CHAPTER XLV

TROY’S ROMANTICISM

When Troy’s wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first

act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended the stairs,

and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was, he waited

miserably for the morning.

Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty hours.

His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his

intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to be overcome in

striking out a new line of conduct—not more in ourselves, it seems,

than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to

allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.

Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add

to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had

been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all,

he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his

appointment with Fanny Robin.

On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at

five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the

town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and

no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her

grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse—the first and

last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The

quarter went, the half hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as

he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement

with him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven

o’clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till

he knew every lichen upon their face and heard the chink of the ripples

underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to

the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning

the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth

races.

He reached the race-course at two o’clock, and remained either there or

in the town till nine. But Fanny’s image, as it had appeared to him in

the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind,

backed up by Bathsheba’s reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he

kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o’clock in the evening he

had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings.

He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the

first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by

illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no

mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made

inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came

indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.

As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from

the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to

Bathsheba’s whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he

stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was

towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found

a newly dug unoccupied grave—the grave dug the day before for Fanny.

The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to

Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon

he had last seen Fanny alive.

Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a pair

of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, “Lester, stone and

marble mason.” Within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs,

inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not

yet died.

Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want

of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His method

of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of

an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider,

calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something, and he set

about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. “I want a good tomb,” he

said to the man who stood in a little office within the yard. “I want

as good a one as you can give me for twenty-seven pounds.”

It was all the money he possessed.

“That sum to include everything?”

“Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and erection.

And I want it now, at once.”

“We could not get anything special worked this week.”

“I must have it now.”

“If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready

immediately.”

“Very well,” said Troy, impatiently. “Let’s see what you have.”

“The best I have in stock is this one,” said the stone-cutter, going

into a shed. “Here’s a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with

medallions beneath of typical subjects; here’s the footstone after the

same pattern, and here’s the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing

alone of the set cost me eleven pounds—the slabs are the best of their

kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred

years without flying.”

“And how much?”

“Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum

you mention.”

“Get it done to-day, and I’ll pay the money now.”

The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not a

shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form the

inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon he

came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He

waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the

cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the

two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the grave

of the person named in the inscription.

It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried rather

a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the

road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited

his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met, returning in the

darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely

inquired if the work was done, and, on being assured that it was,

passed on again.

Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o’clock and went

immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in

the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to a

great extent from the view of passers along the road—a spot which until

lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but

now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by reason of the

rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.

Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely

in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border

of marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for

plants.

Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few

minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light

of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst he read

the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the

yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several varieties.

There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and

double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations,

pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me-not, summer’s

farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year.

Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to

work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the

outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave.

The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer

flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots

over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between

these.

Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the

futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction

from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.

Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed

at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,

together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on

mawkishness, characteristic of the French.

It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy’s

lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power,

flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He

felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one

came and entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the candle

sputtered and went out. Troy was weary and it being now not far from

midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave

the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. He

groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found

himself round at the north side. Here he entered the porch, and,

reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep.