Tess had drifted into a frame of mind which accepted passively the consideration
that if she should have to burn for what she had done, burn she must, and there
was an end of it. Like all village girls she was well grounded in the Holy Scriptures,
and had dutifully studied the histories of Aholah and Aholibah, and knew the inferences
to be drawn therefrom. But when the same question arose with regard to the baby,
it had a very different colour. Her darling was about to die, and no salvation.
It was nearly bedtime, but she rushed downstairs and asked if she might send
for the parson. The moment happened to be one at which her father's sense of the
antique nobility of his family was highest, and his sensitiveness to the smudge
which Tess had set upon that nobility most pronounced, for he had just returned
from his weekly booze at Rolliver's Inn. No parson should come inside his door,
he declared, prying into his affairs, just then, when, by her shame, it had become
more necessary than ever to hide them. He locked the door and put the key in his
The household went to bed, and, distressed beyond measure, Tess retired also.
She was continually waking as she lay, and in the middle of the night found that
the baby was still worse. It was obviously dying-quietly and painlessly, but none
the less surely.
In her misery she rocked herself upon the bed. The clock struck the solemn hour
of one, that hour when fancy stalks outside reason, and malignant possibilities
stand rock-firm as facts. She thought of the child consigned to the nethermost corner
of hell, as its double doom for lack of baptism and lack of legitimacy; saw the
arch-fiend tossing it with his three-pronged fork, like the one they used for heating
the oven on baking days; to which picture she added many other quaint and curious
details of torment sometimes taught the young in this Christian country. The lurid
presentment so powerfully affected her imagination in the silence of the sleeping
house that her nightgown became damp with perspiration, and the bedstead shook with
each throb of her heart.
The infant's breathing grew more difficult, and the mother's mental tension increased.
It was useless to devour the little thing with kisses; she could stay in bed no
longer, and walked feverishly about the room.
''O merciful God, have pity; have pity upon my poor baby!'' she cried. ''Heap
as much anger as you want to upon me, and welcome; but pity the child!''
She leant against the chest of drawers, and murmured incoherent supplications
for a long while, till she suddenly started up.
''Ah! perhaps baby can be saved! Perhaps it will be just the same!''
She spoke so brightly that it seemed as though her face might have shone in the
gloom surrounding her. She lit a candle, and went to a second and a third bed under
the wall, where she awoke her young sisters and brothers, all of whom occupied the
same room. Pulling out the washing-stand so that she could get behind it, she poured
some water from a jug, and made them kneel around, putting their hands together
with fingers exactly vertical. While the children, scarcely awake, awe-stricken
at her manner, their eyes growing larger and larger, remained in this position,
she took the baby from her bed-a child's child-so immature as scarce to seem a sufficient
personality to endow its producer with the maternal title. Tess then stood erect
with the infant on her arm beside the basin, the next sister held the Prayer-Book
open before her, as the clerk at church held it before the parson; and thus the
girl set about baptizing her child.
Her figure looked singularly tall and imposing as she stood in her long white
nightgown, a thick cable of twisted dark hair hanging straight down her back to
her waist. The kindly dimness of the weak candle abstracted from her form and features
the little blemishes which sunlight might have revealed-the stubble scratches upon
her wrists, and the weariness of her eyes-her high enthusiasm having a transfiguring
effect upon the face which had been her undoing, showing it as a thing of immaculate
beauty, with a touch of dignity which was almost regal. The little ones kneeling
round, their sleepy eyes blinking and red, awaited her preparations full of a suspended
wonder which their physical heaviness at that hour would not allow to become active.
The most impressed of them said:
''Be you really going to christen him, Tess?''
The girl-mother replied in a grave affirmative.
''What's his name going to be?''
She had not thought of that, but a name suggested by a phrase in the book of
Genesis came into her head as she proceeded with the baptismal service, and now
she pronounced it:
''SORROW, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy
She sprinkled the water, and there was silence.
''Say 'Amen,' children.''
The tiny voices piped in obedient response ''Amen!''
Tess went on:
''We receive this child''-and so forth-''and do sign him with the sign of the
Here she dipped her hand into the basin, and fervently drew an immense cross
upon the baby with her forefinger, continuing with the customary sentences as to
his manfully fighting against sin, the world, and the devil, and being a faithful
soldier and servant unto his life's end. She duly went on with the Lord's Prayer,
the children lisping it after her in a thin gnat-like wail, till, at the conclusion,
raising their voices to clerk's pitch, they again piped into silence, ''Amen!''
Then their sister, with much augmented confidence in the efficacy of the sacrament,
poured forth from the bottom of her heart the thanksgiving that follows, uttering
it boldly and triumphantly in the stopt-diapason note which her voice acquired when
her heart was in her speech, and which will never be forgotten by those who knew
her. The ecstasy of faith almost apotheosized her; it set upon her face a glowing
irradiation, and brought a red spot into the middle of each cheek; while the miniature
candle-flame inverted in her eye-pupils shone like a diamond. The children gazed
up at her with more and more reverence, and no longer had a will for questioning.
She did not look like Sissy to them now, but as a being large, towering, and awful-a
divine personage with whom they had nothing in common.
Poor Sorrow's campaign against sin, the world, and the devil was doomed to be
of limited brilliancy-luckily perhaps for himself, considering his beginnings. In
the blue of the morning that fragile soldier and servant breathed his last, and
when the other children awoke they cried bitterly, and begged Sissy to have another
pretty baby. The calmness which had possessed Tess since the christening remained
with her in the infant's loss. In the daylight, indeed, she felt her terrors about
his soul to have been somewhat exaggerated; whether well founded or not she had
no uneasiness now, reasoning that if Providence would not ratify such an act of
approximation she, for one, did not value the kind of heaven lost by the irregularity-either
for herself or for her child.
So passed away Sorrow the Undesired-that intrusive creature, that bastard gift
of shameless Nature who respects not the social law; a waif to whom eternal Time
had been a matter of days merely, who knew not that such things as years and centuries
ever were; to whom the cottage interior was the universe, the week's weather climate,
new-born babyhood human existence, and the instinct to suck human knowledge.
Tess, who mused on the christening a good deal, wondered if it were doctrinally
sufficient to secure a Christian burial for the child. Nobody could tell this but
the parson of the parish, and he was a new-comer, and did not know her. She went
to his house after dusk, and stood by the gate, but could not summon courage to
go in. The enterprise would have been abandoned if she had not by accident met him
coming homeward as she turned away. In the gloom she did not mind speaking freely.
''I should like to ask you something, sir.''
He expressed his willingness to listen, and she told the story of the baby's
illness and the extemporized ordinance. ''And now, sir,'' she added earnestly, ''can
you tell me this-will it be just the same for him as if you had baptized him?''
Having the natural feelings of a tradesman at finding that a job he should have
been called in for had been unskilfully botched by his customers among themselves,
he was disposed to say no. Yet the dignity of the girl, the strange tenderness in
her voice, combined to affect his nobler impulses-or rather those that he had left
in him after ten years of endeavour to graft technical belief on actual scepticism.
The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the victory fell to the man.
''My dear girl,'' he said, ''it will be just the same.''
''Then will you give him a Christian burial?'' she asked quickly.
The Vicar felt himself cornered. Hearing of the baby's illness, he had conscientiously
gone to the house after nightfall to perform the rite, and, unaware that the refusal
to admit him had come from Tess's father and not from Tess, he could not allow the
plea of necessity for its irregular administration.
''Ah-that's another matter,'' he said.
''Another matter-why?'' asked Tess, rather warmly.
''Well-I would willingly do so if only we two were concerned. But I must not-for
''Just for once, sir!''
''Really I must not.''
''O sir!'' She seized his hand as she spoke.
He withdrew it, shaking his head.
''Then I don't like you!'' she burst out, ''and I'll never come to your church
''Don't talk so rashly.''
''Perhaps it will be just the same to him if you don't? Е Will it be just the
same? Don't for God's sake speak as saint to sinner, but as you yourself to me myself-poor
How the Vicar reconciled his answer with the strict notions he supposed himself
to hold on these subjects it is beyond a layman's power to tell, though not to excuse.
Somewhat moved, he said in this case also-
''It will be just the same.''
So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman's shawl,
to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-light, at the cost of a shilling
and a pint of beer to the sexton, in that shabby corner of God's allotment where
He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbaptized infants, notorious drunkards,
suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid. In spite of the untoward
surroundings, however, Tess bravely made a little cross of two laths and a piece
of string, and having bound it with flowers, she stuck it up at the head of the
grave one evening when she could enter the churchyard without being seen, putting
at the foot also a bunch of the same flowers in a little jar of water to keep them
alive. What matter was it that on the outside of the jar the eye of mere observation
noted the words ''Keelwell's Marmalade''? The eye of maternal affection did not
see them in its vision of higher things.
''By experience,'' says Roger Ascham, ''we find out a short way by a long wandering.''
Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for further travel, and of what use is
our experience to us then? Tess Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating
kind. At last she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing?
If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under the guidance
of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to the world in general, no
doubt she would never have been imposed on. But it had not been in Tess's power-nor
is it in anybody's power-to feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is
possible to profit by them. She-and how many more-might have ironically said to
God with Saint Augustine: ''Thou hast counselled a better course than Thou hast
She remained at her father's house during the winter months, plucking fowls,
or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her sisters and brothers out
of some finery which d'Urberville had given her, and she had put by with contempt.
Apply to him she would not. But she would often clasp her hands behind her head
and muse when she was supposed to be working hard.
She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year;
the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The
Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birthday; and
every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She
suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that
there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her
own death, when all these charms would had disappeared; a day which lay sly and
unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually
passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel
the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's
thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say: ''It is
the-th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died''; and there would be nothing singular
to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time
through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season or year.
Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman. Symbols
of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy at times into her
voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent. She became what would have been called
a fine creature; her aspect was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whom
the turbulent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize.
But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education.