Chapter Chapter 16 · Chapter XVI

On this account Henchard’s manner towards Farfrae insensibly became

more reserved. He was courteous—too courteous—and Farfrae was quite

surprised at the good breeding which now for the first time showed

itself among the qualities of a man he had hitherto thought

undisciplined, if warm and sincere. The corn-factor seldom or never

again put his arm upon the young man’s shoulder so as to nearly weigh

him down with the pressure of mechanized friendship. He left off coming

to Donald’s lodgings and shouting into the passage. “Hoy, Farfrae, boy,

come and have some dinner with us! Don’t sit here in solitary

confinement!” But in the daily routine of their business there was

little change.

Thus their lives rolled on till a day of public rejoicing was suggested

to the country at large in celebration of a national event that had

recently taken place.

For some time Casterbridge, by nature slow, made no response. Then one

day Donald Farfrae broached the subject to Henchard by asking if he

would have any objection to lend some rick-cloths to himself and a few

others, who contemplated getting up an entertainment of some sort on

the day named, and required a shelter for the same, to which they might

charge admission at the rate of so much a head.

“Have as many cloths as you like,” Henchard replied.

When his manager had gone about the business Henchard was fired with

emulation. It certainly had been very remiss of him, as Mayor, he

thought, to call no meeting ere this, to discuss what should be done on

this holiday. But Farfrae had been so cursed quick in his movements as

to give old-fashioned people in authority no chance of the initiative.

However, it was not too late; and on second thoughts he determined to

take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of organizing some

amusements, if the other Councilmen would leave the matter in his

hands. To this they quite readily agreed, the majority being fine old

crusted characters who had a decided taste for living without worry.

So Henchard set about his preparations for a really brilliant

thing—such as should be worthy of the venerable town. As for Farfrae’s

little affair, Henchard nearly forgot it; except once now and then

when, on it coming into his mind, he said to himself, “Charge admission

at so much a head—just like a Scotchman!—who is going to pay anything a

head?” The diversions which the Mayor intended to provide were to be

entirely free.

He had grown so dependent upon Donald that he could scarcely resist

calling him in to consult. But by sheer self-coercion he refrained. No,

he thought, Farfrae would be suggesting such improvements in his damned

luminous way that in spite of himself he, Henchard, would sink to the

position of second fiddle, and only scrape harmonies to his manager’s

talents.

Everybody applauded the Mayor’s proposed entertainment, especially when

it became known that he meant to pay for it all himself.

Close to the town was an elevated green spot surrounded by an ancient

square earthwork—earthworks square and not square, were as common as

blackberries hereabout—a spot whereon the Casterbridge people usually

held any kind of merry-making, meeting, or sheep-fair that required

more space than the streets would afford. On one side it sloped to the

river Froom, and from any point a view was obtained of the country

round for many miles. This pleasant upland was to be the scene of

Henchard’s exploit.

He advertised about the town, in long posters of a pink colour, that

games of all sorts would take place here; and set to work a little

battalion of men under his own eye. They erected greasy-poles for

climbing, with smoked hams and local cheeses at the top. They placed

hurdles in rows for jumping over; across the river they laid a slippery

pole, with a live pig of the neighbourhood tied at the other end, to

become the property of the man who could walk over and get it. There

were also provided wheelbarrows for racing, donkeys for the same, a

stage for boxing, wrestling, and drawing blood generally; sacks for

jumping in. Moreover, not forgetting his principles, Henchard provided

a mammoth tea, of which everybody who lived in the borough was invited

to partake without payment. The tables were laid parallel with the

inner slope of the rampart, and awnings were stretched overhead.

Passing to and fro the Mayor beheld the unattractive exterior of

Farfrae’s erection in the West Walk, rick-cloths of different sizes and

colours being hung up to the arching trees without any regard to

appearance. He was easy in his mind now, for his own preparations far

transcended these.

The morning came. The sky, which had been remarkably clear down to

within a day or two, was overcast, and the weather threatening, the

wind having an unmistakable hint of water in it. Henchard wished he had

not been quite so sure about the continuance of a fair season. But it

was too late to modify or postpone, and the proceedings went on. At

twelve o’clock the rain began to fall, small and steady, commencing and

increasing so insensibly that it was difficult to state exactly when

dry weather ended or wet established itself. In an hour the slight

moisture resolved itself into a monotonous smiting of earth by heaven,

in torrents to which no end could be prognosticated.

A number of people had heroically gathered in the field but by three

o’clock Henchard discerned that his project was doomed to end in

failure. The hams at the top of the poles dripped watered smoke in the

form of a brown liquor, the pig shivered in the wind, the grain of the

deal tables showed through the sticking tablecloths, for the awning

allowed the rain to drift under at its will, and to enclose the sides

at this hour seemed a useless undertaking. The landscape over the river

disappeared; the wind played on the tent-cords in Æolian

improvisations, and at length rose to such a pitch that the whole

erection slanted to the ground those who had taken shelter within it

having to crawl out on their hands and knees.

But towards six the storm abated, and a drier breeze shook the moisture

from the grass bents. It seemed possible to carry out the programme

after all. The awning was set up again; the band was called out from

its shelter, and ordered to begin, and where the tables had stood a

place was cleared for dancing.

“But where are the folk?” said Henchard, after the lapse of

half-an-hour, during which time only two men and a woman had stood up

to dance. “The shops are all shut. Why don’t they come?”

“They are at Farfrae’s affair in the West Walk,” answered a Councilman

who stood in the field with the Mayor.

“A few, I suppose. But where are the body o’ ’em?”

“All out of doors are there.”

“Then the more fools they!”

Henchard walked away moodily. One or two young fellows gallantly came

to climb the poles, to save the hams from being wasted; but as there

were no spectators, and the whole scene presented the most melancholy

appearance Henchard gave orders that the proceedings were to be

suspended, and the entertainment closed, the food to be distributed

among the poor people of the town. In a short time nothing was left in

the field but a few hurdles, the tents, and the poles.

Henchard returned to his house, had tea with his wife and daughter, and

then walked out. It was now dusk. He soon saw that the tendency of all

promenaders was towards a particular spot in the Walks, and eventually

proceeded thither himself. The notes of a stringed band came from the

enclosure that Farfrae had erected—the pavilion as he called it—and

when the Mayor reached it he perceived that a gigantic tent had been

ingeniously constructed without poles or ropes. The densest point of

the avenue of sycamores had been selected, where the boughs made a

closely interlaced vault overhead; to these boughs the canvas had been

hung, and a barrel roof was the result. The end towards the wind was

enclosed, the other end was open. Henchard went round and saw the

interior.

In form it was like the nave of a cathedral with one gable removed, but

the scene within was anything but devotional. A reel or fling of some

sort was in progress; and the usually sedate Farfrae was in the midst

of the other dancers in the costume of a wild Highlander, flinging

himself about and spinning to the tune. For a moment Henchard could not

help laughing. Then he perceived the immense admiration for the

Scotchman that revealed itself in the women’s faces; and when this

exhibition was over, and a new dance proposed, and Donald had

disappeared for a time to return in his natural garments, he had an

unlimited choice of partners, every girl being in a coming-on

disposition towards one who so thoroughly understood the poetry of

motion as he.

All the town crowded to the Walk, such a delightful idea of a ballroom

never having occurred to the inhabitants before. Among the rest of the

onlookers were Elizabeth and her mother—the former thoughtful yet much

interested, her eyes beaming with a longing lingering light, as if

Nature had been advised by Correggio in their creation. The dancing

progressed with unabated spirit, and Henchard walked and waited till

his wife should be disposed to go home. He did not care to keep in the

light, and when he went into the dark it was worse, for there he heard

remarks of a kind which were becoming too frequent:

“Mr. Henchard’s rejoicings couldn’t say good morning to this,” said

one. “A man must be a headstrong stunpoll to think folk would go up to

that bleak place to-day.”

The other answered that people said it was not only in such things as

those that the Mayor was wanting. “Where would his business be if it

were not for this young fellow? ’Twas verily Fortune sent him to

Henchard. His accounts were like a bramblewood when Mr. Farfrae came.

He used to reckon his sacks by chalk strokes all in a row like

garden-palings, measure his ricks by stretching with his arms, weigh

his trusses by a lift, judge his hay by a chaw, and settle the price

with a curse. But now this accomplished young man does it all by

ciphering and mensuration. Then the wheat—that sometimes used to taste

so strong o’ mice when made into bread that people could fairly tell

the breed—Farfrae has a plan for purifying, so that nobody would dream

the smallest four-legged beast had walked over it once. O yes,

everybody is full of him, and the care Mr. Henchard has to keep him, to

be sure!” concluded this gentleman.

“But he won’t do it for long, good-now,” said the other.

“No!” said Henchard to himself behind the tree. “Or if he do, he’ll be

honeycombed clean out of all the character and standing that he’s built

up in these eighteen year!”

He went back to the dancing pavilion. Farfrae was footing a quaint

little dance with Elizabeth-Jane—an old country thing, the only one she

knew, and though he considerately toned down his movements to suit her

demurer gait, the pattern of the shining little nails in the soles of

his boots became familiar to the eyes of every bystander. The tune had

enticed her into it; being a tune of a busy, vaulting, leaping

sort—some low notes on the silver string of each fiddle, then a

skipping on the small, like running up and down ladders—“Miss M’Leod of

Ayr” was its name, so Mr. Farfrae had said, and that it was very

popular in his own country.

It was soon over, and the girl looked at Henchard for approval; but he

did not give it. He seemed not to see her. “Look here, Farfrae,” he

said, like one whose mind was elsewhere, “I’ll go to Port-Bredy Great

Market to-morrow myself. You can stay and put things right in your

clothes-box, and recover strength to your knees after your vagaries.”

He planted on Donald an antagonistic glare that had begun as a smile.

Some other townsmen came up, and Donald drew aside. “What’s this,

Henchard,” said Alderman Tubber, applying his thumb to the corn-factor

like a cheese-taster. “An opposition randy to yours, eh? Jack’s as good

as his master, eh? Cut ye out quite, hasn’t he?”

“You see, Mr. Henchard,” said the lawyer, another goodnatured friend,

“where you made the mistake was in going so far afield. You should have

taken a leaf out of his book, and have had your sports in a sheltered

place like this. But you didn’t think of it, you see; and he did, and

that’s where he’s beat you.”

“He’ll be top-sawyer soon of you two, and carry all afore him,” added

jocular Mr. Tubber.

“No,” said Henchard gloomily. “He won’t be that, because he’s shortly

going to leave me.” He looked towards Donald, who had come near. “Mr.

Farfrae’s time as my manager is drawing to a close—isn’t it, Farfrae?”

The young man, who could now read the lines and folds of Henchard’s

strongly-traced face as if they were clear verbal inscriptions, quietly

assented; and when people deplored the fact, and asked why it was, he

simply replied that Mr. Henchard no longer required his help.

Henchard went home, apparently satisfied. But in the morning, when his

jealous temper had passed away, his heart sank within him at what he

had said and done. He was the more disturbed when he found that this

time Farfrae was determined to take him at his word.