Tess of the D'Urbervilles

by Thomas Hardy

  Before her in a slight depression were the remains of a village. She had, in fact, reached Flintcomb-Ash, the place of Marian’s sojourn. There seemed to be no help for it; hither she was doomed to come. The stubborn soil around her showed plainly enough that the kind of labour in demand here was of the roughest kind; but it was time to rest from searching, and she resolved to stay, particularly as it began to rain. At the entrance to the village was a cottage whose gable jutted into the road, and before applying for a lodging, she stood under its shelter and watched the evening close in.

  “Who would think I was Mrs. Angel Clare!” she said.

  The wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that immediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of which came through the bricks. She warmed her hands upon them and also put her cheek—red and moist with the drizzle—against their comforting surface. The wall seemed to be the only friend she had. She had so little wish to leave it that she could have stayed there all night.

  Tess could hear the occupants of the cottage—gathered together after their day’s labour—talking to each other within, and the rattle of their supper-plates was also audible. But in the village street she had seen no soul as yet. The solitude was at last broken by the approach of one feminine figure, who, though the evening was cold, wore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer-time. Tess instinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near enough to be distinguishable in the gloom, surely enough it was she. Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly, and decidedly shabbier in attire. At any previous period of her existence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in such conditions; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded readily to Marian’s greeting.

  Marian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved by the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition than at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation.

  “Tess—Mrs. Clare—the dear wife of dear he! And is it really so bad as this, my child? Why is your cwomely face tied up in such a way? Anybody been beating ‘ee? Not he?”

  “No, no, no! I merely did it not to be clipsed or colled, Marian.”

  She pulled off in disgust a bandage which could suggest such wild thoughts.

  “And you’ve got no collar on.” (Tess had been accustomed to wear a little white collar at the dairy.)

  “I know it, Marian.”

  “You’ve lost it travelling!”

  “I’ve not lost it. The truth is, I don’t care anything about my looks, and so I didn’t put it on.”

  “And you don’t wear your wedding-ring?”

  “Yes, I do; but not in public. I wear it round my neck on a ribbon. I don’t wish people to think who I am by marriage or that I am married at all; it would be so awkward while I lead my present life.”

  Marian paused.

  “But you be a gentleman’s wife, and it seems hardly fair that you should live like this!”

  “Oh yes it is, quite fair; though I am very unhappy.”

  “Well, well. He married you—and you can be unhappy!”

  “Wives are unhappy sometimes; from no fault of their husbands—from their own.”

  “You’ve no faults, deary; that I’m sure of. And he’s none. So it must be something outside ye both.”

  “Marian, dear Marian, will you do me a good turn without asking questions? My husband has gone abroad, and somehow I have overrun my allowance, so that I have to fall back upon my old work for a time. Do not call me Mrs. Clare, but Tess, as before. Do they want a hand here?”

  “Oh yes; they’ll take one always because few care to come. ‘Tis a starve-acre place. Corn and swedes are all they grow.

  Though I be here myself, I feel ‘tis a pity for such as you to come.“

  “But you used to be as good a dairywoman as I.”

  “Yes, but I’ve got out o’ that since I took to drink. Lord, that’s the only comfort I’ve got now! If you engage, you’ll be set swede-hacking. That’s what I be doing, but you won’t like it.”

  “Oh—anything! Will you speak for me?”

  “You will do better by speaking for yourself.”

  “Very well. Now, Marian, remember—nothing about him if I get the place. I don’t wish to bring his name down to the dirt.”

  Marian, who was really a trustworthy girl though of coarser grain than Tess, promised anything she asked.

  “This is pay-night,” she said, “and if you were to come with me, you would know at once. I be real sorry that you are not happy; but ‘tis because he’s away, I know. You couldn’t be unhappy if he were here, even if he gie’d ye no money—even if he used you like a drudge.”

  “That’s true; I could not!”

  They walked on together and soon reached the farmhouse, which was almost sublime in its dreariness. There was not a tree within sight; there was not, at this season, a green pasture—nothing but fallow and turnips everywhere, in large fields divided by hedges plashed to unrelieved levels.

  Tess waited outside the door of the farmhouse till the group of work-folk had received their wages, and then Marian introduced her. The farmer himself, it appeared, was not at home, but his wife, who represented him this evening, made no objection to hiring Tess on her agreeing to remain till Old Lady-Day. Female field-labour was seldom offered now, and its cheapness made it profitable for tasks which women could perform as readily as men.

  Having signed the agreement, there was nothing more for Tess to do at present than to get a lodging, and she found one in the house at whose gable-wall she had warmed herself. It was a poor subsistence that she had ensured, but it would afford a shelter for the winter at any rate.

  That night she wrote to inform her parents of her new address in case a letter should arrive at Marlott from her husband. But she did not tell them of the sorriness of her situation—it might have brought reproach upon him.

  43

  THERE WAS NO exaggeration in Marian’s definition of Flintcomb-Ash Farm as a starve-acre place. The single fat thing on the soil was Marian herself, and she was an importation. Of the three classes of village, the village cared for by its lord, the village cared for by itself, and the village uncared for either by itself or by its lord (in other words, the village of a resident squire’s tenantry, the village of free- or copy-holders, and the absentee owner’s village, farmed with the land), this place, Flintcomb-Ash, was the third.

  But Tess set to work. Patience, that blending of moral courage with physical timidity, was now no longer a minor feature in Mrs. Angel Clare; and it sustained her.

  The swede-field in which she and her companion were set hacking was a stretch of a hundred-odd acres in one patch, on the highest ground of the farm, rising above stony lanchets or linchets—the outcrop of siliceous veins in the chalk formation, composed of myriads of loose, white flints in bulbous, cusped, and phallic shapes. The upper half of each turnip had been eaten off by the livestock, and it was the business of the two women to grub up the lower, or earthy, half of the root with a hooked fork called a hacker, that it might be eaten also. Every leaf of the vegetable having already been consumed, the whole field was in colour a desolate drab; it was a complexion without features, as if a face, from chin to brow, should be only an expanse of skin. The sky wore, in another colour, the same likeness; a white vacuity of countenance with the lineaments gone. So these two upper and nether visages confronted each other all day long, the white face looking down on the brown face and the brown face looking up at the white face, without anything standing between them but the two girls crawling over the surface of the former like flies.

  Nobody came near them, and their movements showed a mechanical regularity; their forms standing enshrouded in Hessian “wroppers”—sleeved brown pinafores, tied behind to the bottom, to keep their gowns from blowing about—scant skirts revealing boots that reached high up the ankles, and yellow sheepskin gloves with gauntlets. The pensive character which the curt
ained hood lent to their bent heads would have reminded the observer of some early Italian conception of the two Marys.

  They worked on hour after hour, unconscious of the forlorn aspect they bore in the landscape, not thinking of the justice or injustice of their lot. Even in such a position as theirs it was possible to exist in a dream. In the afternoon the rain came on again, and Marian said that they need not work any more. But if they did not work they would not be paid; so they worked on. It was so high a situation, this field, that the rain had no occasion to fall, but raced along horizontally upon the yelling wind, sticking into them like glass splinters till they were wet through. Tess had not known till now what was really meant by that. There are degrees of dampness, and a very little is called being wet through in common talk. But to stand working slowly in a field and feel the creep of rainwater, first on legs and shoulders, then on hips and head, then at back, front, and sides, and yet to work on till the leaden light diminishes and marks that the sun is down, demands a distinct modicum of stoicism, even of valour.

  Yet they did not feel the wetness so much as might be supposed. They were both young, and they were talking of the time when they lived and loved together at Talbothays Dairy, that happy green tract of land where summer had been liberal in her gifts; in substance to all, emotionally to these. Tess would fain not have conversed with Marian of the man who was legally, if not actually, her husband, but the irresistible fascination of the subject betrayed her into reciprocating Marian’s remarks. And thus, as has been said, though the damp curtains of their bonnets flapped smartly into their faces and their wrappers clung about them to wearisomeness, they lived all this afternoon in memories of green, sunny, romantic Talbothays.

  “You can see a gleam of a hill within a few miles o’ Froom Valley from here when ‘tis fine,” said Marian.

  “Ah! Can you?” said Tess, awake to the new value of this locality.

  So the two forces were at work here as everywhere, the inherent will to enjoy and the circumstantial will against enjoyment. Marian’s will had a method of assisting itself by taking from her pocket as the afternoon wore on a pint bottle corked with white rag, from which she invited Tess to drink. Tess’s unassisted power of dreaming, however, being enough for her sublimation at present, she declined except the merest sip, and then Marian took a pull herself from the spirits.

  “I’ve got used to it,” she said, “and can’t leave it off now. ‘Tis my only comfort—You see I lost him—you didn’t; and you can do without it perhaps.”

  Tess thought her loss as great as Marian‘s, but upheld by the dignity of being Angel’s wife, in the letter at least, she accepted Marian’s differentiation.

  Amid this scene Tess slaved in the morning frosts and in the afternoon rains. When it was not swede-grubbing it was swede-trimming, in which process they sliced off the earth and the fibres with a bill-hook before storing the roots for future use. At this occupation they could shelter themselves by a thatched hurdle if it rained; but if it was frosty even their thick leather gloves could not prevent the frozen masses they handled from biting their fingers. Still Tess hoped. She had a conviction that sooner or later the magnanimity which she persisted in reckoning as a chief ingredient of Clare’s character would lead him to rejoin her.

  Marian, primed to a humorous mood, would discover the queer-shaped flints aforesaid and shriek with laughter, Tess remaining severely obtuse. They often looked across the country to where the Var or Froom was known to stretch, even though they might not be able to see it, and fixing their eyes on the cloaking grey mist, imagined the old times they had spent out there.

  “Ah,” said Marian, “how I should like another or two of our old set to come here! Then we could bring up Talbothays every day here afield, and talk of he, and of what nice times we had there, and o’ the old things we used to know, and make it all come back again a‘most in seeming!” Marian’s eyes softened, and her voice grew vague as the visions returned. “I’ll write to Izz Huett,” she said. “She’s biding at home doing nothing now, I know, and I’ll tell her we be here and ask her to come; and perhaps Retty is well enough now.”

  Tess had nothing to say against the proposal, and the next she heard of this plan for importing old Talbothays’ joys was two or three days later, when Marian informed her that Izz had replied to her inquiry and had promised to come if she could.

  There had not been such a winter for years. It came on in stealthy and measured glides, like the moves of a chess-player. One morning the few lonely trees and the thorns of the hedgerows appeared as if they had put off a vegetable for an animal integument. Every twig was covered with a white nap as of fur grown from the rind during the night, giving it four times its usual stoutness; the whole bush or tree forming a staring sketch in white lines on the mournful grey of the sky and horizon. Cobwebs revealed their presence on sheds and walls where none had ever been observed till brought out into visibility by the crystallizing atmosphere, hanging like loops of white worsted from salient points of the outhouses, posts, and gates.

  After this season of congealed dampness came a spell of dry frost, when strange birds from behind the North Pole began to arrive silently on the upland of Flintcomb-Ash; gaunt, spectral creatures with tragical eyes—eyes which had witnessed scenes of cataclysmal horror in inaccessible polar regions of a magnitude such as no human being had ever conceived, in curdling temperatures that no man could endure; which had beheld the crash of icebergs and the slide of snow-hills by the shooting light of the Aurora; been half blinded by the whirl of colossal storms and terraqueous distortions; and retained the expression of feature that such scenes had engendered. These nameless birds came quite near to Tess and Marian, but of all they had seen which humanity would never see, they brought no account. The traveller’s ambition to tell was not theirs, and with dumb impassivity they dismissed experiences which they did not value for the immediate incidents of this homely upland—the trivial movements of the two girls in disturbing the clods with their hackers so as to uncover something or other that these visitants relished as food.

  Then one day a peculiar quality invaded the air of this open country. There came a moisture which was not of rain, and a cold which was not of frost. It chilled the eyeballs of the twain, made their brows ache, penetrated to their skeletons, affecting the surface of the body less than its core. They knew that it meant snow, and in the night the snow came. Tess, who continued to live at the cottage with the warm gable that cheered any lonely pedestrian who paused beside it, awoke in the night and heard above the thatch noises which seemed to signify that the roof had turned itself into a gymnasium of all the winds. When she lit her lamp to get up in the morning, she found that the snow had blown through a chink in the casement, forming a white cone of the finest powder against the inside, and had also come down the chimney, so that it lay sole-deep upon the floor, on which her shoes left tracks when she moved about. Without, the storm drove so fast as to create a snow-mist in the kitchen; but as yet it was too dark out-of-doors to see anything.

  Tess knew that it was impossible to go on with the swedes; and by the time she had finished breakfast beside the solitary little lamp, Marian arrived to tell her that they were to join the rest of the women at reed-drawing in the barn till the weather changed. As soon, therefore, as the uniform cloak of darkness without began to turn to a disordered medley of greys, they blew out the lamp, wrapped themselves up in their thickest pin ners, tied their woollen cravats round their necks and across their chests, and started for the barn. The snow had followed the birds from the polar basin as a white pillar of a cloud, and individual flakes could not be seen. The blast smelt of icebergs, arctic seas, whales, and white bears, carrying the snow so that it licked the land but did not deepen on it. They trudged onwards with slanted bodies through the flossy fields, keeping as well as they could in the shelter of hedges, which, however, acted as strainers rather than screens. The air, afflicted to pallor with the hoary multitudes that infested it, twisted and spu
n them eccentrically, suggesting an achromatic chaos of things. But both the young women were fairly cheerful; such weather on a dry upland is not in itself dispiriting.

  “Ha-ha! The cunning northern birds knew this was coming,” said Marian. “Depend upon‘t, they keep just in front o’t all the way from the North Star. Your husband, my dear, is, I make no doubt, having scorching weather all this time. Lord, if he could only see his pretty wife now! Not that this weather hurts your beauty at all—in fact, it rather does it good.”

  “You mustn’t talk about him to me, Marian,” said Tess severely.

  “Well, but—surely you care for‘n! Do you?”

  Instead of answering, Tess, with tears in her eyes, impulsively faced in the direction in which she imagined South America to lie and, putting up her lips, blew out a passionate kiss upon the snowy wind.

  “Well, well, I know you do. But‘pon my body, it is a rum life for a married couple! There—I won’t say another word! Well, as for the weather, it won’t hurt us in the wheat-barn; but reed-drawing is fearful hard work—worse than swede-hacking. I can stand it because I’m stout; but you be slimmer than I.I can’t think why maister should have set ’ee at it.”

  They reached the wheat-barn and entered it. One end of the long structure was full of corn; the middle was where the reed-drawing was carried on, and there had already been placed in the reed-press the evening before as many sheaves of wheat as would be sufficient for the women to draw from during the day.

  “Why, here’s Izz!” said Marian.

  Izz it was, and she came forward. She had walked all the way from her mother’s home on the previous afternoon and, not deeming the distance so great, had been belated, arriving, however, just before the snow began and sleeping at the alehouse. The farmer had agreed with her mother at market to take her on if she came to-day, and she had been afraid to disappoint him by delay.