The Mayor of Casterbridge
conduct; he was overbearing—even brilliantly quarrelsome.
The conversation took a high turn, as it often does on such occasions.
The ruin of good men by bad wives, and, more particularly, the
frustration of many a promising youth’s high aims and hopes and the
extinction of his energies by an early imprudent marriage, was the
theme.
“I did for myself that way thoroughly,” said the trusser with a
contemplative bitterness that was well-nigh resentful. “I married at
eighteen, like the fool that I was; and this is the consequence o’t.”
He pointed at himself and family with a wave of the hand intended to
bring out the penuriousness of the exhibition.
The young woman his wife, who seemed accustomed to such remarks, acted
as if she did not hear them, and continued her intermittent private
words of tender trifles to the sleeping and waking child, who was just
big enough to be placed for a moment on the bench beside her when she
wished to ease her arms. The man continued—
“I haven’t more than fifteen shillings in the world, and yet I am a
good experienced hand in my line. I’d challenge England to beat me in
the fodder business; and if I were a free man again I’d be worth a
thousand pound before I’d done o’t. But a fellow never knows these
little things till all chance of acting upon ’em is past.”
The auctioneer selling the old horses in the field outside could be
heard saying, “Now this is the last lot—now who’ll take the last lot
for a song? Shall I say forty shillings? ’Tis a very promising
broodmare, a trifle over five years old, and nothing the matter with
the hoss at all, except that she’s a little holler in the back and had
her left eye knocked out by the kick of another, her own sister, coming
along the road.”
“For my part I don’t see why men who have got wives and don’t want ’em,
shouldn’t get rid of ’em as these gipsy fellows do their old horses,”
said the man in the tent. “Why shouldn’t they put ’em up and sell ’em
by auction to men who are in need of such articles? Hey? Why, begad,
I’d sell mine this minute if anybody would buy her!”
“There’s them that would do that,” some of the guests replied, looking
at the woman, who was by no means ill-favoured.
“True,” said a smoking gentleman, whose coat had the fine polish about
the collar, elbows, seams, and shoulder-blades that long-continued
friction with grimy surfaces will produce, and which is usually more
desired on furniture than on clothes. From his appearance he had
possibly been in former time groom or coachman to some neighbouring
county family. “I’ve had my breedings in as good circles, I may say, as
any man,” he added, “and I know true cultivation, or nobody do; and I
can declare she’s got it—in the bone, mind ye, I say—as much as any
female in the fair—though it may want a little bringing out.” Then,
crossing his legs, he resumed his pipe with a nicely-adjusted gaze at a
point in the air.
The fuddled young husband stared for a few seconds at this unexpected
praise of his wife, half in doubt of the wisdom of his own attitude
towards the possessor of such qualities. But he speedily lapsed into
his former conviction, and said harshly—
“Well, then, now is your chance; I am open to an offer for this gem o’
creation.”
She turned to her husband and murmured, “Michael, you have talked this
nonsense in public places before. A joke is a joke, but you may make it
once too often, mind!”
“I know I’ve said it before; I meant it. All I want is a buyer.”
At the moment a swallow, one among the last of the season, which had by
chance found its way through an opening into the upper part of the
tent, flew to and fro quick curves above their heads, causing all eyes
to follow it absently. In watching the bird till it made its escape the
assembled company neglected to respond to the workman’s offer, and the
subject dropped.
But a quarter of an hour later the man, who had gone on lacing his
furmity more and more heavily, though he was either so strong-minded or
such an intrepid toper that he still appeared fairly sober, recurred to
the old strain, as in a musical fantasy the instrument fetches up the
original theme. “Here—I am waiting to know about this offer of mine.
The woman is no good to me. Who’ll have her?”
The company had by this time decidedly degenerated, and the renewed
inquiry was received with a laugh of appreciation. The woman whispered;
she was imploring and anxious: “Come, come, it is getting dark, and
this nonsense won’t do. If you don’t come along, I shall go without
you. Come!”
She waited and waited; yet he did not move. In ten minutes the man
broke in upon the desultory conversation of the furmity drinkers with,
“I asked this question, and nobody answered to ’t. Will any Jack Rag or
Tom Straw among ye buy my goods?”
The woman’s manner changed, and her face assumed the grim shape and
colour of which mention has been made.
“Mike, Mike,” she said; “this is getting serious. O!—too serious!”
“Will anybody buy her?” said the man.
“I wish somebody would,” said she firmly. “Her present owner is not at
all to her liking!”
“Nor you to mine,” said he. “So we are agreed about that. Gentlemen,
you hear? It’s an agreement to part. She shall take the girl if she
wants to, and go her ways. I’ll take my tools, and go my ways. ’Tis
simple as Scripture history. Now then, stand up, Susan, and show
yourself.”
“Don’t, my chiel,” whispered a buxom staylace dealer in voluminous
petticoats, who sat near the woman; “yer good man don’t know what he’s
saying.”
The woman, however, did stand up. “Now, who’s auctioneer?” cried the
hay-trusser.
“I be,” promptly answered a short man, with a nose resembling a copper
knob, a damp voice, and eyes like button-holes. “Who’ll make an offer
for this lady?”
The woman looked on the ground, as if she maintained her position by a
supreme effort of will.
“Five shillings,” said someone, at which there was a laugh.
“No insults,” said the husband. “Who’ll say a guinea?”
Nobody answered; and the female dealer in staylaces interposed.
“Behave yerself moral, good man, for Heaven’s love! Ah, what a cruelty
is the poor soul married to! Bed and board is dear at some figures ’pon
my ’vation ’tis!”
“Set it higher, auctioneer,” said the trusser.
“Two guineas!” said the auctioneer; and no one replied.
“If they don’t take her for that, in ten seconds they’ll have to give
more,” said the husband. “Very well. Now auctioneer, add another.”
“Three guineas—going for three guineas!” said the rheumy man.
“No bid?” said the husband. “Good Lord, why she’s cost me fifty times
the money, if a penny. Go on.”
“Four guineas!” cried the auctioneer.
“I’ll tell ye what—I won’t sell her for less than five,” said the
husband, bringing down his fist so that the basins danced. “I’ll sell
her for five guineas to any man that will pay me the money, and treat
her well; and he shall have her for ever, and never hear aught o’ me.
But she shan’t go for less. Now then—five guineas—and she’s yours.
Susan, you agree?”
She bowed her head with absolute indifference.
“Five guineas,” said the auctioneer, “or she’ll be withdrawn. Do
anybody give it? The last time. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” said a loud voice from the doorway.
All eyes were turned. Standing in the triangular opening which formed
the door of the tent was a sailor, who, unobserved by the rest, had
arrived there within the last two or three minutes. A dead silence
followed his affirmation.
“You say you do?” asked the husband, staring at him.
“I say so,” replied the sailor.
“Saying is one thing, and paying is another. Where’s the money?”
The sailor hesitated a moment, looked anew at the woman, came in,
unfolded five crisp pieces of paper, and threw them down upon the
tablecloth. They were Bank-of-England notes for five pounds. Upon the
face of this he clinked down the shillings severally—one, two, three,
four, five.
The sight of real money in full amount, in answer to a challenge for
the same till then deemed slightly hypothetical had a great effect upon
the spectators. Their eyes became riveted upon the faces of the chief
actors, and then upon the notes as they lay, weighted by the shillings,
on the table.
Up to this moment it could not positively have been asserted that the
man, in spite of his tantalizing declaration, was really in earnest.
The spectators had indeed taken the proceedings throughout as a piece
of mirthful irony carried to extremes; and had assumed that, being out
of work, he was, as a consequence, out of temper with the world, and
society, and his nearest kin. But with the demand and response of real
cash the jovial frivolity of the scene departed. A lurid colour seemed
to fill the tent, and change the aspect of all therein. The
mirth-wrinkles left the listeners’ faces, and they waited with parting
lips.
“Now,” said the woman, breaking the silence, so that her low dry voice
sounded quite loud, “before you go further, Michael, listen to me. If
you touch that money, I and this girl go with the man. Mind, it is a
joke no longer.”
“A joke? Of course it is not a joke!” shouted her husband, his
resentment rising at her suggestion. “I take the money; the sailor
takes you. That’s plain enough. It has been done elsewhere—and why not
here?”
“’Tis quite on the understanding that the young woman is willing,” said
the sailor blandly. “I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for the world.”
“Faith, nor I,” said her husband. “But she is willing, provided she can
have the child. She said so only the other day when I talked o’t!”
“That you swear?” said the sailor to her.
“I do,” said she, after glancing at her husband’s face and seeing no
repentance there.
“Very well, she shall have the child, and the bargain’s complete,” said
the trusser. He took the sailor’s notes and deliberately folded them,
and put them with the shillings in a high remote pocket, with an air of
finality.
The sailor looked at the woman and smiled. “Come along!” he said
kindly. “The little one too—the more the merrier!” She paused for an
instant, with a close glance at him. Then dropping her eyes again, and
saying nothing, she took up the child and followed him as he made
towards the door. On reaching it, she turned, and pulling off her
wedding-ring, flung it across the booth in the hay-trusser’s face.
“Mike,” she said, “I’ve lived with thee a couple of years, and had
nothing but temper! Now I’m no more to ’ee; I’ll try my luck elsewhere.
’Twill be better for me and Elizabeth-Jane, both. So good-bye!”
Seizing the sailor’s arm with her right hand, and mounting the little
girl on her left, she went out of the tent sobbing bitterly.
A stolid look of concern filled the husband’s face, as if, after all,
he had not quite anticipated this ending; and some of the guests
laughed.
“Is she gone?” he said.
“Faith, ay! she’s gone clane enough,” said some rustics near the door.
He rose and walked to the entrance with the careful tread of one
conscious of his alcoholic load. Some others followed, and they stood
looking into the twilight. The difference between the peacefulness of
inferior nature and the wilful hostilities of mankind was very apparent
at this place. In contrast with the harshness of the act just ended
within the tent was the sight of several horses crossing their necks
and rubbing each other lovingly as they waited in patience to be
harnessed for the homeward journey. Outside the fair, in the valleys
and woods, all was quiet. The sun had recently set, and the west heaven
was hung with rosy cloud, which seemed permanent, yet slowly changed.
To watch it was like looking at some grand feat of stagery from a
darkened auditorium. In presence of this scene after the other there