Donald had no wish to enter into conversation with his former friend on their present constrained1 terms; neither would he pass him in scowling2 silence. He nodded, and Henchard did the same. They receded3 from each other several paces when a voice cried "Farfrae!" It was Henchard's, who stood regarding him.
"Do you remember," said Henchard, as if it were the presence of the thought and not of the man which made him speak, "do you remember my story of that second woman--who suffered for her thoughtless intimacy4 with me?"
"I do," said Farfrae.
"Do you remember my telling 'ee how it all began and how it ended?
"Yes."
"Well, I have offered to marry her now that I can; but she won't marry me. Now what would you think of her--I put it to you?"
"Well, ye owe her nothing more now," said Farfrae heartily5.
"It is true," said Henchard, and went on.
That he had looked up from a letter to ask his questions completely shut out from Farfrae's mind all vision of Lucetta as the culprit. Indeed, her present position was so different from that of the young woman of Henchard's story as of itself to be sufficient to blind him absolutely to her identity. As for Henchard, he was reassured6 by Farfrae's words and manner against a suspicion which had crossed his mind. They were not those of a conscious rival.
Yet that there was rivalry7 by some one he was firmly persuaded. He could feel it in the air around Lucetta, see it in the turn of her pen. There was an antagonistic8 force in exercise, so that when he had tried to hang near her he seemed standing9 in a refluent current. That it was not innate10 caprice he was more and more certain. Her windows gleamed as if they did not want him; her curtains seem to hang slily, as if they screened an ousting11 presence. To discover whose presence that was--whether really Farfrae's after all, or another's--he exerted himself to the utmost to see her again; and at length succeeded.
At the interview, when she offered him tea, he made it a point to launch a cautious inquiry12 if she knew Mr. Farfrae.
O yes, she knew him, she declared; she could not help knowing almost everybody in Casterbridge, living in such a gazebo over the centre and arena13 of the town.
"Pleasant young fellow," said Henchard.
"Yes," said Lucetta.
"We both know him," said kind Elizabeth-Jane, to relieve her companion's divined embarrassment14.
There was a knock at the door; literally15, three full knocks and a little one at the end.
"That kind of knock means half-and-half--somebody between gentle and simple," said the corn-merchant to himself. "I shouldn't wonder therefore if it is he." In a few seconds surely enough Donald walked in.
Lucetta was full of little fidgets and flutters, which increased Henchard's suspicions without affording any special proof of their correctness. He was well-nigh ferocious16 at the sense of the queer situation in which he stood towards this woman. One who had reproached him for deserting her when calumniated17, who had urged claims upon his consideration on that account, who had lived waiting for him, who at the first decent opportunity had come to ask him to rectify18, by making her his, the false position into which she had placed herself for his sake; such she had been. And now he sat at her tea-table eager to gain her attention, and in his amatory rage feeling the other man present to be a villain19, just as any young fool of a lover might feel.
They sat stiffly side by side at the darkening table, like some Tuscan painting of the two disciples20 supping at Emmaus. Lucetta, forming the third and haloed figure, was opposite them; Elizabeth-Jane, being out of the game, and out of the group, could observe all from afar, like the evangelist who had to write it down: that there were long spaces of taciturnity, when all exterior21 circumstances were subdued22 to the touch of spoons and china, the click of a heel on the pavement under the window, the passing of a wheelbarrow or cart, the whistling of the carter, the gush23 of water into householders' buckets at the town-pump opposite, the exchange of greetings among their neighbours, and the rattle24 of the yokes25 by which they carried off their evening supply.
"More bread-and-butter?" said Lucetta to Henchard and Farfrae equally, holding out between them a plateful of long slices. Henchard took a slice by one end and Donald by the other; each feeling certain he was the man meant; neither let go, and the slice came in two.
"Oh--I am so sorry!" cried Lucetta, with a nervous titter. Farfrae tried to laugh; but he was too much in love to see the incident in any but a tragic26 light.
"How ridiculous of all three of them!" said Elizabeth to herself.
Henchard left the house with a ton of conjecture27, though without a grain of proof, that the counterattraction was Farfrae; and therefore he would not make up his mind. Yet to Elizabeth-Jane it was plain as the town-pump that Donald and Lucetta were incipient28 lovers. More than once, in spite of her care, Lucetta had been unable to restrain her glance from flitting across into Farfrae's eyes like a bird to its nest. But Henchard was constructed upon too large a scale to discern such minutiae29 as these by an evening light, which to him were as the notes of an insect that lie above the compass of the human ear.
But he was disturbed. And the sense of occult rivalry in suitorship was so much superadded to the palpable rivalry of their business lives. To the coarse materiality of that rivalry it added an inflaming30 soul.
The thus vitalized antagonism31 took the form of action by Henchard sending for Jopp, the manager originally displaced by Farfrae's arrival. Henchard had frequently met this man about the streets, observed that his clothing spoke32 of neediness33, heard that he lived in Mixen Lane--a back slum of the town, the pis aller of Casterbridge domiciliation-itself almost a proof that a man had reached a stage when he would not stick at trifles.
Jopp came after dark, by the gates of the storeyard, and felt his way through the hay and straw to the office where Henchard sat in solitude34 awaiting him.
"I am again out of a foreman," said the corn-factor. "Are you in a place?"
"Not so much as a beggar's, sir."
"How much do you ask?"
Jopp named his price, which was very moderate.
"When can you come?"
"At this hour and moment, sir," said Jopp, who, standing hands-pocketed at the street corner till the sun had faded the shoulders of his coat to scarecrow green, had regularly watched Henchard in the market-place, measured him, and learnt him, by virtue35 of the power which the still man has in his stillness of knowing the busy one better than he knows himself. Jopp too, had had a convenient experience; he was the only one in Casterbridge besides Henchard and the close-lipped Elizabeth who knew that Lucetta came truly from Jersey36, and but proximately from Bath. "I know Jersey too, sir," he said. "Was living there when you used to do business that way. O yes--have often seen ye there."
"Indeed! Very good. Then the thing is settled. The testimonials you showed me when you first tried for't are sufficient.
That characters deteriorated37 in time of need possibly did not occur to, Henchard. Jopp said, "Thank you," and stood more firmly, in the consciousness that at last he officially belonged to that spot.
"Now," said Henchard, digging his strong eyes into Jopp's face, "one thing is necessary to me, as the biggest cornand-hay dealer38 in these parts. The Scotchman, who's taking the town trade so bold into his hands, must be cut out. D'ye hear? We two can't live side by side--that's clear and certain."
"I've seen it all," said Jopp.
"By fair competition I mean, of course," Henchard continued. "But as hard, keen, and unflinching as fair--rather more so. By such a desperate bid against him for the farmers' custom as will grind him into the ground--starve him out. I've capital, mind ye, and I can do it."
"I'm all that way of thinking," said the new foreman. Jopp's dislike of Farfrae as the man who had once ursurped his place, while it made him a willing tool, made him, at the same time, commercially as unsafe a colleague as Henchard could have chosen.
"I sometimes think," he added, "that he must have some glass that he sees next year in. He has such a knack39 of making everything bring him fortune."
"He's deep beyond all honest men's discerning, but we must make him shallower. We'll undersell him, and over-buy him, and so snuff him out."
They then entered into specific details of the process by which this would be accomplished40, and parted at a late hour.
Elizabeth-Jane heard by accident that Jopp had been engaged by her stepfather. She was so fully41 convinced that he was not the right man for the place that, at the risk of making Henchard angry, she expressed her apprehension42 to him when they met. But it was done to no purpose. Henchard shut up her argument with a sharp rebuff.
The season's weather seemed to favour their scheme. The time was in the years immediately before foreign competition had revolutionized the trade in grain; when still, as from the earliest ages, the wheat quotations43 from month to month depended entirely44 upon the home harvest. A bad harvest, or the prospect45 of one, would double the price of corn in a few weeks; and the promise of a good yield would lower it as rapidly. Prices were like the roads of the period, steep in gradient, reflecting in their phases the local conditions, without engineering, levellings, or averages.
The farmer's income was ruled by the wheat-crop within his own horizon, and the wheat-crop by the weather. Thus in person, he became a sort of flesh-barometer, with feelers always directed to the sky and wind around him. The local atmosphere was everything to him; the atmospheres of other countries a matter of indifference46. The people, too, who were not farmers, the rural multitude, saw in the god of the weather a more important personage than they do now. Indeed, the feeling of the peasantry in this matter was so intense as to be almost unrealizable in these equable days. Their impulse was well-nigh to prostrate47 themselves in lamentation48 before untimely rains and tempests, which came as the Alastor of those households whose crime it was to be poor.
After midsummer they watched the weather-cocks as men waiting in antechambers watch the lackey49. Sun elated them; quiet rain sobered them; weeks of watery50 tempest stupefied them. That aspect of the sky which they now regard as disagreeable they then beheld51 as maleficent.
It was June, and the weather was very unfavourable. Casterbridge, being as it were the bell-board on which all the adjacent hamlets and villages sounded their notes, was decidedly dull. Instead of new articles in the shop-windows those that had been rejected in the foregoing summer were brought out again; superseded52 reap-hooks, badly-shaped rakes, shop-worn leggings, and time-stiffened water-tights reappeared, furbished up as near to new as possible.
Henchard, backed by Jopp, read a disastrous53 garnering54, and resolved to base his strategy against Farfrae upon that reading. But before acting55 he wished--what so many have wished--that he could know for certain what was at present only strong probability. He was superstitious--as such head-strong natures often are--and he nourished in his mind an idea bearing on the matter; an idea he shrank from disclosing even to Jopp.
In a lonely hamlet a few miles from the town--so lonely that what are called lonely villages were teeming56 by comparison-there lived a man of curious repute as a forecaster or weather-prophet. The way to his house was crooked57 and miry-even difficult in the present unpropitious season. One evening when it was raining so heavily that ivy58 and laurel resounded59 like distant musketry, and an out-door man could be excused for shrouding60 himself to his ears and eyes, such a shrouded61 figure on foot might have been perceived travelling in the direction of the hazel-copse which dripped over the prophet's cot. The turnpike-road became a lane, the lane a cart-track, the cart-track a bridle-path, the bridle-path a foot-way, the foot-way overgrown. The solitary62 walker slipped here and there, and stumbled over the natural springes formed by the brambles, till at length he reached the house, which, with its garden, was surrounded with a high, dense63 hedge. The cottage, comparatively a large one, had been built of mud by the occupier's own hands, and thatched also by himself. Here he had always lived, and here it was assumed he would die.
He existed on unseen supplies; for it was an anomalous64 thing that while there was hardly a soul in the neighbourhood but affected65 to laugh at this man's assertions, uttering the formula, "There's nothing in 'em," with full assurance on the surface of their faces, very few of them were unbelievers in their secret hearts. Whenever they consulted him they did it "for a fancy." When they paid him they said, "Just a trifle for Christmas," or "Candlemas," as the case might be.
He would have preferred more honesty in his clients, and less sham66 ridicule67; but fundamental belief consoled him for superficial irony68. As stated, he was enabled to live; people supported him with their backs turned. He was sometimes astonished that men could profess69 so little and believe so much at his house, when at church they professed70 so much and believed so little.
Behind his back he was called "Wide-oh," on account of his reputation; to his face "Mr." Fall.
The hedge of his garden formed an arch over the entrance, and a door was inserted as in a wall. Outside the door the tall traveller stopped, bandaged his face with a handkerchief as if he were suffering from toothache, and went up the path. The window shutters71 were not closed, and he could see the prophet within, preparing his supper.
In answer to the knock Fall came to the door, candle in hand. The visitor stepped back a little from the light, and said, "Can I speak to 'ee?" in significant tones. The other's invitation to come in was responded to by the country formula, "This will do, thank 'ee," after which the householder had no alternative but to come out. He placed the candle on the corner of the dresser, took his hat from a nail, and joined the stranger in the porch, shutting the door behind him.
"I've long heard that you can--do things of a sort?" began the other, repressing his individuality as much as he could.
"Maybe so, Mr. Henchard," said the weather-caster.
"Ah--why do you call me that?" asked the visitor with a start.
"Because it's your name. Feeling you'd come I've waited for 'ee; and thinking you might be leery from your walk I laid two supper plates--look ye here." He threw open the door and disclosed the supper-table, at which appeared a second chair, knife and fork, plate and mug, as he had declared.
Henchard felt like Saul at his reception by Samuel; he remained in silence for a few moments, then throwing off the disguise of frigidity72 which he had hitherto preserved he said, "Then I have not come in vain....Now, for instance, can ye charm away warts73?"
"Without trouble."
"Cure the evil?"
"That I've done--with consideration--if they will wear the toad-bag by night as well as by day."
"Forecast the weather?"
"With labour and time."
"Then take this," said Henchard. "'Tis a crownpiece. Now, what is the harvest fortnight to be? When can I know?'
"I've worked it out already, and you can know at once." (The fact was that five farmers had already been there on the same errand from different parts of the country.) "By the sun, moon, and stars, by the clouds, the winds, the trees, and grass, the candle-flame and swallows, the smell of the herbs; likewise by the cats' eyes, the ravens74, the leeches75, the spiders, and the dungmixen, the last fortnight in August will be--rain and tempest."
"You are not certain, of course?"
"As one can be in a world where all's unsure. 'Twill be more like living in Revelations this autumn than in England.
Shall I sketch76 it out for 'ee in a scheme?"
"O no, no," said Henchard. "I don't altogether believe in forecasts, come to second thoughts on such. But I--"
"You don't--you don't--'tis quite understood," said Wide-oh, without a sound of scorn. "You have given me a crown because you've one too many. But won't you join me at supper, now 'tis waiting and all?"
Henchard would gladly have joined; for the savour of the stew77 had floated from the cottage into the porch with such appetizing distinctness that the meat, the onions, the pepper, and the herbs could be severally recognized by his nose. But as sitting down to hob-and-nob there would have seemed to mark him too implicitly78 as the weather-caster's apostle, he declined, and went his way.
The next Saturday Henchard bought grain to such an enormous extent that there was quite a talk about his purchases among his neighbours the lawyer, the wine merchant, and the doctor; also on the next, and on all available days. When his granaries were full to choking all the weather-cocks of Casterbridge creaked and set their faces in another direction, as if tired of the south-west. The weather changed; the sunlight, which had been like tin for weeks, assumed the hues79 of topaz. The temperament80 of the welkin passed from the phlegmatic81 to the sanguine82; an excellent harvest was almost a certainty; and as a consequence prices rushed down.
All these transformations83, lovely to the outsider, to the wrong-headed corn-dealer were terrible. He was reminded of what he had well known before, that a man might gamble upon the square green areas of fields as readily as upon those of a card-room.
Henchard had backed bad weather, and apparently84 lost. He had mistaken the turn of the flood for the turn of the ebb85. His dealings had been so extensive that settlement could not long be postponed86, and to settle he was obliged to sell off corn that he had bought only a few weeks before at figures higher by many shillings a quarter. Much of the corn he had never seen; it had not even been moved from the ricks in which it lay stacked miles away. Thus he lost heavily.
In the blaze of an early August day he met Farfrae in the market-place. Farfrae knew of his dealings (though he did not guess their intended bearing on himself) and commiserated87 him; for since their exchange of words in the South Walk they had been on stiffly speaking terms. Henchard for the moment appeared to resent the sympathy; but he suddenly took a careless turn.
"Ho, no, no!--nothing serious, man!" he cried with fierce gaiety. "These things always happen, don't they? I know it has been said that figures have touched me tight lately; but is that anything rare? The case is not so bad as folk make out perhaps. And dammy, a man must be a fool to mind the common hazards of trade!"
But he had to enter the Casterbridge Bank that day for reasons which had never before sent him there--and to sit a long time in the partners' room with a constrained bearing. It was rumoured88 soon after that much real property as well as vast stores of produce, which had stood in Henchard's name in the town and neighbourhood, was actually the possession of his bankers.
Coming down the steps of the bank he encountered Jopp. The gloomy transactions just completed within had added fever to the original sting of Farfrae's sympathy that morning, which Henchard fancied might be a satire89 disguised so that Jopp met with anything but a bland90 reception. The latter was in the act of taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, and saying, "A fine hot day," to an acquaintance.
"You can wipe and wipe, and say, 'A fine hot day,' can ye!" cried Henchard in a savage91 undertone, imprisoning92 Jopp between himself and the bank wall. "If it hadn't been for your blasted advice it might have been a fine day enough! Why did ye let me go on, hey?--when a word of doubt from you or anybody would have made me think twice! For you can never be sure of weather till 'tis past."
"My advice, sir, was to do what you thought best."
"A useful fellow! And the sooner you help somebody else in that way the better!" Henchard continued his address to Jopp in similar terms till it ended in Jopp s dismissal there and then, Henchard turning upon his heel and leaving him.
"You shall be sorry for this, sir; sorry as a man can be!" said Jopp, standing pale, and looking after the cornmerchant as he disappeared in the crowd of market-men hard by.
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1
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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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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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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ousting
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| 驱逐( oust的现在分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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neediness
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| n.穷困，贫穷 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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49
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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50
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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51
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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52
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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53
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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54
garnering
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的现在分词 ) | |
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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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56
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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57
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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59
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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60
shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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67
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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71
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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72
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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73
warts
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| n.疣( wart的名词复数 )；肉赘；树瘤；缺点 | |
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74
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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75
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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76
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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77
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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81
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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83
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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84
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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85
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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87
commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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89
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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90
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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91
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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