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Chapter 2 : He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song

The result of that unpropitious interview was that Eustacia,
instead of passing the afternoon with her grandfather,
hastily returned home to Clym, where she arrived three hours
earlier than she had been expected.

She came indoors with her face flushed, and her eyes
still showing traces of her recent excitement.
Yeobright looked up astonished; he had never seen
her in any way approaching to that state before.
She passed him by, and would have gone upstairs unnoticed,
but Clym was so concerned that he immediately followed her.

"What is the matter, Eustacia?" he said. She was standing
on the hearthrug in the bedroom, looking upon the floor,
her hands clasped in front of her, her bonnet yet unremoved.
For a moment she did not answer; and then she replied
in a low voice--

"I have seen your mother; and I will never see her again!"
A weight fell like a stone upon Clym. That same morning,
when Eustacia had arranged to go and see her grandfather,
Clym had expressed a wish that she would drive down to
Blooms-End and inquire for her mother-in-law, or adopt
any other means she might think fit to bring about
a reconciliation. She had set out gaily; and he had hoped
for much.

"Why is this?" he asked.

"I cannot tell--I cannot remember. I met your mother.
And I will never meet her again."


"What do I know about Mr. Wildeve now? I won't have
wicked opinions passed on me by anybody. O! it was too
humiliating to be asked if I had received any money
from him, or encouraged him, or something of the sort--
I don't exactly know what!"

"How could she have asked you that?"

"She did."

"Then there must have been some meaning in it. What did
my mother say besides?"

"I don't know what she said, except in so far as this,
that we both said words which can never be forgiven!"

"Oh, there must be some misapprehension. Whose fault
was it that her meaning was not made clear?"

"I would rather not say. It may have been the fault of
the circumstances, which were awkward at the very least.
O Clym--I cannot help expressing it--this is an unpleasant
position that you have placed me in. But you must improve
it--yes, say you will--for I hate it all now! Yes,
take me to Paris, and go on with your old occupation,
Clym! I don't mind how humbly we live there at first,
if it can only be Paris, and not Egdon Heath."

"But I have quite given up that idea," said Yeobright,
with surprise. "Surely I never led you to expect such
a thing?"

"I own it. Yet there are thoughts which cannot be kept
out of mind, and that one was mine. Must I not have
a voice in the matter, now I am your wife and the sharer
of your doom?"

"Well, there are things which are placed beyond the pale
of discussion; and I thought this was specially so,
and by mutual agreement."

"Clym, I am unhappy at what I hear," she said in a low voice;
and her eyes drooped, and she turned away.

This indication of an unexpected mine of hope in Eustacia's
bosom disconcerted her husband. It was the first time
that he had confronted the fact of the indirectness
of a woman's movement towards her desire. But his
intention was unshaken, though he loved Eustacia well.
All the effect that her remark had upon him was a resolve
to chain himself more closely than ever to his books,
so as to be the sooner enabled to appeal to substantial
results from another course in arguing against her whim.

Next day the mystery of the guineas was explained.
Thomasin paid them a hurried visit, and Clym's share was
delivered up to him by her own hands. Eustacia was not
present at the time.

"Then this is what my mother meant," exclaimed Clym.
"Thomasin, do you know that they have had a bitter quarrel?"

There was a little more reticence now than formerly in Thomasin's
manner towards her cousin. It is the effect of marriage
to engender in several directions some of the reserve it
annihilates in one. "Your mother told me," she said quietly.
"She came back to my house after seeing Eustacia."

"The worst thing I dreaded has come to pass. Was Mother
much disturbed when she came to you, Thomasin?"


"Very much indeed?"


Clym leant his elbow upon the post of the garden gate,
and covered his eyes with his hand.

"Don't trouble about it, Clym. They may get to be friends."

He shook his head. "Not two people with inflammable
natures like theirs. Well, what must be will be."

"One thing is cheerful in it--the guineas are not lost."

"I would rather have lost them twice over than have had
this happen."

Amid these jarring events Yeobright felt one thing to be
indispensable--that he should speedily make some show
of progress in his scholastic plans. With this view
he read far into the small hours during many nights.

One morning, after a severer strain than usual, he awoke with
a strange sensation in his eyes. The sun was shining directly
upon the window-blind, and at his first glance thitherward
a sharp pain obliged him to close his eyelids quickly.
At every new attempt to look about him the same morbid
sensibility to light was manifested, and excoriating tears
ran down his cheeks. He was obliged to tie a bandage
over his brow while dressing; and during the day it could
not be abandoned. Eustacia was thoroughly alarmed.
On finding that the case was no better the next morning
they decided to send to Anglebury for a surgeon.

Towards evening he arrived, and pronounced the disease
to be acute inflammation induced by Clym's night studies,
continued in spite of a cold previously caught, which had
weakened his eyes for the time.

Fretting with impatience at this interruption to a task he was
so anxious to hasten, Clym was transformed into an invalid.
He was shut up in a room from which all light was excluded,
and his condition would have been one of absolute
misery had not Eustacia read to him by the glimmer of a
shaded lamp. He hoped that the worst would soon be over;
but at the surgeon's third visit he learnt to his dismay
that although he might venture out of doors with shaded
eyes in the course of a month, all thought of pursuing
his work, or of reading print of any description,
would have to be given up for a long time to come.

One week and another week wore on, and nothing
seemed to lighten the gloom of the young couple.
Dreadful imaginings occurred to Eustacia, but she
carefully refrained from uttering them to her husband.
Suppose he should become blind, or, at all events,
never recover sufficient strength of sight to engage
in an occupation which would be congenial to her feelings,
and conduce to her removal from this lonely dwelling among
the hills? That dream of beautiful Paris was not likely
to cohere into substance in the presence of this misfortune.
As day after day passed by, and he got no better,
her mind ran more and more in this mournful groove,
and she would go away from him into the garden and weep
despairing tears.

Yeobright thought he would send for his mother;
and then he thought he would not. Knowledge of his state
could only make her the more unhappy; and the seclusion
of their life was such that she would hardly be likely
to learn the news except through a special messenger.
Endeavouring to take the trouble as philosophically
as possible, he waited on till the third week had arrived,
when he went into the open air for the first time since
the attack. The surgeon visited him again at this stage,
and Clym urged him to express a distinct opinion.
The young man learnt with added surprise that the date at
which he might expect to resume his labours was as uncertain
as ever, his eyes being in that peculiar state which,
though affording him sight enough for walking about,
would not admit of their being strained upon any definite
object without incurring the risk of reproducing ophthalmia
in its acute form.

Clym was very grave at the intelligence, but not despairing.
A quiet firmness, and even cheerfulness, took possession
of him. He was not to be blind; that was enough.
To be doomed to behold the world through smoked glass
for an indefinite period was bad enough, and fatal
to any kind of advance; but Yeobright was an absolute
stoic in the face of mishaps which only affected his
social standing; and, apart from Eustacia, the humblest
walk of life would satisfy him if it could be made to work
in with some form of his culture scheme. To keep a cottage
night-school was one such form; and his affliction did
not master his spirit as it might otherwise have done.

He walked through the warm sun westward into those tracts
of Egdon with which he was best acquainted, being those
lying nearer to his old home. He saw before him in one
of the valleys the gleaming of whetted iron, and advancing,
dimly perceived that the shine came from the tool of a
man who was cutting furze. The worker recognized Clym,
and Yeobright learnt from the voice that the speaker
was Humphrey.

Humphrey expressed his sorrow at Clym's condition,
and added, "Now, if yours was low-class work like mine,
you could go on with it just the same."

"Yes, I could," said Yeobright musingly. "How much
do you get for cutting these faggots?"

"Half-a-crown a hundred, and in these long days I can
live very well on the wages."

During the whole of Yeobright's walk home to Alderworth he
was lost in reflections which were not of an unpleasant kind.
On his coming up to the house Eustacia spoke to him
from the open window, and he went across to her.

"Darling," he said, "I am much happier. And if my mother
were reconciled to me and to you I should, I think,
be happy quite."

"I fear that will never be," she said, looking afar
with her beautiful stormy eyes. "How CAN you say
'I am happier,' and nothing changed?"

"It arises from my having at last discovered something I
can do, and get a living at, in this time of misfortune."


"I am going to be a furze- and turf-cutter."

"No, Clym!" she said, the slight hopefulness previously
apparent in her face going off again, and leaving her
worse than before.

"Surely I shall. Is it not very unwise in us to go
on spending the little money we've got when I can keep
down expenditures by an honest occupation? The outdoor
exercise will do me good, and who knows but that in a few
months I shall be able to go on with my reading again?"

"But my grandfather offers to assist us, if we require assistance."

"We don't require it. If I go furze-cutting we shall
be fairly well off."

"In comparison with slaves, and the Israelites in Egypt,
and such people!" A bitter tear rolled down Eustacia's face,
which he did not see. There had been nonchalance
in his tone, showing her that he felt no absolute grief
at a consummation which to her was a positive horror.

The very next day Yeobright went to Humphrey's cottage,
and borrowed of him leggings, gloves, a whetstone, and a hook,
to use till he should be able to purchase some for himself.
Then he sallied forth with his new fellow-labourer and
old acquaintance, and selecting a spot where the furze grew
thickest he struck the first blow in his adopted calling.
His sight, like the wings in Rasselas, though useless
to him for his grand purpose, sufficed for this strait,
and he found that when a little practice should have hardened
his palms against blistering he would be able to work
with ease.

Day after day he rose with the sun, buckled on his leggings,
and went off to the rendezvous with Humphrey. His custom
was to work from four o'clock in the morning till noon;
then, when the heat of the day was at its highest,
to go home and sleep for an hour or two; afterwards coming
out again and working till dusk at nine.

This man from Paris was now so disguised by his
leather accoutrements, and by the goggles he was obliged
to wear over his eyes, that his closest friend might
have passed by without recognizing him. He was a brown
spot in the midst of an expanse of olive-green gorse,
and nothing more. Though frequently depressed in
spirit when not actually at work, owing to thoughts
of Eustacia's position and his mother's estrangement,
when in the full swing of labour he was cheerfully disposed and calm.

His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort,
his whole world being limited to a circuit of a few
feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and
winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band.
Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air,
and tugged at the heath and furze-flowers at his side
in such numbers as to weigh them down to the sod.
The strange amber-coloured butterflies which Egdon produced,
and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath
of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and sported
with the glittering point of his hook as he flourished
it up and down. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers
leaped over his feet, falling awkwardly on their backs,
heads, or hips, like unskilful acrobats, as chance
might rule; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations
under the fern-fronds with silent ones of homely hue.
Huge flies, ignorant of larders and wire-netting, and
quite in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing
that he was a man. In and out of the fern-dells snakes
glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise,
it being the season immediately following the shedding
of their old skins, when their colours are brightest.
Litters of young rabbits came out from their forms to sun
themselves upon hillocks, the hot beams blazing through
the delicate tissue of each thin-fleshed ear, and firing
it to a blood-red transparency in which the veins could
be seen. None of them feared him. The monotony of his
occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure.
A forced limitation of effort offered a justification
of homely courses to an unambitious man, whose conscience
would hardly have allowed him to remain in such obscurity
while his powers were unimpeded. Hence Yeobright sometimes
sang to himself, and when obliged to accompany Humphrey
in search of brambles for faggot-bonds he would amuse his
companion with sketches of Parisian life and character,
and so while away the time.

On one of these warm afternoons Eustacia walked out alone
in the direction of Yeobright's place of work. He was
busily chopping away at the furze, a long row of faggots
which stretched downward from his position representing
the labour of the day. He did not observe her approach,
and she stood close to him, and heard his undercurrent
of song.

It shocked her. To see him there, a poor afflicted man,
earning money by the sweat of his brow, had at first moved
her to tears; but to hear him sing and not at all rebel
against an occupation which, however satisfactory to himself,
was degrading to her, as an educated lady-wife, wounded
her through. Unconscious of her presence, he still went
on singing:--

"Le point du jour
A nos bosquets rend toute leur parure;
Flore est plus belle a son retour;
L'oiseau reprend doux chant d'amour;
Tout celebre dans la nature
Le point du jour.

"Le point du jour
Cause parfois, cause douleur extreme;
Que l'espace des nuits est court
Pour le berger brulant d'amour,
Force de quitter ce qu'il aime
Au point du jour!"

It was bitterly plain to Eustacia that he did not care much
about social failure; and the proud fair woman bowed her
head and wept in sick despair at thought of the blasting
effect upon her own life of that mood and condition in him.
Then she came forward.

"I would starve rather than do it!" she exclaimed vehemently.
"And you can sing! I will go and live with my grandfather again!"

"Eustacia! I did not see you, though I noticed
something moving," he said gently. He came forward,
pulled off his huge leather glove, and took her hand.
"Why do you speak in such a strange way? It is only a
little old song which struck my fancy when I was in Paris,
and now just applies to my life with you. Has your love
for me all died, then, because my appearance is no longer
that of a fine gentleman?"

"Dearest, you must not question me unpleasantly, or it
may make me not love you."

"Do you believe it possible that I would run the risk
of doing that?"

"Well, you follow out your own ideas, and won't
give in to mine when I wish you to leave off this
shameful labour. Is there anything you dislike in me
that you act so contrarily to my wishes? I am your wife,
and why will you not listen? Yes, I am your wife indeed!"

"I know what that tone means."

"What tone?"

"The tone in which you said, 'Your wife indeed.' It meant,
'Your wife, worse luck.'"

"It is hard in you to probe me with that remark.
A woman may have reason, though she is not without heart,
and if I felt 'worse luck,' it was no ignoble feeling--
it was only too natural. There, you see that at any
rate I do not attempt untruths. Do you remember how,
before we were married, I warned you that I had not good
wifely qualities?"

"You mock me to say that now. On that point at least
the only noble course would be to hold your tongue,
for you are still queen of me, Eustacia, though I may no
longer be king of you."

"You are my husband. Does not that content you?"

"Not unless you are my wife without regret."

"I cannot answer you. I remember saying that I should
be a serious matter on your hands."

"Yes, I saw that."

"Then you were too quick to see! No true lover would
have seen any such thing; you are too severe upon me,
Clym--I won't like your speaking so at all."

"Well, I married you in spite of it, and don't regret
doing so. How cold you seem this afternoon! and yet I
used to think there never was a warmer heart than yours."

"Yes, I fear we are cooling--I see it as well as you,"
she sighed mournfully. "And how madly we loved two months
ago! You were never tired of contemplating me, nor I
of contemplating you. Who could have thought then that by
this time my eyes would not seem so very bright to yours,
nor your lips so very sweet to mine? Two months--is it
possible? Yes, 'tis too true!"

"You sigh, dear, as if you were sorry for it; and that's
a hopeful sign."

"No. I don't sigh for that. There are other things
for me to sigh for, or any other woman in my place."

"That your chances in life are ruined by marrying in haste
an unfortunate man?"

"Why will you force me, Clym, to say bitter things? I
deserve pity as much as you. As much?--I think I deserve
it more. For you can sing! It would be a strange hour
which should catch me singing under such a cloud as this!
Believe me, sweet, I could weep to a degree that would
astonish and confound such an elastic mind as yours.
Even had you felt careless about your own affliction,
you might have refrained from singing out of sheer pity
for mine. God! if I were a man in such a position I would
curse rather than sing."

Yeobright placed his hand upon her arm. "Now, don't
you suppose, my inexperienced girl, that I cannot rebel,
in high Promethean fashion, against the gods and fate
as well as you. I have felt more steam and smoke of
that sort than you have ever heard of. But the more I
see of life the more do I perceive that there is nothing
particularly great in its greatest walks, and therefore
nothing particularly small in mine of furze-cutting.
If I feel that the greatest blessings vouchsafed to us
are not very valuable, how can I feel it to be any great
hardship when they are taken away? So I sing to pass
the time. Have you indeed lost all tenderness for me,
that you begrudge me a few cheerful moments?"

"I have still some tenderness left for you."

"Your words have no longer their old flavour. And so love
dies with good fortune!"

"I cannot listen to this, Clym--it will end bitterly,"
she said in a broken voice. "I will go home."

The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy
General Fiction
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