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Chapter 2 : The New Course Causes Disappointment


Yeobright loved his kind. He had a conviction that the
want of most men was knowledge of a sort which brings
wisdom rather than affluence. He wished to raise
the class at the expense of individuals rather than
individuals at the expense of the class. What was more,
he was ready at once to be the first unit sacrificed.

In passing from the bucolic to the intellectual life
the intermediate stages are usually two at least,
frequently many more; and one of those stages is almost
sure to be worldly advanced. We can hardly imagine
bucolic placidity quickening to intellectual aims without
imagining social aims as the transitional phase.
Yeobright's local peculiarity was that in striving at high
thinking he still cleaved to plain living--nay, wild and
meagre living in many respects, and brotherliness with clowns.

He was a John the Baptist who took ennoblement rather than
repentance for his text. Mentally he was in a provincial future,
that is, he was in many points abreast with the central
town thinkers of his date. Much of this development he
may have owed to his studious life in Paris, where he
had become acquainted with ethical systems popular at the time.

In consequence of this relatively advanced position,
Yeobright might have been called unfortunate.
The rural world was not ripe for him. A man should
be only partially before his time--to be completely
to the vanward in aspirations is fatal to fame.
Had Philip's warlike son been intellectually so far ahead
as to have attempted civilization without bloodshed,
he would have been twice the godlike hero that he seemed,
but nobody would have heard of an Alexander.

In the interests of renown the forwardness should lie chiefly
in the capacity to handle things. Successful propagandists
have succeeded because the doctrine they bring into form
is that which their listeners have for some time felt
without being able to shape. A man who advocates aesthetic
effort and deprecates social effort is only likely to be
understood by a class to which social effort has become
a stale matter. To argue upon the possibility of culture
before luxury to the bucolic world may be to argue truly,
but it is an attempt to disturb a sequence to which
humanity has been long accustomed. Yeobright preaching
to the Egdon eremites that they might rise to a serene
comprehensiveness without going through the process
of enriching themselves was not unlike arguing to ancient
Chaldeans that in ascending from earth to the pure empyrean
it was not necessary to pass first into the intervening heaven
of ether.

Was Yeobright's mind well-proportioned? No. A well
proportioned mind is one which shows no particular bias;
one of which we may safely say that it will never cause
its owner to be confined as a madman, tortured as a heretic,
or crucified as a blasphemer. Also, on the other hand,
that it will never cause him to be applauded as
a prophet, revered as a priest, or exalted as a king.
Its usual blessings are happiness and mediocrity.
It produces the poetry of Rogers, the paintings of West,
the statecraft of North, the spiritual guidance of Tomline;
enabling its possessors to find their way to wealth,
to wind up well, to step with dignity off the stage,
to die comfortably in their beds, and to get the decent
monument which, in many cases, they deserve. It never
would have allowed Yeobright to do such a ridiculous thing
as throw up his business to benefit his fellow-creatures.

He walked along towards home without attending to paths.
If anyone knew the heath well it was Clym. He was permeated
with its scenes, with its substance, and with its odours.
He might be said to be its product. His eyes had first
opened thereon; with its appearance all the first images ,
of his memory were mingled, his estimate of life had
been coloured by it: his toys had been the flint knives
and arrow-heads which he found there, wondering why
stones should "grow" to such odd shapes; his flowers,
the purple bells and yellow furze: his animal kingdom,
the snakes and croppers; his society, its human haunters.
Take all the varying hates felt by Eustacia Vye towards
the heath, and translate them into loves, and you have the
heart of Clym. He gazed upon the wide prospect as he walked,
and was glad.

To many persons this Egdon was a place which had slipped
out of its century generations ago, to intrude as an
uncouth object into this. It was an obsolete thing,
and few cared to study it. How could this be otherwise
in the days of square fields, plashed hedges,
and meadows watered on a plan so rectangular that on a
fine day they looked like silver gridirons? The farmer,
in his ride, who could smile at artificial grasses,
look with solicitude at the coming corn, and sigh
with sadness at the fly-eaten turnips, bestowed upon
the distant upland of heath nothing better than a frown.
But as for Yeobright, when he looked from the heights
on his way he could not help indulging in a barbarous
satisfaction at observing that, in some of the attempts
at reclamation from the waste, tillage, after holding
on for a year or two, had receded again in despair,
the ferns and furze-tufts stubbornly reasserting themselves.

He descended into the valley, and soon reached his home
at Blooms-End. His mother was snipping dead leaves from
the window-plants. She looked up at him as if she did
not understand the meaning of his long stay with her;
her face had worn that look for several days. He could
perceive that the curiosity which had been shown by the
hair-cutting group amounted in his mother to concern.
But she had asked no question with her lips, even when
the arrival of his trunk suggested that he was not going
to leave her soon. Her silence besought an explanation
of him more loudly than words.

"I am not going back to Paris again, Mother," he said.
"At least, in my old capacity. I have given up the business."

Mrs. Yeobright turned in pained surprise. "I thought
something was amiss, because of the boxes. I wonder you
did not tell me sooner."

"I ought to have done it. But I have been in doubt
whether you would be pleased with my plan. I was not
quite clear on a few points myself. I am going to take
an entirely new course."

"I am astonished, Clym. How can you want to do better
than you've been doing?"

"Very easily. But I shall not do better in the way
you mean; I suppose it will be called doing worse.
But I hate that business of mine, and I want to do some
worthy thing before I die. As a schoolmaster I think
to do it--a school-master to the poor and ignorant,
to teach them what nobody else will."

"After all the trouble that has been taken to give you
a start, and when there is nothing to do but to keep
straight on towards affluence, you say you will be a poor
man's schoolmaster. Your fancies will be your ruin, Clym."

Mrs. Yeobright spoke calmly, but the force of feeling
behind the words was but too apparent to one who knew
her as well as her son did. He did not answer.
There was in his face that hopelessness of being understood
which comes when the objector is constitutionally beyond
the reach of a logic that, even under favouring conditions,
is almost too coarse a vehicle for the subtlety of the argument.

No more was said on the subject till the end of dinner.
His mother then began, as if there had been no interval
since the morning. "It disturbs me, Clym, to find
that you have come home with such thoughts as those.
I hadn't the least idea that you meant to go backward
in the world by your own free choice. Of course,
I have always supposed you were going to push straight on,
as other men do--all who deserve the name--when they have
been put in a good way of doing well."

"I cannot help it," said Clym, in a troubled tone.
"Mother, I hate the flashy business. Talk about men
who deserve the name, can any man deserving the name
waste his time in that effeminate way, when he sees half
the world going to ruin for want of somebody to buckle
to and teach them how to breast the misery they are born
to? I get up every morning and see the whole creation
groaning and travailing in pain, as St. Paul says,
and yet there am I, trafficking in glittering splendours
with wealthy women and titled libertines, and pandering
to the meanest vanities--I, who have health and strength
enough for anything. I have been troubled in my mind
about it all the year, and the end is that I cannot do it
any more."

"Why can't you do it as well as others?"

"I don't know, except that there are many things other
people care for which I don't; and that's partly why I
think I ought to do this. For one thing, my body does
not require much of me. I cannot enjoy delicacies;
good things are wasted upon me. Well, I ought to turn
that defect to advantage, and by being able to do without
what other people require I can spend what such things
cost upon anybody else."

Now, Yeobright, having inherited some of these very
instincts from the woman before him, could not fail
to awaken a reciprocity in her through her feelings,
if not by arguments, disguise it as she might for his good.
She spoke with less assurance. "And yet you might
have been a wealthy man if you had only persevered.
Manager to that large diamond establishment--what better
can a man wish for? What a post of trust and respect!
I suppose you will be like your father; like him,
you are getting weary of doing well."

"No," said her son, "I am not weary of that, though I am
weary of what you mean by it. Mother, what is doing well?"

Mrs. Yeobright was far too thoughtful a woman to be
content with ready definitions, and, like the "What
is wisdom?" of Plato's Socrates, and the "What is truth?"
of Pontius Pilate, Yeobright's burning question received
no answer.

The silence was broken by the clash of the garden gate,
a tap at the door, and its opening. Christian Cantle
appeared in the room in his Sunday clothes.

It was the custom on Egdon to begin the preface to a story
before absolutely entering the house, so as to be well
in for the body of the narrative by the time visitor
and visited stood face to face. Christian had been
saying to them while the door was leaving its latch,
"To think that I, who go from home but once in a while,
and hardly then, should have been there this morning!"

"'Tis news you have brought us, then, Christian?"
said Mrs. Yeobright.

"Ay, sure, about a witch, and ye must overlook my time o'
day; for, says I, 'I must go and tell 'em, though they
won't have half done dinner.' I assure ye it made me shake
like a driven leaf. Do ye think any harm will come o't?"

"Well--what?"

"This morning at church we was all standing up,
and the pa'son said, 'Let us pray.' 'Well,' thinks I,
'one may as well kneel as stand'; so down I went; and,
more than that, all the rest were as willing to oblige
the man as I. We hadn't been hard at it for more than a
minute when a most terrible screech sounded through church,
as if somebody had just gied up their heart's blood.
All the folk jumped up and then we found that Susan
Nunsuch had pricked Miss Vye with a long stocking-needle,
as she had threatened to do as soon as ever she could
get the young lady to church, where she don't come
very often. She've waited for this chance for weeks,
so as to draw her blood and put an end to the bewitching
of Susan's children that has been carried on so long.
Sue followed her into church, sat next to her, and as soon
as she could find a chance in went the stocking-needle
into my lady's arm."

"Good heaven, how horrid!" said Mrs. Yeobright.

"Sue pricked her that deep that the maid fainted away;
and as I was afeard there might be some tumult among us,
I got behind the bass viol and didn't see no more.
But they carried her out into the air, 'tis said;
but when they looked round for Sue she was gone.
What a scream that girl gied, poor thing! There were the
pa'son in his surplice holding up his hand and saying,
'Sit down, my good people, sit down!' But the deuce a bit
would they sit down. O, and what d'ye think I found out,
Mrs. Yeobright? The pa'son wears a suit of clothes under his
surplice!--I could see his black sleeves when he held up
his arm."

"'Tis a cruel thing," said Yeobright.

"Yes," said his mother.

"The nation ought to look into it," said Christian.
"Here's Humphrey coming, I think."

In came Humphrey. "Well, have ye heard the news?
But I see you have. 'Tis a very strange thing that
whenever one of Egdon folk goes to church some rum job
or other is sure to be doing. The last time one of us
was there was when neighbour Fairway went in the fall;
and that was the day you forbad the banns, Mrs. Yeobright."

"Has this cruelly treated girl been able to walk home?"
said Clym.

"They say she got better, and went home very well.
And now I've told it I must be moving homeward myself."

"And I," said Humphrey. "Truly now we shall see if there's
anything in what folks say about her."

When they were gone into the heath again Yeobright said
quietly to his mother, "Do you think I have turned teacher
too soon?"

"It is right that there should be schoolmasters,
and missionaries, and all such men," she replied.
"But it is right, too, that I should try to lift you out
of this life into something richer, and that you should
not come back again, and be as if I had not tried at all."


Later in the day Sam, the turf-cutter, entered.
"I've come a-borrowing, Mrs. Yeobright. I suppose you
have heard what's been happening to the beauty on the hill?"

"Yes, Sam: half a dozen have been telling us."

"Beauty?" said Clym.

"Yes, tolerably well-favoured," Sam replied. "Lord! all
the country owns that 'tis one of the strangest things
in the world that such a woman should have come to live
up there."

"Dark or fair?"

"Now, though I've seen her twenty times, that's a thing
I cannot call to mind."

"Darker than Tamsin," murmured Mrs. Yeobright.

"A woman who seems to care for nothing at all, as you
may say."

"She is melancholy, then?" inquired Clym.

"She mopes about by herself, and don't mix in with the people."

"Is she a young lady inclined for adventures?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Doesn't join in with the lads in their games, to get
some sort of excitement in this lonely place?"

"No."

"Mumming, for instance?"

"No. Her notions be different. I should rather say her
thoughts were far away from here, with lords and ladies
she'll never know, and mansions she'll never see again."

Observing that Clym appeared singularly interested
Mrs. Yeobright said rather uneasily to Sam, "You see
more in her than most of us do. Miss Vye is to my
mind too idle to be charming. I have never heard
that she is of any use to herself or to other people.
Good girls don't get treated as witches even on Egdon."

"Nonsense--that proves nothing either way," said Yeobright.

"Well, of course I don't understand such niceties,"
said Sam, withdrawing from a possibly unpleasant argument;
"and what she is we must wait for time to tell us.
The business that I have really called about is this,
to borrow the longest and strongest rope you have.
The captain's bucket has dropped into the well,
and they are in want of water; and as all the chaps
are at home today we think we can get it out for him.
We have three cart-ropes already, but they won't reach to
the bottom."

Mrs. Yeobright told him that he might have whatever ropes
he could find in the outhouse, and Sam went out to search.
When he passed by the door Clym joined him, and accompanied
him to the gate.

"Is this young witch-lady going to stay long at Mistover?"
he asked.

"I should say so."

"What a cruel shame to ill-use her, She must have suffered
greatly--more in mind than in body."

"'Twas a graceless trick--such a handsome girl, too.
You ought to see her, Mr. Yeobright, being a young man
come from far, and with a little more to show for your
years than most of us."

"Do you think she would like to teach children?"
said Clym.

Sam shook his head. "Quite a different sort of body
from that, I reckon."

"O, it was merely something which occurred to me.
It would of course be necessary to see her and talk it
over--not an easy thing, by the way, for my family and hers
are not very friendly."

"I'll tell you how you mid see her, Mr. Yeobright,"
said Sam. "We are going to grapple for the bucket at six
o'clock tonight at her house, and you could lend a hand.
There's five or six coming, but the well is deep, and another
might be useful, if you don't mind appearing in that shape.
She's sure to be walking round."

"I'll think of it," said Yeobright; and they parted.

He thought of it a good deal; but nothing more was
said about Eustacia inside the house at that time.
Whether this romantic martyr to superstition and the
melancholy mummer he had conversed with under the full
moon were one and the same person remained as yet a problem.





The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy
Category:
General Fiction
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