by Thomas Hardy
She suddenly stopped and murmured, “But perhaps I don’t quite know the Lord as yet.”
And probably the half-unconscious rhapsody was a Fetishistic utterance in a Monotheistic setting; women whose chief companions are the forms and forces of outdoor Nature retain in their souls far more of the Pagan fantasy of their remote forefathers than of the systematized Religion taught their race at a later date. However, Tess found at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old Benedicite that she had lisped from infancy, and it was enough. Such high contentment with such a slight initial performance as that of having started towards a means of independent living was a part of the Durbeyfield temperament. Tess really wished to walk uprightly, while her father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in being content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no mind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as could alone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the once-powerful d‘Urbervilles were now.
There was, it might be said, the energy of her mother’s unexpended family, as well as the natural energy of Tess’s years, rekindled after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let the truth be told—women do as a rule live through such humiliations, and regain their spirits, and again look about them with an interested eye. While there’s life there’s hope is a conviction not so entirely unknown to the “betrayed” as some amiable theorists would have us believe.
Tess Durbeyfield, then, in good heart and full of zest for life, descended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her pilgrimage.
The marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival vales now showed itself. The secret of Blackmoor was best discovered from the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was necessary to descend into its midst. When Tess had accomplished this feat, she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which stretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach.
The river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought in particles to the vale all this horizontal land, and now, exhausted, aged, and attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former spoils.
Not quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table of indefinite length and of no more consequence to the surroundings than that fly. The sole effect of her presence upon the placid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which, after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck erect, looking at her.
Suddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and repeated call: “Waow! Waow! Waow!”
From the furthest east to the furthest west the cries spread as if by contagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog. It was not the expression of the valley’s consciousness that beautiful Tess had arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time—half-past four o‘clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows.
The red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically waiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the background, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they walked. Tess followed slowly in their rear and entered the barton by the open gate through which they had entered before her. Long thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the posts were ranged the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switch moved pendulumwise; while the sun, lowering itself behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon the wall. Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble facades long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the pharaohs.
They were the less restful cows that were stalled. Those that would stand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now—all prime milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always within it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs on their horns glittered with something of military display. Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a Gipsy’s crock; and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell in drops to the ground.
17
THE DAIRYMAIDS and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the maids walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep their shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each girl sat down on her three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow, and looked musingly along the animal’s flank at Tess as she approached. The male milkers, with hat-brims turned down, resting flat on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not observe her.
One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man—whose long white “pinner” was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of the others and whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect—the master-dairyman, of whom she was in quest, his double character as a working milker and butter-maker here during six days, and on the seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church, being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme:Dairyman Dick
All the week—
On Sundays Mister Richard Crick.
Seeing Tess standing at gaze, he went across to her.
The majority of dairymen have a cross manner at milking-time, but it happened that Mr. Crick was glad to get a new hand—for the days were busy ones now—and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother and the rest of the family (though this as a matter of form merely, for in reality he had not been aware of Mrs. Durbeyfield’s existence till apprised of the fact by a brief business-letter about Tess).
“Oh—aye, as a lad I knowed your part o’ the country very well,” he said terminatively. “Though I’ve never been there since. And a aged woman of ninety that used to live nigh here, but is dead and gone long ago, told me that a family of some such name as yours in Blackmoor Vale came originally from these parts, and that ‘twere a old ancient race that had all but perished off the earth—though the new generations didn’t know it. But, Lord, I took no notice of the old woman’s ramblings, not I.”
“Oh no—it is nothing,” said Tess.
Then the talk was of business only.
“You can milk ‘em clean, my maidy? I don’t want my cows going azew at this time o’ year.”
She reassured him on that point, and he surveyed her up and down. She had been staying indoors a good deal, and her complexion had grown delicate.
“Quite sure you can stand it? ‘Tis comfortable enough here for rough folk, but we don’t live in a cowcumber frame.”
She declared that she could stand it, and her zest and willingness seemed to win him over.
“Well, I suppose you’ll want a dish o’ tay or victuals of some sort, hey? Not yet? Well, do as ye like about it. But faith, if ‘twas I, I should be as dry as a kex wi’ travelling so far.”
“I’ll begin milking now, to get my hand in,” said Tess.
She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment, to the surprise—indeed, slight contempt—of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage.
“Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so,” he said indifferently while one held up the pail that she sipped from. “‘Tis what I hain’t touched for years—not I. Rot the
stuff; it would lie in my innerds like lead. You can try your hand upon she,” he pursued, nodding to the nearest cow. “Not but what she do milk rather hard. We’ve hard ones and we’ve easy ones, like other folks. However, you’ll find out that soon enough.”
When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation for her future. The conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she was able to look about her.
The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier natures. It was a large dairy. There were nearly a hundred milchers under Crick’s management, all told; and of the herd, the master-dairyman milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to their treatment, lest from indifference they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in course of time the cows would “go azew”—that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there came decline and ultimately cessation of supply.
After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the milk-jets into the numerous pails except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beasts, requesting her to turn round or stand still. The only movements were those of the milkers’ hands up and down and the swing of the cows’ tails. Thus they all worked on, encompassed by the vast, flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley—a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed now.
“To my thinking,” said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in one hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard yielder in his vicinity, “to my thinking, the cows don’t gie down their milk today as usual. Upon my life, if Winker do begin keeping back like this, she’ll not be worth going under by midsummer.”
“ ‘Tis because there’s a new hand come among us,” said Jonathan Kail. “I’ve noticed such things afore.”
“To be sure. It may be so. I didn’t think o’t.”
“I’ve been told that it goes up into their horns at such times,” said a dairymaid.
“Well, as to going up into their horns,” replied Dairyman Crick dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical possibilities, “I couldn’t say; I certainly could not. But as nott cows will keep it back as well as the homed ones, I don’t quite agree to it. Do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan? Why do nott cows give less milk in a year than horned?”
“I don‘t!” interposed the milkmaid. “Why do they?”
“Because there bain’t so many of ‘em,” said the dairyman. “Howsomever, these gam’sters do certainly keep back their milk to-day. Folks, we must lift up a stave or two—that’s the only cure for’t.”
Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement to the cows when they showed signs of withholding their usual yield; and the band of milkers at this request burst into melody—in purely business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity; the result, according to their own belief, being a decided improvement during the song’s continuance. When they had gone through fourteen or fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a murderer who was afraid to go to bed in the dark because he saw certain brimstone flames around him, one of the male milkers said, “I wish singing on the stoop didn’t use up so much of a man’s wind! You should get your harp, sir; not but what a fiddle is best.”
Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the words were addressed to the dairyman, but she was wrong. A reply in the shape of “Why?” came as it were out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had been spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto perceived.
“Oh yes; there’s nothing like a fiddle,” said the dairyman. “Though I do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows—at least that’s my experience. Once there was a old aged man over at Mellstock—William Dewy by name—one of the family that used to do a good deal of business as tranters over there—Jonathan, do ye mind?—I knowed the man by sight as well as I know my own brother, in a manner of speaking. Well, this man was a coming home along from a wedding, where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and for shortness’ sake he took a cut across Forty-acres, a field lying that way, where a bull was out to grass. The bull seed William and took after him, horns aground, begad; and though William runned his best and hadn’t much drink in him (considering ‘twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he’d never reach the fence and get over in time to save himself. Well, as a last thought, he pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, turning to the bull and backing towards the corner. The bull softened down and stood still, looking hard at William Dewy, who fiddled on and on, till a sort of a smile stole over the bull’s face. But no sooner did William stop his playing and turn to get over hedge than the bull would stop his smiling and lower his horns towards the seat of William’s breeches. Well, William had to turn about and play on, willy-nilly; and ’twas only three o‘clock in the world, and ’a knowed that nobody would come that way for hours, and he so leery and tired that ‘a didn’t know what to do. When he had scraped till about four o’clock, he felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and he said to himself, ‘There’s only this last tune between me and eternal welfare! Heaven save me, or I’m a done man.’ Well, then he called to mind how he’d seen the cattle kneel o’ Christmas eves in the dead o‘night. It was not Christmas Eve then, but it came into his head to play a trick upon the bull. So he broke into the ’Tivity Hymn, just as at Christmas carol-singing, when, lo and behold, down went the bull on his bended knees, in his ignorance, just as if ‘twere the true ’Tivity night and hour. As soon as his horned friend were down William turned, clinked off like a long-dog, and jumped safe over hedge before the praying bull had got on his feet again to take after him. William used to say that he’d seen a man look a fool a good many times, but never such a fool as that bull looked when he found his pious feelings had been played upon, and ‘twas not Christmas Eve.... Yes, William Dewy, that was the man’s name; and I can tell you to a foot where’s he a-lying in Mellstock Churchyard at this very moment—just between the second yew-tree and the north aisle.”
“It’s a curious story; it carries us back to mediæval times, when faith was a living thing!”
The remark, singular for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice behind the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, no notice was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply scepticism as to his tale.
“Well, ‘tis quite true, sir, whether or no. I knowed the man well.”
“Oh yes; I have no doubt of it,” said the person behind the dun cow.
Tess’s attention was thus attracted to the dairyman’s interlocutor, of whom she could see but the merest patch, owing to his burying his head so persistently in the flank of the milcher. She could not understand why he should be addressed as “sir” even by the dairyman himself. But no explanation was discernible; he remained under the cow long enough to have milked three, uttering a private ejaculation now and then, as if he could not get on.
“Take it gentle, sir; take it gentle,” said the dairyman. “‘Tis knack, not strength, that does it.”
“So I find,” said the other, standing up at last and stretching his arms. “I think I have finished her, however, though she made my fingers ache.”
Tess could then see him at full length. He wore the ordinary white pinner and leather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and
his boots were clogged with the mulch of the yard; but this was all his local livery. Beneath it was something educated, reserved, subtle, sad, differing.
But the details of his aspect were temporarily thrust aside by the discovery that he was one whom she had seen before. Such vicissitudes had Tess passed through since that time that for a moment she could not remember where she had met him; and then it flashed upon her that he was the pedestrian who had joined in the club-dance at Marlott—the passing stranger who had come she knew not whence, had danced with others but not with her, had slightingly left her, and gone on his way with his friends.
The flood of memories brought back by this revival of an incident anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest, recognizing her also, he should by some means discover her story. But it passed away when she found no sign of remembrance in him. She saw by degrees that since their first and only encounter his mobile face had grown more thoughtful and had acquired a young man’s shapely moustache and beard—the latter of the palest straw colour where it began upon his cheeks and deepening to a warm brown farther from its root. Under his linen milking-pinner he wore a dark velveteen jacket, cord breeches and gaiters, and a starched white shirt. Without the milking-gear nobody could have guessed what he was. He might with equal probability have been an eccentric landowner or a gentlemanly ploughman. That he was but a novice at dairy-work she had realized in a moment, from the time he had spent upon the milking of one cow.
Meanwhile many of the milkmaids had said to one another of the new-comer, “How pretty she is!” with something of real generosity and admiration, though with a half-hope that the auditors would qualify the assertion—which, strictly speaking, they might have done, prettiness being an inexact definition of what struck the eye in Tess. When the milking was finished for the evening, they straggled indoors, where Mrs. Crick, the dairyman’s wife—who was too respectable to go out milking herself and wore a hot stuff gown in warm weather because the dairymaids wore prints—was giving an eye to the leads and things.
