الفصل الفصل 19 · Chapter XIX An Incident

. Chapter XIX An Incident

In general the cows were milked as they presented themselves, without

fancy or choice. But certain cows will show a fondness for a particular

pair of hands, sometimes carrying this predilection so far as to refuse

to stand at all except to their favourite, the pail of a stranger being

unceremoniously kicked over.

It was Dairyman Crick’s rule to insist on breaking down these

partialities and aversions by constant interchange, since otherwise, in

the event of a milkman or maid going away from the dairy, he was placed

in a difficulty. The maids’ private aims, however, were the reverse of

the dairyman’s rule, the daily selection by each damsel of the eight or

ten cows to which she had grown accustomed rendering the operation on

their willing udders surprisingly easy and effortless.

Tess, like her compeers, soon discovered which of the cows had a

preference for her style of manipulation, and her fingers having become

delicate from the long domiciliary imprisonments to which she had

subjected herself at intervals during the last two or three years, she

would have been glad to meet the milchers’ views in this respect. Out

of the whole ninety-five there were eight in particular—Dumpling,

Fancy, Lofty, Mist, Old Pretty, Young Pretty, Tidy, and Loud—who,

though the teats of one or two were as hard as carrots, gave down to

her with a readiness that made her work on them a mere touch of the

fingers. Knowing, however, the dairyman’s wish, she endeavoured

conscientiously to take the animals just as they came, excepting the

very hard yielders which she could not yet manage.

But she soon found a curious correspondence between the ostensibly

chance position of the cows and her wishes in this matter, till she

felt that their order could not be the result of accident. The

dairyman’s pupil had lent a hand in getting the cows together of late,

and at the fifth or sixth time she turned her eyes, as she rested

against the cow, full of sly inquiry upon him.

“Mr Clare, you have ranged the cows!” she said, blushing; and in making

the accusation, symptoms of a smile gently lifted her upper lip in

spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lower lip

remaining severely still.

“Well, it makes no difference,” said he. “You will always be here to

milk them.”

“Do you think so? I _hope_ I shall! But I don’t _know_.”

She was angry with herself afterwards, thinking that he, unaware of her

grave reasons for liking this seclusion, might have mistaken her

meaning. She had spoken so earnestly to him, as if his presence were

somehow a factor in her wish. Her misgiving was such that at dusk, when

the milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, to continue her

regrets that she had disclosed to him her discovery of his

considerateness.

It was a typical summer evening in June, the atmosphere being in such

delicate equilibrium and so transmissive that inanimate objects seemed

endowed with two or three senses, if not five. There was no distinction

between the near and the far, and an auditor felt close to everything

within the horizon. The soundlessness impressed her as a positive

entity rather than as the mere negation of noise. It was broken by the

strumming of strings.

Tess had heard those notes in the attic above her head. Dim, flattened,

constrained by their confinement, they had never appealed to her as

now, when they wandered in the still air with a stark quality like that

of nudity. To speak absolutely, both instrument and execution were

poor; but the relative is all, and as she listened Tess, like a

fascinated bird, could not leave the spot. Far from leaving she drew up

towards the performer, keeping behind the hedge that he might not guess

her presence.

The outskirt of the garden in which Tess found herself had been left

uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rank with juicy grass

which sent up mists of pollen at a touch; and with tall blooming weeds

emitting offensive smells—weeds whose red and yellow and purple hues

formed a polychrome as dazzling as that of cultivated flowers. She went

stealthily as a cat through this profusion of growth, gathering

cuckoo-spittle on her skirts, cracking snails that were underfoot,

staining her hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime, and rubbing off

upon her naked arms sticky blights which, though snow-white on the

apple-tree trunks, made madder stains on her skin; thus she drew quite

near to Clare, still unobserved of him.

Tess was conscious of neither time nor space. The exaltation which she

had described as being producible at will by gazing at a star came now

without any determination of hers; she undulated upon the thin notes of

the second-hand harp, and their harmonies passed like breezes through

her, bringing tears into her eyes. The floating pollen seemed to be his

notes made visible, and the dampness of the garden the weeping of the

garden’s sensibility. Though near nightfall, the rank-smelling

weed-flowers glowed as if they would not close for intentness, and the

waves of colour mixed with the waves of sound.

The light which still shone was derived mainly from a large hole in the

western bank of cloud; it was like a piece of day left behind by

accident, dusk having closed in elsewhere. He concluded his plaintive

melody, a very simple performance, demanding no great skill; and she

waited, thinking another might be begun. But, tired of playing, he had

desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling up behind her. Tess,

her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if hardly moving at all.

Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low tones

reaching her, though he was some distance off.

“What makes you draw off in that way, Tess?” said he. “Are you afraid?”

“Oh no, sir—not of outdoor things; especially just now when the

apple-blooth is falling, and everything is so green.”

“But you have your indoor fears—eh?”

“Well—yes, sir.”

“What of?”

“I couldn’t quite say.”

“The milk turning sour?”

“No.”

“Life in general?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah—so have I, very often. This hobble of being alive is rather

serious, don’t you think so?”

“It is—now you put it that way.”

“All the same, I shouldn’t have expected a young girl like you to see

it so just yet. How is it you do?”

She maintained a hesitating silence.

“Come, Tess, tell me in confidence.”

She thought that he meant what were the aspects of things to her, and

replied shyly—

“The trees have inquisitive eyes, haven’t they?—that is, seem as if

they had. And the river says,—‘Why do ye trouble me with your looks?’

And you seem to see numbers of to-morrows just all in a line, the first

of them the biggest and clearest, the others getting smaller and

smaller as they stand farther away; but they all seem very fierce and

cruel and as if they said, ‘I’m coming! Beware of me! Beware of me!’

... But _you_, sir, can raise up dreams with your music, and drive all

such horrid fancies away!”

He was surprised to find this young woman—who though but a milkmaid had

just that touch of rarity about her which might make her the envied of

her housemates—shaping such sad imaginings. She was expressing in her

own native phrases—assisted a little by her Sixth Standard

training—feelings which might almost have been called those of the

age—the ache of modernism. The perception arrested him less when he

reflected that what are called advanced ideas are really in great part

but the latest fashion in definition—a more accurate expression, by

words in _logy_ and _ism_, of sensations which men and women have

vaguely grasped for centuries.

Still, it was strange that they should have come to her while yet so

young; more than strange; it was impressive, interesting, pathetic. Not

guessing the cause, there was nothing to remind him that experience is

as to intensity, and not as to duration. Tess’s passing corporeal

blight had been her mental harvest.

Tess, on her part, could not understand why a man of clerical family

and good education, and above physical want, should look upon it as a

mishap to be alive. For the unhappy pilgrim herself there was very good

reason. But how could this admirable and poetic man ever have descended

into the Valley of Humiliation, have felt with the man of Uz—as she

herself had felt two or three years ago—“My soul chooseth strangling

and death rather than my life. I loathe it; I would not live alway.”

It was true that he was at present out of his class. But she knew that

was only because, like Peter the Great in a shipwright’s yard, he was

studying what he wanted to know. He did not milk cows because he was

obliged to milk cows, but because he was learning to be a rich and

prosperous dairyman, landowner, agriculturist, and breeder of cattle.

He would become an American or Australian Abraham, commanding like a

monarch his flocks and his herds, his spotted and his ring-straked, his

men-servants and his maids. At times, nevertheless, it did seem

unaccountable to her that a decidedly bookish, musical, thinking young

man should have chosen deliberately to be a farmer, and not a

clergyman, like his father and brothers.

Thus, neither having the clue to the other’s secret, they were

respectively puzzled at what each revealed, and awaited new knowledge

of each other’s character and mood without attempting to pry into each

other’s history.

Every day, every hour, brought to him one more little stroke of her

nature, and to her one more of his. Tess was trying to lead a repressed

life, but she little divined the strength of her own vitality.

At first Tess seemed to regard Angel Clare as an intelligence rather

than as a man. As such she compared him with herself; and at every

discovery of the abundance of his illuminations, of the distance

between her own modest mental standpoint and the unmeasurable, Andean

altitude of his, she became quite dejected, disheartened from all

further effort on her own part whatever.

He observed her dejection one day, when he had casually mentioned

something to her about pastoral life in ancient Greece. She was

gathering the buds called “lords and ladies” from the bank while he

spoke.

“Why do you look so woebegone all of a sudden?” he asked.

“Oh, ’tis only—about my own self,” she said, with a frail laugh of

sadness, fitfully beginning to peel “a lady” meanwhile. “Just a sense

of what might have been with me! My life looks as if it had been wasted

for want of chances! When I see what you know, what you have read, and

seen, and thought, I feel what a nothing I am! I’m like the poor Queen

of Sheba who lived in the Bible. There is no more spirit in me.”

“Bless my soul, don’t go troubling about that! Why,” he said with some

enthusiasm, “I should be only too glad, my dear Tess, to help you to

anything in the way of history, or any line of reading you would like

to take up—”

“It is a lady again,” interrupted she, holding out the bud she had

peeled.

“What?”

“I meant that there are always more ladies than lords when you come to

peel them.”

“Never mind about the lords and ladies. Would you like to take up any

course of study—history, for example?”

“Sometimes I feel I don’t want to know anything more about it than I

know already.”

“Why not?”

“Because what’s the use of learning that I am one of a long row

only—finding out that there is set down in some old book somebody just

like me, and to know that I shall only act her part; making me sad,

that’s all. The best is not to remember that your nature and your past

doings have been just like thousands’ and thousands’, and that your

coming life and doings ’ll be like thousands’ and thousands’.”

“What, really, then, you don’t want to learn anything?”

“I shouldn’t mind learning why—why the sun do shine on the just and the

unjust alike,” she answered, with a slight quaver in her voice. “But

that’s what books will not tell me.”

“Tess, fie for such bitterness!” Of course he spoke with a conventional

sense of duty only, for that sort of wondering had not been unknown to

himself in bygone days. And as he looked at the unpracticed mouth and

lips, he thought that such a daughter of the soil could only have

caught up the sentiment by rote. She went on peeling the lords and

ladies till Clare, regarding for a moment the wave-like curl of her

lashes as they dropped with her bent gaze on her soft cheek,

lingeringly went away. When he was gone she stood awhile, thoughtfully

peeling the last bud; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung it

and all the crowd of floral nobility impatiently on the ground, in an

ebullition of displeasure with herself for her _niaiseries_, and with a

quickening warmth in her heart of hearts.

How stupid he must think her! In an access of hunger for his good

opinion she bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavoured to

forget, so unpleasant had been its issues—the identity of her family

with that of the knightly d’Urbervilles. Barren attribute as it was,

disastrous as its discovery had been in many ways to her, perhaps Mr

Clare, as a gentleman and a student of history, would respect her

sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the lords and ladies

if he knew that those Purbeck-marble and alabaster people in Kingsbere

Church really represented her own lineal forefathers; that she was no

spurious d’Urberville, compounded of money and ambition like those at

Trantridge, but true d’Urberville to the bone.

But, before venturing to make the revelation, dubious Tess indirectly

sounded the dairyman as to its possible effect upon Mr Clare, by asking

the former if Mr Clare had any great respect for old county families

when they had lost all their money and land.

“Mr Clare,” said the dairyman emphatically, “is one of the most

rebellest rozums you ever knowed—not a bit like the rest of his family;

and if there’s one thing that he do hate more than another ’tis the

notion of what’s called a’ old family. He says that it stands to reason

that old families have done their spurt of work in past days, and can’t

have anything left in ’em now. There’s the Billets and the Drenkhards

and the Greys and the St Quintins and the Hardys and the Goulds, who

used to own the lands for miles down this valley; you could buy ’em all

up now for an old song a’most. Why, our little Retty Priddle here, you

know, is one of the Paridelles—the old family that used to own lots o’

the lands out by King’s Hintock, now owned by the Earl o’ Wessex, afore

even he or his was heard of. Well, Mr Clare found this out, and spoke

quite scornful to the poor girl for days. ‘Ah!’ he says to her, ‘you’ll

never make a good dairymaid! All your skill was used up ages ago in

Palestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git strength

for more deeds!’ A boy came here t’other day asking for a job, and said

his name was Matt, and when we asked him his surname he said he’d never

heard that ’a had any surname, and when we asked why, he said he

supposed his folks hadn’t been ’stablished long enough. ‘Ah! you’re the

very boy I want!’ says Mr Clare, jumping up and shaking hands wi’en;

‘I’ve great hopes of you;’ and gave him half-a-crown. O no! he can’t

stomach old families!”

After hearing this caricature of Clare’s opinion poor Tess was glad

that she had not said a word in a weak moment about her family—even

though it was so unusually old almost to have gone round the circle and

become a new one. Besides, another diary-girl was as good as she, it

seemed, in that respect. She held her tongue about the d’Urberville

vault and the Knight of the Conqueror whose name she bore. The insight

afforded into Clare’s character suggested to her that it was largely

owing to her supposed untraditional newness that she had won interest

in his eyes.