Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy [best ereader for pdf txt] 📗

seed such splendid large knobs of fat before in the days of my life⁠—they never used to be bigger then a horse-bean. And there was a great black crock upon the brandish with his legs a-sticking out, but I don’t know what was in within.”

“And there’s two bushels of biffins for apple-pies,” said Maryann.

“Well, I hope to do my duty by it all,” said Joseph Poorgrass, in a pleasant, masticating manner of anticipation. “Yes; victuals and drink is a cheerful thing, and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of words may be used. ’Tis the gospel of the body, without which we perish, so to speak it.”

XXIII Eventide; A Second Declaration

For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men.

This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness.

At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement.

“Gabriel,” said she, “will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there?”

Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.

The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while.

Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners:⁠—

I’ve lost my love, and I care not,
I’ve lost my love, and I care not;
I shall soon have another
That’s better than t’other;
I’ve lost my love, and I care not.

This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause.

“Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!” said Coggan.

“I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me,” said Joseph, diminishing himself.

“Nonsense; wou’st never be so ungrateful, Joseph⁠—never!” said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. “And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, ‘Sing at once, Joseph Poorgrass.’ ”

“Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it!⁠ ⁠… Just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?”

“No, yer blushes be quite reasonable,” said Coggan.

“I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty’s eyes get fixed on me,” said Joseph, differently; “but if so be ’tis willed they do, they must.”

“Now, Joseph, your song, please,” said Bathsheba, from the window.

“Well, really, ma’am,” he replied, in a yielding tone, “I don’t know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure.”

“Hear, hear!” said the supper-party.

Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:⁠—

I sow̍-ed th̍-e⁠ ⁠…
I sow̍-ed⁠ ⁠…
I sow̍-ed th̍-e seeds̍ of̍ love̍,
I-it was̍ all̍ i̍-in the̍-e spring̍,
I-in A̍-pril̍, Ma̍-ay, a̍-nd sun̍-ny̍ June̍,
When sma̍-all bi̍-irds they̍ do̍ sing.

“Well put out of hand,” said Coggan, at the end of the verse. “ ‘They do sing’ was a very taking paragraph.”

“Ay; and there was a pretty place at ‘seeds of love.’ and ’twas well heaved out. Though ‘love’ is a nasty high corner when a man’s voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass.”

But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob’s ears immediately.

“Go on, Joseph⁠—go on, and never mind the young scamp,” said Coggan. “ ’Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again⁠—the next bar; I’ll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:⁠—

Oh the wi̍-il-lo̍-ow tree̍ will̍ twist̍,
And the wil̍-low̍ tre̍-ee wi̍-ill twine̍.

But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day.

It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers’ lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired.

The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat,