TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES (Literature Classics Series): A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented (Historical Romance Novel)

By Thomas Hardy

Tess Durbeyfield is the oldest child of John and Joan, uneducated peasants living in an impoverished rural village in Wessex, during the Long Depression of the 1870s. One day, her father is given the hint that they may have noble blood and that they are successors of a noble Norman family D'Urberville. Tess's fortune is changed after one accident and she decides to visit Mrs. D'Urberville, a rich widow who lives in the nearby town, and "claim kin". Though now considered a major nineteenth-century English novel and Hardy's masterpiece, Tess of the d'Urbervilles originally received mixed reviews because it challenged the sexual morals of late Victorian England. Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, especially William Wordsworth and Charles Dickens. Like Dickens, he was highly critical of much in Victorian society, though Hardy focused more on a declining rural society. While Hardy regarded himself primarily as a poet, initially he gained fame as the author of novels, including Far from the Madding Crowd, Tess of the d'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure. Most of his fictional works were set in the semi-fictional region of Wessex. They explored tragic characters struggling against their passions and social circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Musaicum Books
• Release date: May 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9788075832405

Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) was an English poet and author who grew up in the British countryside, a setting that was prominent in much of his work as the fictional region named Wessex. Abandoning hopes of an academic future, he began to compose poetry as a young man. After failed attempts of publication, he successfully turned to prose. His major works include Far from the Madding Crowd(1874), Tess of the D’Urbervilles(1891) and Jude the Obscure( 1895), after which he returned to exclusively writing poetry.

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Phase the First: The Maiden

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Table of Contents

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.

Chapter 2

Table of Contents

The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, and 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 today.

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 today, 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 southwesterly from the town of Shaston on the north-east. dh 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, clanged 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.

Chapter 3

Table of Contents

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 explanation 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. Tonight, 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 today 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 tomorrow with that load of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He’ll have to start shortly after twelve tonight, 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 meta-physical 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 fetichistic 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 daytime, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, call ‘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.

Chapter 4

Table of Contents

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

Reviews for TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES (Literature Classics Series)

[gbill_7 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is an enjoyable read, and I found ‘The Maiden’, the first of six ‘phases’, to be five star, really getting it off to a great start. I’ll describe the main elements of its plot (mini spoiler alert), but not too much beyond that. We’re first introduced to Tess Durbeyfield’s father, who is somewhat lazy and a drinker; when he finds out he has a connection to an ancient family in the region, he comes to have some unrealistic, high falutin’ hopes about falling into fortune. One night when he can’t drive his beehives to the market for the following morning’s sales, Tess goes in his place. Unfortunately, she falls asleep at the reins, which Hardy describes cosmically: “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.”Shortly afterward, in a shocking sequence, Tess gets into a violent accident with a wagon coming the other direction, which kills the family horse. The resulting financial hardship encourages her parents all the more to send her off to the distant d’Urberville family, to work on their property and form a connection with them, but there she becomes the prey of the dastardly Alec d’Urberville. Hardy hints at Alec’s intentions in ways that make the reader cringe, and in an absolutely brilliant sequence late at night after a dance, he rapes Tess. In the morality of the time, this stains Tess; she feels guilty over it for the rest of the novel and unworthy of a future husband, while Alec happily goes on with his life. Grrr.Hardy was a transitional writer in the late 19th century, including old school melodrama in his writing, but also modernist psychology, and challenges to religion and the morality of the day which deeply offended Victorians. As an extension of that, his (ostensible) protagonist Angel Clare, the more enlightened gentleman who finds Tess and falls for her, is a transitional thinker. On the one hand, Angel is aware of evolution and flouts religion and conventionality, but on the other hand, he has old-fashioned about a woman’s virtue. Between the outright evil of Alec, who Tess has fled, and Alec’s hypocrisy, it’s hard to like either character, or to know who is worse, but I think that’s part of Hardy’s point. The unfairness of life for women will almost certainly make you grit your teeth, and Hardy may go on a teeny bit too long in the center sections of the book, but there is a lot to like here.Quotes:On art:“She thought, without exactly wording the thought, how strange and godlike was a composer’s power, who from the grave could lead through sequences of emotion, which he alone had felt at first, a girl like her who had never heard of his name, and never would have a clue to his personality.”On beauty:“How very lovable her face was to him. Yet there was nothing ethereal about it; all was real vitality, real warmth, real incarnation. And it was in her mouth that this culminated. Eyes almost as deep and speaking he had seen before, and cheeks perhaps as fair; brows as arched, a chin and throat almost as shapely; her mouth he had seen nothing to equal on the face of the earth. To a young man with the least fire in him that little upward lift in the middle of her red top lip was distracting, infatuating, maddening. He had never before seen a woman’s lips and teeth which forced upon his mind with such persistent iteration the old Elizabeth simile of roses filled with snow. Perfect, he, as a lover, might have called them off-hand. But no – they were not perfect. And it was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity.”On death, I thought this was an interesting perspective, and yes, our ‘deathday’ is out there somewhere for all of us:“She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Tantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby’s birth and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen and among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor’s thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say, ‘It is the- th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died’; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season, or year.”On knowledge:“’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 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 the books will not tell me.’”On religion, harkening back to worship of the sun:“The sun, on account of the mist, had a curious sentient, personal look, demanding the masculine pronoun for its adequate expression. His present aspect, coupled with the lack of all human forms in the scene, explained the old-time heliolatries in a moment. One could feel that a saner religion had never prevailed under the sky. The luminary was a golden-haired, beaming, mild-eyed, God-like creature, gazing down in the vigour and intentness of youth upon an earth that was brimming with interest for him.”And this one, questioning God in a world of cruelty:“The calmness which had possessed Tess since the christening remained with her in the infant’s loss. In the daylight, indeed, she felt her terrors about his soul to have been somewhat exaggerated; whether well founded or not she had no uneasiness now, reasoning that if Providence would not ratify such an act of approximation she, for one, did not value the kind of heaven lost by the irregularity – either for herself or for her child.”And:“Once upon a time Angel had been so unlucky as to say to his father, in a moment of irritation, that it might have resulted far better for mankind if Greece had been the source of the religion of modern civilization, and not Palestine; and his father’s grief was of that blank description which could not realize that there might lurk a thousandth part of a truth, much less a half truth or a whole truth, in such a proposition.”Lastly this one, an example of Hardy taking a simple scene on a dairy farm and both putting it in perspective in the bigger picture, but also pointing out it’s no less important than scenes of royalty; this quote really has it all, compared to how simply it may have been put:“Long thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the posts were ranged the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switched moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon the wall. Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a Court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shades on marble facades long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs.”

[librarycin · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

2.5 starsTess is a young unmarried woman in rural England in the late 19th century. Through a series of events, she ends up with two men falling for her. I don't really want to give anything away, so this is pretty vague.I “missed” (skimmed) the first quarter of it, as it couldn't hold my attention. I was able to figure out most of what happened later, but even later, I wasn't all that interested in what was happening. Some of it was ok, but mostly, I just wasn't interested. I didn't really care about Tess or any of the characters, though I did feel badly for her a couple of times. I was surprised at the end. The extra ½ star was for the times that I was a bit interested in what was going on.

[bagpuss-3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm loathe to give my first read of 2013 a 5/5 but this one definitely comes close! Proper review to follow but for now I must just say that I loved it! 4½/5, maybe! :)

[jpsnow · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is so masterfully executed that I rate it a 5. What I especially like was Hardy's ability to describe everything so elegantly, including the scenery and the emotions. He excels at using just enough brushstroke to convey his ideas, while leaving everything else to the reader to complete. The themes are simple, yet profound. The book is reminiscent of ancient Greek classics in several ways. The characters live tragic lives, some linked to the downfall of their ancestors. There are also natural and spiritual forces at work. Hardy even interjects narrated commentary that immediately reminded me of the remarks we hear from the Greek chorus of the great plays. I suspect such narrative seemed very modern in the late 19th century.Also Modern were some of Hardy's phrases, such as the "vegeto-human pollen" he describes in a village dance scene. To me, the primary struggle Hardy was exposing was the balance between human nature and societal norms. Several times, he interposed comments such as: She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society which had no foundation in Nature. Given the time in which this book was written, I also believe Hardy was showing the tension that comes with our migration away from agrarian society. The description of the threshing machine and the engineer are examples supporting this.

[anna_in_pdx · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dear Tom,Why do I keep reading your books? No one, and I mean no one, treats his characters (or her characters) as badly as you do. Well, maybe with the exception of Upton Sinclair, who must have been greatly influenced by you.I read Jude the Obscure several years ago and closed the book with a "Never Again." I was sure I could not bear to read another one of your books after somehow finishing it in spite of that awful letter from the kids "Because we are too menny". I can't figure out what your overall point is except that if one is poor, one is destined to be miserable and that is all there is to it. I guessed what Tess would be about just from its title. I've read lots and lots of other 19th century fiction. Many books have treated the issue of women who lose their chastity, as it would have been put at the time. Many books are pretty grim about their fate. However, you manage to make it worse than the norm because your characters are so very sympathetic. As I read on, I know that Tess' life is going to go from bad to worse, that her ridiculous level of nobility will end up undoing her, that all bad things will happen to her. Sure enough, but what else would we expect of you. What is the point, Tom? Why do you write these novels? What do you want your readers to do? Unlike Dickens, you don't seem to be a social reformer. You don't seem to ever paint the slightest possibility of an alternative to all this woe. On the other hand, your respectful-but-not-convinced portrayal of evangelical Christianity doesn't seem to show religion as a way out, either. Were you just trying to convey existentialist despair? Weren't you a little too early for this?I am really giving you up this time. This is it. You have been too cruel on your characters and your readers and this is the last of your novels I plan to read. How could you, Tom? You are too cruel, and I will never forgive you.Yr servant,Anna

[rachissy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

** spoiler alert ** I really enjoyed the book, despite the fact that I found myself getting angrier and angrier at the circumstances that Tess kept finding herself in.From here on out this post could be filled with spoilers, so consider yourself warned. It broke my heart that this poor girl was never able to catch a break and she was taken advantage of by almost every person she meets, including her parents. First her parents send her away so she can claim some supposed, ancient, familial claim that they are sure will better their circumstances. In doing that she is exposed to Alec, who also takes advantage of her innocent nature in the worst way before she is sent back home, in ruin. Back at home, her parents seem to just hold her in contempt because she wasn't able to come home with a 'proper' husband, just an illegitimate baby. It seems that the baby inherited his mother's luck and becomes deadly ill soon after birth. The whole scene where Tess is trying to get her baby a baptism before he dies, only to be refused by her father is heartbreaking. I could feel her desperation when she takes it upon herself to baptize the baby and then asks the priest if it's 'just as good'. When she meets Angel you hope that finally she'll be able to have something good in her life, something she actually deserves, and I really hoped Angel would forgive her for her past, especially since she was taken advantage of. However, Angel disappointed me more than everyone else, including Alec. He was a hypocrite and to treat her the way he did after confessing that he'd committed the very same sin was just beyond cruel.I'll admit that when Alec came back into the picture I really held onto the hope that he was sincere in his approach to Tess. That he really felt remorse and was trying to earn redemption for his act. As the story progressed you could see that it was not the case. He was back to his old self, lying and manipulating Tess to get what he wanted from her and I was mad that she fell for it, again. I wanted her to be older and wiser but in the end she fell right into his plot and it led to her ultimate downfall.So, I liked it, despite being incredibly angry and sad about the outcome.

[mausergem_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

John Durbeyfield is a poor artisan in the village of Marlott finds out that he is a descendant of an old family the d'Urbervilles, which is now extinct. He and his wife are overjoyed. There is a rich family of the same name in the next county. So they sent their daughter, Tess to their supposed relative to better her prospects. There Tess finds out that they have adopted that name. Eric d’Uberville is a womanizer and he seduces Tess. Tess gets pregnant and returns to her own house. The baby is born and dies. Tess moves away from her house and takes up a job as a dairymaid. At the dairy farm, Angel a parson’s son who is learning the farming profession, falls in love with Tess and after a lot of persuasion Tess agrees to marry him but she could not bring herself to tell him of her past. On their honeymoon when she tells him about her past Angel is distraught and leaves her to go to Brazil.Tess moves away to a farm and works as a farm hand. She has a chance meeting with Eric who again tries to seduce her. Tess resists his overtures again and again. In the meantime Tess’ father dies and the family is forced to move out of Marlott. Finding herself cornered Tess implores her husband to come to her and forgive her. As she gets no reply from Angel she takes up with Eric for her and her families sake.In Brazil Angel is having a torrid time and returns to England. His stint in Brazil has cured him of his reserve against his wife and seeks her out but it is already too late. When he meets Tess she is shattered and in her rage kills Eric and runs away with Angel. The husband and wife spend a peaceful week in a deserted house before the law catches with them. Tess is tried and executed.A very well written book of love and loss.

[adonisguilfoyle · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Another TV tip from Faulks on Fiction, about as successful a selection for me as reading The End of the Affair. Tess is well crafted, but unevenly developed, and although I liked Hardy's style to begin with, there was far too much introspection and pastoral eulogising between the main events of the story. Novels filled with thinking, especially Victorian novels, bore me silly.Tess is a victim throughout most of the story, until Hardy has an attack of the potboilers in the final chapters, and her choice in men (or the men who choose her) is woeful, from priggish Angel (what a name!) to Hardy's omniscient narrator, who obviously fancies her. She is a Victorian pin-up, with 'peony' lips (or cheeks in the Graphic) and a voloptuous figure. And although I thought that Tess' confrontation with her new husband was tense and incredibly emotional, he is hardly worth the bother. Likewise, Alec D'Urberville is a pantomime villain with no depth or shade whatsoever.Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the book is the contrast between the 1891 text reprinted as the Penguin Classics edition, and the very Victorian censorship of the same story for Graphic magazine in Hardy's time (the footnotes mark where passages were changed, such as the description of Tess' looks). The prudishness is almost laughable! (The central conflict of Tess was 'cleaned up' as a clandestine marriage between Tess and Alec.)

[stevedore_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

So I think all be all intellectual-like and read a classic of literature rather than my usual fare. And what do I get in return? Rape, misogyny, poverty, domestic abuse and capital punishment. I guess it's no surprise that men were also bastards back in 1891. But I was somewhat taken aback to read all that stuff so starkly. (The exception to the starkness being the rape scene - the Victorian era book was so euphemistic about it that I didn't actually figure out what Alex had done to Tess until several chapters on.)Tess is meant to be the ideal woman according to Hardy's narrator, but her two endearing attributes are that she is good looking, and agrees with everything her lover, Angel, says. The villain, Alex, like many others, spends most of his time thinking he has been wronged. The male hero, Angel is a self-important wimp. Naturally, despite Tess's guiltless life the novel moves inexorably towards her punishment. Man (Angel and Alex) has interfered with nature so Tess must be punished.A good book with odd values, and too much discussion of old English countryside for my antipodean sense to appreciate.

[careburpee · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What can I say-I love Hardy. Why do I love an author whose books seem to move from one heartbreak to another? He is definitely not one you read for a light pick-me-up, that is for certain. But his writing is so nuanced that it feels as if I am floating down a quiescent rural stream; I know turbulent water lies ahead-I can feel the increasing pull beneath me-yet there seems to be no urgency to try to pull away in opposition. Going there just seems to be the natural flow of life. So why do I love this man whose plots I willingly follow into the very depths of despondency? Because the prose...oh, the prose!Thomas Hardy is a master of every literary element. For him, setting, especially, takes on such presence that it becomes an amalgamation of every place you have ever been. All of your senses become engaged. You hear the church bells peal across the meadow. The flank of the cow against Tess' cheek feels warm and fluid beneath your own. As she toils in the field you feel the grit of harvested grain in the sweaty crease of your neck and taste its dryness in your mouth. You feel refreshed by the wind and gladdened by the birds in flight.When it comes to character, Hardy is the consummate teacher. We don't just know that Tess' mother is hard at work on wash day. Her weariness is palpable. We aren't told that Tess is a good daughter. She pitches in just where she is needed, time and time again. Each character, major and minor, is presented so completely through their speech and actions that the narrator need fill in very little. For me they each even acquire a distinctive voice in my head.So if you have shied away from Hardy for lack of interest in his wrenching plots, I urge you to give one of his novels a try and experience the power of his incomparable prose.

[lisamaria_c · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In terms of sheer style, this is one of the best books I've ever read. I'm not a fan by and large of Victorian fiction, but Hardy, while having all the hallmarks, does it all so skillfully it's akin to an edifice like Chartes Cathedral--the epitome of its kind. The omniscient point of view is masterful and flowing, nothing feels like filler--even the description. The description that seems mere bagatelle in other narratives contributes greatly to tone, theme, and atmosphere--besides which the descriptions so often strike me as out and out beautiful. Some scenes are so striking, so cinematic. I'm not about to forget Alec feeding Tess strawberries, or Tess in the tombs of her ancestors or at Stonehenge. Nor is it all doom and gloom, there are glints of humor, especially to be found in the depiction of Tess' family and her parents' pretensions. Although if you're one of the few who doesn't know this story is a tragedy, it's so early and often foreshadowed you'll have no problem mistaking this for a happily ever after romance. The story falls into a subgenre of tragedy I usually despise--the "fallen woman" trope seen in such novels as Flaubert's Madame Bovary and Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. It's been decades since I've read those novels, so perhaps my memory isn't accurate, but my impression of both is that their authors didn't have much sympathy for their fairly flighty heroines. What struck me about Hardy is the compassion, even admiration, which he obviously feels for his character. It's society he seemed to condemn, and that's never more apparent than his depiction of the hypocrisy of the "misnamed" Angel Clare, the man Tess loves. I didn't think it was possible he could eclipse Alec Stokes-D'Uberville, Tess' rapist, in my contempt and hatred for him, but I hated Angel with the heat of a thousand suns, in itself a literary achievement.So, why don't I give this five stars? Why isn't it on my favorites shelf? I think it's because of Tess. I can't quite put my finger on why, but she never comes alive for me. Alec and Angel, the two men who between them destroy her feel like real people to me, Tess doesn't. Hardy subtitled his novel "A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented" and maybe that's it--he didn't depict a woman of flesh and blood, but a feminine ideal and a victim. It's not quite as simple of that. Tess has pride and doesn't always act wisely or well--she's not quite a complete innocent and she's sorely tried. But something in her depiction distances me from her.

[gogglemiss · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

 This was the first time for reading a Hardy novel, and it wasn't quite so bad as what I thought it would be. Hardy's pastoral descriptions of country life in the English countryside were so acute. The courtship between Tess and Angel was beautifully portrayed, before Tess's shattering confession, and the lurking Alec D'Urberville in the background was a very strange rival.. There were patches where Hardy would ramble on about something completely allien to me and would then return to the story, which is why I have rated it lower. But when it got back on track, it was great. I did not agree with the ending, though.

[vrchristensen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is one of my favourite books. It is so beautifully written that even through the frustrations and hardships the heroine faces, you are drawn on by the power of the language and the force of the story. Hardy was trying to make an important point in the writing of this story, and while such a tale seems unimaginable in today's world, it nevertheless resonates, particularly with women. Shocking in it's day, Hardy's efforts were felt. Tess is a provocative look at the plight of the 19th century woman, unnaturally naive to a world run by world-wise men. I'm not sure I've ever recovered from this book, and it has been a powerful influence in my own work.

[schmerguls · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When I finished this book at 10:10 P.M. on Dec 8, 1964, I said: "i am overwhelmed--powerful, stark, overpowering. I have not been so impressed and awed by a novel in years. Most other novels I have read pale into triviality in comparison. In wroking backwards in my list of books read certainly nothing since Roger Martin du Gard's novel can compare, and it is discursive and tedious in comparison. The same can be said of From Here to Eternity, which I read in April of 1961.. It is true the plot is strained at times, unlikely. But the strength of the prose makes up for that. The final paragraph is typical of the harsh Hardy prose: 'Justice was done and the President of the Immortals, in Aesclylean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess. And the D'Urberville knights and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing. The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as for prayer, and remained thus for a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on.' What a story! What a style! I am impressed.

[bookworm12_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rarely have I ever had such a visceral reaction to a book. I have read a few other Hardy novels and so at this point I expect tragedy. But this one still blew me away. It broke my heart in so many ways, but Hardy’s writing made the whole experience oddly beautiful, despite the inevitable disaster that you know if coming. The brilliance of his writing is just breathtaking. The scenes he creates are incredibly beautiful. Alec is such a brilliant villain because of the very fact that he is so relatable to different men. As Hardy himself says, Tess’ own male ancestors probably did the same thing to peasant girls. It's so horrifying and common at the same time and Alec has no real understanding that what he's doing is wrong. He knows what he wants he decides he's going to take it. There's no consideration for anything else.Tess’ family is poor, but they discover they are descendants of a wealthy local family. She is sent to befriend the family and see if they can improve her own family’s situation. She meets Alec D'Urbervilles and soon her life is changed forever. I can’t say too much more without spoilers, except that it’s a powerful book, but not a cheery one. **SPOILERS**I’ve never hated a character as much as I hated Alec. He is a rapist, a manipulator, and worst of all, he honestly doesn’t think he’s done much wrong in the first half of the novel. At one point Alec says something about how Tess shouldn’t have worn a certain dress and bonnet because it made her too pretty. The “you were asking for it” mentality was present even back then when dress was far more modest. It was so frustrating and infuriating. He manipulated every situation, forcing her to be alone with him, to rely on him for help, etc. His condescending nicknames made my skin crawl. When he calls her “Tessie” or “my little pretty” it made me nauseous because she was shrinking away from him and begging him quietly to stop touching her. She said again and again that she did not love him and she was scared of him. She never feels comfortable with him. From their very first interaction, as he makes her eat strawberries from his hand, she is uncomfortable and wants to go home immediately. There was no infatuation only a feeling in her gut that he was not someone to be trusted.On top of that, Angel’s absurd double standard for his actions and her actions was infuriating. The worst part is that both men, the “good” one and the “bad” one share the same mentality about the situation. Both blame Tess but never themselves. The same attitude is around today, even though women have many more options, they are often shamed when they are sexually assaulted. The book is split into different phases and the second one begins after the infamous event. Tess is so broken; she's not even scared of him anymore because he's already done the worst to her that he could possibly do. She's resigned to her fate and full of sorrow. I kept thinking about how many other women over hundreds of years have gone through the same thing and are just completely broken afterwards and no one understands why. The man took something from her that she did not want to give and society treats it as if he didn't really do anything wrong. They justify it and say things like, maybe she gave off the wrong signals or put herself in a bad situation. It's just horrible.**SPOILERS OVER**BOTTOM LINE: This is not a cheerful book. Every time Tess’ situation improves, heartache is just around the corner. But Hardy deals with it in such a raw and personal way that it is relevant even a century later. His writing transcends the subject matter and I’ve learned that I’ll read whatever he’s written. ** My Penguin Clothbound Classic edition discusses the different versions of the novel that were released. The original release presented a much harsher version of Hardy. Apparently he toned it down and made him more appealing in later versions, which is interesting. “‘I shouldn’t mind learning 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.’”“The beauty or ugliness of a character lay not only in its achievements, but in its aims and impulses; its true history lay, not among things done, but among things willed.”

[colereadsbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Tess of the D’Ubervilles is a beautiful, haunting masterpiece.When Tess’s family fall on hard times, Tess is forced to go and see family she has never heard of before – the well off D’Ubervilles. On arriving she is met with Alec D’Uberville, the man who will be her downfall. After losing her child to illness, Tess receives employment as a milkmaid, and falls in love with Angel Clare, but will Tess be able to tell him about the dark past that she has so long kept secret? And if the truth is revealed, will Angel Clare still feel the same way?I absolutely loved this book. I’m actually sad that I haven’t read it before. I read if for classes, but so many of my classmates had read it before, and I envied being able to read it without studying it. It’s such a beautiful book with such an immense plot. I kept having to put it down and come back to it, purely so I could give myself time to process what I’d read. Hardy has that ability to describe something in detail, pages covering the same thing, but it’s never repetitious and it’s never boring.Tess of the D’Ubervilles is famous for being scandalous and shocking when it was first published, and I can see why. Though not really shocking to us now, I can imagine the horror at a story of women with a child out of marriage, and the idea of concealing that child from her suitor. Hardy certainly has a lot to say about social conventions and the way women were treated at that time.I think Tess is a really fascinating character, she’s strong willed, stubborn and utterly loyal. She makes lots of mistakes throughout the story – and more often than not she pays the price for them. Her story is an immensely sad one. She is a survivor, continuing on even when her life seems the most hopeless.No matter what I write about Tess of the D’Ubervilles, this review will be woefully understating how wonderful this novel is (but that’s not going to stop me trying!) The language in the novel is beautiful and poetic, and I loved the descriptions of nature. Tess is closely linked to nature throughout the plot – something I found particularly interesting. She is seen as almost part of nature herself, a pure, earthy country girl.It’s a very bleak and depressing story, but it is definitely worth reading. This was my first outing in the novels of Thomas Hardy – although I am told The Mayor of Casterbridge is by far his best novel, I really enjoyed Tess of the D’Ubervilles and all its wonderful comments on society.

[amilofinn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Tess is a lovely girl; beautiful, sweet, sensitive and soft. I loved Tess when I first encountered her as a teenager, when I studied Thomas Hardy's novel for my English A'level. Hardy brings Tess and her world to life with such rich, sumptuous detail. I found reading it a mesmerising experience. I wasn't sure who I hated most, of the men in love with Tess, Angel or Alec. They both were unable to appreciate and love her for what she was. They seemed to be intent on destroying her in some way. Tess rose above being a helpless victim, in quite a horrible way, but I was always on her side and had great understanding and sympathy for her.

[jd234512 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Quite the phenomenal book. This was the first book that I have read by Thomas Hardy and it leads me to believe that his other stuff should be well worth my time to pick up. The story in this was phenomenal as well as the pace and way in which he carries the story along as far as the detail used. It was quite brilliant and very refreshing to read. It seems to go well with this time of year(fall), which was a fortunate coincidence.

[literati238 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This has always been a favourite of mine. The social machinations that drive Tess are incredible and so solidly Victorian! Hardy is keen in his sense of detail and tells a very beautiful story here.

[eleanor_eader · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I deeply prefer the morbid foreshadowing and brutal cynicism of 'Jude' to 'Tess'... never has reading a novel felt so exactly like being stifled by passive tragic heroine bosoms. I think my copy of this book actually removes air from any given room. Accordingly, I keep it in a closet.

[obsidianpeach · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Truthfully, I found the book really hard to take. It's a terribly depressing novel, and the idea that this is what happens to a 'pure' maiden is really disconcerting, especially since Hardy's intentions were for it to be a very realistic depiction of a woman. Seriously -- everything unfortunate that can happen to someone happens to Tess.

[littlebookworm_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I felt so sorry for Tess; she simply could not resist so many things, and no one supported her the way they should have. So many bad things happen to her that it's impossible not to feel for her, especially as most of them are not her fault. Her flaw perhaps is in caring too much for others in addition to the cruelties of fate, and this tragically leads to her end. This book is very Victorian in its depiction of women and how they are completely the property of men -- even in their own hearts. Not a modern viewpoint, but fascinating nonetheless.Hardy's writing, as ever, is beautiful and poignant, and to me enjoyable regardless of the tale he tells. Only rated four stars for its sheer depressing nature, but highly worth a read anyway.

[lauralkeet · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was surprised how much I liked this book. Thomas Hardy tells a tragic story of a young Victorian woman who is truly a victim of both her society, and a few people who hold influence over her. I thought the book would be a difficult and depressing read, and yet, even though I knew this to be a tragedy, I found myself immersed in the story and rooting for Tess the entire time. At the beginning of the book, Tess Durbeyfield's father learns he is descended from a great family known as D'Urberville, and sends the 16-year-old Tess off to meet a branch of the D'Urbervilles living nearby. Her parents hope she will make a good match and better their social status and economic prospects. Alec D'Urberville is smitten with Tess, but seduces her and treats her cruelly. Tess returns home having disappointed her parents. Later she makes her way as an agricultural worker, meets Angel Clare, and falls deeply in love. As the son of an evangelical preacher, Angel has his own "issues," which get in the way of their relationship. As a Victorian woman, Tess is largely dependent on others: her parents, the landowners she works for, and men she hopes will bring her happiness and security. She is thwarted at every turn. In many cases, Tess is part of her own undoing through her naivete and submission to male figures. And at the same time she is a strong figure, persistent in the face of adversity and able to take a single, decisive action when she has finally had enough. I will remember Tess for a long time.

[surreality_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Plot: The life story of a woman in Victorian England. Good pacing, though some of the gaps are felt. Quite straightforward narration with practically no side plots, easy to follow. Excellent ending - it's rare to find something like this. Characters: From a modern point of view, Tess makes me want to tear my hair out. Passive suffering heroines are hard to take at times, and she beats most of the competition by lengths. It's strange to see her impressions of other characters differ greatly from how they come across for the reader. Characterization overall is thorough, with the men generally getting more attention than the women.Style: Lots of description, often in very slow-moving prose. Dialogue can require a lot of attention when it comes in dialect. Generally the plot and characterization get smothered in the writing style, which detracts from the overall impact. There are just too many words sometimes.Plus: The ending. The depiction of rural society. Minus: Tess's naivete. The writing style. Summary: Great book, but the language doesn't do the plot any favours.

[ostrom_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's a well written piece of fiction, but oh, after reading it, one thirsts for a book with a happy ending.

[clurb · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It took me forever and a day to get stuck into this one. Tess' discovery of her aristocratic ancestry sparks a chain of misfortune and disaster which leads to her tragic downfall. Knowing the basics of the plot, I wasn't expecting sunshine and happiness from this book, but I was struck repeatedly at just how downright miserable Hardy is. My annoyance at Tess and the other female characters for their weakness and dependence came second only to my anger at the two male protagonists for their piggishness and idiocy. It wasn't until about half way through the story that I got properly hooked, but any book that can make me tut and sigh audibly, as this one did, could be considered a good read.

[thekoolaidmom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have read this novel twice in my life. The first time as an impressionable teenage girl, the second as a thirty-something single mother. It was two different books! First read from a romantic, naive point of view, I thought sorrow and heartache was romantic. Reading it a second time from a realist, possibly cynical, point of view, I saw it as sad and universal of all women.In life we, as women, have all been Tess. We have our Angel Claire's, our idealized perfect mate, but he almost always turns out to be Alec, the reality of men. When going into relationships, we see our lover as light and pure, our inspiration, even our very breath. However, when reality sets in, though, he turns out to be every bit a man as an ex. He is self-serving, not altruistic. He disregards our needs and desires to pursue his own wants and lusts. And often we are powerless against him. One particular line comes to mind: Tess's response to one of Alec's advances is "Once a victim, always a victim! That's the law, isn't it?"It's a good book, and a classic view of life in the 19th century, particularly the injustice towards woman and lower classes. I would not reccommend it to under 18 readers, though.

[adb42 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

That just couldn't end well, could it? Quite a gloomy novel, well written as per usual with Hardy.

[soliloquies · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Least favourite of Hardy's books - hated it the first time I read it and then had to dissect it for college and hated it more. Poor old Tess, you want to reach into the book and shake her. Hardy's writing suffers in comparison to his other works - it just progresses into misery and depression.

[stouthearted_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is definitive Hardy: Verbose and pastoral, with highly-detailed descriptions of the scenery that make the setting as important a character as the characters themselves.Tess is all innocence, vulnerability, and well-meaning ignorance. Decended from a now-impoverished line of a noble family, she and her family are resigned to a life of hard work. Her life is thrown into upheveal when she becomes the pawn of two rich men: Alex, with bad intentions, and Angel, with good. No matter what their intentions, their meddling sends Tess to her downfall. She overcomes seduction, or rape, depending upon your interpretation of the scene, only to suffer the hypocrisy of the man she loves, who cannot forgive her for having the audacity to be forced upon. Classism clashes with the reality of the poor working woman's life. Injustice is a major theme, and Hardy spends much time on bringing home the point that Tess, though not a bad person, is constantly outcast as a sinner. If this all sounds familiar, think of its American counterpart ``The Scarlet Letter." But while Hester Prynne wears the symbol of her sin on her breast, Tess carries her shame inside of her, only to cause a furor when she confesses under the innocent delusion that Angel will forgive her. With Hester's sin exposed, society can gradually adjust ot the idea of her disturbing presence. Tess's sin confessed disrupts the illusions of her innocence, causing her to be rejected in an impulsive burst of hypocrisy, immaturity, and vengefulness. In fact, we can judge the morality of the characters by the way they treat Tess.The book is rife with symbolism, a dream for English majors bent on interpreation. Those simply reading for fun may be put off by Hardy's wordiness. He often says thirty words when five will do, but this is all part of his distinguishing style. If you're the type to get lost in words, Hardy is an excellent choice of an author.