by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLV
TROY'S ROMANTICISM
When Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight hisfirst act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascendedthe stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was,he waited miserably for the morning.
Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twentyhours. His day had been spent in a way which varied very materiallyfrom his intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia tobe overcome in striking out a new line of conduct--not more inourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear asif leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed toadd to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account,which had been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-sevenpounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morningto keep his appointment with Fanny Robin.
On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, andat five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower endof the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struckthe hour, and no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she wasbeing robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Unionpoorhouse--the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature hadever been honoured with. The quarter went, the half hour. A rush ofrecollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was the second timeshe had broken a serious engagement with him. In anger he vowedit should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingeredand watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upontheir face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till theyoppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for hisgig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, andrecklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.
He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either thereor in the town till nine. But Fanny's image, as it had appeared tohim in the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to hismind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches. He vowed he would notbet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock inthe evening he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a fewshillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for thefirst time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented byillness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made nomistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge andmade inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse andcame indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.
As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arosefrom the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifferenceto Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, hestalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk wastowards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till hefound a newly dug unoccupied grave--the grave dug the day before forFanny. The position of this having been marked, he hastened on toCasterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereonhe had last seen Fanny alive.
Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered apair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, "Lester, stoneand marble mason." Within were lying about stones of all sizes anddesigns, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed personswho had not yet died.
Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that thewant of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. Hismethod of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb wasthat of an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himselfto consider, calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished forsomething, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery."I want a good tomb," he said to the man who stood in a little officewithin the yard. "I want as good a one as you can give me fortwenty-seven pounds."
It was all the money he possessed.
"That sum to include everything?"
"Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, anderection. And I want it now, at once."
"We could not get anything special worked this week."
"I must have it now."
"If you would like one of these in stock it could be got readyimmediately."
"Very well," said Troy, impatiently. "Let's see what you have."
"The best I have in stock is this one," said the stone-cutter, goinginto a shed. "Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, withmedallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone afterthe same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave. Thepolishing alone of the set cost me eleven pounds--the slabs are thebest of their kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frostfor a hundred years without flying."
"And how much?"
"Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sumyou mention."
"Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now."
The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore nota shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to formthe inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoonhe came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. Hewaited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in thecart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to thetwo men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for thegrave of the person named in the inscription.
It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carriedrather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodilyalong the road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereonhe deposited his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met,returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyedthe tomb. He merely inquired if the work was done, and, on beingassured that it was, passed on again.
Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and wentimmediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave earlyin the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened toa great extent from the view of passers along the road--a spot whichuntil lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes ofalder, but now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, byreason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.
Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapelyin the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing borderof marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable forplants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a fewminutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, thelight of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilsthe read the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest boughof the yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of severalvarieties. There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocusbulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in earlyspring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley,forget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow-saffron and others, forthe later seasons of the year.
Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face setto work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on theoutside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of thegrave. The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some ofthe summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies andforget-me-nots over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in thespaces between these.
Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in thefutility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reactionfrom previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showedat such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges onmawkishness, characteristic of the French.
It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy'slantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminatingpower, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cl
oudabove. He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, andpresently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern,whereupon the candle sputtered and went out. Troy was weary andit being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening toincrease, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labouruntil the day should break. He groped along the wall and over thegraves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side.Here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within,fell asleep.