Far from the Madding Crowd

by Pan Zador

  “He can blow the flute very well — that ‘a can,” said a young married man, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known as “Susan Tall’s husband.” He continued, “I’d as lief as not be able to blow into a flute as well as that.”

  “He’s a clever man, and ‘tis a true comfort for us to have such a shepherd,” murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft cadence. “We ought to feel full o’ thanksgiving that he’s not a player of bawdy songs instead of these merry tunes; for ‘twould have been just as easy for God to have made the shepherd a loose low man — a man of iniquity, so to speak it — as what he is. Yes, for our wives’ and daughters’ sakes we should feel real thanksgiving.”

  “True, true, — real thanksgiving!” dashed in Mark Clark conclusively, not feeling it to be of any consequence to his opinion that he had only heard about a word and three-quarters of what Joseph had said.

  “Yes,” added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the Bible; “for evil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived in the cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp upon the turnpike, if I may term it so.”

  “Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd,” said Henery Fray, criticising Gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second tune. “Yes — now I see ‘ee blowing into the flute I know ‘ee to be the same man I see play at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped up and yer eyes a-staring out like a strangled man’s — just as they be now.”

  “’Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such a scarecrow,” observed Mr. Mark Clark, with additional criticism of Gabriel’s countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the ghastly grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of “Dame Durden:” —

  ‘Twas Moll’ and Bet’, and Doll’ and Kate’,And Dor’-othy Drag’-gle Tail’.

  “I hope you don’t mind that young man’s bad manners in naming your features?” whispered Joseph to Gabriel.

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Oak.

  “For by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd,” continued Joseph Poorgrass, with winning sauvity.

  “Ay, that ye be, shepard,” said the company.

  “Thank you very much,” said Oak, in the modest tone good manners demanded, thinking, however, that he would never let Bathsheba see him playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion equal to that related to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minerva herself.

  “Ah, when I and my wife were married at Norcombe Church,” said the old maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject, “we were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood — everybody said so.”

  “Danged if ye bain’t altered now, malter,” said a voice with the vigour natural to the enunciation of a remarkably evident truism. It came from the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and spiteful ways were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he contributed to general laughs.

  “O no, no,” said Gabriel.

  “Don’t ye play no more, shepherd,” said Susan Tall’s husband, the young married man who had spoken once before. “I must be moving, and when there’s tunes going on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought after I’d left that music was still playing, and I not there, I should be quite melancholy-like.”

  “What’s yer hurry then, Laban?” inquired Coggan. “You used to bide as late as the latest.”

  “Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to a woman, and she’s my vocation now, and she’ll be ready upstairs and waiting for me, to do my will and serve me as a wife should her husband, and so ye see — ” The young man halted lamely.

  “New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose,” remarked Coggan.

  “Ay, ‘a b’lieve — ha, ha!” said Susan Tall’s husband, in a tone intended to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding them at all. The young man then wished them good-night and withdrew.

  Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabriel arose and went off with Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later, when the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray came back again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously he threw a gaze teeming with tidings just where his eye alighted by accident, which happened to be in Joseph Poorgrass’s face.

  “O — what’s the matter, what’s the matter, Henery?” said Joseph, starting back.

  “What’s a-brewing, Henrey?” asked Jacob and Mark Clark.

  “Baily Pennyways — Baily Pennyways — I said so; yes, I said so!”

  “What, found out stealing anything?”

  “Stealing it is. The news is, that after Miss Everdene got home she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in found Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a a bushel of barley. She flew at him like a cat — never such a tomboy as she is — of course I speak with closed doors?”

  “You do — you do, Henery.”

  “She flewed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to having carried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to persecute him. Well, he’s turned out neck and crop, and my question is, who’s going to be baily now?”

  The question was such a profound one that Henery was obliged to drink there and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly visible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came the young man, Susan Tall’s husband, in a still greater hurry.

  “Have ye heard the news that’s all over parish?”

  “About Baily Pennyways?”

  “But besides that?”

  “No — not a morsel of it!” they replied, looking into the very midst of Laban Tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat.

  “What a night of horrors!” murmured Joseph Poorgrass, waving his hands spasmodically. “I’ve had the news-bell ringing in my left ear quite bad enough for a murder, and I’ve seen a magpie all alone!”

  “Fanny Robin — Miss Everdene’s youngest servant — can’t be found. They’ve been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she isn’t come in. And they don’t know what to do about going to bed for fear of locking her out. They wouldn’t be so concerned if she hadn’t been noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and Maryann do think the beginning of a crowner’s inquest has happened to the poor girl.”

  “Oh — ‘tis burned — ‘tis burned!” came from Joseph Poorgrass’s dry lips.

  “No — ‘tis drowned!” said Tall.

  “Or ‘tis her father’s razor!” suggested Billy Smallbury, with a vivid sense of detail.

  “Well — Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go to bed. What with this trouble about the baily, and now about the girl, mis’ess is almost wild.”

  They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the old maltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw from his hole. There, as the others’ footsteps died away he sat down again and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red, bleared eyes.

  From the bedroom window above their heads Bathsheba’s head and shoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the air.

  “Are any of my men among you?” she said anxiously.

  “Yes, ma’am, several,” said Susan Tall’s husband.

  “To-morrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries in the villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robin. Do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have left whilst we were all at the fire.”

  “I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man courting her in the parish, ma’am?” asked Jacob Smallbury.

  “I don’t know,” said Bathsheba.

  “I’ve never heard of any such thing, ma’am,” said two or three.

  “It is hardly likely, either,” continued Bathsheba. “For
any lover of hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. I should not have forbidden it. The most mysterious matter connected with her absence — indeed, the only thing which gives me serious alarm — is that she was seen to go out of the house by Maryann with only her indoor working gown on — not even a bonnet.”

  “And you mean, ma’am, excusing my words, that a young woman would hardly go to see her young man without dressing up,” said Jacob, turning his mental vision upon past experiences. “That’s true — she would not, ma’am.”

  “She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn’t see very well,” said a female voice from another window, which seemed that of Maryann. “But she had no young man about here, that I know for certain. She had a lover, indeed she had that luck. Hers lives in Casterbridge, and I believe he’s a soldier.”

  “Do you know his name?” Bathsheba said.

  “No, mistress; she was very close about it.”

  “Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge barracks,” said William Smallbury.

  “Very well; if she doesn’t return to-morrow, mind you go there and try to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more responsible than I should if she had had any friends or relations alive. I do hope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind … And then there’s this disgraceful affair of the bailiff — but I can’t speak of him now.”

  Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she did not think it worthwhile to dwell upon any particular one. “Do as I told you, then,” she said in conclusion, closing the casement.

  “Ay, ay, mistress; we will,” they replied, and moved away.

  That night at Coggan’s, Gabriel Oak, beneath the screen of closed eyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river flowing rapidly under its ice. Night had always been the time at which he saw Bathsheba most vividly, and through the slow hours of shadow he tenderly regarded her image now. How could he help but imagine her as a spirited creature like her lusty mother, hotly wielding her wooden spoon upon his private parts until his juices flowed? Then, with a shy smile, bending her head to his groin, and gently kissing the hurt better? It was a not unwelcome fantasy, for did it not end in a joyous coupling? He took his pleasure while imagining Bathsheba, who was indeed as yet a virgin, holding him off with only a semblance of resisting, till they with tongue and hand had found each other, and nothing was withheld, no barriers remaining to the satisfaction of their bodily needs. Teasingly, he played with these images in his mind until his body responded with that familiar enjoyable outpouring that could only be the natural result of his long absence from the river at Norcombe. It is rarely that the pleasures of the imagination will compensate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they possibly did with Oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing her effaced for the time his perception of the great difference between seeing and possessing.

  He also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books from Norcombe. The Young Man’s Best Companion, The Farrier’s Sure Guide, The Veterinary Surgeon, Paradise Lost, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Robinson Crusoe, Ash’s Dictionary, and Walkingame’s Arithmetic, constituted his library; and though a limited series, it was one from which he had acquired more sound information by diligent perusal than many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of laden shelves.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE HOMESTEAD — A VISITOR — HALF-CONFIDENCES

  By daylight, the bower of Oak’s new-found mistress, Bathsheba Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of Classic Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest demesnes.

  Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. A gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss — here it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. This circumstance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the reverse façade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way. Reversals of this kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon edifices — either individual or in the aggregate as streets and towns — which were originally planned for pleasure alone.

  Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their century, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs themselves continually twisting round like a person trying to look over his shoulder. Going up, the floors above were found to have a very irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and being just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be eaten into innumerable vermiculations. Every window replied by a clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed every bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the house, like a spirit, wherever he went.

  In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba and her servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles, and rubbish spread out thereon — remnants from the household stores of the late occupier. Liddy, the maltster’s great-granddaughter, was about Bathsheba’s equal in age, and her face was a prominent advertisement of the light-hearted English country girl. The beauty her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a Terburg or a Gerard Douw; and, like the presentations of those great colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary between comeliness and the ideal. Though elastic in nature she was less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally showed some earnestness, which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness superadded by way of duty.

  Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant objects. Much to her sorrow, those distant objects were as likely as not to be men of all shapes and sizes fleeing from her advances. Yet in spite of her frustrations in the arena of love, she retained her lively sense of the absurdity of men’s behaviour — what gawks they must be, to refuse a woman who offered her charms so willingly! To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.

  “Stop your scrubbing a moment,” said Bathsheba through the door to her. “I hear something.”

  Maryann suspended the brush.

  The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.

  “What impertinence!” said Liddy, in a low voice. “To ride up the footpath like that! Why didn’t he stop at the gate? Lord! ‘Tis a gentleman! I see the top of his hat.”

  “Be quiet!” said Bathsheba.

  The further expression of Liddy’s concern was continued by aspect instead of narrative.

  “W
hy doesn’t Mrs. Coggan go to the door?” Bathsheba continued.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba’s oak door.

  “Maryann, you go!” said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities.

  “Oh ma’am — see, here’s a mess!”

  The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann. She was covered in dust from her exertions.

  “Liddy — you must,” said Bathsheba.

  Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress.

  “There — Mrs. Coggan is going!” said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or more.

  The door opened, and a deep voice said —

  “Is Miss Everdene at home?”

  “I’ll see, sir,” said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the room.

  “Dear, what a contrary place this world is!” continued Mrs. Coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with flour). “I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but one of two things do happen — either my nose must needs begin tickling, and I can’t live without scratching it, or somebody knocks at the door. Here’s Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene.”

  A woman’s dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the other, Bathsheba said at once —

  “I can’t see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?”

  Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so Liddy suggested — “Say you’re a fright with dust, and can’t come down.”

  “Yes — that sounds very well,” said Mrs. Coggan, critically.

  “Say I can’t see him — that will do.”