He woke up famished and set himself to work. He did not think of Giovanelli, and he certainly did not think of Daisy. He received reports from time to time from mutual friends about her full recovery, and about her excursions into Florence with Giovanelli and others, but he never heard of an intimate moment. After four days though, he began to think that Daisy’s affections might have been, in fact, bestowed upon several men as she insisted, as she did not call on him. He thought of moving to America, and of forgetting her forever. He visited a few expatriate friends and made the most of her absence, forcing himself to think of continuing the charade of a full life without her; after all, barring their conversation as she was ill, her abandonment was all but complete since Miss Walker’s party.
On the sixth day, Winterbourne made an effort of gathering his things into his many valises and even his two portmanteaux in an effort to rid himself of the accumulating gloom surrounding the prospects of her return, in an effort to leave Rome for the comfort of old friends in Switzerland.
• • •
Winterbourne finished placing his belongings, pulled his sheet-tops out, prepared his traveler’s suit, and went to bed, thinking of the next day’s journey back to Geneva. Sleep came easily. But not two hours later, a pitter-patter sound awoke him. He thought it was the rainy season approaching, and went to close the shutters in the powder room. But the rain had stopped hours ago, as he could see that the carriages just outside were bone dry.
Seeing a movement outside, he asked who it was at midnight, and what business they had waking him up. A tinny voice answered, and he immediately opened the door, his dressing gown trailing on the wooden floor. Daisy made her way into his apartment without invitation. “I have thought about this, Winterbourne, since we met. And I have had a wonderful time walking in the gardens and through the brilliant palazzos of Rome with Giovanelli. But I haven’t so much as pecked him on the cheek, as is the custom here. Because, Winterbourne, you have my heart.”
Winterbourne closed his eyes and breathed in her raindrop-scented hair. He picked her up at once, and carried her into his feather bed. He laid her down, and with unforeseen skill, Winterbourne unfurled her hair and untied her bodice. After embracing each other in the nude for several minutes, Winterbourne whispered. “I knew you were prone to come back into my arms, my dear, from the moment we met.”
Daisy, ever the bright little coquette, observed that he didn’t. “Then I suppose your portmanteaux ambled by themselves to the door?”
Winterbourne had had enough. He grabbed her waist and squeezed until Daisy made a rather unpleasant face, but this pleased him even more, as he knew she desired him. Daisy drew his hands down into her downy hairs above her sex, and smiled. Winterbourne knelt, grabbed her near, drew her onto his finger, and slowly made his finger’s way into her. He then sat on the bed and beckoned her over. She was still smiling, and at once she sat down in Winterbourne’s lap, where he immediately started to massage her demure little breasts. She began to rub herself up and down his body, and soon they could help themselves no longer: Ravenous for love, they pushed into each other, and Winterbourne shoved his prick into Daisy’s peach until they both felt an immediate sensation of blinding pleasure.
Daisy Miller and Frederick Winterbourne carried on like alley cats in the night, and the very next day traveled hand-in-hand to Florence, where on the Ponte Vecchio they presented each other with hammered gold rings, much to the bemusement of the watching countrymen. Of course, by that time, Winterbourne had given instructions to the town of Vevey to retain the property of the castle at Chillon. Daisy only shrugged at this news. Winterbourne didn’t mind — nevertheless, they went back to live at Geneva for the rest of their lives intertwined, whence there continue to come the most contradictory accounts of his motives of sojourn: a report that he is “studying” hard — an intimation that he is much still interested in a very clever foreign lady.
Far from the Madding Crowd
Wild and Wanton Edition
Pan Zador and Thomas Hardy
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Pan Zador
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6832-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6832-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6833-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6833-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER LIV
CHAPTER LV
CHAPTER LVI
CHAPTER LVII
About the Collaborating Author
CHAPTER I
Description of Farmer Oak — An Incident
When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. At night, when he removed his shepherd’s clothing, it was possible to glimpse this modest man in his entire naked beauty; his form was strong and well-balanced, with a fine broad chest, muscular thighs and legs, and between those limbs, a curly tangle of light brown hair amidst which his long and supple wand of generation nestled, supported by twin plums of rosy pink flesh, as yet unseen or untouched by any woman save his mother, when he was but a babe.
His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of lukewarm neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section, — that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a g
ood man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.
Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own — the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a brown cloth coat with large pockets like Dr. Johnson’s; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp — their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.
Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.
But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning — sunny and exceedingly mild — might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a virginal girl, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world’s room, Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not.
He had just reached the time of life at which “young” is ceasing to be the prefix of “man” in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.
We may surmise that Oak had yearnings for a future that held, not himself alone, but a rosy vision of a family, with himself as a husband and father, several pretty daughters and stalwart sons to inherit his little farm; as yet these were but vague and shadowy images, since in his life to date no woman had yet entered his cognizance whose beauty might cause his heart to beat faster, or his mind to indulge in thoughts of future marital pleasures. To be sure, he was only human; how, then, were his natural proclivities for the act of generation to be satisfied? For, being a shepherd and attuned to the ways of nature, he had often had occasion to witness his ewes and their rams in the very act of coition, and knew it to arise from an entirely innocent force of nature.
So it was that when in springtime his natural bodily urges made themselves known to him by their insistent promptings, he would betake himself to the river bank, and, stripping himself of his garments, would plunge himself into the cool water and let himself be pulled downstream by the current, which flowed sluggishly and was home to undulating, soft weeds, in appearance not unlike the long hair of a beautiful woman, save that they were a brilliant green.
The amorous weeds would wrap themselves around his manhood, and in their rhythmic, stroking embraces he would surrender to a pleasure he felt to be entirely natural and good, as innocent as the impulse that drives the ram to the ewe, the stallion to the mare, or the bull to the heifer. So uncomplicated was the life of Farmer Oak, that these outings to the river were part and parcel of his pattern, and he would gaze with easy contentment as the milky issue of his seed was pumped vigorously forth, to mingle with the green weeds, finally drifting out of sight along the river bank. No other being had ever witnessed these moments, for he was a discreet man and not prey to mad impulse.
The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes.
“The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,” said the waggoner.
“Then I heard it fall,” said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. “I heard a noise I could not account for when we were coming up the hill.”
“I’ll run back.”
“Do,” she answered.
The sensible horses stood — perfectly still, and the waggoner’s steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance.
The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary — all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the small birds around.
The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled.
It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators, — whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art, — nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more.
The change from the customary spot and neces
sary occasion of such an act — from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors — lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a delicate one. Woman’s prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part — vistas of probable triumphs — the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts, minds and bodies were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all.
The waggoner’s steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place.
Literary Love Page 10