Farmer Character Analysis

He brought in some sweet hay and a deep bucket of cool water. I do not believe he stopped talking the whole time. As he turned to go out of the stable, I called out to him to thank him and he seemed to understand for he smiled broadly and stroked my nose. “We’ll get along, you and I,” he said kindly.

“You should never talk to horses, Albert,” said his mother from outside. “They don’t understand you. They’re stupid creatures. Obstinate and stupid, that’s what your father says, and he’s known horses all his life.”

“Father just doesn’t understand them,” said Albert. “I think he’s frightened of them.”

I went over to the door and watched Albert and his mother walking away into the darkness. I knew then that I had found a friend for life, that there was an instinctive and immediate bond of trust and affection between us.

“Father,” said Albert with resolution in his voice, “I’ll train Joey—I’ll train him to plow all right—but you must promise never to raise a whip to him again. He can’t be handled that way. I know him, Father, I know him as if he were my own brother.”

“You train him, Albert, you handle him. Don’t care how you do it. I don’t want to know,” said his father dismissively. “I’ll never go near the brute again. I’d shoot him first.”

But when Albert came into the stable, it was not to soothe me as he usually did nor to talk to me gently. Instead he walked up to me and looked me hard in the eye. “That was plain stupid,” he said sternly. “If you want to survive, Joey, you’ll have to learn.”

“You don’t drink, Mother,” Albert replied vehemently. “And you’ve got worries just like he has and, anyway, if you did drink, you wouldn’t yell at me like he does. I do all the work I can, and more, and still he never stops complaining that this isn’t done and that isn’t done. He complains every time I take Joey out in the evening. He doesn’t even want me to go off bell-ringing once a week. It’s not reasonable, Mother.”

“I know that, Albert,” his mother said more gently now, taking both his hands in hers. “But you must try to see the good in him. He’s a good man—he really is. You remember him that way, too, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother. I remember him like that,” Albert acknowledged, “but […] Joey works for his living now and he has to have time off to enjoy himself, just like I do.”

He must have known that I would follow old Zoey because he roped me up to her saddle and led us both quietly out of the yard down the path and over the bridge. Once in the road, he mounted Zoey swiftly and we trotted up the hill and into the village. He never spoke a word to either of us. I knew the road well enough, of course, for I had been there often enough with Albert, and indeed I loved going there because there were always other horses to meet and people to see. It was in the village only a short time before that I had met my first motorcar outside the post office and had stiffened with fear as it rattled past, but I had stood steadily, and I remember that Albert had made a big fuss over me after that.

But it was my rider that I disliked more than anything in my new life. Corporal Samuel Perkins was a hard, gritty little man, an ex-jockey whose only pleasure in life seemed to be the power he could exert over a horse. He was universally feared by all troopers and horses alike. Even the officers, I felt, went in trepidation of him, for it seemed he knew all there was to know about horses and had the experience of a lifetime behind him. And he rode hard and heavy-handedly. With him, the whip and the spurs were not just for show.

He would never beat me or lose his temper with me; indeed, sometimes when he was grooming me I think he quite liked me, and I certainly felt for him a degree of respect, but this was based on fear and not on love.

“Don’t you ever think about anything else except horses, Rudi?” said his companion, keeping his distance. “Three years I’ve known you and not a day goes by without you going on about the wretched creatures. I know you were brought up with them on your farm, but I still can’t understand what it is that you see in them. They are just four legs, a head, and a tail, all controlled by a very little brain that can’t think beyond food and drink.”

“How can you say that?” said Rudi. “Just look at him, Karl. Can you not see that he’s something special? This one isn’t just any old horse. There’s a nobility in his eye, a regal serenity about him. Does he not personify all that men try to be and never can be? I tell you, my friend, there’s divinity in a horse, and especially in a horse like this.”

[Major Marin will] look you over and if there’s anything wrong he’ll put you right ‘quick as a wink,’ as my father used to say. Wonder what he would think now if he could see us together? He never believed I’d find you, either—said I was a fool to go. Said it was a fool’s errand and that I’d likely get myself killed in the process. He knew he’d done wrong and that seemed to take all the nastiness out of him. He seemed to live only to make up for what he’d done. He stopped his Tuesday drinking sessions, looked after Mother as he used to do when I was little, and he even began to treat me right—didn’t treat me like a workhorse anymore.

He brought in some sweet hay and a deep bucket of cool water. I do not believe he stopped talking the whole time. As he turned to go out of the stable, I called out to him to thank him and he seemed to understand for he smiled broadly and stroked my nose. “We’ll get along, you and I,” he said kindly.

“You should never talk to horses, Albert,” said his mother from outside. “They don’t understand you. They’re stupid creatures. Obstinate and stupid, that’s what your father says, and he’s known horses all his life.”

“Father just doesn’t understand them,” said Albert. “I think he’s frightened of them.”

I went over to the door and watched Albert and his mother walking away into the darkness. I knew then that I had found a friend for life, that there was an instinctive and immediate bond of trust and affection between us.

“Father,” said Albert with resolution in his voice, “I’ll train Joey—I’ll train him to plow all right—but you must promise never to raise a whip to him again. He can’t be handled that way. I know him, Father, I know him as if he were my own brother.”

“You train him, Albert, you handle him. Don’t care how you do it. I don’t want to know,” said his father dismissively. “I’ll never go near the brute again. I’d shoot him first.”

But when Albert came into the stable, it was not to soothe me as he usually did nor to talk to me gently. Instead he walked up to me and looked me hard in the eye. “That was plain stupid,” he said sternly. “If you want to survive, Joey, you’ll have to learn.”

“You don’t drink, Mother,” Albert replied vehemently. “And you’ve got worries just like he has and, anyway, if you did drink, you wouldn’t yell at me like he does. I do all the work I can, and more, and still he never stops complaining that this isn’t done and that isn’t done. He complains every time I take Joey out in the evening. He doesn’t even want me to go off bell-ringing once a week. It’s not reasonable, Mother.”

“I know that, Albert,” his mother said more gently now, taking both his hands in hers. “But you must try to see the good in him. He’s a good man—he really is. You remember him that way, too, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother. I remember him like that,” Albert acknowledged, “but […] Joey works for his living now and he has to have time off to enjoy himself, just like I do.”

He must have known that I would follow old Zoey because he roped me up to her saddle and led us both quietly out of the yard down the path and over the bridge. Once in the road, he mounted Zoey swiftly and we trotted up the hill and into the village. He never spoke a word to either of us. I knew the road well enough, of course, for I had been there often enough with Albert, and indeed I loved going there because there were always other horses to meet and people to see. It was in the village only a short time before that I had met my first motorcar outside the post office and had stiffened with fear as it rattled past, but I had stood steadily, and I remember that Albert had made a big fuss over me after that.

But it was my rider that I disliked more than anything in my new life. Corporal Samuel Perkins was a hard, gritty little man, an ex-jockey whose only pleasure in life seemed to be the power he could exert over a horse. He was universally feared by all troopers and horses alike. Even the officers, I felt, went in trepidation of him, for it seemed he knew all there was to know about horses and had the experience of a lifetime behind him. And he rode hard and heavy-handedly. With him, the whip and the spurs were not just for show.

He would never beat me or lose his temper with me; indeed, sometimes when he was grooming me I think he quite liked me, and I certainly felt for him a degree of respect, but this was based on fear and not on love.

“Don’t you ever think about anything else except horses, Rudi?” said his companion, keeping his distance. “Three years I’ve known you and not a day goes by without you going on about the wretched creatures. I know you were brought up with them on your farm, but I still can’t understand what it is that you see in them. They are just four legs, a head, and a tail, all controlled by a very little brain that can’t think beyond food and drink.”

“How can you say that?” said Rudi. “Just look at him, Karl. Can you not see that he’s something special? This one isn’t just any old horse. There’s a nobility in his eye, a regal serenity about him. Does he not personify all that men try to be and never can be? I tell you, my friend, there’s divinity in a horse, and especially in a horse like this.”

[Major Marin will] look you over and if there’s anything wrong he’ll put you right ‘quick as a wink,’ as my father used to say. Wonder what he would think now if he could see us together? He never believed I’d find you, either—said I was a fool to go. Said it was a fool’s errand and that I’d likely get myself killed in the process. He knew he’d done wrong and that seemed to take all the nastiness out of him. He seemed to live only to make up for what he’d done. He stopped his Tuesday drinking sessions, looked after Mother as he used to do when I was little, and he even began to treat me right—didn’t treat me like a workhorse anymore.