Fifty One: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy - Bathsheba Speaks to Boldwood

Joseph Poorgrass was to take back Bathsheba home from the Greenhill Fair.  But it was discovered in the afternoon that Joseph was suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye  As a coachman he was hardly safe in that condition.  So it was decided that Oak would take his place in Bathsheba's conveyance and drive her back home.  But Oak had found himself occupied with those portions of Boldwood's flocks that were not disposed of.  Bathsheba resolved to drive herself, as she had  many times done from Casterbridge to market, and trusted her good angel for performing the journey.  Boldwood offered to ride on horseback beside her.  The moon having risen, and the gig being ready she drove across the hilltop in the wending ways which led downwards.

Only the moon and the hill it flooded with light existed. The rest of the world was in oblivion. Boldwood on horseback was following her. They descended into the low lands.  The sounds of those left on the hill came like voices from the sky.  And the light of the hill appeared like camp fire.  They soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of the hill and got upon the high road. Bathsheba had perceived Boldwood's staunch devotion to herself was still undiminished, and she sympathised him deeply.  The sight had quite depressed her this evening; and had reminded her of her folly, she wished anew, as she ha wished many months ago for some means of making reparation for her fault.  Her pity for the man who so persistently loved on to his own injury and permanent gloom had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious consideration, which appeared almost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to the dream of a Jacob's seven years in poor Boldwood's mind. 

He soon advanced his position from the rear, and rode close by her. They had gone two or three miles in the moonlight, speaking aimlessly, concerning the fair, farming, Gabriel Oak, and other different subjects, when Boldwood said suddenly and simply, "Mrs Troy, you will marry again some day?" 

This point-blank query confused her, and after a long silence she said, "I have not seriously thought of any such subject." 

"I quite understand that.  Yet your late husband has been dead nearly one year, 

and" ---

"You forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and so I am not legally a widow," she said. 

"Not absolutely proved, but it was proved circumstantially.  A man saw him drowning, too.  No reasonable person has any doubt of his death; nor have you ma'am, I should imagine." 

"I certainly, at first, had a strange unacceptable feeling that he could not have perished.  But I am sure that I shall saw him no more.  But I am far from thinking of marriage with another.  I do not indulge in such a thought."

They were silent now, and have struck into an infrequented track, and the creaks of Boldwood's saddle and her gig springs were all the sounds to be heard.  Boldwood ended the pause. 

"Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms to Three Choughs, in Casterbridge?  Every dog has his day: that was mine."

"I know, I know it all," she said hurriedly. 

"I shall never cease regretting that events so fell out as to deny you to me."

"I too, am very sorry," she said. 

"I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past times with you --- that I was something to before he was anything, and that you belonged almost to me.  But of course, that's nothing.  You never liked me." 

"I did; and respected you, too." 

"Do you like me, or do you respect me?" 

"I don't know. ---- at least I cannot tell you. It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language made by men to express theirs.  My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable, and wicked.  I shall always regret it.  If there had been anything to make amends, I would almost gladly have done it; there was nothing on earth I do longed to do to repair the error.  But that was not possible."

"Don't blame yourself.  Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are a widow, would you repair the old wrong to me by marrying me?"

"I cannot say."

"But you might at some future time.

"Oh yes, I might."

"Well, then, without any proof of any kind you may marry again in about six years from the present, you may marry?"

"Oh yes, I know all that.  But don't talk of that now.  Where may we be all by that time?"

"They will soon glide by, and it will soon seem an astonishingly short time to look back upon when they are past."

"Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience."

"Now listen, Boldwood pleaded, "If I wait that time, will you marry me? You own that you owe me amends, let that be your way of making them." 

"But Mr Boldwood ---- six years ---" 

"Do you want to be the wife of any other man?" 

"No indeed!  I mean that I don't like to talk about this matter now.  Perhaps it is not proper.  Let us drop it for the present, please do." 

"I am a middle aged man, willing to protect you for the remainder of our lives.  On your side, there is no passion or haste; on mine perhaps there is.  If you choose from a feeling of pity, and as you say, a wish to make amends, and make a bargain with me, and make an agreement, late though it may be, O Bathsheba, if you marry again, promise that you will marry me!"

His tone was so excited that she almost feared him.  It was simple physical fear ---- the weak of the strong.

"I will never marry another man while you wish me to be your wife."

"But let it stand in these simple words," insisted Boldwood, "that in six years time you will be my wife.  Now this time I know you will keep your word."

"That's why I hesitate to give."

"But do give it," persisted Boldwood.

She breathed and then said, "Oh, what shall I do? I don't love you. I never shall love you as much as a woman ought to love her husband."

"Promise!"

"Suppose I cannot promise soon."

"But soon is perhaps never?" 

"Oh, no, it is not." 

"Christmas!" 

Days after the Greenhill Fair return, Bathsheba entered a comparative lull period of her life.  Bathsheba and Gabriel had been auditing the accounts, and something occurred in the course which led Oak to say, "Mr Boldwood will never forget you ma'am, never."

This gave Bathsheba an opportunity to share her fears about Boldwood, his request to marry him, how he wanted to extract a  promise from her, her fears against giving such a promise, and she concluded, "it is a thing I have not breathed to a living soul as yet, --- I believe that if I don't give him my word, he will go out of his mind."

"Really, do you?" said Gabriel gravely.

"I believe this," she continued, with reckless frankness; "I am grieved and troubled to my soul about it: I believe I hold the future of that man in my hand.  His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him.  Oh, Gabriel, I tremble at my responsibility, for it is terrible!" 

"I think, as I told you years ago," said Gabriel, "his life is a total blank when he isn't hoping for you.  But nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as you fancy.  His natural manner has always been dark and strange, you know.  But since the case is so sad, why don't you give a conditional promise?" 

"But, is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very little credit and I do want and long to be discreet in this!  And six years!  Why we may all be in our graves by that time.  It is all absurd." 

"Perhaps it is uncommon to make such a promise.  But I don't see anything wrong with it," said Gabriel.

"You may suppose that love is wanting," said Bathsheba.  "Love is utterly bygone, worn out, miserable thing with me --- for him or anyone else." Bathsheba was trying to remind Gabriel that he was once her suitor. She wanted to know whether he still entertains his old passion.

But Gabriel was matter of fact, and said, "that your want of love seems to me, take away harm from such an agreement with him."

"I don't think my husband will come back. If he is alive he would have been here. But I have to wait that seven years period."

"Why don't you ask Mr Thirdly's advice on how to treat Mr Boldwood?" asked Gabriel.

"No.  When I want a broad minded opinion for general enlightenment, distinct from special advice, I never go to a man who deals in the subject professionally.  So I like the parson's opinion on law, the lawyer's on doctoring, the doctor's on business, and my business man's --- that's yours ---- on morals."

"And on love?"---

"My own."

"I am afraid there's a hitch in that argument," said Gabriel, with a grave smile.

She did not reply at once.  And then saying, "Good evening Mr Oak," went away.

Her intention was not to receive any advice on how to treat Boldwood.  She expected Oak to say that he still loves her, could wait for you.  That did not happen. That was the insect sting.

END OF THE CHAPTER