feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_3_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 4
feat_summary_id: chapter 4
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "So it's settled, then. Gabriel Oak is in love with the young woman who saved his life. He uses any opportunity he can to see the woman in the fields, but only ever from afar. He's kind of a stalker. After making some enquiries, he finds out that the girl's name is Bathsheba Everdene , and that she's probably leaving the area in eight days' time. Bummer. One day, he gets an opportunity to visit Bathsheba's house when one of his sheep dies. He packs up the sheep's lamb in a basket, gets all spruced up, and goes to the house. When he gets to the door, he asks Bathsheba's aunt if he could speak to the young woman. Bathsheba is out, but her aunt invites him inside. He announces that he has brought a lamb for her, in case she'd like to raise it. But instead of beating around the bush any longer, Oak tells the aunt that he has come to ask for Bathsheba's hand in marriage. He asks if Bathsheba has any other young men courting her. The aunt tells him that there are all kinds of men that want Bathsheba. She's a hottie. Farmer Oak gets discouraged and leaves. While he's walking down the lane, Bathsheba comes running after him. She wants to tell him that her aunt was lying and that there aren't any other young men in her life. This is great news for Oak, so he proposes to her right on the spot. Unfortunately, she rejects him. Okay, we're tempted at this point to abbreviate Bathsheba's name to B.S. because she is the head game queen. As you can imagine, he's pretty annoyed that she ran all the way down the road just to tell him that she's not interested. He asks her again if she'll marry him, telling her that he's very much in love with her. Ugh. At this point we want to take Oak aside and say, \"Be cool, man. Be cool.\" She says she needs a moment to think, since she's out of breath. Eventually, she tells him no again because she doesn't love him. He says he's totally fine with marrying without love, though, as long as she likes him a little. But no, it's no use. He promises he'll love her forever. But when she refuses him again, he goes all stone-faced and says he'll never ask again. Pardon us while we cringe.", "analysis": ""}
text: 
  
  GABRIEL'S RESOLVE--THE VISIT--THE MISTAKE
  
  
  The only superiority in women that is tolerable to the rival sex is,
  as a rule, that of the unconscious kind; but a superiority which
  recognizes itself may sometimes please by suggesting possibilities
  of capture to the subordinated man.
  
  This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appreciable inroads upon
  the emotional constitution of young Farmer Oak.
  
  Love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant
  profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom of
  pure passions, as that of exorbitant profit, bodily or materially,
  is at the bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak's
  feelings were as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon
  his chances.  His dog waited for his meals in a way so like that in
  which Oak waited for the girl's presence, that the farmer was quite
  struck with the resemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at
  the dog.  However, he continued to watch through the hedge for her
  regular coming, and thus his sentiments towards her were deepened
  without any corresponding effect being produced upon herself.  Oak
  had nothing finished and ready to say as yet, and not being able to
  frame love phrases which end where they begin; passionate tales--
  
  
           --Full of sound and fury
        --Signifying nothing--
  
  
  he said no word at all.
  
  By making inquiries he found that the girl's name was Bathsheba
  Everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days.  He
  dreaded the eighth day.
  
  At last the eighth day came.  The cow had ceased to give milk for
  that year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more.  Gabriel
  had reached a pitch of existence he never could have anticipated
  a short time before.  He liked saying "Bathsheba" as a private
  enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over his taste to black hair,
  though he had sworn by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated
  himself till the space he filled in the public eye was contemptibly
  small.  Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.  Marriage
  transforms a distraction into a support, the power of which should
  be, and happily often is, in direct proportion to the degree of
  imbecility it supplants.  Oak began now to see light in this
  direction, and said to himself, "I'll make her my wife, or upon my
  soul I shall be good for nothing!"
  
  All this while he was perplexing himself about an errand on which he
  might consistently visit the cottage of Bathsheba's aunt.
  
  He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a living
  lamb.  On a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution--a
  fine January morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible
  to make cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional
  gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb into a respectable Sunday
  basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of Mrs. Hurst, the
  aunt--George, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of great
  concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking.
  
  Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chimney with
  strange meditation.  At evening he had fancifully traced it down the
  chimney to the spot of its origin--seen the hearth and Bathsheba
  beside it--beside it in her out-door dress; for the clothes she had
  worn on the hill were by association equally with her person included
  in the compass of his affection; they seemed at this early time of
  his love a necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called Bathsheba
  Everdene.
  
  He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind--of a nature between
  the carefully neat and the carelessly ornate--of a degree between
  fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection.  He thoroughly cleaned his
  silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to his boots,
  looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart of the
  plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously on his
  way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box,
  put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigs of an
  elegant flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily without the
  defects of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed upon his
  usually dry, sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had deepened
  it to a splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and Roman
  cement, making it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg, or wet
  seaweed round a boulder after the ebb.
  
  Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a
  knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and rumour to
  be no less the staple topic of these little coteries on roofs than of
  those under them.  It seemed that the omen was an unpropitious one,
  for, as the rather untoward commencement of Oak's overtures, just
  as he arrived by the garden gate, he saw a cat inside, going into
  various arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at the sight of his
  dog George.  The dog took no notice, for he had arrived at an age at
  which all superfluous barking was cynically avoided as a waste of
  breath--in fact, he never barked even at the sheep except to order,
  when it was done with an absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of
  Commination-service, which, though offensive, had to be gone through
  once now and then to frighten the flock for their own good.
  
  A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the cat had
  run:
  
  "Poor dear!  Did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it;--did he,
  poor dear!"
  
  "I beg your pardon," said Oak to the voice, "but George was walking
  on behind me with a temper as mild as milk."
  
  Almost before he had ceased speaking, Oak was seized with a misgiving
  as to whose ear was the recipient of his answer. Nobody appeared, and
  he heard the person retreat among the bushes.
  
  Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows into
  his forehead by sheer force of reverie.  Where the issue of an
  interview is as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for
  the better, any initial difference from expectation causes nipping
  sensations of failure.  Oak went up to the door a little abashed:
  his mental rehearsal and the reality had had no common grounds of
  opening.
  
  Bathsheba's aunt was indoors.  "Will you tell Miss Everdene that
  somebody would be glad to speak to her?" said Mr. Oak.  (Calling
  one's self merely Somebody, without giving a name, is not to be taken
  as an example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: it springs
  from a refined modesty, of which townspeople, with their cards and
  announcements, have no notion whatever.)
  
  Bathsheba was out.  The voice had evidently been hers.
  
  "Will you come in, Mr. Oak?"
  
  "Oh, thank 'ee," said Gabriel, following her to the fireplace.  "I've
  brought a lamb for Miss Everdene.  I thought she might like one to
  rear; girls do."
  
  "She might," said Mrs. Hurst, musingly; "though she's only a visitor
  here.  If you will wait a minute, Bathsheba will be in."
  
  "Yes, I will wait," said Gabriel, sitting down.  "The lamb isn't
  really the business I came about, Mrs. Hurst.  In short, I was going
  to ask her if she'd like to be married."
  
  "And were you indeed?"
  
  "Yes.  Because if she would, I should be very glad to marry her.
  D'ye know if she's got any other young man hanging about her at all?"
  
  "Let me think," said Mrs. Hurst, poking the fire superfluously....
  "Yes--bless you, ever so many young men.  You see, Farmer Oak, she's
  so good-looking, and an excellent scholar besides--she was going to
  be a governess once, you know, only she was too wild.  Not that her
  young men ever come here--but, Lord, in the nature of women, she must
  have a dozen!"
  
  "That's unfortunate," said Farmer Oak, contemplating a crack in the
  stone floor with sorrow.  "I'm only an every-day sort of man, and my
  only chance was in being the first comer ... Well, there's no use in
  my waiting, for that was all I came about: so I'll take myself off
  home-along, Mrs. Hurst."
  
  When Gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along the down, he
  heard a "hoi-hoi!" uttered behind him, in a piping note of more
  treble quality than that in which the exclamation usually embodies
  itself when shouted across a field.  He looked round, and saw a girl
  racing after him, waving a white handkerchief.
  
  Oak stood still--and the runner drew nearer.  It was Bathsheba
  Everdene.  Gabriel's colour deepened: hers was already deep, not, as
  it appeared, from emotion, but from running.
  
  "Farmer Oak--I--" she said, pausing for want of breath pulling up in
  front of him with a slanted face and putting her hand to her side.
  
  "I have just called to see you," said Gabriel, pending her further
  speech.
  
  "Yes--I know that," she said panting like a robin, her face red and
  moist from her exertions, like a peony petal before the sun dries off
  the dew.  "I didn't know you had come to ask to have me, or I should
  have come in from the garden instantly.  I ran after you to say--that
  my aunt made a mistake in sending you away from courting me--"
  
  Gabriel expanded. "I'm sorry to have made you run so fast, my dear,"
  he said, with a grateful sense of favours to come. "Wait a bit till
  you've found your breath."
  
  "--It was quite a mistake--aunt's telling you I had a young man
  already," Bathsheba went on.  "I haven't a sweetheart at all--and I
  never had one, and I thought that, as times go with women, it was
  SUCH a pity to send you away thinking that I had several."
  
  "Really and truly I am glad to hear that!" said Farmer Oak, smiling
  one of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness.  He held
  out his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by
  pressing it there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her
  loud-beating heart.  Directly he seized it she put it behind her, so
  that it slipped through his fingers like an eel.
  
  "I have a nice snug little farm," said Gabriel, with half a degree
  less assurance than when he had seized her hand.
  
  "Yes; you have."
  
  "A man has advanced me money to begin with, but still, it will soon
  be paid off, and though I am only an every-day sort of man, I have
  got on a little since I was a boy."  Gabriel uttered "a little" in a
  tone to show her that it was the complacent form of "a great deal."
  He continued: "When we be married, I am quite sure I can work twice
  as hard as I do now."
  
  He went forward and stretched out his arm again.  Bathsheba had
  overtaken him at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush,
  now laden with red berries.  Seeing his advance take the form of an
  attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her
  person, she edged off round the bush.
  
  "Why, Farmer Oak," she said, over the top, looking at him with
  rounded eyes, "I never said I was going to marry you."
  
  "Well--that IS a tale!" said Oak, with dismay. "To run after anybody
  like this, and then say you don't want him!"
  
  "What I meant to tell you was only this," she said eagerly, and yet
  half conscious of the absurdity of the position she had made for
  herself--"that nobody has got me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my
  having a dozen, as my aunt said; I HATE to be thought men's property
  in that way, though possibly I shall be had some day.  Why, if I'd
  wanted you I shouldn't have run after you like this; 'twould have
  been the FORWARDEST thing!  But there was no harm in hurrying to
  correct a piece of false news that had been told you."
  
  "Oh, no--no harm at all."  But there is such a thing as being too
  generous in expressing a judgment impulsively, and Oak added with a
  more appreciative sense of all the circumstances--"Well, I am not
  quite certain it was no harm."
  
  "Indeed, I hadn't time to think before starting whether I wanted to
  marry or not, for you'd have been gone over the hill."
  
  "Come," said Gabriel, freshening again; "think a minute or two.  I'll
  wait a while, Miss Everdene.  Will you marry me?  Do, Bathsheba.  I
  love you far more than common!"
  
  "I'll try to think," she observed, rather more timorously; "if I can
  think out of doors; my mind spreads away so."
  
  "But you can give a guess."
  
  "Then give me time."  Bathsheba looked thoughtfully into the
  distance, away from the direction in which Gabriel stood.
  
  "I can make you happy," said he to the back of her head, across the
  bush.  "You shall have a piano in a year or two--farmers' wives are
  getting to have pianos now--and I'll practise up the flute right well
  to play with you in the evenings."
  
  "Yes; I should like that."
  
  "And have one of those little ten-pound gigs for market--and nice
  flowers, and birds--cocks and hens I mean, because they be useful,"
  continued Gabriel, feeling balanced between poetry and practicality.
  
  "I should like it very much."
  
  "And a frame for cucumbers--like a gentleman and lady."
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And when the wedding was over, we'd have it put in the newspaper
  list of marriages."
  
  "Dearly I should like that!"
  
  "And the babies in the births--every man jack of 'em!  And at home by
  the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be--and whenever I look
  up there will be you."
  
  "Wait, wait, and don't be improper!"
  
  Her countenance fell, and she was silent awhile.  He regarded the red
  berries between them over and over again, to such an extent, that
  holly seemed in his after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal
  of marriage.  Bathsheba decisively turned to him.
  
  "No; 'tis no use," she said.  "I don't want to marry you."
  
  "Try."
  
  "I have tried hard all the time I've been thinking; for a marriage
  would be very nice in one sense.  People would talk about me, and
  think I had won my battle, and I should feel triumphant, and all
  that, But a husband--"
  
  "Well!"
  
  "Why, he'd always be there, as you say; whenever I looked up, there
  he'd be."
  
  "Of course he would--I, that is."
  
  "Well, what I mean is that I shouldn't mind being a bride at a
  wedding, if I could be one without having a husband.  But since a
  woman can't show off in that way by herself, I shan't marry--at least
  yet."
  
  "That's a terrible wooden story!"
  
  At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba made an addition to her
  dignity by a slight sweep away from him.
  
  "Upon my heart and soul, I don't know what a maid can say stupider
  than that," said Oak.  "But dearest," he continued in a palliative
  voice, "don't be like it!" Oak sighed a deep honest sigh--none the
  less so in that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation, it was
  rather noticeable as a disturbance of the atmosphere.  "Why won't you
  have me?" he appealed, creeping round the holly to reach her side.
  
  "I cannot," she said, retreating.
  
  "But why?" he persisted, standing still at last in despair of ever
  reaching her, and facing over the bush.
  
  "Because I don't love you."
  
  "Yes, but--"
  
  She contracted a yawn to an inoffensive smallness, so that it was
  hardly ill-mannered at all.  "I don't love you," she said.
  
  "But I love you--and, as for myself, I am content to be liked."
  
  "Oh Mr. Oak--that's very fine!  You'd get to despise me."
  
  "Never," said Mr Oak, so earnestly that he seemed to be coming, by
  the force of his words, straight through the bush and into her arms.
  "I shall do one thing in this life--one thing certain--that is, love
  you, and long for you, and KEEP WANTING YOU till I die."  His voice
  had a genuine pathos now, and his large brown hands perceptibly
  trembled.
  
  "It seems dreadfully wrong not to have you when you feel so much!"
  she said with a little distress, and looking hopelessly around
  for some means of escape from her moral dilemma.  "How I wish I
  hadn't run after you!"  However she seemed to have a short cut for
  getting back to cheerfulness, and set her face to signify archness.
  "It wouldn't do, Mr Oak.  I want somebody to tame me; I am too
  independent; and you would never be able to, I know."
  
  Oak cast his eyes down the field in a way implying that it was
  useless to attempt argument.
  
  "Mr. Oak," she said, with luminous distinctness and common sense,
  "you are better off than I.  I have hardly a penny in the world--I am
  staying with my aunt for my bare sustenance.  I am better educated
  than you--and I don't love you a bit: that's my side of the case.
  Now yours: you are a farmer just beginning; and you ought in common
  prudence, if you marry at all (which you should certainly not think
  of doing at present), to marry a woman with money, who would stock a
  larger farm for you than you have now."
  
  Gabriel looked at her with a little surprise and much admiration.
  
  "That's the very thing I had been thinking myself!" he naively said.
  
  Farmer Oak had one-and-a-half Christian characteristics too many to
  succeed with Bathsheba: his humility, and a superfluous moiety of
  honesty.  Bathsheba was decidedly disconcerted.
  
  "Well, then, why did you come and disturb me?" she said, almost
  angrily, if not quite, an enlarging red spot rising in each cheek.
  
  "I can't do what I think would be--would be--"
  
  "Right?"
  
  "No: wise."
  
  "You have made an admission NOW, Mr. Oak," she exclaimed, with even
  more hauteur, and rocking her head disdainfully.  "After that, do you
  think I could marry you?  Not if I know it."
  
  He broke in passionately.  "But don't mistake me like that!  Because
  I am open enough to own what every man in my shoes would have thought
  of, you make your colours come up your face, and get crabbed with me.
  That about your not being good enough for me is nonsense.  You speak
  like a lady--all the parish notice it, and your uncle at Weatherbury
  is, I have heerd, a large farmer--much larger than ever I shall be.
  May I call in the evening, or will you walk along with me o' Sundays?
  I don't want you to make-up your mind at once, if you'd rather not."
  
  "No--no--I cannot.  Don't press me any more--don't.  I don't love
  you--so 'twould be ridiculous," she said, with a laugh.
  
  No man likes to see his emotions the sport of a merry-go-round of
  skittishness.  "Very well," said Oak, firmly, with the bearing of one
  who was going to give his days and nights to Ecclesiastes for ever.
  "Then I'll ask you no more."
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 4
target: So it's settled, then. Gabriel Oak is in love with the young woman who saved his life. He uses any opportunity he can to see the woman in the fields, but only ever from afar. He's kind of a stalker. After making some enquiries, he finds out that the girl's name is Bathsheba Everdene , and that she's probably leaving the area in eight days' time. Bummer. One day, he gets an opportunity to visit Bathsheba's house when one of his sheep dies. He packs up the sheep's lamb in a basket, gets all spruced up, and goes to the house. When he gets to the door, he asks Bathsheba's aunt if he could speak to the young woman. Bathsheba is out, but her aunt invites him inside. He announces that he has brought a lamb for her, in case she'd like to raise it. But instead of beating around the bush any longer, Oak tells the aunt that he has come to ask for Bathsheba's hand in marriage. He asks if Bathsheba has any other young men courting her. The aunt tells him that there are all kinds of men that want Bathsheba. She's a hottie. Farmer Oak gets discouraged and leaves. While he's walking down the lane, Bathsheba comes running after him. She wants to tell him that her aunt was lying and that there aren't any other young men in her life. This is great news for Oak, so he proposes to her right on the spot. Unfortunately, she rejects him. Okay, we're tempted at this point to abbreviate Bathsheba's name to B.S. because she is the head game queen. As you can imagine, he's pretty annoyed that she ran all the way down the road just to tell him that she's not interested. He asks her again if she'll marry him, telling her that he's very much in love with her. Ugh. At this point we want to take Oak aside and say, "Be cool, man. Be cool." She says she needs a moment to think, since she's out of breath. Eventually, she tells him no again because she doesn't love him. He says he's totally fine with marrying without love, though, as long as she likes him a little. But no, it's no use. He promises he'll love her forever. But when she refuses him again, he goes all stone-faced and says he'll never ask again. Pardon us while we cringe.