The Mayor of Casterbridge Thomas Hardy (best books for 8th graders .TXT) đ
- Author: Thomas Hardy
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âYe may as well look for manna-food as good bread in Casterbridge just now,â she said, after directing them. âThey can blare their trumpets and thump their drums, and have their roaring dinnersââ âwaving her hand towards a point further along the street, where the brass band could be seen standing in front of an illuminated buildingâ ââbut we must needs be put-to for want of a wholesome crust. Thereâs less good bread than good beer in Casterbridge now.â
âAnd less good beer than swipes,â said a man with his hands in his pockets.
âHow does it happen thereâs no good bread?â asked Mrs. Henchard.
âO, âtis the corn-factorâ âheâs the man that our millers and bakers all deal wiâ, and he has sold âem growed wheat, which they didnât know was growed, so they say, till the dough ran all over the ovens like quicksilver; so that the loaves be as flat as toads, and like suet pudden inside. Iâve been a wife, and Iâve been a mother, and I never see such unprincipled bread in Casterbridge as this before.â âBut you must be a real stranger here not to know whatâs made all the poor volksâ insides plim like blowed bladders this week?â
âI am,â said Elizabethâs mother shyly.
Not wishing to be observed further till she knew more of her future in this place, she withdrew with her daughter from the speakerâs side. Getting a couple of biscuits at the shop indicated as a temporary substitute for a meal, they next bent their steps instinctively to where the music was playing.
VA few score yards brought them to the spot where the town band was now shaking the windowpanes with the strains of âThe Roast Beef of Old England.â
The building before whose doors they had pitched their music-stands was the chief hotel in Casterbridgeâ ânamely, the Kingâs Arms. A spacious bow-window projected into the street over the main portico, and from the open sashes came the babble of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the drawing of corks. The blinds, moreover, being left unclosed, the whole interior of this room could be surveyed from the top of a flight of stone steps to the road-wagon office opposite, for which reason a knot of idlers had gathered there.
âWe might, perhaps, after all, make a few inquiries aboutâ âour relation Mr. Henchard,â whispered Mrs. Newson who, since her entry into Casterbridge, had seemed strangely weak and agitated. âAnd this, I think, would be a good place for trying itâ âjust to ask, you know, how he stands in the townâ âif he is here, as I think he must be. You, Elizabeth-Jane, had better be the one to do it. Iâm too worn out to do anythingâ âpull down your fall first.â
She sat down upon the lowest step, and Elizabeth-Jane obeyed her directions and stood among the idlers.
âWhatâs going on tonight?â asked the girl, after singling out an old man and standing by him long enough to acquire a neighbourly right of converse.
âWell, ye must be a stranger sure,â said the old man, without taking his eyes from the window. âWhy, âtis a great public dinner of the gentle-people and suchlike leading volkâ âwiâ the Mayor in the chair. As we plainer fellows bainât invited, they leave the winder-shutters open that we may get jist a sense oât out here. If you mount the steps you can see em. Thatâs Mr. Henchard, the Mayor, at the end of the table, a facing ye; and thatâs the Council men right and left.â ââ ⊠Ah, lots of them when they begun life were no more than I be now!â
âHenchard!â said Elizabeth-Jane, surprised, but by no means suspecting the whole force of the revelation. She ascended to the top of the steps.
Her mother, though her head was bowed, had already caught from the inn-window tones that strangely riveted her attention, before the old manâs words, âMr. Henchard, the Mayor,â reached her ears. She arose, and stepped up to her daughterâs side as soon as she could do so without showing exceptional eagerness.
The interior of the hotel dining-room was spread out before her, with its tables, and glass, and plate, and inmates. Facing the window, in the chair of dignity, sat a man about forty years of age; of heavy frame, large features, and commanding voice; his general build being rather coarse than compact. He had a rich complexion, which verged on swarthiness, a flashing black eye, and dark, bushy brows and hair. When he indulged in an occasional loud laugh at some remark among the guests, his large mouth parted so far back as to show to the rays of the chandelier a full score or more of the two-and-thirty sound white teeth that he obviously still could boast of.
That laugh was not encouraging to strangers; and hence it may have been well that it was rarely heard. Many theories might have been built upon it. It fell in well with conjectures of a temperament which would have no pity for weakness, but would be ready to yield ungrudging admiration to greatness and strength. Its producerâs personal goodness, if he had any, would be of a very fitful castâ âan occasional almost oppressive generosity rather than a mild and constant kindness.
Susan Henchardâs husbandâ âin law, at leastâ âsat before them, matured in shape, stiffened in line, exaggerated in traits; disciplined, thought-markedâ âin a word, older. Elizabeth, encumbered with no recollections as her mother was, regarded him with nothing more than the keen curiosity and interest which the discovery of such unexpected social standing in the long-sought relative naturally begot. He was dressed in an old-fashioned evening suit, an expanse of frilled shirt showing on his broad breast; jewelled studs, and a heavy gold chain. Three glasses stood at his right hand; but, to his wifeâs surprise, the two for wine were empty, while the third, a tumbler, was half full of water.
When last
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