Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  And Fanny remembered with shivering joy another time, when he had promised to show her his skill with the sword, in the fresh open air, with the birds singing, and herself the only audience. How he had moved her with his exquisite swordplay! He had seemed almost godlike. And had he not promised that he would keep forever next to his heart that lock of her hair he had so skilfully stolen with one keen stroke of his blade? Had he, she wondered, kept that lock of hair, and did he wear it still?

  How wonderful, and how terrible it had been that first time, to feel she held all his force, his power, his happiness in her small hand. How intense his look of joy, as he pierced her to her core, and how she, a modest young woman, raised to a height of ecstasy she had never thought possible, had cried aloud for pleasure; how gratified he had been to hear her say she wished for no other lover, no other husband, but him. She was his, now, till death should part them, and all she desired was to hold him close, and express her devotion, by her words, her deeds, and her yielding body.

  And Troy? Did he think as much and as fondly of her? Indeed, the image of her eager face and soft limbs came to him with the force of a dream as he lay on his hard soldier’s pallet, thinking of the morrow. She wanted only to be his wife before God — and was not that a small price to pay for her constancy and adoration? Fanny was true of heart, but better yet, she was all softness, yielding, and gentleness — rare qualities in any woman — and if he was guilty of her ruin, why then, nothing for it but to pay the price. Tomorrow night she would stand, silent and compliant before him, naked in the candlelight, and he would give himself to her, to seal their troth, and by God! he would marry her, and henceforth fuck only her, ceasing to be distracted by other beauties.

  CHAPTER XII

  FARMERS — A RULE — AN EXCEPTION

  The first public evidence of Bathsheba’s decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in the corn-market at Casterbridge.

  The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor’s face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage — bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye.

  Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination — far more than she had at first imagined — to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there.

  Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the hand — holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner.

  Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them out. But her eyes had a softness — invariably a softness — which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness.

  Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigour, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a naïveté in her cheapening which saved it from meanness.

  Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the greater part) were continually asking each other, “Who is she?” The reply would be —

  “Farmer Everdene’s niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away the baily, and swears she’ll do everything herself.”

  The other man would then shake his head.

  “Yes, ‘tis a pity she’s so headstrong,” the first would say. “But we ought to be proud of her here — she lightens up the old place. ‘Tis such a shapely maid, however, that she’ll soon get picked up.”

  It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was general, and this Saturday’s debut in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether.

  The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock.

  It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently — such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of course — people had done so before. But the smallness of the exception made the mystery.

  She soon knew thus much of the recusant’s appearance. He was a gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-eminently marked him — dignity.

  Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at which a man’s aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman’s does likewise. Thirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation — he might have been either, or anywhere between the two.

  It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man.

  When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse was put in, and on they trotted — Bathsheba’s sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, a
nd expressing in some indescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young lady-farmer’s property, and the grocer’s and draper’s no more.

  “I’ve been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan’t mind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning it was as bad as being married — eyes everywhere!”

  “I knowed it would be,” Liddy said. “Men be such a terrible class of society to look at a body.”

  “But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me.” The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. “A very good-looking man,” she continued, “upright; about forty, I should think. Do you know at all who he could be?”

  Liddy couldn’t think.

  “Can’t you guess at all?” said Bathsheba with some disappointment.

  “I haven’t a notion; besides, ‘tis no difference, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he’d taken more, it would have mattered a great deal.”

  Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them.

  “Why, there he is!” she said.

  Liddy looked. “That! That’s Farmer Boldwood — of course ‘tis — the man you couldn’t see the other day when he called.”

  “Oh, Farmer Boldwood,” murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he outstripped them. The farmer had never turned his head once, but with eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were thin air.

  “He’s an interesting man — don’t you think so?” she remarked.

  “O yes, very. Everybody owns it,” replied Liddy.

  “I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him.”

  “It is said — but not known for certain — that he met with some bitter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, they say.”

  “People always say that — and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men; ‘tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved.”

  “Simply his nature — I expect so, miss — nothing else in the world.”

  “Still, ‘tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor thing’! Perhaps, after all, he has!”

  “Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has! I feel he must have.”

  “However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn’t wonder after all if it wasn’t a little of both — just between the two — rather cruelly used and rather reserved.”

  “Oh dear no, miss — I can’t think it between the two!”

  “That’s most likely.”

  “Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it is most likely. You may take my word, miss, that that’s what’s the matter with him.”

  Had Liddy had a crystal ball in her hands, within whose smoky interior she might discern the ghostly form of Boldwood as a young man, haunted by the temptations to which he was then exposed, she could not have guessed more exactly the situation of Farmer Boldwood, and the reason for his distant indifference to the charms of any woman.

  There had indeed been among his acquaintance a lady he had fallen in love with when he was but one and twenty, but she led him such a dance that it was a sobering initiation into the mysteries of womankind; the object of his affections was a practiced coquette a few years older than himself, but in her usage of feminine wiles and provocative teasing she had enjoyed a cruel advantage over her blushing, stammering suitor.

  He had with trembling hand and unsteady voice paid his attentions to her, culminating in an offer of marriage, but while she had expressed her pleasure at his courtship, and sighed as she confessed that she would marry him in an instant, if the obstacles of a stern father and a pious mother were not in their way, the truth was that her betrothal from an early age and her eventual marriage to a distant cousin, was common knowledge to all in the locality but himself, and that it was not until a considerate friend broke the truth to him that he keenly felt the burning shame of appearing to society as a dupe and a novice, he alone being unaware of the insincerity of her vows. Josephine had been so pretty and captivating, a graceful and complaisant dancer, whose skill was to make any partner feel at the same moment more accomplished, and more desirous of tasting her charms, and while she toyed with his affections, her bewitching pleasantries had confused and baffled him to such a degree that he considered this to be a natural part of the game of wooing.

  Once, alone with him in a corridor at some ball or other, she had let her hand brush along his waist — no, lower than the waist, she seemed to have found exactly the spot where his palpitating manhood stood to attention, and her hand travelled to her mouth in mock surprise; she then took his hand and led it to rest on her breast, her pert charms all too clearly visible in her low cut gown. His excitement quickly rose to fever pitch, and she too seemed equally aroused, and let him kiss her, drawing in his tongue, seeming almost to swoon with pleasure at his embraces, but when he could no longer help himself from pressing his eager flesh against her skirts, she responded with a stinging slap to his face and a snapping of her fan against his offending member.

  Even many years later, his cheeks would grow red as radishes at the memory of this humiliation, yet from the cruel inconsistency of this encounter he had absorbed certain articles of belief that a lady’s outward behaviour was merely a disguise for the turmoil of her inner feelings, and that it was impossible to know the true state of any woman’s heart, for any words of discouragement were spoken only to encourage her suitor to further effort, which, in time perhaps, would be rewarded. Thus inadequately equipped for amorous adventure, his dignity would not allow of further rebuff, and he preferred to imagine an existence without women, where his status would be regarded with respect. Women had since tried to win him, and some might even have loved him, but his heart remained bolted and shuttered against their soft assaults, for he had known too young the painful turbulence of love rejected.

  CHAPTER XIII

  SORTES SANCTORUM — THE VALENTINE

  It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the day; and Bathsheba’s new piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it.

  On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy looking at it said, —

  “Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of the Bible and key?”

  “Don’t be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be.”

  “Well, there’s a good deal in it, all the same.”

  “Nonsense, child.”

  “And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it; some don’t; I do.”

  “Very well, let’s try it,” said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. “Go and get the front door key.”

  Liddy fetched it. “I wish it wasn’t Sunday,” she said, on returning. “Perhaps ‘tis wrong.”

  “What’s right week days is right Sundays,” replied her mistress in a tone which was a proof in itself.

  T
he book was opened — the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the purpose.

  “Now keep steady, and be silent,” said Bathsheba.

  The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed guiltily. She had been thinking of not one, but two men, and her thoughts had been far from virginal.

  “Who did you try?” said Liddy curiously.

  “I shall not tell you.”

  “Did you notice Mr. Boldwood’s doings in church this morning, miss?” Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken.

  “No, indeed,” said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.

  “His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss.”

  “I know it.”

  “And you did not see his goings on!”

  “Certainly I did not, I tell you.”

  Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively.

  This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting. “What did he do?” Bathsheba said perforce.

  “Didn’t turn his head to look at you once all the service.”

  “Why should he?” again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. “I didn’t ask him to.”

  “Oh, no. But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he didn’t. There, ‘tis like him. Rich and gentlemanly; what does he care?”