''Because what's the use of learning that I am one of a long row only-finding
out that there is set down in some old book somebody just like me, and to know that
I shall only act her part; making me sad, that's all. The best is not to remember
that your nature and your past doings have been just like thousands' and thousands',
and that your coming life and doings 'll be like thousands's and thousands'.''
''What, really, then, you don't want to learn anything?''
''I shouldn't mind learning why-why the sun do shine on the just and the unjust
alike,'' she answered, with a slight quaver in her voice. ''But that's what books
will not tell me.'' ''Tess, fie for such bitterness!'' Of course he spoke with a
conventional sense of duty only, for that sort of wondering had not been unknown
to himself in bygone days. And as he looked at the unpracticed mouth and lips, he
thought that such a daughter of the soil could only have caught up the sentiment
by rote. She went on peeling the lords and ladies till Clare, regarding for a moment
the wave-like curl of her lashes as they dropped with her bent gaze on her soft
cheek, lingeringly went away. When he was gone she stood awhile, thoughtfully peeling
the last bud; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung it and all the crowd of
floral nobility impatiently on the ground, in an ebullition of displeasure with
herself for her NIAISERIES, and with a quickening warmth in her heart of hearts.
How stupid he must think her! In an access of hunger for his good opinion she
bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavoured to forget, so unpleasant
had been its issues-the identity of her family with that of the knightly d'Urbervilles.
Barren attribute as it was, disastrous as its discovery had been in many ways to
her, perhaps Mr Clare, as a gentleman and a student of history, would respect her
sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the lords and ladies if he knew
that those Purbeck-marble and alabaster people in Kingsbere Church really represented
her own lineal forefathers; that she was no spurious d'Urberville, compounded of
money and ambition like those at Trantridge, but true d'Urberville to the bone.
But, before venturing to make the revelation, dubious Tess indirectly sounded
the dairyman as to its possible effect upon Mr Clare, by asking the former if Mr
Clare had any great respect for old county families when they had lost all their
money and land.
''Mr Clare,'' said the dairyman emphatically, ''is one of the most rebellest
rozums you ever knowed-not a bit like the rest of his family; and if there's one
thing that he do hate more than another 'tis the notion of what's called a' old
family. He says that it stands to reason that old families have done their spurt
of work in past days, and can't have anything left in 'em now. There's the Billets
and the Drenkhards and the Greys and the St Quintins and the Hardys and the Goulds,
who used to own the lands for miles down this valley; you could buy 'em all up now
for an old song a'most. Why, our little Retty Priddle here, you know, is one of
the Paridelles-the old family that used to own lots o' the lands out by King's Hintock
now owned by the Earl o' Wessex, afore even he or his was heard of. Well, Mr Clare
found this out, and spoke quite scornful to the poor girl for days. 'Ah!' he says
to her, 'you'll never make a good dairymaid! All your skill was used up ages ago
in Palestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git strength for more
deeds!' A boy came here t'other day asking for a job, and said his name was Matt,
and when we asked him his surname he said he'd never heard that 'a had any surname,
and when we asked why, he said he supposed his folks hadn't been 'stablished long
enough. 'Ah! you're the very boy I want!' says Mr Clare, jumping up and shaking
hands wi'en; 'I've great hopes of you;' and gave him half-a-crown. O no! he can't
stomach old families!'
After hearing this caricature of Clare's opinion poor Tess was glad that she
had not said a word in a weak moment about her family-even though it was so unusually
old almost to have gone round the circle and become a new one. Besides, another
diary-girl was as good as she, it seemed, in that respect. She held her tongue about
the d'Urberville vault, the Knight of the Conqueror whose name she bore. The insight
afforded into Clare's character suggested to her that it was largely owing to her
supposed untraditional newness that she had won interest in his eyes.
The season developed and matured. Another year's instalment of flowers, leaves,
nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up their positions
where only a year ago others had stood in their place when these were nothing more
than germs and inorganic particles. Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and
stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams, opened petals,
and sucked out scents in invisible jets and breathings.
Dairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably, placidly, even
merrily. Their position was perhaps the happiest of all positions in the social
scale, being above the line at which neediness ends, and below the line at which
the CONVENANCES begin to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness
makes too little of enough.
Thus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one thing aimed
at out of doors. Tess and Clare unconsciously studied each other, ever balanced
on the edge of a passion, yet apparently keeping out of it. All the while they were
converging, under an irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale.
Tess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now, possibly never
would be so happy again. She was, for one thing, physically and mentally suited
among these new surroundings. The sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum
on the spot of its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil. Moreover she,
and Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection and love;
where no profundities have been reached; no reflections have set in, awkwardly inquiring,
''Whither does this new current tend to carry me? What does it mean to my future?
How does it stand towards my past?''
Tess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet-a rosy warming apparition
which had only just acquired the attribute of persistence in his consciousness.
So he allowed his mind to be occupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be
no more than a philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting
specimen of womankind.
They met continually; they could not help it. They met daily in that strange
and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the violet or pink dawn; for
it was necessary to rise early, so very early, here. Milking was done betimes; and
before the milking came the skimming, which began at a little past three. It usually
fell to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first being aroused
by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival, and they soon discovered
that she could be depended upon not to sleep though the alarm as others did, this
task was thrust most frequently upon her. No sooner had the hour of three struck
and whizzed, than she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the
ladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her fellow-milkmaids.
By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was downstairs and out in the humid air.
The remaining maids and the dairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the
pillow, and did not appear till a quarter of an hour later.
The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the day's close,
though the degree of their shade may be the same. In the twilight of the morning
light seems active, darkness passive; in the twilight of evening it is the darkness
which is active and crescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse.
Being so often-possibly not always by chance-the first two persons to get up
at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselves the first persons up of all the world.
In these early days of her residence here Tess did not skim, but went out of doors
at once after rising, where he was generally awaiting her. The spectral, half-compounded,
aqueous light which pervaded the open mead, impressed them with a feeling of isolation,
as if they were Adam and Eve. At this dim inceptive stage of the day Tess seemed
to Clare to exhibit a dignified largeness both of disposition and physique, an almost
regnant power, possibly because he knew that at that preternatural time hardly any
woman so well endowed in person as she was likely to be walking in the open air
within the boundaries of his horizon; very few in all England. Fair women are usually
asleep at mid-summer dawns. She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere.
The mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along together to the
spot where the cows lay, often made him think of the Resurrection hour. He little
thought that the Magdalen might be at his side. Whilst all the landscape was in
neutral shade his companion's face, which was the focus of his eyes, rising above
the mist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it. She looked ghostly,
as if she were merely a soul at large. In reality her face, without appearing to
do so, had caught the cold gleam of day from the north-east; his own face, though
he did not think of it, wore the same aspect to her.
It was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply. She was no
longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman-a whole sex condensed into
one typical form. He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names half
teasingly, which she did not like because she did not understand them.
''Call me Tess,'' she would say askance; and he did.
Then it would grow lighter, and her features would become simply feminine; they
had changed from those of a divinity who could confer bliss to those of a being
who craved it.
At these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl. Herons
came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and shutters, out of the boughs
of a plantation which they frequented at the side of the mead; or, if already on
the spot, hardily maintained their standing in the water as the pair walked by,
watching them by moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel,
like the turn of puppets by clockwork.
They could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level, and apparently
no thicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows in detached remnants of small
extent. On the gray moisture of the grass were marks where the cows had lain through
the night-dark-green islands of dry herbage the size of their carcasses, in the
general sea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by which the
cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of which trail they found
her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when she recognized them, making an intenser
little fog of her own amid the prevailing one. Then they drove the animals back
to the barton, or sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require.
Or perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like a white
sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous rocks. Birds would soar
through it into the upper radiance, and hang on the wing sunning themselves, or
alight on the wet rails subdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods. Minute
diamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes, and drops upon
her hair, like seed pearls. When the day grew quite strong and commonplace these
dried off her; moreover, Tess then lost her strange and ethereal beauty; her teeth,
lips, and eyes scintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair
dairymaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of the world.
About this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the non-resident
milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old Deborah Fyander for not washing
''For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb! Upon my soul, if the
London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd swaller their milk
and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and that's saying a good deal.''
The milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in common with the
rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged out from the wall in the kitchen
by Mrs Crick, this being the invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible
scrape accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared.
There was a great stir in the milk-house just after breakfast. The churn revolved
as usual, but the butter would not come. Whenever this happened the dairy was paralyzed.
Squish, squash, echoed the milk in the great cylinder, but never arose the sound
they waited for.
Dairyman Crick and his wife, the milkmaids Tess, Marian, Retty Priddle, Izz Huett,
and the married ones from the cottages; also Mr Clare, Jonathan Kail, old Deborah,
and the rest, stood gazing hopelessly at the churn; and the boy who kept the horse
going outside put on moon-like eyes to show his sense of the situation. Even the
melancholy horse himself seemed to look in at the window in inquiring despair at
each walk round.
'''Tis years since I went to Conjuror Trendle's son in Egdon-years!'' said the
dairyman bitterly. ''And he was nothing to what his father had been. I have said
fifty times, if I have said once, that I DON'T believe in en; though 'a do cast
folks' waters very true. But I shall have to go to 'n if he's alive. O yes, I shall
have to go to 'n, if this sort of thing continnys!''
Even Mr Clare began to feel tragical at the dairyman's desperation.
''Conjuror Fall, t'other side of Casterbridge, that they used to call 'Wide-O',
was a very good man when I was a boy,'' said Jonathan Kail. ''But he's rotten as
touchwood by now.''