CHAPTER VI
THE FAIR--THE JOURNEY--THE FIRE
Two months passed away. We are brought on to a day in February, onwhich was held the yearly statute or hiring fair in the county-townof Casterbridge.
At one end of the street stood from two to three hundred blithe andhearty labourers waiting upon Chance--all men of the stamp to whomlabour suggests nothing worse than a wrestle with gravitation, andpleasure nothing better than a renunciation of the same. Amongthese, carters and waggoners were distinguished by having a pieceof whip-cord twisted round their hats; thatchers wore a fragment ofwoven straw; shepherds held their sheep-crooks in their hands; andthus the situation required was known to the hirers at a glance.
In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of somewhat superiorappearance to the rest--in fact, his superiority was marked enough tolead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquiringly,as to a farmer, and to use "Sir" as a finishing word. His answeralways was,--
"I am looking for a place myself--a bailiff's. Do ye know of anybodywho wants one?"
Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and hisexpression was more sad. He had passed through an ordeal ofwretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away. Hehad sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the veryslime-pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm hehad never before known, and that indifference to fate which, thoughit often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity whenit does not. And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and theloss gain.
In the morning a regiment of cavalry had left the town, and asergeant and his party had been beating up for recruits through thefour streets. As the end of the day drew on, and he found himselfnot hired, Gabriel almost wished that he had joined them, and goneoff to serve his country. Weary of standing in the market-place, andnot much minding the kind of work he turned his hand to, he decidedto offer himself in some other capacity than that of bailiff.
All the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds. Sheep-tending wasGabriel's speciality. Turning down an obscure street and enteringan obscurer lane, he went up to a smith's shop.
"How long would it take you to make a shepherd's crook?"
"Twenty minutes."
"How much?"
"Two shillings."
He sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stem being given him intothe bargain.
He then went to a ready-made clothes' shop, the owner of which had alarge rural connection. As the crook had absorbed most of Gabriel'smoney, he attempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoat fora shepherd's regulation smock-frock.
This transaction having been completed, he again hurried off to thecentre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavement, as ashepherd, crook in hand.
Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepherd, it seemed thatbailiffs were most in demand. However, two or three farmers noticedhim and drew near. Dialogues followed, more or less in the subjoinedform:--
"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 of cholera. Theinquiring farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously.Gabriel, like his dog, was too good to be trustworthy, and he nevermade advance beyond this point.
It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extemporizea procedure to fit it, than to get a good plan matured, and wait fora chance of using it. Gabriel wished he had not nailed up hiscolours as a shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in thewhole cycle of labour that was required in the fair. It grew dusk.Some merry men were whistling and singing by the corn-exchange.Gabriel's hand, which had lain for some time idle in his smock-frockpocket, touched his flute which he carried there. Here was anopportunity for putting his dearly bought wisdom into practice.
He drew out his flute and began to play "Jockey to the Fair" in thestyle of a man who had never known moment's sorrow. Oak could pipewith Arcadian sweetness, and the sound of the well-known notescheered his own heart as well as those of the loungers. He played onwith spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence what was a smallfortune to a destitute man.
By making inquiries he learnt that there was another fair atShottsford the next day.
"How far is Shottsford?"
"Ten miles t'other side of Weatherbury."
Weatherbury! It was where Bathsheba had gone two months before.This information was like coming from night into noon.
"How far is it to Weatherbury?"
"Five or six miles."
Bathsheba had probably left Weatherbury long before this time, butthe place had enough interest attaching to it to lead Oak to chooseShottsford fair as his next field of inquiry, because it lay in theWeatherbury quarter. Moreover, the Weatherbury folk were by no meansuninteresting intrinsically. If report spoke truly they were ashardy, merry, thriving, wicked a set as any in the whole county. Oakresolved to sleep at Weatherbury that night on his way to Shottsford,and struck out at once into the high road which had been recommendedas the direct route to the village in question.
The road stretched through water-meadows traversed by little brooks,whose quivering surfaces were braided along their centres, andfolded into creases at the sides; or, where the flow was morerapid, the stream was pied with spots of white froth, which rodeon in undisturbed serenity. On the higher levels the dead anddry carcasses of leaves tapped the ground as they bowled alonghelter-skelter upon the shoulders of the wind, and little birds inthe hedges were rustling their feathers and tucking themselves incomfortably for the night, retaining their places if Oak kept moving,but flying away if he stopped to look at them. He passed by YalburyWood where the game-birds were rising to their roosts, and heard thecrack-voiced cock-pheasants "cu-uck, cuck," and the wheezy whistle ofthe hens.
By the time he had walked three or four miles every shape in thelandscape had assumed a uniform hue of blackness. He descendedYalbury Hill and could just discern ahead of him a waggon, drawn upunder a great over-hanging tree by the roadside.
On coming close, he found there were no horses attached to it, thespot being apparently quite deserted. The waggon, from its position,seemed to have been left there for the night, for beyond about halfa truss of hay which was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty.Gabriel sat down on the shafts of the vehicle and considered hisposition. He calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion ofthe journey; and having been on foot since daybreak, he felt temptedto lie down upon the hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to thevillage of Weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging.
Eating his last slices of bread and ham, and drinking from the bottleof cider he had taken the precaution to bring with him, he got intothe lonely waggon. Here he spread half of the hay as a bed, and,as well as he could in the darkness, pulled the other half overhim by way of bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, and feeling,physically, as comfortable as ever he had been in his life. Inwardmelancholy it was impossible for a man like Oak, introspective farbeyond his neighbours, to banish quite, whilst conning the presentuntoward page of his history. So, thinking of his misfortunes,amorous and pastoral, he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying, in commonwith sailors, the privilege of being able to summon the god insteadof having to wait for him.
On somewhat suddenly awaking, after a sleep of whose length he had noidea, Oak found that the waggon was in motion. He was being carriedalong the road at a rate rather considerable for a vehicle withoutsprings, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness, hishead being dandled up and down on the bed of the waggon like akettledrum-stick. He then distinguished voices in conversation,coming from the forpart of the waggon. His concern at this dilemma(which would have been alarm, had he been a thriving man; butmisfortune is a fine opiate to personal terror) led him to peercautiously from the hay, and the first sight he beheld was the starsabove
him. Charles's Wain was getting towards a right angle withthe Pole star, and Gabriel concluded that it must be about nineo'clock--in other words, that he had slept two hours. This smallastronomical calculation was made without any positive effort, andwhilst he was stealthily turning to discover, if possible, into whosehands he had fallen.
Two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting with their legsoutside the waggon, one of whom was driving. Gabriel soon found thatthis was the waggoner, and it appeared they had come fromCasterbridge fair, like himself.
A conversation was in progress, which continued thus:--
"Be as 'twill, she's a fine handsome body as far's looks beconcerned. But that's only the skin of the woman, and these dandycattle be as proud as a lucifer in their insides."
"Ay--so 'a do seem, Billy Smallbury--so 'a do seem." This utterancewas very shaky by nature, and more so by circumstance, the jolting ofthe 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 and there."
"Ah, now. If so be 'tis like that, I can't look her in the face.Lord, no: not I--heh-heh-heh! Such a shy man as I be!"
"Yes--she's very vain. 'Tis said that every night at going to bedshe 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. Can play so clever that'a can make a psalm tune sound as well as the merriest loose song aman can wish for."
"D'ye tell o't! A happy time for us, and I feel quite a new man!And how do she pay?"
"That I don't know, Master Poorgrass."
On hearing these and other similar remarks, a wild thought flashedinto Gabriel's mind that they might be speaking of Bathsheba. Therewere, however, no grounds for retaining such a supposition, for thewaggon, though going in the direction of Weatherbury, might be goingbeyond it, and the woman alluded to seemed to be the mistress of someestate. They were now apparently close upon Weatherbury and not toalarm the speakers unnecessarily, Gabriel slipped out of the waggonunseen.
He turned to an opening in the hedge, which he found to be a gate,and mounting thereon, he sat meditating whether to seek a cheaplodging in the village, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying undersome hay or corn-stack. The crunching jangle of the waggon died uponhis ear. He was about to walk on, when he noticed on his left handan unusual light--appearing about half a mile distant. Oak watchedit, and the glow increased. Something was on fire.
Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping down on the other sideupon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the field in theexact direction of the fire. The blaze, enlarging in a double ratioby his approach and its own increase, showed him as he drew nearerthe outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to great distinctness. Arick-yard was the source of the fire. His weary face now began tobe painted over with a rich orange glow, and the whole front of hissmock-frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow pattern ofthorn-twigs--the light reaching him through a leafless interveninghedge--and the metallic curve of his sheep-crook shone silver-brightin the same abounding rays. He came up to the boundary fence, andstood to regain breath. It seemed as if the spot was unoccupied bya living soul.
The fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, which was so far goneas to preclude a possibility of saving it. A rick burns differentlyfrom a house. As the wind blows the fire inwards, the portion inflames completely disappears like melting sugar, and the outline islost to the eye. However, a hay or a wheat-rick, well put together,will resist combustion for a length of time, if it begins on theoutside.
This before Gabriel's eyes was a rick of straw, loosely put together,and the flames darted into it with lightning swiftness. It glowed onthe windward side, rising and falling in intensity, like the coal ofa cigar. Then a superincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whiskingnoise; flames elongated, and bent themselves about with a quietroar, but no crackle. Banks of smoke went off horizontally at theback like passing clouds, and behind these burned hidden pyres,illuminating the semi-transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellowuniformity. Individual straws in the foreground were consumed in acreeping movement of ruddy heat, as if they were knots of red worms,and above shone imaginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips,glaring eyes, and other impish forms, from which at intervals sparksflew in clusters like birds from a nest.
Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectator by discovering thecase to be more serious than he had at first imagined. A scrollof smoke blew aside and revealed to him a wheat-rick in startlingjuxtaposition with the decaying one, and behind this a series ofothers, composing the main corn produce of the farm; so that insteadof the straw-stack standing, as he had imagined comparativelyisolated, there was a regular connection between it and the remainingstacks of the group.
Gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he was not alone. Thefirst man he came to was running about in a great hurry, as if histhoughts were several yards in advance of his body, which they couldnever drag on fast enough.
"O, man--fire, fire! A good master and a bad servant is fire,fire!--I mane a bad servant and a good master. Oh, Mark Clark--come!And you, Billy Smallbury--and you, Maryann Money--and you, JanCoggan, and Matthew there!" Other figures now appeared behind thisshouting man and among the smoke, and Gabriel found that, far frombeing alone he was in a great company--whose shadows danced merrilyup and down, timed by the jigging of the flames, and not at all bytheir owners' movements. The assemblage--belonging to that class ofsociety which casts its thoughts into the form of feeling, and itsfeelings into the form of commotion--set to work with a remarkableconfusion of purpose.
"Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!" cried Gabriel to thosenearest to him. The corn stood on stone staddles, and between these,tongues of yellow hue from the burning straw licked and dartedplayfully. If the fire once got UNDER this stack, all would be lost.
"Get a tarpaulin--quick!" said Gabriel.
A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like a curtain across thechannel. The flames immediately ceased to go under the bottom of thecorn-stack, and stood up vertical.
"Stand here with a bucket of water and keep the cloth wet." saidGabriel again.
The flames, now driven upwards, began to attack the angles of thehuge roof covering the wheat-stack.
"A ladder," cried Gabriel.
"The ladder was against the straw-rick and is burnt to a cinder,"said a spectre-like form in the smoke.
Oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if he were going to engagein the operation of "reed-drawing," and digging in his feet, andoccasionally sticking in the stem of his sheep-crook, he clambered upthe beetling face. He at once sat astride the very apex, and beganwith his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which had lodgedthereon, shouting to the others to get him a bough and a ladder, andsome water.
Billy Smallbury--one of the men who had been on the waggon--by thistime had found a ladder, which Mark Clark ascended, holding on besideOak upon the thatch. The smoke at this corner was stifling, andClark, a nimble fellow, having been handed a bucket of water, bathedOak's face and sprinkled him generally, whilst Gabriel, now with along beech-bough in one hand, in addition to his crook in the other,kept sweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles.
On the ground the groups of villagers were still occupied in doingall they could to keep down the conflagration, which was not much.They were all tinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varyingpattern. Round the corner of the largest stack, out of the directrays of the fire, stood a pony, bearing a young woman on its back.By her side was another woman, on foot. These two seemed to keep ata distance from the fire, that the horse might not become restive.
"He's a shepherd," said the woman on foot. "Yes--he is. See how hiscrook shines as he beats the rick with it. And his smock-frock isburnt in two holes, I declare! A fine young shepherd he is too,ma'am."
"Whose shepherd is he?" sai
d the equestrian in a clear 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 the shade and lookedanxiously around.
"Do you think the barn is safe?" she said.
"D'ye think the barn is safe, Jan Coggan?" said the second woman,passing on the question to the nearest man in that direction.
"Safe-now--leastwise I think so. If this rick had gone the barnwould have followed. 'Tis that bold shepherd up there that have donethe most good--he sitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his greatlong-arms about like a windmill."
"He does work hard," said the young woman on horseback, looking up atGabriel through her thick woollen veil. "I wish he was shepherdhere. Don't any of you know his name."
"Never heard the man's name in my life, or seed his form afore."
The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel's elevated position beingno longer required of him, he made as if to descend.
"Maryann," said the girl on horseback, "go to him as he comes down,and say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service hehas done."
Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of theladder. She delivered her message.
"Where is your master the farmer?" asked Gabriel, kindling with theidea of getting employment that seemed 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 bystander. "Lately'a came here from a distance. Took on her uncle's farm, who diedsuddenly. Used to measure his money in half-pint cups. They saynow that she've business in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinksno more of playing pitch-and-toss sovereign than you and I, dopitch-halfpenny--not a bit in the world, shepherd."
"That's she, back there upon the pony," said Maryann; "wi' her facea-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it."
Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smokeand heat, his smock-frock burnt into holes and dripping with water,the ash stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter, advancedwith the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to theslight female form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect,and not without gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet he saidin a hesitating voice,--
"Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?"
She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked allastonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, BathshebaEverdene, were face to face.
Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashedand sad voice,--
"Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?"