His light, a little later, broke though chinks of cottage shutters, throwing
stripes like red-hot pokers upon cupboards, chests of drawers, and other furniture
within; and awakening harvesters who were not already astir.
But of all ruddy things that morning the brightest were two broad arms of painted
wood, which rose from the margin of yellow cornfield hard by Marlott village. They,
with two others below, formed the revolving Maltese cross of the reaping-machine,
which had been brought to the field on the previous evening to be ready for operations
this day. The paint with which they were smeared, intensified in hue by the sunlight,
imparted to them a look of having been dipped in liquid fire.
The field had already been ''opened''; that is to say, a lane a few feet wide
had been hand-cut through the wheat along the whole circumference of the field for
the first passage of the horses and machine.
Two groups, one of men and lads, the other of women, had come down the lane just
at the hour when the shadows of the eastern hedge-top struck the west hedge midway,
so that the heads of the groups were enjoying sunrise while their feet were still
in the dawn. They disappeared from the lane between the two stone posts which flanked
the nearest field-gate.
Presently there arose from within a ticking like the love-making of the grasshopper.
The machine had begun, and a moving concatenation of three horses and the aforesaid
long rickety machine was visible over the gate, a driver sitting upon one of the
hauling horses, and an attendant on the seat of the implement. Along one side of
the field the whole wain went, the arms of the mechanical reaper revolving slowly,
till it passed down the hill quite out of sight. In a minute it came up on the other
side of the field at the same equable pace; the glistening brass star in the forehead
of the fore horse first catching the eye as it rose into view over the stubble,
then the bright arms, and then the whole machine.
The narrow lane of stubble encompassing the field grew wider with each circuit,
and the standing corn was reduced to smaller area as the morning wore on. Rabbits,
hares, snakes, rats, mice, retreated inwards as into a fastness, unaware of the
ephemeral nature of their refuge, and of the doom that awaited them later in the
day when, their covert shrinking to a more and more horrible narrowness, they were
huddled together, friends and foes, till the last few yards of upright wheat fell
also under the teeth of the unerring reaper, and they were every one put to death
by the sticks and stones of the harvesters.
The reaping-machine left the fallen corn behind it in little heaps, each heap
being of the quantity for a sheaf; and upon these the active binders in the rear
laid their hands-mainly women, but some of them men in print shirts, and trousers
supported round their waists by leather straps, rendering useless the two buttons
behind, which twinkled and bristled with sunbeams at every movement of each wearer,
as if they were a pair of eyes in the small of his back.
But those of the other sex were the most interesting of this company of binders,
by reason of the charm which is acquired by woman when she becomes part and parcel
of outdoor nature, and is not merely an object set down therein as at ordinary times.
A field-man is a personality afield; a field-woman is a portion of the field; she
had somehow lost her own margin, imbibed the essence of her surrounding, and assimilated
herself with it.
The women-or rather girls, for they were mostly young-wore drawn cotton bonnets
with great flapping curtains to keep off the sun, and gloves to prevent their hands
being wounded by the stubble. There was one wearing a pale pink jacket, another
in a cream-coloured tight-sleeved gown, another in a petticoat as red as the arms
of the reaping-machine; and others, older, in the brown-rough ''wropper'' or over-all-the
old-established and most appropriate dress of the field-woman, which the young ones
were abandoning. This morning the eye returns involuntarily to the girl in the pink
cotton jacket, she being the most flexuous and finely-drawn figure of them all.
But her bonnet is pulled so far over her brow that none of her face is disclosed
while she binds, though her complexion may be guessed from a stray twine or two
of dark brown hair which extends below the curtain of her bonnet. Perhaps one reason
why she seduces casual attention is that she never courts it, though the other women
often gaze around them.
Her binding proceeds with clock-like monotony. From the sheaf last finished she
draws a handful of ears, patting their tips with her left palm to bring them even.
Then stooping low she moves forward, gathering the corn with both hands against
her knees, and pushing her left gloved hand under the bundle to meet the right on
the other side, holding the corn in an embrace like that of a lover. She brings
the ends of the bond together, and kneels on the sheaf while she ties it, beating
back her skirts now and then when lifted by the breeze. A bit of her naked arm is
visible between the buff leather of the gauntlet and the sleeve of her gown; and
as the day wears on its feminine smoothness becomes scarified by the stubble, and
At intervals she stands up to rest, and to retie her disarranged apron, or to
pull her bonnet straight. Then one can see the oval face of a handsome young woman
with deep dark eyes and long heavy clinging tresses, which seem to clasp in a beseeching
way anything they fall against. The cheeks are paler, the teeth more regular, the
red lips thinner than is usual in a country-bred girl.
It is Tess Durbeyfield, otherwise d'Urberville, somewhat changed-the same, but
not the same; at the present stage of her existence living as a stranger and an
alien here, though it was no strange land that she was in. After a long seclusion
she had come to a resolve to undertake outdoor work in her native village, the busiest
season of the year in the agricultural world having arrived, and nothing that she
could do within the house being so remunerative for the time as harvesting in the
The movements of the other women were more or less similar to Tess's, the whole
bevy of them drawing together like dancers in a quadrille at the completion of a
sheaf by each, every one placing her sheaf on end against those of the rest, till
a shock, or ''stitch'' as it was here called, of ten or a dozen was formed.
They went to breakfast, and came again, and the work proceeded as before. As
the hour of eleven drew near a person watching her might have noticed that every
now and then Tess's glance flitted wistfully to the brow of the hill, though she
did not pause in her sheafing. On the verge of the hour the heads of a group of
children, of ages ranging from six to fourteen, rose over the stubbly convexity
of the hill.
The face of Tess flushed slightly, but still she did not pause.
The eldest of the comers, a girl who wore a triangular shawl, its corners draggling
on the stubble, carried in her arms what at first sight seemed to be a doll, but
proved to be an infant in long clothes. Another brought some lunch. The harvesters
ceased working, took their provisions, and sat down against one of the shocks. Here
they fell to, the men plying a stone jar freely, and passing round a cup.
Tess Durbeyfield had been one of the last to suspend her labours. She sat down
at the end of the shock, her face turned somewhat away from her companions. When
she had deposited herself a man in a rabbit-skin cap and with a red handkerchief
tucked into his belt, held the cup of ale over the top of the shock for her to drink.
But she did not accept his offer. As soon as her lunch was spread she called up
the big girl her sister, and took the baby off her, who, glad to be relieved of
the burden, went away to the next shock and joined the other children playing there.
Tess, with a curiously stealthy yet courageous movement, and with a still rising
colour, unfastened her frock and began suckling the child.
The men who sat nearest considerately turned their faces towards the other end
of the field, some of them beginning to smoke; one, with absent-minded fondness,
regretfully stroking the jar that would no longer yield a stream. All the women
but Tess fell into animated talk, and adjusted the disarranged knots of their hair.
When the infant had taken its fill the young mother sat it upright in her lap,
and looking into the far distance dandled it with a gloomy indifference that was
almost dislike; then all of a sudden she fell to violently kissing it some dozens
of times, as if she could never leave off, the child crying at the vehemence of
an onset which strangely combined passionateness with contempt.
''She's fond of that there child, though she mid pretend to hate en, and say
she wishes the baby and her too were in the churchyard,'' observed the woman in
the red petticoat.
''She'll soon leave off saying that,'' replied the one in buff. ''Lord, 'tis
wonderful what a body can get used to o' that sort in time!''
''A little more than persuading had to do wi' the coming o't, I reckon. There
were they that heard a sobbing one night last year in The Chase; and it mid ha'
gone hard wi' a certain party if folks had come along.''
''Well, a little more, or a little less, 'twas a thousand pities that it should
have happened to she, of all others. But 'tis always the comeliest! The plain ones
be as safe as churches-hey, Jenny?'' The speaker turned to one of the group who
certainly was not ill-defined as plain.
It was a thousand pities, indeed; it was impossible for even an enemy to feel
otherwise on looking at Tess as she sat there, with her flower-like mouth and large
tender eyes, neither black nor blue nor grey nor violet; rather all those shades
together, and a hundred others, which could be seen if one looked into their irises-shade
behind shade-tint beyond tint-around pupils that had no bottom; an almost standard
woman, but for the slight incautiousness of character inherited from her race.
A resolution which had surprised herself had brought her into the fields this
week for the first time during many months. After wearing and wasting her palpitating
heart with every engine of regret that lonely inexperience could devise, commonsense
had illuminated her. She felt that she would do well to be useful again-to taste
anew sweet independence at any price. The past was past; whatever it had been it
was no more at hand. Whatever its consequences, time would close over them; they
would all in a few years be as if they had never been, and she herself grassed down
and forgotten. Meanwhile the trees were just as green as before; the birds sang
and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darkened
because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain.
She might have seen that what had bowed her head so profoundly-the thought of
the world's concern at her situation-was founded on an illusion. She was not an
existence, an experience, a passion, a structure of sensations, to anybody but herself.
To all humankind besides Tess was only a passing thought. Even to friends she was
no more than a frequently passing thought. If she made herself miserable the livelong
night and day it was only this much to them-''Ah, she makes herself unhappy.'' If
she tried to be cheerful, to dismiss all care, to take pleasure in the daylight,
the flowers, the baby, she could only be this idea to them-''Ah, she bears it very
well.'' Moreover, alone in a desert island would she have been wretched at what
had happened to her? Not greatly. If she could have been but just created, to discover
herself as a spouseless mother, with no experience of life except as the parent
of a nameless child, would the position have caused her to despair? No, she would
have taken it calmly, and found pleasure therein. Most of the misery had been generated
by her conventional aspect, and not by her innate sensations.
Whatever Tess's reasoning, some spirit had induced her to dress herself up neatly
as she had formerly done, and come out into the fields, harvest-hands being greatly
in demand just then. This was why she had borne herself with dignity, and had looked
people calmly in the face at times, even when holding the baby in her arms.
The harvest-men rose from the shock of corn, and stretched their limbs, and extinguished
their pipes. The horses, which had been unharnessed and fed, were again attached
to the scarlet machine. Tess, having quickly eaten her own meal, beckoned to her
eldest sister to come and take away the baby, fastened her dress, put on the buff
gloves again, and stooped anew to draw a bond from the last completed sheaf for
the tying of the next.
In the afternoon and evening the proceedings of the morning were continued, Tess
staying on till dusk with the body of harvesters. Then they all rode home in one
of the largest wagons, in the company of a broad tarnished moon that had risen from
the ground to the eastwards, its face resembling the outworn gold-leaf halo of some
worm-eaten Tuscan saint. Tess's female companions sang songs, and showed themselves
very sympathetic and glad at her reappearance out of doors, though they could not
refrain from mischievously throwing in a few verses of the ballad about the maid
who went to the merry green wood and came back a changed state. There are counterpoises
and compensations in life; and the event which had made of her a social warning
had also for the moment made her the most interesting personage in the village to
many. Their friendliness won her still farther away from herself, their lively spirits
were contagious, and she became almost gay.
But now that her moral sorrows were passing away a fresh one arose on the natural
side of her which knew no social law. When she reached home it was to learn to her
grief that the baby had been suddenly taken ill since the afternoon. Some such collapse
had been probable, so tender and puny was its frame; but the event came as a shock
The baby's offence against society in coming into the world was forgotten by
the girl-mother; her soul's desire was to continue that offence by preserving the
life of the child. However, it soon grew clear that the hour of emancipation for
that little prisoner of the flesh was to arrive earlier than her worst misgiving
had conjectured. And when she had discovered this she was plunged into a misery
which transcended that of the child's simple loss. Her baby had not been baptized.