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CHAPTER XXXVI - WEALTH IN JEOPARDY -- THE REVEL
ONE night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba's
experiences as a married woman were still new, and when the
weather was yet dry and sultry, a man stood motionless in
the stockyard of Weatherbury Upper Farm, looking at the moon
and sky.
The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the
south slowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the
sky dashes of buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at
right angles to that of another stratum, neither of them in
the direction of the breeze below. The moon, as seen
through these films, had a lurid metallic look. The fields
were sallow with the impure light, and all were tinged in
monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. The same
evening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the
behaviour of the rooks had been confused, and the horses had
moved with timidity and caution.
Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances
into consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of
the lengthened rains which mark the close of dry weather for
the season. Before twelve hours had passed a harvest
atmosphere would be a bygone thing.
Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected
ricks, massive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half
the farm for that year. He went on to the barn.
This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy
-- ruling now in the room of his wife -- for giving the
harvest supper and dance. As Oak approached the building
the sound of violins and a tambourine, and the regular
jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He came close to
the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and
looked in.
The central space, together with the recess at one end, was
emptied of all incumbrances, and this area, covering about
two-thirds of the whole, was appropriated for the gathering,
the remaining end, which was piled to the ceiling with oats,
being screened off with sail-cloth. Tufts and garlands of
green foliage decorated the walls, beams, and extemporized
chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak a rostrum had
been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat three
fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair
on end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a
tambourine quivering in his hand.
The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a
new row of couples formed for another.
"Now, ma'am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you
would like next?" said the first violin.
"Really, it makes no difference," said the clear voice of
Bathsheba, who stood at the inner end of the building,
observing the scene from behind a table covered with cups
and viands. Troy was lolling beside her.
"Then," said the fiddler, "I'll venture to name that the
right and proper thing is "The Soldier's Joy" -- there being
a gallant soldier married into the farm -- hey, my sonnies,
and gentlemen all?"
"It shall be 'The Soldier's Joy,'" exclaimed a chorus.
"Thanks for the compliment," said the sergeant gaily, taking
Bathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the
dance. "For though I have purchased my discharge from Her
Most Gracious Majesty's regiment of cavalry the 11th Dragoon
Guards, to attend to the new duties awaiting me here, I
shall continue a soldier in spirit and feeling as long as I
live."
So the dance began. As to the merits of "The Soldier's
Joy," there cannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has
been observed in the musical circles of Weatherbury and its
vicinity that this melody, at the end of three-quarters of
an hour of thunderous footing, still possesses more
stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the
majority of other dances at their first opening. "The
Soldier's Joy" has, too, an additional charm, in being so
admirably adapted to the tambourine aforesaid -- no mean
instrument in the hands of a performer who understands the
proper convulsions, spasms, St. Vitus's dances, and fearful
frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their
highest perfection.
The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the
bass-viol with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel
delayed his entry no longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got
as near as possible to the platform, where Sergeant Troy was
now seated, drinking brandy-and-water, though the others
drank without exception cider and ale. Gabriel could not
easily thrust himself within speaking distance of the
sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for
a moment. The sergeant said he could not attend.
"Will you tell him, then," said Gabriel, "that I only
stepped ath'art to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall
soon, and that something should be done to protect the
ricks?"
"Mr. Troy says it will not rain," returned the messenger,
"and he cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets."
In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to
look like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out
again, thinking he would go home; for, under the
circumstances, he had no heart for the scene in the barn.
At the door he paused for a moment: Troy was speaking.
"Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are
celebrating to-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A
short time ago I had the happiness to lead to the altar this
lady, your mistress, and not until now have we been able to
give any public flourish to the event in Weatherbury. That
it may be thoroughly well done, and that every man may go
happy to bed, I have ordered to be brought here some bottles
of brandy and kettles of hot water. A treble-strong goblet
will he handed round to each guest."
Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale
face, said imploringly, "No -- don't give it to them -- pray
don't, Frank! It will only do them harm: they have had
enough of everything."
"True -- we don't wish for no more, thank ye," said one or
two.
"Pooh!" said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his
voice as if lighted up by a new idea. "Friends," he said,
"we'll send the women-folk home! 'Tis time they were in bed.
Then we cockbirds will have a jolly carouse to ourselves! If
any of the men show the white feather, let them look
elsewhere for a winter's work."
Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the
women and children. The musicians, not looking upon
themselves as "company," slipped quietly away to their
spring waggon and put in the horse. Thus Troy and the men
on the farm were left sole occupants of the place. Oak, not
to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a little while;
then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure, followed
by a friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a
second round of grog.
Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the
door, his toe kicked something which felt and sounded soft,
leathery, and distended, like a boxing-glove. It was a
large toad humbly travelling across the path. Oak took it
up, thinking it might be better to kill the creature to save
it from pain; but finding it uninjured, he placed it again
among the grass. He knew what this direct message from the
Great Mother meant. And soon came another.
When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table
a thin glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been
lightly dragged across it. Oak's eyes followed the
serpentine sheen to the other side, where it led up to a
huge brown garden-slug, which had come indoors to-night for
reasons of its own. It was Nature's second way of hinting
to him that he was to prepare for foul weather.
Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this
time two black spiders, of the kind common in thatched
houses, promenaded the ceiling, ultimately dropping to the
floor. This reminded him that if there was one class of
manifestation on this matter that he thoroughly understood,
it was the instincts of sheep. He left the room, ran across
two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a hedge, and
looked over among them.
They were crowded close together on the other side around
some furze bushes, and the first peculiarity observable was
that, on the sudden appearance of Oak's head over the fence,
they did not stir or run away. They had now a terror of
something greater than their terror of man. But this was
not the most noteworthy feature: they were all grouped in
such a way that their tails, without a single exception,
were towards that half of the horizon from which the storm
threatened. There was an inner circle closely huddled, and
outside these they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed
by the flock as a whole not being unlike a vandyked lace
collar, to which the clump of furze-bushes stood in the
position of a wearer's neck.
This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion.
He knew now that he was right, and that Troy was wrong.
Every voice in nature was unanimous in bespeaking change.
But two distinct translations attached to these dumb
expressions. Apparently there was to be a thunder-storm,
and afterwards a cold continuous rain. The creeping things
seemed to know all about the later rain, but little of the
interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about
the thunder-storm and nothing of the later rain.
This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the
more to be feared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was
silent here, and the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly
into the sky. There were five wheat-ricks in this yard, and
three stacks of barley. The wheat when threshed would
average about thirty quarters to each stack; the barley, at
least forty. Their value to Bathsheba, and indeed to
anybody, Oak mentally estimated by the following simple
calculation: --
5 x 30 = 150 quarters = 500 L.
3 x 40 = 120 quarters = 250 L.
-------
Total . . 750 L.
Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that
money can wear -- that of necessary food for man and beast:
should the risk be run of deteriorating this bulk of corn to
less than half its value, because of the instability of a
woman? "Never, if I can prevent it!" said Gabriel.
Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him.
But man, even to himself, is a palimpsest, having an
ostensible writing, and another beneath the lines. It is
possible that there was this golden legend under the
utilitarian one: "I will help to my last effort the woman I
have loved so dearly."
He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance
for covering the ricks that very night. All was silent
within, and he would have passed on in the belief that the
party had broken up, had not a dim light, yellow as saffron
by contrast with the greenish whiteness outside, streamed
through a knot-hole in the folding doors.
Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye.
The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to
their sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them
were scorched. Many of the lights had quite gone out,
others smoked and stank, grease dropping from them upon the
floor. Here, under the table, and leaning against forms and
chairs in every conceivable attitude except the
perpendicular, were the wretched persons of all the work-
folk, the hair of their heads at such low levels being
suggestive of mops and brooms. In the midst of these shone
red and distinct the figure of Sergeant Troy, leaning back
in a chair. Coggan was on his back, with his mouth open,
huzzing forth snores, as were several others; the united
breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued
roar like London from a distance. Joseph Poorgrass was
curled round in the fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in
attempts to present the least possible portion of his
surface to the air; and behind him was dimly visible an
unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and
cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being
overturned, from which a small rill, after tracing its
course with marvellous precision down the centre of the long
table, fell into the neck of the unconscious Mark Clark, in
a steady, monotonous drip, like the dripping of a stalactite
in a cave.
Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or
two exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the
farm. He saw at once that if the ricks were to be saved
that night, or even the next morning, he must save them with
his own hands.
A faint "ting-ting" resounded from under Coggan's waistcoat.
It was Coggan's watch striking the hour of two.
Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually
undertook the rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook
him. The shaking was without effect.
Gabriel shouted in his ear, "where's your thatching-beetle
and rick-stick and spars?"
"Under the staddles," said Moon, mechanically, with the
unconscious promptness of a medium.
Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like
a bowl. He then went to Susan Tall's husband.
"Where's the key of the granary?"
No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result.
To be shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to
Susan Tall's husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down
Tall's head into the corner again and turned away.
To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this
painful and demoralizing termination to the evening's
entertainment. Sergeant Troy had so strenuously insisted,
glass in hand, that drinking should be the bond of their
union, that those who wished to refuse hardly liked to be so
unmannerly under the circumstances. Having from their youth
up been entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than
cider or mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed,
one and all, with extraordinary uniformity, after the lapse
of about an hour.
Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for
that wilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man
even now felt within him as the embodiment of all that was
sweet and bright and hopeless.
He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be
endangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and
oblivious sleep, and went again into the lone night. A hot
breeze, as if breathed from the parted lips of some dragon
about to swallow the globe, fanned him from the south, while
directly opposite in the north rose a grim misshapen body of
cloud, in the very teeth of the wind. So unnaturally did it
rise that one could fancy it to be lifted by machinery from
below. Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had flown back into
the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of the
large cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some
monster.
Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against the
window of Laban Tall's bedroom, expecting Susan to open it;
but nobody stirred. He went round to the back door, which
had been left unfastened for Laban's entry, and passed in to
the foot of the stair-case.
"Mrs. Tall, I've come for the key of the granary, to get at
the rick-cloths," said Oak, in a stentorian voice.
"Is that you?" said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake.
"Yes," said Gabriel.
"Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue -- keeping a
body awake like this!"
"It isn't Laban -- 'tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the
granary."
"Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to be
Laban for?"
"I didn't. I thought you meant ----"
"Yes you did! what do you want here?"
"The key of the granary."
"Take it then. 'Tis on the nail. People coming disturbing
women at this time of night ought ----"
Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion
of the tirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might
have been seen dragging four large water-proof coverings
across the yard, and soon two of these heaps of treasure in
grain were covered snug -- two cloths to each. Two hundred
pounds were secured. Three wheat-stacks remained open, and
there were no more cloths. Oak looked under the staddles
and found a fork. He mounted the third pile of wealth and
began operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper
sheaves one over the other; and, in addition, filling the
interstices with the material of some untied sheaves.
So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance
Bathsheba's property in wheat was safe for at any rate a
week or two, provided always that there was not much wind.
Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect
by systematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon
vanished not to reappear. It was the farewell of the
ambassador previous to war. The night had a haggard look,
like a sick thing; and there came finally an utter
expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form of a
slow breeze, which might have been likened to a death. And
now nothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the
beetle which drove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch in
the intervals.
Content of CHAPTER XXXVI - WEALTH IN JEOPARDY -- THE REVEL [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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