorred of Capel Sion. In all his acts he was evil. He was born out of sin, and he walked in the company of loose men. His features were fair, and he had a rakish eye, before which the heart of Madlen utterly melted. Now Madlen owned two pigs, a cow and a heifer, several heads of poultry, and Tybach, the stone-walled cottage that is beyond the School-house. In his fortieth year Twm coveted Madlen's possessions; and inasmuch as Madlen was on the borderline of her womanhood she received Twm's advances with joy. So Twm hired Old Shemmi’s horse-car and drove Madlen to Castellybryn, where the two were married in the house of the registrar. The occasion is memorable to Madlen because that night she slept in a virgin’s bed, her husband having gone into the bed of Old Mari who sold sweet loshins in the market place.

Thereon Twm lived on Madlen. He poached a little, but he was credited with more rabbits and hares than he would risk his liberty to trap; in season he pretended to help his neighbours in the hayfield, but nearly always succeeded in getting under covert with a woman.

He was as irreligious as an irreligious Welshman can be. He defied the Big Man openly; never except on market and fair days did he wear his best clothes; in passing the Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan and Mistress Bryn-Bevan he kept his cap on his head and whistled, and once he made Mistress Bryn-Bevan sick by spitting loudly on the ground; he frequented the inn which is kept by Mistress Shames, where he consorted with the disreputable Shon the Pig Drover—one without honour in the land.

Six weeks after his wedding Twm was stricken by illness. The Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan, then Judge of Capel Sion, declared that the Lord was smiting His enemy, a just fate for all that offendeth Him. The third day of his illness Twm crept into the four-poster bed in the kitchen, and he ordered Madlen to bake a loaf of leavened bread and to place it on his belly; and a stubby beard grew on his chin.

The evening of that day Dr. Morgan came by Tybach; Madlen stopped him, saying, “Indeed, now, doctor bach, come him in and give me small counsel about Twm.”

The doctor examined Twm and he said to him: “Well-well, Twm, you will perish in a few days.”

When Madlen heard this she placed a kettle of water on the fire and brought down her husband's razor from the highest shelf of the dresser.

Twm’s face turned very white, for the man was afraid of Death.

“There’s no chance for you, little Twm,” the doctor said. “You are a hundred times worse than the boy in the Bible who took up his old bed and walked.”

The account of how the days of the evil-favoured Twm Tybach were rounding on him was carried from mouth to mouth, and none was sorry. It was told to the Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan in Shop Rhys. The teller of it was Bertha Daviss. This is what she said:

“Dear me! Dear me! The old calf of Twm Tybach is passing.”

“Madlen will want mourning,” said Rhys quickly. “She has not had a death for many years.”

The Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan was a religious man, and aware of Twm’s evil reputation.

“Indeed to goodness,” he said, with much solemnity. “And you do say so now, Miss Daviss?”

“Iss, iss,” said Bertha, addressing the minister. “Man, man, why for he does not know that Twm Tybach is a Congregationalist? Was not old Eva his mother cut out of the Seiet when Twm was born? For sure me, that was so.”

“What iobish do you spout, Bertha!” said Rhys. “What credit is the scamp unto Sion?”

“Be you merciful, little Rhys,” returned the minister. “Do you forgive others as you need forgiveness.”

“Maybe Twm is no credit,” observed Bertha, “but we will have to bury him. Is not our graveyard the fullest in all the land?”

“You say wisely, Bertha Daviss,” said the minister. “You say wisely, Bertha fach. Iss not the grave our last home then? We must begrudge it to no man. O little ones, there is largish space in the Big Man’s acre.”

“No, no, Respected bach,” cried Bertha. “For why? The graveyard is full. Father was the last to be laid there. And in comfort did he go up when he knew of that glory.”

Rhys Shop looked upon the minister. The minister looked upon Bertha: his gaze travelled from her clogs, her torn stockings and her turned-over petticoat to the yellow skin of her face and the narrow eyes which looked out damply over her bridgeless nose.

“Woman,” he cried at last, “dost thou speak what thou knowest to be true, or dost thou repeat unto me—yea, unto me thy Judge—that which is idle gossip?”

“The truth, Bryn-Bevan bach. The truth.”

The minister was confounded. The muscles of his cheeks moved nervously under his red beard. Then he arose and saying, “Fair day, boys bach,” buttoned his frock-coat and grasped his varnished stick, and left the shop. Rhys and Bertha stood by, and when he was gone they stood in the way of the door and watched the high, thin, tall-hatted figure treading heavily down the road towards Capel Sion; and at the week-night Meeting for Prayer every one there knew that though the Respected Bryn-Bevan was blessed with much wisdom, understanding, and knowledge, the Big Man had loaded him with a burden heavy to bear.

Never within Capel Sion, nor within the boundaries of the parish, has been heard such a plea as that which was spoken by Bryn-Bevan that night. In the language of Adam and Eve he petitioned that his brother Twm Tybach would find repentance in the fulness of time, so that Death would find his putrid body cleansed and worthy of burial in the bosom of the new graveyard.

With the minister’s amen, Abel Shones, the officer for poor relief, rose and suggested a deputation to wait upon the vicar seeking permission to inter Twm’s body in the church graveyard.

“Very mad is Abel Shones, males bach,” said Old Shemmi. “When Twm’s sins art forgotten, the Church will claim him as her own.”

“And possession, dear me, counts for much in the law,” said Sadrach Danyrefail.

Lloyd the Schoolin’ was for compromise.

“At the entrance to Capel Sion,” he said, “we will put up an old stone on which is written these words: ‘Tomos Tomos, Tybach, lieth not here. Tomos lieth in the parish church. Why, dear people? Because the graveyard of Capel Sion was so full that there was no room for further burials.’”

“What's the use of a tombstone,” asked Old Shemmi, “if there is nothing under it? Does a landless man go to Castellybryn to buy a plough?”

“O you people,” the Respected Bryn-Bevan broke in, “you are all wandering on the moorness. Dear me. Dear me! Let us now seek deliverance from this trial which it has pleased God to inflict upon us. Let them who go to church tithe gatherers and the like be buried in church ground. Well do we know the fewness of graves there. We know where the Angel and the trumpet will be. Our graveyard, dear ones, is it not the glory of Sion? No, indeed then, we cannot spare one clay. Sit you down now and reason with one another.”

“Very suitable,” observed Old Shemmi, “is the field over Abel Shones’s house.”

“I am not afraid to enter the Palace,” said Abel. “But, friends bach, does not my drinking-water come through that field?”

Wherefore the wrath of the minister waxed hot against Abel.

“None except a dirty old atheist,” the Respected Bryn-Bevan said, “would bring materialism to bear upon a sacred subject. It is the water of life that matters, Abel Shones.”

Great is the Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan.

Abel protested against the use of parables in debate.

“Dost thou then not believe in the Parables?” shouted the minister. “Come ye now, speak. O man, man, where dost thou expect to go to when thou hast shuffled off thy carnal garments? Dost thou expect to wear the White Shirt?”

At the end of the Big Seat Abel Shones was praying for Old Shemmi; now as Shemmi saw and heard this thing he too fell on his knees and prayed for the cure of Twm Tybach. Lloyd the Schoolin’, having taken off his boots, stood on the seat of his pew, asking God to repent of His intention of spoiling Capel Sion as He had done with Sodom and Gomorrah.

“Don’t you now, little Big Man," he prayed, “be influenced either this way or that way by their talk. Think you to yourself, they do not know what they do.” To this day the hour that remark was uttered is a memorial to the occurrence, for the congregation turned their faces to the clock, whose hands they did not think would move again.

“Brethren”—Mishtir Bryn-Bevan’s voice rose above the noises—“Brethren, at this moment Twm Tybach may be passing into the Pool.”

The First Men saw that Bryn-Bevan’s counsel was good, and they discussed and disputed, and it came to be that Old Shemmi’s scheme was adopted.

This field belonged to the squire, who regarded any one trading under the name of Nonconformist as a thief and a quibbler. In his dealings with the kind the squire acted through his lawyer, and therefore many days had to pass before the ground would be transferred to Capel Sion.

Meanwhile those who worshipped in Sion were commanded to pray without ceasing that Twm’s life would not end until the new burial place came into Sion's possession. But in spite of all the prayers each hour seemed to take Twm nearer the parish church. Three times in one day Madlen laid her black gown over the foot of the bed; three times she took the razor out of its case.

Many came to Tybach and prayed by Twm’s bedside; some came from a distance, and they arrived weary and refreshed themselves with tea which Madlen brewed for them; and every visitor brought a present.

The sick man was tempted with offerings of tins of sardines and corned beef, jars of red cabbage pickles and home-made jams. Mistress Bryn-Bevan sent a bottle of rhubarb wine. The man was angry when he was told that it would not make anyone drunk. Every night Rhys Shop came with a quarter of a pound of biscuits which he laid on the pillow, and he also brought with him samples of black materials which were suitable for mournful garments.

Even the Respected Josiah Bryn-Bevan came and stood over Twm's bed. Twm opened his eyes and said he thought his visitor was Shon the Pig Drover.

“Twm!” Madlen cried. “Shameful you are! There’s a squirrel for you! Say something religious to our little Judge.”

The minister sat on the window-sill and said: “Twm, indeed for sure, glad you ought to be, sinner bach, that you are to be laid in little Capel Sion.”

If ever the minister was inclined to the sin of unbelief in death-bed repentance it was when he heard Twm’s answer and saw Twm’s face.

“O Twm,” he said, “there’s glory that is awaiting for you, man. After many years I will come to Capel Sion with my grandchildren and I will show them your grave and say to them, ‘This is the grave of Tomos Tomos, Tybach. He was buried the day the graveyard was opened.’”

But Twm hardened his heart and would not take any comfort from the words of the Ruler of Capel Sion.

“Shon bach,” he whimpered, “would be nice to me.”

“You have been a bad man, Twm,” the minister sang. “But now you are coming into a heritage of splendour. Come forth from your house of bondage. I am your deliverer, and I will walk before your coffin, Twm bach, to your last home in Capel Sion.”

Twm turned his face to the wall; and he tried to stuff his ears with the ends of the patchwork quilt that covered him.

The minister went away, and he said to his congregation:

“Be comforted. Twm will be buried in the new little burial-ground.”

Time wore on. The title deeds of the new burial-ground were made over to the First Men, and Capel Sion lifted his head and murmured, “The glory of Sion is not departed.”

Although light flickered in the window of Tybach throughout several nights; although many saw the Candle of the Corpse that spirit light which foretells death going out of the house and along the road to Capel Sion; although Madlen herself heard the moan of the Spirit Hound, Twm did not die.

People did not come any more to Tybach, and the praying men ceased to pray for Twm; for they knew he would die, and whether he liked it or not his sinful bones would rest in the land that was the glory of Capel Sion.

Late one night Twm told Madlen to read to him about the man who took up his bed and walked. Barely had Madlen begun her reading than Twm groaned and gurgled.

“The end,” said Madlen to herself.

“Twm bach is in the Jordan.”

She moved to the bed; Twm's eyes were opened. She closed them. His face was grey as if the Angel of Death had cast the down from his wings upon it.

The kettle was singing on the hob; Madlen shifted it on to the live coals, and she took the razor out of its case and stropped it on the leather which hung on the bedpost. Twm heard the hissing of the kettle, and he also heard the sound the flat of the blade made on the leather; and he understood. He put his fingers through the stubby beard which had grown on his chin. A fear came over him. He threw back the clothes which covered him, and wrapped around him the patchwork quilt, and he went and sat by the fire.

“Madlen!” he cried. “Little Madlen, is not the old kettle boiling then? There’s slow mule you are! Come, make you a cup of tea now.”

From first to last Twm's years were five-and-forty.