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CHAPTER XLV - TROY'S ROMANTICISM
WHEN Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight
his first act was to cover the dead from sight. This done
he ascended the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the
bed dressed as he was, he waited miserably for the morning.
Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-
twenty hours. His day had been spent in a way which varied
very materially from his intentions regarding it. There is
always an inertia to be overcome in striking out a new line
of conduct -- not more in ourselves, it seems, than in
circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together
to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had
managed to add to the sum every farthing he could muster on
his own account, which had been seven pounds ten. With this
money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all, he had hastily driven
from the gate that morning to keep his appointment with
Fanny Robin.
On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an
inn, and at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge
at the lower end of the town, and sat himself upon the
parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and no Fanny appeared.
In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her grave-
clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse -- the
first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever
been honoured with. The quarter went, the half hour. A
rush of recollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was
the second time she had broken a serious engagement with
him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven
o'clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the
bridge till he knew every lichen upon their face and heard
the chink of the ripples underneath till they oppressed him,
he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his gig, and in
a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, and
recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.
He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained
either there or in the town till nine. But Fanny's image,
as it had appeared to him in the sombre shadows of that
Saturday evening, returned to his mind, backed up by
Bathsheba's reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he
kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in the
evening he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a
few shillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was
struck for the first time with a thought that Fanny had been
really prevented by illness from keeping her promise. This
time she could have made no mistake. He regretted that he
had not remained in Casterbridge and made inquiries.
Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came
indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited
him.
As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy
arose from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of
absolute indifference to Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost
oblivious of her existence, he stalked downstairs and left
the house by the back door. His walk was towards the
churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found
a newly dug unoccupied grave -- the grave dug the day before
for Fanny. The position of this having been marked, he
hastened on to Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a
while at the hill whereon he had last seen Fanny alive.
Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and
entered a pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the
words, "Lester, stone and marble mason." Within were lying
about stones of all sizes and designs, inscribed as being
sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not yet
died.
Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that
the want of likeness was perceptible even to his own
consciousness. His method of engaging himself in this
business of purchasing a tomb was that of an absolutely
unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider,
calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something,
and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. "I
want a good tomb," he said to the man who stood in a little
office within the yard. "I want as good a one as you can
give me for twenty-seven pounds."
It was all the money he possessed.
"That sum to include everything?"
"Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and
erection. And I want it now at once."
"We could not get anything special worked this week."
"I must have it now."
"If you would like one of these in stock it could be got
ready immediately."
"Very well," said Troy, impatiently. "Let's see what you
have."
"The best I have in stock is this one," said the stone-
cutter, going into a shed. "Here's a marble headstone
beautifully crocketed, with medallions beneath of typical
subjects; here's the footstone after the same pattern, and
here's the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing alone
of the set cost me eleven pounds -- the slabs are the best
of their kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and
frost for a hundred years without flying."
"And how much?"
"Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury
for the sum you mention."
"Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now."
The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who
wore not a shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words
which were to form the inscription, settled the account and
went away. In the afternoon he came back again, and found
that the lettering was almost done. He waited in the yard
till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the cart and
starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the
two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton
for the grave of the person named in the inscription.
It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He
carried rather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he
strode moodily along the road, resting occasionally at
bridges and gates, whereon he deposited his burden for a
time. Midway on his journey he met, returning in the
darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed the
tomb. He merely inquired if the work was done, and, on
being assured that it was, passed on again.
Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and
went immediately to the corner where he had marked the
vacant grave early in the morning. It was on the obscure
side of the tower, screened to a great extent from the view
of passers along the road -- a spot which until lately had
been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but
now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by
reason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.
Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white
and shapely in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone,
and enclosing border of marble-work uniting them. In the
midst was mould, suitable for plants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for
a few minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a
lantern, the light of which he directed for a few moments
upon the marble, whilst he read the inscription. He hung
his lantern on the lowest bough of the yew-tree, and took
from his basket flower-roots of several varieties. There
were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs,
violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early
spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the
valley, forget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow-saffron and
others, for the later seasons of the year.
Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive
face set to work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged
in a line on the outside of the coping, the remainder within
the enclosure of the grave. The crocuses and hyacinths were
to grow in rows; some of the summer flowers he placed over
her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots over her
heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between
these.
Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception
that in the futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a
remorseful reaction from previous indifference, there was
any element of absurdity. Deriving his idiosyncrasies from
both sides of the Channel, he showed at such junctures as
the present the inelasticity of the Englishman, together
with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on
mawkishness, characteristic of the French.
It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays
from Troy's lantern spread into the two old yews with a
strange illuminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to
the black ceiling of cloud above. He felt a large drop of
rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one came and
entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the
candle sputtered and went out. Troy was weary and it being
now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to
increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his
labour until the day should break. He groped along the wall
and over the graves in the dark till he found himself round
at the north side. Here he entered the porch, and,
reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep.
Content of CHAPTER XLV - TROY'S ROMANTICISM [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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Read next: CHAPTER XLVI - THE GURGOYLE: ITS DOINGS
Read previous: CHAPTER XLIV - UNDER A TREE -- REACTION
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