Far from the Madding Crowd
“Knitting?”
“And that, too.”
“You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want
filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside
your aunt’s ma’am.”
“Samplers are out of date—horribly countrified. No Liddy, I’ll read.
Bring up some books—not new ones. I haven’t heart to read anything
new.”
“Some of your uncle’s old ones, ma’am?”
“Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes.” A faint gleam of humour
passed over her face as she said: “Bring Beaumont and Fletcher’s
_Maid’s Tragedy_, and the _Mourning Bride_, and—let me see—_Night
Thoughts_, and the _Vanity of Human Wishes_.”
“And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It
is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now.”
“Now, Liddy, you’ve been looking into my books without telling me; and
I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn’t
suit me at all.”
“But if the others do—”
“No, they don’t; and I won’t read dismal books. Why should I read
dismal books, indeed? Bring me _Love in a Village_, and _Maid of the
Mill_, and _Doctor Syntax_, and some volumes of the _Spectator_.”
All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of
barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy,
for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all.
Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read,
at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose,
and listening without much interest to every sound.
The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud
received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west
front of the church tower—the only part of the edifice visible from the
farm-house windows—rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit
bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o’clock, the young men of the
village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of Prisoners’ base.
The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time
immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the
boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden
hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and
black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white
shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a
peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They
continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game
concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished
round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a
beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the
branches traced black lines.
“Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?” Bathsheba
inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room.
“I think ’twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and
began putting up a grand carved tombstone,” said Liddy. “The lads went
to see whose it was.”
“Do you know?” Bathsheba asked.
“I don’t,” said Liddy.
CHAPTER XLV
TROY’S ROMANTICISM
When Troy’s wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first
act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended the 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-twenty hours.
His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his
intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to be overcome in
striking out a new line of conduct—not more in ourselves, it seems,
than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to
allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add
to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had
been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all,
he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his
appointment with Fanny Robin.
On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at
five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the
town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and
no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her
grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse—the first and
last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The
quarter went, the half hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as
he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement
with him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven
o’clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till
he knew every lichen upon their face and heard the chink of the ripples
underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to
the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning
the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth
races.
He reached the race-course at two o’clock, and remained either there or
in the town till nine. But Fanny’s image, as it had appeared to him in
the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind,
backed up by Bathsheba’s reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he
kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o’clock in the evening he
had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the
first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by
illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no
mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made
inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came
indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.
As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from
the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to
Bathsheba’s whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he
stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was
towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found
a newly dug unoccupied grave—the grave dug the day before for Fanny.
The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to
Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon
he had last seen Fanny alive.
Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a pair
of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, “Lester, stone and
marble mason.” Within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs,
inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not
yet died.
Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want
of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His method
of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of
an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider,
calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something, 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 office within the yard. “I want
as good a one as you can give me for twenty-seven pounds.”
It was all the money he possessed.
“That sum to include everything?”
“Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and erection.
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 ready
immediately.”
“Very well,” said Troy, impatiently. “Let’s see what you have.”
“The best I have in stock is this one,” said the stone-cutter, going
into a shed. “Here’s a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with
medallions beneath of typical subjects; here’s the footstone after the
same pattern, and here’s the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing
alone of the set cost me eleven pounds—the slabs are the best of their
kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred
years without flying.”
“And how much?”
“Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum
you 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 not a
shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form the
inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon he
came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He
waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the
cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the
two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the grave
of the person named in the inscription.
It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried rather
a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the
road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited
his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met, returning in the
darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely
inquired if the work was done, and, on being assured that it was,
passed on again.
Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o’clock and went
immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in
the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to a
great extent from the view of passers along the road—a spot which until
lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but
now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by reason of the
rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.
Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely
in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border
of marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for
plants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few
minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light
of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst he read
the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the
yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several varieties.
There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and
double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations,
pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me-not, summer’s
farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year.
Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to
work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the
outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave.
The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer
flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots
over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between
these.
Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the
futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction
from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.
Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed
at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,
together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on
mawkishness, characteristic of the French.
It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy’s
lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power,
flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He
felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one