English novel beginnings




The mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy



     One  evening  of  late summer, before the nineteenth century
had reached one‐third of its span, a young  man  and  woman,  the
latter  carrying  a  child, were approaching the large village of
Weydon‐Priors, in Upper Wessex, on foot.

They were plainly but not ill clad, though the thick hoar of dust
which had accumulated on their shoes lent a disadvantageous shab‐
biness to their appearance just now.

The man was of fine figure, swarthy, and stern in aspect; and  he
showed  in  profile  a facial angle so slightly inclined as to be
almost perpendicular.

At his back he carried by a looped  strap  a  rush  basket,  from
which  protruded  at  one end the crutch of a hay‐knife, a wimble
for hay‐bonds being also visible in the aperture.  His  measured,
springless  walk  was the walk of the skilled country‐man as dis‐
tinct from the desultory shamble of the general  labourer;  while
in  the  turn and plant of each foot there was, further, a dogged
and cynical indifference personal to himself, showing  its  pres‐
ence  even  in  the regularly interchanging fustian folds, now in
the left leg, now in the right, as he paced along.

(Why at his back but not on his back?)


What was really peculiar, however, in this couple’s progress, and
would have attracted the attention of any casual observer  other‐
wise disposed to overlook them, was the perfect silence they pre‐
served.

but  on  closer view it could be discerned that the man was read‐
ing, or pretending to read, a ballad sheet which he  kept  before
his eyes with some difficulty by the hand that was passed through
the basket strap.


Whether  this  apparent  cause were the real cause, or whether it
were an assumed one to escape an intercourse that would have been
irksome to him, nobody but hiimself could  have  said  precisely;
but  his taciturnity was unbroken, and the woman enjoyed no soci‐
ety whatever from his presence.









                               ‐2‐


Virtually she walked the highway alone, save for  the  child  she
bore.

(The  usage of virtually and save for: virtually: literally, save
for: except)

Sometimes the man’s bent elbow almost touched her  shoulder,  for
she kept as close to his side as was possible without actual con‐
tact, but she seemed to have no idea of taking his arm, nor he of
offering it; and far from exhibiting surprise at his ignoring si‐
lence  she appeared to receive it as a natural thing. It any word
at all were uttered by the little group,  it  was  an  occasional
whisper of the woman to the child ‐‐ a tiny girl in short clothes
and  blue boots of knitted yarn ‐‐ and the murmured babble of the
child in reply.

That the man and woman were husband and wife, and the parents  of
the  girl in arms there could be little doubt. No other than such
relationship would have accounted for the atmosphere of stale fa‐
miliarity which the trio carried along with them like a nimbus as
they moved down the road.




Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy


     The schoolmaster was  leaving  the  village,  and  everybody
seemed  sorry.  The miller at Cresscombe lent him the small white
tilted cart and horse to carry his goods to the city of his  des‐
tination, about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving of quite
sufficient size for the departing teacher’s effects.


A  little  boy  of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assisting in
the packing, joined the group of men, and as  they  rubbed  their
chins  he spoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice: "Aunt
have got a great fuel‐house, and it could be put there,  perhaps,
till you’ve found a place to settle in, sir."

"A proper good notion," said the blacksmith.

It was decided that a deputation should wait on the boy’s aunt ‐‐
an  old maiden resident ‐‐ and ask her if she would house the pi‐
ano till Mr. Phillotson should send for it.  The  smith  and  the
bailiff  started to see about the practicability of the suggested
sheltered, and the boy and the schoolmaster  were  left  standing
alone.

"Sorry I am going, Jude?" asked the latter kindly.

Tears  rose into the boy’s eyes, for he was not among the regular
day scholars, who came unromantically close to the schoolmaster’s









                               ‐3‐


life, but one who had attended the night school only  during  the
present  teacher’s  term  of office. The regular scholars, if the
truth must be told, stood at the present moment  afar  off,  like
certain historic disciples, indisposed to any enthusiastic volun‐
teering of aid.

The  boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr.
Phillotson had bestowed on him as a parting  gift,  and  admitted
that he was sorry.

"So am I," said Mr. Phillotson.

"Why do you go, sir?" asked the boy.

"Ah‐‐that  would be a long story. You wouldn’t understand my rea‐
sons, Jude. You will, perhaps, when you are older."

"I think I should now, sir."

"Well‐‐don’t speak of this everywhere. You know what a university
is, and a university degree? It is the necessary  hallmark  of  a
man who wants to do anything in teaching. My scheme, or dream, is
to be a university graduate, and then to be ordained. By going to
live at Christminster, or near it, I shall be at headquarters, so
to speak, and if my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that
being  the spot will afford me a better chance of carrying it out
than I should have elsewhere."


Emma


     Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a  comfort‐
able home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best
blessings  of existence; and had lived nearly twenty‐one years in
the world with very little to distress or vex her.

(handsome in 19th  century:  well‐formed/well‐proportioned/digni‐
fied.  It  is  a beauty worth respect. Jane Austen, George Eliot,
Dickens use handome to describe women. A handsome woman is trust‐
worthy, independent‐minded)

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,
indulgent father; and had, in consequence of  her  sister’s  mar‐
riage,  been  mistress of his house from a very early period. Her
mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an  indis‐
tinct  rememberance  of her caresses; and her place had been sup‐
plied by an excellent woman as governess, who had  fallen  little
short of a mother in affection.














                               ‐4‐


Women in love


     Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window‐bay
of  their father’s house in Beldover, working and talking. Ursula
was stitching a piece of brightly‐coloured embroidery, and Gudrun
was drawing upon a board which she held on her  knee.  They  were
mostly  silent,  talking  as their thoughts strayed through their
minds.

"Ursula," said Gudrun, "don’t you really want  to  get  married?"
Ursula laid her embroidery in her lap and looked up. Her face was
calm and considerate.

"I don’t know," she replied. "It depends how you mean."

Gudrun  was slightly taken aback. She watched her sister for some
moments.

"Well," she said, ironically, "it usually means  one  thing!  But
don’t  you think anyhow, you’d be‐‐" She darkened slightly‐‐"in a
better position than you are in now."

A shadow came over Ursula’s face.

"I might," she said. "But I’m not sure."

Again Gudrun paused, slightly irritated. She wanted to  be  quite
definite.

"You  don’t  think  one  needs the experience of having been mar‐
ried?" she asked.

"Do you think it need be an experience?" replied Ursula.

"Bound to be, in some way or other," said Gudrun, coolly. "Possi‐
bly undesirable, but bound to be an experience of some sort."

"Not really," said Ursula. "More likely to be the end of  experi‐
ence."

Gudrun sat very still, to attend to this.

"Of  course,"  she said, "there’s that to consider." This brought
the conversation to a close. Gudrun, almost angrily, took up  her
rubber  and began to rub out part of her drawing. Ursula stitched
absorbedly.

"You wouldn’t consider a good offer?" asked Gudrun.

"I think I’ve rejected several," said Ursula.

"Really!" Gudrun flushed dark‐‐"But anything really worth  while?
Have you really?"









                               ‐5‐


"A  thousand  a  year,  and  an awfully nice man. I liked him aw‐
fully," said Ursula.

"Really! But weren’t you fearfully tempted?"

"In the abstract but not in the concrete," said Ursula. "When  it
comes  to  the  point,  one  isn’t  even  tempted‐‐oh,  if I were
tempted, I’d marry like a shot. I’m only  tempted  not  to."  The
faces of both sisters suddenly lit up with amusement.




"Oh  my  dear,"  cried Gudrun, strident, "I wouldn’t go out of my
way to look for him. But if there did  happen  to  come  along  a
highly  attractive  individual  of  sufficient means‐‐well‐‐" she
tailed off ironically. Then she looked searchingly at Ursula,  as
if  to  probe  her.  "Don’t you find yourself getting bored?" she
asked of her sister. "Don’t you find, that things fail to materi‐
alize? Nothing materializes! Everything withers in the bud."