by Thomas Hardy
“Oh no. The original d‘Urbervilles decayed and disappeared sixty or eighty years ago—at least, I believe so. This seems to be a new family which has taken the name; for the credit of the former knightly line I hope they are spurious, I’m sure. But it is odd to hear you express interest in old families. I thought you set less store by them even than I.”
“You misapprehend me, Father; you often do,” said Angel with a little impatience. “Politically I am sceptical as to the virtue of their being old. Some of the wise even among themselves ‘exclaim against their own succession,’ as Hamlet puts it; but lyrically, dramatically, and even historically, I am tenderly attached to them.”
This distinction, though by no means a subtle one, was yet too subtle for Mr. Clare the elder, and he went on with the story he had been about to relate; which was that after the death of the senior so-called d‘Urberville, the young man developed the most culpable passions, though he had a blind mother, whose condition should have made him know better. A knowledge of his career having come to the ears of Mr. Clare, when he was in that part of the country preaching missionary sermons, he boldly took occasion to speak to the delinquent on his spiritual state. Though he was a stranger occupying another’s pulpit, he had felt this to be his duty, and took for his text the words from St. Luke: “Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee!” The young man much resented this directness of attack, and in the war of words which followed when they met he did not scruple publicly to insult Mr. Clare, without respect for his grey hairs.
Angel flushed with distress.
“Dear Father,” he said sadly, “I wish you would not expose yourself to such gratuitous pain from scoundrels!”
“Pain?” said his father, his rugged face shining in the ardour of self-abnegation. “The only pain to me was pain on his account, poor, foolish young man. Do you suppose his incensed words could give me any pain, or even his blows? ‘Being reviled we bless; being persecuted we suffer it; being defamed we entreat; we are made as the filth of the world, and as the off-scouring of all things unto this day.’Those ancient and noble words to the Corinthians are strictly true at this present hour.”
“Not blows, Father? He did not proceed to blows?”
“No, he did not. Though I have borne blows from men in a mad state of intoxication.”
“No!”
“A dozen times, my boy. What then? I have saved them from the guilt of murdering their own flesh and blood thereby, and they have lived to thank me and praise God.”
“May this young man do the same!” said Angel fervently. “But I fear otherwise, from what you say.”
“We’ll hope, nevertheless,” said Mr. Clare. “And I continue to pray for him, though on this side of the grave we shall probably never meet again. But after all, one of those poor words of mine may spring up in his heart as a good seed some day.”
Now, as always, Clare’s father was sanguine as a child; and though the younger could not accept his parent’s narrow dogma, he revered his practice and recognized the hero under the pietist. Perhaps he revered his father’s practice even more now than ever, seeing that in the question of making Tessy his wife his father had not once thought of inquiring whether she were well provided or penniless. The same unworldliness was what had necessitated Angel’s getting a living as a farmer, and would probably keep his brothers in a position of poor parsons for the term of their activities; yet Angel admired it none the less. Indeed, despite his own heterodoxy, Angel often felt that he was nearer to his father on the human side than was either of his brethren.
27
AN UPHILL and down-dale ride of twenty-odd miles through a garish mid-day atmosphere brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll a mile or two west of Talbothays, whence he again looked into that green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley of the Var or Froom. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat alluvial soil below, the atmosphere grew heavier; the languid perfume of the summer fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein a vast pool of odour which at this hour seemed to make the animals, the very bees and butterflies, drowsy. Clare was now so familiar with the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names when, a long distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a sense of luxury that he recognized his power of viewing life here from its inner side, in a way that had been quite foreign to him in his student days; and much as he loved his parents, he could not help being aware that to come here, as now, after an experience of home-life, affected him like throwing off splints and bandages; even the one customary curb on the humours of English rural societies being absent in this place, Talbothays having no resident landlord.
Not a human being was out-of-doors at the dairy. The denizens were all enjoying the usual afternoon nap of an hour or so, which the exceedingly early hours kept in summer-time rendered a necessity. At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and bleached by infinite scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled limb of an oak fixed there for that purpose; all of them ready and dry for the evening milking. Angel entered and went through the silent passages of the house to the back quarters, where he listened for a moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house, where some of the men were lying down; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs arose from the still further distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and cabbage plants slept too, their broad, limp surfaces hanging in the sun like half-closed umbrellas.
He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the clock struck three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour; and with the stroke, Clare heard the creaking of the floor-boards above and then the touch of a descending foot on the stairs. It was Tess‘s, who in another moment came down before his eyes.
She had not heard him enter and hardly realized his presence there. She was yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it had been a snake’s. She had stretched one arm so high above her coiled-up cable of hair that he could see its satin delicacy above the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids hung heavy over their pupils. The brim-fullness of her nature breathed from her. It was a moment when a woman’s soul is more incarnate than at any other time, when the most spiritual beauty bespeaks itself flesh, and sex takes the outside place in the presentation.
Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness, before the remainder of her face was well awake. With an oddly compounded look of gladness, shyness, and surprise, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Clare! How you frightened me. I—”
There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed relations which his declaration had introduced, but the full sense of the matter rose up in her face when she encountered Clare’s tender look as he stepped forward to the bottom stair.
“Dear, darling Tessy!” he whispered, putting his arm round her and his face to her flushed cheek. “Don‘t, for heaven’s sake, ’mister’ me any more. I have hastened back so soon because of you!”
Tess’s excitable heart beat against his by way of reply; and there they stood upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in by the window upon his back as he held her tightly to his breast, upon her inclining face, upon the blue veins of her temple, upon her naked arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her hair. Having been lying down in her clothes, she was warm as a sunned cat. At first she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon lifted, and his plumbed the deepness of the ever-varying pupils, with their radiating fibrils of blue, and black, and grey, and violet, while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking might have regarded Adam.
“I’ve got to go a-skimming,” she pleaded, “and I have on‘y old Deb to help me to-day. Mrs. Crick is gone to market with Mr. Crick, and Retty is not well, and the others are gone out somewhere and won’t be home till milking.”
As they retreated to the milk-house Deborah Fyander appeared on the stairs.
“I have come back, Deborah,” said Mr. Clare, upwards. “So I can help Tess with th
e skimming; and as you are very tired, I am sure, you needn’t come down till milking-time.”
Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thoroughly skimmed that afternoon. Tess was in a dream wherein familiar objects appeared as having light and shade and position, but no particular outline. Every time she held the skimmer under the pump to cool it for the work, her hand trembled, the ardour of his affection being so palpable that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burning a sun.
Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running her forefinger round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned it in nature’s way; for the unconstrained manners of Talbothays Dairy came convenient now.
“I may as well say it now as later, dearest,” he resumed gently. “I wish to ask you something of a very practical nature, which I have been thinking of ever since that day last week in the meads. I shall soon want to marry, and, being a farmer, you see I shall require for my wife a woman who knows all about the management of farms. Will you be that woman, Tessy?”
He put it in that way that she might not think he had yielded to an impulse of which his head would disapprove.
She turned quite careworn. She had bowed to the inevitable result of proximity, the necessity of loving him; but she had not calculated upon this sudden corollary, which, indeed, Clare had put before her without quite meaning himself to do it so soon. With pain that was like the bitterness of dissolution, she murmured the words of her indispensable and sworn answer as an honourable woman.
“Oh, Mr. Clare—I cannot be your wife—I cannot be!”
The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess’s very heart, and she bowed her face in her grief.
“But, Tess!” he said, amazed at her reply and holding her still more greedily close. “Do you say no? Surely you love me?”
“Oh yes, yes! And I would rather be yours than anybody’s in the world,” returned the sweet and honest voice of the distressed girl. “But I cannot marry you!”
“Tess,” he said, holding her at arm’s length, “you are engaged to marry some one else!”
“No, no!”
“Then why do you refuse me?”
“I don’t want to marry! I have not thought of doing it. I cannot! I only want to love you.”
“But why?”
Driven to subterfuge, she stammered, “Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn’t like you to marry such as me. She will want you to marry a lady.”
“Nonsense—I have spoken to them both. That was partly why I went home.”
“I feel I cannot—never, never!” she echoed.
“Is it too sudden to be asked thus, my pretty?”
“Yes—I did not expect it.”
“If you will let it pass, please, Tessy, I will give you time,” he said. “It was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once. I’ll not allude to it again for a while.”
She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and began anew. But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact under-surface of the cream with the delicate dexterity required, try as she might; sometimes she was cutting down into the milk, sometimes in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled with two blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend and dear advocate, she could never explain.
“I can’t skim—I can‘t!” she said, turning away from him.
Not to agitate and hinder her longer, the considerate Clare began talking in a more general way: “You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple-mannered people alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few remaining Evangelical school. Tessy, are you an Evangelical?”
“I don’t know.”
“You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very High, they tell me.”
Tess’s ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard every week, seemed to be rather more vague than Clare‘s, who had never heard him at all.
“I wish I could fix my mind on what I hear there more firmly than I do,” she remarked as a safe generality. “It is often a great sorrow to me.”
She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his father could not object to her on religious grounds, even though she did not know whether her principles were High, Low, or Broad. He himself knew that, in reality, the confused beliefs which she held, apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian as to phraseology and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise, to disturb them was his last desire.
Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical, but he gladly conformed to it now.
He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father’s mode of life, of his zeal for his principles; she grew serener, and the undulations disappeared from her skimming; as she finished one lead after another he followed her and drew her plugs for letting down the milk.
“I fancied you looked a little downcast when you came in,” she ventured to observe, anxious to keep away from the subject of herself.
“Yes—well, my father has been talking a good deal to me of his troubles and difficulties, and the subject always tends to depress me. He is so zealous that he gets many snubs and buffet ings from people of a different way of thinking from himself, and I don’t like to hear of such humiliations to a man of his age, the more particularly as I don’t think earnestness does any good when carried so far. He has been telling me of a very unpleasant scene in which he took part quite recently. He went as the deputy of some missionary society to preach in the neighbourhood of Trantridge, a place forty miles from here, and made it his business to expostulate with a lax young cynic he met with somewhere about there—son of some landowner up that way—and who has a mother afflicted with blindness. My father addressed himself to the gentleman point-blank, and there was quite a disturbance. It was very foolish of my father, I must say, to intrude his conversation upon a stranger when the probabilities were so obvious that it would be useless. But whatever he thinks to be his duty, that he’ll do, in season or out of season; and, of course, he makes many enemies, not only among the absolutely vicious but among the easy-going, who hate being bothered. He says he glories in what happened, and that good may be done indirectly; but I wish he would not so wear himself out now he is getting old, and would leave such pigs to their wallowing.”
Tess’s look had grown hard and worn, and her ripe mouth tragical; but she no longer showed any tremulousness. Clare’s revived thoughts of his father prevented his noticing her particularly; and so they went on down the white row of liquid rectangles till they had finished and drained them off, when the other maids returned and took their pails, and Deb came to scald out the leads for the new milk. As Tess withdrew to go afield to the cows he said to her softly, “And my question, Tessy?”
“Oh no—no!” replied she with grave hopelessness, as one who had heard anew the turmoil of her own past in the allusion to Alec d‘Urberville. “It can’t be!”
She went out towards the mead, joining the other milkmaids with a bound, as if trying to make the open air drive away her sad constraint. All the girls drew onward to the spot where the cows were grazing in the farther mead, the bevy advancing with the bold grace of wild animals—the reckless, unchastened motion of women accustomed to unlimited space—in which they abandoned themselves to the air as a swimmer to the wave. It seemed natural enough to him now that Tess was again in sight to choose a mate from unconstrained Nature and not from the abodes of Art.
28
HER REFUSAL, though unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare. His experience of women was great enough for him to be aware that the negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the affirmative; and it was little enough for him not to know that in the manner of the present nega
tive there lay a great exception to the dallyings of coyness. That she had already permitted him to make love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully trowing that in the fields and pastures to “sigh gratis” is by no means deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking, anxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl’s craving for an establishment paralyses her healthy thought of a passion as an end.
“Tess, why did you say ‘no’ in such a positive way?” he asked her in the course of a few days.
She started.
“Don’t ask me. I told you why—partly. I am not good enough—not worthy enough.”
“How? Not fine lady enough?”
“Yes—something like that,” murmured she. “Your friends would scorn me.”
“Indeed, you mistake them—my father and mother. As for my brothers, I don’t care—” He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her from slipping away. “Now—you did not mean it, sweet? I am sure you did not! You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play, or do anything. I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know—to hear from your own warm lips—that you will some day be mine—any time you may choose; but some day?”
She could only shake her head and look away from him.
Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as if they had been hieroglyphics. The denial seemed real.
“Then I ought not to hold you in this way—ought I? I have no right to you—no right to seek out where you are or to walk with you! Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man?”
“How can you ask?” she said with continued self-suppression.
“I almost know that you do not. But, then, why do you repulse me?”
“I don’t repulse you. I like you to—tell me you love me, and you may always tell me so as you go about with me—and never offend me.”
