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CHAPTER 26.


It chanced that on a fine spring morning Henchard and
Farfrae met in the chestnut-walk which ran along the south
wall of the town. Each had just come out from his early
breakfast, and there was not another soul near. Henchard
was reading a letter from Lucetta, sent in answer to a note
from him, in which she made some excuse for not immediately
granting him a second interview that he had desired.

Donald had no wish to enter into conversation with his
former friend on their present constrained terms; neither
would he pass him in scowling silence. He nodded, and
Henchard did the same. They receded from each other several
paces when a voice cried "Farfrae!" It was Henchard's, who
stood regarding him.

"Do you remember," said Henchard, as if it were the presence
of the thought and not of the man which made him speak, "do
you remember my story of that second woman--who suffered for
her thoughtless intimacy with me?"

"I do," said Farfrae.

"Do you remember my telling 'ee how it all began and how it
ended?

"Yes."

"Well, I have offered to marry her now that I can; but she
won't marry me. Now what would you think of her--I put it
to you?"

"Well, ye owe her nothing more now," said Farfrae heartily.

"It is true," said Henchard, and went on.

That he had looked up from a letter to ask his questions
completely shut out from Farfrae's mind all vision of
Lucetta as the culprit. Indeed, her present position was so
different from that of the young woman of Henchard's story
as of itself to be sufficient to blind him absolutely to her
identity. As for Henchard, he was reassured by Farfrae's
words and manner against a suspicion which had crossed his
mind. They were not those of a conscious rival.

Yet that there was rivalry by some one he was firmly
persuaded. He could feel it in the air around Lucetta, see
it in the turn of her pen. There was an antagonistic force
in exercise, so that when he had tried to hang near her he
seemed standing in a refluent current. That it was not
innate caprice he was more and more certain. Her windows
gleamed as if they did not want him; her curtains seem to
hang slily, as if they screened an ousting presence. To
discover whose presence that was--whether really Farfrae's
after all, or another's--he exerted himself to the utmost to
see her again; and at length succeeded.

At the interview, when she offered him tea, he made it a
point to launch a cautious inquiry if she knew Mr. Farfrae.

O yes, she knew him, she declared; she could not help
knowing almost everybody in Casterbridge, living in such a
gazebo over the centre and arena of the town.

"Pleasant young fellow," said Henchard.

"Yes," said Lucetta.

"We both know him," said kind Elizabeth-Jane, to relieve her
companion's divined embarrassment.

There was a knock at the door; literally, three full knocks
and a little one at the end.

"That kind of knock means half-and-half--somebody between
gentle and simple," said the corn-merchant to himself. "I
shouldn't wonder therefore if it is he." In a few seconds
surely enough Donald walked in.

Lucetta was full of little fidgets and flutters, which
increased Henchard's suspicions without affording any
special proof of their correctness. He was well-nigh
ferocious at the sense of the queer situation in which he
stood towards this woman. One who had reproached him for
deserting her when calumniated, who had urged claims upon
his consideration on that account, who had lived waiting for
him, who at the first decent opportunity had come to ask him
to rectify, by making her his, the false position into which
she had placed herself for his sake; such she had been. And
now he sat at her tea-table eager to gain her attention, and
in his amatory rage feeling the other man present to be a
villain, just as any young fool of a lover might feel.

They sat stiffly side by side at the darkening table, like
some Tuscan painting of the two disciples supping at Emmaus.
Lucetta, forming the third and haloed figure, was opposite
them; Elizabeth-Jane, being out of the game, and out of the
group, could observe all from afar, like the evangelist who
had to write it down: that there were long spaces of
taciturnity, when all exterior circumstances were subdued to
the touch of spoons and china, the click of a heel on the
pavement under the window, the passing of a wheelbarrow or
cart, the whistling of the carter, the gush of water into
householders' buckets at the town-pump opposite, the
exchange of greetings among their neighbours, and the rattle
of the yokes by which they carried off their evening supply.

"More bread-and-butter?" said Lucetta to Henchard and
Farfrae equally, holding out between them a plateful of long
slices. Henchard took a slice by one end and Donald by the
other; each feeling certain he was the man meant; neither
let go, and the slice came in two.

"Oh--I am so sorry!" cried Lucetta, with a nervous titter.
Farfrae tried to laugh; but he was too much in love to see
the incident in any but a tragic light.

"How ridiculous of all three of them!" said Elizabeth to
herself.

Henchard left the house with a ton of conjecture, though
without a grain of proof, that the counterattraction was
Farfrae; and therefore he would not make up his mind. Yet
to Elizabeth-Jane it was plain as the town-pump that Donald
and Lucetta were incipient lovers. More than once, in spite
of her care, Lucetta had been unable to restrain her glance
from flitting across into Farfrae's eyes like a bird to its
nest. But Henchard was constructed upon too large a scale
to discern such minutiae as these by an evening light, which
to him were as the notes of an insect that lie above the
compass of the human ear.

But he was disturbed. And the sense of occult rivalry in
suitorship was so much superadded to the palpable rivalry of
their business lives. To the coarse materiality of that
rivalry it added an inflaming soul.

The thus vitalized antagonism took the form of action by
Henchard sending for Jopp, the manager originally displaced
by Farfrae's arrival. Henchard had frequently met this man
about the streets, observed that his clothing spoke of
neediness, heard that he lived in Mixen Lane--a back slum of
the town, the pis aller of Casterbridge domiciliation--
itself almost a proof that a man had reached a stage when he
would not stick at trifles.

Jopp came after dark, by the gates of the storeyard, and
felt his way through the hay and straw to the office where
Henchard sat in solitude awaiting him.

"I am again out of a foreman," said the corn-factor. "Are
you in a place?"

"Not so much as a beggar's, sir."

"How much do you ask?"

Jopp named his price, which was very moderate.

"When can you come?"

"At this hour and moment, sir," said Jopp, who, standing
hands-pocketed at the street corner till the sun had faded
the shoulders of his coat to scarecrow green, had regularly
watched Henchard in the market-place, measured him, and
learnt him, by virtue of the power which the still man has
in his stillness of knowing the busy one better than he
knows himself. Jopp too, had had a convenient experience;
he was the only one in Casterbridge besides Henchard and the
close-lipped Elizabeth who knew that Lucetta came truly from
Jersey, and but proximately from Bath. "I know Jersey too,
sir," he said. "Was living there when you used to do
business that way. O yes--have often seen ye there."

"Indeed! Very good. Then the thing is settled. The
testimonials you showed me when you first tried for't are
sufficient.

That characters deteriorated in time of need possibly did
not occur to, Henchard. Jopp said, "Thank you," and stood
more firmly, in the consciousness that at last he officially
belonged to that spot.

"Now," said Henchard, digging his strong eyes into Jopp's
face, "one thing is necessary to me, as the biggest corn-
and-hay dealer in these parts. The Scotchman, who's taking
the town trade so bold into his hands, must be cut out.
D'ye hear? We two can't live side by side--that's clear and
certain."

"I've seen it all," said Jopp.

"By fair competition I mean, of course," Henchard continued.
"But as hard, keen, and unflinching as fair--rather more so.
By such a desperate bid against him for the farmers' custom
as will grind him into the ground--starve him out. I've
capital, mind ye, and I can do it."

"I'm all that way of thinking," said the new foreman.
Jopp's dislike of Farfrae as the man who had once ursurped
his place, while it made him a willing tool, made him, at
the same time, commercially as unsafe a colleague as
Henchard could have chosen.

"I sometimes think," he added, "that he must have some glass
that he sees next year in. He has such a knack of making
everything bring him fortune."

"He's deep beyond all honest men's discerning, but we must
make him shallower. We'll undersell him, and over-buy him,
and so snuff him out."

They then entered into specific details of the process by
which this would be accomplished, and parted at a late hour.

Elizabeth-Jane heard by accident that Jopp had been engaged
by her stepfather. She was so fully convinced that he was
not the right man for the place that, at the risk of making
Henchard angry, she expressed her apprehension to him when
they met. But it was done to no purpose. Henchard shut up
her argument with a sharp rebuff.

The season's weather seemed to favour their scheme. The
time was in the years immediately before foreign competition
had revolutionized the trade in grain; when still, as from
the earliest ages, the wheat quotations from month to month
depended entirely upon the home harvest. A bad harvest, or
the prospect of one, would double the price of corn in a few
weeks; and the promise of a good yield would lower it as
rapidly. Prices were like the roads of the period, steep in
gradient, reflecting in their phases the local conditions,
without engineering, levellings, or averages.

The farmer's income was ruled by the wheat-crop within his
own horizon, and the wheat-crop by the weather. Thus in
person, he became a sort of flesh-barometer, with feelers
always directed to the sky and wind around him. The local
atmosphere was everything to him; the atmospheres of other
countries a matter of indifference. The people, too, who
were not farmers, the rural multitude, saw in the god of the
weather a more important personage than they do now.
Indeed, the feeling of the peasantry in this matter was so
intense as to be almost unrealizable in these equable days.
Their impulse was well-nigh to prostrate themselves in
lamentation before untimely rains and tempests, which came
as the Alastor of those households whose crime it was to be
poor.

After midsummer they watched the weather-cocks as men
waiting in antechambers watch the lackey. Sun elated them;
quiet rain sobered them; weeks of watery tempest stupefied
them. That aspect of the sky which they now regard as
disagreeable they then beheld as maleficent.

It was June, and the weather was very unfavourable.
Casterbridge, being as it were the bell-board on which all
the adjacent hamlets and villages sounded their notes, was
decidedly dull. Instead of new articles in the shop-windows
those that had been rejected in the foregoing summer were
brought out again; superseded reap-hooks, badly-shaped
rakes, shop-worn leggings, and time-stiffened water-tights
reappeared, furbished up as near to new as possible.

Henchard, backed by Jopp, read a disastrous garnering, and
resolved to base his strategy against Farfrae upon that
reading. But before acting he wished--what so many have
wished--that he could know for certain what was at present
only strong probability. He was superstitious--as such
head-strong natures often are--and he nourished in his mind
an idea bearing on the matter; an idea he shrank from
disclosing even to Jopp.

In a lonely hamlet a few miles from the town--so lonely that
what are called lonely villages were teeming by comparison--
there lived a man of curious repute as a forecaster or
weather-prophet. The way to his house was crooked and miry--
even difficult in the present unpropitious season. One
evening when it was raining so heavily that ivy and laurel
resounded like distant musketry, and an out-door man could
be excused for shrouding himself to his ears and eyes, such
a shrouded figure on foot might have been perceived
travelling in the direction of the hazel-copse which dripped
over the prophet's cot. The turnpike-road became a lane,
the lane a cart-track, the cart-track a bridle-path, the
bridle-path a foot-way, the foot-way overgrown. The
solitary walker slipped here and there, and stumbled over
the natural springes formed by the brambles, till at length
he reached the house, which, with its garden, was surrounded
with a high, dense hedge. The cottage, comparatively a
large one, had been built of mud by the occupier's own
hands, and thatched also by himself. Here he had always
lived, and here it was assumed he would die.

He existed on unseen supplies; for it was an anomalous thing
that while there was hardly a soul in the neighbourhood but
affected to laugh at this man's assertions, uttering the
formula, "There's nothing in 'em," with full assurance on
the surface of their faces, very few of them were
unbelievers in their secret hearts. Whenever they consulted
him they did it "for a fancy." When they paid him they said,
"Just a trifle for Christmas," or "Candlemas," as the case
might be.

He would have preferred more honesty in his clients, and
less sham ridicule; but fundamental belief consoled him for
superficial irony. As stated, he was enabled to live;
people supported him with their backs turned. He was
sometimes astonished that men could profess so little and
believe so much at his house, when at church they professed
so much and believed so little.

Behind his back he was called "Wide-oh," on account of his
reputation; to his face "Mr." Fall.

The hedge of his garden formed an arch over the entrance,
and a door was inserted as in a wall. Outside the door the
tall traveller stopped, bandaged his face with a
handkerchief as if he were suffering from toothache, and
went up the path. The window shutters were not closed, and
he could see the prophet within, preparing his supper.

In answer to the knock Fall came to the door, candle in
hand. The visitor stepped back a little from the light, and
said, "Can I speak to 'ee?" in significant tones. The
other's invitation to come in was responded to by the
country formula, "This will do, thank 'ee," after which the
householder had no alternative but to come out. He placed
the candle on the corner of the dresser, took his hat from a
nail, and joined the stranger in the porch, shutting the
door behind him.

"I've long heard that you can--do things of a sort?" began
the other, repressing his individuality as much as he could.

"Maybe so, Mr. Henchard," said the weather-caster.

"Ah--why do you call me that?" asked the visitor with a
start.

"Because it's your name. Feeling you'd come I've waited for
'ee; and thinking you might be leery from your walk I laid
two supper plates--look ye here." He threw open the door and
disclosed the supper-table, at which appeared a second
chair, knife and fork, plate and mug, as he had declared.

Henchard felt like Saul at his reception by Samuel; he
remained in silence for a few moments, then throwing off the
disguise of frigidity which he had hitherto preserved he
said, "Then I have not come in vain....Now, for instance,
can ye charm away warts?"

"Without trouble."

"Cure the evil?"

"That I've done--with consideration--if they will wear the
toad-bag by night as well as by day."

"Forecast the weather?"

"With labour and time."

"Then take this," said Henchard. "'Tis a crownpiece. Now,
what is the harvest fortnight to be? When can I know?'

"I've worked it out already, and you can know at once." (The
fact was that five farmers had already been there on the
same errand from different parts of the country.) "By the
sun, moon, and stars, by the clouds, the winds, the trees,
and grass, the candle-flame and swallows, the smell of the
herbs; likewise by the cats' eyes, the ravens, the leeches,
the spiders, and the dungmixen, the last fortnight in August
will be--rain and tempest."

"You are not certain, of course?"

"As one can be in a world where all's unsure. 'Twill be
more like living in Revelations this autumn than in England.

Shall I sketch it out for 'ee in a scheme?"

"O no, no," said Henchard. "I don't altogether believe in
forecasts, come to second thoughts on such. But I--"

"You don't--you don't--'tis quite understood," said Wide-oh,
without a sound of scorn. "You have given me a crown
because you've one too many. But won't you join me at
supper, now 'tis waiting and all?"

Henchard would gladly have joined; for the savour of the
stew had floated from the cottage into the porch with such
appetizing distinctness that the meat, the onions, the
pepper, and the herbs could be severally recognized by his
nose. But as sitting down to hob-and-nob there would have
seemed to mark him too implicitly as the weather-caster's
apostle, he declined, and went his way.

The next Saturday Henchard bought grain to such an enormous
extent that there was quite a talk about his purchases among
his neighbours the lawyer, the wine merchant, and the
doctor; also on the next, and on all available days. When
his granaries were full to choking all the weather-cocks of
Casterbridge creaked and set their faces in another
direction, as if tired of the south-west. The weather
changed; the sunlight, which had been like tin for weeks,
assumed the hues of topaz. The temperament of the welkin
passed from the phlegmatic to the sanguine; an excellent
harvest was almost a certainty; and as a consequence prices
rushed down.

All these transformations, lovely to the outsider, to the
wrong-headed corn-dealer were terrible. He was reminded of
what he had well known before, that a man might gamble upon
the square green areas of fields as readily as upon those of
a card-room.

Henchard had backed bad weather, and apparently lost. He
had mistaken the turn of the flood for the turn of the ebb.
His dealings had been so extensive that settlement could not
long be postponed, and to settle he was obliged to sell off
corn that he had bought only a few weeks before at figures
higher by many shillings a quarter. Much of the corn he had
never seen; it had not even been moved from the ricks in
which it lay stacked miles away. Thus he lost heavily.

In the blaze of an early August day he met Farfrae in the
market-place. Farfrae knew of his dealings (though he did
not guess their intended bearing on himself) and
commiserated him; for since their exchange of words in the
South Walk they had been on stiffly speaking terms.
Henchard for the moment appeared to resent the sympathy; but
he suddenly took a careless turn.

"Ho, no, no!--nothing serious, man!" he cried with fierce
gaiety. "These things always happen, don't they? I know it
has been said that figures have touched me tight lately; but
is that anything rare? The case is not so bad as folk make
out perhaps. And dammy, a man must be a fool to mind the
common hazards of trade!"

But he had to enter the Casterbridge Bank that day for
reasons which had never before sent him there--and to sit a
long time in the partners' room with a constrained bearing.
It was rumoured soon after that much real property as well
as vast stores of produce, which had stood in Henchard's
name in the town and neighbourhood, was actually the
possession of his bankers.

Coming down the steps of the bank he encountered Jopp. The
gloomy transactions just completed within had added fever to
the original sting of Farfrae's sympathy that morning, which
Henchard fancied might be a satire disguised so that Jopp
met with anything but a bland reception. The latter was in
the act of taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, and
saying, "A fine hot day," to an acquaintance.

"You can wipe and wipe, and say, 'A fine hot day,' can ye!"
cried Henchard in a savage undertone, imprisoning Jopp
between himself and the bank wall. "If it hadn't been for
your blasted advice it might have been a fine day enough!
Why did ye let me go on, hey?--when a word of doubt from you
or anybody would have made me think twice! For you can never
be sure of weather till 'tis past."

"My advice, sir, was to do what you thought best."

"A useful fellow! And the sooner you help somebody else in
that way the better!" Henchard continued his address to Jopp
in similar terms till it ended in Jopp s dismissal there and
then, Henchard turning upon his heel and leaving him.

"You shall be sorry for this, sir; sorry as a man can be!"
said Jopp, standing pale, and looking after the corn-
merchant as he disappeared in the crowd of market-men hard
by.



The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy
Category:
English Classics
Book Review:
Thomas Hardy’s masterpiece "The Mayor of Casterbridge" proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that “character is destiny”, and in writing it Hardy proved that a tragedy can be one of the most enjoyable forms of literature. As in ancient Greek tragedies, the protagonist of
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