Lytchett Minster in the Novels of Thomas Hardy
Lytchett Minster appears twice in the novels of Thomas
Hardy: the ‘Inn at
Flychett', situated in that 'trumpery
small bit of a village' where Sol Chickerell
and the Hon. Edgar Mountclere rest their horses in chapter 44 of
“ The
Hand of Ethelberta ”, is akin to the inn called 'Peter's Finger'
at Lytchett Minster, while Henchard's
last journey in the 45 th chapter of “ The
Mayor of Casterbridge ”, takes him through this area (although
the village
is not mentioned by name) and he dies nearby, in a deserted hovel, tended by
Abel Whittle.
“The Heath at Lytchett Minster” Frederick William Newton Whitehead
(1853 – 1938) Whitehead was a close friend of Hardy and
often depicted
Dorset scenery that appeared in his novels.
Extract from “The Hand of Ethelberta”, Chapter 44
At length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of light winking to them in the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale haze. They were looking on the little town of Havenpool . Soon after this cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their present direction, led down on the left to that place. Here the man stopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile or two further.
‘Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere. ‘Does our way lie through the town?'
‘No, sir—unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to do. The direct road is straight on. Havenpool lies about three miles down there on the left. But the water is over the road, and we had better go round. We shall come to no place for two or three miles, and then only to Flychett.'
‘What's Flychett like?'
‘A trumpery small bit of a village.'
‘Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol. ‘I am against running the risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'
‘So am I,' returned Mountclere.
‘I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, ‘and he keeps a beer-house, and owns two horses. We could hire them, and have a bit of sommat in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury. Perhaps the rain may hold up by that time. Anything's better than going out of our way.'
‘Yes. And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere. ‘Up and on again, my man.'
On they went towards Flychett. Still the everlasting heath, the black hills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round summits like warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather and furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers proceeded as before. But the horses were now far from fresh, and the time spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that taken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive. When they entered Flychett it was about three.
‘Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.
‘Just on the knap,' Sol answered. ‘'Tis a little small place, and we must do as well as we can.'
§§§§
Extract from “ The Mayor of Casterbridge” , Chapter 45
They searched Egdon, but found no Henchard. Farfrae drove onward, and by the afternoon reached the neighbourhood of some extension of the heath to the north of Anglebury, a prominent feature of which, in the form of a blasted clump of firs on a summit of a hill, they soon passed under. That the road they were following had, up to this point, been Henchard's track on foot they were pretty certain; but the ramifications which now began to reveal themselves in the route made further progress in the right direction a matter of pure guess-work, and Donald strongly advised his wife to give up the search in person, and trust to other means for obtaining news of her stepfather. They were now a score of miles at least from home, but, by resting the horse for a couple of hours at a village they had just traversed, it would be possible to get back to Casterbridge that same day, while to go much further afield would reduce them to the necessity of camping out for the night, “and that will make a hole in a sovereign,” said Farfrae. She pondered the position, and agreed with him.
He accordingly drew rein, but before reversing their direction paused a moment and looked vaguely round upon the wide country which the elevated position disclosed. While they looked a solitary human form came from under the clump of trees, and crossed ahead of them. The person was some labourer; his gait was shambling, his regard fixed in front of him as absolutely as if he wore blinkers; and in his hand he carried a few sticks. Having crossed the road he descended into a ravine, where a cottage revealed itself, which he entered.
“If it were not so far away from Casterbridge I should say that must be poor Whittle. 'Tis just like him,” observed Elizabeth-Jane.
“And it may be Whittle, for he's never been to the yard these three weeks, going away without saying any word at all; and I owing him for two days' work, without knowing who to pay it to.”
The possibility led them to alight, and at least make an inquiry at the cottage. Farfrae hitched the reins to the gate-post, and they approached what was of humble dwellings surely the humblest. The walls, built of kneaded clay originally faced with a trowel, had been worn by years of rain-washings to a lumpy crumbling surface, channelled and sunken from its plane, its gray rents held together here and there by a leafy strap of ivy which could scarcely find substance enough for the purpose. The rafters were sunken, and the thatch of the roof in ragged holes. Leaves from the fence had been blown into the corners of the doorway, and lay there undisturbed. The door was ajar; Farfrae knocked; and he who stood before them was Whittle, as they had conjectured.
His face showed marks of deep sadness, his eyes lighting on them with an unfocused gaze; and he still held in his hand the few sticks he had been out to gather. As soon as he recognized them he started.
“What, Abel Whittle; is it that ye are heere?” said Farfrae.
“Ay, yes sir! You see he was kind-like to mother when she wer here below, though ‘a was rough to me.”
“Who are you talking of?”
“O sir—Mr. Henchet! Didn't ye know it? He's just gone—about half-an-hour ago, by the sun; for I've got no watch to my name.”
“Not—dead?” faltered Elizabeth-Jane.
“Yes, ma'am, he's gone! He was kind-like to mother when she wer here below, sending her the best ship-coal, and hardly any ashes from it at all; and taties, and such-like that were very needful to her. I seed en go down street on the night of your worshipful's wedding to the lady at yer side, and I thought he looked low and faltering. And I followed en over Grey's Bridge, and he turned and zeed me, and said, ‘You go back!' But I followed, and he turned again, and said, ‘Do you hear, sir? Go back!' But I zeed that he was low, and I followed on still. Then ‘a said, ‘Whittle, what do ye follow me for when I've told ye to go back all these times?' And I said, ‘Because, sir, I see things be bad with ‘ee, and ye wer kind-like to mother if ye wer rough to me, and I would fain be kind-like to you.' Then he walked on, and I followed; and he never complained at me no more. We walked on like that all night; and in the blue o' the morning, when 'twas hardly day, I looked ahead o' me, and I zeed that he wambled, and could hardly drag along. By the time we had got past here, but I had seen that this house was empty as I went by, and I got him to come back; and I took down the boards from the windows, and helped him inside. ‘What, Whittle,' he said, ‘and can ye really be such a poor fond fool as to care for such a wretch as I!' Then I went on further, and some neighbourly woodmen lent me a bed, and a chair, and a few other traps, and we brought 'em here, and made him as comfortable as we could. But he didn't gain strength, for you see, ma'am, he couldn't eat—no appetite at all—and he got weaker; and to-day he died. One of the neighbours have gone to get a man to measure him.”
“Dear me—is that so!” said Farfrae.
As for Elizabeth , she said nothing.
“Upon the head of his bed he pinned a piece of paper, with some writing upon it,” continued Abel Whittle. “But not being a man o' letters, I can't read writing; so I don't know what it is. I can get it and show ye.”
They stood in silence while he ran into the cottage; returning in a moment with a crumpled scrap of paper. On it there was pencilled as follows:—
MICHAEL HENCHARD'S WILL
“That Elizabeth-Jane Farfrae be not told of my death, or made to grieve on account of me.
“& that I be not bury'd in consecrated ground.
“& that no sexton be asked to toll the bell.
“& that nobody is wished to see my dead body.
“& that no murners walk behind me at my funeral.
“& that no flours be planted on my grave,
“& that no man remember me.
“To this I put my name.
MICHAEL HENCHARD