feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_22_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 23
feat_summary_id: chapter 23
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-23", "summary": "\"For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. Bathsheba was sparkling. She invited Gabriel to occupy the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table, only to ask him to move again when Boldwood appeared, apologizing for his lateness. After supper, Coggan began singing folksongs. When it was Poorgrass's turn, he was a bit in his cups and stalled at first. Then he rendered a composition of his own. Young Coggan became convulsed with laughter, and his father had to send him off. Tranquility restored, others sang, and \"the sun went down in an ochreous mist: but they sat and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven.\" Suddenly Gabriel noticed that Boldwood was missing from the place of honor. As Liddy brought candles, he saw him within the parlor, sitting close to Bathsheba. The guests asked Bathsheba to sing \"The Banks of Allan Water.\" After a moment's consideration, Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel \"to accompany her on his flute.\" Boldwood sang the bass \"in his customary profound voice.\" Bathsheba then wished everyone good night. Boldwood closed the sash and the shutters but remained inside to propose once again. After some hesitation, Bathsheba said, \"I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks . . . that you say that you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife.\" Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba still had qualms: \"To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous.\"", "analysis": "Hardy offers still another lovely old country custom in his depiction of the farm supper: the crosscurrents of feeling; the power of song, effecting a momentary calm over ruffled spirits; the maintenance of individuality within the group -- these are things that Hardy expresses very well. A verse of the song Bathsheba sings foreshadows future developments in the plot: For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had heOn the banks of Allan WaterNone was gay as she! At present, though, it appears that Bathsheba will ultimately accept Boldwood."}
text: 
  
  EVENTIDE--A SECOND DECLARATION
  
  
  For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot
  beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill
  of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room.  Miss
  Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table.  She was
  thus at the head without mingling with the men.
  
  This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips
  contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair.  She
  seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table
  was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal.
  She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining
  to that end, which he did with great readiness.
  
  At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the
  green to Bathsheba at the window.  He apologized for his lateness:
  his arrival was evidently by arrangement.
  
  "Gabriel," said she, "will you move again, please, and let Mr.
  Boldwood come there?"
  
  Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.
  
  The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat
  and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of
  grey.  Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an
  exceptional degree.  So also was Bathsheba now that he had come,
  though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been
  dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while.
  
  Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without
  reference to listeners:--
  
  
     I've lost my love, and I care not,
     I've lost my love, and I care not;
       I shall soon have another
       That's better than t'other;
     I've lost my love, and I care not.
  
  
  This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative
  gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by
  those established authors who are independent of notices in the
  papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause.
  
  "Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!" said Coggan.
  
  "I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me," said Joseph,
  diminishing himself.
  
  "Nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, Joseph--never!" said
  Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice.  "And
  mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, 'Sing at once,
  Joseph Poorgrass.'"
  
  "Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! ... Just eye my features,
  and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?"
  
  "No, yer blushes be quite reasonable," said Coggan.
  
  "I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty's eyes
  get fixed on me," said Joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willed
  they do, they must."
  
  "Now, Joseph, your song, please," said Bathsheba, from the window.
  
  "Well, really, ma'am," he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't know
  what to say.  It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure."
  
  "Hear, hear!" said the supper-party.
  
  Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable
  piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and
  another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon.  This was so
  successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath,
  after a few false starts:--
  
  
     I sow'-ed th'-e .....
     I sow'-ed .....
     I sow'-ed th'-e seeds' of' love',
        I-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring',
     I-in A'-pril', Ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' June',
        When sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing.
  
  
  "Well put out of hand," said Coggan, at the end of the verse.  "'They
  do sing' was a very taking paragraph."
  
  "Ay; and there was a pretty place at 'seeds of love.' and 'twas well
  heaved out.  Though 'love' is a nasty high corner when a man's voice
  is getting crazed.  Next verse, Master Poorgrass."
  
  But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those
  anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are
  particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down
  his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when,
  after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth
  burst out through his nose.  Joseph perceived it, and with hectic
  cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing.  Coggan boxed Bob's
  ears immediately.
  
  "Go on, Joseph--go on, and never mind the young scamp," said Coggan.
  "'Tis a very catching ballet.  Now then again--the next bar; I'll
  help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather
  wheezy:--
  
  
     "Oh the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist',
     And the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'-ill twine'."
  
  
  But the singer could not be set going again.  Bob Coggan was sent
  home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob
  Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable
  as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar
  occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of
  his day.
  
  It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily
  making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of
  light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or
  illuminating the dead levels at all.  The sun had crept round the
  tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the
  shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst
  their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a
  yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than
  acquired.
  
  The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on,
  and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven.  Bathsheba still
  remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in
  knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene
  outside.  The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely
  before the signs of moving were shown.
  
  Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom
  of the table.  How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he
  had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk.  Whilst he was
  thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the
  room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down
  the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows
  behind.  Bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was now
  again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that
  Boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her.
  
  Next came the question of the evening.  Would Miss Everdene sing to
  them the song she always sang so charmingly--"The Banks of Allan
  Water"--before they went home?
  
  After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to
  Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere.
  
  "Have you brought your flute?" she whispered.
  
  "Yes, miss."
  
  "Play to my singing, then."
  
  She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles
  behind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the
  sash-frame.  Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room.
  Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon
  swelled to a steady clearness.  Subsequent events caused one of the
  verses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by more
  than one of those who were gathered there:--
  
  
     For his bride a soldier sought her,
       And a winning tongue had he:
     On the banks of Allan Water
       None was gay as she!
  
  
  In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwood
  supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes
  so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like
  an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored
  shadow, which threw her tones into relief.  The shearers reclined
  against each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and
  so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be
  heard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last
  tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of
  pleasure which is the attar of applause.
  
  It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting
  the farmer's bearing to-night towards their entertainer.  Yet there
  was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to
  his time of performing them.  It was when the rest were all looking
  away that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned
  aside; when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they
  were inattentive he murmured his thanks.  The meaning lay in the
  difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself;
  and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with,
  did not lead Oak to underestimate these signs.
  
  Bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the window, and
  retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing the
  sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her.  Oak wandered
  away under the quiet and scented trees.  Recovering from the softer
  impressions produced by Bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose to
  leave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to
  pass out:--
  
  "I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves
  it--that 'a do so," he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if
  he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist.
  
  "I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it, so
  to allude," hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, "that every cup, every one of
  the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place
  as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all."
  
  "I'm sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me," said the
  virtuous thief, grimly.
  
  "Well, I'll say this for Pennyways," added Coggan, "that whenever he
  do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good
  action, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sitting
  down, he's generally able to carry it out.  Yes, I'm proud to say,
  neighbours, that he's stole nothing at all."
  
  "Well, 'tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways," said
  Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed
  unanimously.
  
  At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the
  inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between
  the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there.
  
  Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone.  Her cheeks had lost a
  great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of
  her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a
  triumph--though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated
  than desired.
  
  She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just
  risen, and he was kneeling in it--inclining himself over its back
  towards her, and holding her hand in both his own.  His body moved
  restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy
  happiness.  This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity from
  a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in its
  distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of the
  pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized.
  
  "I will try to love you," she was saying, in a trembling voice quite
  unlike her usual self-confidence.  "And if I can believe in any way
  that I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry
  you.  But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable
  in any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn promise to-night.  I
  would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation
  better.
  
  "But you have every reason to believe that THEN--"
  
  "I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six
  weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to
  be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife," she
  said, firmly.  "But remember this distinctly, I don't promise yet."
  
  "It is enough; I don't ask more.  I can wait on those dear words.
  And now, Miss Everdene, good-night!"
  
  "Good-night," she said, graciously--almost tenderly; and Boldwood
  withdrew with a serene smile.
  
  Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart
  before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look
  of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand.  She had
  been awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make
  amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty
  she was schooling herself to pay.  To have brought all this about her
  ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without
  a fearful joy.  The facility with which even the most timid women
  sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated
  with a little triumph, is marvellous.
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 23
target: "For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. Bathsheba was sparkling. She invited Gabriel to occupy the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table, only to ask him to move again when Boldwood appeared, apologizing for his lateness. After supper, Coggan began singing folksongs. When it was Poorgrass's turn, he was a bit in his cups and stalled at first. Then he rendered a composition of his own. Young Coggan became convulsed with laughter, and his father had to send him off. Tranquility restored, others sang, and "the sun went down in an ochreous mist: but they sat and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven." Suddenly Gabriel noticed that Boldwood was missing from the place of honor. As Liddy brought candles, he saw him within the parlor, sitting close to Bathsheba. The guests asked Bathsheba to sing "The Banks of Allan Water." After a moment's consideration, Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel "to accompany her on his flute." Boldwood sang the bass "in his customary profound voice." Bathsheba then wished everyone good night. Boldwood closed the sash and the shutters but remained inside to propose once again. After some hesitation, Bathsheba said, "I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks . . . that you say that you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife." Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba still had qualms: "To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous."
feat_summary_analysis: Hardy offers still another lovely old country custom in his depiction of the farm supper: the crosscurrents of feeling; the power of song, effecting a momentary calm over ruffled spirits; the maintenance of individuality within the group -- these are things that Hardy expresses very well. A verse of the song Bathsheba sings foreshadows future developments in the plot: For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had heOn the banks of Allan WaterNone was gay as she! At present, though, it appears that Bathsheba will ultimately accept Boldwood.