Kitabı oku: «The Mayor of Casterbridge», sayfa 2

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,’ said she; ‘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 buttonholes. ‘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 some one, 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 table-cloth. They were Bank-of-England notes for five pounds. Upon the face of this he chinked 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,’ she said, 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 interior 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 was a natural instinct to abjure man as the blot on an otherwise kindly universe; till it was remembered that all terrestrial conditions were intermittent, and that mankind might some night be innocently sleeping when these quiet objects were raging loud.

‘Where do the sailor live?’ asked a spectator, when they had vainly gazed around.

‘God knows that,’ replied the man who had seen high life. ‘He’s without doubt a stranger here.’

‘He came in about five minutes ago,’ said the furmity woman, joining the rest with her hands on her hips. ‘And then ’a stepped back, and then ’a looked in again. I’m not a penny the better for him.’

‘Serves the husband well be-right,’ said the staylace vendor. ‘A comely respectable body like her—what can a man want more? I glory in the woman’s sperrit. I’d ha’ done it myself—od sent if I wouldn’t, if a husband had behaved so to me! I’d go, and ’a might call, and call, till his keacorn was raw; but I’d never come back no, not till the great trumpet, would I!’

‘Well, the woman will be better off,’ said another of a more deliberate turn. ‘For seafaring natures be very good shelter for shorn lambs, and the man do seem to have plenty of money, which is what she’s not been used to lately by all showings.’

‘Mark me—I’ll not go after her!’ said the trusser, returning doggedly to his seat. ‘Let her go! If she’s up to such vagaries she must suffer for ’em. She’d no business to take the maid—’Tis my maid; and if it were the doing again she shouldn’t have her!’

Perhaps from some little sense of having countenanced an indefensible proceeding, perhaps because it was late, the customers thinned away from the tent shortly after this episode. The man stretched his elbows forward on the table, leant his face upon his arms, and soon began to snore. The furmity seller decided to close for the night, and after seeing the rum-bottles, milk, corn, raisins, etc., that remained on hand, loaded into the cart, came to where the man reclined. She shook him, but could not wake him. As the tent was not to be struck that night, the fair continuing for two or three days, she decided to let the sleeper, who was obviously no tramp, stay where he was, and his basket with him. Extinguishing the last candle, and lowering the flap of the tent, she left it, and drove away.

CHAPTER 2

The morning sun was streaming through the crevices of the canvas when the man awoke. A warm glow pervaded the whole atmosphere of the marquee, and a single big blue fly buzzed musically round and round it. Besides the buzz of the fly there was not a sound. He looked about—at the benches—at the table supported by trestles—at his basket of tools—at the stove where the furmity had been boiled—at the empty basins—at some shed grains of wheat—at the corks which dotted the grassy floor. Among the odds and ends he discerned a little shining object, and picked it up. It was his wife’s ring.

A confused picture of the events of the previous evening seemed to come back to him, and he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket. A rustling revealed the sailor’s bank-notes thrust carelessly in.

This second verification of his dim memories was enough; he knew now they were not dreams. He remained seated, looking on the ground for some time. ‘I must get out of this as soon as I can,’ he said deliberately at last, with the air of one who could not catch his thoughts without pronouncing them. ‘She’s gone—to be sure she is—gone with that sailor who bought her, and little Elizabeth-Jane. We walked here, and I had the furmity, and rum in it—and sold her. Yes, that’s what happened, and here am I. Now, what am I to do—am I sober enough to walk, I wonder?’ He stood up, found that he was in fairly good condition for progress, unencumbered. Next he shouldered his tool basket, and found he could carry it. Then lifting the tent door he emerged into the open air.

Here the man looked around with gloomy curiosity. The freshness of the September morning inspired and braced him as he stood. He and his family had been weary when they arrived the night before, and they had observed but little of the place; so that he now beheld it as a new thing. It exhibited itself as the top of an open down, bounded on one extreme by a plantation, and approached by a winding road. At the bottom stood the village which lent its name to the upland and the annual fair that was held thereon. The spot stretched downward into valleys, and onward to other uplands, dotted with barrows, and trenched with the remains of prehistoric forts. The whole scene lay under the rays of a newly risen sun, which had not as yet dried a single blade of the heavily dewed grass, whereon the shadows of the yellow and red vans were projected far away, those thrown by the felloe of each wheel being elongated in shape to the orbit of a comet. All the gipsies and showmen who had remained on the ground lay snug within their carts and tents, or wrapped in horse-cloths under them, and were silent and still as death, with the exception of an occasional snore that revealed their presence. But the Seven Sleepers had a dog; and dogs of the mysterious breeds that vagrants own, that are as much like cats as dogs and as much like foxes as cats, also lay about here. A little one started up under one of the carts, barked as a matter of principle, and quickly lay down again. He was the only positive spectator of the hay-trusser’s exit from the Weydon Fairfield.

This seemed to accord with his desire. He went on in silent thought, unheeding the yellowhammers which flitted about the hedges with straws in their bills, the crowns of the mushrooms, and the tinkling of local sheep-bells, whose wearers had had the good fortune not to be included in the fair. When he reached a lane, a good mile from the scene of the previous evening, the man pitched his basket and leant upon a gate. A difficult problem or two occupied his mind.

‘Did I tell my name to anybody last night, or didn’t I tell my name?’ he said to himself; and at last concluded that he did not. His general demeanour was enough to show how he was surprised and nettled that his wife had taken him so literally—as much could be seen in his face, and in the way he nibbled a straw which he pulled from the hedge. He knew that she must have been somewhat excited to do this; moreover, she must have believed that there was some sort of binding force in the transaction. On this latter point he felt almost certain, knowing her freedom from levity of character, and the extreme simplicity of her intellect. There may, too, have been enough recklessness and resentment beneath her ordinary placidity to make her stifle any momentary doubts. On a previous occasion when he had declared during a fuddle that he would dispose of her as he had done, she had replied that she would not hear him say that many times more before it happened, in the resigned tones of a fatalist … ‘Yet she knows I am not in my senses when I do that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I must walk about till I find her … Seize her, why didn’t she know better than bring me into this disgrace!’ he roared out. ‘She wasn’t queer if I was. ’Tis like Susan to show some idiotic simplicity. Meek—that meekness has done me more harm than the bitterest temper!’

When he was calmer he turned to his original conviction that he must somehow find her and his little Elizabeth-Jane, and put up with the shame as best he could. It was of his own making, and he ought to bear it. But first he resolved to register an oath, a greater oath than he had ever sworn before: and to do it properly he required a fit place and imagery; for there was something fetichistic in this man’s beliefs.

He shouldered his basket and moved on, casting his eyes inquisitively round upon the landscape as he walked, and at the distance of three or four miles perceived the roofs of a village and the tower of a church. He instantly made towards the latter object. The village was quite still, it being that motionless hour of rustic daily life which fills the interval between the departure of the field-labourers to their work, and the rising of their wives and daughters to prepare the breakfast for their return. Hence he reached the church without observation, and the door being only latched he entered. The hay-trusser deposited his basket by the font, went up the nave till he reached the altar-rails, and opening the gate entered the sacrarium, where he seemed to feel a sense of the strangeness for a moment; then he knelt upon the foot-pace. Dropping his head upon the clamped book which lay on the Communion-table, he said aloud—

‘I, Michael Henchard, on this morning of the sixteenth of September, do take an oath before God here in this solemn place that I will avoid all strong liquors for the space of twenty-one years to come, being a year for every year that I have lived. And this I swear upon the book before me; and may I be strook dumb, blind, and helpless, if I break this my oath!’

When he had said it and kissed the big book, the hay-trusser arose, and seemed relieved at having made a start in a new direction. While standing in the porch a moment he saw a thick jet of wood smoke suddenly start up from the red chimney of a cottage near, and knew that the occupant had just lit her fire. He went round to the door, and the housewife agreed to prepare him some breakfast for a trifling payment, which was done. Then he started on the search for his wife and child.

The perplexing nature of the undertaking became apparent soon enough. Though he examined and inquired, and walked hither and thither day after day, no such characters as those he described had anywhere been seen since the evening of the fair. To add to the difficulty he could gain no sound of the sailor’s name. As money was short with him he decided, after some hesitation, to spend the sailor’s money in the prosecution of this search; but it was equally in vain. The truth was that a certain shyness of revealing his conduct prevented Michael Henchard from following up the investigation with the loud hue-and-cry such a pursuit demanded to render it effectual; and it was probably for this reason that he obtained no clue, though everything was done by him that did not involve an explanation of the circumstances under which he had lost her.

Weeks counted up to months, and still he searched on, maintaining himself by small jobs of work in the intervals. By this time he had arrived at a seaport, and there he derived intelligence that persons answering somewhat to his description had emigrated a little time before. Then he said he would search no longer, and that he would go and settle in the district which he had had for some time in his mind. Next day he started, journeying south-westward, and did not pause, except for nights’ lodgings, till he reached the town of Casterbridge, in a far distant part of Wessex.

CHAPTER 3

The highroad into the village of Weydon-Priors was again carpeted with dust. The trees had put on as of yore their aspect of dingy green, and where the Henchard family of three had once walked along, two persons not unconnected with that family walked now.

The scene in its broad aspect had so much of its previous character, even to the voices and rattle from the neighbouring village down, that it might for that matter have been the afternoon following the previously recorded episode. Change was only to be observed in details; but here it was obvious that a long procession of years had passed by. One of the two who walked the road was she who had figured as the young wife of Henchard on the previous occasion; now her face had lost much of its rotundity; her skin had undergone a textural change; and though her hair had not lost colour it was considerably thinner than heretofore. She was dressed in the mourning clothes of a widow. Her companion, also in black, appeared as a well-formed young woman about eighteen, completely possessed of that ephemeral precious essence youth, which is itself beauty, irrespective of complexion or contour.

A glance was sufficient to inform the eye that this was Susan Henchard’s grown-up daughter. While life’s middle summer had set its hardening mark on the mother’s face, her former spring-like specialities were transferred so dexterously by Time to the second figure, her child, that the absence of certain facts within her mother’s knowledge from the girl’s mind would have seemed for the moment, to one reflecting on those facts, to be a curious imperfection in Nature’s powers of continuity.

They walked with joined hands, and it could be perceived that this was the act of simple affection. The daughter carried in her outer hand a withy basket of old-fashioned make; the mother a blue bundle, which contrasted oddly with her black stuff gown.

Reaching the outskirts of the village they pursued the same track as formerly, and ascended to the fair. Here, too, it was evident that the years had told. Certain mechanical improvements might have been noticed in the roundabouts and high-fliers, machines for testing rustic strength and weight, and in the erections devoted to shooting for nuts. But the real business of the fair had considerably dwindled. The new periodical great markets of neighbouring towns were beginning to interfere seriously with the trade carried on here for centuries. The pens for sheep, the tie-ropes for horses, were about half as long as they had been. The stalls of tailors, hosiers, coopers, linen-drapers, and other such trades had almost disappeared, and the vehicles were far less numerous. The mother and daughter threaded the crowd for some little distance, and then stood still.

‘Why did we hinder our time by coming in here? I thought you wished to get onward?’ said the maiden.

‘Yes, my dear Elizabeth-Jane,’ exclaimed the other. ‘But I had a fancy for looking up here.’

‘Why?’

‘It was here I first met with Newson—on such a day as this.’

‘First met with father here? Yes, you have told me so before. And now he’s drowned and gone from us!’ As she spoke the girl drew a card from her pocket and looked at it with a sigh. It was edged with black, and inscribed within a design resembling a mural tablet were the words, ‘In affectionate memory of Richard Newson, mariner, who was unfortunately lost at sea, in the month of November 184-, aged forty-one years.’

‘And it was here,’ continued her mother, with more hesitation, ‘that I last saw the relation we are going to look for—Mr Michael Henchard.’

‘What is his exact kin to us, mother? I have never clearly had it told me.’

‘He is, or was—for he may be dead—a connection by marriage,’ said her mother deliberately.

‘That’s exactly what you have said a score of times before!’ replied the young woman, looking about her inattentively. ‘He’s not a near relation, I suppose?’

‘Not by any means.’

‘He was a hay-trusser, wasn’t he, when you last heard of him?’

‘He was.’

‘I suppose he never knew me?’ the girl innocently continued.

Mrs Henchard paused for a moment, and answered uneasily, ‘Of course not, Elizabeth-Jane. But come this way.’ She moved on to another part of the field.

‘It is not much use inquiring here for anybody, I should think,’ the daughter observed, as she gazed round about. ‘People at fairs change like the leaves of trees; and I daresay you are the only one here today who was here all those years ago.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ said Mrs Newson, as she now called herself, keenly eyeing something under a green bank a little way off. ‘See there.’

The daughter looked in the direction signified. The object pointed out was a tripod of sticks stuck into the earth, from which hung a three-legged crock, kept hot by a smouldering wood fire beneath. Over the pot stooped an old woman, haggard, wrinkled, and almost in rags. She stirred the contents of the pot with a large spoon, and occasionally croaked in a broken voice, ‘Good furmity sold here!’

It was indeed the former mistress of the furmity tent—once thriving, cleanly, white-aproned, and chinking with money—now tentless, dirty, owning no tables or benches, and having scarce any customers except two small whity-brown boys, who came up and asked for ‘A ha’p’orth, please—good measure’, which she served in a couple of chipped yellow basins of commonest clay.

‘She was here at that time,’ resumed Mrs Newson, making a step as if to draw nearer.

‘Don’t speak to her—it isn’t respectable!’ urged the other.

‘I will just say a word—you, Elizabeth-Jane, can stay here.’

The girl was not loth, and turned to some stalls of coloured prints while her mother went forward. The old woman begged for the latter’s custom as soon as she saw her, and responded to Mrs Henchard-Newson’s request for a pennyworth with more alacrity than she had shown in selling sixpennyworth in her younger days. When the soi-disant widow had taken the basin of thin poor slop that stood for the rich concoction of the former time, the hag opened a little basket behind the fire, and looking up slily, whispered, ‘Just a thought o’ rum in it?—smuggled, you know—say two penn’orth—’twill make it slip down like cordial!’

Her customer smiled bitterly at this survival of the old trick, and shook her head with a meaning the old woman was far from translating. She pretended to eat a little of the furmity with the leaden spoon offered, and as she did so said blandly to the hag, ‘You’ve seen better days?’

‘Ah, ma’am—well ye may say it!’ responded the old woman, opening the sluices of her heart forthwith. ‘I’ve stood in this fairground, maid, wife, and widow, these nine-and-thirty year, and in that time have known what it was to do business with the richest stomachs in the land! Ma’am you’d hardly believe that I was once the owner of a great pavilion-tent that was the attraction of the fair. Nobody could come, nobody could go, without having a dish of Mrs Goodenough’s furmity. I knew the clergy’s taste, and the dandy gent’s taste; I knew the town’s taste, the country’s taste. I even knowed the taste of the coarse shameless females. But Lord’s my life—the world’s no memory; straightforward dealings don’t bring profit—’tis the sly and the underhand that get on in these times!’

Mrs Newson glanced round—her daughter was still bending over the distant stalls. ‘Can you call to mind,’ she said cautiously to the old woman, ‘the sale of a wife by her husband in your tent eighteen years ago today?’

The hag reflected, and half shook her head. ‘If it had been a big thing I should have minded it in a moment,’ she said. ‘I can mind every serious fight o’ married parties, every murder, every manslaughter, even every pocket-picking—leastwise large ones—that ‘t has been my lot to witness. But a selling? Was it done quiet-like?’

‘Well, yes. I think so.’

The furmity woman half shook her head again. ‘And yet,’ she said, ‘I do. At any rate, I can mind a man doing something o’ the sort—a man in a cord jacket, with a basket of tools; but, Lord bless ye, we don’t gi’e it head-room, we don’t, such as that. The only reason why I can mind that man is that he came back here to the next year’s fair, and told me quite private-like that if a woman ever asked for him I was to say he had gone to—where? Casterbridge—yes—to Casterbridge, said he. But, Lord’s my life, I shouldn’t ha’ thought of it again!’

Mrs Newson would have rewarded the old woman as far as her small means afforded had she not discreetly borne in mind that it was by that unscrupulous person’s liquor her husband had been degraded. She briefly thanked her informant, and rejoined Elizabeth, who greeted her with, ‘Mother, do let’s go on—it was hardly respectable for you to buy refreshment there. I see none but the lowest do.’

‘I have learned what I wanted, however,’ said her mother quietly. ‘The last time our relative visited this fair he said he was living at Casterbridge. It is a long, long way from here, and it was many years ago that he said it; but there I think we’ll go.’

With this they descended out of the fair, and went onward to the village, where they obtained a night’s lodging.