Far From the Madding Crowd

Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in his hut went again among his ewes. An hour passed, the girl returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman.

Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking a cow. Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path she would follow in leaving the hill.

She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make Oak wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole would have been revealed. There was a bright air and manner about her now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true. Like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognized power. It was with some surprise that she saw Gabriel’s face rising like the moon behind the hedge.

The adjustment of the farmer’s hazy conceptions of her charms to the portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminution than a difference. The starting-point selected by the judgement was her height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty that in Englishwomen a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial curves. Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the contours of her figure in its upper part she must have had a beautiful neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. Had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush. Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it in towns.

That the girl’s thoughts hovered about her face and form as soon as she caught Oak’s eyes conning the same page was natural, and almost certain. The self-consciousness shown would have been vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all.

‘I found a hat,’ said Oak.

‘It is mine,’ said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept down to a small smile an inclination to laugh distinctly: ‘it flew away last night.’

‘One o’clock this morning?’

‘Well – it was.’ She was surprised. ‘How did you know?’ she said.

‘I was here.’

‘You are Farmer Oak, are you not?’

‘That or thereabouts. I’m lately come to this place.’

‘A large farm?’ she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it being now an hour past sunrise the rays touched its prominent curves with a colour of their own.

‘No; not large. About a hundred.’ (In speaking of farms the word ‘acres’ is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as ‘a stag of ten’.)

‘I wanted my hat this morning,’ she went on. ‘I had to ride to Tewnell Mill.’

‘Yes, you had.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw you.’

‘Where?’ she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her lineaments and frame to a standstill.

‘Here – going through the plantation, and all down the hill,’ said Farmer Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and then turned back to meet his colloquist’s eyes.

A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft. Recollection of the strange antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. From the Maiden’s Blush, through all varieties of the Provence down to the Crimson Tuscany the countenance of Oak’s acquaintance quickly graduated; whereupon he, in considerateness, turned away his head.

The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she would recover sufficient to justify him in facing her again. He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, and looked. She had gone away.

With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned to his work.

Five mornings and evenings passed. The young woman came regularly to milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed her vision to stray in the direction of Oak’s person. His want of tact had deeply offended her – not by seeing what he could not help, but by letting her know that he had seen it. For, as without law there is no sin, without eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that Gabriel’s espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own connivance. It was food for great regret with him; it was also a contretemps which touched into life a latent heat he had experienced in that direction.

The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. It was a time when in cottages the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when round the drawing-room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters’ backs are cold, even whilst their faces are all aglow. Many a small bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs.

As the milking-hour drew near Oak kept his usual watch upon the cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding round the yeaning ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon the stove. The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south. Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole – of which there was one on each side of the hut.

Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door closed one of these must be kept open – that chosen being always on the side away from the wind. Closing the slide to wind-ward he turned to open the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would first sit down, leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of the hut was a little raised. He sat down.

His head began to ache in an unwonted manner and, fancying himself weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep. He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary.

How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the first stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully – somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief.

On opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a strange manner of unexpectedness. The young girl with the remarkably pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him. More than this – astonishingly more – his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ said Oak vacantly.

She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind to start enjoyment.

‘Nothing now,’ she answered, ‘since you are not dead. It is a wonder you were not suffocated in this hut of yours.’

‘Ah, the hut!’ murmured Gabriel. ‘I gave ten pounds for that hut. But I’ll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old times, and curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! It played me nearly the same trick the other day!’ Gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his fist upon the floor.

‘It was not exactly the fault of the hut,’ she observed in a tone which showed her to be that novelty among women – one who finished a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. ‘You should, I think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the slides closed.’

‘Yes, I suppose I should,’ said Oak absently. He was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent.

She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a Samson. ‘How can I thank ’ee?’ he said at last gratefully, some of the natural, rusty red having returned to his face.

‘Oh, never mind that,’ said the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile to hold good for Gabriel’s next remark, whatever that might prove to be.

‘How did you find me?’

‘I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when I came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy’s milking is almost over for the season, and I shall not come here after this week or the next). The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use.’

‘I wonder if I should have died?’ Gabriel said in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her.

‘O no!’ the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonize with the dignity of such a deed – and she shunned it.

‘I believe you saved my life, Miss – I don’t know your name. I know your aunt’s, but not yours.’

‘I would just as soon not tell it – rather not. There is no reason either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me.’

‘Still I should like to know.’

‘You can inquire at my aunt’s – she will tell you.’

‘My name is Gabriel Oak.’

‘And mine isn’t. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak.’

‘You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the most of it.’

‘I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable.’

‘I should think you might soon get a new one.’

‘Mercy! – how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, Gabriel Oak.’

‘Well, Miss – excuse the words – I thought you would like them. But I can’t match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand!’

She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak’s old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. ‘Very well,’ she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.

‘I am sorry,’ he said the instant after.

‘What for?’

‘Letting your hand go so quick.’

‘You may have it again if you like; there it is.’ She gave him her hand again.

Oak held it longer this time – indeed, curiously long. ‘How soft it is – being winter-time, too – not chapped or rough, or anything!’ he said.

‘There – that’s long enough,’ said she, though without pulling it away. ‘But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,’ said Gabriel simply; ‘but I will –’

‘That you won’t!’ She snatched back her hand.

Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact.

‘Now find out my name,’ she said teasingly; and withdrew.

Chapter 4

Gabriel’s resolve – The visit – The mistake

The only superiority in women that is tolerable to the rival sex is, as a rule, that of the unconscious kind; but a superiority which recognizes itself may sometimes please by suggesting possibilities of capture to the subordinated man.

This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appreciable inroads upon the emotional constitution of young Farmer Oak.

Love being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom of pure passions, as that of exorbitant profit, bodily or materially, is at the bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak’s feelings were as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon his chances. His dog waited for his meals in a way so like that in which Oak waited for the girl’s presence that the farmer was quite struck with the resemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at the dog. However, he continued to watch through the hedge for her regular coming, and thus his sentiments towards her were deepened without any corresponding effect being produced upon herself. Oak had nothing finished and ready to say as yet, and not being able to 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 name was Bathsheba Everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days. He dreaded the eighth day.

At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceased to give milk for that year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more. Gabriel had reached a pitch of existence he never could have anticipated a short time before. He liked saying ‘Bathsheba’ as a private enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over his taste to black hair, though he had sworn by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated himself till the space he filled in the public eye was contemptibly small. Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness. Marriage transforms a distraction into a support, the power of which should be, and happily often is, in direct proportion to the degree of im becility it supplants. Oak began now to see light in this direction, and said to himself, ‘I’ll make her my wife, or upon my soul I shall be good for nothing!’

All this while he was perplexing himself about an errand on which he might consistently visit the cottage of Bathsheba’s aunt.

He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a living lamb. On a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution – a fine January morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible to make cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb into a respectable Sunday basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of Mrs Hurst, the aunt – George, the dog, walking behind, with a countenance of great concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking.

Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chimney with strange meditation. At evening he had fancifully traced it down the chimney to the spot of its origin – seen the hearth and Bathsheba beside it – beside it in her outdoor dress; for the clothes she had worn on the hill were by association equally with her person included in the compass of his affection; they seemed at this early time of his love a necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called Bathsheba Everdene.

He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind – of a nature between the carefully neat and the carelessly ornate – of a degree between fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection. He thoroughly cleaned his silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to his boots, looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart of the plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously on his way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box, put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigs of an elegant flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily without the defects of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed upon his usually dry, sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had deepened it to a splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and Roman cement, making it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg, or wet seaweed round a boulder after the ebb.

Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and rumour to be no less the staple topic of these little coteries on roofs than of those under them. It seemed that the omen was an unpropitious one, for, as the rather untoward commencement of Oak’s overtures, just as he arrived by the garden gate he saw a cat inside, going into various arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at the sight of his dog George. The dog took no notice, for he had arrived at an age at which all superfluous barking was cynically avoided as a waste of breath – in fact, he never barked even at the sheep except to order, when it was done with an absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of Commination-service which, though offensive, had to be gone through once now and then to frighten the flock for their own good.

A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the cat had run:

‘Poor dear! Did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it; – did he, poor dear!’

‘I beg yer pardon,’ said Oak to the voice, ‘but George was walking on behind me with a temper as mild as milk.’

Almost before he had ceased speaking Oak was seized with a misgiving as to whose ear was the recipient of his answer. Nobody appeared, and he heard the person retreat among the bushes.

Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows into his forehead by sheer force of reverie. Where the issue of an interview is as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for the better, any initial difference from expectation causes nipping sensations of failure. Oak went up to the door a little abashed: his mental rehearsal and the reality had had no common grounds of opening.

Bathsheba’s aunt was indoors. ‘Will you tell Miss Everdene that somebody would be glad to speak to her?’ said Mr Oak. (Calling one’s self merely Somebody, without giving a name, is not to be taken as an example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: it springs from a refined modesty of which townspeople, with their cards and announcements, have no notion whatever.)

Bathsheba was out. The voice had evidently been hers.

‘Will you come in, Mr Oak?’

‘Oh, thank ’ee,’ said Gabriel, following her to the fireplace. ‘I’ve brought a lamb for Miss Everdene. I thought she might like one to rear; girls do.’

‘She might,’ said Mrs Hurst musingly; ‘though she’s only a visitor here. If you will wait a minute Bathsheba will be in.’

‘Yes, I will wait,’ said Gabriel, sitting down. ‘The lamb isn’t really the business I came about, Mrs Hurst. In short, I was going to ask her if she’d like to be married.’

‘And were you indeed?’

‘Yes. Because if she would I should be very glad to marry her. D’ye know if she’s got any other young man hanging about her at all?’

‘Let me think,’ said Mrs Hurst, poking the fire superfluously . . . ‘Yes – bless you, ever so many young men. You see, Farmer Oak, she’s so good-looking, and an excellent scholar besides – she was going to be a governess once, you know, only she was too wild. Not that her young men ever come here – but, Lord, in the nature of women, she must have a dozen!’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Farmer Oak, contemplating a crack in the stone floor with sorrow. ‘I’m only an every-day sort of man, and my only chance was in being the first comer . . . Well, there’s no use in my waiting, for that was all I came about: so I’ll take myself off home-along, Mrs Hurst.’

When Gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along the down, he heard a ‘hoi-hoi!’ uttered behind him, in a piping note of more treble quality than that in which the exclamation usually embodies itself when shouted across a field. He looked round, and saw a girl racing after him, waving a white handkerchief.

Oak stood still – and the runner drew nearer. It was Bathsheba Everdene. Gabriel’s colour deepened: hers was already deep, not, as it appeared, from emotion, but from running.

‘Farmer Oak – I –’ she said, pausing for want of breath, pulling up in front of him with a slanted face, and putting her hand to her side.

‘I have just called to see you,’ said Gabriel pending her further speech.

‘Yes – I know that,’ she said, panting like a robin, her face red and moist from her exertions, like a peony petal before the sun dries off the dew. ‘I didn’t know you had come to ask to have me, or I should have come in from the garden instantly. I ran after you to say – that my aunt made a mistake in sending you away from courting me.’

Gabriel expanded. ‘I’m sorry to have made you run so fast, my dear,’ he said, with a grateful sense of favours to come. ‘Wait a bit till you’ve found your breath.’

‘– It was quite a mistake – aunt’s telling you I had a young man already,’ Bathsheba went on. ‘I haven’t a sweetheart at all – and I never had one, and I thought that, as times go with women, it was such a pity to send you away thinking that I had several.’

‘Really and truly I am glad to hear that!’ said Farmer Oak, smiling one of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness. He held out his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing it there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating heart. Directly he seized it she put it behind her, so that it slipped through his fingers like an eel.

‘I have a nice snug little farm,’ said Gabriel, with half a degree less assurance than when he had seized her hand.

‘Yes; you have.’

‘A man has advanced me money to begin with, but still, it will soon be paid off, and though I am only an every-day sort of man I have got on a little since I was a boy.’ Gabriel uttered ‘a little’ in a tone to show her that it was the complacent form of ‘a great deal’. He continued: ‘When we be married, I am quite sure I 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 which stood a low stunted holly bush, now laden with red berries. Seeing his advance take the form of an attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her person, she edged off round the bush.

‘Why, Farmer Oak,’ she said over the top, looking at him with rounded eyes, ‘I never said I was going to marry you.’

‘Well – that is a tale!’ said Oak with dismay. ‘To run after anybody like this, and then say you don’t want him!’

‘What I meant to tell you was only this,’ she said eagerly, and yet half conscious of the absurdity of the position she had made for herself – ‘that nobody has got me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my having a dozen, as my aunt said; I hate to be thought men’s property in that way, though possibly I shall be had some day. Why, if I’d wanted you I shouldn’t have run after you like this; ’twould have been the forwardest thing! But there was no harm in hurrying to correct a piece of false news that had been told you.’