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.

As he walks home to the village of Marlott, John Durbeyfield, a middle-aged man, meets Parson Tringham, who greets him as "Sir John. When Durbeyfield asks the parson why he greets him in this manner, he answers that he recently learned that he is from the d'Urberville lineage, descended from Sir Pagan d'Urberville who fought with William the Conqueror. He tells Durbeyfield that if knighthood were hereditary, he would be Sir John. The d'Urberville family is now extinct, and the parson thinks of this only as demonstrating how the mighty have fallen.

In the first chapter of the novel, Thomas Hardy introduces several of the themes that will be important throughout the course of the story. This chapter centers on the unpredictability of fate: the d'Urberville legacy demonstrates how, as Parson Tringham notes, the mighty have fallen' through mere bad fortune and missed opportunities. The very telling of the story itself to John Durbeyfield, the event that provides the narrative engine for the novel, is itself a chance encounter resting entirely upon Parson Tringham's idea to make a sly comment to Durbeyfield. The second important theme of the novel is the importance of class within English society. John Durbeyfield believes himself changed by the idea that he may be the descendant of the noble Pagan d'Urberville, even though there is nothing intrinsically different about him. Class in this novel confers certain distinctions that Durbeyfield and his daughter will attempt to exploit

The novel opens on the road: a "middle-aged man" is walking home from Shaston to Marlott . The time is evening in late May, and the year is sometime in the late nineteenth century. The man passes an elderly parson . The man says "Goodnight t'ye" politely, and the parson responds, "Good night, Sir John." This puzzles the man--apparently the parson has passed him on the road twice in the last month, and has called him "Sir John" on both occasions. He asks the parson what he means by it, when he's not "Sir John," but only "plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler" . The parson hesitates before explaining himself. He says that he is Parson Tringham, and that he is an antiquary , and that he had discovered recently that Durbeyfield was the "direct lineal representative" of the ancient, aristocratic family of the D'Urbervilles, and that his ancestor, Sir Pagan D'Urberville, came to England from Normandy with William the Conqueror . Let's break for a Historical Context Lesson: It's important for you to understand the history here, because Jack Durbeyfield so often gets it wrong: the current line of kings and queens in England descends directly from King William I, who is often referred to as William the Conqueror. He was a Duke in the northern region of France called Normandy and, for various reasons, felt that he had a claim to the throne of England. Never mind that England already had a king at that point . So William set off across the English Channel with a group of knights and their armies, and in the great Battle of Hastings in 1066, they conquered the Saxons in England, and Harold died in battle with an arrow in his eyeball . So the French Normans became the rulers of England from that time forward. For a long time, the ruling class in England spoke French, and the peasants and lower classes spoke old English--they had a hard time communicating with each other. After a while, the two languages kind of merged. But many of the Norman, or French-sounding names, lived on in the aristocratic families that descended from William the Conqueror's knights, and their names were recorded in a list called the "Abbey Roll," which Parson Tringham refers to here. If you've read Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, for example, you'll remember that Darcy's snobby aunt's name is "Lady Catherine De Bourg"--a very French, and therefore very "old-money," kind of aristocratic name. In the context of Tess of the D'Urbervilles, D'Urberville is most certainly a French-sounding name, while "Durbeyfield" sounds more English, and therefore more common and less aristocratic . Now, back to the story: Jack Durbeyfield has never heard any of this before, and he's very interested. Parson Tringham goes on to tell him the history of his family in brief--although his family is now debased, there have been "generations of Sir Johns among you, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy you would be Sir John now" . Another quick historical side note, again: Jack Durbeyfield can't quite get his head around this. Knights, as you know, are called "Sir whoever." So are baronets, who are below dukes and earls and such on the social ladder, and just above knights. But knights can't pass on their title to their sons--only baronets, dukes, earls, and other "hereditary" titles can do that. So, for example, Paul McCartney might be "Sir Paul McCartney," thanks to the Queen's appreciation of the Beatles, but he can't pass the title on to his children. Jack Durbeyfield doesn't quite understand all this. He seems to think that because his ancestors were knights, he just needs to get his name to the right people to become recognized as "Sir John" himself. Back to our story: The parson explains that no one else knows anything about Jack Durbeyfield's connection to the noble family of D'Urberville, because the D'Urbervilles have all but died out--they no longer have a family estate anywhere in England. Jack reflects that he remembers hearing his father and grandfather say that their family had known better times, but he had assumed that that only meant that they used to keep two horses, instead of just one. They also have a "graven seal" and an old silver spoon in the family The parson concludes by informing Jack Durbeyfield that his ancestors are buried in a little place called "Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill." Jack Durbeyfield is eager to know whether his family might ever rise to power again. The parson doesn't know, of course. Jack asks what he should do about it--the parson says he shouldn't do anything, and closes their conversation with the cliche about "how the mighty have fallen." Jack offers the parson a quart of beer "on the strength of it" at the local pub . The parson declines and rides on, reflecting that he probably shouldn't have told Jack Durbeyfield about his aristocratic connections. Jack sits under a tree to daydream until a young man walks by. Jack calls to him, and the young man hurries over, rather displeased that Jack called him "boy" in such a patronizing way. Jack explains that he's just discovered that he's of noble blood, and that he is actually "Sir John D'Urberville." He tells the young man, whose name is Fred, to take his basket and run into town to send a horse and carriage to carry him home, and then to run to his house to tell Mrs. Durbeyfield that he has something important to tell her. Fred seems hesitant, until Jack Durbeyfield gives him a shilling for his trouble. Just before Fred leaves "Sir John" on his errand, Jack hears some music over the hills, and asks what it is. Fred reminds him that it's the "women's club-walking," and that Durbeyfield's own daughter is one of the members. Then Fred leaves, and Durbeyfield stays lying in the grass, listening to the music.

CHAPTER 1 Summary The novel begins with John Durbeyfield, the poor and lazy father of Tess, walking towards his home in Marlott. He is greeted by the elderly parson Trigham and is addressed as "Sir John". He is very excited to learn from the parson that his ancestors came from the elite family of D'Urbervilles. He takes this revelation seriously, ignoring the information that the family no longer has fame or wealth, and demands to be called Sir. Feeling aristocratic, John also orders a carriage to take him home. Notes The first chapter introduces the readers to John, a poor, lazy peddler who begins to act crazily when he learns that he is descended from an elite family. Hardy foreshadows, in this opening chapter, that things will change for the Durbeyfields  as a result of the D'Urbervilles. Unfortunately, the change is not a positive one as John expects, but a tragic one that destroys the life of an innocent young lady. Hardy, in depicting John's behavior in this chapter, is poking fun at human beings who hear what they want to hear and act crazily when they try to be something that they really are not


The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the
beautiful Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an engirdled
and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or
landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London.

It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the
summits of the hills that surround it--except perhaps during the
droughts of summer.  An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad
weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous,
and miry ways.

This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are
never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the
bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill,
Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down.  The
traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score
of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches
the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted
to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing
absolutely from that which he has passed through.  Behind him the
hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give
an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the
hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless.  Here, in the
valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more
delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from
this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads
overspreading the paler green of the grass.  The atmosphere beneath
is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the
middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond
is of the deepest ultramarine.  Arable lands are few and limited;
with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass
and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major.  Such is
the Vale of Blackmoor.

The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest.
The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from
a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by
a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king
had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine.
In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was
densely wooded.  Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be
found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet
survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so
many of its pastures.

The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades
remain.  Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised
form.  The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on
the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or
"club-walking," as it was there called.

It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott,
though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the
ceremony.  Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of
walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the
members being solely women.  In men's clubs such celebrations were,
though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the
softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives,
had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) or this
their glory and consummation.  The club of Marlott alone lived to
uphold the local Cerealia.  It had walked for hundreds of years, if
not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked
still.

The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from
Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms--days
before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a
monotonous average.  Their first exhibition of themselves was in a
processional march of two and two round the parish.  Ideal and real
clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green
hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop
wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them.  Some
approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the
older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year)
inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style.

In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl
carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a
bunch of white flowers.  The peeling of the former, and the selection
of the latter, had been an operation of personal care.

There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train,
their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and
trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance
in such a jaunty situation.  In a true view, perhaps, there was more
to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom
the years were drawing nigh when she should say, "I have no pleasure
in them," than of her juvenile comrades.  But let the elder be passed
over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and
warm.

The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their
heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold,
and black, and brown.  Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful
nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all.  A
difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public
scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate
self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and
showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many
eyes.

And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each
had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some
affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which,
though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will.
They were all cheerful, and many of them merry.

They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the
high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of
the women said--

"The Load-a-Lord!  Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father
riding hwome in a carriage!"

A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation.
She was a fine and handsome girl--not handsomer than some others,
possibly--but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added
eloquence to colour and shape.  She wore a red ribbon in her hair,
and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such
a pronounced adornment.  As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen
moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven
by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above
her elbows.  This was the cheerful servant of that establishment,
who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times.
Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was
waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative--

"I've-got-a-gr't-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and
knighted-forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there!"

The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess--in whom a slow
heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself
foolish in their eyes.

"He's tired, that's all," she said hastily, "and he has got a lift
home, because our own horse has to rest to-day."

"Bless thy simplicity, Tess," said her companions.  "He's got his
market-nitch.  Haw-haw!"

"Look here; I won't walk another inch with you, if you say any jokes
about him!" Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over
her face and neck.  In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance
drooped to the ground.  Perceiving that they had really pained her
they said no more, and order again prevailed.  Tess's pride would not
allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning
was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the
enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green.  By the time
the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her
neighbour with her wand and talked as usual.

Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of
emotion untinctured by experience.  The dialect was on her tongue
to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic
intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing
approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an
utterance as any to be found in human speech.  The pouted-up deep red
mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled
into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the
middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word.

Phases of her childhood lurked in her aspect still.  As she walked
along to-day, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could
sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling
from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her
mouth now and then.

Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this.  A small minority,
mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and
grow momentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they
would ever see her again: but to almost everybody she was a fine and
picturesque country girl, and no more.

Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal
chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and the club having
entered the allotted space, dancing began.  As there were no men in
the company, the girls danced at first with each other, but when the
hour for the close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of
the village, together with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered
round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner.

Among these on-lookers were three young men of a superior class,
carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout
sticks in their hands.  Their general likeness to each other, and
their consecutive ages, would almost have suggested that they might
be, what in fact they were, brothers.  The eldest wore the white tie,
high waistcoat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate; the
second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and
youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there
was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying
that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional
groove.  That he was a desultory tentative student of something and
everything might only have been predicted of him.

These three brethren told casual acquaintance that they were spending
their Whitsun holidays in a walking tour through the Vale of
Blackmoor, their course being south-westerly from the town of Shaston
on the north-east.

They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the
meaning of the dance and the white-frocked maids.  The two elder of
the brothers were plainly not intending to linger more than a moment,
but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners
seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on.  He
unstrapped his knapsack, put it, with his stick, on the hedge-bank,
and opened the gate.

"What are you going to do, Angel?" asked the eldest.

"I am inclined to go and have a fling with them.  Why not all of
us--just for a minute or two--it will not detain us long?"

"No--no; nonsense!" said the first.  "Dancing in public with a troop
of country hoydens--suppose we should be seen!  Come along, or it
will be dark before we get to Stourcastle, and there's no place we
can sleep at nearer than that; besides, we must get through another
chapter of _A Counterblast to Agnosticism_ before we turn in, now I
have taken the trouble to bring the book."

"All right--I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes; don't
stop; I give my word that I will, Felix."

The two elder reluctantly left him and walked on, taking their
brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the youngest
entered the field.

"This is a thousand pities," he said gallantly, to two or three of
the girls nearest him, as soon as there was a pause in the dance.
"Where are your partners, my dears?"

"They've not left off work yet," answered one of the boldest.
"They'll be here by and by.  Till then, will you be one, sir?"

"Certainly.  But what's one among so many!"

"Better than none.  'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one
of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all.  Now, pick and
choose."

"'Ssh--don't be so for'ard!" said a shyer girl.

The young man, thus invited, glanced them over, and attempted some
discrimination; but, as the group were all so new to him, he could
not very well exercise it.  He took almost the first that came to
hand, which was not the speaker, as she had expected; nor did it
happen to be Tess Durbeyfield.  Pedigree, ancestral skeletons,
monumental record, the d'Urberville lineaments, did not help Tess in
her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attracting to her a
dancing-partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry.  So much
for Norman blood unaided by Victorian lucre.

The name of the eclipsing girl, whatever it was, has not been handed
down; but she was envied by all as the first who enjoyed the luxury
of a masculine partner that evening.  Yet such was the force of
example that the village young men, who had not hastened to enter
the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly,
and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youth to a marked
extent, till at length the plainest woman in the club was no longer
compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure.

The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must
leave--he had been forgetting himself--he had to join his companions.
As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield,
whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of
reproach that he had not chosen her.  He, too, was sorry then that,
owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in
his mind he left the pasture.

On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane
westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise.
He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath,
and looked back.  He could see the white figures of the girls in the
green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among
them.  They seemed to have quite forgotten him already.

All of them, except, perhaps, one.  This white shape stood apart
by the hedge alone.  From her position he knew it to be the pretty
maiden with whom he had not danced.  Trifling as the matter was, he
yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight.  He wished
that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name.  She
was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin
white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly.

However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to
a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind.

Durbeyfield was returning home during the May Day dance in which the younger women of Marlott walked in procession in white gowns, holding willow wands and white flowers. Among the girls is Tess Durbeyfield, the daughter of John. Tess is no more handsome than the other girls, but has large, innocent eyes. She sees her father riding in a carriage singing that he has a great family vault in Kingsbere and knighted forefathers. Tess reprimands her friends for mocking her father. At this time Tess is a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. She still has the local dialect, but also can affect more educated speech. Three young onlookers of superior class watch the women in the procession. The three are brothers and consider asking the women to dance. Angel does not dance with Tess Durbeyfield, but among the girls he notices her the most and wishes that he asked her to dance, for she was so modest and soft.

Tess Durbeyfield, the titular character of the novel, is in this chapter introduced as an innocent, malleable and pure. As a member of the May Day procession, adorned in white, she symbolizes purity and virginity, while her physical characteristics equally suggest her innocence. Hardy suggests that this purity comes from lack of experience, foreshadowing her later development as a person and a character once she is exposed to different and more dangerous forces. However, despite this innocence and essential purity Tess is not a mere cipher: she does defend her father, confronting the other girls in the procession who disparage him. Angel is an equal symbol of purity and goodness, as shown by his name and his demeanor. He immediately realizes that Tess is special because of her innocence. Hardy also develops the issues of class introduced in the first chapter. Tess Durbeyfield comes from a lower class background, but she can affect a higher position because of her education. This fluidity of her class background will prove significant throughout the novel, for she can move from the upper to the lower classes

The chapter opens with a description of the "Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor" , where the village of Marlott is situated. The narrator gives us a historical, as well as a geographical and topographical, description of the area. Apparently the valley used to be covered by an ancient forest, most of which has since been cleared for farming, but occasional bits of the ancient woods survive here and there. The ancient customs associated with the forest still survive in the valley in some form or another. The May-Day dance survives in the form of the club-walking mentioned in the previous chapter. The club-walkers are all women, because the custom is a holdover from the ancient festival to the earth goddess, which was traditionally celebrated by women. The group includes women of all ages, from teenagers to old women, but the majority of them are young. The women are parading around the outskirts of the town as part of the celebration. As they pass the Pure Drop Inn , one of the women points out Jack Durbeyfield riding home in a carriage to his daughter, Tess. Tess is described for the first time: she's a very pretty girl, wearing white like the others, but with a red ribbon in her hair. Jack Durbeyfield is reclining in the carriage, waving to anyone who happens to be watching him, chanting, "I've-got-a-great-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and-knighted-fore-fathers-in-lead-coffins-there!" . Tess is understandably embarrassed by her father's behavior, and tries to excuse it to her friends by saying that he must have gotten a ride home because he was tired. Her friends laugh and say that he got a ride home because he was drunk . Tess is hurt by their snide remarks, and they feel bad and leave her alone about it. Jack Durbeyfield rides on, and no one sees anything more of him. The women arrive at the open space where they dance at the end of the parade, but at first dance only with each other, since most of the local men are still working. A few random passers-by gather around and think about joining in the dance. Three of these are a group of brothers "of a superior class," who are on a walking tour of the valley . They watch the women dancing, and ask a few of the other spectators what the festival is. The older two brothers are ready to move on, but the youngest seems amused at the group of women dancing without male partners, and starts to enter the field. His brothers ask him what he's doing--his name is "Angel." Angel says he's going to join them for a moment, and suggests that his brothers do likewise. They aren't interested--they want to keep going so that they'll make it to their next stop before dark, and one of the brothers particularly wants to leave time to read the next chapter of the book he brought with him: A Counterblast to Agnosticism. Angel says he'll catch up with his brothers--they're named Felix and Cuthbert--after a quick dance. They agree, and leave the spot. Angel is quickly approached by one of the boldest of the young women--she tells him that the young men of the village haven't arrived yet, and that he would be welcome to pick and choose from among the women there until the village men arrive. Angel is overwhelmed by the choices, and picks almost the first pretty girl he sees. It isn't Tess. Other young men from the village arrive soon afterwards, and start dancing with other women, but Tess's feelings are hurt by the strange young man's neglect. As Angel leaves to catch up with his brothers, he looks back and sees Tess standing a little apart from the rest of the group, looking sad. She looks so lovely and so reproachful, that he regrets not having danced with her or at least having asked her name. But Angel can't help it now, and so moves on to catch up with his brothers.

CHAPTER 2 Summary In the village of Marlott, preparations are being made for the May- Day Dance, which is about to begin. Every girl in this dance is to wear a white dress and carry a peeled willow wand in her right hand and a bunch of white flowers in her left hand. John's daughter, Tess, is a participant in the dance. Angel Clare, who comes to the dance as he passes through the village with his two brothers, regrets that he has not chosen Tess, who is quite pretty, as his dancing partner. He also notices that she is watching him. Notes In this chapter, Hardy depicts the simple pleasure of country life at the May-Day Dance. All of the young ladies have dressed in white and carry willow wands and white flowers, a picture of purity. But there seems to be a longing for something more. They want to appear more elegant than their poor working class background permits. Each of the girls is also attracted to Angel Clare, who is obviously of a higher class and whose manners are much better than those of the Marlott boys. When Angel dances with one of the girls, all of the others envy her, including Tess. In fact, she experiences her first pangs of heartache due to Angel. This simple heartache foreshadows the true heartbreak that Tess will feel later when Angel deserts her


As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident
from her consideration.  She had no spirit to dance again for a long
time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did
not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done.  It was not
till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating
figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and
answered her would-be partner in the affirmative.

She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a
certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she
enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining
when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing
pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been
wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind.  The
struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an
amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked
them.

She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's
odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her
anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from
the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at
which the parental cottage lay.

While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she
had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so
well.  They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of
the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone
floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a
vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"--

   I saw her lie do'-own in yon'-der green gro'-ove;
        Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!'

The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a
moment, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the
place of the melody.

"God bless thy diment eyes!  And thy waxen cheeks!  And thy cherry
mouth!  And thy Cubit's thighs!  And every bit o' thy blessed body!"

After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence,
and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before.  So matters stood when Tess
opened the door and paused upon the mat within it, surveying the
scene.

The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses
with an unspeakable dreariness.  From the holiday gaieties of the
field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling
movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the
stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle,
what a step!  Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill
self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother
in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors.

There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left
her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always,
lingered on to the end of the week.  Out of that tub had come the day
before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white
frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the
skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her
mother's own hands.

As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub,
the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her
youngest child.  The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many
years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor,
that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk
accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to
side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her
song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after
a long day's seething in the suds.

Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched
itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from
the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the
verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while.  Even now,
when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate
lover of tune.  No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer
world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week.

There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of
the freshness, and even the prettiness, of her youth; rendering it
probable that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in
main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical.

"I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother," said the daughter gently.
"Or I'll take off my best frock and help you wring up?  I thought you
had finished long ago."

Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the housework to her
single-handed efforts for so long; indeed, Joan seldom upbraided
her thereon at any time, feeling but slightly the lack of Tess's
assistance whilst her instinctive plan for relieving herself of her
labours lay in postponing them.  To-night, however, she was even in a
blither mood than usual.  There was a dreaminess, a pre-occupation,
an exaltation, in the maternal look which the girl could not
understand.

"Well, I'm glad you've come," her mother said, as soon as the last
note had passed out of her.  "I want to go and fetch your father;
but what's more'n that, I want to tell 'ee what have happened.  Y'll
be fess enough, my poppet, when th'st know!"  (Mrs Durbeyfield
habitually spoke the dialect; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth
Standard in the National School under a London-trained mistress,
spoke two languages: the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary
English abroad and to persons of quality.)

"Since I've been away?" Tess asked.

"Ay!"

"Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself
in thik carriage this afternoon?  Why did 'er?  I felt inclined to
sink into the ground with shame!"

"That wer all a part of the larry!  We've been found to be the
greatest gentlefolk in the whole county--reaching all back long
before Oliver Grumble's time--to the days of the Pagan Turks--with
monuments, and vaults, and crests, and 'scutcheons, and the Lord
knows what all.  In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights o' the
Royal Oak, our real name being d'Urberville! ...  Don't that make
your bosom plim?  'Twas on this account that your father rode home
in the vlee; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed."

"I'm glad of that.  Will it do us any good, mother?"

"O yes!  'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't.  No doubt a
mampus of volk of our own rank will be down here in their carriages
as soon as 'tis known.  Your father learnt it on his way hwome
from Shaston, and he has been telling me the whole pedigree of the
matter."

"Where is father now?" asked Tess suddenly.

Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer: "He called
to see the doctor to-day in Shaston.  It is not consumption at all,
it seems.  It is fat round his heart, 'a says.  There, it is like
this."  Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb
and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other
forefinger as a pointer.  "'At the present moment,' he says to your
father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round
there; this space is still open,' 'a says.  'As soon as it do
meet, so,'"--Mrs Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle
complete--"'off you will go like a shadder, Mr Durbeyfield,' 'a says.
'You mid last ten years; you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.'"

Tess looked alarmed.  Her father possibly to go behind the eternal
cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness!

"But where IS father?" she asked again.

Her mother put on a deprecating look.  "Now don't you be bursting out
angry!  The poor man--he felt so rafted after his uplifting by the
pa'son's news--that he went up to Rolliver's half an hour ago.  He do
want to get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load
of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no.  He'll have to
start shortly after twelve to-night, as the distance is so long."

"Get up his strength!" said Tess impetuously, the tears welling to
her eyes.  "O my God!  Go to a public-house to get up his strength!
And you as well agreed as he, mother!"

Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart
a cowed look to the furniture, and candle, and children playing
about, and to her mother's face.

"No," said the latter touchily, "I be not agreed.  I have been
waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go fetch him."

"I'll go."

"O no, Tess.  You see, it would be no use."

Tess did not expostulate.  She knew what her mother's objection
meant.  Mrs Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging
slily upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated
jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its
necessity.

"And take the _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ to the outhouse," Joan
continued, rapidly wiping her hands, and donning the garments.

The _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ was an old thick volume, which lay on a
table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached
the edge of the type.  Tess took it up, and her mother started.

This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of
Mrs Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments in the muck and muddle of
rearing children.  To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for
an hour or two by his side and dismiss all thought and care of the
children during the interval, made her happy.  A sort of halo, an
occidental glow, came over life then.  Troubles and other realities
took on themselves a metaphysical impalpability, sinking to mere
mental phenomena for serene contemplation, and no longer stood as
pressing concretions which chafed body and soul.  The youngsters,
not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable
appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of daily life were not
without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there.  She felt a
little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now wedded husband
in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects
of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as
lover.

Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the
outhouse with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the
thatch.  A curious fetishistic fear of this grimy volume on the part
of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all
night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted.
Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of superstitions,
folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter,
with her trained National teachings and Standard knowledge under an
infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as
ordinarily understood.  When they were together the Jacobean and the
Victorian ages were juxtaposed.

Returning along the garden path Tess mused on what the mother could
have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day.  She
guessed the recent ancestral discovery to bear upon it, but did not
divine that it solely concerned herself.  Dismissing this, however,
she busied herself with sprinkling the linen dried during the
day-time, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her
sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, called "'Liza-Lu," the
youngest ones being put to bed.  There was an interval of four years
and more between Tess and the next of the family, the two who had
filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a
deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors.  Next
in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty; then
a boy of three, and then the baby, who had just completed his first
year.

All these young souls were passengers in the Durbeyfield
ship--entirely dependent on the judgement of the two Durbeyfield
adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even
their existence.  If the heads of the Durbeyfield household chose
to sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation,
death, thither were these half-dozen little captives under hatches
compelled to sail with them--six helpless creatures, who had never
been asked if they wished for life on any terms, much less if they
wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of
the shiftless house of Durbeyfield.  Some people would like to know
whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound
and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority
for speaking of "Nature's holy plan."

It grew later, and neither father nor mother reappeared.  Tess looked
out of the door, and took a mental journey through Marlott.  The
village was shutting its eyes.  Candles and lamps were being put
out everywhere: she could inwardly behold the extinguisher and the
extended hand.

Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch.  Tess began to
perceive that a man in indifferent health, who proposed to start on a
journey before one in the morning, ought not to be at an inn at this
late hour celebrating his ancient blood.

"Abraham," she said to her little brother, "do you put on your
hat--you bain't afraid?--and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has
gone wi' father and mother."

The boy jumped promptly from his seat, and opened the door, and the
night swallowed him up.  Half an hour passed yet again; neither man,
woman, nor child returned.  Abraham, like his parents, seemed to have
been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn.

"I must go myself," she said.

'Liza-Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on
her way up the dark and crooked lane or street not made for hasty
progress; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when
one-handed clocks sufficiently subdivided the day.

Tess remains with her comrades until dusk, thinking of the young man, Angel. When she arrives at home, she hears her mother singing as she rocks her youngest child to sleep. Mrs. Durbeyfield still has some of the freshness of youth, but it is faint. She speaks in the local dialect, and tells her daughter what John Durbeyfield learned that day. Mrs. Durbeyfield thinks that great things will come of this. She also tells Tess that John has fat around his heart, which could cause his death in ten years or ten days. He is now at Rolliver's, and wants to rest before his journey tomorrow with a load of beehives. Now that Tess is home, Joan Durbeyfield can go to Rolliver's to fetch her husband, but Joan herself does not return, so Tess sends her brother Abraham. Tess herself decides to go when Abraham does not return a half hour later.

This chapter serves to illustrate the Durbeyfield home life, one in which Joan Durbeyfield has little respite from her drudge work and little help from the rest of her family, particularly from her husband, who spends as much free time as possible at the local tavern. In fact, one of the few chances for enjoyment that Joan Durbeyfield has is the opportunity to fetch her husband from Rolliver's and assume a position of authority over John. However, despite her difficult life, Joan Durbeyfield is no a completely innocent victim; she proves herself as irresponsible as her husband, remaining at the bar when she means to take him away from it. Among the Durbeyfields, it is only Tess who remains committed and responsible; she alone has the sense of responsibility to know that her family must come home

Tess takes some time to dismiss the strange young man from her mind. Other men want to dance with her, but she's not in the mood anymore. After the stranger is out of sight, she's able to shake off her melancholy and dance again. She dances for a while, but she remembers her father's strange behavior, and gets worried, so she hurries home. She finds her mother at home with her younger siblings. Joan Durbeyfield, Tess's mother, is singing and rocking the baby's cradle with one foot, while balancing on the other foot and washing clothes in a tub . Mrs. Durbeyfield, the narrator tells us, has a knack for putting off her household work until the last minute, which makes it seem much harder and more of a pain than it needs to be. Sound like a familiar habit, anyone? Tess feels bad that she was out having fun all afternoon while her mother was at home doing the wash , so she offers to rock the baby or to help with the wash, after changing out of her best gown. Tess's mother is described as aging , but still fresh and pretty. Tess's mother explains to Tess about the discovery of their aristocratic family, and that he had taken the carriage home because of that, and not because he'd been drinking. Tess asks if the news will do them any good, and her mother says that great things might come of it. Tess then asks where her father is. Her mother avoids the question, telling Tess what the doctor had said about Jack Durbeyfield's heart. Apparently his heart is weakened and could go at any time. Tess is alarmed by the news, but asks again where her father is. Her mother admits that Jack Durbeyfield is at Rolliver's--a nearby pub--to "get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load of beehives," even though he'll have to be leaving before 1 a.m. to get the hives delivered on time . Tess is dismayed that her father would be so irresponsible, and that her mother must have agreed to his going. Her mother says that she didn't agree, but had to wait for Tess to come back to take care of the younger children while she went to fetch him back. Tess offers to go, but Mrs. Durbeyfield insists on going herself. The narrator informs us that Mrs. Durbeyfield enjoys "fetching her husband from Rolliver's," and that it's one of the few bits of fun she has still in her married life. At Rolliver's, she can pretend that she isn't responsible for seven children back home, and she can be as irresponsible as her husband. On her way out the door, she asks Tess to take the Complete Fortune-Teller to the outhouse. Tess wonders what her mother was consulting in the Complete Fortune-Teller, and guesses that it has something to do with the news about their family. She doesn't guess that it was how the news about their family would affect her in particular. Tess finishes doing the laundry, with help from her nine-year-old brother, Abraham, and her twelve-year-old sister, Eliza-Louisa , and put the youngest ones to bed. 'Liza-Lu is the next oldest sibling, but there's a four year difference between her and Tess . So the age difference makes Tess a kind of foster mother to her younger siblings when their mother is away. After 'Liza-Lu and Abraham there are two more girls, then a three-year-old boy, and then the one-year-old baby, making for a total of seven living children, besides the two that had died. That's a lot of children. Time goes by, and neither of her parents returns. Tess knows that her mother just wanted to join Jack Durbeyfield at the pub for a bit of fun, and that she never intended to fetch him right back. So Tess sends Abraham out to bring both parents home. But half an hour passed, and Abraham doesn't return, either. Tess realizes she must go herself. She locks up the house, and hurries down the "dark and crooked lane" towards Rolliver's.

CHAPTER 3 Summary This chapter has Tess rushing back home to check on her father after having seen his earlier peculiar behavior. She learns from her mother, Joan that her father's odd behavior is because of the D'Urberville connection and not due to excessive drinking. Her mother also tells Tess that her father has just learned he has a problem with his heart, and has gone to Rolliver's Inn to gather strength from drinking. Tess is upset that her mother has let him go and offers to go and bring him home. Joan says she wants to go out and will fetch John from the Inn. Tess is left to watch after her younger brothers and sisters. She also thinks about Angel Clare, the suave young man at the dance. When it grows late and her parents fail to return, she goes out to find them. Notes The readers are further introduced to the Durbeyfields. They are obviously a poor family lacking many basic amenities of life. The father is not very responsible, choosing to call a carriage in order to feel aristocratic and going to the Inn to gain strength from drinking. The mother is not much more intelligent or responsible. She is superstitious and often consults her fortune-telling book. She also goes to retrieve her husband and obviously stays at the Inn to drink with him. In contrast to her irresponsible parents, Tess is portrayed as loyal , concerned , and responsible. It is important to note that this entire chapter, set in the dark, somber house, is a complete contrast to the previous chapter where all is white, bright, gay, and elegant as the young ladies dance at the May-Day Dance. Throughout the book, Hardy will use such contrasts to develop his plot, mood, and theme


Rolliver's inn, the single alehouse at this end of the long and
broken village, could only boast of an off-licence; hence, as
nobody could legally drink on the premises, the amount of overt
accommodation for consumers was strictly limited to a little board
about six inches wide and two yards long, fixed to the garden palings
by pieces of wire, so as to form a ledge.  On this board thirsty
strangers deposited their cups as they stood in the road and drank,
and threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern of Polynesia,
and wished they could have a restful seat inside.

Thus the strangers.  But there were also local customers who felt the
same wish; and where there's a will there's a way.

In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was thickly
curtained with a great woollen shawl lately discarded by the
landlady, Mrs Rolliver, were gathered on this evening nearly a dozen
persons, all seeking beatitude; all old inhabitants of the nearer
end of Marlott, and frequenters of this retreat. Not only did the
distance to the The Pure Drop, the fully-licensed tavern at the
further part of the dispersed village, render its accommodation
practically unavailable for dwellers at this end; but the far more
serious question, the quality of the liquor, confirmed the prevalent
opinion that it was better to drink with Rolliver in a corner of the
housetop than with the other landlord in a wide house.

A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room afforded
sitting-space for several persons gathered round three of its sides;
a couple more men had elevated themselves on a chest of drawers;
another rested on the oak-carved "cwoffer"; two on the wash-stand;
another on the stool; and thus all were, somehow, seated at their
ease.  The stage of mental comfort to which they had arrived at this
hour was one wherein their souls expanded beyond their skins, and
spread their personalities warmly through the room.  In this process
the chamber and its furniture grew more and more dignified and
luxurious; the shawl hanging at the window took upon itself the
richness of tapestry; the brass handles of the chest of drawers were
as golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to have some
kinship with the magnificent pillars of Solomon's temple.

Mrs Durbeyfield, having quickly walked hitherward after parting from
Tess, opened the front door, crossed the downstairs room, which was
in deep gloom, and then unfastened the stair-door like one whose
fingers knew the tricks of the latches well.  Her ascent of the
crooked staircase was a slower process, and her face, as it rose into
the light above the last stair, encountered the gaze of all the party
assembled in the bedroom.

"--Being a few private friends I've asked in to keep up club-walking
at my own expense," the landlady exclaimed at the sound of footsteps,
as glibly as a child repeating the Catechism, while she peered over
the stairs.  "Oh, 'tis you, Mrs Durbeyfield--Lard--how you frightened
me!--I thought it might be some gaffer sent by Gover'ment."

Mrs Durbeyfield was welcomed with glances and nods by the remainder
of the conclave, and turned to where her husband sat.  He was humming
absently to himself, in a low tone: "I be as good as some folks here
and there!  I've got a great family vault at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill,
and finer skillentons than any man in Wessex!"

"I've something to tell 'ee that's come into my head about that--a
grand projick!" whispered his cheerful wife.  "Here, John, don't 'ee
see me?"  She nudged him, while he, looking through her as through a
window-pane, went on with his recitative.

"Hush!  Don't 'ee sing so loud, my good man," said the landlady; "in
case any member of the Gover'ment should be passing, and take away my
licends."

"He's told 'ee what's happened to us, I suppose?" asked Mrs
Durbeyfield.

"Yes--in a way.  D'ye think there's any money hanging by it?"

"Ah, that's the secret," said Joan Durbeyfield sagely.  "However,
'tis well to be kin to a coach, even if you don't ride in 'en."  She
dropped her public voice, and continued in a low tone to her husband:
"I've been thinking since you brought the news that there's a great
rich lady out by Trantridge, on the edge o' The Chase, of the name of
d'Urberville."

"Hey--what's that?" said Sir John.

She repeated the information.  "That lady must be our relation," she
said.  "And my projick is to send Tess to claim kin."

"There IS a lady of the name, now you mention it," said Durbeyfield.
"Pa'son Tringham didn't think of that.  But she's nothing beside
we--a junior branch of us, no doubt, hailing long since King Norman's
day."

While this question was being discussed neither of the pair noticed,
in their preoccupation, that little Abraham had crept into the room,
and was awaiting an opportunity of asking them to return.

"She is rich, and she'd be sure to take notice o' the maid,"
continued Mrs Durbeyfield; "and 'twill be a very good thing.  I don't
see why two branches o' one family should not be on visiting terms."

"Yes; and we'll all claim kin!" said Abraham brightly from under the
bedstead.  "And we'll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live
with her; and we'll ride in her coach and wear black clothes!"

"How do you come here, child?  What nonsense be ye talking!  Go away,
and play on the stairs till father and mother be ready! ...  Well,
Tess ought to go to this other member of our family.  She'd be sure
to win the lady--Tess would; and likely enough 'twould lead to some
noble gentleman marrying her.  In short, I know it."

"How?"

"I tried her fate in the _Fortune-Teller_, and it brought out that
very thing! ...  You should ha' seen how pretty she looked to-day;
her skin is as sumple as a duchess'."

"What says the maid herself to going?"

"I've not asked her.  She don't know there is any such lady-relation
yet.  But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage,
and she won't say nay to going."

"Tess is queer."

"But she's tractable at bottom.  Leave her to me."

Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import
reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that
the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common
folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine
prospects in store.

"Tess is a fine figure o' fun, as I said to myself to-day when I zeed
her vamping round parish with the rest," observed one of the elderly
boozers in an undertone.  "But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she
don't get green malt in floor."  It was a local phrase which had a
peculiar meaning, and there was no reply.

The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were
heard crossing the room below.

"--Being a few private friends asked in to-night to keep up
club-walking at my own expense."  The landlady had rapidly re-used
the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognized that
the newcomer was Tess.

Even to her mother's gaze the girl's young features looked sadly
out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as
no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a
reproachful flash from Tess's dark eyes needed to make her father
and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and
descend the stairs behind her, Mrs Rolliver's caution following
their footsteps.

"No noise, please, if ye'll be so good, my dears; or I mid lose my
licends, and be summons'd, and I don't know what all!  'Night t'ye!"

They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs
Durbeyfield the other.  He had, in truth, drunk very little--not a
fourth of the quantity which a systematic tippler could carry to
church on a Sunday afternoon without a hitch in his eastings or
genuflections; but the weakness of Sir John's constitution made
mountains of his petty sins in this kind.  On reaching the fresh
air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one
moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they
were marching to Bath--which produced a comical effect, frequent
enough in families on nocturnal homegoings; and, like most comical
effects, not quite so comic after all.  The two women valiantly
disguised these forced excursions and countermarches as well as they
could from Durbeyfield, their cause, and from Abraham, and from
themselves; and so they approached by degrees their own door, the
head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he
drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of
his present residence--

"I've got a fam--ily vault at Kingsbere!"

"Hush--don't be so silly, Jacky," said his wife.  "Yours is not the
only family that was of 'count in wold days.  Look at the Anktells,
and Horseys, and the Tringhams themselves--gone to seed a'most as
much as you--though you was bigger folks than they, that's true.
Thank God, I was never of no family, and have nothing to be ashamed
of in that way!"

"Don't you be so sure o' that.  From you nater 'tis my belief you've
disgraced yourselves more than any o' us, and was kings and queens
outright at one time."

Tess turned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her
own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry--"I am afraid
father won't be able to take the journey with the beehives to-morrow
so early."

"I? I shall be all right in an hour or two," said Durbeyfield.

It was eleven o'clock before the family were all in bed, and
two o'clock next morning was the latest hour for starting with
the beehives if they were to be delivered to the retailers in
Casterbridge before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying
by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and
the horse and waggon being of the slowest.  At half-past one Mrs
Durbeyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her
little brothers and sisters slept.

"The poor man can't go," she said to her eldest daughter, whose great
eyes had opened the moment her mother's hand touched the door.

Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague interspace between a dream and
this information.

"But somebody must go," she replied.  "It is late for the hives
already.  Swarming will soon be over for the year; and it we put off
taking 'em till next week's market the call for 'em will be past, and
they'll be thrown on our hands."

Mrs Durbeyfield looked unequal to the emergency.  "Some young feller,
perhaps, would go?  One of them who were so much after dancing with
'ee yesterday," she presently suggested.

"O no--I wouldn't have it for the world!" declared Tess proudly.
"And letting everybody know the reason--such a thing to be ashamed
of!  I think _I_ could go if Abraham could go with me to kip me
company."

Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement.  Little Abraham was
aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of the same apartment, and
made to put on his clothes while still mentally in the other world.
Meanwhile Tess had hastily dressed herself; and the twain, lighting
a lantern, went out to the stable.  The rickety little waggon was
already laden, and the girl led out the horse, Prince, only a degree
less rickety than the vehicle.

The poor creature looked wonderingly round at the night, at the
lantern, at their two figures, as if he could not believe that at
that hour, when every living thing was intended to be in shelter and
at rest, he was called upon to go out and labour.  They put a stock
of candle-ends into the lantern, hung the latter to the off-side of
the load, and directed the horse onward, walking at his shoulder at
first during the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload
an animal of so little vigour.  To cheer themselves as well as they
could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread
and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far
from come.  Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a
sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed
by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked
like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a
giant's head.

When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent
under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground.  Still
higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow, or Bealbarrow,
well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky,
engirdled by its earthen trenches.  From hereabout the long road was
fairly level for some distance onward.  They mounted in front of the
waggon, and Abraham grew reflective.

"Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence.

"Yes, Abraham."

"Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?"

"Not particular glad."

"But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?"

"What?" said Tess, lifting her face.

"That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman."

"I?  Our great relation?  We have no such relation.  What has put
that into your head?"

"I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find
father.  There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and
mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in
the way of marrying a gentleman."

His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering
silence.  Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance
than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no
account.  He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face
made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating
amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two
wisps of human life.  He asked how far away those twinklers were,
and whether God was on the other side of them.  But ever and anon
his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination
even more deeply than the wonders of creation.  If Tess were made
rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a
spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as
Nettlecombe-Tout?

The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole
family, filled Tess with impatience.

"Never mind that now!" she exclaimed.

"Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?"

"Yes."

"All like ours?"

"I don't know; but I think so.  They sometimes seem to be like the
apples on our stubbard-tree.  Most of them splendid and sound--a few
blighted."

"Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?"

"A blighted one."

"'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there
were so many more of 'em!"

"Yes."

"Is it like that REALLY, Tess?" said Abraham, turning to her much
impressed, on reconsideration of this rare information.  "How would
it have been if we had pitched on a sound one?"

"Well, father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does,
and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go on this journey; and mother
wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished."

"And you would have been a rich lady ready-made, and not have had to
be made rich by marrying a gentleman?"

"O Aby, don't--don't talk of that any more!"

Left to his reflections Abraham soon grew drowsy.  Tess was not
skilful in the management of a horse, but she thought that she could
take upon herself the entire conduct of the load for the present and
allow Abraham to go to sleep if he wished to do so.  She made him a
sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that he could
not fall, and, taking the reins into her own hands, jogged on as
before.

Prince required but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous
movements of any sort.  With no longer a companion to distract her,
Tess fell more deeply into reverie than ever, her back leaning
against the hives.  The mute procession past her shoulders of trees
and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes outside reality, and
the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad
soul, conterminous with the universe in space, and with history in
time.

Then, examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see
the vanity of her father's pride; the gentlemanly suitor awaiting
herself in her mother's fancy; to see him as a grimacing personage,
laughing at her poverty and her shrouded knightly ancestry.
Everything grew more and more extravagant, and she no longer knew how
time passed.  A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke
from the sleep into which she, too, had fallen.

They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness,
and the waggon had stopped.  A hollow groan, unlike anything she had
ever heard in her life, came from the front, followed by a shout of
"Hoi there!"

The lantern hanging at her waggon had gone out, but another was
shining in her face--much brighter than her own had been.  Something
terrible had happened.  The harness was entangled with an object
which blocked the way.

In consternation Tess jumped down, and discovered the dreadful truth.
The groan had proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince.  The
morning mail-cart, with its two noiseless wheels, speeding along
these lanes like an arrow, as it always did, had driven into her slow
and unlighted equipage.  The pointed shaft of the cart had entered
the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his
life's blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into
the road.

In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole,
with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with
the crimson drops.  Then she stood helplessly looking on.  Prince
also stood firm and motionless as long as he could; till he suddenly
sank down in a heap.

By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and began dragging and
unharnessing the hot form of Prince.  But he was already dead, and,
seeing that nothing more could be done immediately, the mail-cart man
returned to his own animal, which was uninjured.

"You was on the wrong side," he said.  "I am bound to go on with the
mail-bags, so that the best thing for you to do is bide here with
your load.  I'll send somebody to help you as soon as I can.  It is
getting daylight, and you have nothing to fear."

He mounted and sped on his way; while Tess stood and waited.  The
atmosphere turned pale, the birds shook themselves in the hedges,
arose, and twittered; the lane showed all its white features, and
Tess showed hers, still whiter.  The huge pool of blood in front of
her was already assuming the iridescence of coagulation; and when the
sun rose a hundred prismatic hues were reflected from it.  Prince lay
alongside, still and stark; his eyes half open, the hole in his chest
looking scarcely large enough to have let out all that had animated
him.

"'Tis all my doing--all mine!" the girl cried, gazing at the
spectacle.  "No excuse for me--none.  What will mother and father
live on now?  Aby, Aby!"  She shook the child, who had slept soundly
through the whole disaster.  "We can't go on with our load--Prince
is killed!"

When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years were
extemporized on his young face.

"Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday!" she went on to herself.
"To think that I was such a fool!"

"'Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't
it, Tess?" murmured Abraham through his tears.

In silence they waited through an interval which seemed endless.  At
length a sound, and an approaching object, proved to them that the
driver of the mail-car had been as good as his word.  A farmer's
man from near Stourcastle came up, leading a strong cob.  He was
harnessed to the waggon of beehives in the place of Prince, and the
load taken on towards Casterbridge.

The evening of the same day saw the empty waggon reach again the
spot of the accident.  Prince had lain there in the ditch since the
morning; but the place of the blood-pool was still visible in the
middle of the road, though scratched and scraped over by passing
vehicles.  All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into the
waggon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his
shoes shining in the setting sunlight, he retraced the eight or nine
miles to Marlott.

Tess had gone back earlier.  How to break the news was more than she
could think.  It was a relief to her tongue to find from the faces of
her parents that they already knew of their loss, though this did not
lessen the self-reproach which she continued to heap upon herself for
her negligence.

But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune
a less terrifying one to them than it would have been to a thriving
family, though in the present case it meant ruin, and in the other it
would only have meant inconvenience.  In the Durbeyfield countenances
there was nothing of the red wrath that would have burnt upon the
girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare.  Nobody blamed Tess
as she blamed herself.

When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a
very few shillings for Prince's carcase because of his decrepitude,
Durbeyfield rose to the occasion.

"No," said he stoically, "I won't sell his old body.  When we
d'Urbervilles was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers
for cat's meat.  Let 'em keep their shillings!  He've served me well
in his lifetime, and I won't part from him now."

He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for Prince in the
garden than he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family.
When the hole was ready, Durbeyfield and his wife tied a rope round
the horse and dragged him up the path towards it, the children
following in funeral train.  Abraham and 'Liza-Lu sobbed, Hope and
Modesty discharged their griefs in loud blares which echoed from the
walls; and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave.
The bread-winner had been taken away from them; what would they do?

"Is he gone to heaven?" asked Abraham, between the sobs.

Then Durbeyfield began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried
anew.  All except Tess.  Her face was dry and pale, as though she
regarded herself in the light of a murderess.

Rolliver's Inn is the only alehouse in the village, and can only boast of an off-license: nobody can legally drink on the premises, but this rule is often averted. Mrs. Durbeyfield had found her husband there bragging about his grand project for his family. He will send Tess to claim kin, for there is a lady of the name d'Urberville. John Durbeyfield admits that he has not told Tess this, but she is tractable and will do what he wishes. Joan Durbeyfield reminds her husband that there are many families that were once estimable and are now ordinary, but agrees to the arrangement. Tess arrives, and Abraham tells her that she will marry a gentleman. It is eleven o'clock when Tess gets her family to bed, and the next morning John is unable to go on his journey. Tess agrees to go with Abraham. On the way there, Abraham and Tess discuss how other stars are worlds just like Earth. Tess says that some worlds are splendid, but a few are blighted, and they decide that they are on a blighted one. Tess realizes the vanity of her father's pride. Suddenly, the wagon stops and they find that the morning mail-cart has crashed into their horse, killing it. Tess blames herself, while Abraham blames it for living on a blighted star. Tess does not know how to break the news to her family, but John Durbeyfield takes the news stoically.

At this point in the novel, Tess Durbeyfield is a passive character subject to the wishes of her family and afflicted by their sense of irresponsibility. She is the key to her father's design to regain the family fortune, for he intends to marry her off to a gentleman who will provide for her and for her parents; however, Tess has no say in her father's plans. Hardy allows for the strong possibility that John Durbeyfield's plans will amount to nothing, with the reminder that other families have amounted to little despite their former high esteem. Hardy returns to the idea of the cruelty of fate in this chapter with the discussion between Tess and Abraham concerning the stars; the two siblings decide that the misfortunes they suffer are due to living on a blighted star rather than any direct sense of cause and effect. This theme is also illustrated by the accident that Tess and Abraham have concerning the horse and wagon; the occurrence is a complete accident, yet Hardy instills the event with a sense of determinism, as if it were part of the Durbeyfield fate. Tess's reaction to the accident is ironic, for Tess believes herself responsible for an event for which she had no control; furthermore, it is her father's irresponsibility that caused her to take the wagon to deliver the beehives. Nevertheless, Tess feels guilty for the event; this will lead her to be more susceptible to her father's wishes

Rolliver's is the only alehouse at the Durbeyfield's end of Marlott, and it has a funny set-up: most customers take their drink at an outdoor ledge from the yard, because Rolliver's doesn't have a legal license to serve alcohol on the premises indoors. But regular customers are invited into the house to take their drinks in the bedroom, with a shawl hanging over the window to keep people from seeing them. About ten or twelve regular customers are piled into the bedroom when the chapter opens--perching on the dresser, sitting on the side of the bed, etc. Mrs. Rolliver is always nervous whenever someone new arrives, thinking that it might be some government agent who would take away her license for serving liquor indoors. But it's only Mrs. Durbeyfield, arrived to join her husband. Joan Durbeyfield sits down by her husband, and tells him that she's learned that there's a rich lady out by Trantridge named D'Urberville, and that she wants to send Tess over to "claim kin" . Jack Durbeyfield says that this other family must only be a "junior branch" to their family, "long since King Norman's day" . Abraham creeps into the room at this point, and overhears the rest of the conversation. Mrs. Durbeyfield says that the rich Mrs. D'Urberville will be sure to take notice of Tess if they send her to visit, and the two families ought to visit back and forth, since they are, after all, family. Abraham cheerfully suggests that they all visit, and ride in coaches, and wear nice clothes. Mrs. Durbeyfield seems remarkably undisturbed by the appearance of her young son at an unlicensed alehouse, and continues telling her husband that she thinks that Tess will marry a gentleman. In fact, she knows it--because the Complete Fortune-Teller told her so. The people around them can't hear everything that's being said, but they pick up enough to understand that Tess has something great in store for her because of this new discovery about their family. One older man mutters that Tess is pretty, but that Joan "must mind that she don't get green malt in flower" . Hardy doesn't translate this local figure of speech for you, but we will: it means that Mrs. Durbeyfield had better make sure that Tess doesn't get pregnant before she's married. Just then, Tess herself appears to fetch her parents and younger brother home. Her parents scramble to their feet as soon as they see her. Jack Durbeyfield has had so much to drink that he can hardly walk, so Tess and Joan support him between them, and walk home unevenly three abreast. Jack hasn't actually had all that much to drink, but his bad health means that he can't hold his booze. Jack continues to sing about his "family vault" at Kingsbere. Mrs. Durbeyfield hushes him, and reminds him that a number of other families in the area were once almost as noble as their own. Then she "thanks God" that her own family was never noble, so she doesn't have to be "ashamed" of her family being debased . Tess says that her father won't be able to make the trip with the beehives, but he insists that he'll be okay in a couple of hours. Of course he's not. Mrs. Durbeyfield goes to wake Tess at 1:30am. 2 a.m. is the latest they'd be able to leave in order to make it to the market on time. Tess points out that someone has to go, since it's almost too late in the season to be selling beehives, anyway. Mrs. Durbeyfield suggests that they ask one of the young men who had danced with Tess the day before, but Tess is too proud to ask favors from someone like that--they'd probably read more into it, or expect something in return and, anyway, she doesn't want to let anyone know that her father can't go because he's too drunk. Tess volunteers to go herself, if Abraham went with her to keep her company. They get the cart ready to go in a hurry, and Abraham joins her, still half asleep. Once on the road, Abraham asks Tess if she's glad that they're now "gentlefolk." Tess says she's not, particularly. Abraham repeats what he heard at Rolliver's about Tess marrying a gentleman. Tess doesn't answer, but stares off into space. When Abraham asks again, she cuts him off, and they start talking about the stars. Abraham asks if the stars are all other worlds, and Tess says yes. He asks if they're all like ours, and she says that most of them are splendid, but a few are "blighted." And they happen to live on a blighted one. Abraham thinks this is very unlucky, since there are so many good ones out there. After a while, Abraham gets sleepy, so Tess makes space in the cart for him to curl up and go to sleep. Without anyone to talk to, Tess starts getting sleepy herself, and starts to doze off while sitting up in the cart. She wakes up with a jolt, and hears a great groan. Another lantern is shining in her face. It turns out that the mail coach had been zooming along silently on its new and un-squeaky wheels, and had skewered Tess's horse with the shaft of the cart. The groan she had heard was from the horse, Prince, who collapses on the road in a puddle of blood. The driver of the mail cart sees that nothing can be done for the horse, so he says that he'll send someone to help as soon as he can, and that she should wait here. Tess is horrified by what she's done . She wakes up Abraham, who thinks it's because they live on a blighted star instead of on a good one. Later that day, Prince gets carried home in the cart. Jack Durbeyfield was going to sell the body to get some money for the meat and for the skin , but because Prince is so old and ragged, his body wouldn't be worth all that much. Even though they could probably use even that little bit of money, Jack Durbeyfield refuses to sell the horse's body, and buries it instead. He says that, back in the old days, the D'Urbervilles didn't sell the carcasses of their great war horses, so he won't sell Prince's. The chapter ends with a brief description of Prince's "funeral," at which Tess feels like a murderess.

CHAPTER 4 Summary Joan refers to the "complete fortune teller" and is delighted to discover that Tess's future lies with nobility. She reveals this information to her husband when she joins him at Rolliver's Inn. She also tells him of her eagerness to send Tess to Trantridge, where their distant relations stay. Joan believes that Tess will be accepted into their family, a situation, which would brighten her matrimonial prospects. Abraham, Tess's younger brother, overhears his parent's conversation and reveals it to his sister. Little Abraham, who is fascinated with stars, feels that if Tess marries and becomes rich, he may some day own a spy-glass to draw the stars nearer. Since her father is in ill health and not doing well after his drinking at Rolliver's, Tess and Abraham leave early the next day to deliver the beehives to Casterbridge. On the way, their wagon is involved in an accident, and Prince, their horse, is killed. Tess blames herself for the terrible loss. A farmer takes the children on to the market and then delivers the dead Prince to Marlott. John refuses to sell the dead horse and works harder in burying him than he has worked in months. Notes In this chapter, Tess is again pictured as the responsible member of the Durbeyfield family. Knowing that her father does not feel like delivering the beehives, she volunteers to go herself. Since she is leaving very early in the morning in order to accomplish her task, she wisely and responsibly takes Abraham with her for company. When Prince is killed in the accident, she blames herself much more harshly than her parents blame her; but she is really the only one who understands that the loss of the horse means a great interruption to the family and a loss of future income. Tess is also the only one who is not intrigued with the idea of her marrying a wealthy gentleman. Her parents view it as a way to end their poverty and misery. To Abraham, a wealthy marriage for Tess might mean a spyglass for him, a way to draw the stars nearer. But Tess is not a dreamer; instead, she is firmly rooted in the realities and concerns of the present. She knows her mother lives in an imaginary world of fortune-telling and her father drinks too much, works too little, and makes irrational decisions like the one to rent a carriage to take him home in Chapter 1 and the one to bury Prince rather than selling his body for cash that is much needed by the family. If the family is to survive the present, Tess must not dream about her future, but take care of the family's current needs