finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_14_part_0.txt
Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 15
chapter 15
{"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15", "summary": "After a few hours of sleep, the maltster made himself a breakfast of bread and bacon which \"was eaten on the plateless system\" and flavored with a \"mustard plaster.\" Although he was toothless, his hardened gums functioned efficiently. Warren's Malthouse served as a sort of clubhouse, an alternative to the inn. Henery appeared, followed by several carters, and expressed the opinion that Bathsheba would not manage the farm successfully. All viewed the prospect of her management negatively. They also disapproved of Bathsheba's new piano and other new furnishings. Henery longed to be bailiff. He felt God had cheated him. A religious discussion followed. Oak arrived with some newborn lambs to be warmed, for the fields here had no shepherd's hut. When he heard that the men had been discussing Bathsheba, he grew angry and threatened anyone maligning the mistress. The men sought to appease him, flattering him a bit and changing the subject. Joseph now became the victim of taunts directed at his lesser farming skills. Oak admitted that he, too, wished to be bailiff. Soon Boldwood appeared with Gabriel's letter. It was from Fanny Robin, thanking Gabriel for his help and returning his shilling. She asked again for secrecy and explained that she would be marrying Sergeant Troy. Gabriel showed Boldwood the letter, for he knew that the farmer had been kind to Fanny. Boldwood was doubtful of her marriage plans, for he knew Troy to be unreliable. Little Cainy broke in, coughing from running, with the news that there were more twin lambs. Gabriel branded the revived ones with Bathsheba's initials. As he left, Boldwood asked Gabriel to identify the handwriting of the mystery valentine. Learning it was Bathsheba's, Boldwood was troubled.", "analysis": "In this chapter we see further evidence of Gabriel's steadfastness and loyalty and his unhurried manner of doing what needs to be done. We meet the gossipmongers again. Another link is added to the Fanny Robin matter. Boldwood fears for Fanny and also broods about the reason for Bathsheba's sending the valentine. Bill Smallbury's remark, \"Your lot is your lot, and the Scripture is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to your works, but he cheated in some mean way out of your recompense,\" is a passing comment on what later became one of Hardy's main themes, the indifference of God to man."}


A MORNING MEETING--THE LETTER AGAIN


The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrate
to its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow of
similar hue, radiating from the hearth.

The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few
hours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting of
bread and bacon.  This was eaten on the plateless system, which is
performed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat
upon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt
upon the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a large
pocket-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaled
on the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food.

The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish
his powers as a mill.  He had been without them for so many years
that toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an
acquisition.  Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic
curve approaches a straight line--less directly as he got nearer,
till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all.

In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkin
of charred bread, called "coffee", for the benefit of whomsoever
should call, for Warren's was a sort of clubhouse, used as an
alternative to the inn.

"I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at
night," was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthouse
from the door, which had been opened the previous moment.  The form
of Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots
when about half-way there.  The speech and entry had not seemed to be
at all an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory matter being
often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and
the maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to
reply.  He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it with
his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers.

Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over his
smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the
distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you
got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even
ornamental--it certainly was comfortable.

Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners
followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands,
which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables,
where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning.

"And how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired.
Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging
all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre.

"She'll rue it--surely, surely!" he said.  "Benjy Pennyways were not
a true man or an honest baily--as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot
himself.  But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed his head
to swing laterally three or four times in silence.  "Never in all my
creeping up--never!"

This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech
which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the
head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his
face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly
he should go on speaking.

"All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in
gentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark.

"A headstrong maid, that's what she is--and won't listen to no advice
at all.  Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog.  Dear,
dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!"

"True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye," said Joseph Poorgrass in a
voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery.

"'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet,"
said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth
before him.  "She can spaik real language, and must have some sense
somewhere.  Do ye foller me?"

"I do, I do; but no baily--I deserved that place," wailed Henery,
signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high
destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock.
"There, 'twas to be, I suppose.  Your lot is your lot, and Scripture
is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to
your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense."

"No, no; I don't agree with'ee there," said Mark Clark.  "God's a
perfect gentleman in that respect."

"Good works good pay, so to speak it," attested Joseph Poorgrass.

A short pause ensued, and as a sort of _entr'acte_ Henery turned and
blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no
longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass.

"I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer,
pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster.  "Liddy
saith she've a new one."

"Got a pianner?"

"Ay.  Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her.
She've bought all but everything new.  There's heavy chairs for the
stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on
to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece."

"Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames."

"And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows
at each end," said Mr. Clark.  "Likewise looking-glasses for the
pretty, and lying books for the wicked."

A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened
about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed--

"Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?"

"Ay, sure, shepherd," said the conclave.

The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from
top to bottom with the blow.  Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a
steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow,
a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking
altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour.  Four lambs
hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the
dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe,
stalked solemnly behind.

"Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say it?"
inquired Joseph Poorgrass.

"Terrible trying," said Oak.  "I've been wet through twice a-day,
either in snow or rain, this last fortnight.  Cainy and I haven't
tined our eyes to-night."

"A good few twins, too, I hear?"

"Too many by half.  Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year.  We
shan't have done by Lady Day."

"And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday," Joseph
remarked.

"Bring on the rest Cain," said Gabriel, "and then run back to the
ewes.  I'll follow you soon."

Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice
by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he
was bidden.  Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation,
wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire.

"We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe," said
Gabriel, "and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house.
If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I should
do i' this keen weather.  And how is it with you to-day, malter?"

"Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger."

"Ay--I understand."

"Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt.  "And
how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog?  I
should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know
a soul there now."

"I suppose you wouldn't.  'Tis altered very much."

"Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?"

"Oh yes--years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it."

"Well, to be sure!"

"Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two
hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees."

"Rooted?--you don't say it!  Ah! stirring times we live in--stirring
times."

"And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the
place?  That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone
trough, and all complete."

"Dear, dear--how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see
nowadays!  Yes--and 'tis the same here.  They've been talking but now
of the mis'ess's strange doings."

"What have you been saying about her?" inquired Oak, sharply turning
to the rest, and getting very warm.

"These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride
and vanity," said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough.
Bless her pretty face--shouldn't I like to do so--upon her cherry
lips!" The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known
sound with his own.

"Mark," said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of that
dalliance-talk--that smack-and-coddle style of yours--about Miss
Everdene.  I don't allow it.  Do you hear?"

"With all my heart, as I've got no chance," replied Mr. Clark,
cordially.

"I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning to
Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.

"No, no--not a word I--'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse,
that's what I say," said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror.
"Matthew just said--"

"Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?" asked Oak.

"I?  Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm--no, not one underground
worm?" said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy.

"Well, somebody has--and look here, neighbours," Gabriel, though one
of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion,
with martial promptness and vigour.  "That's my fist."  Here he
placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the
mathematical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave
a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly
took in the idea of fistiness before he went further.  "Now--the
first man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress,
why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have done
with his hammer in assaying it)--"he'll smell and taste that--or I'm
a Dutchman."

All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did not
wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were
deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and Mark
Clark cried "Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said." The dog George
looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he
understood English but imperfectly, began to growl.

"Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said Henery,
with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in
Christianity.

"We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd,"
said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the
maltster's bedstead, whither he had retired for safety.  "'Tis a
great thing to be clever, I'm sure," he added, making movements
associated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were,
don't we, neighbours?"

"Ay, that we do, sure," said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laugh
towards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise.

"Who's been telling you I'm clever?" said Oak.

"'Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common," said Matthew.
"We hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by
the sun and moon, shepherd."

"Yes, I can do a little that way," said Gabriel, as a man of medium
sentiments on the subject.

"And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' names upon their
waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and
great long tails.  A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever
man, shepherd.  Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James
Everdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way
to turn the J's and E's--could ye, Joseph?" Joseph shook his head
to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't.  "And so you
used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?" Matthew
marked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle


   [the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E"
   printed backwards]


"And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he,
Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continued
Matthew Moon with feeling.

"Ay--'a would," said Joseph, meekly.  "But, you see, I wasn't so much
to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witches for the
memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I always
had such a forgetful memory, too."

"'Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities in
other ways."

"Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be no
worse, and I feel my thanks.  As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'ess
ought to have made ye her baily--such a fitting man for't as you be."

"I don't mind owning that I expected it," said Oak, frankly.
"Indeed, I hoped for the place.  At the same time, Miss Everdene has
a right to be her own baily if she choose--and to keep me down to be
a common shepherd only."  Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into
the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the most
hopeful hue.

The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly
lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay,
and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born.
Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the
milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the
pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of
the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams
how to drink from the spout--a trick they acquired with astonishing
aptitude.

"And she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?"
resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak
with the necessary melancholy.

"I don't have them," said Gabriel.

"Ye be very badly used, shepherd," hazarded Joseph again, in the hope
of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all.  "I think she's
took against ye--that I do."

"Oh no--not at all," replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped
him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused.

Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door,
and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a
quality between friendliness and condescension.

"Ah! Oak, I thought you were here," he said.  "I met the mail-cart
ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened
without reading the address.  I believe it is yours.  You must excuse
the accident please."

"Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit," said
Gabriel, readily.  He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there
a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would
not have been welcome to peruse.

Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:--


   DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I think these
   few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank you for
   your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in a
   reckless way.  I also return the money I owe you, which you
   will excuse my not keeping as a gift.  All has ended well,
   and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young
   man who has courted me for some time--Sergeant Troy, of
   the 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in this town.  He
   would, I know, object to my having received anything except
   as a loan, being a man of great respectability and high
   honour--indeed, a nobleman by blood.

   I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the
   contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear
   friend.  We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming there
   soon as husband and wife, though I blush to state it to one
   nearly a stranger.  The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury.
   Thanking you again for your kindness,

            I am, your sincere well-wisher,
                     FANNY ROBIN.


"Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?" said Gabriel; "if not, you had
better do so.  I know you are interested in Fanny Robin."

Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.

"Fanny--poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet
come, she should remember--and may never come.  I see she gives no
address."

"What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?" said Gabriel.

"H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as
this," the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up to
everything.  A slight romance attaches to him, too.  His mother was
a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed
between her and the late Lord Severn.  She was married to a poor
medical man, and soon after an infant was born; and while money was
forthcoming all went on well.  Unfortunately for her boy, his best
friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at a
lawyer's in Casterbridge.  He stayed there for some time, and might
have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he not
indulged in the wild freak of enlisting.  I have much doubt if ever
little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions--very much
doubt. A silly girl!--silly girl!"

The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Cainy
Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny
trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension
of face.

"Now, Cain Ball," said Oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast and
lose your breath so?  I'm always telling you of it."

"Oh--I--a puff of mee breath--went--the--wrong way, please, Mister
Oak, and made me cough--hok--hok!"

"Well--what have you come for?"

"I've run to tell ye," said the junior shepherd, supporting his
exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, "that you must come
directly.  Two more ewes have twinned--that's what's the matter,
Shepherd Oak."

"Oh, that's it," said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present
his thoughts on poor Fanny.  "You are a good boy to run and tell me,
Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat.
But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot
and have done with 'em."

Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it
into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the
initials of her he delighted to muse on--"B. E.," which signified to
all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer
Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.

"Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr. Boldwood."
The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he
had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the
lambing field hard by--their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful
state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half
an hour before.

Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and
turned back.  He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating
return.  On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed,
the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it to
lie open on his hand.  A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's.

"I was going to ask you, Oak," he said, with unreal carelessness, "if
you know whose writing this is?"

Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed
face, "Miss Everdene's."

Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name.
He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought.  The
letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry
would not have been necessary.

Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready
with their "Is it I?" in preference to objective reasoning.

"The question was perfectly fair," he returned--and there was
something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he
applied himself to an argument on a valentine.  "You know it is
always expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where
the--fun lies."  If the word "fun" had been "torture," it could not
have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance
than was Boldwood's then.

Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to
his house to breakfast--feeling twinges of shame and regret at having
so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger.  He
again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of
the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information.




Chapter 15
After a few hours of sleep, the maltster made himself a breakfast of bread and bacon which "was eaten on the plateless system" and flavored with a "mustard plaster." Although he was toothless, his hardened gums functioned efficiently. Warren's Malthouse served as a sort of clubhouse, an alternative to the inn. Henery appeared, followed by several carters, and expressed the opinion that Bathsheba would not manage the farm successfully. All viewed the prospect of her management negatively. They also disapproved of Bathsheba's new piano and other new furnishings. Henery longed to be bailiff. He felt God had cheated him. A religious discussion followed. Oak arrived with some newborn lambs to be warmed, for the fields here had no shepherd's hut. When he heard that the men had been discussing Bathsheba, he grew angry and threatened anyone maligning the mistress. The men sought to appease him, flattering him a bit and changing the subject. Joseph now became the victim of taunts directed at his lesser farming skills. Oak admitted that he, too, wished to be bailiff. Soon Boldwood appeared with Gabriel's letter. It was from Fanny Robin, thanking Gabriel for his help and returning his shilling. She asked again for secrecy and explained that she would be marrying Sergeant Troy. Gabriel showed Boldwood the letter, for he knew that the farmer had been kind to Fanny. Boldwood was doubtful of her marriage plans, for he knew Troy to be unreliable. Little Cainy broke in, coughing from running, with the news that there were more twin lambs. Gabriel branded the revived ones with Bathsheba's initials. As he left, Boldwood asked Gabriel to identify the handwriting of the mystery valentine. Learning it was Bathsheba's, Boldwood was troubled.
In this chapter we see further evidence of Gabriel's steadfastness and loyalty and his unhurried manner of doing what needs to be done. We meet the gossipmongers again. Another link is added to the Fanny Robin matter. Boldwood fears for Fanny and also broods about the reason for Bathsheba's sending the valentine. Bill Smallbury's remark, "Your lot is your lot, and the Scripture is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to your works, but he cheated in some mean way out of your recompense," is a passing comment on what later became one of Hardy's main themes, the indifference of God to man.