Muse

If you're enjoying this book, then I know you will love the exclusive stories on our premium feed. Follow the link in the show notes to try it for free for seven days and dive into more of your favourite sleepy stories. Hello, it's Elizabeth, and I'm excited to share with you the newest show from Slumber Studios. It's called Sleepy History, and it's exactly what it sounds like. Intriguing stories, people, mysteries and events from history, delivered in a supremely calming atmosphere. Explore the legend of El Dorado. See what life was like for the Roman gladiators. Uncover the myths and mysteries of Stonehenge. You'll find interesting but relaxing episodes like these on Sleepy History and the same great production quality you've come to know and love from The Sleepy Bookshelf. So check it out, and perhaps you'll have another way to get a good night's rest. Just search Sleepy History in your preferred podcast player. good evening and welcome to the sleepy bookshelf where we put down our worries from the day and pick up a good book i'm your host elizabeth and it is wonderful to have you here with me tonight. This evening will be continuing, far from the madding crowd. But before we do, close your eyes and let the day gently drift away, knowing that nothing more is needed of you tonight. with each slow breath in invite a sense of calm and with each breath out let go of any remaining tension imagine yourself wrapped in a quiet comforting stillness where your body grows heavier and your mind becomes lighter. Every muscle softens. Every thought slows. And a deep feeling of peace settles over you. You are safe. You are resting. And sleep is finding you naturally.

one gentle breath at a time. As the farm workers gathered to collect their wages, Bathsheba announced that she had dismissed the dishonest bailiff and intended to manage the farm herself. She paid their wages generously and assured them that she would work as hard as any of them. They also discussed the disappearance of Fanny Robin, and when William Smallbury returned from Casterbridge, he reported that she had likely followed the regiment of soldiers in search of the man she loved. Fanny had, indeed, travelled to the barracks and called to Sergeant Troy from beneath his window. she asked when they would marry reminding him of his promise but troy responded hesitantly and postponed from making any firm arrangements though he reassured her that he would visit the following day his detached manner contrasted painfully with fanny's devotion leaving her to depart alone in the cold hopeful yet uncertain of their future tonight we pick up with Bathsheba attending her first farmer's market as a farmer in her own right So just lie back and relax as I turn to the next pages of Far From The Madding Crowd. Chapter 12. Farmers. A Rule. An Exception. The first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in her own person, and by proxy no more, was her appearance the following market day in Corn Market at Casterbridge. The low, though extensive, hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes.

the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and concentrating his argument by a concentration of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground ash saplings, using them partly as walking sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbors with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations, each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage, bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle. Or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor. An issue of events perfectly well known to half a dozen acute town-bred fowls, which had as usual crept into the building, unobserved, and waited the fulfillment of their anticipations with a high, stretched neck and oblique eye. Among these heavy yeomen, a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons. was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination, far more than she had first imagined, to take up a position here. For at her first entry, the lumbering dialogues had ceased. Nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there. Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, and to these she made her way.

But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none. and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample bags and by degrees adopted the professional paw into the hand, holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner. Strange to say, if a woman in full bloom and vigour, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer. and reject. juiced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness, which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a naivety in her cheapening which saved it from meanness. Those of the farmers, with whom she had no dealings, by far the greater part, were continually asking each other, who is she? The reply would be, Farmer Everdeen's niece, took on Weatherbury up a farm, turned away the bailey and swears she'll do everything herself. The other man would then shake his head, yes, tis a pity she's so headstrong, the first would say, but we ought to be proud of her here. She lightens up the old place. It is such a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up. It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was general, and this Saturday's debut in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden.

Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether. The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. Women seemed to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock. It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently. Such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of cause. people had done so before. But the smallness of the exception made the mystery. She soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance. He was a gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He was erect in attitude and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-eminently marked him. Dignity. Apparently, he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age, at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years or so, and artificially a woman's does likewise. 35 and 50 were his limits of variation. He might have been either, or anywhere between the It may be said that married men of 40 are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for love,

The consciousness of a certain immunity, under any circumstances, from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man. When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse was put in, and on they trotted, Bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable manner by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young lady farmer's property, and the grocer's and draper's no more. I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan't mind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there. But this morning it was as bad as being married. Eyes everywhere. I knowed it would be, Liddy said. Then be such a terrible class of society to look at a body. But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me. The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. A very good-looking man, she continued. Upright? About forty, I should think. Do you know at all who he could be? Liddy couldn't think. Can't you guess at all? said Bathsheba with some disappointment. I haven't a notion. Besides, it is no different, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he'd taken more, it would have mattered a great deal. Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them. Why, there he is, she said. Liddy looked. That? That's Farmer Boldwood, of course. Tis the man you couldn't see the other day when he called. Oh, Farmer Boldwood. murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he outstripped them.

The farmer had never turned his head once, but with his eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms with thin air. He's an interesting man. Don't you think so? She remarked. Oh yes, very. Everybody owns it, replied Liddy. I wonder why he is so wrapped up and indifferent and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him. It is sad, but not known for certain, that he met with some bitter a disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, they say. People always say that, and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men. It is the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved. Simply his nature. I expect so, miss. Nothing else in the world. Still, it is more romantic to think that he has been served cruelly, poor thing. Perhaps after all he has. Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has. I feel he must have. However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn't wonder after all if it wasn't a little bit of both, just between the two, rather cruelly used and rather reserved. Oh dear, no miss. I can't think it between the two. Well, that's most likely. Well, yes. So it is. I'm convinced it is, most likely. You may take my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him. Chapter 13. Sorte Sanctorium. The Valentine. It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the 13th of February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in wintertime before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed. The atmosphere of the place. seemed as old as the walls. Every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the day. And Bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles

and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling. Her presence had not so much weight as to task thought and yet enough to exercise it. On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy, looking at it, said, Did you ever find out, miss, who you were going to marry by means of the Bible and key? Don't be so foolish, Liddy, as if such things could be. Well, there's a good deal in it, all the same. Nonsense, child. And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it, some don't. I do. Very well, let's try it, said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. Go and get the front door key. Liddy fetched it. I wish it wasn't Sunday, she said on returning. Perhaps tis wrong. What's right weekdays is right Sundays, replied her mistress, in a tone which was proof in itself. The book was opened, the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpracticed readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled and abashed her. It was wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the Concrete. Folly in the Concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by the previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, for the purpose. Now, keep steady and be silent, said Bathsheba. The verse was repeated. The book turned round. Bathsheba blushed guiltily. Who did you try? said Liddy curiously.

I shall not tell you. Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morning, Miss? Liddy continued, adrambrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken. No, indeed, said Bathsheba with serene indifference. His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss. I know it. And you did not see his goings-on? Certainly I did not, I tell you. Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy and shut her lips decisively. This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting. What did he do? Bathsheba said per force. Didn't turn his head to look at you once, all the service. Why should he? Again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. I didn't ask him to. Oh no, but everybody else was noticing you. and it was odd he didn't. There it is like him, rich and gentlemanly. What does he care? Bathsheba dropped into a silence, intended to express that she had opinions on the matter too obtruse for Liddy's comprehension, rather than that she had nothing to say. Dear me, I had nearly forgotten. forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday, she exclaimed at length. Valentine? Who for a mess? said Liddy. Farmer Baldwood. It was the single name among all possible wrong ones at just this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right. Well, no, it is only for little Teddy Kogan. I've promised him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Lydia, you may as well bring me my desk, and I shall direct it at once. Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market day at the chief stationers in Custerbridge. In the centre was a small, oval enclosure. This was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any generalities by a printer could possibly be. Here's the place for writing, said Bathsheba. What shall I put? Something of this sort, I should think, returned Liddy promptly. The rose is red, the violet blue, carnation sweet, and so are you.

Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child like him, said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small, though legible handwriting, enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction. what fun it would be to send it to this stupid old boldwood and how he would wonder said the irrepressible liddy lifting her eyebrows and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Baldwoods had begun to be a troublesome image, a species of Daniel in her kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said that he might as well follow suit with the rest and afford her the official glance of admiration, which cost nothing at all. She was far from being seriously concerned about his non-conformity. Still, it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy should talk about it. So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing than piquant. No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it. He'd worry to death, said the persistent Liddy. Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy, remarked her mistress. He's rather a naughty child sometimes. Yes, that he is. Let's toss, as men do, said Bathsheba idly. now then head baldwood tail teddy oh no we won't toss money on a sunday that would be tempting the devil indeed toss this hymn book there can be no simpleness in that mess very well open baldwood shut teddy no it is more likely to fall open open teddy shut baldwood the book went fluttering in the air and came down shut Bathsheba a small yawn upon her mouth took the pen and with offhand serenity directed the missive to baldwood now light a candle liddy which seal should we use here's a unicorn's head There's nothing in that.

What's this? Two doves? No. It ought to be something extraordinary. Ought it not, Liddy? Oh, here's one with a motto. I remember it is some funny one, but I can't read it. We'll try this. And if it doesn't do, we'll have another. A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the hot wax to discover the words. capital she exclaimed throwing down the letter frolicsomely. It would upset the solemnity of a parson and clerk, too. Liddy looked at the words of the seal and read, Marry me. The same evening, the letter was sent and was duly sorted in Casterbridge Post Office that night to be returned to Weatherbury again in the morning. So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done Of love, as a spectacle, Bathsheba had a fair knowledge But of love, subjectively, she knew nothing Chapter 14 Effect of the Letter Sunrise At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine's Day, Baldwood sat down to his supper as usual by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel shelf before him was a timepiece surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here, the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye. And as he ate and drank, he still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight. Marry me. the pertin junction was like those crystal substances which colorless themselves assume the tone of objects around them here in the quiet of the baldwoods parlor where everything that was not grave was extraneous and where the atmosphere was that of a puritan sunday lasting all the week

The letter and its dictum changed their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity imbibed from their accessories now. Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Baldwin had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first floating weed to Columbus, the contemptibly little suggesting possibilities of the infinitely great. The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Baldwood, of course, did not know, and such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of approving a cause suggested by circumstance and of striking out a cause from inner impulse would look the same in the result. The vast difference between starting a train of events and directing into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue. When Boldwood went to bed, he placed the valentine in the corner of the looking glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood's life that such an event had occurred. The same fascination that caused him to think it an act, which had a deliberate motive, prevented him from regarding it as impertinence. He looked again at the direction. The mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. somebody's some woman's hand had traveled softly over the paper bearing his name her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it. Her brain had seen him in imagination

the while. Why should she have imagined him? Her mouth, with the lips red or pale, plump or creased, had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went on. The corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness. What had been the expression? The vision of the woman writing as a supplement to the words written had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she might be, considering that her original was at that moment, sound asleep, and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky. Whenever Baldwood dozed, she took a form, and comparatively ceased to be a vision. When he awoke, there was the letter, justifying the dream. The moon shone tonight, and its light was not of a customary kind. His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward, and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be. The substance of the epistle had occupied him, but little in comparison with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly wondered if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn. He jumped out of the bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope, searched it. Nothing more was there. Baldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent red seal. Marry me, he said aloud. the solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter and stuck it in the frame of the glass in doing so he caught sight of his reflected features wan in expression and insubstantial in form

he saw how closely compressed was his mouth and that his eyes were widespread red and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed. Then the dawn drew on. The full power of the clear heaven was not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Baldwood arose and dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward and murky to the east. where over the snowy down or ewe lease on Weatherbury Upper Farm and apparently resting upon the ridge the only half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless like a red and frameless fire shining over a white hearthstone. the whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age in other directions the fields and sky were so much of one color by the snow, that it was difficult, in a hasty glance, to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred. And in general, there was, here too, that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade, which attends the prospect, when the garish brightness, commonly in the sky, is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. Baldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened, and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with the polish of marble.

How in some portions of the slope, withered grass bent, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth, wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass, And how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short permanency. A half-muffled noise of the light wheels interrupted him. baldwood turned back into the road it was the mail cart a crazy two-wheeled vehicle hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind the driver held out a letter baldwood seized it and opened it expecting another anonymous one So greatly are people's ideas of probability a mere sense that the precedent will repeat itself. I don't think it is for you, sir, said the man when he saw Baldwood's action. Though there is no name, I think it is for you, shepherd. Baldwood looked then at the address. The New Shepherd, Weatherbury Farm, near Casterbridge Oh, what a mistake. It is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd, it is for Miss Everdeen's. You had better take it on to him, Gabriel Oak, and say I opened it in mistake. At this moment, on the ridge up against the blazing sky, a figure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle flame. Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square, skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind it. The tall form was that of Gabriel Oak. The small one, that of George. The articles in course of transit, were hurdles. Wait, said Boldwood. That's the man on the hill. I'll take the letter to him myself.

To Boldwood, it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face, pregnant with intention, he entered the snowy field. Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of Warren's Malthouse, whither the shepherd was apparently bent. Baldwood followed at a distance.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.