Bab Bab 38 · Chapter XXXVIII

The proceedings had been brief—too brief—to Lucetta whom an

intoxicating _Weltlust_ had fairly mastered; but they had brought her a

great triumph nevertheless. The shake of the Royal hand still lingered

in her fingers; and the chit-chat she had overheard, that her husband

might possibly receive the honour of knighthood, though idle to a

degree, seemed not the wildest vision; stranger things had occurred to

men so good and captivating as her Scotchman was.

After the collision with the Mayor, Henchard had withdrawn behind the

ladies’ stand; and there he stood, regarding with a stare of

abstraction the spot on the lapel of his coat where Farfrae’s hand had

seized it. He put his own hand there, as if he could hardly realize

such an outrage from one whom it had once been his wont to treat with

ardent generosity. While pausing in this half-stupefied state the

conversation of Lucetta with the other ladies reached his ears; and he

distinctly heard her deny him—deny that he had assisted Donald, that he

was anything more than a common journeyman.

He moved on homeward, and met Jopp in the archway to the Bull Stake.

“So you’ve had a snub,” said Jopp.

“And what if I have?” answered Henchard sternly.

“Why, I’ve had one too, so we are both under the same cold shade.” He

briefly related his attempt to win Lucetta’s intercession.

Henchard merely heard his story, without taking it deeply in. His own

relation to Farfrae and Lucetta overshadowed all kindred ones. He went

on saying brokenly to himself, “She has supplicated to me in her time;

and now her tongue won’t own me nor her eyes see me!... And he—how

angry he looked. He drove me back as if I were a bull breaking

fence.... I took it like a lamb, for I saw it could not be settled

there. He can rub brine on a green wound!... But he shall pay for it,

and she shall be sorry. It must come to a tussle—face to face; and then

we’ll see how a coxcomb can front a man!”

Without further reflection the fallen merchant, bent on some wild

purpose, ate a hasty dinner and went forth to find Farfrae. After being

injured by him as a rival, and snubbed by him as a journeyman, the

crowning degradation had been reserved for this day—that he should be

shaken at the collar by him as a vagabond in the face of the whole

town.

The crowds had dispersed. But for the green arches which still stood as

they were erected Casterbridge life had resumed its ordinary shape.

Henchard went down Corn Street till he came to Farfrae’s house, where

he knocked, and left a message that he would be glad to see his

employer at the granaries as soon as he conveniently could come there.

Having done this he proceeded round to the back and entered the yard.

Nobody was present, for, as he had been aware, the labourers and

carters were enjoying a half-holiday on account of the events of the

morning—though the carters would have to return for a short time later

on, to feed and litter down the horses. He had reached the granary

steps and was about to ascend, when he said to himself aloud, “I’m

stronger than he.”

Henchard returned to a shed, where he selected a short piece of rope

from several pieces that were lying about; hitching one end of this to

a nail, he took the other in his right hand and turned himself bodily

round, while keeping his arm against his side; by this contrivance he

pinioned the arm effectively. He now went up the ladders to the top

floor of the corn-stores.

It was empty except of a few sacks, and at the further end was the door

often mentioned, opening under the cathead and chain that hoisted the

sacks. He fixed the door open and looked over the sill. There was a

depth of thirty or forty feet to the ground; here was the spot on which

he had been standing with Farfrae when Elizabeth-Jane had seen him lift

his arm, with many misgivings as to what the movement portended.

He retired a few steps into the loft and waited. From this elevated

perch his eyes could sweep the roofs round about, the upper parts of

the luxurious chestnut trees, now delicate in leaves of a week’s age,

and the drooping boughs of the lines; Farfrae’s garden and the green

door leading therefrom. In course of time—he could not say how

long—that green door opened and Farfrae came through. He was dressed as

if for a journey. The low light of the nearing evening caught his head

and face when he emerged from the shadow of the wall, warming them to a

complexion of flame-colour. Henchard watched him with his mouth firmly

set, the squareness of his jaw and the verticality of his profile being

unduly marked.

Farfrae came on with one hand in his pocket, and humming a tune in a

way which told that the words were most in his mind. They were those of

the song he had sung when he arrived years before at the Three

Mariners, a poor young man, adventuring for life and fortune, and

scarcely knowing witherward:—

“And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie’s a hand o’ thine.”

Nothing moved Henchard like an old melody. He sank back. “No; I can’t

do it!” he gasped. “Why does the infernal fool begin that now!”

At length Farfrae was silent, and Henchard looked out of the loft door.

“Will ye come up here?” he said.

“Ay, man,” said Farfrae. “I couldn’t see ye. What’s wrang?”

A minute later Henchard heard his feet on the lowest ladder. He heard

him land on the first floor, ascend and land on the second, begin the

ascent to the third. And then his head rose through the trap behind.

“What are you doing up here at this time?” he asked, coming forward.

“Why didn’t ye take your holiday like the rest of the men?” He spoke in

a tone which had just severity enough in it to show that he remembered

the untoward event of the forenoon, and his conviction that Henchard

had been drinking.

Henchard said nothing; but going back he closed the stair hatchway, and

stamped upon it so that it went tight into its frame; he next turned to

the wondering young man, who by this time observed that one of

Henchard’s arms was bound to his side.

“Now,” said Henchard quietly, “we stand face to face—man and man. Your

money and your fine wife no longer lift ’ee above me as they did but

now, and my poverty does not press me down.”

“What does it all mean?” asked Farfrae simply.

“Wait a bit, my lad. You should ha’ thought twice before you affronted

to extremes a man who had nothing to lose. I’ve stood your rivalry,

which ruined me, and your snubbing, which humbled me; but your

hustling, that disgraced me, I won’t stand!”

Farfrae warmed a little at this. “Ye’d no business there,” he said.

“As much as any one among ye! What, you forward stripling, tell a man

of my age he’d no business there!” The anger-vein swelled in his

forehead as he spoke.

“You insulted Royalty, Henchard; and ’twas my duty, as the chief

magistrate, to stop you.”

“Royalty be damned,” said Henchard. “I am as loyal as you, come to

that!”

“I am not here to argue. Wait till you cool doon, wait till you cool;

and you will see things the same way as I do.”

“You may be the one to cool first,” said Henchard grimly. “Now this is

the case. Here be we, in this four-square loft, to finish out that

little wrestle you began this morning. There’s the door, forty foot

above ground. One of us two puts the other out by that door—the master

stays inside. If he likes he may go down afterwards and give the alarm

that the other has fallen out by accident—or he may tell the

truth—that’s his business. As the strongest man I’ve tied one arm to

take no advantage of ’ee. D’ye understand? Then here’s at ’ee!”

There was no time for Farfrae to do aught but one thing, to close with

Henchard, for the latter had come on at once. It was a wrestling match,

the object of each being to give his antagonist a back fall; and on

Henchard’s part, unquestionably, that it should be through the door.

At the outset Henchard’s hold by his only free hand, the right, was on

the left side of Farfrae’s collar, which he firmly grappled, the latter

holding Henchard by his collar with the contrary hand. With his right

he endeavoured to get hold of his antagonist’s left arm, which,

however, he could not do, so adroitly did Henchard keep it in the rear

as he gazed upon the lowered eyes of his fair and slim antagonist.

Henchard planted the first toe forward, Farfrae crossing him with his;

and thus far the struggle had very much the appearance of the ordinary

wrestling of those parts. Several minutes were passed by them in this

attitude, the pair rocking and writhing like trees in a gale, both

preserving an absolute silence. By this time their breathing could be

heard. Then Farfrae tried to get hold of the other side of Henchard’s

collar, which was resisted by the larger man exerting all his force in

a wrenching movement, and this part of the struggle ended by his

forcing Farfrae down on his knees by sheer pressure of one of his

muscular arms. Hampered as he was, however, he could not keep him

there, and Farfrae finding his feet again the struggle proceeded as

before.

By a whirl Henchard brought Donald dangerously near the precipice;

seeing his position the Scotchman for the first time locked himself to

his adversary, and all the efforts of that infuriated Prince of

Darkness—as he might have been called from his appearance just now—were

inadequate to lift or loosen Farfrae for a time. By an extraordinary

effort he succeeded at last, though not until they had got far back

again from the fatal door. In doing so Henchard contrived to turn

Farfrae a complete somersault. Had Henchard’s other arm been free it

would have been all over with Farfrae then. But again he regained his

feet, wrenching Henchard’s arm considerably, and causing him sharp

pain, as could be seen from the twitching of his face. He instantly

delivered the younger man an annihilating turn by the left fore-hip, as

it used to be expressed, and following up his advantage thrust him

towards the door, never loosening his hold till Farfrae’s fair head was

hanging over the window-sill, and his arm dangling down outside the

wall.

“Now,” said Henchard between his gasps, “this is the end of what you

began this morning. Your life is in my hands.”

“Then take it, take it!” said Farfrae. “Ye’ve wished to long enough!”

Henchard looked down upon him in silence, and their eyes met. “O

Farfrae!—that’s not true!” he said bitterly. “God is my witness that no

man ever loved another as I did thee at one time.... And now—though I

came here to kill ’ee, I cannot hurt thee! Go and give me in charge—do

what you will—I care nothing for what comes of me!”

He withdrew to the back part of the loft, loosened his arm, and flung

himself in a corner upon some sacks, in the abandonment of remorse.

Farfrae regarded him in silence; then went to the hatch and descended

through it. Henchard would fain have recalled him, but his tongue

failed in its task, and the young man’s steps died on his ear.

Henchard took his full measure of shame and self-reproach. The scenes

of his first acquaintance with Farfrae rushed back upon him—that time

when the curious mixture of romance and thrift in the young man’s

composition so commanded his heart that Farfrae could play upon him as

on an instrument. So thoroughly subdued was he that he remained on the

sacks in a crouching attitude, unusual for a man, and for such a man.

Its womanliness sat tragically on the figure of so stern a piece of

virility. He heard a conversation below, the opening of the coach-house

door, and the putting in of a horse, but took no notice.

Here he stayed till the thin shades thickened to opaque obscurity, and

the loft-door became an oblong of gray light—the only visible shape

around. At length he arose, shook the dust from his clothes wearily,

felt his way to the hatch, and gropingly descended the steps till he

stood in the yard.

“He thought highly of me once,” he murmured. “Now he’ll hate me and

despise me for ever!”

He became possessed by an overpowering wish to see Farfrae again that

night, and by some desperate pleading to attempt the well-nigh

impossible task of winning pardon for his late mad attack. But as he

walked towards Farfrae’s door he recalled the unheeded doings in the

yard while he had lain above in a sort of stupor. Farfrae he remembered

had gone to the stable and put the horse into the gig; while doing so

Whittle had brought him a letter; Farfrae had then said that he would

not go towards Budmouth as he had intended—that he was unexpectedly

summoned to Weatherbury, and meant to call at Mellstock on his way

thither, that place lying but one or two miles out of his course.

He must have come prepared for a journey when he first arrived in the

yard, unsuspecting enmity; and he must have driven off (though in a

changed direction) without saying a word to any one on what had

occurred between themselves.

It would therefore be useless to call at Farfrae’s house till very

late.

There was no help for it but to wait till his return, though waiting

was almost torture to his restless and self-accusing soul. He walked

about the streets and outskirts of the town, lingering here and there

till he reached the stone bridge of which mention has been made, an

accustomed halting-place with him now. Here he spent a long time, the

purl of waters through the weirs meeting his ear, and the Casterbridge

lights glimmering at no great distance off.

While leaning thus upon the parapet his listless attention was awakened

by sounds of an unaccustomed kind from the town quarter. They were a

confusion of rhythmical noises, to which the streets added yet more

confusion by encumbering them with echoes. His first incurious thought

that the clangour arose from the town band, engaged in an attempt to

round off a memorable day in a burst of evening harmony, was

contradicted by certain peculiarities of reverberation. But

inexplicability did not rouse him to more than a cursory heed; his

sense of degradation was too strong for the admission of foreign ideas;

and he leant against the parapet as before.