Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
Squire Hooper
Hooper was ninety. One September dawn He sent a messenger For his physician, who asked thereupon What ailed the sufferer Which he might circumvent, and promptly bid begone. ‘Doctor, I summoned you,’ the squire replied – ‘Pooh-pooh me though you may – To ask what’s happened to me – burst inside, It seems – not much, I’d say – But awkward with a house-full here for a shoot to-day.’ And he described the symptoms. With bent head The listener looked grave. ‘H’m. . . . You’re a dead man in six hours,’ he said. – ‘I speak out, since you are brave – And best ’tis you should know, that last things may be sped.’ ‘Right,’ said the squire. ‘And now comes – what to do? One thing: on no account Must I now spoil the sport I’ve asked them to – My guests are paramount – They must scour scrub and stubble; and big bags bring as due.’ He downed to breakfast, and bespoke his guests: – ‘I find I have to go An unexpected journey, and it rests With you, my friends, to show The shoot can go off gaily, whether I’m there or no.’ Thus blandly spoke he; and to the fields they went, And Hooper up the stair. They had a glorious day; and stiff and spent Returned as dusk drew near. – ‘Gentlemen,’ said the doctor, ‘he’s not back as meant, To his deep regret!’ – So they took leave, each guest Observing: ‘I dare say Business detains him in the town: ’tis best We should no longer stay Just now. We’ll come again anon;’ and they went their way. Meeting two men in the obscurity Shouldering a box a thin Cloth-covering wrapt, one sportsman cried: ‘Damn me, I thought them carrying in, At first, a coffin; till I knew it could not be.’
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