The Mayor of Casterbridge - Томас Харди

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high temperatures as to raise serious considerations for the articles exposed to its vapours. But Elizabeth-Jane noticed that, though this filling went on with great promptness up and down the table, nobody filled the Mayor’s glass, who still drank large quantities of water from the tumbler behind the clump of crystal vessels intended for wine and spirits.

      ‘They don’t fill Mr Henchard’s wine-glasses,’ she ventured to say to her elbow acquaintance, the old man.

      ‘Ah, no; don’t ye know him to be the celebrated abstaining worthy of that name? He scorns all tempting liquors; never touches nothing. O yes, he’ve strong qualities that way. I have heard tell that he swore a gospel oath in by-gone times, and has bode by it ever since. So they don’t press him, knowing it would be unbecoming in the face of that; for yer gospel oaths is a serious thing.’

      Another elderly man, hearing this discourse, now joined in by inquiring, ‘How much longer have he got to suffer from it, Solomon Longways?’

      ‘Another two year, they say. I don’t know the why and the wherefore of his fixing such a time, for ’a never has told anybody. But ’tis exactly two calendar years longer, they say. A powerful mind to hold out so long!’

      ‘True … But there’s great strength in hope. Knowing that in four-and-twenty months’ time ye’ll be out of your bondage, and able to make up for all you’ve suffered, by partaking without stint—why, it keeps a man up, no doubt.’

      ‘No doubt, Christopher Coney, no doubt. And ’a must need such reflections—a lonely widow man,’ says Longways.

      ‘When did he lose his wife?’ asked Elizabeth.

      ‘I never knowed her. ’Twas afore he came to Casterbridge,’ Solomon Longways replied with terminative emphasis, as if the fact of his ignorance of Mrs Henchard were sufficient to deprive her history of all interest. ‘But I know that ’a’s a banded teetotaller, and that if any of his men be ever so little overtook by a drop he’s down upon ’em as stern as the Lord upon the jovial Jews.’

      ‘Has he many men, then?’ said Elizabeth-Jane.

      ‘Many! Why, my good maid, he’s the powerfullest member of the Town Council, and quite a principal man in the country round besides. Never a big dealing in wheat, barley, oats, hay, roots, and such-like but Henchard’s got a hand in it. Ay, and he’ll go into other things too; and that’s where he makes his mistake. He worked his way up from nothing when ’a came here; and now he’s a pillar of the town. Not but what he’s been shaken a little to-year about this bad corn he has supplied in his contracts. I’ve seen the sun rise over Durnover Moor these nine-and-sixty year, and though Mr Henchard has never cussed me unfairly ever since I’ve worked for’n, seeing I be but a little small man, I must say that I have never before tasted such rough bread as has been made from Henchard’s wheat lately. ’Tis that growed out that ye could a’most call it malt, and there’s a list at bottom o’ the loaf as thick as the sole of one’s shoe.

      The band now struck up another melody, and by the time it was ended the dinner was over, and speeches began to be made. The evening being calm, and the windows still open, these orations could be distinctly heard. Henchard’s voice arose above the rest; he was telling a story of his hay-dealing experiences, in which he had outwitted a sharper who had been bent upon outwitting him.

      ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ responded his audience at the upshot of the story; and hilarity was general till a new voice arose with, ‘This is all very well; but how about the bad bread?’

      It came from the lower end of the table, where there sat a group of minor tradesmen who, although part of the company, appeared to be a little below the social level of the others; and who seemed to nourish a certain independence of opinion and carry on discussions not quite in harmony with those at the head; just as the west end of a church is sometimes persistently found to sing out of time and tune with the leading spirits in the chancel.

      This interruption about the bad bread afforded infinite satisfaction to the loungers outside, several of whom were in the mood which finds its pleasure in others’ discomfiture; and hence they echoed pretty freely, ‘Hey! How about the bad bread, Mr Mayor?’ Moreover, feeling none of the restraints of those who shared the feast, they could afford to add, ‘You rather ought to tell the story o’ that, sir!’

      The interruption was sufficient to compel the Mayor to notice it.

      ‘Well, I admit that the wheat turned out badly,’ he said. ‘But I was taken in in buying it as much as the bakers who bought it o’ me.’

      ‘And the poor folk who had to eat it whether or no,’ said the inharmonious man outside the window.

      Henchard’s face darkened. There was temper under the thin bland surface—the temper which, artificially intensified, had banished a wife nearly a score of years before.

      ‘You must make allowances for the accidents of a large business,’ he said, ‘You must bear in mind that the weather just at the harvest of that corn was worse than we have known it for years. However, I have mended my arrangements on account o’t. Since I have found my business too large to be well looked after by myself alone, I have advertised for a thorough good man as manager of the corn department. When I’ve got him you will find these mistakes will no longer occur—matters will be better looked into.’

      ‘But what are you going to do to repay us for the past?’ inquired the man who had before spoken, and who seemed to be a baker or miller. ‘Will you replace the grown flour we’ve still got by sound grain?’

      Henchard’s face had become still more stern at these interruptions, and he drank from his tumbler of water as if to calm himself or gain time. Instead of vouchsafing a direct reply, he stiffly observed—

      ‘If anybody will tell me how to turn grown wheat into wholesome wheat I’ll take it back with pleasure. But it can’t be done.’

      Henchard was not to be drawn again. Having said this, he sat down.

      Now the group outside the window had within the last few minutes been reinforced by new arrivals, some of them respectable shopkeepers and their assistants, who had come out for a whiff of air after putting up the shutters for the night; some of them of a lower class. Distinct from either there appeared a stranger—a young man of remarkably pleasant aspect—who carried in his hand a carpet-bag of the smart floral pattern prevalent in such articles at that time.

      He was ruddy and of a fair countenance, bright-eyed, and slight in build. He might possibly have passed by without stopping at all, or at most for half a minute to glance in at the scene, had not his advent coincided with the discussion on corn and bread; in which event this history had never been enacted. But the subject seemed to arrest him, and he whispered some inquiries of the other bystanders, and remained listening.

      When he heard Henchard’s closing words, ‘It can’t be done’, he smiled impulsively, drew out his pocket-book, and wrote down a few words by the aid of the light in the window. He tore out the leaf, folded and directed it, and seemed about to throw it in through the open sash upon the dining-table; but, on second thoughts, edged himself through the loiterers, till he reached the door of the hotel, where one of the waiters who had been serving inside was now idly leaning against the doorpost.

      ‘Give this to the Mayor at once,’ he said, handing in his hasty note.

      Elizabeth-Jane had seen his movements and heard the words, which attracted her both by their subject and by their accent—a strange one for those parts. It was quaint and northerly.

      The waiter took the note, while the young stranger continued—

      ‘And can ye tell me of a respectable hotel that’s a little more moderate than this?’

      The waiter glanced indifferently up and down the street.

      ‘They say the Three Mariners, just below here, is a very

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