Chapter 3

THAT was once her casement, And the taper nigh, Shining from within there, Beckoned, “Here am I!”

Now, as then, I see her Moving at the pane; Ah; ’tis but her phantom Borne within my brain!—

Foremost in my vision Everywhere goes she; Change dissolves the landscapes, She abides with me.

Shape so sweet and shy, Dear, Who can say thee nay? Never once do I, Dear, Wish thy ghost away.

THE END OF THE EPISODE

INDULGE no more may we In this sweet-bitter pastime: The love-light shines the last time Between you, Dear, and me.

There shall remain no trace Of what so closely tied us, And blank as ere love eyed us Will be our meeting-place.

The flowers and thymy air, Will they now miss our coming? The dumbles thin their humming To find we haunt not there?

Though fervent was our vow, Though ruddily ran our pleasure, Bliss has fulfilled its measure, And sees its sentence now.

Ache deep; but make no moans: Smile out; but stilly suffer: The paths of love are rougher Than thoroughfares of stones.

THE SIGH

LITTLE head against my shoulder, Shy at first, then somewhat bolder, And up-eyed; Till she, with a timid quaver, Yielded to the kiss I gave her; But, she sighed.

That there mingled with her feeling Some sad thought she was concealing It implied. —Not that she had ceased to love me, None on earth she set above me; But she sighed.

She could not disguise a passion, Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion If she tried: Nothing seemed to hold us sundered, Hearts were victors; so I wondered Why she sighed.

Afterwards I knew her throughly, And she loved me staunchly, truly, Till she died; But she never made confession Why, at that first sweet concession, She had sighed.

It was in our May, remember; And though now I near November, And abide Till my appointed change, unfretting, Sometimes I sit half regretting That she sighed.

“IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME”

I TOLD her when I left one day That whatsoever weight of care Might strain our love, Time’s mere assault Would work no changes there. And in the night she came to me, Toothless, and wan, and old, With leaden concaves round her eyes, And wrinkles manifold.

I tremblingly exclaimed to her, “O wherefore do you ghost me thus! I have said that dull defacing Time Will bring no dreads to us.” “And is that true of _you_?” she cried In voice of troubled tune. I faltered: “Well . . . I did not think You would test me quite so soon!”

She vanished with a curious smile, Which told me, plainlier than by word, That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile The fear she had averred. Her doubts then wrought their shape in me, And when next day I paid My due caress, we seemed to be Divided by some shade.

THE CONFORMERS

YES; we’ll wed, my little fay, And you shall write you mine, And in a villa chastely gray We’ll house, and sleep, and dine. But those night-screened, divine, Stolen trysts of heretofore, We of choice ecstasies and fine Shall know no more.

The formal faced cohue Will then no more upbraid With smiting smiles and whisperings two Who have thrown less loves in shade. We shall no more evade The searching light of the sun, Our game of passion will be played, Our dreaming done.

We shall not go in stealth To rendezvous unknown, But friends will ask me of your health, And you about my own. When we abide alone, No leapings each to each, But syllables in frigid tone Of household speech.

When down to dust we glide Men will not say askance, As now: “How all the country side Rings with their mad romance!” But as they graveward glance Remark: “In them we lose A worthy pair, who helped advance Sound parish views.”

THE DAWN AFTER THE DANCE

HERE is your parents’ dwelling with its curtained windows telling Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here; Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal Matrimonial commonplace and household life’s mechanic gear.

I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now, So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing, But will clasp you just as always—just the olden love avow.

Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together, And this long night’s dance this year’s end eve now finishes the spell; Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning Of a cord we have spun to breaking—too intemperately, too well.

Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear, When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and heard; Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first thing That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word!

That which makes man’s love the lighter and the woman’s burn no brighter Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year . . . And there stands your father’s dwelling with its blind bleak windows telling That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere.

WEYMOUTH, 1869.

THE SUN ON THE LETTER

I DREW the letter out, while gleamed The sloping sun from under a roof Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.

The burning ball flung rays that seemed Stretched like a warp without a woof Across the levels of the lea

To where I stood, and where they beamed As brightly on the page of proof That she had shown her false to me

As if it had shown her true—had teemed With passionate thought for my behoof Expressed with their own ardency!

THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE

THE cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, And centres its gaze on me; The stars, like eyes in reverie, Their westering as for a while forborne, Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in, The green logs steam and spit; The half-awakened sparrows flit From the riddled thatch; and owls begin To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know Sweet scenes are impending here; That all is prepared; that the hour is near For welcomes, fellowships, and flow Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung; That soon will arise the sound Of measures trod to tunes renowned; That She will return in Love’s low tongue My vows as we wheel around.

MISCONCEPTION

I BUSIED myself to find a sure Snug hermitage That should preserve my Love secure From the world’s rage; Where no unseemly saturnals, Or strident traffic-roars, Or hum of intervolved cabals Should echo at her doors.

I laboured that the diurnal spin Of vanities Should not contrive to suck her in By dark degrees, And cunningly operate to blur Sweet teachings I had begun; And then I went full-heart to her To expound the glad deeds done.

She looked at me, and said thereto With a pitying smile, “And _this_ is what has busied you So long a while? O poor exhausted one, I see You have worn you old and thin For naught! Those moils you fear for me I find most pleasure in!”

THE VOICE OF THE THORN

I

WHEN the thorn on the down Quivers naked and cold, And the mid-aged and old Pace the path there to town, In these words dry and drear It seems to them sighing: “O winter is trying To sojourners here!”

II

When it stands fully tressed On a hot summer day, And the ewes there astray Find its shade a sweet rest, By the breath of the breeze It inquires of each farer: “Who would not be sharer Of shadow with these?”

III

But by day or by night, And in winter or summer, Should I be the comer Along that lone height, In its voicing to me Only one speech is spoken: “Here once was nigh broken A heart, and by thee.”

FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY

I THOUGHT and thought of thy crass clanging town To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, I held my heart in bond, and tethered down Fancy to where I was, by force of will.

I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, One little bud is far more sweet to me Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;

And strove to feel my nature brought it forth Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; But it was vain; for I could not see worth Enough around to charm a midge or fly,

And mused again on city din and sin, Longing to madness I might move therein!

16 W. P. V., 1866.

HER CONFESSION

AS some bland soul, to whom a debtor says “I’ll now repay the amount I owe to you,” In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness That such a payment ever was his due

(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh, By such suspension to enhance my bliss.

And as his looks in consternation fall When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed, The debtor makes as not to pay at all, So faltered I, when your intention seemed

Converted by my false uneagerness To putting off for ever the caress.

W. P. V., 1865–67.

TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND

DID he who drew her in the years ago— Till now conceived creator of her grace— With telescopic sight high natures know, Discern remote in Time’s untravelled space

Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we, And with a copyist’s hand but set them down, Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy When his Original should be forthshown?

For, kindled by that animated eye, Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim, And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly The wild conviction welling up in him

That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead, The “very, very Rosalind” indeed!

8 ADELPHI TERRACE, 21_st_ _April_ 1867.

TO AN ACTRESS

I READ your name when you were strange to me, Where it stood blazoned bold with many more; I passed it vacantly, and did not see Any great glory in the shape it wore.

O cruelty, the insight barred me then! Why did I not possess me with its sound, And in its cadence catch and catch again Your nature’s essence floating therearound?

Could _that_ man be this I, unknowing you, When now the knowing you is all of me, And the old world of then is now a new, And purpose no more what it used to be— A thing of formal journeywork, but due To springs that then were sealed up utterly?

1867.

THE MINUTE BEFORE MEETING

THE grey gaunt days dividing us in twain Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb, But they are gone; and now I would detain The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time,

And live in close expectance never closed In change for far expectance closed at last, So harshly has expectance been imposed On my long need while these slow blank months passed.

And knowing that what is now about to be Will all _have been_ in O, so short a space! I read beyond it my despondency When more dividing months shall take its place, Thereby denying to this hour of grace A full-up measure of felicity.

1871.

HE ABJURES LOVE

AT last I put off love, For twice ten years The daysman of my thought, And hope, and doing; Being ashamed thereof, And faint of fears And desolations, wrought In his pursuing,

Since first in youthtime those Disquietings That heart-enslavement brings To hale and hoary, Became my housefellows, And, fool and blind, I turned from kith and kind To give him glory.

I was as children be Who have no care; I did not shrink or sigh, I did not sicken; But lo, Love beckoned me, And I was bare, And poor, and starved, and dry, And fever-stricken.

Too many times ablaze With fatuous fires, Enkindled by his wiles To new embraces, Did I, by wilful ways And baseless ires, Return the anxious smiles Of friendly faces.

No more will now rate I The common rare, The midnight drizzle dew, The gray hour golden, The wind a yearning cry, The faulty fair, Things dreamt, of comelier hue Than things beholden! . . .

—I speak as one who plumbs Life’s dim profound, One who at length can sound Clear views and certain. But—after love what comes? A scene that lours, A few sad vacant hours, And then, the Curtain.

1883.

A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS

LET ME ENJOY

(MINOR KEY)

I

LET me enjoy the earth no less Because the all-enacting Might That fashioned forth its loveliness Had other aims than my delight.

II

About my path there flits a Fair, Who throws me not a word or sign; I’ll charm me with her ignoring air, And laud the lips not meant for mine.

III

From manuscripts of moving song Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown I’ll pour out raptures that belong To others, as they were my own.

IV

And some day hence, towards Paradise, And all its blest—if such should be— I will lift glad, afar-off eyes, Though it contain no place for me.

AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR

I The Ballad-Singer

SING, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; Make me forget that there was ever a one I walked with in the meek light of the moon When the day’s work was done.

Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; Make me forget that she whom I loved well Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, Then—what I cannot tell!

Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look— Make me forget her tears.

II Former Beauties

THESE market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn, And tissues sere, Are they the ones we loved in years agone, And courted here?

Are these the muslined pink young things to whom We vowed and swore In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom, Or Budmouth shore?

Do they remember those gay tunes we trod Clasped on the green; Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod A satin sheen?

They must forget, forget! They cannot know What once they were, Or memory would transfigure them, and show Them always fair.

III AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE

BLACK’ON frowns east on Maidon, And westward to the sea, But on neither is his frown laden With scorn, as his frown on me!

At dawn my heart grew heavy, I could not sip the wine, I left the jocund bevy And that young man o’ mine.

The roadside elms pass by me,— Why do I sink with shame When the birds a-perch there eye me? They, too, have done the same!

IV THE MARKET-GIRL

NOBODY took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb, All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb; And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day, I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away.

But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh, I went and I said “Poor maidy dear!—and will none of the people buy?” And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be, And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me.

V THE INQUIRY

AND are ye one of Hermitage— Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road, And do ye know, in Hermitage A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow? And does John Waywood live there still— He of the name that there abode When father hurdled on the hill Some fifteen years ago?

Does he now speak o’ Patty Beech, The Patty Beech he used to—see, Or ask at all if Patty Beech Is known or heard of out this way? —Ask ever if she’s living yet, And where her present home may be, And how she bears life’s fag and fret After so long a day?

In years agone at Hermitage This faded face was counted fair, None fairer; and at Hermitage We swore to wed when he should thrive. But never a chance had he or I, And waiting made his wish outwear, And Time, that dooms man’s love to die, Preserves a maid’s alive.

VI A WIFE WAITS

WILL’S at the dance in the Club-room below, Where the tall liquor-cups foam; I on the pavement up here by the Bow, Wait, wait, to steady him home.

Will and his partner are treading a tune, Loving companions they be; Willy, before we were married in June, Said he loved no one but me;

Said he would let his old pleasures all go Ever to live with his Dear. Will’s at the dance in the Club-room below, Shivering I wait for him here.

NOTE.—“The Bow” (line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the cross-streets in the middle of Casterbridge.

VII AFTER THE FAIR

THE singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place With their broadsheets of rhymes, The street rings no longer in treble and bass With their skits on the times, And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space That but echoes the stammering chimes.

From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs, Away the folk roam By the “Hart” and Grey’s Bridge into byways and “drongs,” Or across the ridged loam; The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs, The old saying, “Would we were home.”

The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair Now rattles and talks, And that one who looked the most swaggering there Grows sad as she walks, And she who seemed eaten by cankering care In statuesque sturdiness stalks.

And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts Of its buried burghees, From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts Whose remains one yet sees, Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts At their meeting-times here, just as these!

1902.

NOTE.—“The Chimes” (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight now, having been abolished some years ago.

THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN

I

I PITCHED my day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane, To tie up my garter and jog on again, When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said, In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red, “What do I see— O pretty knee!” And he came and he tied up my garter for me.

II

’Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind: Ah, ’tis easy to lose what we nevermore find!— Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought, But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought. Then bitterly Sobbed I that he Should ever have tied up my garter for me!

III

Yet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom lad, And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad; My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend, He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend; No sorrow brings he, And thankful I be That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!

NOTE.—“Leazings” (line 1).—Bundle of gleaned corn.

TO CARREY CLAVEL

YOU turn your back, you turn your back, And never your face to me, Alone you take your homeward track, And scorn my company.

What will you do when Charley’s seen Dewbeating down this way? —You’ll turn your back as now, you mean? Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!

You’ll see none’s looking; put your lip Up like a tulip, so; And he will coll you, bend, and sip: Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!

THE ORPHANED OLD MAID

I WANTED to marry, but father said, “No— ’Tis weakness in women to give themselves so; If you care for your freedom you’ll listen to me, Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.”

I spake on’t again and again: father cried, “Why—if you go husbanding, where shall I bide? For never a home’s for me elsewhere than here!” And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.

But now father’s gone, and I feel growing old, And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold, And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere, And nobody flings me a thought or a care.

THE SPRING CALL

DOWN Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine, The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!” In Wessex accents marked as mine Is heard afar and near.

He flutes it strong, as if in song No R’s of feebler tone Than his appear in “pretty dear,” Have blackbirds ever known.

Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean, Beneath a Scottish sky, And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen Of Middlesex or nigh.

While some folk say—perhaps in play— Who know the Irish isle, ’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there When songsters would beguile.

Well: I’ll say what the listening birds Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!”— However strangers sound such words, That’s how we sound them here.

Yes, in this clime at pairing time, As soon as eyes can see her At dawn of day, the proper way To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”

JULIE-JANE

SING; how ’a would sing! How ’a would raise the tune When we rode in the waggon from harvesting By the light o’ the moon!

Dance; how ’a would dance! If a fiddlestring did but sound She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance, And go round and round.

Laugh; how ’a would laugh! Her peony lips would part As if none such a place for a lover to quaff At the deeps of a heart.

Julie, O girl of joy, Soon, soon that lover he came. Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy, But never his name . . .

—Tolling for her, as you guess; And the baby too . . . ’Tis well. You knew her in maidhood likewise?—Yes, That’s her burial bell.

“I suppose,” with a laugh, she said, “I should blush that I’m not a wife; But how can it matter, so soon to be dead, What one does in life!”

When we sat making the mourning By her death-bed side, said she, “Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning In honour of me!”

Bubbling and brightsome eyed! But now—O never again. She chose her bearers before she died From her fancy-men.

NOTE.—It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.

“Coats” (line 7).—Old name for petticoats.

NEWS FOR HER MOTHER

I

ONE mile more is Where your door is Mother mine!— Harvest’s coming, Mills are strumming, Apples fine, And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

Yet, not viewing What’s a-doing Here around Is it thrills me, And so fills me That I bound Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

Tremble not now At your lot now, Silly soul! Hosts have sped them Quick to wed them, Great and small, Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

IV

Yet I wonder, Will it sunder Her from me? Will she guess that I said “Yes,”—that His I’d be, Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

Old brown gable, Granary, stable, Here you are! O my mother, Can another Ever bar Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?

THE FIDDLER

THE fiddler knows what’s brewing To the lilt of his lyric wiles: The fiddler knows what rueing Will come of this night’s smiles!