THE GREAT BARN AND THE SHEEP-SHEARERS
MEN thin away to insignificance and oblivion quite asoften by not making the most of good spirits when theyhave them as by lacking good spirits when they areindispensable. Gabriel lately, for the first time sincehis prostration by misfortune, had been independent inthought and vigorous in action to a marked extent --conditions which, powerless without an opportunity asan opportunity without them is barren, would havegiven him a sure lift upwards when the favourable-con-junction should have occurred. But this incurableloitering beside Bathsheba Everdene stole his timeruinously. The spring tides were going by withoutfloating him off, and the neap might soon come whichcould not.It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearingseason culminated, the landscape, even to the leanestpasture, being all health and colour. Every green wasyoung, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollenwith racing currents of juice. God was palpably presentin the country, and the devil had gone with the worldto town. Flossy catkins of the later kinds, fern-sproutslike bishops' croziers, the square-headed moschatel, theodd cuckoo-pint, -- like an apoplectic saint in a nicheof malachite, -- snow-white ladies'-smocks, the toothwort,approximating to human flesh, the enchanter's night-shade, and the black-petaled doleful-bells, were amongthe quainter objects of the vegetable world in and aboutWeatherbury at this teeming time; and of the animal,the metamorphosed figures of Mr. Jan Coggan, themaster-shearer; the second and third shearers, whotravelled in the exercise of their calling, and do not re-quire definition by name; Henery Fray the fourthshearer, Susan Tall's husband the fifth, Joseph Poorgrassthe sixth, young Cain Ball as assistant-shearer, andGabriel Oak as general supervisor. None of these wereclothed to any extent worth mentioning, each appearingto have hit in the matter of raiment the decent meanbetween a high and low caste Hindoo. An angularityof lineament, and a fixity of facial machinery in general,proclaimed that serious work was the order of the day.They sheared in the great barn, called for the noncethe Shearing-barn, which on ground-plan resembled achurch with transepts. It not only emulated the formof the neighbouring church of the parish, but vied withit in antiquity. Whether the barn had ever formed oneof a group of conventual buildings nobody seemed to beaware; no trace of such surroundings remained. Thevast porches at the sides, lofty enough to admit a waggonladen to its highest with corn in the sheaf, were spannedby heavy-pointed arches of stone, broadly and boldly cut,whose very simplicity was the origin of a grandeur notapparent in erections where more ornament has beenattempted. The dusky, filmed, chestnut roof, bracedand tied in by huge collars, curves, and diagonals, wasfar nobler in design, because more wealthy in material,than nine-tenths of those in our modern churches.Along each side wall was a range of striding buttresses,throwing deep shadows on the spaces between them,which were perforated by lancet openings, combiningin their proportions the precise requirements both ofbeauty and ventilation.One could say about this barn, what could hardlybe said of either the church or the castle, akin to it inage and style, that the purpose which had dictated itsoriginal erection was the same with that to which itwas still applied. Unlike and superior to either ofthose two typical remnants of mediaevalism, the oldbarn embodied practices which had suffered no mutila-tion at the hands of time. Here at least the spirit ofthe ancient builders was at one with the spirit of themodern beholder. Standing before this abraded pile,the eye regarded its present usage, the mind-dwelt uponits past history, with a satisfied sense of functionalcontinuity throughout -- a feeling almost of gratitude,and quite of pride, at the permanence of the ideawhich had heaped it up. The fact that four centurieshad neither proved it to be founded on a mistake,inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given rise toany reaction that had battered it down, invested thissimple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not agrandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt todisturb in its ecclesiastical and military compeers. Foronce medievalism and modernism had a common stand-point. The lanccolate windows, the time-eaten arch-stones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, themisty chestnut work of the rafters, referred to no explodedfortifying art or worn-out religious creed. The defenceand salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study,a religion, and a desire.To-day the large side doors were thrown opentowards the sun to admit a bountiful light to theimmediate spot of the shearers' operations, which wasthe wood threshing-floor in the centre, formed of thickoak, black with age and polished by the beating of flailsfor many generations, till it had grown as slippery andas rich in hue as the state-room floors of an Elizabethanmansion. Here the shearers knelt, the sun slanting inupon their bleached shirts, tanned arms, and the polishedshears they flourished, causing these to bristle with athousand rays strong enough to blind a weak-eyed man.Beneath them a captive sheep lay panting, quickeningits pants as misgiving merged in terror, till it quiveredlike the hot landscape outside.This picture of to-day in its frame of four hundredyears ago did not produce that marked contrast betweenancient and modern which is implied by the contrastof date. In comparison with cities, Weatherbury wasimmutable. The citizen's Then is the rustic's Now.In London, twenty or thirty-years ago are old times;in Paris ten years, or five; in Weatherbury three orfour score years were included in the mere present,and nothing less than a century set a mark on itsface or tone. Five decades hardly modified the cut ofa gaiter, the embroidery of a smock-frock, by the breadthof a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn ofa single phrase. In these Wessex nooks the busy out-sider's ancient times are only old; his old times are stillnew; his present is futurity.So the barn was natural to the shearers, and theshearers were in harmony with the barn.The spacious ends of the building, answering ecclesi-astically to nave and chancel extremities, were fencedoff with hurdles, the sheep being all collected in a crowdwithin these two enclosures; and in one angle a catching-pen was formed, in which three or four sheep werecontinuously kept ready for the shearers to seize withoutloss of time. In the background, mellowed by tawnyshade, were the three women, Maryann Money, andTemperance and Soberness Miller, gathering up thefleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble fortying them round. They were indifferently well assistedby the old maltster, who, when the malting season fromOctober to April had passed, made himself useful uponany of the bordering farmsteads.Behind all was Bathsheba, carefully watching themen to see that there was no cutting or woundingthrough carelessness, and that the animals were shornclose. Gabriel, who flitted and hovered under herbright eyes like a moth, did not shear continuously,half his time being spent in attending to the othersand selecting the sheep for them. At the presentmoment he was engaged in handing round a mug ofmild liquor, supplied from a barrel in the corner,and cut pieces of bread and cheese.Bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a cautionthere, and lecturing one of the younger operators whohad allowed his last finished sheep to go off amongthe flock without re-stamping it with her initials, cameagain to Gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to draga frightened ewe to his shear-station, flinging it overupon its back with a dexterous twist of the armHe lopped off the tresses about its head, and openedup the neck and collar, his mistress quietly lookingon:She blushes at the insult. murmured Bathsheba,watching the pink flush which arose and overspreadthe neck and shoulders of the ewe where they wereleft bare by the clicking shears -- a flush which wasenviable, for its delicacy, by many queens of coteries,and would have been creditable, for its promptness, toany woman in the world.Poor Gabriel's soul was fed with a luxury of contentby having her over him, her eyes critically regardinghis skilful shears, which apparently were going to gatherup a piece of the flesh at every close, and yet never didso. Like Guildenstern, Oak was happy in that he wasnot over happy. He had no wish to converse with her:that his bright lady and himself formed one group,exclusively their own, and containing no others in theworld, was enough.So the chatter was all on her side. There is aloquacity that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba's;and there is a silence which says much: that wasGabriel's. Full of this dim and temperate bliss, hewent on to fling the ewe over upon her other side,covering her head with his knee, gradually runningthe shears line after line round her dewlap; thenceabout her flank and back, and finishing over the tail.Well done, and done quickly! said Bathsheba,looking at her watch as the last snip resounded.How long, miss? said Gabriel, wiping his brow.Three-and-twenty minutes and a half since you tookthe first lock from its forehead. It is the first time thatI have ever seen one done in less than half an hour.The clean, sleek creature arose from its fleece -- howperfectly like Aphrodite rising from the foam shouldhave been seen to be realized -- looking startled andshy at the loss of its garment, which lay on the floorin one soft cloud, united throughout, the portion visiblebeing the inner surface only, which, never before exposed,was white as snow, and without flaw or blemish of theminutest kind.Cain Ball!Yes, Mister Oak; here I be!Cainy now runs forward with the tar-pot. B. E. isnewly stamped upon the shorn skin, and away the simpledam leaps, panting, over the board into the shirtlessflock outside. Then up comes Maryann; throws theloose locks into the middle of the fleece, rolls it up,and carries it into the background as three-and-a-halfpounds of unadulterated warmth for the winter enjoy-ment of persons unknown and far away, who will,however, never experience the superlative comfortderivable from the wool as it here exists, new and pure -- before the unctuousness of its nature whilst in aliving state has dried, stiffened, and been washed out -- rendering it just now as superior to anything woollenas cream is superior to milk-and-water.But heartless circumstance could not leave entireGabriel's happiness of this morning. The rams, oldewes, and two-shear ewes had duly undergone theirstripping, and the men were proceeding with the shear-lings and hogs, when Oak's belief that she was going tostand pleasantly by and time him through anotherperformance was painfully interrupted by Farmer Bold-wood's appearance in the extremest corner of the barn.Nobody seemed to have perceived his entry, but therehe certainly was. Boldwood always carried with him asocial atmosphere of his own, which everybody felt whocame near him; and the talk, which Bathsheba'spresence had somewhat suppressed, was now totallysuspended. He crossed over towards Bathsheba, who turned togreet him with a carriage of perfect ease. He spoke toher in low tones, and she instinctively modulated herown to the same pitch, and her voice ultimately evencaught the inflection of his. She was far from havinga wish to appear mysteriously connected with him; butwoman at the impressionable age gravitates to the largerbody not only in her choice of words, which is apparentevery day, but even in her shades of tone and humour,when the influence is great. What they conversed about was not audible toGabriel, who was too independent to get near, thoughtoo concerned to disregard. The issue of their dialoguewas the taking of her hand by the courteous farmer tohelp her over the spreading-board into the bright Junesunlight outside. Standing beside the sheep alreadyshorn, they went on talking again. Concerning theflock? Apparently not. Gabriel theorized, not withouttruth, that in quiet discussion of any matter within reachof the speakers' eyes, these are usually fixed upon it.Bathsheba demurely regarded a contemptible straw lyingupon the ground, in a way which suggested less ovinecriticism than womanly embarrassment. She becamemore or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering inuncertain flux and reflux over the sensitive space betweenebb and flood. Gabriel sheared on, constrained andsad.She left Boldwood's side, and he walked up anddown alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then shereappeared in her new riding-habit of myrtle-green, whichfitted her to the waist as a rind fits its fruit; and youngBob Coggan led -on -her mare, Boldwood fetching hisown horse from the tree under which it had been tied. Oak's eyes could not forsake them; and in en-deavouring to continue his shearing at the same timethat he watched Boldwood's manner, he snipped thesheep in the groin. The animal plunged; Bathshebainstantly gazed towards it, and saw the blood.O, Gabriel! she exclaimed, with severe remon-strance you who are so strict with the other men -- seewhat you are doing yourself!To an outsider there was not much to complain ofin this remark; but to Oak, who knew Bathsheba to bewell aware that she herself was the cause of the poorewe's wound, because she had wounded the ewe's shearerin a -- still more vital part, it had a sting which the abidingsense of his inferiority to both herself and Boldwood wasnot calculated to heal. But a manly resolve to recognizeboldly that he had no longer a lover's interest in her,helped him occasionally to conceal a feeling.Bottle! he shouted, in an unmoved voice of routine.Cainy Ball ran up, the wound was anointed, and theshearing continued.Boldwood gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle,and before they turned away she again spoke out to Oakwith the same dominative and tantalizing graciousness.I am going now to see Mr. Boldwood's Leicesters.Take my place in the barn, Gabriel, and keep the mencarefully to their work.The horses' heads were put about, and they trottedaway.Boldwood's deep attachment was a matter of greatinterest among all around him; but, after having beenpointed out for so many years as the perfect exemplarof thriving bachelorship, his lapse was an anticlimaxsomewhat resembling that of St. John Long's death byconsumption in the midst of his proofs that it was nota fatal disease.That means matrimony. said Temperance Miller,following them out of sight with her eyes.I reckon that's the size o't. said Coggan, workingalong without looking up.Well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor,said Laban Tall, turning his sheep.Henery Fray spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at thesame time: I don't see why a maid should take ahusband when she's bold enough to fight her ownbattles, and don't want a home; for 'tis keeping anotherwoman out. But let it be, for 'tis a pity he and sheshould trouble two houses.As usual with decided characters, Bathsheba invari-ably provoked the criticism of individuals like HeneryFray. Her emblazoned fault was to be too pronouncedin her objections, and not sufficiently overt in herlikings. We learn that it is not the rays which bodiesabsorb, but those which they reject, that give them thecolours they are known by; and win the same way peopleare specialized by their dislikes and antagonisms, whilsttheir goodwill is looked upon as no attribute at all.Henery continued in a more complaisant mood: Ionce hinted my mind to her on a few things, as nearlyas a battered frame dared to do so to such a frowardpiece. You all know, neighbours, what a man I be,and how I come down with my powerful words whenmy pride is boiling wi' scarn?We do, we do, Henery.So I said, Mistress Everdene, there's places empty,and there's gifted men willing; but the spite -- no. notthe spite -- I didn't say spite -- but the villainy of thecontrarikind. I said (meaning womankind), keeps 'emout. That wasn't too strong for her, say?Passably well put.Yes; and I would have said it, had death andsalvation overtook me for it. Such is my spirit when Ihave a mind.A true man, and proud as a lucifer.You see the artfulness? Why, 'twas about beingbaily really; but I didn't put it so plain that she couldunderstand my meaning, so I could lay it on all thestronger. That was my depth! ... However, let hermarry an she will. Perhaps 'tis high time. I believeFarmer Boldwood kissed her behind the spear-bed at thesheep-washing t'other day -- that I do.What a lie! said Gabriel.Ah, neighbour Oak -- how'st know? said, Henery,mildly.Because she told me all that passed. said Oak, witha pharisaical sense that he was not as other shearers inthis matter.Ye have a right to believe it. said Henery, withdudgeon a very true right. But I mid see a littledistance into things! To be long-headed enough for abaily's place is a poor mere trifle -- yet a trifle more thannothing. However, I look round upon life quite cool.Do you heed me, neighbours? My words, though madeas simple as I can, mid be rather deep for some heads.O yes, Henery, we quite heed ye.A strange old piece, goodmen -- whirled about fromhere to yonder, as if I were nothing! A little warped,too. But I have my depths; ha, and even my greatdepths! I might gird at a certain shepherd, brain tobrain. But no -- O no!A strange old piece, ye say! interposed the maltster,in a querulous voice. At the same time ye be no oldman worth naming -- no old man at all. Yer teethbain't half gone yet; and what's a old man's standingif se be his teeth bain't gone? Weren't I stale inwedlock afore ye were out of arms? 'Tis a poor thingto be sixty, when there's people far past four-score -- aboast'weak as water.It was the unvaying custom in Weatherbury tosink minor differences when the maltster had to bepacified.Weak as-water! yes. said Jan Coggan.- Malter,we feel ye to be a wonderful veteran man, and nobodycan gainsay it.Nobody. said Joseph Poorgrass. Ye be a veryrare old spectacle, malter, and we all admire ye for thatgift. Ay, and as a young man, when my senses were inprosperity, I was likewise liked by a good-few whoknowed me. said the maltster.'Ithout doubt you was -- 'ithout doubt.The bent and hoary 'man was satisfied, and soapparently was Henery Frag. That matters shouldcontinue pleasant Maryann spoke, who, what with herbrown complexion, and the working wrapper of rustylinsey, had at present the mellow hue of an old sketchin oils -- notably some of Nicholas Poussin's: --Do anybody know of a crooked man, or a lame, orany second-hand fellow at all that would do for poorme? said Maryann. A perfect one I don't expect to at my time of life. If I could hear of such a thingtwould do me more good than toast and ale.Coggan furnished a suitable reply. Oak went onwith his shearing, and said not another word. Pestilentmoods had come, and teased away his quiet. Bathshebahad shown indications of anointing him above hisfellows by installing him as the bailiff that the farmimperatively required. He did not covet the postrelatively to the farm: in relation to herself, as belovedby him and unmarried to another, he had coveted it.His readings of her seemed now to be vapoury andindistinct. His lecture to her was, he thought, one ofthe absurdest mistakes. Far from coquetting withBoldwood, she had trifled with himself in thus feigningthat she had trifled with another. He was inwardlyconvinced that, in accordance with the anticipations ofhis easy-going and worse-educated comrades, that daywould see Boldwood the accepted husband of MissEverdene. Gabriel at this time of his life had out-grown the instinctive dislike which every Christianboy has for reading the Bible, perusing it now quitefrequently, and he inwardly said, I find more bitterthan death the woman whose heart is snares andnets! This was mere exclamation -- the froth of thestorm. He adored Bathsheba just the same.We workfolk shall have some lordly- junketingto-night. said Cainy Ball, casting forth his thoughts ina new direction. This morning I see'em making thegreat puddens in the milking-pails -- lumps of fat as bigas yer thumb, Mister Oak! I've never seed suchsplendid large knobs of fat before in the days of mylife -- they never used to be bigger then a horse-bean.And there was a great black crock upon the brandishwith his legs a-sticking out, but I don't know what wasin within.And there's two bushels of biffins for apple-pies,said Maryann.Well, I hope to do my duty by it all. said JosephPoorgrass, in a pleasant, masticating manner of anticipa-tion. Yes; victuals and drink is a cheerful thing,and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of wordsmay be used. 'Tis the gospel of the body, withoutwhich we perish, so to speak it.
CHAPTER XXIII