Far from the Madding Crowd

HE SHEEP FAIR—TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE’S HAND

Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,
merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the
sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which
retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork,
consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form
encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and
there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding
road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres
enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent
erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized
canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their
sojourn here.

Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started
from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving
their charges a few miles each day—not more than ten or twelve—and
resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously
chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The
shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for
the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which
he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get
worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet
these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the
flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly
ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.

The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the
hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But the
large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable
and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this
account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood’s shepherd and Cain Ball,
accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of
Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,—old George the dog of course
behind them.

When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted the
dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen
floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect
around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of
the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the
serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they
entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after
multitude, horned and hornless—blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks
and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the
fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs
were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in
so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though
they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences,
a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a
gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees.

The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the
old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba’s and Farmer
Boldwood’s mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o’clock, their
vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in
geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling
under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect
leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking
the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool
was beginning to curl like a child’s flaxen hair, though surpassed in
this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less
curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small
flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied faces
and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their
swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that
quarter.

All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were
penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each
flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys for
pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers
and sellers from far and near.

In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to
force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of
exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the
day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the
shepherd’s responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this
tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed
concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on.

“The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin’s Ride to York and the
Death of Black Bess,” replied the man promptly, without turning his
eyes or leaving off tying.

As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating
harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black Bess standing
in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof
were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage
over which the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such
genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to
crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible Jan Coggan and
Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day.

“That’s the great ruffen pushing me!” screamed a woman in front of Jan
over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest.

“How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?” said Coggan,
in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid folk as
far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as in a
vice.

There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their
echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in
which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the
women in front.

“Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!”
exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken
by the wind.

“Now,” said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at
large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, “did ye ever
hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I
could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might eat the
show for me!”

“Don’t ye lose yer temper, Jan!” implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a
whisper. “They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the
shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind.”

Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please
a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, Poorgrass
being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission,
which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking
hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in
spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face
and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from
a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. So they all
entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the
outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a
sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows
at high pressure within.

At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. One
of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into halves
by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass,
pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly
recognise as Sergeant Troy.

Troy’s appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The
brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start on
a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and
joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to
Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He
ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a
precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword
Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give
him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form
of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition
might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was
disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever present,
too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but
chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba
thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. To
England he did return at last; but the fact of drawing nearer to
Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter his
old groove at the place became modified. It was with gloom he
considered on landing at Liverpool that if he were to go home his
reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to contemplate; for what
Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which
sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and
healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a woman to be made a fool of, or a
woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure existence with a
spirited wife to whom at first entering he would be beholden for food
and lodging? Moreover, it was not at all unlikely that his wife would
fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then
become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of
poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between
them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons
touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his
return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether
if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which
existed for him there.

At this time—the July preceding the September in which we find at
Greenhill Fair—he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing
in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself to the
manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended
apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the animal’s back when in full
gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these—all more or less based
upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman—Troy was taken into the
company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his
personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the
appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought
the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was
thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the
future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the
company on this day.

And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the
following incident had taken place. Bathsheba—who was driven to the
fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass—had, like every one else, read
or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan
Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was
not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see
him. This particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the
fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like
chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who had
been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing
her comparatively isolated, came up to her side.

“I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?” he said,
nervously.

“Oh yes, thank you,” said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre
of her cheeks. “I was fortunate enough to sell them all just as we got
upon the hill, so we hadn’t to pen at all.”

“And now you are entirely at leisure?”

“Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours’ time:
otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large tent and
the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of ‘Turpin’s Ride to
York’? Turpin was a real man, was he not?”

“Oh yes, perfectly true—all of it. Indeed, I think I’ve heard Jan
Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin’s friend, quite
well.”

“Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his
relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed.”

“Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never
seen it played, I suppose?”

“Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young.
Hark! What’s that prancing? How they shout!”

“Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing you
would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my mistake,
if it is one; but if you would like to, I’ll get a seat for you with
pleasure.” Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, “I myself shall not
stay to see it: I’ve seen it before.”

Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld
her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. She had
been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was
always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be
seen; and hence it was that she said, “Then if you will just look in
first, to see if there’s room, I think I will go in for a minute or
two.”

And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with
Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a “reserved” seat, again
withdrew.

This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous part
of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of
carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was
the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded
spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the
arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half
the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in
this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as upon the ponies
and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre,
Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was forced to
make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with
some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving
a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed
the fat red nape of Coggan’s neck among those standing just below her,
and Joseph Poorgrass’s saintly profile a little further on.

The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous
semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into
Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and
divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the
dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted
on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps
suspended there.

Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a
reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before
him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back
in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his
personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his
voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possibility
of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but
he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them, he had
said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the
scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he
had not half enough considered the point.

She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury
people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise this power over
him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and care nothing? He
could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain
unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the
possibility that his attractive young wife, who already despised him,
should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a condition after
so long a time. He actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed
beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury
should have led him to dally about the country in this way.

But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit’s end.
He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing
space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as the
individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the
aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes.

“Here’s the devil to pay!” said Troy.

“How’s that?”

“Why, there’s a blackguard creditor in the tent I don’t want to see,
who’ll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth.
What’s to be done?”

“You must appear now, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“But the play must proceed.”

“Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can’t speak his
part, but that he’ll perform it just the same without speaking.”

The proprietor shook his head.

“Anyhow, play or no play, I won’t open my mouth,” said Troy, firmly.

“Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we’ll manage,” said the
other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his
leading man just at this time. “I won’t tell ’em anything about your
keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you
can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the
heroic places, you know. They’ll never find out that the speeches are
omitted.”

This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin’s speeches were not many or
long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and
accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt
into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the
turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by
the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap
denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested
“Well done!” which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating,
and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast
between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the
form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be
let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from
seizing Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, “Of
course he’s not really shot, Jan—only seemingly!” And when the last sad
scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be
carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the
spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand,
exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him, “’Twill be something to tell
of at Warren’s in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children.”
For many a year in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who
had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the
hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some
thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others’
memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never had
done so before.

Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the
character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had
felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by
judiciously “lining” his face with a wire rendered him safe from the
eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it
was got through.

There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was lighted
up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to
introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when,
whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row
of spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted
keenly into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position, after
having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his
wife’s sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury.

At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.
That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there
was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing
news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his
return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation
would discredit him still further in his wife’s eyes, returned in full
force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his
being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was
anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife’s temporal affairs before
deciding which to do.

In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred to
him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would
be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the
establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now
almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs
ready to go home.

The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper
from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable place
for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he was
jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of high
repute for catering through all the country round. The tent was divided
into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the
first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most
exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar,
behind which the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and
shirt-sleeves, and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under
canvas all his life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table,
which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show,
with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.

Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying
pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny
a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see
nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an
opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon
retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He
could hear Bathsheba’s voice immediately inside the canvas; she was
conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not
so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she
reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of
the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two
little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners
left a hole the size of a wafer. Close to this he placed his face,
withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been
within twelve inches of the top of Bathsheba’s head. It was too near to
be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side and lower
down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and
safe to survey her by looking horizontally.

Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a
cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice
was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,
Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas
that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact,
as good as in Troy’s arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast
carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth
as he gazed in.

Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him
as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as ever,
and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract his
sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl
who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him,
would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to
make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept
for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be
a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed “Turpin” as long
as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past months
of his existence must be entirely blotted out.

“Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma’am?” said Farmer
Boldwood.

“Thank you,” said Bathsheba. “But I must be going at once. It was great
neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I should have
gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no idea of coming
in here; but there’s nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I
should never have got one if you hadn’t helped me.”

Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each
varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her
little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on
paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered
the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability
endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt
to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him,
when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Pennyways; “I’ve some private information for
your ear alone.”

“I cannot hear it now,” she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not
endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her
with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the
expense of persons maligned.

“I’ll write it down,” said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over the
table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the
paper, in a round hand—

“Your husband is here. I’ve seen him. Who’s the fool now?”

This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not read
it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then,
with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away,
left her.

From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been
able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment’s doubt that
the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done
to check the exposure. “Curse my luck!” he whispered, and added
imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.
Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap—

“Don’t you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I’ll destroy it.”

“Oh, well,” said Bathsheba, carelessly, “perhaps it is unjust not to
read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend
him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected
with my work-people. He’s always doing that.”

Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards her
a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she
put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse,
and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The
moment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he
would play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair hand,
and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist,
encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar
it all was to him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such
an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the
tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a
little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her
fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank
and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her.
Troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in
the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards,
ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front
entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and
prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should
choose.

Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there
gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make
himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of
a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting
the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had
imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note,
for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind.
His chagrin and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would
be a good joke, it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have
become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had
lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old
men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing
“Major Malley’s Reel” to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy
glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a
mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together.