feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_0_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapters 1-4
feat_summary_id: chapters 1-4
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 1-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-first-the-maiden-chapters-14", "summary": "The setting is in Wessex, in the south of England, during the late 1800s. John Durbeyfield is on his way home after working as a higgler/haggler. He encounters a local parson who tells him of his family history: The Durbeyfields are descended from the once famous d'Urbervilles, a wealthy family dating back to the time of William the Conqueror. John, feeling a rush of superiority, hurries home to tell his family of the good news. The family has had a difficult life, with John a poor provider and his wife barely managing to keep the family fed and clothed. There are seven children in all; Tess, or Theresa, is the oldest. Joan, John's wife, hatches a plan to send the 16-year-old Tess to \"claim kin\" at a nearby relation, a woman of wealth and position. When John has had too much to drink, Tess and her brother Abraham set out with the family horse to deliver beehives at a nearby farmer's market. While en route, Tess and Abraham fall asleep in the wagon, and the horse, Prince, is killed accidentally by the local mail cart. Because Tess had allowed Prince to wander into the oncoming lane and had inadvertently caused the accident between the mail cart and the Durbeyfield wagon, she feels it is her responsibility to make matters right. It is at this point that Joan Durbeyfield introduces the plan for Tess to visit their d'Urberville relations. Tess initially objects to the plan, but with the family horse now dead, she relents and goes to the d'Urberville family to seek money or work.", "analysis": "Several themes appear early on in the novel. First, is the part that fate plays in our lives. Hardy uses the device of a poor family learning of their former circumstances and former history. It is only by chance that Parson Tringham and John Durbeyfield pass on the road, an encounter that gives the parson the opportunity to share information he has about Durbeyfield's ancestors. In fact, it was even chance that led Parson Tringham to suspect that the d'Urbervilles and Durbeyfields were connected at all; he simply happened to see the Durbeyfield name of John's wagon while he  was investigating the \"vicissitudes of the d'Urberville family.\" The question becomes, would they have been better off not knowing that they were descended from nobility? Initially, the information seems like a boon to a family that, before the end of these four chapters, is in dire need of help, but it sets off a chain of events that, in the end, bring only tragedy. A second theme appears in Chapter 1 when Parson Tringham mentions \"how the mighty are fallen.\" In this novel, we will see how the mighty have fallen and how the poor arise from their situations in life only to be forced down again by circumstances beyond their control. Hardy here is preaching against the attitudes that Victorian England held at the time, that the wealthy control the lives of others. He seems to be making the argument that social position has a devastating effect upon the lives of those who must endure under the weight of class repression. Hardy's use of the celebration of May Day, or May 1, is also significant. First, this is the where readers get their first glimpse of the young girl Tess. Dressed in white, she is a symbol of innocence and purity and gaiety at the celebration. Tess is among her friends at a May Day dance in Marlott, their hometown. Second, Hardy notes that such clubs, which are forgotten in the cities, still retain their former glory in the country where Tess lives, another indication that Tess is neither sophisticated nor worldly -- a character trait that leaves her unprepared for the advances of a worldly man like Alec d'Urberville. Finally, May Day itself is an ancient celebration, dating back to pagan times, when the Romans celebrated the goddess Floralia, who represented new spring flowers. Maia, the goddess of May, was celebrated for spring growth and replenishment. In this way, Hardy connects the Christian world and pagan world in the celebration of a former pagan holiday that had taken on Christian overtones. In this setting, Hardy describes Tess as \"a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experienced . . . for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkle from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then.\" In essence, she is a lovely, innocent young girl on the brink of womanhood.  Glossary haggler/higgler a dealer who travels from place to place selling wares or goods, such as fruit. wold old . Women's club-walking A procession by the members of a local club or clubs: esp. the annual festival of a benefit club or friendly society. vamp trudge, tramp, walk . Cerealia celebration in honor of Ceres, Roman goddess of the harvest. Old Style days the time before 1752 when Great Britain replaced the Julian Calendar, old-style dating, with Gregorian, or new-style dating. Market-niche the amount of alcohol that he would normally drink on a market day. Uncribbed, uncabined after murdering Banquo, in Macbeth , Macbeth refers to himself as \"cabined, cribbed, confined.\" Whitsun Holidays the time around the seventh Sunday after Easter, Whitsuntide or Whit Sunday. Club-walking and other festivities were held in parishes at Whitsuntide. clipsing and colling hugging . diment diamond . Cubit's Cupid's. fess pleased . poppet  a doll, or puppet. Sixth Standard in the National School the highest level available in school supported by government funds run by the National Society for Promoting the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the Established Church. The first schools were established in 1811. Mommet a term of abuse or contempt . larry commotion, disturbance . Oliver Grumble's Oliver Cromwell. plim swell . vlee fly; a one-horse hackney-carriage . Mampus crowd . rafted disturbed, unsettled . outhouse a building separate from but near a main building. In nineteenth-century British usage, outhouse probably does not refer to a privy. Revised Code reference to the Education Department's Revised Codes of 1862 and 1867, which linked the funding for schools to their size and to student performance on standardized assessment examinations. \"Nature's holy plan\" from Wordsworth, \"Lines Written in Early Spring\" . limed caught with birdlime; here, Abraham is compared to a bird ensnared in bird-lime. off-license without a license; here, Rolliver's is not licensed to sell alcohol for consumption on the premises. gaffer a foreman of a group of workers. sumple supple . \"green malt on the floor\" the expression refers to pregnancy before marriage. nater nature . Stubbard-tree a kind of apple tree."}
text: 
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the
  beautiful Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an 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 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 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 to-day."
  
  "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 to-day, 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 south-westerly from the town of Shaston
  on the north-east.
  
  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, glanced 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.
  
  
  
  
  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 exclamation 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.  To-night, 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 to-day 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 to-morrow with that load
  of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no.  He'll have to
  start shortly after twelve to-night, 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 metaphysical 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 fetishistic 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
  day-time, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her
  sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, called "'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.
  
  
  
  
  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 walked hitherward after parting from
  Tess, opened the front door, crossed the downstairs room, which was
  in deep gloom, and then unfastened the stair-door like one whose
  fingers knew the tricks of the latches well.  Her ascent of the
  crooked staircase was a slower process, and her face, as it rose into
  the light above the last stair, encountered the gaze of all the party
  assembled in the bedroom.
  
  "--Being a few private friends I've asked in to keep up club-walking
  at my own expense," the landlady exclaimed at the sound of footsteps,
  as glibly as a child repeating the Catechism, while she peered over
  the stairs.  "Oh, 'tis you, Mrs Durbeyfield--Lard--how you frightened
  me!--I thought it might be some gaffer sent by Gover'ment."
  
  Mrs Durbeyfield was welcomed with glances and nods by the remainder
  of the conclave, and turned to where her husband sat.  He was humming
  absently to himself, in a low tone: "I be as good as some folks here
  and there!  I've got a great family vault at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill,
  and finer skillentons than any man in Wessex!"
  
  "I've something to tell 'ee that's come into my head about that--a
  grand projick!" whispered his cheerful wife.  "Here, John, don't 'ee
  see me?"  She nudged him, while he, looking through her as through a
  window-pane, went on with his recitative.
  
  "Hush!  Don't 'ee sing so loud, my good man," said the landlady; "in
  case any member of the Gover'ment should be passing, and take away my
  licends."
  
  "He's told 'ee what's happened to us, I suppose?" asked Mrs
  Durbeyfield.
  
  "Yes--in a way.  D'ye think there's any money hanging by it?"
  
  "Ah, that's the secret," said Joan Durbeyfield sagely.  "However,
  'tis well to be kin to a coach, even if you don't ride in 'en."  She
  dropped her public voice, and continued in a low tone to her husband:
  "I've been thinking since you brought the news that there's a great
  rich lady out by Trantridge, on the edge o' The Chase, of the name of
  d'Urberville."
  
  "Hey--what's that?" said Sir John.
  
  She repeated the information.  "That lady must be our relation," she
  said.  "And my projick is to send Tess to claim kin."
  
  "There IS a lady of the name, now you mention it," said Durbeyfield.
  "Pa'son Tringham didn't think of that.  But she's nothing beside
  we--a junior branch of us, no doubt, hailing long since King Norman's
  day."
  
  While this question was being discussed neither of the pair noticed,
  in their preoccupation, that little Abraham had crept into the room,
  and was awaiting an opportunity of asking them to return.
  
  "She is rich, and she'd be sure to take notice o' the maid,"
  continued Mrs Durbeyfield; "and 'twill be a very good thing.  I don't
  see why two branches o' one family should not be on visiting terms."
  
  "Yes; and we'll all claim kin!" said Abraham brightly from under the
  bedstead.  "And we'll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live
  with her; and we'll ride in her coach and wear black clothes!"
  
  "How do you come here, child?  What nonsense be ye talking!  Go away,
  and play on the stairs till father and mother be ready! ...  Well,
  Tess ought to go to this other member of our family.  She'd be sure
  to win the lady--Tess would; and likely enough 'twould lead to some
  noble gentleman marrying her.  In short, I know it."
  
  "How?"
  
  "I tried her fate in the _Fortune-Teller_, and it brought out that
  very thing! ...  You should ha' seen how pretty she looked to-day;
  her skin is as sumple as a duchess'."
  
  "What says the maid herself to going?"
  
  "I've not asked her.  She don't know there is any such lady-relation
  yet.  But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage,
  and she won't say nay to going."
  
  "Tess is queer."
  
  "But she's tractable at bottom.  Leave her to me."
  
  Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import
  reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that
  the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common
  folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine
  prospects in store.
  
  "Tess is a fine figure o' fun, as I said to myself to-day when I zeed
  her vamping round parish with the rest," observed one of the elderly
  boozers in an undertone.  "But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she
  don't get green malt in floor."  It was a local phrase which had a
  peculiar meaning, and there was no reply.
  
  The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were
  heard crossing the room below.
  
  "--Being a few private friends asked in to-night to keep up
  club-walking at my own expense."  The landlady had rapidly re-used
  the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognized that
  the newcomer was Tess.
  
  Even to her mother's gaze the girl's young features looked sadly
  out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as
  no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a
  reproachful flash from Tess's dark eyes needed to make her father
  and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and
  descend the stairs behind her, Mrs Rolliver's caution following
  their footsteps.
  
  "No noise, please, if ye'll be so good, my dears; or I mid lose my
  licends, and be summons'd, and I don't know what all!  'Night t'ye!"
  
  They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs
  Durbeyfield the other.  He had, in truth, drunk very little--not a
  fourth of the quantity which a systematic tippler could carry to
  church on a Sunday afternoon without a hitch in his eastings or
  genuflections; but the weakness of Sir John's constitution made
  mountains of his petty sins in this kind.  On reaching the fresh
  air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one
  moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they
  were marching to Bath--which produced a comical effect, frequent
  enough in families on nocturnal homegoings; and, like most comical
  effects, not quite so comic after all.  The two women valiantly
  disguised these forced excursions and countermarches as well as they
  could from Durbeyfield, their cause, and from Abraham, and from
  themselves; and so they approached by degrees their own door, the
  head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he
  drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of
  his present residence--
  
  "I've got a fam--ily vault at Kingsbere!"
  
  "Hush--don't be so silly, Jacky," said his wife.  "Yours is not the
  only family that was of 'count in wold days.  Look at the Anktells,
  and Horseys, and the Tringhams themselves--gone to seed a'most as
  much as you--though you was bigger folks than they, that's true.
  Thank God, I was never of no family, and have nothing to be ashamed
  of in that way!"
  
  "Don't you be so sure o' that.  From you nater 'tis my belief you've
  disgraced yourselves more than any o' us, and was kings and queens
  outright at one time."
  
  Tess turned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her
  own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry--"I am afraid
  father won't be able to take the journey with the beehives to-morrow
  so early."
  
  "I? I shall be all right in an hour or two," said Durbeyfield.
  
  
  It was eleven o'clock before the family were all in bed, and
  two o'clock next morning was the latest hour for starting with
  the beehives if they were to be delivered to the retailers in
  Casterbridge before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying
  by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and
  the horse and waggon being of the slowest.  At half-past one Mrs
  Durbeyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her
  little brothers and sisters slept.
  
  "The poor man can't go," she said to her eldest daughter, whose great
  eyes had opened the moment her mother's hand touched the door.
  
  Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague interspace between a dream and
  this information.
  
  "But somebody must go," she replied.  "It is late for the hives
  already.  Swarming will soon be over for the year; and it we put off
  taking 'em till next week's market the call for 'em will be past, and
  they'll be thrown on our hands."
  
  Mrs Durbeyfield looked unequal to the emergency.  "Some young feller,
  perhaps, would go?  One of them who were so much after dancing with
  'ee yesterday," she presently suggested.
  
  "O no--I wouldn't have it for the world!" declared Tess proudly.
  "And letting everybody know the reason--such a thing to be ashamed
  of!  I think _I_ could go if Abraham could go with me to kip me
  company."
  
  Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement.  Little Abraham was
  aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of the same apartment, and
  made to put on his clothes while still mentally in the other world.
  Meanwhile Tess had hastily dressed herself; and the twain, lighting
  a lantern, went out to the stable.  The rickety little waggon was
  already laden, and the girl led out the horse, Prince, only a degree
  less rickety than the vehicle.
  
  The poor creature looked wonderingly round at the night, at the
  lantern, at their two figures, as if he could not believe that at
  that hour, when every living thing was intended to be in shelter and
  at rest, he was called upon to go out and labour.  They put a stock
  of candle-ends into the lantern, hung the latter to the off-side of
  the load, and directed the horse onward, walking at his shoulder at
  first during the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload
  an animal of so little vigour.  To cheer themselves as well as they
  could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread
  and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far
  from come.  Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a
  sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed
  by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked
  like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a
  giant's head.
  
  When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent
  under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground.  Still
  higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow, or Bealbarrow,
  well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky,
  engirdled by its earthen trenches.  From hereabout the long road was
  fairly level for some distance onward.  They mounted in front of the
  waggon, and Abraham grew reflective.
  
  "Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence.
  
  "Yes, Abraham."
  
  "Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?"
  
  "Not particular glad."
  
  "But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?"
  
  "What?" said Tess, lifting her face.
  
  "That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman."
  
  "I?  Our great relation?  We have no such relation.  What has put
  that into your head?"
  
  "I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find
  father.  There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and
  mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in
  the way of marrying a gentleman."
  
  His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering
  silence.  Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance
  than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no
  account.  He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face
  made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating
  amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two
  wisps of human life.  He asked how far away those twinklers were,
  and whether God was on the other side of them.  But ever and anon
  his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination
  even more deeply than the wonders of creation.  If Tess were made
  rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a
  spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as
  Nettlecombe-Tout?
  
  The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole
  family, filled Tess with impatience.
  
  "Never mind that now!" she exclaimed.
  
  "Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "All like ours?"
  
  "I don't know; but I think so.  They sometimes seem to be like the
  apples on our stubbard-tree.  Most of them splendid and sound--a few
  blighted."
  
  "Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?"
  
  "A blighted one."
  
  "'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there
  were so many more of 'em!"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Is it like that REALLY, Tess?" said Abraham, turning to her much
  impressed, on reconsideration of this rare information.  "How would
  it have been if we had pitched on a sound one?"
  
  "Well, father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does,
  and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go on this journey; and mother
  wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished."
  
  "And you would have been a rich lady ready-made, and not have had to
  be made rich by marrying a gentleman?"
  
  "O Aby, don't--don't talk of that any more!"
  
  Left to his reflections Abraham soon grew drowsy.  Tess was not
  skilful in the management of a horse, but she thought that she could
  take upon herself the entire conduct of the load for the present and
  allow Abraham to go to sleep if he wished to do so.  She made him a
  sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that he could
  not fall, and, taking the reins into her own hands, jogged on as
  before.
  
  Prince required but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous
  movements of any sort.  With no longer a companion to distract her,
  Tess fell more deeply into reverie than ever, her back leaning
  against the hives.  The mute procession past her shoulders of trees
  and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes outside reality, and
  the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad
  soul, conterminous with the universe in space, and with history in
  time.
  
  Then, examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see
  the vanity of her father's pride; the gentlemanly suitor awaiting
  herself in her mother's fancy; to see him as a grimacing personage,
  laughing at her poverty and her shrouded knightly ancestry.
  Everything grew more and more extravagant, and she no longer knew how
  time passed.  A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke
  from the sleep into which she, too, had fallen.
  
  They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness,
  and the waggon had stopped.  A hollow groan, unlike anything she had
  ever heard in her life, came from the front, followed by a shout of
  "Hoi there!"
  
  The lantern hanging at her waggon had gone out, but another was
  shining in her face--much brighter than her own had been.  Something
  terrible had happened.  The harness was entangled with an object
  which blocked the way.
  
  In consternation Tess jumped down, and discovered the dreadful truth.
  The groan had proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince.  The
  morning mail-cart, with its two noiseless wheels, speeding along
  these lanes like an arrow, as it always did, had driven into her slow
  and unlighted equipage.  The pointed shaft of the cart had entered
  the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his
  life's blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into
  the road.
  
  In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole,
  with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with
  the crimson drops.  Then she stood helplessly looking on.  Prince
  also stood firm and motionless as long as he could; till he suddenly
  sank down in a heap.
  
  By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and began dragging and
  unharnessing the hot form of Prince.  But he was already dead, and,
  seeing that nothing more could be done immediately, the mail-cart man
  returned to his own animal, which was uninjured.
  
  "You was on the wrong side," he said.  "I am bound to go on with the
  mail-bags, so that the best thing for you to do is bide here with
  your load.  I'll send somebody to help you as soon as I can.  It is
  getting daylight, and you have nothing to fear."
  
  He mounted and sped on his way; while Tess stood and waited.  The
  atmosphere turned pale, the birds shook themselves in the hedges,
  arose, and twittered; the lane showed all its white features, and
  Tess showed hers, still whiter.  The huge pool of blood in front of
  her was already assuming the iridescence of coagulation; and when the
  sun rose a hundred prismatic hues were reflected from it.  Prince lay
  alongside, still and stark; his eyes half open, the hole in his chest
  looking scarcely large enough to have let out all that had animated
  him.
  
  "'Tis all my doing--all mine!" the girl cried, gazing at the
  spectacle.  "No excuse for me--none.  What will mother and father
  live on now?  Aby, Aby!"  She shook the child, who had slept soundly
  through the whole disaster.  "We can't go on with our load--Prince
  is killed!"
  
  When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years were
  extemporized on his young face.
  
  "Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday!" she went on to herself.
  "To think that I was such a fool!"
  
  "'Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't
  it, Tess?" murmured Abraham through his tears.
  
  In silence they waited through an interval which seemed endless.  At
  length a sound, and an approaching object, proved to them that the
  driver of the mail-car had been as good as his word.  A farmer's
  man from near Stourcastle came up, leading a strong cob.  He was
  harnessed to the waggon of beehives in the place of Prince, and the
  load taken on towards Casterbridge.
  
  The evening of the same day saw the empty waggon reach again the
  spot of the accident.  Prince had lain there in the ditch since the
  morning; but the place of the blood-pool was still visible in the
  middle of the road, though scratched and scraped over by passing
  vehicles.  All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into the
  waggon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his
  shoes shining in the setting sunlight, he retraced the eight or nine
  miles to Marlott.
  
  Tess had gone back earlier.  How to break the news was more than she
  could think.  It was a relief to her tongue to find from the faces of
  her parents that they already knew of their loss, though this did not
  lessen the self-reproach which she continued to heap upon herself for
  her negligence.
  
  But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune
  a less terrifying one to them than it would have been to a thriving
  family, though in the present case it meant ruin, and in the other it
  would only have meant inconvenience.  In the Durbeyfield countenances
  there was nothing of the red wrath that would have burnt upon the
  girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare.  Nobody blamed Tess
  as she blamed herself.
  
  When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a
  very few shillings for Prince's carcase because of his decrepitude,
  Durbeyfield rose to the occasion.
  
  "No," said he stoically, "I won't sell his old body.  When we
  d'Urbervilles was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers
  for cat's meat.  Let 'em keep their shillings!  He've served me well
  in his lifetime, and I won't part from him now."
  
  He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for Prince in the
  garden than he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family.
  When the hole was ready, Durbeyfield and his wife tied a rope round
  the horse and dragged him up the path towards it, the children
  following in funeral train.  Abraham and 'Liza-Lu sobbed, Hope and
  Modesty discharged their griefs in loud blares which echoed from the
  walls; and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave.
  The bread-winner had been taken away from them; what would they do?
  
  "Is he gone to heaven?" asked Abraham, between the sobs.
  
  Then Durbeyfield began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried
  anew.  All except Tess.  Her face was dry and pale, as though she
  regarded herself in the light of a murderess.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 1-4
target: The setting is in Wessex, in the south of England, during the late 1800s. John Durbeyfield is on his way home after working as a higgler/haggler. He encounters a local parson who tells him of his family history: The Durbeyfields are descended from the once famous d'Urbervilles, a wealthy family dating back to the time of William the Conqueror. John, feeling a rush of superiority, hurries home to tell his family of the good news. The family has had a difficult life, with John a poor provider and his wife barely managing to keep the family fed and clothed. There are seven children in all; Tess, or Theresa, is the oldest. Joan, John's wife, hatches a plan to send the 16-year-old Tess to "claim kin" at a nearby relation, a woman of wealth and position. When John has had too much to drink, Tess and her brother Abraham set out with the family horse to deliver beehives at a nearby farmer's market. While en route, Tess and Abraham fall asleep in the wagon, and the horse, Prince, is killed accidentally by the local mail cart. Because Tess had allowed Prince to wander into the oncoming lane and had inadvertently caused the accident between the mail cart and the Durbeyfield wagon, she feels it is her responsibility to make matters right. It is at this point that Joan Durbeyfield introduces the plan for Tess to visit their d'Urberville relations. Tess initially objects to the plan, but with the family horse now dead, she relents and goes to the d'Urberville family to seek money or work.
feat_summary_analysis: Several themes appear early on in the novel. First, is the part that fate plays in our lives. Hardy uses the device of a poor family learning of their former circumstances and former history. It is only by chance that Parson Tringham and John Durbeyfield pass on the road, an encounter that gives the parson the opportunity to share information he has about Durbeyfield's ancestors. In fact, it was even chance that led Parson Tringham to suspect that the d'Urbervilles and Durbeyfields were connected at all; he simply happened to see the Durbeyfield name of John's wagon while he  was investigating the "vicissitudes of the d'Urberville family." The question becomes, would they have been better off not knowing that they were descended from nobility? Initially, the information seems like a boon to a family that, before the end of these four chapters, is in dire need of help, but it sets off a chain of events that, in the end, bring only tragedy. A second theme appears in Chapter 1 when Parson Tringham mentions "how the mighty are fallen." In this novel, we will see how the mighty have fallen and how the poor arise from their situations in life only to be forced down again by circumstances beyond their control. Hardy here is preaching against the attitudes that Victorian England held at the time, that the wealthy control the lives of others. He seems to be making the argument that social position has a devastating effect upon the lives of those who must endure under the weight of class repression. Hardy's use of the celebration of May Day, or May 1, is also significant. First, this is the where readers get their first glimpse of the young girl Tess. Dressed in white, she is a symbol of innocence and purity and gaiety at the celebration. Tess is among her friends at a May Day dance in Marlott, their hometown. Second, Hardy notes that such clubs, which are forgotten in the cities, still retain their former glory in the country where Tess lives, another indication that Tess is neither sophisticated nor worldly -- a character trait that leaves her unprepared for the advances of a worldly man like Alec d'Urberville. Finally, May Day itself is an ancient celebration, dating back to pagan times, when the Romans celebrated the goddess Floralia, who represented new spring flowers. Maia, the goddess of May, was celebrated for spring growth and replenishment. In this way, Hardy connects the Christian world and pagan world in the celebration of a former pagan holiday that had taken on Christian overtones. In this setting, Hardy describes Tess as "a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experienced . . . for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkle from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then." In essence, she is a lovely, innocent young girl on the brink of womanhood.  Glossary haggler/higgler a dealer who travels from place to place selling wares or goods, such as fruit. wold old . Women's club-walking A procession by the members of a local club or clubs: esp. the annual festival of a benefit club or friendly society. vamp trudge, tramp, walk . Cerealia celebration in honor of Ceres, Roman goddess of the harvest. Old Style days the time before 1752 when Great Britain replaced the Julian Calendar, old-style dating, with Gregorian, or new-style dating. Market-niche the amount of alcohol that he would normally drink on a market day. Uncribbed, uncabined after murdering Banquo, in Macbeth , Macbeth refers to himself as "cabined, cribbed, confined." Whitsun Holidays the time around the seventh Sunday after Easter, Whitsuntide or Whit Sunday. Club-walking and other festivities were held in parishes at Whitsuntide. clipsing and colling hugging . diment diamond . Cubit's Cupid's. fess pleased . poppet  a doll, or puppet. Sixth Standard in the National School the highest level available in school supported by government funds run by the National Society for Promoting the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the Established Church. The first schools were established in 1811. Mommet a term of abuse or contempt . larry commotion, disturbance . Oliver Grumble's Oliver Cromwell. plim swell . vlee fly; a one-horse hackney-carriage . Mampus crowd . rafted disturbed, unsettled . outhouse a building separate from but near a main building. In nineteenth-century British usage, outhouse probably does not refer to a privy. Revised Code reference to the Education Department's Revised Codes of 1862 and 1867, which linked the funding for schools to their size and to student performance on standardized assessment examinations. "Nature's holy plan" from Wordsworth, "Lines Written in Early Spring" . limed caught with birdlime; here, Abraham is compared to a bird ensnared in bird-lime. off-license without a license; here, Rolliver's is not licensed to sell alcohol for consumption on the premises. gaffer a foreman of a group of workers. sumple supple . "green malt on the floor" the expression refers to pregnancy before marriage. nater nature . Stubbard-tree a kind of apple tree.