To Elizabeth-Jane the time was a most triumphant3 one. The freedom she experienced, the indulgence with which she was treated, went beyond her expectations. The reposeful4, easy, affluent5 life to which her mother's marriage had introduced her was, in truth, the beginning of a great change in Elizabeth. She found she could have nice personal possessions and ornaments6 for the asking, and, as the mediaeval saying puts it, "Take, have, and keep, are pleasant words." With peace of mind came development, and with development beauty. Knowledge--the result of great natural insight--she did not lack; learning, accomplishment-those, alas7, she had not; but as the winter and spring passed by her thin face and figure filled out in rounder and softer curves; the lines and contractions8 upon her young brow went away; the muddiness of skin which she had looked upon as her lot by nature departed with a change to abundance of good things, and a bloom came upon her cheek. Perhaps, too, her grey, thoughtful eyes revealed an arch gaiety sometimes; but this was infrequent; the sort of wisdom which looked from their pupils did not readily keep company with these lighter9 moods. Like all people who have known rough times, light-heartedness seemed to her too irrational10 and inconsequent to be indulged in except as a reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit suddenly. She felt none of those ups and downs of spirit which beset11 so many people without cause; never--to paraphrase12 a recent poet--never a gloom in Elizabeth-Jane's soul but she well knew how it came there; and her present cheerfulness was fairly proportionate to her solid guarantees for the same.
It might have been supposed that, given a girl rapidly becoming good-looking, comfortably circumstanced, and for the first time in her life commanding ready money, she would go and make a fool of herself by dress. But no. The reasonableness of almost everything that Elizabeth did was nowhere more conspicuous13 than in this question of clothes. To keep in the rear of opportunity in matters of indulgence is as valuable a habit as to keep abreast14 of opportunity in matters of enterprise. This unsophisticated girl did it by an innate15 perceptiveness16 that was almost genius. Thus she refrained from bursting out like a water-flower that spring, and clothing herself in puffings and knick-knacks, as most of the Casterbridge girls would have done in her circumstances. Her triumph was tempered by circumspection18, she had still that field-mouse fear of the coulter of destiny despite fair promise, which is common among the thoughtful who have suffered early from poverty and oppression.
"I won't be too gay on any account," she would say to herself. "It would be tempting19 Providence20 to hurl21 mother and me down, and afflict22 us again as He used to do."
We now see her in a black silk bonnet23, velvet24 mantle25 or silk spencer, dark dress, and carrying a sunshade. In this latter article she drew the line at fringe, and had it plain edged, with a little ivory ring for keeping it closed. It was odd about the necessity for that sunshade. She discovered that with the clarification of her complexion26 and the birth of pink cheeks her skin had grown more sensitive to the sun's rays. She protected those cheeks forthwith, deeming spotlessness part of womanliness.
Henchard had become very fond of her, and she went out with him more frequently than with her mother now. Her appearance one day was so attractive that he looked at her critically.
"I happened to have the ribbon by me, so I made it up," she faltered27, thinking him perhaps dissatisfied with some rather bright trimming she had donned for the first time.
"Ay--of course--to be sure," he replied in his leonine way. "Do as you like--or rather as your mother advises ye. 'Od send--I've nothing to say to't!"
Indoors she appeared with her hair divided by a parting that arched like a white rainbow from ear to ear. All in front of this line was covered with a thick encampment of curls; all behind was dressed smoothly28, and drawn29 to a knob.
The three members of the family were sitting at breakfast one day, and Henchard was looking silently, as he often did, at this head of hair, which in colour was brown--rather light than dark. "I thought Elizabeth-Jane's hair--didn't you tell me that Elizabeth-Jane's hair promised to be black when she was a baby?" he said to his wife.
She looked startled, jerked his foot warningly, and murmured, "Did I?"
As soon as Elizabeth was gone to her own room Henchard resumed. "Begad, I nearly forgot myself just now! What I meant was that the girl's hair certainly looked as if it would be darker, when she was a baby."
"It did; but they alter so," replied Susan.
"Their hair gets darker, I know--but I wasn't aware it lightened ever?"
"O yes." And the same uneasy expression came out on her face, to which the future held the key. It passed as Henchard went on:
"Well, so much the better. Now Susan, I want to have her called Miss Henchard--not Miss Newson. Lots o' people do it already in carelessness--it is her legal name--so it may as well be made her usual name--I don't like t'other name at all for my own flesh and blood. I'll advertise it in the Casterbridge paper--that's the way they do it. She won't object."
"No. O no. But--"
"Well, then, I shall do it," he said, peremptorily30. "Surely, if she's willing, you must wish it as much as I?"
"O yes--if she agrees let us do it by all means," she replied.
Then Mrs. Henchard acted somewhat inconsistently; it might have been called falsely, but that her manner was emotional and full of the earnestness of one who wishes to do right at great hazard. She went to Elizabeth-Jane, whom she found sewing in her own sitting-room31 upstairs, and told her what had been proposed about her surname. "Can you agree--is it not a slight upon Newson--now he's dead and gone?"
Elizabeth reflected. "I'll think of it, mother," she answered.
When, later in the day, she saw Henchard, she adverted32 to the matter at once, in a way which showed that the line of feeling started by her mother had been persevered33 in. "Do you wish this change so very much, sir?" she asked.
"Wish it? Why, my blessed fathers, what an ado you women make about a trifle! I proposed it--that's all. Now, 'Lizabeth-Jane, just please yourself. Curse me if I care what you do. Now, you understand, don't 'ee go agreeing to it to please me."
Here the subject dropped, and nothing more was said, and nothing was done, and Elizabeth still passed as Miss Newson, and not by her legal name.
Meanwhile the great corn and hay traffic conducted by Henchard throve under the management of Donald Farfrae as it had never thriven before. It had formerly34 moved in jolts35; now it went on oiled casters. The old crude viva voce system of Henchard, in which everything depended upon his memory, and bargains were made by the tongue alone, was swept away. Letters and ledgers36 took the place of "I'll do't," and "you shall hae't"; and, as in all such cases of advance, the rugged37 picturesqueness38 of the old method disappeared with its inconveniences.
The position of Elizabeth-Jane's room--rather high in the house, so that it commanded a view of the hay-stores and granaries across the garden--afforded her opportunity for accurate observation of what went on there. She saw that Donald and Mr. Henchard were inseparables. When walking together Henchard would lay his arm familiarly on his manager's shoulder, as if Farfrae were a younger brother, bearing so heavily that his slight frame bent39 under the weight. Occasionally she would hear a perfect cannonade of laughter from Henchard, arising from something Donald had said, the latter looking quite innocent and not laughing at all. In Henchard's somewhat lonely life he evidently found the young man as desirable for comradeship as he was useful for consultations40. Donald's brightness of intellect maintained in the corn-factor the admiration41 it had won at the first hour of their meeting. The poor opinion, and but ill-concealed, that he entertained of the slim Farfrae's physical girth, strength, and dash was more than counterbalanced by the immense respect he had for his brains.
Her quiet eye discerned that Henchard's tigerish affection for the younger man, his constant liking42 to have Farfrae near him, now and then resulted in a tendency to domineer, which, however, was checked in a moment when Donald exhibited marks of real offence. One day, looking down on their figures from on high, she heard the latter remark, as they stood in the doorway43 between the garden and yard, that their habit of walking and driving about together rather neutralized44 Farfrae's value as a second pair of eyes, which should be used in places where the principal was not. "'Od damn it," cried Henchard, "what's all the world! I like a fellow to talk to. Now come along and hae some supper, and don't take too much thought about things, or ye'll drive me crazy."
When she walked with her mother, on the other hand, she often beheld45 the Scotchman looking at them with a curious interest. The fact that he had met her at the Three Mariners46 was insufficient47 to account for it, since on the occasions on which she had entered his room he had never raised his eyes. Besides, it was at her mother more particularly than at herself that he looked, to ElizabethJane's half-conscious, simple-minded, perhaps pardonable, disappointment. Thus she could not account for this interest by her own attractiveness, and she decided48 that it might be apparent only--a way of turning his eyes that Mr. Farfrae had.
She did not divine the ample explanation of his manner, without personal vanity, that was afforded by the fact of Donald being the depositary of Henchard's confidence in respect of his past treatment of the pale, chastened mother who walked by her side. Her conjectures49 on that past never went further than faint ones based on things casually50 heard and seen--mere guesses that Henchard and her mother might have been lovers in their younger days, who had quarrelled and parted.
Casterbridge, as has been hinted, was a place deposited in the block upon a corn-field. There was no suburb in the modern sense, or transitional intermixture of town and down. It stood, with regard to the wide fertile land adjoining, clean-cut and distinct, like a chess-board on a green tablecloth51. The farmer's boy could sit under his barley-mow and pitch a stone into the office-window of the town-clerk; reapers52 at work among the sheaves nodded to acquaintances standing53 on the pavement-corner; the red-robed judge, when he condemned54 a sheep-stealer, pronounced sentence to the tune55 of Baa, that floated in at the window from the remainder of the flock browsing56 hard by; and at executions the waiting crowd stood in a meadow immediately before the drop, out of which the cows had been temporarily driven to give the spectators room.
The corn grown on the upland side of the borough57 was garnered58 by farmers who lived in an eastern purlieu called Durnover. Here wheat-ricks overhung the old Roman street, and thrust their eaves against the church tower; greenthatched barns, with doorways60 as high as the gates of Solomon's temple, opened directly upon the main thoroughfare. Barns indeed were so numerous as to alternate with every half-dozen houses along the way. Here lived burgesses who daily walked the fallow; shepherds in an intra-mural squeeze. A street of farmers' homesteads--a street ruled by a mayor and corporation, yet echoing with the thump61 of the flail62, the flutter of the winnowing63-fan, and the purr of the milk into the pails--a street which had nothing urban in it whatever--this was the Durnover end of Casterbridge.
Henchard, as was natural, dealt largely with this nursery or bed of small farmers close at hand--and his waggons64 were often down that way. One day, when arrangements were in progress for getting home corn from one of the aforesaid farms, Elizabeth-Jane received a note by hand, asking her to oblige the writer by coming at once to a granary on Durnover Hill. As this was the granary whose contents Henchard was removing, she thought the request had something to do with his business, and proceeded thither65 as soon as she had put on her bonnet. The granary was just within the farm-yard, and stood on stone staddles, high enough for persons to walk under. The gates were open, but nobody was within. However, she entered and waited. Presently she saw a figure approaching the gate--that of Donald Farfrae. He looked up at the church clock, and came in. By some unaccountable shyness, some wish not to meet him there alone, she quickly ascended66 the step-ladder leading to the granary door, and entered it before he had seen her. Farfrae advanced, imagining himself in solitude67, and a few drops of rain beginning to fall he moved and stood under the shelter where she had just been standing. Here he leant against one of the staddles, and gave himself up to patience. He, too, was plainly expecting some one; could it be herself? If so, why? In a few minutes he looked at his watch, and then pulled out a note, a duplicate of the one she had herself received.
This situation began to be very awkward, and the longer she waited the more awkward it became. To emerge from a door just above his head and descend68 the ladder, and show she had been in hiding there, would look so very foolish that she still waited on. A winnowing machine stood close beside her, and to relieve her suspense69 she gently moved the handle; whereupon a cloud of wheat husks flew out into her face, and covered her clothes and bonnet, and stuck into the fur of her victorine. He must have heard the slight movement for he looked up, and then ascended the steps.
"Ah--it's Miss Newson," he said as soon as he could see into the granary. "I didn't know you were there. I have kept the appointment, and am at your service."
"O Mr. Farfrae," she faltered, "so have I. But I didn't know it was you who wished to see me, otherwise I--"
"I wished to see you? O no--at least, that is, I am afraid there may be a mistake."
"Didn't you ask me to come here? Didn't you write this?" Elizabeth held out her note.
"No. Indeed, at no hand would I have thought of it! And for you--didn't you ask me? This is not your writing?" And he held up his.
"By no means."
"And is that really so! Then it's somebody wanting to see us both. Perhaps we would do well to wait a little longer."
Acting70 on this consideration they lingered, Elizabeth-Jane's face being arranged to an expression of preternatural composure, and the young Scot, at every footstep in the street without, looking from under the granary to see if the passer were about to enter and declare himself their summoner. They watched individual drops of rain creeping down the thatch59 of the opposite rick--straw after straw-till they reached the bottom; but nobody came, and the granary roof began to drip.
"The person is not likely to be coming," said Farfrae. "It's a trick perhaps, and if so, it's a great pity to waste our time like this, and so much to be done."
"'Tis a great liberty," said Elizabeth.
"It's true, Miss Newson. We'll hear news of this some day depend on't, and who it was that did it. I wouldn't stand for it hindering myself; but you, Miss Newson----"
"I don't mind--much,' she replied.
"Neither do I."
They lapsed71 again into silence. "You are anxious to get back to Scotland, I suppose, Mr. Farfrae?" she inquired.
"O no, Miss Newson. Why would I be?"
"I only supposed you might be from the song you sang at the Three Mariners--about Scotland and home, I mean--which you seemed to feel so deep down in your heart; so that we all felt for you."
"Ay--and I did sing there--I did----But, Miss Newson"--and Donald's voice musically undulated between two semi-tones as it always did when he became earnest--"it's well you feel a song for a few minutes, and your eyes they get quite tearful; but you finish it, and for all you felt you don't mind it or think of it again for a long while. O no, I don't want to go back! Yet I'll sing the song to you wi' pleasure whenever you like. I could sing it now, and not mind at all?"
"Thank you, indeed. But I fear I must go--rain or no."
"Ay! Then, Miss Newson, ye had better say nothing about this hoax72, and take no heed73 of it. And if the person should say anything to you, be civil to him or her, as if you did not mind it--so you'll take the clever person's laugh away." In speaking his eyes became fixed74 upon her dress, still sown with wheat husks. "There's husks and dust on you. Perhaps you don't know it?" he said, in tones of extreme delicacy75. "And it's very bad to let rain come upon clothes when there's chaff76 on them. It washes in and spoils them. Let me help you--blowing is the best."
As Elizabeth neither assented77 nor dissented78 Donald Farfrae began blowing her back hair, and her side hair, and her neck, and the crown of her bonnet, and the fur of her victorine, Elizabeth saying, "O, thank you," at every puff17. At last she was fairly clean, though Farfrae, having got over his first concern at the situation, seemed in no manner of hurry to be gone.
"Ah--now I'll go and get ye an umbrella," he said.
She declined the offer, stepped out and was gone. Farfrae walked slowly after, looking thoughtfully at her diminishing figure, and whistling in undertones, "As I came down through Cannobie."
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1
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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3
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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6
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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8
contractions
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| n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 )；缩减；缩略词；（分娩时）子宫收缩 | |
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9
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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10
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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11
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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12
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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13
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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14
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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15
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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16
perceptiveness
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| n.洞察力强，敏锐，理解力 | |
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17
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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18
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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19
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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27
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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28
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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31
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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32
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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jolts
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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37
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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picturesqueness
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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40
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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41
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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42
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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43
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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44
neutralized
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| v.使失效( neutralize的过去式和过去分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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45
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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46
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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47
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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51
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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52
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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56
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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57
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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58
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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60
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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61
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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62
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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63
winnowing
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| v.扬( winnow的现在分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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64
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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65
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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66
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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68
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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69
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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70
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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71
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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72
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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74
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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76
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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77
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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