还乡The Return Of The Native-第36节

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。　　He　merely　said；　in　continuation　of　the　story
“I　was　sitting　on　the　churchyard　wall　when　they　came　up；　one　from　one　way；　the　other　from　the　other；　and　Miss　Vye　was　walking　thereabouts；　looking　at　the　headstones。　　As　soon　as　they　had　gone　in　I　went　to　the　door；　feeling　I　should　like　to　see　it；　as　I　knew　her　so　well。　　I　pulled　off　my　boots　because　they　were　so　noisy；　and　went　up　into　the　gallery。　　I　saw　then　that　the　parson　and　clerk　were　already　there。”
“How　came　Miss　Vye　to　have　anything　to　do　with　it；　if　she　was　only　on　a　walk　that　way？”
“Because　there　was　nobody　else。　　She　had　gone　into　the　church　just　before　me；　not　into　the　gallery。　　The　parson　looked　round　before　beginning；　and　as　she　was　the　only　one　near　he　beckoned　to　her；　and　she　went　up　to　the　rails。　　After　that；　when　it　came　to　signing　the　book；　she　pushed　up　her　veil　and　signed；　and　Tamsin　seemed　to　thank　her　for　her　kindness。”　The　reddleman　told　the　tale　thoughtfully　for　there　lingered　upon　his　vision　the　changing　colour　of　Wildeve；　when　Eustacia　lifted　the　thick　veil　which　had　concealed　her　from　recognition　and　looked　calmly　into　his　face。　　“And　then；”　said　Diggory　sadly；　“I　came　away；　for　her　history　as　Tamsin　Yeobright　was　over。”
“I　offered　to　go；”　said　Mrs。　Yeobright　regretfully。　
“But　she　said　it　was　not　necessary。”
“Well；　it　is　no　matter；”　said　the　reddleman。　　“The　thing　is　done　at　last　as　it　was　meant　to　be　at　first；　and　God　send　her　happiness。　　Now　I’ll　wish　you　good　morning。”
He　placed　his　cap　on　his　head　and　went　out。　
From　that　instant　of　leaving　Mrs。　Yeobright’s　door；　the　reddleman　was　seen　no　more　in　or　about　Egdon　Heath　for　a　space　of　many　months。　　He　vanished　entirely。　　The　nook　among　the　brambles　where　his　van　had　been　standing　was　as　vacant　as　ever　the　next　morning；　and　scarcely　a　sign　remained　to　show　that　he　had　been　there；　excepting　a　few　straws；　and　a　little　redness　on　the　turf；　which　was　washed　away　by　the　next　storm　of　rain。　
The　report　that　Diggory　had　brought　of　the　wedding；　correct　as　far　as　it　went；　was　deficient　in　one　significant　particular；　which　had　escaped　him　through　his　being　at　some　distance　back　in　the　church。　　When　Thomasin　was　tremblingly　engaged　in　signing　her　name　Wildeve　had　flung　towards　Eustacia　a　glance　that　said　plainly；　“I　have　punished　you　now。”　　She　had　replied　in　a　low　tone—and　he　little　thought　how　truly—“You　mistake；　it　gives　me　sincerest　pleasure　to　see　her　your　wife　today。”


book　three
THE　FASCINATION


1　… “My　Mind　to　Me　a　Kingdom　Is”


In　Clym　Yeobright’s　face　could　be　dimly　seen　the　typical　countenance　of　the　future。　　Should　there　be　a　classic　period　to　art　hereafter；　its　Pheidias　may　produce　such　faces。　　The　view　of　life　as　a　thing　to　be　put　up　with；　replacing　that　zest　for　existence　which　was　so　intense　in　early　civilizations；　must　ultimately　enter　so　thoroughly　into　the　constitution　of　the　advanced　races　that　its　facial　expression　will　bee　accepted　as　a　new　artistic　departure。　　People　already　feel　that　a　man　who　lives　without　disturbing　a　curve　of　feature；　or　setting　a　mark　of　mental　concern　anywhere　upon　himself；　is　too　far　removed　from　modern　perceptiveness　to　be　a　modern　type。　　Physically　beautiful　men—the　glory　of　the　race　when　it　was　young—are　almost　an　anachronism　now；　and　we　may　wonder　whether；　at　some　time　or　other；　physically　beautiful　women　may　not　be　an　anachronism　likewise。
The　truth　seems　to　be　that　a　long　line　of　disillusive　centuries　has　permanently　displaced　the　Hellenic　idea　of　life；　or　whatever　it　may　be　called。　　What　the　Greeks　only　suspected　we　know　well；　what　their　Aeschylus　imagined　our　nursery　children　feel。　　That　old…fashioned　revelling　in　the　general　situation　grows　less　and　less　possible　as　we　uncover　the　defects　of　natural　laws；　and　see　the　quandary　that　man　is　in　by　their　operation。　
The　lineaments　which　will　get　embodied　in　ideals　based　upon　this　new　recognition　will　probably　be　akin　to　those　of　Yeobright。　　The　observer’s　eye　was　arrested；　not　by　his　face　as　a　picture；　but　by　his　face　as　a　page；　not　by　what　it　was；　but　by　what　it　recorded。　　His　features　were　attractive　in　the　light　of　symbols；　as　sounds　intrinsically　mon　bee　attractive　in　language；　and　as　shapes　intrinsically　simple　bee　interesting　in　writing。　
He　had　been　a　lad　of　whom　something　was　expected。　　Beyond　this　all　had　been　chaos。　　That　he　would　be　successful　in　an　original　way；　or　that　he　would　go　to　the　dogs　in　an　original　way；　seemed　equally　probable。　　The　only　absolute　certainty　about　him　was　that　he　would　not　stand　still　in　the　circumstances　amid　which　he　was　born。　
Hence；　when　his　name　was　casually　mentioned　by　neighbouring　yeomen；　the　listener　said；　“Ah；　Clym　Yeobright—what　is　he　doing　now？”　When　the　instinctive　question　about　a　person　is；　What　is　he　doing？　　it　is　felt　that　he　will　be　found　to　be；　like　most　of　us；　doing　nothing　in　particular。　　There　is　an　indefinite　sense　that　he　must　be　invading　some　region　of　singularity；　good　or　bad。　　The　devout　hope　is　that　he　is　doing　well。　　The　secret　faith　is　that　he　is　making　a　mess　of　it。　　Half　a　dozen　fortable　market…men；　who　were　habitual　callers　at　the　Quiet　Woman　as　they　passed　by　in　their　carts；　were　partial　to　the　topic。　　In　fact；　though　they　were　not　Egdon　men；　they　could　hardly　avoid　it　while　they　sucked　their　long　clay　tubes　and　regarded　the　heath　through　the　window。　　Clym　had　been　so　inwoven　with　the　heath　in　his　boyhood　that　hardly　anybody　could　look　upon　it　without　thinking　of　him。　　So　the　subject　recurred：　if　he　were　making　a　fortune　and　a　name；　so　much　the　better　for　him；　if　he　were　making　a　tragical　figure　in　the　world；　so　much　the　better　for　a　narrative。　
The　fact　was　that　Yeobright’s　fame　had　spread　to　an　awkward　extent　before　he　left　home。　　“It　is　bad　when　your　fame　outruns　your　means；”　said　the　Spanish　Jesuit　Gracian。　　At　the　age　of　six　he　had　asked　a　Scripture　riddle：　“Who　was　the　first　man　known　to　wear　breeches？”　and　applause　had　resounded　from　the　very　verge　of　the　heath。　　At　seven　he　painted　the　Battle　of　Waterloo　with　tiger…lily　pollen　and　black…currant　juice；　in　the　absence　of　water…colours。　By　the　time　he　reached　twelve　he　had　in　this　manner　been　heard　of　as　artist　and　scholar　for　at　least　two　miles　round。　　An　individual　whose　fame　spreads　three　or　four　thousand　yards　in　the　time　taken　by　the　fame　of　others　similarly　situated　to　travel　six　or　eight　hundred；　must　of　necessity　have　something　in　him。　　Possibly　Clym’s　fame；　like　Homer’s；　owed　something　to　the　accidents　of　his　situation；　nevertheless　famous　he　was。
He　grew　up　and　was　helped　out　in　life。　　That　waggery　of　fate　which　started　Clive　as　a　writing　clerk；　Gay　as　a　linen…draper；　Keats　as　a　surgeon；　and　a　thousand　others　in　a　thousand　other　odd　ways；　banished　the　wild　and　ascetic　heath　lad　to　a　trade　whose　sole　concern　was　with　the　especial　symbols　of　self…indulgence　and　vainglory。　
The　details　of　this　choice　of　a　business　for　him　it　is　not　necessary　to　give。　　At　the　death　of　his　father　a　neighbouring　gentleman　had　kindly　undertaken　to　give　the　boy　a　start；　and　this　assumed　the　form　of　sending　him　to　Budmouth。　　Yeobright　did　not　wish　to　go　there；　but　it　was　the　only　feasible　opening。　　Thence　he　went　to　London；　and　thence；　shortly　after；　to　Paris；　where　he　had　remained　till　now。　
Something　being　expected　of　him；　he　had　not　been　at　home　many　days　before　a　great　curiosity　as　to　why　he　stayed　on　so　long　began　to　arise　in　the　heath。　　The　natural　term　of　a　holiday　had　passed；　yet　he　still　remained。　　On　the　Sunday　morning　following　the　week　of　Thomasin’s　marriage　a　discussion　on　this　subject　was　in　progress　at　a　hair…cutting　before　Fairway’s　house。　　Here　the　local　barbering　was　always　done　at　this　hour　on　this　day；　to　be　followed　by　the　great　Sunday　wash　of　the　inhabitants　at　noon；　which　in　its　turn　was　followed　by　the　great　Sunday　dressing　an　hour　later。　　On　Egdon　Heath　Sunday　proper　did　not　begin　till　dinner…time；　and　even　then　it　was　a　somewhat　battered　specimen　of　the　day。　
These　Sunday…morning　hair…cuttings　were　performed　by　Fairway；　the　victim　sitting　on　a　chopping…block　in　front　of　the　house；　without　a　coat；　and　the　neighbours　gossiping　around；　idly　observing　the　locks　of　hair　as　they　rose　upon　the　wind　after　the　snip；　and　flew　away　out　of　sight　to　the　four　quarters　of　the　heavens。　　Summer　and　winter　the　scene　was　the　same；　unless　the　wind　were　more　than　usually　blusterous；　when　the　stool　was　shifted　a　few　feet　round　the　corner。　　To　plain　of　cold　in　sitting　out　of　doors；　hatless　and　coatless；　while　Fairway　told　true　stories　between　the　cuts　of　the　scissors；　would　have　been　to　pronounce　yourself　no　man　at　once。　　To　flinch；　exclaim；　or　move　a　muscle　of　the　face　at　the　small　stabs　under　the　ear　received　from　those　instruments；　or　at　scarifications　of　the　neck　by　the　b；　would　have　been　thought　a　gross　breach　of　good　manners；　considering　that　Fairway　did　it　all　for　nothing。　　A　bleeding　about　the　poll　on　Sunday　afternoons　was　amply　accounted　for　by　the　explanation。　　“I　have　had　my　hair　cut；　you　know。”
The　conversation　on　Yeobright　had　been　started　by　a　distant　view　of　the　young　man　rambling　leisurely　across　the　heath　before　them。　
“A　man　who　is　doing　well　elsewhere　wouldn’t　bide　here　two　or　three　weeks　for　nothing；”　said　Fair