Page 4 of Far from the Madding Crowd

GABRIEL'S RESOLVE -- THE VISIT -- THE MISTAKE

THE only superiority in women that is tolerable to therival sex is, as a rule, that of the unconscious kind; buta superiority which recognizes itself may sometimesplease by suggesting possibilities of capture to thesubordinated man.This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appre-ciable inroads upon the emotional constitution of youngFarmer Oak.Love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense ofexorbitant profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts,being at the bottom of pure passions, as that of exorbi-tant profit, bodily or materially, is at the bottom ofthose of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak's feelingswere as sensitive as the money-market in calculationsupon his chances. His dog waited for his meals in away so like that in which Oak waited for the girl'spresence, that the farmer was quite struck with theresemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at thedog. However, he continued to watch through thehedge for her regular coming, and thus his sentimentstowards her were deepened without any correspondingeffect being produced upon herself. Oak had nothingfinished and ready to say as yet, and not being ableto frame love phrases which end where they begin;passionate tales -- -- Full of sound and fury -- signifying nothing --he said no word at all.By making inquiries he found that the girl's namewas Bathsheba Everdene, and that the cow would godry in about seven days. He dreaded the eight day.At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceasedto give milk for that year, and Bathsheba Everdenecame up the hill no more. Gabriel had reached apitch of existence he never could have anticipated ashort time before. He liked saying `Bathsheba' as aprivate enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over histaste to black hair, though he had sworn by brown eversince he was a boy, isolated himself till the space hefilled in a possible strength in an actual weakness. Marriagetransforms a distraction into a support, the power ofwhich should be, and happily often is, in direct pro-portion to the degree of imbecility it supplants. Oakbegan now to see light in this direction, and said tohimself, ”I'll make her my wife, or upon my soul I shallbe good for nothing!”All this while he was perplexing himself about anerrand on which he might consistently visit the cottageof Bathsheba's aunt.He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe,mother of a living lamb. On a day which had asummer face and a winter constitution-a fine Januarymorning, when there was just enough blue sky visible tomake cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and anoccasional gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lambinto a respectable Sunday basket, and stalked across thefields to the house of Mrs. Hurst, the aunt -- George,the dog walking behind, with a countenance of greatconcern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to betaking.Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curlingfrom the chimney with strange meditation. At eveninghe had fancifully traced it down the chimney to thespot of its origin -- seen the hearth and Bathshebabeside it -- beside it in her out-door dress; for theclothes she had worn on the hill were by associationequally with her person included in the compass of hisaffection they seemed at this early time of his love anecessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called Bath-sheba Everdene.He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind -- of anature between the carefully neat and the carelesslyornate -- of a degree between fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection. He thoroughly cleaned his silverwatch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to hisboots, looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to theinmost heart of the plantation for a new walking-stick,and trimmed it vigorously on his way back; took a newhandkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box, puton the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigsof an elegant flower uniting the beauties of both roseand lily without the defects of either, and used all thehair-oil he possessed upon his usually dry, sandy, andinextricably curly hair, till he had deepened it to asplendidly novel colour, between that of guano andRoman cement, making it stick to his head like maceround a nutmeg, or wet seaweed round a boulder afterthe ebb.Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a knot of sparrows on the eaves; onemight fancy scandal and rumour to be no less thestaple topic of these little coteries on roofs than ofthose under them. It seemed that the omen was anunpropitious one, for, as the rather untoward commence-ment of Oak's overtures, just as he arrived by the gardengate, he saw a cat inside, going into various arched shapesand fiendish convulsions at the sight of his dog George.The dog took no notice , for he had arrived at an ageat which all superfluous barking was cynically avoidedas a waste of breath -- in fact he never barked evenat the sheep except to order, when it was done withan absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of Com-mination-service, which, though offensive, had to begone through once now and then to frighten the flockfor their own good.A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes intowhich the cat had run:”Poor dear! Did a nasty brute of a dog want tokill it; -- did he poor dear!””I beg your pardon.” said Oak to the voice, ”butGeorge was walking on behind me with a temper asmild as milk.”Almost before he had ceased speaking, Oak wasseized with a misgiving as to whose ear was the recipientof his answer. Nobody appeared, and he heard theperson retreat among the bushes.Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he broughtsmall furrows into his forehead by sheer force ofreverie. Where the issue of an interview is as likelyto be a vast change for the worse as for the better,any initial difference from expectation causes nippingsensations of failure. Oak went up to the door a littleabashed: his mental rehearsal and the reality had hadno common grounds of opening.Bathsheba's aunt was indoors. ”Will you tell MissEverdene that somebody would be glad to speak toher?” said Mr. Oak. (Calling one's self merely Some-body, without giving a name, is not to be taken asan example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: itsprings from a refined modesty, of which townspeople,with their cards and announcements, have no notionwhatever.)Bathsheba was out. The voice had evidently beenhers.”Will you come in, Mr. Oak?””Oh, thank 'ee, said Gabriel, following her to thefireplace. ”I've brought a lamb for Miss Everdene.I thought she might like one to rear; girls do.””She might.” said Mrs. Hurst, musingly; ” thoughshe's only a visitor here. If you will wait a minute,Bathsheba will be in.””Yes, I will wait.” said Gabriel, sitting down. ”Thelamb isn't really the business I came about, Mrs. Hurst.In short, I was going to ask her if she'd like to bemarried.””And were you indeed?””Yes. Because if she would, I should be very gladto marry her. D'ye know if she's got any other youngman hanging about her at all?””Let me think,” said Mrs. Hurst, poking the firesuperfluously.... ”Yes -- bless you, ever so many youngmen. You see, Farmer Oak, she's so good-looking, andan excellent scholar besides -- she was going to be agoverness once, you know, only she was too wild. Notthat her young men ever come here -- but, Lord, in thenature of women, she must have a dozen!””That's unfortunate.” said Farmer Oak, contemplatinga crack in the stone floor with sorrow. ”I'm only anevery-day sort of man, and my only chance was in beingthe first comer... , Well, there's no use in my waiting,for that was all I came about: so I'll take myself offhome-along, Mrs. Hurst.”When Gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along thedown, he heard a ”hoi-hoi!” uttered behindhim, in a piping note of more treble quality than thatin which the exclamation usually embodies itself whenshouted across a field. He looked round, and saw a girlracing after him, waving a white handkerchief.Oak stood still -- and the runner drew nearer. It wasBathsheba Everdene. Gabriel's colour deepened: herswas already deep, not, as it appeared, from emotion,but from running.”Farmer Oak -- I -- ” she said, pausing for want ofbreath pulling up in front of him with a slanted faceand putting her hand to her side.”I have just called to see you,” said Gabriel, pendingher further speech.”Yes-I know that!” she said panting like a robin,her face red and moist from her exertions, like a peonypetal before the sun dries off the dew. ”I didn't knowyou had come to ask to have me, or I should have comein from the garden instantly. I ran after you to say --that my aunt made a mistake in sending you away fromcourting me -- -- -- ”Gabriel expanded.”I'm sorry to have made yourun so fast, my dear.” he said, with a grateful sense offavours to come. ”Wait a bit till you've found yourbreath.””-- It was quite a mistake-aunt's telling you I hada young man ”already.”- Bathsheba went on. ”I haven'ta sweetheart at all -- and I never had one, and I thoughtthat, as times go with women, it was such a pity to sendyou away thinking that I had several.””Really and truly I am glad to hear that!” saidFarmer Oak, smiling one of his long special smiles, andblushing with gladness. He held out his hand to takehers, which, when she had eased her side by pressingit there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to stillher loud-beating heart. Directly he seized it she putit behind her, so that it slipped through his fingers likean eel. ””I have a nice snug little farm.” said Gabriel, withhalf a degree less assurance than when he had seizedher hand.”Yes; you have.””A man has advanced me money to begin with, butstill, it will soon be paid off and though I am only anevery-day sort of man, I have got on a little since I wasa boy.” Gabriel uttered ”a little” in a tone to-showher that it was the complacent form of ”a great deal.”e continued: ” When we be married, I am quite sureI can work twice as hard as I do now.” He went forward and stretched out his arm again.Bathsheba had overtaken him at a point beside whichstood a low stunted holly bush, now laden with redberries. Seeing his advance take the form of an attitudethreatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, ofher person, she edged off round the bush.”Why, Farmer Oak.” she said, over the top, lookingat him with rounded eyes, ”I never said I was going tomarry you.””Well -- that is a tale!” said Oak, with dismay.” Torun after anybody like this, and then say you don'twant him!””What I meant to tell you was only this.” she saideagerly, and yet half conscious of the absurdity of theposition she had made for herself -- ”that nobody hasgot me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my having adozen, as my aunt said; I hate to be thought men'sproperty in that way, though possibly I shall be hadsome day. Why, if I'd wanted you I shouldn't haverun after you like this; 'twould have been the forwardestthing! But there was no harm in 'hurrying to correcta piece of false news that had been told you.””Oh, no -- no harm at all.” But there is such a thingas being too generous in expressing a judgment impuls-ively, and Oak added with a more appreciative senseof all the circumstances -- ”Well, I am not quite certainit was no harm.””Indeed, I hadn't time to think before startingwhether I wanted to marry or not, for you'd have beengone over the hill.””Come.” said Gabriel, freshening again; ”think aminute or two. I'll wait a while, Miss Everdene. Willyou marry me? Do, Bathsheba. I love you far morethan common!””I'll try to think.” she observed, rather more timor-ously; ”if I can think out of doors; my mind spreadsaway so.””But you can give a guess.””Then give me time.” Bathsheba looked thought-fully into the distance, away from the direction in whichGabriel stood.”I can make you happy,” said he to the back of herhead, across the bush. ”You shall have as piano in ayear or two -- farmers' wives are getting to have pianosnow -- and I'll practise up the flute right well to playwith you in the evenings.””Yes; I should like that.””And have one of those little ten-pound” gigs formarket -- and nice flowers, and birds -- cocks and hensI mean, because they be useful.” continued Gabriel,feeling balanced between poetry and practicality.”I should like it very much.””And a frame for cucumbers -- like a gentleman andlady.”Yes.””And when the wedding was over, we'd have it putin the newspaper list of marriages.””Dearly I should like that!””And the babies in the births -- every man jack of”em! And at home by the fire, whenever you look up,there I shall be -- and whenever I look up there willbe you.””Wait wait and don't be improper!”Her countenance fell, and she was silent awhile.He regarded the red berries between them over andover again, to such an extent, that holly seemed inhis after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal ofmarriage. Bathsheba decisively turned to him.”No;” 'tis no use.” she said. ”I don't want to marryyou.””Try.””I have tried hard all the time I've been thinking;for a marriage would be very nice in one sense.People would talk about me, and think I had won mybattle, and I should feel triumphant, and all that,But a husband -- -- --”Well!””Why, he'd always be there, as you say; wheneverI looked up, there he'd be.””Of course he would -- I, that is.””Well, what I mean is that I shouldn't mind beinga bride at a wedding, if I could be one without havinga husband. But since a woman can't show off in thatway by herself, I shan't marry -- at least yet.””That's a terrible wooden story.”At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba madean addition to her dignity by a slight sweep awayfrom him.”Upon my heart and soul, I don't know what amaid can say stupider than that.” said Oak. ”Butdearest.” he continued in a palliative voice, ”don't belike it!” Oak sighed a deep honest sigh -- none theless so in that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation,it was rather noticeable as a disturbance of the atmo-sphere. ”Why won't you have me?” he appealed,creeping round the holly to reach her side.”I cannot.” she said, retreating.”But why?” he persisted, standing still at last indespair of ever reaching her, and facing over thebush.”Because I don't love you.””Yes, but -- -- ”She contracted a yawn to an inoffensive smallness,so that it was hardly ill-mannered at all. ”I don't loveyou.” she said.””But I love you -- and, as for myself, I am contentto be liked.””O Mr. Oak -- that's very fine! You'd get to despise me.””Never.” said Mr Oak, so earnestly that he seemedto be coming, by the force of his words, straightthrough the bush and into her arms. ”I shall do onething in this life -- one thing certain -- that is, love you,and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.” Hisvoice had a genuine pathos now, and his large brownhands perceptibly trembled.”It seems dreadfully wrong not to have you whenyou feel so much!” she said with a little distress, andlooking hopelessly around for some means of escapefrom her moral dilemma. ”H(ow I wish I hadn't runafter you!” However she seemed to have a short cutfor getting back to cheerfulness, and set her face tosignify archness. ”It wouldn't do, Mr Oak. I wantsomebody to tame me; I am too independent; andyou would never be able to, I know.”Oak cast his eyes down the field in a way implyingthat it was useless to attempt argument.”Mr. Oak.” she said, with luminous distinctness andcommon sense, ” you are better off than I. I havehardly a penny in the world -- I am staying with myaunt for my bare sustenance. I am better educatedthan you -- and I don't love you a bit: that's my sideof the case. Now yours: you are a farmer just begin-ing; and you ought in common prudence, if you marryat all (which you should certainly not think of doingat present) to marry a woman with money, who wouldadmiration.”That's the very thing I had been thinking myself!”he naively said.Farmer Oak had one-and-a-half Christian character-istics too many to succeed with Bathsheba: his humility,and a superfluous moiety of honesty. Bathsheba wasdecidedly disconcerted,”Well, then, why did you come and disturb me?”she said, almost angrily, if not quite, an enlarging redspot rising in each cheek.”I can't do what I think would be -- would be -- -- ””Right?””No: wise.””You have made an admission now, Mr. Oak.” sheexclaimed, with even more hauteur, and rocking herhead disdainfully. ”After that, do you think I couldmarry you? Not if I know it.”He broke in passionately. ”But don't mistake melike that! Because I am open enough to own whatevery man in my shoes would have thought of, youmake your colours come up your face, and get crabbedwith me. That about your not being good enough forme is nonsense. You speak like a lady -- all the parishnotice it, and your uncle at Weatherbury is, I haveheerd, a large farmer -- much larger than ever I shallbe. May I call in the evening, or will you walk alongwith me o' Sundays? I don't want you to make-upyour mind at once, if you'd rather not.””No -- no -- I cannot. Don't press me any more --don't. I don't love you -- so 'twould be ridiculous,”he said, with a laugh.No man likes to see his emotions the sport of amerry-go-round of skittishness. ”Very well.” said Oak,firmly, with the bearing of one who was going to give ”his days and nights to Ecclesiastes for ever. ”ThenI'll ask you no more.”



CHAPTER V