Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy
OAK'S ADVANCEMENT -- A GREAT HOPE
THE later autumn and the winter drew on apace,and the leaves lay thick upon the turf of the gladesand the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba, havingpreviously been living in a state of suspended feelingwhich was not suspense, now lived in a mood ofquietude which was not precisely peacefulness. Whileshe had known him to be alive she could have thoughtof his death with equanimity; but now that it might beshe had lost him, she regretted that he was not hersstill. She kept the farm going, raked in her profitswithout caring keenly about them, and expendedmoney on ventures because she had done so in bygonedays, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitelyremoved from her present. She looked back upon thatpast over a great gulf, as if she were now a dead person,having the faculty of meditation still left in her, bymeans of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of thepoet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift lifeused to be.However, one excellent result of her general apathywas the long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; buthe having virtually exercised that function for a longtime already, the change, beyond the substantial in-crease of wages it brought, was little more than anominal one addressed to the outside world.Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much ofhis wheat and all his barley of that season had beenspoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew into intricatemats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls.The strange neglect which had produced this ruinand waste became the subject of whispered talk amongall the people round; and it was elicited from one ofBoldwood's men that forgetfulness had nothing to dowith it, for he had been reminded of the danger tohis corn as many times and as persistently as inferiorsdared to do. The sight of the pigs turning in disgustfrom the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, andhe one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was sug-gested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not,the farmer proposed at the interview that Gabrielshould undertake the superintendence of the LowerFarm as well as of Bathsheba's, because of the necessityBoldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility ofdiscovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malig-nant star was assuredly setting fast.Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal-forOak was obliged to consult her -- at first languidlyobjected. She considered that the two farms togetherwere too extensive for the observation of one man.Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personalrather than commercial reasons, suggested that Oakshould be furnished with a horse for his sole use,when the plan would present no difficulty, the twofarms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directlycommunicate with her during these negotiations, onlyspeaking to Oak, who was the go-between throughout.All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we nowsee Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trottingthe length breadth of about two thousand acresin a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as if the cropsbelonged to him -- the actual mistress of the one-halfand the master of the other, sitting in their respectivehomes in gloomy and sad seclusion.Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding,a talk in the parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering hisnest fast.”Whatever d'ye think.” said Susan Tall,” Gable Oakis coming it quite the dand. He now wears shiningboots with hardly a hob in 'em, two or three timesa-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knowsthe name of smockfrock. When I see people strutenough to he cut up into bantam cocks, I standdormant with wonder, and says no more!”It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paida fixed wage by Bathsheba independent of the fluctua-tions of agricultural profits, had made an engagementwith Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a shareof the receipts -- a small share certainly, yet it wasmoney of a higher quality than mere wages, andcapable of expansion in a way that wages were not.Some were beginning to consider Oak a ”near” man,for though his condition had thus far improved, helived in no better style than before, occupying thesame cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending hisstockings, and sometimes even making his bed withhis own hands. But as Oak was not only provokinglyindifferent to public opinion, but a man who clungpersistently to old habits and usages, simply becausethey were old, there was room for doubt as to hismotives.A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood,whose unreasoning devotion to Bathsheba could onlybe characterized as a fond madness which neithertime nor circumstance, evil nor good report, couldweaken or destroy. This fevered hope had grown upagain like a grain of mustard-seed during the quietwhich followed the hasty conjecture that Troy wasdrowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almostshunned the contemplation of it in earnest, lest factsshould reveal the wildness of the dream. Bathshebahaving at last been persuaded to wear mourning, herappearance as she entered the church in that guisewas in itself a weekly addition to his faith that atime was coming -- very far off perhaps, yet surelynearing -- when his waiting on events should haveits reward. How long he might have to wait he hadnot yet closely considered. what he would try torecognize was that the severe schooling she had beensubjected to had made Bathsheba much more con-siderate than she had formerly been of the feelings ofothers, and he trusted that, should she be willing atany time in the future to marry any man at all, thatman would be himself. There was a substratum ofgood feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injuryshe had thoughtlessly done him might be dependedupon now to a much greater extent than before herinfatuation and disappointment. It would be possibleto approach her by the channel of her good nature,and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact betweenthem for fulfilment at some future day, keeping thepassionate side of his desire entirely out of her sight.Such was Boldwood's hope.To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba wasperhaps additionally charming just now. Her exuber-ance of spirit was pruned down; the original phantomof delight had shown herself to be not too bright forhuman nature's daily food, and she had been able toenter this second poetical phase without losing muchof the first in the process.Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to herold aunt at Norcombe afforded the impassioned andyearning farmer a pretext for inquiring directly afterher -- now possibly in the ninth month of herwidowhood -- and endeavouring to get a notion of hermiddle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to”I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia.” he saidShe simpered, and wondered in her heart why he”I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her longthe coldest-hearted neighbour could scarcely say less”She is quite well, sir.”Yes, cheerful.”Fearful, did you say?””O no. I merely said she was cheerful.””Tells you all her affairs?””No, sir.”Some of them?””Yes, sir.”Mrs Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia,and very wisely, perhaps.””She do, sir. I've been with her all through hertroubles, and was with her at the time of Mr. Troy'sgoing and all. And if she were to marry again Iexpect I should bide with her.””She promises that you shall -- quite natural.” saidthe strategic lover, throbbing throughout him at thepresumption which Liddy's words appeared to warrant -- that his darling had thought of re-marriage.”No -- she doesn't promise it exactly. I merelyjudge on my own account.”Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to thepossibility of marrying again, you conclude -- -- ””She never do allude to it, sir.” said Liddy, thinkinghow very stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.”Of course not.” he returned hastily, his hope fallingagain.” You needn't take quite such long reaches withyour rake, Lydia -- short and quick ones are best. Well,perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again now, it is wiseof her to resolve never to give up her freedom.””My mistress did certainly once say, though notseriously, that she supposed she might marry again atthe end of seven years from last year, if she cared torisk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her.””Ah, six years from the present time. Said that shemight. She might marry at once in every reasonableperson's opinion, whatever the lawyers may say to thecontrary.””Have you been to ask them?” said Liddy, innocently.”Not I.” said Boldwood, growing red.” Liddy, youneedn't stay here a minute later than you wish, so Mr,Oak says. I am now going on a little farther. Good”afternoon.”He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed ofhaving for this one time in his life done anything whichcould be called underhand. Poor Boldwood had nomore skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he wasuneasy with a sense of having made himself to appearstupid and, what was worse, mean. But he had, afterall, lighted upon one fact by way of repayment. It wasa singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though notwithout its sadness it was pertinent and real. In littlemore than six years from this time Bathsheba mightcertainly marry him. There was something definite inthat hope, for admitting that there might have been nodeep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage,they showed at least her creed on the matter.This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind.Six years were a long time, but how much shorter thannever, the idea he had for so long been obliged toendure! Jacob had served twice seven years forRachel: what were six for such a woman as this? Hetried to like the notion of waiting for her better thanthat of winning her at once. Boldwood felt his loveto be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was pos-sible she had never yet known its full volume, and thispatience in delay would afford him an opportunity ofgiving sweet proof on the point. He would annihilatethe six years of his life as if they were minutes -- so littledid he value his time on earth beside her love. Hewould let her see, all those six years of intangible ether-eal courtship, how little care he had for anything but asit bore upon the consummation.Meanwhile the early and the late summer broughtround the week in which Greenhill Fair was held.This fair was frequently attended by the folk of Weather-bury.
CHAPTER L
THE later autumn and the winter drew on apace,and the leaves lay thick upon the turf of the gladesand the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba, havingpreviously been living in a state of suspended feelingwhich was not suspense, now lived in a mood ofquietude which was not precisely peacefulness. Whileshe had known him to be alive she could have thoughtof his death with equanimity; but now that it might beshe had lost him, she regretted that he was not hersstill. She kept the farm going, raked in her profitswithout caring keenly about them, and expendedmoney on ventures because she had done so in bygonedays, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitelyremoved from her present. She looked back upon thatpast over a great gulf, as if she were now a dead person,having the faculty of meditation still left in her, bymeans of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of thepoet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift lifeused to be.However, one excellent result of her general apathywas the long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; buthe having virtually exercised that function for a longtime already, the change, beyond the substantial in-crease of wages it brought, was little more than anominal one addressed to the outside world.Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much ofhis wheat and all his barley of that season had beenspoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew into intricatemats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls.The strange neglect which had produced this ruinand waste became the subject of whispered talk amongall the people round; and it was elicited from one ofBoldwood's men that forgetfulness had nothing to dowith it, for he had been reminded of the danger tohis corn as many times and as persistently as inferiorsdared to do. The sight of the pigs turning in disgustfrom the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, andhe one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was sug-gested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not,the farmer proposed at the interview that Gabrielshould undertake the superintendence of the LowerFarm as well as of Bathsheba's, because of the necessityBoldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility ofdiscovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malig-nant star was assuredly setting fast.Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal-forOak was obliged to consult her -- at first languidlyobjected. She considered that the two farms togetherwere too extensive for the observation of one man.Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personalrather than commercial reasons, suggested that Oakshould be furnished with a horse for his sole use,when the plan would present no difficulty, the twofarms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directlycommunicate with her during these negotiations, onlyspeaking to Oak, who was the go-between throughout.All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we nowsee Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trottingthe length breadth of about two thousand acresin a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as if the cropsbelonged to him -- the actual mistress of the one-halfand the master of the other, sitting in their respectivehomes in gloomy and sad seclusion.Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding,a talk in the parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering hisnest fast.”Whatever d'ye think.” said Susan Tall,” Gable Oakis coming it quite the dand. He now wears shiningboots with hardly a hob in 'em, two or three timesa-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knowsthe name of smockfrock. When I see people strutenough to he cut up into bantam cocks, I standdormant with wonder, and says no more!”It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paida fixed wage by Bathsheba independent of the fluctua-tions of agricultural profits, had made an engagementwith Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a shareof the receipts -- a small share certainly, yet it wasmoney of a higher quality than mere wages, andcapable of expansion in a way that wages were not.Some were beginning to consider Oak a ”near” man,for though his condition had thus far improved, helived in no better style than before, occupying thesame cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending hisstockings, and sometimes even making his bed withhis own hands. But as Oak was not only provokinglyindifferent to public opinion, but a man who clungpersistently to old habits and usages, simply becausethey were old, there was room for doubt as to hismotives.A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood,whose unreasoning devotion to Bathsheba could onlybe characterized as a fond madness which neithertime nor circumstance, evil nor good report, couldweaken or destroy. This fevered hope had grown upagain like a grain of mustard-seed during the quietwhich followed the hasty conjecture that Troy wasdrowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almostshunned the contemplation of it in earnest, lest factsshould reveal the wildness of the dream. Bathshebahaving at last been persuaded to wear mourning, herappearance as she entered the church in that guisewas in itself a weekly addition to his faith that atime was coming -- very far off perhaps, yet surelynearing -- when his waiting on events should haveits reward. How long he might have to wait he hadnot yet closely considered. what he would try torecognize was that the severe schooling she had beensubjected to had made Bathsheba much more con-siderate than she had formerly been of the feelings ofothers, and he trusted that, should she be willing atany time in the future to marry any man at all, thatman would be himself. There was a substratum ofgood feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injuryshe had thoughtlessly done him might be dependedupon now to a much greater extent than before herinfatuation and disappointment. It would be possibleto approach her by the channel of her good nature,and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact betweenthem for fulfilment at some future day, keeping thepassionate side of his desire entirely out of her sight.Such was Boldwood's hope.To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba wasperhaps additionally charming just now. Her exuber-ance of spirit was pruned down; the original phantomof delight had shown herself to be not too bright forhuman nature's daily food, and she had been able toenter this second poetical phase without losing muchof the first in the process.Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to herold aunt at Norcombe afforded the impassioned andyearning farmer a pretext for inquiring directly afterher -- now possibly in the ninth month of herwidowhood -- and endeavouring to get a notion of hermiddle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to”I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia.” he saidShe simpered, and wondered in her heart why he”I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her longthe coldest-hearted neighbour could scarcely say less”She is quite well, sir.”Yes, cheerful.”Fearful, did you say?””O no. I merely said she was cheerful.””Tells you all her affairs?””No, sir.”Some of them?””Yes, sir.”Mrs Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia,and very wisely, perhaps.””She do, sir. I've been with her all through hertroubles, and was with her at the time of Mr. Troy'sgoing and all. And if she were to marry again Iexpect I should bide with her.””She promises that you shall -- quite natural.” saidthe strategic lover, throbbing throughout him at thepresumption which Liddy's words appeared to warrant -- that his darling had thought of re-marriage.”No -- she doesn't promise it exactly. I merelyjudge on my own account.”Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to thepossibility of marrying again, you conclude -- -- ””She never do allude to it, sir.” said Liddy, thinkinghow very stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.”Of course not.” he returned hastily, his hope fallingagain.” You needn't take quite such long reaches withyour rake, Lydia -- short and quick ones are best. Well,perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again now, it is wiseof her to resolve never to give up her freedom.””My mistress did certainly once say, though notseriously, that she supposed she might marry again atthe end of seven years from last year, if she cared torisk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her.””Ah, six years from the present time. Said that shemight. She might marry at once in every reasonableperson's opinion, whatever the lawyers may say to thecontrary.””Have you been to ask them?” said Liddy, innocently.”Not I.” said Boldwood, growing red.” Liddy, youneedn't stay here a minute later than you wish, so Mr,Oak says. I am now going on a little farther. Good”afternoon.”He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed ofhaving for this one time in his life done anything whichcould be called underhand. Poor Boldwood had nomore skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he wasuneasy with a sense of having made himself to appearstupid and, what was worse, mean. But he had, afterall, lighted upon one fact by way of repayment. It wasa singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though notwithout its sadness it was pertinent and real. In littlemore than six years from this time Bathsheba mightcertainly marry him. There was something definite inthat hope, for admitting that there might have been nodeep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage,they showed at least her creed on the matter.This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind.Six years were a long time, but how much shorter thannever, the idea he had for so long been obliged toendure! Jacob had served twice seven years forRachel: what were six for such a woman as this? Hetried to like the notion of waiting for her better thanthat of winning her at once. Boldwood felt his loveto be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was pos-sible she had never yet known its full volume, and thispatience in delay would afford him an opportunity ofgiving sweet proof on the point. He would annihilatethe six years of his life as if they were minutes -- so littledid he value his time on earth beside her love. Hewould let her see, all those six years of intangible ether-eal courtship, how little care he had for anything but asit bore upon the consummation.Meanwhile the early and the late summer broughtround the week in which Greenhill Fair was held.This fair was frequently attended by the folk of Weather-bury.
CHAPTER L