The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 11

The Ring at Casterbridge was merely the local name of one of

the finest Roman Amphitheatres, if not the very finest,

remaining in Britain.

Casterbridge announced old Rome in every street, alley, and

precinct. It looked Roman, bespoke the art of Rome,

concealed dead men of Rome. It was impossible to dig more

than a foot or two deep about the town fields and gardens

without coming upon some tall soldier or other of the

Empire, who had lain there in his silent unobtrusive rest

for a space of fifteen hundred years. He was mostly found

lying on his side, in an oval scoop in the chalk, like a

chicken in its shell; his knees drawn up to his chest;

sometimes with the remains of his spear against his arm, a

fibula or brooch of bronze on his breast or forehead, an urn

at his knees, a jar at his throat, a bottle at his mouth;

and mystified conjecture pouring down upon him from the eyes

of Casterbridge street boys and men, who had turned a moment

to gaze at the familiar spectacle as they passed by.

Imaginative inhabitants, who would have felt an

unpleasantness at the discovery of a comparatively modern

skeleton in their gardens, were quite unmoved by these hoary

shapes. They had lived so long ago, their time was so

unlike the present, their hopes and motives were so widely

removed from ours, that between them and the living there

seemed to stretch a gulf too wide for even a spirit to pass.

The Amphitheatre was a huge circular enclosure, with a notch

at opposite extremities of its diameter north and south.

From its sloping internal form it might have been called the

spittoon of the Jotuns. It was to Casterbridge what the

ruined Coliseum is to modern Rome, and was nearly of the

same magnitude. The dusk of evening was the proper hour at

which a true impression of this suggestive place could be

received. Standing in the middle of the arena at that time

there by degrees became apparent its real vastness, which a

cursory view from the summit at noon-day was apt to obscure.

Melancholy, impressive, lonely, yet accessible from every

part of the town, the historic circle was the frequent spot

for appointments of a furtive kind. Intrigues were arranged

there; tentative meetings were there experimented after

divisions and feuds. But one kind of appointment--in itself

the most common of any--seldom had place in the

Amphitheatre: that of happy lovers.

Why, seeing that it was pre-eminently an airy, accessible,

and sequestered spot for interviews, the cheerfullest form

of those occurrences never took kindly to the soil of the

ruin, would be a curious inquiry. Perhaps it was because

its associations had about them something sinister. Its

history proved that. Apart from the sanguinary nature of

the games originally played therein, such incidents attached

to its past as these: that for scores of years the town-

gallows had stood at one corner; that in 1705 a woman who

had murdered her husband was half-strangled and then burnt

there in the presence of ten thousand spectators. Tradition

reports that at a certain stage of the burning her heart

burst and leapt out of her body, to the terror of them all,

and that not one of those ten thousand people ever cared

particularly for hot roast after that. In addition to these

old tragedies, pugilistic encounters almost to the death had

come off down to recent dates in that secluded arena,

entirely invisible to the outside world save by climbing to

the top of the enclosure, which few towns-people in the

daily round of their lives ever took the trouble to do. So

that, though close to the turnpike-road, crimes might be

perpetrated there unseen at mid-day.

Some boys had latterly tried to impart gaiety to the ruin by

using the central arena as a cricket-ground. But the game

usually languished for the aforesaid reason--the dismal

privacy which the earthen circle enforced, shutting out

every appreciative passer's vision, every commendatory

remark from outsiders--everything, except the sky; and to

play at games in such circumstances was like acting to an

empty house. Possibly, too, the boys were timid, for some

old people said that at certain moments in the summer time,

in broad daylight, persons sitting with a book or dozing in

the arena had, on lifting their eyes, beheld the slopes

lined with a gazing legion of Hadrian's soldiery as if

watching the gladiatorial combat; and had heard the roar of

their excited voices, that the scene would remain but a

moment, like a lightning flash, and then disappear.

It was related that there still remained under the south

entrance excavated cells for the reception of the wild

animals and athletes who took part in the games. The arena

was still smooth and circular, as if used for its original

purpose not so very long ago. The sloping pathways by which

spectators had ascended to their seats were pathways yet.

But the whole was grown over with grass, which now, at the

end of summer, was bearded with withered bents that formed

waves under the brush of the wind, returning to the

attentive ear aeolian modulations, and detaining for moments

the flying globes of thistledown.

Henchard had chosen this spot as being the safest from

observation which he could think of for meeting his long-

lost wife, and at the same time as one easily to be found by

a stranger after nightfall. As Mayor of the town, with a

reputation to keep up, he could not invite her to come to

his house till some definite course had been decided on.

Just before eight he approached the deserted earth-work and

entered by the south path which descended over the

debris of the former dens. In a few moments he could

discern a female figure creeping in by the great north gap,

or public gateway. They met in the middle of the arena.

Neither spoke just at first--there was no necessity for

speech--and the poor woman leant against Henchard, who

supported her in his arms.

"I don't drink," he said in a low, halting, apologetic

voice. "You hear, Susan?--I don't drink now--I haven't

since that night." Those were his first words.

He felt her bow her head in acknowledgment that she

understood. After a minute or two he again began:

"If I had known you were living, Susan! But there was every

reason to suppose you and the child were dead and gone. I

took every possible step to find you--travelled--advertised.

My opinion at last was that you had started for some colony

with that man, and had been drowned on your voyage. Why did

you keep silent like this?"

"O Michael! because of him--what other reason could there

be? I thought I owed him faithfulness to the end of one of

our lives--foolishly I believed there was something solemn

and binding in the bargain; I thought that even in honour I

dared not desert him when he had paid so much for me in good

faith. I meet you now only as his widow--I consider myself

that, and that I have no claim upon you. Had he not died I

should never have come--never! Of that you may be sure."

"Ts-s-s! How could you be so simple?"

"I don't know. Yet it would have been very wicked--if I had

not thought like that!" said Susan, almost crying.

"Yes--yes--so it would. It is only that which makes me feel

'ee an innocent woman. But--to lead me into this!"

"What, Michael?" she asked, alarmed.

"Why, this difficulty about our living together again, and

Elizabeth-Jane. She cannot be told all--she would so

despise us both that--I could not bear it!"

"That was why she was brought up in ignorance of you. I

could not bear it either."

"Well--we must talk of a plan for keeping her in her present

belief, and getting matters straight in spite of it. You

have heard I am in a large way of business here--that I am

Mayor of the town, and churchwarden, and I don't know what

all?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"These things, as well as the dread of the girl discovering

our disgrace, makes it necessary to act with extreme

caution. So that I don't see how you two can return openly

to my house as the wife and daughter I once treated badly,

and banished from me; and there's the rub o't."

"We'll go away at once. I only came to see--"

"No, no, Susan; you are not to go--you mistake me!" he said

with kindly severity. "I have thought of this plan: that

you and Elizabeth take a cottage in the town as the widow

Mrs. Newson and her daughter; that I meet you, court you,

and marry you. Elizabeth-Jane coming to my house as my

step-daughter. The thing is so natural and easy that it is

half done in thinking o't. This would leave my shady, head-

strong, disgraceful life as a young man absolutely unopened;

the secret would be yours and mine only; and I should have

the pleasure of seeing my own only child under my roof, as

well as my wife."

"I am quite in your hands, Michael," she said meekly. "I

came here for the sake of Elizabeth; for myself, if you tell

me to leave again to-morrow morning, and never come near you

more, I am content to go."

"Now, now; we don't want to hear that," said Henchard

gently. "Of course you won't leave again. Think over the

plan I have proposed for a few hours; and if you can't hit

upon a better one we'll adopt it. I have to be away for a

day or two on business, unfortunately; but during that time

you can get lodgings--the only ones in the town fit for you

are those over the china-shop in High Street--and you can

also look for a cottage."

"If the lodgings are in High Street they are dear, I

suppose?"

"Never mind--you MUST start genteel if our plan is to be

carried out. Look to me for money. Have you enough till I

come back?"

"Quite," said she.

"And are you comfortable at the inn?"

"O yes."

"And the girl is quite safe from learning the shame of her

case and ours?--that's what makes me most anxious of all."

"You would be surprised to find how unlikely she is to dream

of the truth. How could she ever suppose such a thing?"

True!

"I like the idea of repeating our marriage," said Mrs.

Henchard, after a pause. "It seems the only right course,

after all this. Now I think I must go back to Elizabeth-

Jane, and tell her that our kinsman, Mr. Henchard, kindly

wishes us to stay in the town."

"Very well--arrange that yourself. I'll go some way with

you."

"No, no. Don't run any risk!" said his wife anxiously. "I

can find my way back--it is not late. Please let me go

alone."

"Right," said Henchard. "But just one word. Do you forgive

me, Susan?"

She murmured something; but seemed to find it difficult to

frame her answer.

"Never mind--all in good time," said he. "Judge me by my

future works--good-bye!"

He retreated, and stood at the upper side of the

Amphitheatre while his wife passed out through the lower

way, and descended under the trees to the town. Then

Henchard himself went homeward, going so fast that by the

time he reached his door he was almost upon the heels of the

unconscious woman from whom he had just parted. He watched

her up the street, and turned into his house.