JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN
A WALL bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a portion of the end. Here a highgable stood prominent, and it was covered like the frontwith a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window,chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. Thesingle feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse ofdark green leaves, was a small door.The situation of the door was peculiar. The sillwas three or four feet above the ground, and for amoment one was at a loss for an explanation of thisexceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath sug-gested that the door was used solely for the passage ofarticles and persons to and from the level of a vehiclestanding on the outside. Upon the whole, the doorseemed to advertise itself as a species of Traitor's Gatetranslated to another sphere. That entry and exithereby was only at rare intervals became apparent onnoting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undis-turbed in the chinks of the sill.As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointedto five minutes to three, a blue spring waggon, pickedout with red, and containing boughs and flowers, passedthe end of the street, and up towards this side of thebuilding. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering outa shattered form of Malbrook. Joseph Poorgrass rangthe bell, and received directions to back his waggonagainst the high door under the gable. The door thenopened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth,and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of thevehicle.One of the men then stepped up beside it, took fromhis pocket a lump of chalk, and wrote upon the coverthe name and a few other words in a large scrawlinghand. (We believe that they do these things moretenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered thewhole with a black cloth, threadbare, but decent, thetailboard of the waggon was returned to its place, oneof the men handed a certificate of registry to Poorgrass,and both entered the door, closing it behind them.Their connection with her, short as it had been, wasover for ever.Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and theevergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult todivine what the waggon contained; he smacked hiswhip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept downthe hill, and along the road to Weatherbury.The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to theright towards the sea as he walked beside the horse, Poor-grass saw strange clouds and scrolls of mist rolling overthe long ridges which girt the landscape in that quarter.They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently creptacross the intervening valleys, and around the witheredpapery flags of the moor and river brinks. Then theirdank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. It wasa sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which hadtheir roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the timethat horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury GreatWood, these silent workings of an invisible hand hadreached them, and they were completely enveloped,this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and thefirst fog of the series.The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. Thewaggon and its load rolled no longer on the horizontaldivision between clearness and opacity, but wereimbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallorthroughout. There was no perceptible motion in theair, not a visible drop of water fell upon a leaf of thebeeches, birches, and firs composing the wood on eitherside. The trees stood in an attitude of intentness, as ifthey waited longingly for a wind to come and rockthem. A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things -- so completely, that the crunching of the waggon-wheels was as a great noise, and small rustles, whichhad never obtained a hearing except by night, were dis-tinctly individualized.Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burdenas it loomed faintly through the flowering laurustinus,then at the unfathomable gloom amid the high trees oneach hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spectrelike intheir monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheer-ful, and wished he had the company even of a child ordog. Stopping the home, he listened. Not a footstepor wheel was audible anywhere around, and the deadsilence was broken only by a heavy particle falling froma tree through the evergreens and alighting with a smartrap upon the coffin of poor Fanny. The fog had bythis time saturated the trees, and this was the firstdropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. Thehollow echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfullyof the grim Leveller. Then hard by came down anotherdrop, then two or three. Presently there was a continualtapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, theroad, and the travellers. The nearer boughs were beadedwith the mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches were hung with similar drops,like diamonds on auburn hair.At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyondthis wood, was the old inn Buck's Head. It was abouta mile and a half from Weatherbury, and in the meridiantimes of stage-coach travelling had been the placewhere many coaches changed and kept their relaysof horses. All the old stabling was now pulled down,and little remained besides the habitable inn itself,which, standing a little way back from the road, sig-nified its existence to people far up and down thehighway by a sign hanging from the horizontal boughof an elm on the opposite side of the way.Travellers -- for the variety TOURIST had hardlydeveloped into a distinct species at this date -- some-times said in passing, when they cast their eyes up tothe sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of repre-senting the signboard hanging thus, but that theythemselves had never before noticed so perfect aninstance in actual working order. It was near this treethat the waggon was standing into which Gabriel Oakcrept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owingto the darkness, the sign and the inn had been un-observed.The manners of the inn were of the old-establishedtype. Indeed, in the minds of its frequenters theyexisted as unalterable formulae: E.G. --Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor.For tobacco, shout.In calling for the girl in waiting, say, Maid!Ditto for the landlady, Old Soul! etc., etc.It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendlysignboard came in view, and, stopping his horseimmediately beneath it, he proceeded to fulfil anintention made a long time before. His spirits wereoozing out of him quite. He turned the horse's headto the green bank, and entered the hostel for a mugof ale.Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floorof which was a step below the passage, which in itsturn was a step below the road outside, what shouldJoseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloureddiscs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. JanCoggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of thetwo most appreciative throats in the neighbourhood,within the pale of respectability, were now sitting faceto face over a threelegged circular table, having aniron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentallyelbowed off; they might have been said to resemblethe setting sun and the full moon shining VIS-A-VISacross the globe.Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass! said Mark Clark.I'm sure your face don't praise your mistress's table,Joseph.I've had a very pale companion for the last fourmiles. said Joseph, indulging in a shudder toneddown by resignation. And to speak the truth, 'twasbeginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, I ha'n't seedthe colour of victuals or drink since breakfast timethis morning, and that was no more than a dew-bitafield.Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!said Coggan, handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full.Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then fora longer time, saying, as he lowered the jug, 'Tispretty drinking -- very pretty drinking, and is morethan cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to speak it.True, drink is a pleasant delight. said Jan, as onewho repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that hehardly noticed its passage over his tongue; and,lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head graduallybackwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soulmight not be diverted for one instant from its blissby irrelevant surroundings.Well, I must be on again. said Poorgrass. Notbut that I should like another nip with ye; but theparish might lose confidence in me if I was seedhere.Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, Joseph?Back to Weatherbury. I've got poor little FannyRobin in my waggon outside, and I must be at thechurchyard gates at a quarter to five with her.Ay-i've heard of it. And so she's nailed up inparish boards after all, and nobody to pay the bellshilling and the grave half-crown.The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not thebell shilling, because the bell's a luxery: but 'a canhardly do without the grave, poor body. However, Iexpect our mistress will pay all.A pretty maid as ever I see! But what's yer hurry,Joseph? The pore woman's dead, and you can't bringher to life, and you may as well sit down comfortable,and finish another with us.I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful yecan dream of more with ye, sonnies. But only a fewminutes, because 'tis as 'tis.Of course, you'll have another drop. A man'stwice the man afterwards. You feel so warm andglorious, and you whop and slap at your work withoutany trouble, and everything goes on like sticks a-breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us tothat horned man in the smoky house; but after all,many people haven't the gift of enjoying a wet, andsince we be highly favoured with a power that way,we should make the most o't.True. said Mark Clark. 'Tis a talent theLordhas mercifully bestowed upon us, and we ought notto neglect it. But, what with the parsons and clerksand schoolpeople and serious tea-parties, the merryold ways of good life have gone to the dogs -- uponmy carcase, they have!Well, really, I must be onward again now. saidJoseph.Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor womanis dead, isn't she, and what's your hurry?Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way withme for my doings. said Joseph, again sitting down.I've been troubled with weak moments lately, 'tistrue. I've been drinky once this month already, andI did not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped acurse or two yesterday; so I don't want to go too farfor my safety. Your next world is your next world,and not to be squandered offhand.I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. ThatI do.Oh, no, no! I don't go so far as that.For my part. said Coggan, I'm staunch Churchof England.Ay, and faith, so be I. said Mark Clark.I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to,Coggan continued, with that tendency to talk onprinciples which is characteristic of the barley-corn.But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've stucklike a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes;there's this to be said for the Church, a man canbelong to the Church and bide in his cheerful oldinn, and never trouble or worry his mind aboutdoctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you mustgo to chapel in all winds and weathers, and makeyerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapelmembers be clever chaps enough in their way. Theycan lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, allabout their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper.They can -- they can. said Mark Clark, with cor-roborative feeling; but we Churchmen, you see, musthave it all printed aforehand, or, dang it all, we shouldno more know what to say to a great gaffer like theLord than babes unborn,Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them abovethan we. said Joseph, thoughtfully.Yes. said Coggan. We know very well that ifanybody do go to heaven, they will. They've workedhard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as 'tis.I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stickto the Church have the same chance as they, becausewe know we have not. But I hate a feller who'llchange his old ancient doctrines for the sake of gettingto heaven. I'd as soon turn king's-evidence for thefew pounds you get. Why, neighbours, when everyone of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdlywere the man who gave me a sack for seed, thoughhe hardly had one for his own use, and no money tobuy 'em. If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't haehad a tatie to put in my garden. D'ye think I'dturn after that? No, I'll stick to my side; and if webe in the wrong, so be it: I'll fall with the fallen!Well said -- very well said. observed Joseph. --However, folks, I must be moving now: upon my lifeI must. Pa'son Thirdly will be waiting at the churchgates, and there's the woman a-biding outside in thewaggon.Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable! Pa'sonThirdly won't mind. He's a generous man; he's foundme in tracts for years, and I've consumed a good manyin the course of a long and shady life; but he's neverbeen the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down.The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less hisspirit was troubled by the duties which devolved uponhim this afternoon. The minutes glided by uncounted,until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen,and the eyes of the three were but sparkling pointson the surface of darkness. Coggan's repeater strucksix from his pocket in the usual still small tones.At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry,and the door opened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak,followed by the maid of the inn bearing a candle. Hestared sternly at the one lengthy and two round facesof the sitters, which confronted him with the expressionsof a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. Joseph Poor-grass blinked, and shrank several inches into the back-ground.Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful,Joseph, disgraceful! said Gabriel, indignantly. Coggan,you call yourself a man, and don't know better than this.Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or otherof his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its ownaccord, as if it were not a member, but a dozy individualwith a distinct personality.Don't take on so, shepherd! said Mark Clark,looking reproachfully at the candle, which appearedto possess special features of interest for his eyes.Nobody can hurt a dead woman. at length saidCoggan, with the precision of a machine. All thatcould be done for her is done -- she's beyond us: andwhy should a man put himself in a tearing hurry forlifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don'tknow what you do with her at all? If she'd beenalive, I would have been the first to help her. If shenow wanted victuals and drink, I'd pay for it, moneydown. But she's dead, and no speed of ours willbring her to life. The woman's past us -- time spentupon her is throwed away: why should we hurry todo what's not required? Drink, shepherd, and befriends, for to-morrow we may be like her.We may. added Mark Clark, emphatically, at oncedrinking himself, to run no further risk of losing hischance by the event alluded to, Jan meanwhile merginghis additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song: --To-mor-row, to-mor-row!And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board,With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row,With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford,And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row.To-mor -- row', to-mor --Do hold thy horning, Jan! said Oak; and turningupon Poorgrass, as for you, Joseph, who do your wickeddeeds in such confoundedly holy ways, you are as drunkas you can stand.No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd.All that's the matter with me is the affliction called amultiplying eye, and that's how it is I look double toyou-i mean, you look double to me.A multiplying eye is a very bad thing. said MarkClark.It always comes on when I have been in a public --house a little time. said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly.Yes; I see two of every sort, as if I were some holyman living in the times of King Noah and enteringinto the ark.... Y-y-y-yes. he added, becoming muchaffected by the picture of himself as a person thrownaway, and shedding tears; I feel too good for England:I ought to have lived in Genesis by rights, like the othermen of sacrifice, and then I shouldn't have b-b-beencalled a d-d-drunkard in such a way!I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and notsit whining there!Show myself a man of spirit? ... Ah, well! letme take the name of drunkard humbly-iet me be aman of contrite knees-iet it be! l know that I alwaysdo say Please God afore I do anything, from mygetting up to my going down of the same, and I bewilling to take as much disgrace as there is in thatholy act. Hah, yes! ... But not a man of spirit?Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be liftedagainst my hinder parts without groaning manfully thatI question the right to do so? I inquire that queryboldly?We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass,admitted Jan.Never have I allowed such treatment to pass un-questioned! Yet the shepherd says in the face of thatrich testimony that I be not a man of spirit! Well,let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fitstate to Cake charge of the waggon for the remainder ofthe journey, made no reply, but, closing the door againupon them, went across to where the vehicle stood, nowgetting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewytime. He pulled the horse's head from the large patchof turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs overthe coffin, and drove along through the unwholesomenight.It had gradually become rumoured in the villagethat the body to be brought and buried that day wasall that was left of the unfortunate Fanny Robin whohad followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge throughMelchester and onwards. But, thanks to Boldwood'sreticence and Oak's generosity, the lover she had followedhad never been individualized as Troy. Gabriel hopedthat the whole truth of the matter might not be publishedtill at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a fewdays, when the interposing barriers of earth and time,and a sense that the events had been somewhat shutinto oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation andinvidious remark would have for Bathsheba just now.By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence, which lay in his way to the church,it was quite dark. A man came from the gate and saidthrough the fog, which hung between them like blownflour --Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson.The corpse is here, sir. said Gabriel.I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she couldtell me the reason of the delay. I am afraid it is toolate now for the funeral to be performed with properdecency. Have you the registrar's certificate?No. said Gabriel. I expect Poorgrass has that;and he's at the Buck's Head. I forgot to ask himfor it.Then that settles the matter. We'll put off thefuneral till to-morrow morning. The body may bebrought on to the church, or it may be left here atthe farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning.They waited more than an hour, and have now gonehome.Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter amost objectionable plan, notwithstanding that Fannyhad been an inmate of the farm-house for several yearsin the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visions of severalunhappy contingencies which might arise from this delayflitted before him. But his will was not law, and hewent indoors to inquire of his mistress what were herwishes on the subject. He found her in an unusualmood: her eyes as she looked up to him were suspiciousand perplexed as with some antecedent thought. Troyhad not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented witha mien of indifference to his proposition that they shouldgo on to the church at once with their burden; butimmediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate,she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny'saccount, and desired that the girl might be brought intothe house. Oak argued upon the convenience of leavingher in the waggon, just as she lay now, with her flowersand green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicleinto the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose,It is unkind and unchristian. she said, to leave thepoor thing in a coach-house all night.Very well, then. said the parson. And I willarrange that the funeral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in feeling that wecannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfullyWe must remember that though she may have erredgrievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister:and it is to be believed that God's uncovenantedmercies are extended towards her, and that she is amember of the flock of Christ.The parson's words spread into the heavy air with asad yet unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed anhonest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr.Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern.Fetching three other men to assist him, they bore theunconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on twobenches in the middle of a little sitting-room next thehall, as Bathsheba directed.Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room.He still indecisively lingered beside the body. He wasdeeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical aspect thatcircumstances were putting on with regard to Troy'swife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them,(n spite of his careful manoeuvring all this day, the veryworst event that could in any way have happened inconnection with the burial had happened now. Oakimagined a terrible discovery resulting from this after-noon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's life a shadewhich the interposition of many lapsing years might butindifferently lighten, and which nothing at all mightaltogether remove.Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathshebafrom, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again,as he had looked before, at the chalk writing upon thecoffinlid. The scrawl was this simple one, FannyRobin and child. Gabriel took his handkerchief andcarefully rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visiblethe inscription Fanny Robin only. He then left theroom, and went out quietly by the front door.
CHAPTER XLIII