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    Tess of the D'Urbervilles
    Tess of the D'Urbervilles
    Tess of the D'Urbervilles
    Ebook610 pages9 hours

    Tess of the D'Urbervilles

    By Thomas Hardy

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    About this ebook

    The classic Hardy novel. According to Wikipedia: "Thomas Hardy, (1840 – 1928) was an English author of the naturalist movement, though he regarded himself primarily as a poet and composed novels mainly for financial gain. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-fictional land of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardy's poetry, first published in his 50s, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455389056
    Author

    Thomas Hardy

    Thomas Hardy (1840–1928) gave up a career in architecture to devote himself to writing. He is now regarded as one of the greatest novelists in English literature. His best-remembered works, all set in the fictional county of Wessex, are Jude the Obscure, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge, The Return of the Native, and Far from the Madding Crowd. 

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    Reviews for Tess of the D'Urbervilles

    4/5

    3,669 ratings120 reviews

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    • 4/5
      The book is beautifully written, so much so, I took off a star because it is all so sad. Tess, is a woman betrayed, and the full millstones of the gods descend on her. Do read it, and then try a cheer up routine. At first a bowdlerized version was a magazine serial in 1891...but if you had the money, you could buy the whole thing in three hardcover volumes in 1892.
    • 3/5
      so melodramatic!!!!
    • 5/5
      Profoundly affecting.
    • 5/5
      Tess was my first. This depressing and enchanting story of a woman in rural England struggling against 'a sea of troubles' was my introduction to Hardy, now my favorite author of fiction, through the excellent 2008 miniseries.
    • 1/5
      Bad things happening to a pristine waif. She was a true symbol of feminine modesty and virtue. This is why it was especially sad that so many bad things happened. It was a long time ago. Life was bad back then. Men were especially wicked, evil man-demons who existed only to exploit delicate women.

      It's a classic, but not a good one.
    • 4/5
      Hardy poses a complete rejection of Victorian ideals through the cultivation of utterly futile and tragic characters, his heroine most of all. The story devolves into complete oblivion, and then the bottom drops out. Hardy, unlike Dickens for example, has a verbose prose style that often works against him. Despite this, the sheer power and absurdity of the thematic elements of the story redeem it from wordiness for the most part. A heavy antidote to the sickly romantic victories of Jane Austen, though the characters may be equally unlikable. That is probably Hardy's intent, however. We are to pity Tess Durbeyfield and Angel Clare, swallowed up by fate rather than embraced by it. Unlike Austen and some others, Hardy sees the sometimes present maelstrom which they reject outright.
    • 5/5
      Spellbinding, suspenseful, and a must-read. Cannot believe I have not read this before, but glad I read all of Jane Austen first. Hardy was absolutely brilliant! It's been awhile since I spent days raging to family about a character or cried on walks while listening to audio (I also read portions from my hard copy which has been on my shelf for years).
    • 5/5
      I am currently sitting in a gorgeous B&B in the very county where Thomas Hardy was born, a few miles from a hill Tess herself climbed. Sydling, in case you were wondering. Dorset. It's beautiful, and this book is really location-specific - Hardy spends an inordinate amount of time describing the countryside in minute detail, and you look out the window and yep, that's what it's like.

      The advice I give to people who aren't feeling Tess, which never helps because if you ain't feelin' it it ain't gettin' felt, is to not take it too seriously. It's a Melodrama (capital M!). Everything in it is totally over the top. I thought it was a blast. Think of it as Hardy gleefully jumping the shark. The pheasant scene is what does it for me - you'll know it when you get there, it won't be long - it's beautiful and vividly drawn, but at the same time ludicrously overblown. That's the novel. Hardy is pulling the stops out.

      No spoilers, I promise: The ending is the same deal. Some folks criticize it for being sortof "TA-FRIGGIN'-DAH!" But that's why I love it. Why not? In my opinion, anyone who hates that ending secretly wishes they'd thought of it themselves. Someone had to write that. Hardy did.
    • 5/5
      I truly believe that this is the greatest book ever written. There is nothing about this book that I can criticise - it has drama, romance, betrayal, violence, tragedy and every part of it lulls you in. What the truly great thing about the book is that all the characters are flawed - Tess, even as a great literary heroine is naive to a fault, almost to the point of stupidity at times. She's selfless to a fault and because of her inexperience she never truly fights for what she wants, and it's a trait that sometimes makes you want to shake her and tell her she's worth more, that she deserves happiness and that she's got to fight for it more, but her naivety is a trait that you find yourself accepting and wanting to protect her from.

      She's a victim of circumstance, and whether you buy into her being raped or merely seduced by Alex, the undeniable fact is that she was taken advantage of. Alex is a character who comes in with the air of a stereotypical victim complete with the evocative language designed to show how worldly wise and sleazy he is compared to Tess' ignorance and innocence. He, in a lot of ways though is an honest villain - he does her wrong, attempts to attone before basically backing her into a corner in her weakest moments and looking after her and her family when the hero of the piece has left her abandoned. Make no mistakes though, Alex is never a guy you like, or fully trust and even when he's 'good' there is still the dangerous air about him and the way he plays on her doubts, insecurities and fears shows that even as a changed character, at the end of the day he is still just a predator.

      Perhaps the most interesting character is Angel - the love interest and one more man who does her wrong. He meets and falls in love with her and pursues her relentlessly until she agrees to marry him and then, when she eventually agrees he casts her aside with such stunning hypocrisy that you want desperately to hate him for it. He admits that prior to their marriage that he had taken another lover and that confession leads to Tess confessing what happened in her own past and the scene where she's begging his forgiveness is heartbreaking.

      Angel, deciding he can't be with Tess due to her 'sins' decides to separate for her until he can forgive her, and Tess, in her shame at hurting him agrees to every term he demands. Angel, after separating from her decides to go to Brazil but in his heartbreak he considers taking a mistress with him and propositions Tess' friend and it is only when she admits that Tess loves him more than she ever could he realises his folly, but it's a sign of the utter hypocrisy of the times.

      The return of Angel, and the culmination of the Tess,Angel,Alex dynamic is heartbreaking. You want so badly for Angel and Tess to have their happily ever after, you want Tess to have good things happen for once in her life, but ultimately you know that it's not going to happen. I remember reading this for the first time as a kid and being shocked and heartbroken how it ended despite the clues throughout, and even after multiple re-readings and knowing how it ends, I still read it and get shocked and heartbroken because I will never stop wanting Tess and Angel to get away. There's something about tragedy and soulmates being wrenched asunder under such tragic circumstances after wasting so much time due to stupid things that will never not be relevant be it in 19th Century Wessex, or 21st century anywhere.

      If you haven't read it, please do. It's an amazing book with amazing characters and everyone should read it at least once in their lives.
    • 4/5
      I picked up Tess to listen to during the last week of September to celebrate Banned Books Week. Originally published in 1888, this book was often censored for sexual content. It is still often included as required reading in many high schools - and is still occasionally censored.

      Tess Durbeyfield comes from a poor family that are descendents of the noble D'Urbevilles. In the hopes that Tess can marry a distant cousin, Alec D'Urbeville, Tess' parents send her to work in his household. Instead, young Tess is seduced by Alec and her reputation is ruined. She goes to work as a dairy maid in a distant farm where she is unknown. She falls in love with a handsome gentlman, Angel Clare, throwing Tess in a dilemma of whether or not she should tell Angel of her past.

      This book is a wonderful example of the double standard of sexual conduct held during Victorian times between men and women. Although Tess' problems are really caused by men, she pays the ultimate price for their behavior. I found this story haunting - so beautifully written and told, and so sad. Wonderful narration by Simon Vance!
    • 5/5
      Awww it was simply lovely re-reading this after so long. A fabulous book.
    • 2/5
      So depressing that I never quite finished. I skipped to the last few pages about halfway through the book.
    • 5/5
      Absolutely heartbreaking and so beautifully written I wanted to cry.
    • 4/5
      I decided to pick up this audio-book for my drive from Chicago to Atlanta. I was pleasantly surprised with how enjoyable it was. I had been dreading this book for a long time, but knew I was going to have to read it eventually if I ever wanted to complete the 1001 Books to Read challenge.

      This book was surprisingly modern. Tess is a strong female character. From the beginning she's not afraid to do what is necessary for her family, even when her mother and father seem childish and much more naive than Tess. She takes responsibility for things that she feels are her fault and works extraordinarily hard throughout the entire novel.

      Alec d'Urberville is immediately unlikable. This is (naturally) reinforced after he rapes Tess. The language that Hardy uses surrounding the rape is chock full of euphemisms. It probably took me about half of the book to solidly determine that she had been raped and not just seduced.

      Angel Clare starts out likable enough, wooing and insisting on Tess to take his hand in marriage, that is until he turns into a total hypocritical ass.

      I was rather shocked by the ending.

      My only regret is that I didn't read this book sooner.
    • 5/5
      Possibly the most depressing book I have ever read. Tragic.
    • 3/5
      the first 80% of the bookmare rather slow. lots of repetitions and hidden meanings that uounalmost miss the rape until you read that she has a baby. thrn you roll your eyes for a long time while thr main characters are courting and then again when they make themselves miserable. however, the ending was a surprise and for me the best part of the book when Tess finally took some action.
    • 2/5
      I feel like this was almost two different books. I was really enjoying the story, sympathising with Tess, and admiring the author's progressive attitudes, when at the very end the whole thing derailed. Before the ending, I would have given the book a 3 star rating. It was engaging, had some complex characters, and really dealt with the idea of the fallen woman in an amazing way. But then....

      For me, the story fell apart when Angel returned and found Tess living with the cruel Alec. That was not how I'd imagined the story would go! I'd hoped Alec could be redeemed, and be a genuinely good friend to Tess, if not a lover. That when Angel returned Tess would cast him off, give him a roaring lecture for being such an idiotic hypocrite. His crimes against Tess were far worse than Alec's in my opinion. The majority of this novel was thoughtful and innovative, but the ending read as a trashy, old timey, conservative, romance.
    • 2/5
      I don't remember anything about this book. Evidently, it didn't do much with my imagination.
    • 2/5
      Apologies for the length of this review, but it's still considerably shorter than the book and may save you time in the long run!

      It all started well enough with a lightly humourous approach to Tess's father's discovery of the ancient bloodline. The plot then moved along fairly quickly to find Tess in a new position in the service of the only other living D'Urbervilles - who turn out not to be actual D'Urbervilles at all, but that's another tangent altogether. The master of the house takes a shine to our Tess and she daily encounters his attentions in pursuit of her, but she's having none of it. Thus, late one night, on her way home from the local village, the rogueish D'Urberville gets her alone and has his wicked way with her.

      This is the point at which, I am sure, the reader's interest was intended to have been piqued and hereafter taken on a journey of Tess's turbulent consequential situations and emotions. Sadly, for me, this was the point where it all started to lose my attention. It really isn't clear that Tess has definitely been raped - yes, you can read through the lines and work it out but the next chapter meanders along pointlessly before we finally confirm that Tess has not only had sex (consensually or otherwise) but has had a baby as a result. Only the conversations between Tess and her mother: 'Twas not your fault', 'Aye, but I'm such a terrible person nonetheless' etc. clarify that Tess really did not welcome the physical advances of D'Urberville that night.

      ***SPOILERS***

      As if Tess wasn't getting morbid enough, the baby then dies and is not provided with a Christian burial because it wasn't properly baptised. Tess is understandably grief stricken but somewhat stoic and ends up taking work as a milkmaid. From thereon in, Tess continues in much the same vein, lamenting what a terrible person she is, a sinful woman who no man will ever love, blah blah blah, while keeping her head down at work.

      Once again though, she has caught the attention of a young suitor, Angel Clare; only this time she quite likes him back. But remember, dear reader, she is a FALLEN WOMAN and must therefore rebuke all his advances! This is where it goes from slightly dull to downright ridiculous. Angel carries on pursuing her for some time, she keeps knocking him back, her roommates think she's barmy as they're all madly in love with him too, ergo she tries to push him in their general direction, so altruistic and magnanimous is she.

      Inevitably, she gives in and admits she fancies him but she won't marry him because she's a HARLOT and IMPURE and he must never know! So then we trawl through another few chapters which pretty much repeat the above ad nauseum. Then she decides she will marry him, but should she tell him about her past or not? (repeat) Her one attempt to tell him is foiled by blasted artistic licence/fate and she goes ahead and marries him anyway. And then tells him. And he handles the whole situation in an unconditionally loving, non-judgmental and accepting way. Except he doesn't. Poor old Tess is fraught for days while she waits for him to decide how he feels about it all and, alas, he tells her he doesn't feel very good about it at all. He adopts a full on 'woe is me' attitude not dissimilar to his new (JEZEBEL) wife's bemoanings and buggers off to Brazil. Not before bumping into one of the other ladies who loved him so, inviting her to come with him, then changing his mind in the space of two pages. Meanwhile, the other ladies haven't fared too well in their grief at losing out on him to Tess: suicide attempts and alcoholism no less! He must be one hell of a catch!!

      Anyway, the story then rambles on again, with Tess moving around the fields of Wessex like a ghost, lamenting all the while and wishing her husband would come back to her. Then, completely inexplicably, D'Urberville reappears in her life, begs her forgiveness, and asks her to come and live with him as his wife - because apparently she IS really his wife, what with him being the first to do rude stuff to her and all. Even more inexplicably, she agrees to it! Only, would you believe it? Just at that exact moment, Angel decides he's been a bit of a wally and returns to England to patch things up with poor Tess. Following a short conversation between the estranged spouses, Tess (without any description of thought pattern or motive) only goes and kills D'Urberville! She could have packed her bags and left, of course, but that just wouldn't be melodramatic enough.

      Needless to say, it all catches up with her and, following a five night stay in an empty mansion and a night under the stars at Stonehenge of all places, the final page of this sorry tale sees Tess swinging from the gallows while her husband (the one she legally married, not the one she had a child to) walks off hand in hand with her little sister.

      THE END

      Maybe as a 21st century feminist I cannot possibly sympathise with Tess; her wet, pathetic insistence that she didn't deserve any happiness coupled with her tendency to just go along with what everyone else wanted, to increasingly stupid lengths just grated on me. I did not find any of the characters particularly likeable, or any more than 2D caricatures. Angel degenerated into a pious little upstart and the only positive came towards the end when Tess finally gets a bit indignant and writes him a letter that gives him a jolly good ticking off! Unfortunately, she can only maintain this attitude for all of five minutes until she claps eyes on him again and... well, you know the rest.

      I've since heard that Hardy wrote the equivalent of soap opera stories in his day and I only wish I had known this before I picked up 'Tess'. If you're looking for Emo-style, weak characters who take ages to make a single decision over the most minute points, Tess is for you. If you prefer strong characters, fast-paced stories and a satisfying outcome, steer well clear!!
    • 3/5
      This book came highly recommended by everyone I know who has read it. I had some trouble getting started, and while I can appreciate the artistry of the author and his commitment to creating a world that is practically tangible to the reader, I found myself occasionally skimming across sections, looking for the next bit of action. All the way up to the very end, I could not really see what it was about the book that made all my friends - some o them very hard to please - so interested in this story. Life kept throwing worse and worse turns at Tess and Tess herself is occasionally the only one responsible for how things are. I found myself wanting to shake her and tell her to suck up her pride and just *write* to the man already. But the end really did make the rest worthwhile. After finishing the whole story, the more I thought about it, the more I found myself liking it.
    • 3/5
      It took me forever and a day to get stuck into this one. Tess' discovery of her aristocratic ancestry sparks a chain of misfortune and disaster which leads to her tragic downfall. Knowing the basics of the plot, I wasn't expecting sunshine and happiness from this book, but I was struck repeatedly at just how downright miserable Hardy is. My annoyance at Tess and the other female characters for their weakness and dependence came second only to my anger at the two male protagonists for their piggishness and idiocy. It wasn't until about half way through the story that I got properly hooked, but any book that can make me tut and sigh audibly, as this one did, could be considered a good read.
    • 5/5
      This book by Hardy comes to me highly recommended by others and it lived up to its high recommendation. Tess Durbeyfield is a tragic heroine, Angel Clare is maddening. Men readily abuse this young woman who starts out so sweet and ends so tragically. Tess's spirit is slowly destroyed by the events until the final moment of passion. I am thankful that I knew nothing about this book going in to it and therefore I am not going to say anything here. Even though this book is set in the 1800s, I felt that it was still very relevant today, though I would hope women would not be this self sacrificing. Hardy wrote this novel, a social commentary on the lives of nineteenth century English Women. Hardy is an excellent author. His characters are well developed. His writing is full of beauty and skill. This is the second book I have read by him and exceeded Jude the Obscure which I also enjoyed.
    • 1/5
      I really, really do not like this book at all and, to be honest, I found the ending concerning her sister a little bit twisted and wrong. How that is supposed to make the misery of the rest of the book okay, I don't know. Yes, it gives you a lot to think about. And yes, it does have a good storyline, but some of the final conclusions just made me want to reinvent the ending for myself as the headstrong protagonist apparently completely lost herself and ended up doing things I would never have expected considering the character that was laid out beforehand.
    • 4/5
      read if you enjoy schadenfreude
    • 5/5
      Much better than I remembered from high school. A story about a woman who just could not get a break, with a lot to say about Victorian morals, social class and economic realities as the English countryside and villages emerged into the modern world.
    • 3/5
      Wasn't my over all favorite book I read in Mrs. Bookwalter's class, and that is most likely due to the fact that we had to watch a horrid movie version.
    • 5/5
      Quite the phenomenal book. This was the first book that I have read by Thomas Hardy and it leads me to believe that his other stuff should be well worth my time to pick up. The story in this was phenomenal as well as the pace and way in which he carries the story along as far as the detail used. It was quite brilliant and very refreshing to read. It seems to go well with this time of year(fall), which was a fortunate coincidence.
    • 4/5
      This has always been a favourite of mine. The social machinations that drive Tess are incredible and so solidly Victorian! Hardy is keen in his sense of detail and tells a very beautiful story here.
    • 2/5
      I deeply prefer the morbid foreshadowing and brutal cynicism of 'Jude' to 'Tess'... never has reading a novel felt so exactly like being stifled by passive tragic heroine bosoms. I think my copy of this book actually removes air from any given room. Accordingly, I keep it in a closet.
    • 4/5
      It's a well written piece of fiction, but oh, after reading it, one thirsts for a book with a happy ending.

    Book preview

    Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

    TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES, A PURE WOMAN, FAITHFULLY PRESENTED BY THOMAS HARDY 

    published by Samizdat Express, Orange, CT, USA

    established in 1974, offering over 14,000 books

    Fiction by Thomas Hardy:

    Desperate Remedies

    Under the Greenwood Tree

    A Pair of Blue Eyes

    Far from the Madding Crowd

    The Hand of Ethelberta

    The Return of the Native

    Wessex Tales

    The Trumpet-Major

    A Laodicean

    Two on a Tower

    The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

    A Changed Man and Other Tales

    The Mayor of Casterbridge

    The Woodlanders

    Tess of the d'Urbervilles

    A Group of Noble Dames

    Life's Little Ironies

    Jude the Obscure

    The Well-Beloved

    The Dynasts

    feedback welcome: [email protected]

    visit us at samizdat.com

    Phase the First:    The Maiden, I-XI 

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Phase the Second:   Maiden No More, XII-XV 

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Phase the Third:    The Rally, XVI-XXIV 

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Phase the Fourth:   The Consequence, XXV-XXXIV 

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27

    Chapter 28

    Chapter 29

    Chapter 30

    Chapter 31

    Chapter 32

    Chapter 33

    Chapter 34

    Phase the Fifth:    The Woman Pays, XXXV-XLIV 

    Chapter 35

    Chapter 36

    Chapter 37

    Chapter 38

    Chapter 39

    Chapter 40

    Chapter 41

    Chapter 42

    Chapter 43

    Chapter 44

    Phase the Sixth:    The Convert, XLV-LII 

    Chapter 45

    Chapter 46

    Chapter 47

    Chapter 48

    Chapter 49

    Chapter 50

    Chapter 51

    Chapter 52

    Phase the Seventh:  Fulfillment, LIII-LIX 

    Chapter 53

    Chapter 54

    Chapter 55

    Chapter 56

    Chapter 57

    Chapter 58

    Chapter 59

    ____________________ 

    Phase the First: The Maiden 

    I 

    On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. An empty egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.

    Good night t'ee, said the man with the basket.

    Good night, Sir John, said the parson.

    The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.

    Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I said Good night, and you made reply 'GOOD NIGHT, SIR JOHN,' as now.

    I did, said the parson.

    And once before that--near a month ago.

    I may have.

    Then what might your meaning be in calling me 'Sir John' these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?

    The parson rode a step or two nearer.

    It was only my whim, he said; and, after a moment's hesitation: It was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history.  I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane.  Don't you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?

    Never heard it before, sir!

    Well it's true.  Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of your face better.  Yes, that's the d'Urberville nose and chin--a little debased.  Your ancestor was one of the twelve knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his conquest of Glamorganshire.  Branches of your family held manors over all this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the time of King Stephen.  In the reign of King John one of them was rich enough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers; and in Edward the Second's time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there.  You declined a little in Oliver Cromwell's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Second's reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your loyalty.  Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among you, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it practically was in old times, when men were knighted from father to son, you would be Sir John now.

    Ye don't say so!

    In short, concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, there's hardly such another family in England.

    Daze my eyes, and isn't there? said Durbeyfield. And here have I been knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the commonest feller in the parish....And how long hev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham?

    The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite died out of knowledge, and could hardly be said to be known at all. His own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring when, having been engaged in tracing the vicissitudes of the d'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's name on his waggon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiries about his father and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.

    At first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of information, said he.  However, our impulses are too strong for our judgement sometimes. I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while.

    Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen better days afore they came to Blackmoor.  But I took no notice o't, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one. I've got a wold silver spoon, and a wold graven seal at home, too; but, Lord, what's a spoon and seal? ... And to think that I and these noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time.  'Twas said that my gr't-granfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk of where he came from.... And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we d'Urbervilles live?

    You don't live anywhere. You are extinct--as a county family.

    That's bad.

    Yes--what the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male line--that is, gone down--gone under.

    Then where do we lie?

    At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults, with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.

    And where be our family mansions and estates?

    You haven't any.

    Oh?  No lands neither?

    None; though you once had 'em in abundance, as I said, for you family consisted of numerous branches. In this county there was a seat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another in Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.

    And shall we ever come into our own again?

    Ah--that I can't tell!

    And what had I better do about it, sir? asked Durbeyfield, after a pause.

    Oh--nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of 'how are the mighty fallen.'  It is a fact of some interest to the local historian and genealogist, nothing more.  There are several families among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre. Good night.

    But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength o't, Pa'son Tringham?  There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Drop--though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's.

    No, thank you--not this evening, Durbeyfield.  You've had enough already.  Concluding thus the parson rode on his way, with doubts as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.

    When he was gone Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a profound reverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside, depositing his basket before him. In a few minutes a youth appeared in the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been pursued by Durbeyfield.  The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand, and the lad quickened his pace and came near.

    Boy, take up that basket! I want 'ee to go on an errand for me.

    The lath-like stripling frowned. Who be you, then, John Durbeyfield, to order me about and call me 'boy?' You know my name as well as I know yours!

    Do you, do you?  That's the secret--that's the secret! Now obey my orders, and take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi'.... Well, Fred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a noble race--it has been just found out by me this present afternoon, P.M. And as he made the announcement, Durbeyfield, declining from his sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank among the daisies.

    The lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from crown to toe.

    Sir John d'Urberville--that's who I am, continued the prostrate man.  That is if knights were baronets--which they be. Tis recorded in history all about me.  Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?"

    Ees, I've been there to Greenhill Fair.

    Well, under the church of that city there lie--

    'Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twaddn' when I was there--'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o'place.

    Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the question before us. Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestors--hundreds of 'em--in coats of mail and jewels, in gr't lead coffins weighing tons and tons. There's not a man in the county o' South-Wessex that's got grander and nobler skillentons in his family than I.

    Oh?

    Now take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when you've come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell 'em to send a horse and carriage to me immed'ately, to carry me hwome.  And in the bottom o' the carriage they be to put a noggin o' rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up to my account.  And when you've done that goo on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she needn't finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as I've news to tell her.

    As the lad stood in a dubious attitude, Durbeyfield put his hand in his pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that he possessed.

    Here's for your labour, lad.

    This made a difference in the young man's estimate of the position.

    Yes, Sir John. Thank 'ee.  Anything else I can do for 'ee, Sir John?

    Tell 'em at hwome that I should like for supper,--well, lamb's fry if they can get it; and if they can't, black-pot; and if they can't get that, well chitterlings will do.

    Yes, Sir John.

    The boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass band were heard from the direction of the village.

    What's that? said Durbeyfield.  Not on account o' I?

    'Tis the women's club-walking, Sir John.  Why, your da'ter is one o' the members.

    To be sure--I'd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things! Well, vamp on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club.

    The lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and daisies in the evening sun. Not a soul passed that way for a long while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds audible within the rim of blue hills.

    II

     The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, and engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London.

    It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it--except perhaps during the droughts of summer.  An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways.

    This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through.  Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass.  The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine.  Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major.  Such is the Vale of Blackmoor.

    The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest.  The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine.  In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded.  Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures.

    The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain.  Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised form.  The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or club-walking, as it was there called.

    It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony.  Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the members being solely women.  In men's clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) or this their glory and consummation.  The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia. It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still.

    The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms--days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average.  Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style.

    In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care.

    There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation.  In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she should say, I have no pleasure in them, than of her juvenile comrades. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm.

    The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band,and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown. Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all.  A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes.

    And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will. They they were all cheerful, and many of them merry.

    They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said--

    The Load-a-Lord!  Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding hwome in a carriage!

    A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl--not handsomer than some others, possibly--but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape.  She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment.  As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to the The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbows.  This was the cheerful servant of that establishment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times. Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative--

    I've-got-a-gr't-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and knighted-forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there!

    The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess-- in whom a slow heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself foolish in their eyes.

    He's tired, that's all, she said hastily, and he has got a lift home, because our own horse has to rest today.

    Bless thy simplicity, Tess, said her companions. He's got his market-nitch. Haw-haw!

    Look here; I won't walk another inch with you, if you say any jokes about him! Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over her face and neck.  In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance drooped to the ground.  Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prevailed.  Tess's pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green.  By the time the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual.

    Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience.  The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word.

    Phases of her childhood lurked in her aspect still. As she walked along today, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then.

    Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this.  A small minority, mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and grow momentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they would ever see her again: but to almost everybody she was a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more.

    Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and the club having entered the allotted space, dancing began.  As there were no men in the company the girls danced at first with each other, but when the hour for the close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of the village, together with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner.

    Among these on-lookers were three young men of a superior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in their hands. Their general likeness to each other, and their consecutive ages, would almost have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers.  The eldest wore the white tie, high waistcoat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate; the second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove.  That he was a desultory tentative student of something and everything might only have been predicted of him.

    These three brethren told casual acquaintance that they were spending their Whitsun holidays in a walking tour through the Vale of Blackmoor, their course being southwesterly from the town of Shaston on the north-east. dh They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the meaning of the dance and the white-frocked maids.  The two elder of the brothers were plainly not intending to linger more than a moment, but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on.  He unstrapped his knapsack, put it, with his stick, on the hedge-bank, and opened the gate.

    What are you going to do, Angel? asked the eldest.

    I am inclined to go and have a fling with them.  Why not all of us--just for a minute or two--it will not detain us long?

    No--no; nonsense! said the first.  Dancing in public with a troop of country hoydens--suppose we should be seen!  Come along, or it will be dark before we get to Stourcastle, and there's no place we can sleep at nearer than that; besides, we must get through another chapter of A COUNTERBLAST TO AGNOSTICISM before we turn in, now I have taken the trouble to bring the book.

    All right--I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes; don't stop; I give my word that I will, Felix.

    The two elder reluctantly left him and walked on, taking their brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the youngest entered the field.

    This is a thousand pities, he said gallantly, to two or three of the girls nearest him, as soon as there was a pause in the dance. Where are your partners, my dears?

    They've not left off work yet, answered one of the boldest. They'll be here by and by.  Till then, will you be one, sir?

    Certainly.  But what's one among so many!

    Better than none. 'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all.  Now, pick and choose.

    'Ssh--don't be so for'ard! said a shyer girl.

    The young man, thus invited, clanged them over, and attempted some discrimination; but, as the group were all so new to him, he could not very well exercise it. He took almost the first that came to hand, which was not the speaker, as she had expected; nor did it happen to be Tess Durbeyfield.  Pedigree, ancestral skeletons, monumental record, the d'Urberville lineaments, did not help Tess in her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attracting to her a dancing-partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry. So much for Norman blood unaided by Victorian lucre.

    The name of the eclipsing girl, whatever it was, has not been handed down; but she was envied by all as the first who enjoyed the luxury of a masculine partner that evening.  Yet such was the force of example that the village young men, who had not hastened to enter the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly, and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youth to a marked extent, till at length the plainest woman in the club was no longer compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure.

    The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must leave--he had been forgetting himself-- he had to join his companions.  As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her.  He, too, was sorry then that, owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in his mind he left the pasture.

    On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise.  He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them.  They seemed to have quite forgotten him already.

    All of them, except, perhaps, one.  This white shape stood apart by the hedge alone.  From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced.  Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name.  She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly.

    However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind.

    III

     As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her consideration.  She had no spirit to dance again for a long time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and answered her would-be partner in the affirmative.

    She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining when she saw the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agreeable distresses of those girls who had been wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind.  The struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked them.

    She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at which the parental cottage lay.

    While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of The Spotted Cow--

       I saw her lie do'--own in yon'--der green gro'--ove;

       Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!'

    The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a moment, and an explanation at highest vocal pitch would take the place of the melody.

    God bless thy diment eyes!  And thy waxen cheeks!  And thy cherry mouth!  And thy Cubit's thighs!  And every bit o' thy blessed body!

    After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence, and the Spotted Cow proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess opened the door, and paused upon the mat within it surveying the scene.

    The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle, what a step!  Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors.

    There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always, lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her mother's own hands.

    As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub, the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her youngest child. The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor, that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after a long day's seething in the suds.

    Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while.  Even now, when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate lover of tune.  No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week.

    There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of the freshness, and even the prettiness, of her youth; rendering it probable that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical.

    I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother, said the daughter gently. Or I'll take off my best frock and help you wring up?  I thought you had finished long ago.

    Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the housework to her single-handed efforts for so long; indeed, Joan seldom upbraided her thereon at any time, feeling but slightly the lack of Tess's assistance whilst her instinctive plan for relieving herself of her labours lay in postponing them.  Tonight, however, she was even in a blither mood than usual.  There was a dreaminess, a pre-occupation, an exaltation, in the maternal look which the girl could not understand.

    Well, I'm glad you've come, her mother said, as soon as the last note had passed out of her, I want to go and fetch your father; but what's more'n that, I want to tell 'ee what have happened. Y'll be fess enough, my poppet, when th'st know!  (Mrs Durbeyfield habitually spoke the dialect; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth Standard in the National School under a London-trained mistress, spoke two languages: the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary English abroad and to persons of quality.)

    Since I've been away? Tess asked.

    Ay!

    Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself in thik carriage this afternoon? Why did 'er?  I felt inclined to sink into the ground with shame!

    That wer all a part of the larry! We've been found to be the greatest gentlefolk in the whole county--reaching all back long before Oliver Grumble's time--to the days of the Pagan Turks--with monuments, and vaults, and crests, and scutcheons, and the Lord knows what all.  In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights o' the Royal Oak, our real name being d'Urberville! ... Don't that make your bosom plim? 'Twas on this account that your father rode home in the vlee; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed."

    I'm glad of that.  Will it do us any good, mother?

    O yes!  'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't. No doubt a mampus of volk of our own rank will be down here in their carriages as soon as 'tis known.  Your father learnt it on his way hwome from Shaston, and he has been telling me the whole pedigree of the matter.

    Where is father now? asked Tess suddenly.

    Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer: He called to see the doctor today in Shaston. It is not consumption at all, it seems.  It is fat round his heart, 'a says.  There, it is like this. Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other forefinger as a pointer, 'At the present moment,' he says to your father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round there; this space is still open,' 'a says. 'As soon as it do meet, so,'--Mrs Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle complete--'off you will go like a shadder, Mr Durbeyfield,' 'a says.  'You mid last ten years; you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.'

    Tess looked alarmed.  Her father possibly to go behind the eternal cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness!

    But where IS father? she asked again.

    Her mother put on a deprecating look.  Now don't you be bursting out angry!  The poor man--he felt so rafted after his uplifting by the pa'son's news--that he went up to Rolliver's half an hour ago. He do want to get up his strength for his journey tomorrow with that load of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He'll have to start shortly after twelve tonight, as the distance is so long.

    Get up his strength! said Tess impetuously, the tears welling to her eyes.  O my God!  Go to a public-house to get up his strength! And you as well agreed as he, mother!

    Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart a cowed look to the furniture, and candle, and children playing about, and to her mother's face.

    No, said the latter touchily, I be not agreed. I have been waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go fetch him.

    I'll go.

    O no, Tess.  You see, it would be no use.

    Tess did not expostulate.  She knew what her mother's objection meant.  Mrs Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging slily upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its necessity.

    And take the COMPLEAT FORTUNE-TELLER to the outhouse, Joan continued, rapidly wiping her hands, and donning the garments.

    The COMPLEAT FORTUNE-TELLER was an old thick volume, which lay on a table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached the edge of the type. Tess took it up, and her mother started.

    This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of Mrs Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments in the muck and muddle of rearing children.  To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for an hour or two by his side and dismiss all thought and care of the children during the interval, made her happy.  A sort of halo, an occidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and other realities took on themselves a meta-physical impalpability, sinking to mere mental phenomena for serene contemplation, and no longer stood as pressing concretions which chafed body and soul. The youngsters, not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of daily life were not without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there.  She felt a little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now wedded husband in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as lover.

    Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the outhouse with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the thatch.  A curious fetichistic fear of this grimy volume on the part of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted.  Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of superstitions, folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter, with her trained National teachings and Standard knowledge under an infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as ordinarily understood.  When they were together the Jacobean and the Victorian ages were juxtaposed.

    Returning along the garden path Tess mused on what the mother could have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day.  She guessed the recent ancestral discovery to bear upon it, but did not divine that it solely concerned herself.  Dismissing this, however, she busied herself with sprinkling the linen dried during the daytime, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, call 'Liza-Lu, the youngest ones being put to bed.  There was an interval of four years and more between Tess and the next of the family, the two who had filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors. Next in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty; then a boy of three, and then the baby, who had just completed his first year.

    All these young souls were passengers in the Durbeyfield ship--entirely dependent on the judgement of the two Durbeyfield adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even their existence. If the heads of the Durbeyfield household chose to sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation, death, thither were these half-dozen little captives under hatches compelled to sail with them--six helpless creatures, who had never been asked if they wished for life on any terms, much less if they wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of the shiftless house of Durbeyfield.  Some people would like to know whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority for speaking of Nature's holy plan.

    It grew later, and neither father nor mother reappeared.  Tess looked out of the door, and took a mental journey through Marlott. The village was shutting its eyes. Candles and lamps were being put out everywhere: she could inwardly behold the extinguisher and the extended hand.

    Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch. Tess began to perceive that a man in indifferent health, who proposed to start on a journey before one in the morning, ought not to be at an inn at this late hour celebrating his ancient blood.

    Abraham, she said to her little brother, do you put on your hat--you bain't afraid?--and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has gone wi' father and mother.

    The boy jumped promptly from his seat, and opened the door, and the night swallowed him up.  Half an hour passed yet again; neither man, woman, nor child returned.  Abraham, like his parents, seemed to have been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn.

    I must go myself, she said.

    'Liza-Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on her way up the dark and crooked lane or street not made for hasty progress; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when one-handed clocks sufficiently subdivided the day.

    IV

     Rolliver's inn, the single alehouse at this end of the long and broken village, could only boast of an off-licence; hence, as nobody could legally drink on the premises, the amount of overt accommodation for consumers was strictly limited to a little board about six inches wide and two yards long, fixed to the garden palings by pieces of wire, so as to form a ledge.  On this board thirsty strangers deposited their cups as they stood in the road and drank, and threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern of Polynesia, and wished they could have a restful seat inside.

    Thus the strangers.  But there were also local customers who felt the same wish; and where there's a will there's a way.

    In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was thickly curtained with a great woollen shawl lately discarded by the landlady Mrs Rolliver, were gathered on this evening nearly a dozen persons, all seeking beatitude; all old inhabitants of the nearer end of Marlott, and frequenters of this retreat. Not only did the distance to the The Pure Drop, the fully-licensed tavern at the further part of the dispersed village, render its accommodation practically unavailable for dwellers at this end; but the far more serious question, the quality of the liquor, confirmed the prevalent opinion that it was better to drink with Rolliver in a corner of the housetop than with the other landlord in a wide house.

    A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room afforded sitting-space for several persons gathered round three of its sides; a couple more men had elevated themselves on a chest of drawers; another rested on the oak-carved cwoffer; two on the wash-stand; another on the stool; and thus all were, somehow, seated at their ease.  The stage of mental comfort to which they had arrived at this hour was one wherein their souls expanded beyond their skins, and spread their personalities warmly through the room. In this process the chamber and its furniture grew more and more dignified and luxurious; the shawl hanging at the window took upon itself the richness of tapestry; the brass handles of the chest of drawers were as golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to have some kinship with the magnificent pillars of Solomon's temple.

    Mrs Durbeyfield, having quickly

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