(birds singing) (gentle music) (baby crying) (dramatic music) (dog barking) (crowd chattering) (dramatic music) - Play ball!

Play ball!

- Get your lambs and wool here, please.

Lambs and wool.

(crowd chattering) (baby crying) - Sold, 40 shillings.

We'll start the bidding at 22.

- [Bidder] 22.

- [Auctioneer] 22.

24.

24, 26?

(gentle music) - Just a thought of rum in it?

Say two-penneth.

'T will make it slip down like cordial.

(rum pouring) - Michael, what about our lodging tonight?

- Just this one more.

- If we don't go soon, we'll have trouble finding anywhere.

- One more.

- You've had enough.

- [Auctioneer] Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Now, who'll take this last lot for a song?

A very promising brood mare barely over five years old.

Nothing the matter with her at all, except she had her left eye knocked out by a kick from another ass.

Do I hear two guineas?

- I don't see why a man who got wives they don't want shouldn't get rid of 'em as they do their old horses.

Don't know why we shouldnae put 'em up and sell 'em by auction, eh?

I'd sell mine this minute if anybody'd buy her.

- There's them that'd take you up on that.

- Well, then now's your chance.

I'm open to an offer for this gem of creation.

- Michael, a joke is a joke, but you may make it once too often, mind.

- I mean it.

All I want is a buyer.

The woman's no good to me.

- Mike, this is getting serious.

- Anybody buy her?

- Well, I wish somebody would.

Her present owner is not at all to her liking.

- Nor you to mine.

Well now, Susan, stand up and show yourself.

Now, who's the auctioneer?

- I am.

Who'll make an offer for this lady?

- Five shillings.

- No insults!

Who'll say a guinea?

- Behave yourself for heaven's love.

- Set it higher, auctioneer.

- Two guineas.

- [Michael] Higher.

- Three guineas.

Going for three guineas.

- Good lord, she's cost me 50 times that, if a penny.

Add another.

- [Auctioneer] Four guineas.

- I won't sell her for less than five.

But I'd sell her for five guineas to any man that'll pay me the money and treat her well.

He shall have her forever, never hear aught of me.

Now, then, five guineas, she's yours.

Susan, do you agree?

- Aye.

- Five guineas, or she'll be withdrawn.

Anybody?

The last time.

Yes or no.

(baby fussing) - [Man] Yes.

- You say you do?

- I say so.

- Saying's one thing, paying is another.

Where's the money?

(paper rustling) (coins jangling) - Michael, listen to me.

If you touch that money, I go with the man and the girl goes with me.

It is a joke no longer.

- A joke?

Of course it isn't a joke.

I take the money, the sailor takes you.

- It's on the understanding the young woman's willing.

I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world.

- She's willing.

- You swear?

- I do.

- Very well.

Bargain's complete.

- Come along.

Little one, too.

The more the merrier.

- Mike, I've lived with you a couple of years and had nothing but temper.

I'll try my luck elsewhere.

It will be better for me and Elizabeth Jane both.

(Elizabeth Jane crying) Goodbye, Mike.

(dramatic music) - I, Michael Henchard, on this morning of the 16th of September, take an oath before God here in this solemn place that I will avoid all strong liquors for the space of 21 years to come.

And this I swear upon the book before me.

(birds calling) (gentle music) - Why do you want to stop here, Mother?

I thought we wanted to get on.

- 'Cause was here that I first met with my sailor.

- You first met with Father here?

- On such a day as this.

And it was here that I last saw the relation that we are going to look for, Mr. Michael Henchard.

- What is his exact relation to us, Mother?

You never clearly told me.

- Why, he is a connection by marriage.

- Not a near relation?

- No.

- Did he ever know me?

- 'Course not, Elizabeth Jane.

- [Woman] Hello.

- Well, I shouldn't think it'd be much use asking after him here.

I daresay you're the only one here today who was here all those years ago.

- I'm not so sure of that.

She was here at that time.

- Mother, don't speak to her.

- Just a penny worth, please.

- Just a thought o' rum in it, say two penneth, 'twill make it slip down like cordial.

- Can you call to mind the sale of a wife by her husband in your tent?

- Was it done quiet-like?

- Yeah, I think so.

- A wife sale.

No.

And yet, I do.

I remember somewhat of the sort.

A man with a basket of tools.

He auctioned his wife.

The only reason I can mind the man is he come back here to next year's fair and he said if a woman ever came asking for him I was to say he had gone to... Where?

Somewhere.

- You don't remember?

- No, Lord's my life, I can't.

(chuckles) Wait!

I'm thinking.

Where?

Casterbridge.

- Casterbridge?

You're sure?

- Oh, yes, that's where he said.

Casterbridge.

(dramatic music) (horse nickers) (dramatic music) (carriage rattling) (bell tolling) (horse whinnying) - They still ring the curfew bell.

What an old fashioned place this is.

(brass band playing) - [Man] Mr. Henchard.

- I thought a mention of our relative then.

I thought they said Henchard.

- I thought so, too.

- Shall I ask him?

- No, no, not yet.

Well, he may be in the workhouse or in the stocks for all we know.

- What's going on tonight?

- Come up here and you'll see.

All the councilmen are having a great public dinner and there, you'll see the mayor, Mr. Henchard.

- Henchard?

- Aye.

(horse clopping nearby) - Is that him, Mother?

Our relative?

Is it him?

- [Susan] Yes, it's him.

- Mother?

- Oh, that's enough for me.

I've seen him, now I only want to get away.

- But why?

- He...

He isn't as I thought he would be.

I don't wish to see him anymore.

- Why are you so afraid of him?

I'm not at all.

What's he like, Mr. Henchard?

- He's not just the mayor, he's the principle man in all the country beside.

If ever there be a big dealing in wheat or hay or suchlike, be sure Henchard's hand is in it.

(councilmen clapping) - The fine speeches are all very well, Mr. Mayor, but I didn't hear anything about the bad bread.

What have you to say about the bad bread?

- Well, I admit the wheat turned out badly.

But you must bear in mind that the weather for that harvest was worse than we've known it for years.

- You can't use the weather as an excuse for rank bad management.

- I am interviewing a manager for the corn department.

When I've got him you'll find these mistakes won't happen again.

- And will you replace the grown flour we got from you by sound grain?

- Well, if anybody can tell me how to turn grown wheat into wholesome wheat, I'll take it back with pleasure.

(men laughing) But it can't be done.

(brass band playing) (crowd chattering) - Excuse me.

Could you give this to the Mayor at once?

Could you tell me of a respectable hotel that's a little more moderate than this one?

- Well, they say The Three Mariners is a very good place.

Just along the way.

- Much obliged to you.

- The evening's drawing on, Mother.

What do you think we should do now?

- We must find a place to stay the night.

- Shall we go where that young man went?

Seems respectable.

- Very well.

(men laughing and chattering) - Really?

(councilmen laughing) (paper rustling) (councilmen chattering) - Gentlemen.

- It's too good for us.

We can't afford it.

- We must be respectable, Mother.

- We must pay our way even before we must be respectable.

Mr. Henchard's too high for us to make ourselves known to him, so we've only got our own pockets to depend on.

- I know what I'll do.

(crowd chattering nearby) - You seem busy here tonight.

(woman chuckles) Mother's not well off.

Might I take out part of our accommodation by helping?

(bell rings) - It's the Scottish gentleman.

If you want to help, can you go and see if his supper's on the tray?

If it is, you can take it up to him.

Front room over this.

(knocking at door) - Come in.

Thank you.

(water dripping) (crowd chattering and laughing) - If you and your mother mean to have any suppers yourselves tonight, you'd better take them now.

- (whispers) It's him.

- [Elizabeth Jane] Who?

- The mayor.

- What's the name?

- My name is Donald Farfrae and I'm on my way to Bristol and then to America.

- [Michael] To America?

Well, uh... Then I'm truly grateful for the few words you wrote on that paper.

- Oh, it was nothing, sir.

- Well, it was a great deal of importance to me just now.

This row about my grown wheat has put me to my wit's end.

Is there really some way of restoring it?

- Well...

It's impossible to restore grown wheat fully, but I do know of a process that will go some way toward it.

I can show you by a sample in my bag if you like.

A few grains will do to show you it.

There now.

Taste that.

(grain crunching) - It's complete.

(Farfrae laughs) It's quite restored!

Well, nearly.

- Oh, yes, quite restored enough to make good seconds out of it.

Well, sir, that's the process.

I'll be only too glad if it's of service to you.

- I tell you, young man, you save my credit.

What shall I pay you for this?

- Oh, no, nothing.

Nothing at all.

Saw you were in difficulty and they were hard on you.

- I shan't soon forget this.

Your forehead, Farfrae, it's like my poor brother's, now dead and gone.

Well, then.

I'm bad at science, Farfrae.

A rule of thumb sort of man.

You're just the reverse, I can see that.

I need a good manager and if you will accept my offer, you shall manage the corn branch entirely and receive a commission in addition to salary.

- You're liberal.

You're very liberal.

But no.

No, it cannot be.

I leave tomorrow.

But will you not share a drink with me, eh?

- I won't, no.

When I was a young man I went in for that kind of thing too strong.

Far too strong.

I did a deed 19 years ago which I shall be ashamed of to my dying day.

I swore then and there that I would drink nothing stronger than tea for 21 years.

I've kept my oath.

Well, I shall get a manager somewhere, no doubt, but it'll be a long time before I see one that'd suit me so well.

- I wish I could stay, but no, it cannot be.

I want to see the world.

♪ There's an eye that ever weeps ♪ ♪ And a fair face will be fain ♪ ♪ As I pass through Annan Water ♪ ♪ With my bonny bands again ♪ ♪ When the flower is in the bud ♪ ♪ And the leaf is on the tree ♪ ♪ The lark shall sing me home to ♪ ♪ My ain country ♪ - [Man] Oh, that were-- (customers clapping and chattering) ♪ Dearie my dearie oh I'll come to ♪ (dramatic music) (crowd clapping nearby) - Goodnight.

- Goodnight.

(horse clopping nearby) - 'Morning to you, sir.

- Good morning.

- [Farfrae] 'Morning, sir.

- You're off soon, I suppose?

- Almost this moment, sir.

- Shall we walk up together?

- Yes.

Yes, if you'll wait a minute.

- You're still thinking, Mother.

- Yes, I'm thinking about Mr. Henchard's sudden liking for that young Scottish gentleman.

He's always like that.

But surely if he takes so warmly to people who are not related to him at all, he might take us warmly to his own kin.

- Ah, young lad.

You should've been a wise man and stayed with me.

- It may well have been wiser, but it's only telling you the truth.

My plans are vague.

Thank you.

(carriage rattling) - I shall often think of this time and how you came at the very moment to throw some light on my difficulty.

Well, here's success to you.

- Thank you.

Thank you and goodbye.

- No.

I'm not a man to let a cause be lost for want of a word and before you're gone forever, I'd speak.

Once more, will you stay?

There it is.

Join me.

Name your own terms, I'll agree to them willingly.

For hang it, Farfrae, I like you well.

- I never expected this.

I did not.

It's providence.

Should anyone go against that, huh?

No.

No.

I'll not go to America.

I'll stay.

I'll stay and I'll be your man.

- Done!

(Farfrae laughs) - Just say that his relative, Susan, a sailor's widow, is in the town.

Just say that.

- Yes, Mother.

See how he responds.

Don't ask him if he remembers me.

- No, Mother.

- And if he doesn't, don't press him.

Just say that we will not intrude on him and that we will leave as quietly as we have come.

- And if he does remember?

- Well, then in that case, you ask him to write a note saying when he will see us.

Or see me.

Now, you tell him that I fully know I have no claim on him, that I'm glad to find he's thriving.

And that I hope his life may be long and happy.

There.

Go.

(dramatic music) - [Man] Abel Whittle!

- I'm sorry I'm late, but I didn't-- - Never you mind about that.

Get on this car.

No time to lose.

- What's going on?

- The new manager has restored the corn.

'Tis a miracle!

Now, get up there and help.

(dramatic music) - Mr. Henchard?

- Yes, you'll find him in the office there.

Yes, miss, what is it?

- I was hoping to see Mr. Henchard.

- Um, yes, he'll be engaged for a few moments, but I'll be much obliged if you'd wait for him outside the office.

Thank you.

(knocking at door) - [Henchard] Yes?

- Joshua Jopp, sir.

By appointment.

The new manager.

- The new manager's in the yard.

- In the yard?

- I mentioned Thursday.

As you didn't keep your appointment, I engaged another manager.

- Well, you said Thursday or Saturday, sir.

- Well, you're too late.

I can say no more.

- You as good as engaged me.

- Subject to an interview.

I am sorry for you.

Sorry indeed, but it can't be helped.

(horse neighing nearby) - You can go in now.

- [Elizabeth Jane] Excuse me.

- Yes, what is it, young woman?

- Can I speak to you?

Not on business, sir.

- I suppose so.

Come in.

Well?

- I am sent to tell you, sir, that a distant relative of yours by marriage, Susan Newson, a sailor's widow, is in the town and to ask whether you would wish to see her.

- Susan is still alive?

- Yes, sir.

- And... You her daughter?

- Yes, sir.

Her only daughter.

- What do you call yourself?

Your Christian name?

- Elizabeth Jane, sir.

- Elizabeth Jane.

- Elizabeth Jane Newson, sir.

- Elizabeth Jane Newson.

What has your mother told you about me?

- Nothing, sir.

Except, as I said, that you were a distant relation by marriage.

- I am a good deal interested in your news.

And as it's not a matter of business, but pleasure, suppose we go to the house?

Sit down, Elizabeth Jane.

Sit down.

Your mother, then, is quite well?

- She is rather worn out with traveling, sir.

- Sailor's widow?

When did he die?

- Father was lost last spring.

- Where were you living?

- In Portsmouth, sir.

- Portsmouth?

I thought Susan was living abroad.

- We were, sir, in Canada, but we came to Portsmouth when I was 12.

- Oh, I see.

Susan and I lost touch many years ago.

Where are you staying here?

- At The Three Mariners, sir.

- I know it.

You are her daughter.

Elizabeth Jane.

You must take a note from me to your mother.

- What was he like?

- He was very kind, Mother.

A real gentleman.

- You told him?

- I told him exactly what you told me to tell him.

He asked me to give you this.

He has been generous, too.

At least we will not have to worry about paying our bill here now.

(dramatic music) Aren't you going to open it?

He asked me to be sure that I delivered the envelope to you personally, so I think he would be quite put out if you refused to open it.

(dramatic music) - [Michael] Meet me at 7 o'clock this evening at the ring on the Budmouth Road.

I can say no more now.

The girl seems to be in ignorance.

Keep her so till I've seen you.

Mike.

(dramatic music) (coins clinking) (dramatic music) - I don't drink, Susan.

You hear?

I don't drink now.

I haven't since that night.

Why did you keep silent all these years?

I took every possible step to find you.

- I thought I owed him faithfulness till the end of our lives.

I believed that there was something solemn and binding in the bargain.

I meet you now only as his widow.

I consider myself that.

And that I have no claim on you.

Had he not died I should never have come.

Never.

Of that you may be sure.

- I want to make amends, Susan, but I don't see how you two can return openly to my house as the wife and daughter that I so badly treated and banished from me.

- We'll go away at once.

- No, no.

Susan, you're not to go.

You misunderstand me.

See, I have thought of this plan.

You and Elizabeth Jane take a cottage in the town as the widow, Mrs. Newson, and her daughter.

And that I meet you and court you and marry you.

Elizabeth Jane come into my house as my stepdaughter.

What do you say?

The thing is so natural and easy that it's half done in the thinking of it.

And this would leave my headstrong, disgraceful life as a young man absolutely unopened.

The secret would be yours and mine only.

And I'd have the pleasure of having my only child under my roof besides my wife.

- I like the idea of repeating our marriage.

Seems the only right course after all this.

- And the girl is safe from learning the shame of her case and ours?

- How could she ever suppose such a thing?

- True.

- Now I think I must go back to Elizabeth Jane and tell her that our kinsmen, Mr. Henchard, kindly wishes us to stay in the town.

- Just one word more.

Do you forgive me?

Judge me by my future works.

(dramatic music) (horse neighing) (dramatic music) We shall do no more tonight.

Leave it off to morrow.

Come indoors and have some supper with me.

- That's enough for today.

Thank you, everybody.

- I'd like to speak to you, Farfrae, on a family matter.

(glass clinks) It may seem odd, but damn it all, I'm a lonely man, I've no one else to talk to.

Why shouldn't I talk to you?

- Well, I'd be glad to hear it and if can help.

- Would you think me a married man?

- I had heard in town that you were a widower.

- Aye.

You would've heard that.

Well...

I lost my wife 19 years ago by my own fault.

- He wishes us to stay.

- [Elizabeth Jane] To stay?

- He wishes us to have a cottage of our own, here in the town.

- Oh, Mother!

Ah!

- And now she's come back.

- Come back, has she?

- This morning.

This very day.

And what's to be done?

- Can you not take her and live with her?

Make amends for the wrong you did?

- Well, that's what I propose to do, Farfrae.

But by doing right by Susan, I wrong another innocent woman.

- [Farfrae] You don't say that.

- It's almost impossible for a man to take through 20 years without making more blunders than one.

It's always been my custom to run across to Jersey in the potato season.

Well, last autumn, when stopping there, I sank into one of those gloomy fits I sometime suffer from, when the world seems to have the blackness of hell.

And like Job, I could curse the day that gave me birth.

You understand?

- No.

No, I've never felt like that.

- Then pray God you never may.

When in this state, I was taken pity on by a young woman, who got to have a foolish liking for me.

She was living with her aunt at the same lodging house as I happened to be staying.

And I suspect she was as lonely as I was.

But being in the same house and our feelings warm, we got naturally intimate.

There arose a scandal which did me no harm, but was of course, ruin to her.

It's enough to say that we honestly meant to marry.

So I decided I would try to make reparation by asking her if she would run the risk, very slight, I believed, of Susan being alive, and marry me.

(Farfrae exhales) And we should, no doubt, soon have been married.

But now Susan appears.

And as it stands, I must bitterly disappoint one of these women.

And it is the second.

My first duty is to Susan, there's no doubt about that.

But I feel I should like to treat the second as kindly as a man can in such a case.

- (sighs) You must write to the young lady.

And in your letter, put it plain and honest.

It turns out she cannot become your wife.

The first having come back.

And that you cannot see her again.

And that you wish her well.

- Aye.

But I must do more than that.

I must send her a useful sum of money.

Now, would you help me in this and write the young lady an explanation, as you said, breaking it as gently as possible?

I'm so bad at letters.

- Aye, aye.

I will.

- Thank you.

I would like your advice on one other thing, Farfrae.

My daughter is under the belief that the sailor was her father.

What would you do about that?

- I think I'd run the risk of telling her the truth.

She'll forgive you both.

- No, I feel as her mother feels.

We cannot proclaim our disgrace to the girl by telling her the truth.

Never.

(birds singing) - Michael Henchard, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holiest state of matrimony?

Wilt though love her comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others... - Days, me.

If I ever see a man wait so long to take so little.

(chuckles) There's a chance for thee after this, Nance Mockridge.

- Be cursed if I'd marry any such as he or of thee either.

- How is this Mother Cuxsom?

There is Mrs. Newson, a mere skellington, has got another husband to keep her while a woman of your tonnage have none.

- I have not.

Nor another to beat me.

It isn't worth my whole world to think of another husband.

- There's a Bluebeardy look about him.

It'll turn out in time.

She'll wish her cake dough afore she's shot of him.

- [Priest] So long as ye both shall live?

- I will.

- Whittle!

You're late again.

One more time and I'll come and drag you out of bed.

You hear?

One more time!

- There's summat wrong in my make, your worshipful.

Me poor dumb brain gets as dead as a clot after I've said my few scrags of prayers.

I never enjoy my bed, for no sooner do I lie down then I be asleep and then afore I be awake I be up.

- [Michael] I don't want to hear it.

- Yeah, but let me clear up my point, sir!

- Whittle, Whittle.

- Well, he asked me.

Then he questioned me and then he wouldn't hear my point.

- Farfrae, I'm fond of you, but we are very different men, you and I, are we not?

- I suppose we are, but uh-- - But what of it?

Aye?

- [Farfrae] Aye.

(gentle music) Good day to you, Mrs. Henchard.

- Good day to you, Mr. Farfrae.

- [Farfrae] And Miss Newson.

- Good day, sir.

- Going out?

- I'm going to the book stall.

- For some improving reading, no doubt.

- There's lots of room for improvement, sir.

- (chuckles) Quite the little lady, eh, Farfrae?

- Yes.

- She's a quiet girl, but deep.

- Aye, she is that.

(carriage rattling) - Susan, I want Elizabeth Jane to have my name.

I want her to be called Miss Henchard.

Not Miss Newson.

Lots of people do it already without thinking and it is her legal name, after all.

Don't like the other name for me own flesh and blood.

I'll advertise it in the paper, that's the way they do it.

She won't object.

- Well, no, but... - Susan.

I want my daughter back again.

And surely, if she's willing, you must wish it as much as I.

- Well, I...

If she agrees, then let us do it by all means.

(gentle music) Seems to mean a lot to him, Elizabeth.

- But Mother, is it not a slight upon Father now that he's dead and gone?

- He's beyond hurt now.

What matters more than anything to me is that you get the chance in life that you deserve.

- What do you want me to do?

- It's not up to me.

You must make up your own mind.

- I'll think about it, Mother.

(dog barking nearby) Mother has told me that you wish me to change my name, sir.

- Well, she wishes it, too, doesn't she?

- She may well, sir, but... - But what?

- I must do whatever is proper, sir.

But do you wish this change so very much?

- By my blessed fathers, what a fuss you women make about a trifle.

I proposed it, that's all.

Now, then, Elizabeth Jane, just you please yourself.

I don't mind what you do.

Don't you go agreeing just to please me.

(dramatic music) (rain falling) - Miss Newson?

I didn't realize you were in here.

I have kept the appointment and I'm at your service.

- So have I, but I didn't know it was you who wished to see me, otherwise I-- - I wish to see you?

Oh no.

Well, at least, that is... - Didn't you ask me to come here?

"Please oblige me by coming to the granary."

Didn't you write this?

- No.

Indeed, I never would have thought of it.

You didn't ask me?

This...

This is not your writing?

- By no means.

- Oh.

Then it must be somebody wanting to see us both.

Perhaps we'd do well to wait a little longer.

(gentle music) (thunder rumbling) (rain falling) It doesn't look as if the person is coming.

It's a trick, perhaps.

If so, great pity to waste our time like this with so much to be done.

- It is a great liberty.

- Aye, true.

We'll hear more about this someday and who it was that did it.

Ah, I'm not bothered so much by the waste of my time.

But you, Miss Newson.

- I don't mind much.

- Neither do I.

(rain falling) - You are anxious to return home to Scotland, I suppose, Mr. Farfae.

- No.

No, why would I be?

- Well, I only supposed you might be from the song I heard you singing at The Three Mariners about Scotland and home.

I mean, what you seemed to feel so deep down in your heart.

That we all felt it for you.

- Aye, I did sing that, aye, but, Miss Newson, uh.

It's well to feel a song for a few minutes and your eyes, they get quite tearful, but you finish it and all you felt, you don't mind it or think about it again for a long while.

But no.

No, I don't want to go back.

Yet, I could sing the song to you with pleasure whenever you like.

I could sing it now and not mind at all.

- Thank you, indeed.

But I fear I must go.

- What, in this rain?

- Rain or no.

- Aye.

Aye.

Well, then, Miss Newson, you'd better say nothing about this hoax.

Take no heed of it.

And if ever the clever person that did it should say something to you, you just be civil to him or her as if you didn't mind it.

And you'll take their laugh away.

I don't know if you've realized it, but you've got husks and dust all over you.

Oh, no, don't rub it in.

You'd spoil your clothes.

Blowing.

Blowing is best.

(Elizabeth Jane blows) Here.

Here let me, erm, let me help you.

(gentle music) - Thank you.

(gentle music) - There.

That's better.

- I must go.

- Aye.

Aye.

(gentle music) ♪ Dearie my dearie ♪ ♪ Oh I'll come trippin' down the stair ♪ ♪ My bonny beck my dearie ♪ - Who could've done such a thing?

- How was Mr. Farfrae?

Was he friendly?

- Yes.

Quite friendly.

- You know, I think he admires you a little.

All the young men do.

- I've never had so much admiration in my life.

- It's no more than you deserve.

- If they only knew how ignorant I am.

Can this be me?

Setting up as a town beauty?

I'd be better off selling all this finery and buying more books on grammar and literature.

- Oh.

(laughs) - Why aren't you off?

You have a long journey to Blackmoor.

- We're waiting for Abel Whittle, sir.

- Whittle.

Late again.

- Oh, we forgot to wake him, sir.

- Oh, damn the man.

This is the second time this week.

I warned him only yesterday.

- I'll fetch him, sir.

- You will not.

I will.

I'll mortify his flesh for this.

(dramatic music) Whittle!

Get to the granary this instant or you'll leave my employ today.

- Oh!

- [Michael] Never mind your britches!

Get to work!

(men laughing) - Oh mercy's sake, what is going on?

- He said he'd mortify my flesh if I didn't get up sooner and now he's doing it.

I shall go to Blackmoor since he do command it, but I shall kill myself afterwards, Mr. Farfrae.

The women'll be looking out of their windows and they'll be laughing me to scorn all the way along!

- Go home, get your britches on, come to work like a man.

- I'm afraid I mustn't, sir.

Mr. Henchard said-- - I don't care what Mr. Henchard said, nor anybody else.

This is plain foolishness.

Now, go and get dressed.

- Who's sending him back?

- I am.

I'd say this joke's been carried far enough.

- I say it hasn't.

Get up on the wagon, Whittle.

- Not if I'm manager.

Either he goes home or I march out of this yard for good.

(dramatic music) - Go on, now.

- A man of your position should ken better, sir.

It is tyrannical and not worthy of you.

- 'Tis not tyrannical!

'Tis to make him remember.

Why do you speak to me like that, Farfrae?

You might have waited till we were alone.

I told you the secret of my life.

- I haven't forgot it.

Mr. Henchard didn't mean it, Whittle.

He's just trying to teach you a lesson.

- Oh, I know, sir, and I well deserve it.

He's been very patient with me.

He's good to my old mother.

He keeps her in coal and snuff all winter.

- Ah, well.

Go on, get dressed.

All right, everybody.

Back to work.

(tense music) - The hay has been delivered, sir.

Do you want it stored on the ground or in the upper floor, sir?

- Ask Mr. Farfrae.

He's the master here.

(horse nickers) (dramatic music) (flames crackling) He overruled me.

In front of the men.

- Mike, he was just doing his job as manager.

You must allow him that.

The men know who is the manager and who the master.

- [Michael] Do they?

- [Susan] How could they have any doubt?

(men chattering outside) - You're not yourself today.

- I'm very well.

- You look a bit down.

You've nothing to be down about.

Our monthly turnover is the best yet.

I hope I didn't hurt your feelings yesterday morning.

- You care so very much about hurting folks' feelings?

- Well, I'm sorry if I've hurt yours, sir.

I had no intention of doing so.

- It's not that.

You're right.

I've not been myself.

I've overlooked what you really are.

(Farfrae chuckles) - Oh, afore you go, I'd like to ask a favor of you.

- Ask.

- I'm thinking of getting up an entertainment for the national holiday, but with the weather being so uncertain, I ken I'd have to build some kind of shelter.

Do you have any objection to lending me some rick-cloths?

- Have as many cloths as you like.

- [Farfrae] Spread this one out here.

(gentle music) - You'll be aware, gentlemen, that a national holiday is planned to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the birth of Prince Edward, hence this meeting.

Now, as mayor, I propose that we arrange an entertainment in honor of the occasion.

- Isn't your manager, Mr. Farfrae already arranging some such entertainment?

- Yes, in fact, he's borrowed some canvases from me to build a tent.

- Is that what gave you the idea, Mr. Henchard?

- Well, what Mr. Farfrae is doing does not concern us here.

- But maybe it should.

If he's already started his preparations, why don't we go in with him?

Support his entertainment?

- Because it's the council's duty to provide its own entertainment.

- And what do you propose, Mr. Henchard?

- Something worthy of our time.

We hold it on the old earthworks.

Everyone will be welcome, there'll be lots of fun and games and we'd lay on a mammoth tea party.

All completely free.

I'll arrange everything, you leave it all to me.

(rain pouring) (thunder rumbling) You'd best go home, Susan.

You'll catch your death sitting there.

- Are you coming back?

- No, I ought to stay a while just in case it clears.

(rain pouring) (lively music in distance) We're finished now.

The entertainment's over.

The food can be distributed among the poor people of the town.

(lively music) (dancers clapping) - [Man] Wonderful, wonderful!

(lively music) - We followed the crowds in.

- [Michael] Where's your mother?

- She went home.

She wasn't feeling too well.

I don't think the rain helped.

- Your daughter has a fine feel for the dance, sir.

- One to match yours, no doubt.

- Aye.

(laughs) - Come to show us how to organize a party, Mr. Henchard?

- You should have taken a leaf out of Mr. Farfrae's book and organized yours in a sheltered place like this.

Only you didn't think about it, you see?

And he did.

And that's why he beat you.

- He acts as good as his master, eh, Henchard?

- Well, he won't be for long as he's shortly leaving my employ.

- Are you?

- Yes.

Mr. Farfrae's time as my manager is drawing to a close.

Isn't it, Farfrae?

- As you wish, sir.

- But why?

- It appears Mr. Henchard no longer requires my help.

(lively music) (dancers clapping) (guests chattering) (bright music) - Dance with me.

- Come on, then, my beauty.

(bright music) - Why must you leave?

- Oh, it was...

It was merely a matter of business.

Nothing more.

I was hoping to have another dance with you.

- I'm sorry, but I must go.

- Well, would you mind if I walked you home?

(bright music) I fear I've offended your father by getting up this party.

Now, perhaps, I shall have to live in another part of the world altogether.

I wish I was richer, Miss Newson.

And your father had not been offended.

I would ask you something in a short while.

Yes, I would ask you tonight, but...

I never found out who it was that sent us to the granary on a fool's errand that day.

Did you ever know yourself, Miss Newson?

- Never.

- I wonder why they did it.

- For fun, perhaps.

- (chuckles) Perhaps it was not for fun.

Might have been that they thought they would like us to stay there, talking to one another.

Ah, well.

I hope you Casterbridge folk will not forget me if I go.

- I'm sure they won't.

I wish you wouldn't go at all.

- Now I'll think over that.

(Susan coughing) - Mr. Farfrae has written to the council advising he wishes to set up on his own account as corn and hay merchant.

He therefore applies to have his own official stall in the corn exchange.

Does anyone have any objections?

- Do you, Mr. Henchard?

- Me?

Why should I have any objections?

The man's a friend of mine, I'm a friend of his.

If not, then what are we?

If I've not been his friend, then who has?

Didn't he arrive here without a sound shoe to his foot?

I helped him to money, whatever he wanted.

I stuck out for no terms.

Name your own price, I said.

I'd have shared my last crust with that young fellow at one time I liked him so well.

- And this is how he repays you?

- Oh, I'll have a tussle with him now.

And fair buying and selling, mind.

Fair buying and selling.

If I can't outbid a stripling such as he then I'm not worth a penny.

I'll show him I know my business as well as any upstart may.

(dramatic music) - Morning to you.

- I'm delighted you've set up on your own.

Frankly, I'd rather do business with you than with Henchard.

- Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I cannot help you.

- How do you mean?

- He was once my friend.

I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot hurt the trade of a man who's been so good to me.

(dramatic music) - I must speak to you, Elizabeth Jane, on a matter that concerns the family.

- Yes?

- Nothing to find fault with.

I only want to caution you, my dear.

That man, Farfrae, it's about him.

Now, I've seen him talking to you two or three times.

He danced with you at the entertainment and walked you home.

No blame to you, but just hearken.

Have you made him any foolish promise?

- No.

I've promised him nothing.

- Good.

I particularly wish you not to see him again.

(dramatic music) - Very well, sir.

- [Michael] You promise?

- Yes.

If you much wish it.

- I do.

He's an enemy to our house.

(dramatic music) (paper rustling) Sir.

I make request that henceforth you and my stepdaughter be as strangers to each other.

She, in her part, has promised to welcome no more addresses from you and I trust, therefore, you will not attempt to force them upon her.

M. Henchard.

(dramatic music) - He'll never change.

He's making an enemy of Mr. Farfrae when he could have had him as one of the family.

Which had been my dearest wish.

Do you remember a note sent to you and Mr. Farfrae asking you to meet someone at the granary and you thought it was a trick to make fools of you?

- Yes.

- That was not to make fools of you.

It was done to bring you together.

I did it.

- Why?

- I wanted you to marry Mr. Farfrae.

- Oh, Mother.

But what reason?

- Oh, I had a reason.

It will out one day.

I just wish it could have been in my time.

- Mother, don't talk like that.

- There.

Nothing is as you wish it.

Henchard hates him.

- Perhaps they will one day be friends again.

- I don't know.

I don't know.

All that matters to me now is to see you settled before I go.

There's something I must write.

Fetch me a pen, Elizabeth, and some paper.

(mournful music) - Susan.

(mournful music) (Elizabeth Jane crying) (rain falling) Do you think much of old times, Elizabeth?

- Yes, sir.

Often.

- Who do you see in your pictures of them?

- Mother and Father.

Nobody else, hardly.

- Was he a kind father, Newson?

- Yes, sir.

Very.

(newspaper rustling) - Suppose I had been your father.

Would you have cared for me as much as you cared for Richard Newson?

- I can think of no other man as my father except my father.

(newspaper rustling) - What did your mother tell you about me?

My history?

- That you were a distant relation by marriage, sir.

- Think she should have told you more.

Then my task would not have been such a hard one.

Elizabeth, I am your real father, not Richard Newson.

Your mother and I were man and wife when we were young.

What you saw was our second marriage.

I should have told you this earlier, but we were too ashamed to speak.

You know, I'd rather have your scorn, your fear, anything other than your ignorance of the truth.

It's that I hate.

No, don't cry.

I can't bear it.

I am your father.

Why should you cry?

Am I so hateful to you?

Please don't take against me, Elizabeth Jane.

And though I was a drinking man once and used your mother roughly, I'll be kinder to you than he was.

Oh, I'll do anything if you'll just look upon me as your father.

'Twas I that chose your name.

Your mother wanted Susan.

Don't forget.

'Twas I gave you your name.

One word more.

You're to take my surname now, eh?

(Elizabeth Jane crying) Your mother were against it, but 'tis legally yours.

(Elizabeth Jane crying) Please.

Please, Elizabeth Jane.

I'm sorry.

Will you let me put a few words into the newspaper that such is to be your name?

(Elizabeth Jane crying) - If it is my name, I must have it, mustn't I?

- Aye.

You'll draw up a paragraph as I shall tell you.

(Elizabeth Jane sniffling) You'll need a light.

- I can see by the firelight.

- Aye, very well.

And when you're done I shall hunt for documents that'll prove that all I've said to you is true.

Now, this is to be addressed to the offices of The Casterbridge Chronicle.

(Elizabeth Jane sniffling) (papers rustling) - [Susan] For the good of all of us I have kept one thing a secret from you till now.

Elizabeth Jane is not your Elizabeth Jane, the child who was in my arms when you sold me.

No.

She died three months after that and this living one is my other husband's.

I christened her by the same name that we had given to the first.

And she filled up the ache I felt at the other's loss.

Michael, I am dying and I might have held my tongue, but I could not.

Tell her husband of this or not as you may judge.

And forgive me, the woman who you once deeply wronged.

- It is what I deserve.

- [Susan] As I forgive you.

(birds chirping) - Father?

(paper rustling) I have thought and thought all night and I see that everything must be as you say it is.

And I am going to look upon you as the father that you are and not to call you Mr. Henchard anymore.

It is so plain to me now.

Indeed, Father, it is, for of course you would not have done half the things you have done for me and let me have my own way so entirely and bought me presents if I had only been your stepdaughter.

He... Mr. Newson and my poor mother married by such a strange mistake.

It was very kind.

So very kind.

But that is not the same thing as being one's real father, after all.

(gentle music) - [Woman] Oh, thank you.

So kind.

- [Elizabeth Jane] Abel Whittle.

There's bread if you want it.

- Elizabeth.

Haven't I told you 50 times?

You thank the servants for everything they do for you when I am paying them 12 pound a year to do it.

And now you play the servant yourself to a common workwoman.

- I'm sorry, Father, I didn't think.

- You'll disgrace me to the dust.

- She's waited on worse.

And at a public house in this town.

Just ask her.

- Is this true?

- It is true, but it was only-- - Did you do it or didn't you?

- Yes.

At The Three Mariners, when we were staying there.

(gentle music) - You're dining alone tonight as I'm having dinner at The King's Arms.

- Very well, Father.

- Not that I'm looking forward to it.

Now that my term of office as mayor has come to an end, it seems I'm not even to be numbered among the alderman.

Whatever the reason, my course is not upward.

- Perhaps that may change.

- I doubt it.

Oh, by the way, I shall be seeing Mr. Farfrae at the new mayor's dinner.

I propose to tell him I no longer have any objections to his seeing you, if you so wish.

(keys jangling) So, where have you been today?

- I've been strolling in the walks in the churchyard till I feel quite leery.

- Leery, indeed!

I won't have you talk like that.

One would think you worked on a farm.

One day I learn you're lending a hand in a public house, the next you're talking like a clodhopper.

If it goes on, this house won't hold us two.

(door slams) Farfrae, a word with you.

- Excuse me.

- On consideration, I don't wish to interfere with your courtship of Elizabeth Jane, if you care for her.

- I do.

- Then I withdraw my objection, excepting this: that the business not be carried out in my house.

I'll leave it to you.

(diners murmuring) Here we are again, then, Farfrae, you and I.

The place where my career started its downward course.

My career, nay.

My life.

(wind blowing) - [Woman] Is it really so bad?

(Elizabeth Jane sniffles) - I can't tell you.

- I can guess how it is with you.

That was your mother.

- My mother.

And my only friend.

- I know how you must be feeling as I too have recently lost someone who was very dear to me.

But your father, is he still living?

- Yes, he is living.

- Is he not kind to you?

- I've no wish to complain about him.

- [Woman] It is for your good and mine that I am leaving Jersey for Casterbridge.

I will be living at High Place Hall.

As soon as I heard of the death of your wife, it was brought home to me very forcibly by my conscience that I ought to endeavor to disperse the shadow over my name by asking you to carry out your promise to marry me.

You probably feel as I do about this.

I shall be able to see you in a day or two.

- Do you know the impression you give me of Mr. Henchard?

That he's a hot-tempered man, little ambitious, a little proud, perhaps, but not a bad man.

- No, no, certainly not bad.

He was never unkind to me until Mother died.

All owing to my own defects, I dare say.

I think of going away.

But where can I go?

What can I do?

- What do you think of this?

I shall soon want someone to come and live in my house, partly as housekeeper, partly as companion.

Would you mind coming to live with me?

Unless-- - Yes!

Yes, I would do anything to be independent.

And then, perhaps, my father might get to love me.

But... - What?

- Well, I am not accomplished.

And a companion to you must be that.

- Well, not necessarily.

- But I can't help using rural words sometimes when I don't mean to.

- Never mind, I should like to know them.

- And I shan't do.

I learned to write round hand instead of ladies' hand and of course you will want someone who can write that.

- No.

- What, not necessarily write ladies' hand?

- Not at all.

- Well, where do you live?

- In Casterbridge.

Or, rather, I shall be after 12 o'clock today.

I'm moving into High Place Hall.

- The Hall?

- You know the place?

- Everybody knows High Place Hall.

- Now, will you think over my proposal and meet me here at the same time tomorrow?

- Yes!

Yes, I will.

Father.

Do you have any objection to my going away?

- Going away?

No, none whatever.

Where are you going?

- I have the chance of a place in a household where I can have the opportunity to study and get more cultivated.

- Then make the best of it in heaven's name.

If you can't get cultivated where you are.

- You don't object?

- No, not at all.

It had better be done properly.

I'd like you to have a small annuity, so as to be independent of me and so that I can be independent of you.

Will that please you?

- Certainly.

- I'll see to it without delay.

(dramatic music) - Did you tell your father where you were going to?

- No.

- Oh.

How was that?

- I felt that... - Well, never mind.

Daresay he'll know soon enough.

- It was just that I thought it best to get away first, since his moods are so unpredictable.

- Perhaps you're right.

Can you come today?

- Today?

I think I might be able to.

- Well, I'll expect you sometime today, then.

(gentle music) - You're off?

- [Elizabeth Jane] You said I might go.

- Yes, but I thought you meant next month or next year.

Well, you go on.

You take time by the forelock.

So this is how you're going to treat me for all my trouble about you?

- Father, how can you speak like that?

It's unjust of you.

- Have your own way.

(dramatic music) Elizabeth!

Don't go away from me.

Maybe I have spoke rough, but I've been grieved beyond everything by you.

- By me?

What have I done?

- I can't tell you that now.

But if you'll stop and go on living here, I'll tell you all in time.

- Father, I think it best for us that I go now.

I need not stay long.

I shan't be far away and if you want me badly I can soon come back again.

- Shall not be gone far, you say?

What'll be your address in case I should wish to write to you?

Or am I not to know?

- Certainly.

It's only in the town.

- Where?

- High Place Hall.

(horse neighs) (carriage rattling) (dramatic music) (electronic music)