Far from the Madding Crowd

THE FAIR -- THE JOURNEY -- THE FIRE

TWO months passed away. We are brought on to aday in February, on which was held the yearly statuteor hiring fair in the county-town of Casterbridge.At one end of the street stood from two to threehundred blithe and hearty labourers waiting upon Chance -- all men of the stamp to whom labour suggests nothingworse than a wrestle with gravitation, and pleasurenothing better than a renunciation of the same amongthese, carters and waggoners were distinguished byhaving a piece of whip-cord twisted round their hats;thatchers wore a fragment of woven straw; shepherdsheld their sheep-crooks in their hands; and thus thesituation required was known to the hirers at aglance.In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of some-what superior appearance to the rest -- in fact, hissuperiority was marked enough to lead several ruddypeasants standing by to speak to him inquiringly, as toa farmer, and to use `Sir' as a finishing word. Hisanswer always was,”I am looking for a place myself -- a bailiff's. DoYe know of anybody who wants one?”Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more medi-tative, and his expression was more sad. He hadpassed through an ordeal of wretchedness which hadgiven him more than it had taken away. He had sunkfrom his modest elevation as pastoral king into the veryslime-pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a digni-fied calm he had never before known, and that indiffer-ence to fate which, though it often makes a villain ofa man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not.And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and theloss gain.In the morning a regiment of cavalry had left thetown, and a sergeant and his party had been beating upfor recruits through the four streets. As the end of theday drew on, and he found himself not hired, Gabrielalmost wished that he had joined them, and gone off toserve his country. Weary of standing in the market-place, and not much minding the kind of work heturned his hand to, he decided to offer himself in someother capacity than that of bailiff.All the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds.Sheep-tending was Gabriel's speciality. Turning downan obscure street and entering an obscurer lane, he wentup to a smith's shop.”How long would it take you to make a shepherd'scrook?””Twenty minutes.””How much?””Two shillings.”He sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stembeing given him into the bargain.He then went to a ready-made clothes' shop, theowner of which had a large rural connection. As thecrook had absorbed most of Gabriel's money, heattempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoatfor a shepherd's regulation smock-frock.This transaction having been completed, he againhurried off to the centre of the town, and stood on thekerb of the pavement, as a shepherd, crook in hand.Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepherd, itseemed that bailifs were most in demand. However, twoor three farmers noticed him and drew near. Dialoguesfollowed, more or lessin the subjoined for: --”Where do you come from?””Norcombe.””That's a long way.”Fifteen miles.””Who's farm were you upon last?””My own.”This reply invariably operated like a rumour ofcholera. The inquiring farmer would edge away andshake his head dubiously. Gabriel, like his dog, wastoo good to be trustworthy,. and he never made advancebeyond this point.It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, andextemporize a procedure to fit it, than to get a goodshepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in thewhole cycle of labour that was required in the fair. Itgrew dusk. Some merry men were whistling andsinging by the corn-exchange. Gabriel's hand, whichhad lain for some time idle in his smock-frock pocket,touched his flute which he carried there. Here wasan opportunity for putting his dearly bought wisdominto practice.He drew out his flute and began to play ”Jockey tothe Fair” in the style of a man who had never knownmoment's sorrow. Oak could pipe with Arcadiansweetness and the sound of the well-known notescheered his own heart as well as those of the loungers.He played on with spirit, and in half an hour hadearned in pence what was a small fortune to a destituteman.By making inquiries he learnt that there was anotherfair at Shottsford the next day.”How far is Shottsford?””Ten miles t'other side of Weatherbury.”Weatherbury! It was where Bathsheba had gonetwo months before. This information was like comingfrom night into noon.”How far is it to Weatherbury?””Five or six miles.”Bathsheba had probably left Weatherbury long beforethis time, but the place had enough interest attachingto it to lead Oak to choose Shottsford fair as his nextfield of inquiry, because it lay in the Weatherburyquarter. Moreover, the Weatherbury folk were by nomeans uninteresting intrinsically. If report spoke trulythey were as hardy, merry, thriving, wicked a set asany in the whole county. Oak resolved to sleep atWeatherbury -- that -- night on his way to Shottsford,and struck out at once -- into the -- high road which hadbeen recommended as the direct route to the village inquestion.The road stretched through water-meadows traversedby little brooks, whose quivering surfaces were braidedalong their centres, and folded into creases at the sides;or, where the flow was more rapid, the stream was piedwith spots of white froth, which rode on in undisturbedserenity. On the higher levels the dead and dry carcassesof leaves tapped the ground as they bowled along helter-skelter upon the shoulders of the wind, and little birdsin the hedges were rustling their feathers and tuckingthemselves in comfortably for the night, retaining theirplaces if Oak kept moving, but flying away if hestopped to look at them. He passed by Yalbury-Woodwhere the game-birds were rising to their roosts, andheard the crack-voiced cock-pheasants ”cu-uck, cuck,”and the wheezy whistle of the hens.By the time he had walked three or four miles everyshape in the-landscape had assumed a uniform hue ofblackness. He descended Yalbury Hill and could justdiscern ahead of him a waggon, drawn up under a greatover-hanging tree by the roadside.On coming close, he found there were no horsesattached to it, the spot being apparently quite deserted.The waggon, from its position, seemed to have been leftthere for the night, for beyond about half a truss of haywhich was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty.Gabriel sat down on the shafts of the vehicle and con-sidered his position. He calculated that he had walkeda very fair proportion of the journey; and having beenon foot since daybreak, he felt tempted to lie down uponthe hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to thevillage of Weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging.Eating his las slices of bread and ham, and drinkingfrom the bottle of cider he had taken the precaution tobring with him, he got into the lonely waggon. Herehe spread half of the hay as a bed, and, as well as hecould in the darkness, pulled the other half over himby way of bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, andfeeling, physically, as comfortable as ever he had beenin his life. Inward melancholy it was impossible fora man like Oak, introspective far beyond his neighbours,to banish quite, whilst conning the present. untowardpage of his history. So, thinking of his misfortunes,amorous and pastoral he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying,in common with sailors, the privilege of being able tosummon the god instead of having to wait for him.On somewhat suddenly awaking after a sleep ofwhose length he had no idea, Oak found that the waggonwas in motion. He was being carried along the roadat a rate rather considerable for a vehicle withoutsprings, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness,his head being dandled up and down on the bed ofthe waggon like a kettledrum-stick. He then dis-tinguished voices in conversation, coming from theforpart of the waggon. His concern at this dilemma(which would have been alarm, had he been a thrivingman; but -- misfortune is a fine opiate to personal terror)led him to peer cautiously from the hay, and the firstsight he beheld was the stars above him. Charles'sWain was getting towards a right angle with the Polestar, and Gabriel concluded that it must be about nineo'clock -- in other words, that he had slept two hours.This small astronomical calculation was made withoutany positive effort, and whilst he was stealthily turningto discover, if possible, into whose hands he had fallen.Two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting withtheir legs outside the waggon, one of whom was driving.Gabriel soon found that this was the waggoner, and itappeared they had come from Casterbridge fair, likehimself.A conversation was in progress, which continuedthus: --”Be as 'twill, she's a fine handsome body as far'slooks be concerned. But that's only the skin of thewoman, and these dandy cattle be as-proud as a luciferin their insides.””Ay -- so 'a do seem, Billy Smallbury -- so 'a do seem.”This utterance was very shaky by nature, and more soby circumstance, the jolting of the waggon not being-without its effect upon the speaker's larynx. It came”from the man who held the reins.”She's a very vain feymell -- so 'tis said here andthere.””Ah, now. If so be 'tis like that, I can't look her inthe face. Lord, no: not I -- heh-heh-heh! Such a shyman as I be!””Yes -- she's very vain. 'Tis said that every night atgoing to bed she looks in the glass to put on her night-cap properly.””And not a married woman. Oh, the world!””And 'a can play the peanner, so 'tis said. Canplay so clever that 'a can make a psalm tune sound aswell as the merriest loose song a man can wish for.””D'ye tell o't! A happy time for us, and I feel quitea new man! And how do she play?””That I don't know, Master Poorgrass.”On hearing these and other similar remarks, a wildthought flashed into Gabriel's mind that they mightbe speaking of Bathsheba. There were, however, noground for retaining such a supposition, for the waggon,though going in the direction of Weatherbury, might begoing beyond it, and the woman alluded to seemed to bethe mistress of some estate. They were now apparentlyclose upon Weatherbury and not to alarm the speakersunnecessarily, Gabriel slipped out of the waggon unseen.He turned to an opening in the hedge, which hefound to be a gate, and mounting thereon, he satmeditating whether to seek a cheap lodging in thevillage, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying undersome hay or corn-stack. The crunching jangle of thewaggon died upon his ear. He was about to walk on,when he noticed on his left hand an unusual light --appearing about half a mile distant. Oak watched it,and the glow increased. Something was on fire.Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping downon the other side upon what he found to be ploughedsoil, made across the field in the exact direction of thefire. The blaze, enlarging in a double ratio by hisapproach and its own increase, showed him as he drewnearer the outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to greatdistinctness. A rick-yard was the source of the fire.His weary face now began to be painted over with arich orange glow, and the whole front of his smock-frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadowpattern of thorn-twigs -- the light reaching him througha leafless intervening hedge -- and the metallic curve ofhis sheep-crook shone silver-bright in the same abound-ing rays. He came up to the boundary fence, andstood to regain breath. It seemed as if the spot wasunoccupied by a living soul.The fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, whichwas so far gone as to preclude a possibility of saving it.A rick burns differently from a house. As the windblows the fire inwards, the portion in flames completelydisappears like melting sugar, and the outline is lostto the eye. However, a hay or a wheat-rick, well puttogether, will resist combustion for a length of time, ifit begins on the outside.This before Gabriel's eyes was a- rick of straw, looselyput together, and the flames darted into it with lightningswiftness. It glowed on the windward side, rising andfalling in intensity, like the coal of a cigar. Then asuperincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whiskingnoise; flames elongated, and bent themselves aboutwith a quiet roar, but no crackle. Banks of smokewent off horizontally at the back like passing clouds,and behind these burned hidden pyres, illuminatingthe semi-transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellowuniformity. Individual straws in the foreground wereconsumed in a creeping movement of ruddy heat, asif they were knots of red worms, and above shoneimaginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips, glaringeyes, and other impish forms, from which at intervalssparks flew in clusters like birds from a nest,Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectatorby discovering the case to be more serious than he hadat first imagined. A scroll of smoke blew aside andrevealed to him a wheat-rick in startling juxtapositionwith the decaying one, and behind this a series ofothers, composing the main corn produce of the farm;so that instead of the straw-stack standing, as he hadimagined comparatively isolated, there was a regularconnection between it and the remaining stacks of thegroup.Gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he wasnot alone. The first man he came to was runningabout in a great hurry, as if his thoughts were severalyards in advance of his body, which they could neverdrag on fast enough.”O, man -- fire, fire! A good master and a. badservant is fire, fire! -- I mane a bad servant and a goodmaster O, Mark Clark -- come! And you, BillySmallbury -- and you, Maryann Money -- and you, JanCoggan, and Matthew there!” Other figures nowappeared behind this shouting man and among thesmoke, and Gabriel found that, far from being alonehe was in a great company -- whose shadows dancedmerrily up and down, timed by the jigging of theflames, and not at all by their owners' movements.The assemblage -- belonging to that class of societywhich casts its thoughts into the form of feeling, andits feelings into the form of commotion -- set to workwith a remarkable confusion of purpose.”Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!” criedGabriel to those nearest to him. The corn stood onstone staddles, and between these, tongues of yellowhue from the burning straw licked and darted playfully.If the fire once got under this stack, all would belost.”Get a tarpaulin -- quick!” said Gabriel.A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like acurtain across the channel. The flames immediatelyceased to go under the bottom of the corn-stack, andstood up vertical.”Stand here with a bucket of water and keep thecloth wet.” said Gabriel again.The flames, now driven upwards, began to attackthe angles of the huge roof covering the wheat-stack.”A ladder.” cried Gabriel.”The ladder was against the straw-rick and is burntto a cinder.” said a spectre-like form in the smoke.Oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if hewere going to engage in the operation of ”reed-drawing,”and digging in his feet, and occasionally sticking in thestem of his sheep-crook, he clambered up the beetlingface. He at once sat astride the very apex, and beganwith his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which hadlodged thereon, shouting to the others to get him abough and a ladder, and some water.Billy Smallbury -- one of the men who had been onthe waggon -- by this time had found a ladder, whichMark Clark ascended, holding on beside Oak upon thethatch. The smoke at this corner was stifling, andClark, a nimble fellow, having been handed a bucketof water, bathed Oak's face and sprinkled him generally,whilst Gabriel, now with a long beech-bough in onehand, in addition to his crook in the other, keptsweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles.On the ground the groups of villagers were stilloccupied in doing all they could to keep down theconflagration, which was not much. They were alltinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varyingpattern. Round the corner of the largest stack, outof the direct rays of the fire, stood a pony, bearing ayoung woman on its back. By her side was anotherwoman, on foot. These two seemed to keep at adistance from the fire, that the horse might not becomerestive.”He's a shepherd.” said the woman on foot. ”Yes --he is. See how his crook shines as he beats the rickwith it. And his smock-frock is burnt in two holes, Ideclare! A fine young shepherd he is too, ma'am.””Whose shepherd is he?” said the equestrian in aclear voice.”Don't know, ma'am.” ”Don't any of the others know?””Nobody at all -- I've asked 'em. Quite a stranger,they say.”The young woman on the pony rode out from theshade and looked anxiously around.”Do you think the barn is safe?” she said.”D'ye think the barn is safe, Jan Coggan?” saidthe second woman, passing on the question to thenearest man in that direction.”Safe -now -- leastwise I think so. If this rick hadgone the barn would have followed. 'Tis- that boldshepherd up there that have done the most good -- hesitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his great long-armsabout like a windmill.””He does work hard.” said the young woman onhorseback, looking up at Gabriel through her thickwoollen veil. ”I wish he was shepherd here. Don'tany of you know his name.””Never heard the man's name in my life, or seedhis form afore.”The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel's elevatedposition being no longer required of him, he made asif to descend.”Maryann.” said the girl on horseback, ”go to himas he comes down, and say that the farmer wishes tothank him for the great service he has done.”Maryann stalked off towards the rick and metOak at the foot of the ladder. She delivered hermessage.”Where is your master the farmer?” asked Gabriel,kindling with the idea of getting employment thatseemed to strike him now.”'Tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd.””A woman farmer?””Ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!” said a by-stander. ”Lately 'a came here from a distance. Tookon her uncle's farm, who died suddenly. Used tomeasure his money in half-pint cups. They say nowthat she've business in every bank in Casterbridge, andthinks no more of playing pitch-and-toss sovereign thanyou and I, do pitch-halfpenny -- not a bit in the world,shepherd.””That's she, back there upon the pony.” said Mary-ann. ”wi' her face a-covered up in that black cloth withholes in it.”Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverablefrom the smoke and heat, his smock-frock burnt-intoholes and dripping with water, the ash stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter, advansed with thehumility stern adversity had thrust upon him up tothe slight female form in the saddle. He lifted hishat with respect, and not without gallantry: steppingclose to her hanging feet he said in a hesitating voice, --”Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?”She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, andlooked all astonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearteddarling, Bathsheba Everdene, were face to face.Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanicallyrepeated in an abashed and sad voice, --”Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?”



CHAPTER VII