Every village has its idiosyncrasy, its constitution, often its own
code of morality.  The levity of some of the younger women in and
about Trantridge was marked, and was perhaps symptomatic of the
choice spirit who ruled The Slopes in that vicinity.  The place had
also a more abiding defect; it drank hard.  The staple conversation
on the farms around was on the uselessness of saving money; and
smock-frocked arithmeticians, leaning on their ploughs or hoes, would
enter into calculations of great nicety to prove that parish relief
was a fuller provision for a man in his old age than any which could
result from savings out of their wages during a whole lifetime.

The chief pleasure of these philosophers lay in going every Saturday
night, when work was done, to Chaseborough, a decayed market-town two
or three miles distant; and, returning in the small hours of the next
morning, to spend Sunday in sleeping off the dyspeptic effects of the
curious compounds sold to them as beer by the monopolizers of the
once-independent inns.

For a long time Tess did not join in the weekly pilgrimages.  But
under pressure from matrons not much older than herself--for a
field-man's wages being as high at twenty-one as at forty, marriage
was early here--Tess at length consented to go.  Her first experience
of the journey afforded her more enjoyment than she had expected,
the hilariousness of the others being quite contagious after her
monotonous attention to the poultry-farm all the week. She went again
and again.  Being graceful and interesting, standing moreover on the
momentary threshold of womanhood, her appearance drew down upon her
some sly regards from loungers in the streets of Chaseborough; hence,
though sometimes her journey to the town was made independently, she
always searched for her fellows at nightfall, to have the protection
of their companionship homeward.

This had gone on for a month or two when there came a Saturday in
September, on which a fair and a market coincided; and the pilgrims
from Trantridge sought double delights at the inns on that account.
Tess's occupations made her late in setting out, so that her comrades
reached the town long before her.  It was a fine September evening,
just before sunset, when yellow lights struggle with blue shades in
hairlike lines, and the atmosphere itself forms a prospect without
aid from more solid objects, except the innumerable winged insects
that dance in it.  Through this low-lit mistiness Tess walked
leisurely along.

She did not discover the coincidence of the market with the fair till
she had reached the place, by which time it was close upon dusk.  Her
limited marketing was soon completed; and then as usual she began to
look about for some of the Trantridge cottagers.

At first she could not find them, and she was informed that most of
them had gone to what they called a private little jig at the house
of a hay-trusser and peat-dealer who had transactions with their
farm.  He lived in an out-of-the-way nook of the townlet, and in
trying to find her course thither her eyes fell upon Mr d'Urberville
standing at a street corner.

"What--my Beauty?  You here so late?" he said.

She told him that she was simply waiting for company homeward.

"I'll see you again," said he over her shoulder as she went on down
the back lane.

Approaching the hay-trussers, she could hear the fiddled notes of
a reel proceeding from some building in the rear; but no sound of
dancing was audible--an exceptional state of things for these parts,
where as a rule the stamping drowned the music.  The front door being
open she could see straight through the house into the garden at the
back as far as the shades of night would allow; and nobody appearing
to her knock, she traversed the dwelling and went up the path to the
outhouse whence the sound had attracted her.

It was a windowless erection used for storage, and from the open door
there floated into the obscurity a mist of yellow radiance, which at
first Tess thought to be illuminated smoke.  But on drawing nearer
she perceived that it was a cloud of dust, lit by candles within the
outhouse, whose beams upon the haze carried forward the outline of
the doorway into the wide night of the garden.

When she came close and looked in she beheld indistinct forms
racing up and down to the figure of the dance, the silence of their
footfalls arising from their being overshoe in "scroff"--that is
to say, the powdery residuum from the storage of peat and other
products, the stirring of which by their turbulent feet created the
nebulosity that involved the scene.  Through this floating, fusty
_debris_ of peat and hay, mixed with the perspirations and warmth of
the dancers, and forming together a sort of vegeto-human pollen, the
muted fiddles feebly pushed their notes, in marked contrast to the
spirit with which the measure was trodden out.  They coughed as
they danced, and laughed as they coughed.  Of the rushing couples
there could barely be discerned more than the high lights--the
indistinctness shaping them to satyrs clasping nymphs--a multiplicity
of Pans whirling a multiplicity of Syrinxes; Lotis attempting to
elude Priapus, and always failing.

At intervals a couple would approach the doorway for air, and
the haze no longer veiling their features, the demigods resolved
themselves into the homely personalities of her own next-door
neighbours.  Could Trantridge in two or three short hours have
metamorphosed itself thus madly!

Some Sileni of the throng sat on benches and hay-trusses by the wall;
and one of them recognized her.

"The maids don't think it respectable to dance at The Flower-de-Luce,"
he explained.  "They don't like to let everybody see which be their
fancy-men.  Besides, the house sometimes shuts up just when their
jints begin to get greased.  So we come here and send out for
liquor."

"But when be any of you going home?" asked Tess with some anxiety.

"Now--a'most directly.  This is all but the last jig."

She waited.  The reel drew to a close, and some of the party were in
the mind of starting.  But others would not, and another dance was
formed.  This surely would end it, thought Tess.  But it merged in
yet another.  She became restless and uneasy; yet, having waited so
long, it was necessary to wait longer; on account of the fair the
roads were dotted with roving characters of possibly ill intent; and,
though not fearful of measurable dangers, she feared the unknown.
Had she been near Marlott she would have had less dread.

"Don't ye be nervous, my dear good soul," expostulated, between his
coughs, a young man with a wet face and his straw hat so far back
upon his head that the brim encircled it like the nimbus of a saint.
"What's yer hurry?  To-morrow is Sunday, thank God, and we can sleep
it off in church-time.  Now, have a turn with me?"

She did not abhor dancing, but she was not going to dance here.  The
movement grew more passionate: the fiddlers behind the luminous
pillar of cloud now and then varied the air by playing on the wrong
side of the bridge or with the back of the bow.  But it did not
matter; the panting shapes spun onwards.

They did not vary their partners if their inclination were to stick
to previous ones.  Changing partners simply meant that a satisfactory
choice had not as yet been arrived at by one or other of the pair,
and by this time every couple had been suitably matched.  It was then
that the ecstasy and the dream began, in which emotion was the matter
of the universe, and matter but an adventitious intrusion likely to
hinder you from spinning where you wanted to spin.

Suddenly there was a dull thump on the ground: a couple had fallen,
and lay in a mixed heap.  The next couple, unable to check its
progress, came toppling over the obstacle.  An inner cloud of dust
rose around the prostrate figures amid the general one of the room,
in which a twitching entanglement of arms and legs was discernible.

"You shall catch it for this, my gentleman, when you get home!" burst
in female accents from the human heap--those of the unhappy partner
of the man whose clumsiness had caused the mishap; she happened
also to be his recently married wife, in which assortment there was
nothing unusual at Trantridge as long as any affection remained
between wedded couples; and, indeed, it was not uncustomary in their
later lives, to avoid making odd lots of the single people between
whom there might be a warm understanding.

A loud laugh from behind Tess's back, in the shade of the garden,
united with the titter within the room.  She looked round, and saw
the red coal of a cigar: Alec d'Urberville was standing there alone.
He beckoned to her, and she reluctantly retreated towards him.

"Well, my Beauty, what are you doing here?"

She was so tired after her long day and her walk that she confided
her trouble to him--that she had been waiting ever since he saw her
to have their company home, because the road at night was strange to
her.  "But it seems they will never leave off, and I really think I
will wait no longer."

"Certainly do not.  I have only a saddle-horse here to-day; but come
to The Flower-de-Luce, and I'll hire a trap, and drive you home with
me."

Tess, though flattered, had never quite got over her original
mistrust of him, and, despite their tardiness, she preferred to walk
home with the work-folk.  So she answered that she was much obliged
to him, but would not trouble him.  "I have said that I will wait for
'em, and they will expect me to now."

"Very well, Miss Independence.  Please yourself...  Then I shall not
hurry...  My good Lord, what a kick-up they are having there!"

He had not put himself forward into the light, but some of them
had perceived him, and his presence led to a slight pause and a
consideration of how the time was flying.  As soon as he had re-lit
a cigar and walked away the Trantridge people began to collect
themselves from amid those who had come in from other farms, and
prepared to leave in a body.  Their bundles and baskets were gathered
up, and half an hour later, when the clock-chime sounded a quarter
past eleven, they were straggling along the lane which led up the
hill towards their homes.

It was a three-mile walk, along a dry white road, made whiter
to-night by the light of the moon.

Tess soon perceived as she walked in the flock, sometimes with this
one, sometimes with that, that the fresh night air was producing
staggerings and serpentine courses among the men who had partaken too
freely; some of the more careless women also were wandering in their
gait--to wit, a dark virago, Car Darch, dubbed Queen of Spades, till
lately a favourite of d'Urberville's; Nancy, her sister, nicknamed
the Queen of Diamonds; and the young married woman who had already
tumbled down.  Yet however terrestrial and lumpy their appearance
just now to the mean unglamoured eye, to themselves the case was
different.  They followed the road with a sensation that they were
soaring along in a supporting medium, possessed of original and
profound thoughts, themselves and surrounding nature forming
an organism of which all the parts harmoniously and joyously
interpenetrated each other.  They were as sublime as the moon and
stars above them, and the moon and stars were as ardent as they.

Tess, however, had undergone such painful experiences of this kind in
her father's house that the discovery of their condition spoilt the
pleasure she was beginning to feel in the moonlight journey.  Yet she
stuck to the party, for reasons above given.

In the open highway they had progressed in scattered order; but now
their route was through a field-gate, and the foremost finding a
difficulty in opening it, they closed up together.

This leading pedestrian was Car the Queen of Spades, who carried a
wicker-basket containing her mother's groceries, her own draperies,
and other purchases for the week.  The basket being large and heavy,
Car had placed it for convenience of porterage on the top of her
head, where it rode on in jeopardized balance as she walked with
arms akimbo.

"Well--whatever is that a-creeping down thy back, Car Darch?" said
one of the group suddenly.

All looked at Car.  Her gown was a light cotton print, and from the
back of her head a kind of rope could be seen descending to some
distance below her waist, like a Chinaman's queue.

"'Tis her hair falling down," said another.

No; it was not her hair: it was a black stream of something oozing
from her basket, and it glistened like a slimy snake in the cold
still rays of the moon.

"'Tis treacle," said an observant matron.

Treacle it was.  Car's poor old grandmother had a weakness for the
sweet stuff.  Honey she had in plenty out of her own hives, but
treacle was what her soul desired, and Car had been about to give her
a treat of surprise.  Hastily lowering the basket the dark girl found
that the vessel containing the syrup had been smashed within.

By this time there had arisen a shout of laughter at the
extraordinary appearance of Car's back, which irritated the dark
queen into getting rid of the disfigurement by the first sudden means
available, and independently of the help of the scoffers.  She rushed
excitedly into the field they were about to cross, and flinging
herself flat on her back upon the grass, began to wipe her gown
as well as she could by spinning horizontally on the herbage and
dragging herself over it upon her elbows.

The laughter rang louder; they clung to the gate, to the posts,
rested on their staves, in the weakness engendered by their
convulsions at the spectacle of Car.  Our heroine, who had hitherto
held her peace, at this wild moment could not help joining in with
the rest.

It was a misfortune--in more ways than one.  No sooner did the dark
queen hear the soberer richer note of Tess among those of the other
work-people than a long-smouldering sense of rivalry inflamed her to
madness.  She sprang to her feet and closely faced the object of her
dislike.

"How darest th' laugh at me, hussy!" she cried.

"I couldn't really help it when t'others did," apologized Tess,
still tittering.

"Ah, th'st think th' beest everybody, dostn't, because th' beest
first favourite with He just now!  But stop a bit, my lady, stop a
bit!  I'm as good as two of such! Look here--here's at 'ee!"

To Tess's horror the dark queen began stripping off the bodice of
her gown--which for the added reason of its ridiculed condition she
was only too glad to be free of--till she had bared her plump neck,
shoulders, and arms to the moonshine, under which they looked as
luminous and beautiful as some Praxitelean creation, in their
possession of the faultless rotundities of a lusty country-girl.
She closed her fists and squared up at Tess.

"Indeed, then, I shall not fight!" said the latter majestically; "and
if I had know you was of that sort, I wouldn't have so let myself
down as to come with such a whorage as this is!"

The rather too inclusive speech brought down a torrent of
vituperation from other quarters upon fair Tess's unlucky head,
particularly from the Queen of Diamonds, who having stood in the
relations to d'Urberville that Car had also been suspected of, united
with the latter against the common enemy.  Several other women also
chimed in, with an animus which none of them would have been so
fatuous as to show but for the rollicking evening they had passed.
Thereupon, finding Tess unfairly browbeaten, the husbands and lovers
tried to make peace by defending her; but the result of that attempt
was directly to increase the war.

Tess was indignant and ashamed.  She no longer minded the loneliness
of the way and the lateness of the hour; her one object was to get
away from the whole crew as soon as possible.  She knew well enough
that the better among them would repent of their passion next day.
They were all now inside the field, and she was edging back to rush
off alone when a horseman emerged almost silently from the corner of
the hedge that screened the road, and Alec d'Urberville looked round
upon them.

"What the devil is all this row about, work-folk?" he asked.

The explanation was not readily forthcoming; and, in truth, he did
not require any.  Having heard their voices while yet some way off he
had ridden creepingly forward, and learnt enough to satisfy himself.

Tess was standing apart from the rest, near the gate.  He bent over
towards her.  "Jump up behind me," he whispered, "and we'll get shot
of the screaming cats in a jiffy!"

She felt almost ready to faint, so vivid was her sense of the crisis.
At almost any other moment of her life she would have refused such
proffered aid and company, as she had refused them several times
before; and now the loneliness would not of itself have forced her
to do otherwise.  But coming as the invitation did at the particular
juncture when fear and indignation at these adversaries could be
transformed by a spring of the foot into a triumph over them, she
abandoned herself to her impulse, climbed the gate, put her toe upon
his instep, and scrambled into the saddle behind him.  The pair were
speeding away into the distant gray by the time that the contentious
revellers became aware of what had happened.

The Queen of Spades forgot the stain on her bodice, and stood
beside the Queen of Diamonds and the new-married, staggering young
woman--all with a gaze of fixity in the direction in which the
horse's tramp was diminishing into silence on the road.

"What be ye looking at?" asked a man who had not observed the
incident.

"Ho-ho-ho!" laughed dark Car.

"Hee-hee-hee!" laughed the tippling bride, as she steadied herself on
the arm of her fond husband.

"Heu-heu-heu!" laughed dark Car's mother, stroking her moustache as
she explained laconically: "Out of the frying-pan into the fire!"

Then these children of the open air, whom even excess of alcohol
could scarce injure permanently, betook themselves to the field-path;
and as they went there moved onward with them, around the shadow of
each one's head, a circle of opalized light, formed by the moon's
rays upon the glistening sheet of dew.  Each pedestrian could see
no halo but his or her own, which never deserted the head-shadow,
whatever its vulgar unsteadiness might be; but adhered to it, and
persistently beautified it; till the erratic motions seemed an
inherent part of the irradiation, and the fumes of their breathing
a component of the night's mist; and the spirit of the scene, and
of the moonlight, and of Nature, seemed harmoniously to mingle with
the spirit of wine.

The village of Trantridge demonstrates a particular levity and its residents tend to drink hard. The chief pleasure of many residents is going to Chaseborough, a decaying market town several miles away. Tess did not join in the weekly pilgrimages, but under pressure from matrons not much older than herself, she finally consents to go. During one trip there, she finds Alec d'Urberville also in town, and he promises to see her again. Tess goes on alone and finds a barn where the residents are dancing. Tess does not abhor dancing, but she did not want to do so, for the movement of the dancers grew more passionate. Tess finds Alec again, but she refuses his offers of assistance home. Tess goes to the other girls, one of whom is Car Darch, nicknamed Queen of Spades, and her sister, Nancy, nicknamed Queen of Diamonds. Car carries a wicker-basket containing her mother's groceries on the top of her head, and a stream of treacle had dripped down below her waist. All of the other girls laugh at Car, including Tess. However, Car notices Tess and confronts her. Car begins to disrobe to fight Tess, but Tess refuses and says that if she knew that Car was of that sort, she would not have consented to come with such a whorage. Car merely insults and continuously berates Tess, making her feel indignant and ashamed. Alec finds Tess once again, and he tells Tess to come with him. As Alec rescues Tess, Car's mother laughs, realizing that Tess has gotten out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The journey to Chaseborough for dancing juxtaposes with the previous chapters by demonstrating that Tess, despite her failure to be accepted as a true d'Urberville, is in some considerable sense still different from the common people with whom she must associate. She is neither the same as the low-class Darch sisters nor the aristocratic d'Urbervilles. Tess at first refuses to go on the weekly pilgrimages for dancing, and even when she consents to go she refuses to dance when it turns more sexual. This returns to the theme of Tess as a sexual innocent; she rejects both the sexuality of Alec d'Urberville and that of the dancers. Throughout this chapter, Hardy places Tess d'Urberville as an outsider among the working class laborers with whom she travels home. Her status is evident even to Car Darch, who immediately notices when Tess laughs and ignores the others. While Tess remains without guile when she is confronted by Car, she nevertheless appears as strikingly out of place among the others. Car provides a stark contrast to Tess: she is a vulgar, brassy woman who is combative and lewd, in comparison to the more demure Tess. If the previous chapters emphasized that Tess is not a member of the upper orders, this chapter disputes the idea that she is one of the lower class. The rescue of Tess by Alec d'Urberville demonstrates the capability for noble behavior that he may demonstrate, yet even in this action there is the great possibility that he may act out of ignoble motives. As Car's mother realizes, Tess is now in greater danger with Alec than she would be around Car. Car's mother thus foreshadows the later tragic events that will come to fruition

The narrator tells us how the regular folks in Tess's new neighborhood spend their free time: they drink. A lot. On Saturdays, they all walk as a group to a nearby town, and walk back late at night. Or early the next morning. Tess doesn't go with them for a long time, but finally starts to go along with them--some of the women pressure her, and she gives in. She enjoys the company, especially after hanging out with chickens and an eccentric old lady all week. Tess has gone several times on these weekly trips to the next town, and has gotten in the habit of walking home with the group--they come home so late that she doesn't feel comfortably walking back alone. One week, Alec sees her standing in the street waiting for her comrades to walk home with her. He offers her a ride home, but she politely refuses, saying that she'd rather wait for her peers. The other villagers join her soon, and they begin their three-mile walk together. Tess is the only sober one in the group. Car Darch, one of the women in the group has it in for Tess because Tess is Alec's new favorite, and she's jealous. Car is in the front of the group, and is balancing a basket of groceries on her head. Someone in the group suddenly notices a trickle of something going down Car's back. It's treacle . Everyone starts laughing at her, so Car throws herself on the grass and starts rubbing her back against the ground to get the sticky goop off. Of course, they only laugh harder. Tess joins in the laughter. Big mistake. Car immediately picks a fight with her about it. Tess defends herself, saying that everyone else was laughing. Car actually wants a fist-fight, and pulls off her outer clothes . Some of the men in the group try to make peace and defend Tess, but that only makes their wives jealous and angry. Suddenly, Alec D'Urberville appears on horseback. He asks what's going on , and then offers to rescue Tess. She's about ready to faint from a combination of shame and anger and fear, and agrees to climb up with him. The women in the group watch Alec ride off with Tess, and chuckle quietly amongst themselves. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire!" as Car's mother explains it.

CHAPTER 10Summary Chaseborough is a market town where the villagers go to shop, particularly on Saturdays. For a long time, Tess does not go to Chaseborough; however, she finds her first trip there so enjoyable that she begins to visit regularly. On one of her visits in September, she discovers that Chaseborough is having a fair. She does her usual marketing and then searches for somebody with whom to walk back home. Her co-workers, however, are engaged in drinking, dancing, and merry making. While she waits for them, Alec comes by and offers to give her a ride. Since she does not really trust him, she refuses his offer. When her fellow workers finally leave the fair, some of them are drunk and begin to taunt Tess on the way back to Trantridge. When Tess has had enough of them and is ready to walk on alone, Alec rides by on his horse and again offers her a ride. This time Tess feels she must accept his help. Notes Tess has previously made several trips into Chaseborough to shop without any problems, but she has never been there in the midst of a fair. Her trip in September is not problem free. Her friends are caught up in the drinking and merry making at the fair, and Tess is forced to wait for them for a long time, not wanting to walk home alone for three miles. Alec comes by and offers a ride, but Tess refuses to go with him. Once the group starts for home, it is obvious that Tess's friends have had too much to drink. An argument breaks out between Tess and two of the women, and Tess is ready to walk on alone when Alex rides past again. This time she accepts his offer of help, for she is uneasy with her drunken friends, the hour is late, and she is tired, hungry, and thirsty. Under normal circumstances, Tess would never have gone away with Alec, as seen earlier in the chapter when she refused his offer of a ride. Fate has begun its intervention in the life of this young, innocent girl. The chapter highlights Alec's wayward ways of life. He is used to having his own way, which Hardy indicates is a usual tendency of the rich. The women in his past have obliged him, feeling honored to be noticed by a wealthy man. Alec expects Tess to react to him in a similar manner. He is surprised by her coolness towards him and irked by her constant refusals of his advances. Tess's indifference to him just makes Alec want her more


The twain cantered along for some time without speech, Tess as she
clung to him still panting in her triumph, yet in other respects
dubious.  She had perceived that the horse was not the spirited one
he sometimes rose, and felt no alarm on that score, though her seat
was precarious enough despite her tight hold of him.  She begged him
to slow the animal to a walk, which Alec accordingly did.

"Neatly done, was it not, dear Tess?" he said by and by.

"Yes!" said she.  "I am sure I ought to be much obliged to you."

"And are you?"

She did not reply.

"Tess, why do you always dislike my kissing you?"

"I suppose--because I don't love you."

"You are quite sure?"

"I am angry with you sometimes!"

"Ah, I half feared as much."  Nevertheless, Alec did not object to
that confession.  He knew that anything was better then frigidity.
"Why haven't you told me when I have made you angry?"

"You know very well why.  Because I cannot help myself here."

"I haven't offended you often by love-making?"

"You have sometimes."

"How many times?"

"You know as well as I--too many times."

"Every time I have tried?"

She was silent, and the horse ambled along for a considerable
distance, till a faint luminous fog, which had hung in the hollows
all the evening, became general and enveloped them.  It seemed to
hold the moonlight in suspension, rendering it more pervasive than in
clear air.  Whether on this account, or from absent-mindedness, or
from sleepiness, she did not perceive that they had long ago passed
the point at which the lane to Trantridge branched from the highway,
and that her conductor had not taken the Trantridge track.

She was inexpressibly weary.  She had risen at five o'clock every
morning of that week, had been on foot the whole of each day, and on
this evening had in addition walked the three miles to Chaseborough,
waited three hours for her neighbours without eating or drinking,
her impatience to start them preventing either; she had then walked
a mile of the way home, and had undergone the excitement of the
quarrel, till, with the slow progress of their steed, it was now
nearly one o'clock.  Only once, however, was she overcome by actual
drowsiness.  In that moment of oblivion her head sank gently against
him.

D'Urberville stopped the horse, withdrew his feet from the stirrups,
turned sideways on the saddle, and enclosed her waist with his arm to
support her.

This immediately put her on the defensive, and with one of those
sudden impulses of reprisal to which she was liable she gave him a
little push from her.  In his ticklish position he nearly lost his
balance and only just avoided rolling over into the road, the horse,
though a powerful one, being fortunately the quietest he rode.

"That is devilish unkind!" he said.  "I mean no harm--only to keep
you from falling."

She pondered suspiciously, till, thinking that this might after all
be true, she relented, and said quite humbly, "I beg your pardon,
sir."

"I won't pardon you unless you show some confidence in me.  Good
God!" he burst out, "what am I, to be repulsed so by a mere chit like
you?  For near three mortal months have you trifled with my feelings,
eluded me, and snubbed me; and I won't stand it!"

"I'll leave you to-morrow, sir."

"No, you will not leave me to-morrow!  Will you, I ask once more,
show your belief in me by letting me clasp you with my arm?  Come,
between us two and nobody else, now.  We know each other well; and
you know that I love you, and think you the prettiest girl in the
world, which you are.  Mayn't I treat you as a lover?"

She drew a quick pettish breath of objection, writhing uneasily on
her seat, looked far ahead, and murmured, "I don't know--I wish--how
can I say yes or no when--"

He settled the matter by clasping his arm round her as he desired,
and Tess expressed no further negative.  Thus they sidled
slowly onward till it struck her they had been advancing for an
unconscionable time--far longer than was usually occupied by the
short journey from Chaseborough, even at this walking pace, and
that they were no longer on hard road, but in a mere trackway.

"Why, where be we?" she exclaimed.

"Passing by a wood."

"A wood--what wood?  Surely we are quite out of the road?"

"A bit of The Chase--the oldest wood in England.  It is a lovely
night, and why should we not prolong our ride a little?"

"How could you be so treacherous!" said Tess, between archness and
real dismay, and getting rid of his arm by pulling open his fingers
one by one, though at the risk of slipping off herself.  "Just when
I've been putting such trust in you, and obliging you to please you,
because I thought I had wronged you by that push!  Please set me
down, and let me walk home."

"You cannot walk home, darling, even if the air were clear.  We are
miles away from Trantridge, if I must tell you, and in this growing
fog you might wander for hours among these trees."

"Never mind that," she coaxed.  "Put me down, I beg you.  I don't
mind where it is; only let me get down, sir, please!"

"Very well, then, I will--on one condition.  Having brought you
here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for
your safe-conduct home, whatever you may yourself feel about it.
As to your getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is quite
impossible; for, to tell the truth, dear, owing to this fog, which so
disguises everything, I don't quite know where we are myself.  Now,
if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the
bushes till I come to some road or house, and ascertain exactly our
whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly.  When I come back I'll
give you full directions, and if you insist upon walking you may; or
you may ride--at your pleasure."

She accepted these terms, and slid off on the near side, though not
till he had stolen a cursory kiss.  He sprang down on the other side.

"I suppose I must hold the horse?" said she.

"Oh no; it's not necessary," replied Alec, patting the panting
creature.  "He's had enough of it for to-night."

He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a
bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of
dead leaves.

"Now, you sit there," he said.  "The leaves have not got damp as yet.
Just give an eye to the horse--it will be quite sufficient."

He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, "By the bye,
Tess, your father has a new cob to-day.  Somebody gave it to him."

"Somebody?  You!"

D'Urberville nodded.

"O how very good of you that is!" she exclaimed, with a painful sense
of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then.

"And the children have some toys."

"I didn't know--you ever sent them anything!" she murmured, much
moved.  "I almost wish you had not--yes, I almost wish it!"

"Why, dear?"

"It--hampers me so."

"Tessy--don't you love me ever so little now?"

"I'm grateful," she reluctantly admitted.  "But I fear I do not--"
The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this
result so distressed her that, beginning with one slow tear, and
then following with another, she wept outright.

"Don't cry, dear, dear one!  Now sit down here, and wait till I
come."  She passively sat down amid the leaves he had heaped, and
shivered slightly.  "Are you cold?" he asked.

"Not very--a little."

He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into down.
"You have only that puffy muslin dress on--how's that?"

"It's my best summer one.  'Twas very warm when I started, and I
didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night."

"Nights grow chilly in September.  Let me see."  He pulled off a
light overcoat that he had worn, and put it round her tenderly.
"That's it--now you'll feel warmer," he continued.  "Now, my pretty,
rest there; I shall soon be back again."

Having buttoned the overcoat round her shoulders he plunged into the
webs of vapour which by this time formed veils between the trees.
She could hear the rustling of the branches as he ascended the
adjoining slope, till his movements were no louder than the hopping
of a bird, and finally died away.  With the setting of the moon the
pale light lessened, and Tess became invisible as she fell into
reverie upon the leaves where he had left her.

In the meantime Alec d'Urberville had pushed on up the slope to clear
his genuine doubt as to the quarter of The Chase they were in.  He
had, in fact, ridden quite at random for over an hour, taking any
turning that came to hand in order to prolong companionship with her,
and giving far more attention to Tess's moonlit person than to any
wayside object.  A little rest for the jaded animal being desirable,
he did not hasten his search for landmarks.  A clamber over the
hill into the adjoining vale brought him to the fence of a highway
whose contours he recognized, which settled the question of their
whereabouts.  D'Urberville thereupon turned back; but by this time
the moon had quite gone down, and partly on account of the fog The
Chase was wrapped in thick darkness, although morning was not far
off.  He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid
contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the exact spot
from which he had started was at first entirely beyond him.  Roaming
up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight movement of
the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of his overcoat unexpectedly
caught his foot.

"Tess!" said d'Urberville.

There was no answer.  The obscurity was now so great that he could
see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulousness at his feet, which
represented the white muslin figure he had left upon the dead leaves.
Everything else was blackness alike.  D'Urberville stooped; and heard
a gentle regular breathing.  He knelt and bent lower, till her breath
warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers.
She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered
tears.

Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around.  Above them rose the
primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which there poised gentle
roosting birds in their last nap; and about them stole the hopping
rabbits and hares.  But, might some say, where was Tess's guardian
angel? where was the providence of her simple faith?  Perhaps, like
that other god of whom the ironical Tishbite spoke, he was talking,
or he was pursuing, or he was in a journey, or he was sleeping and
not to be awaked.

Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as
gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet, there should have
been traced such a coarse pattern as it was doomed to receive; why
so often the coarse appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the
woman, the wrong woman the man, many thousand years of analytical
philosophy have failed to explain to our sense of order.  One may,
indeed, admit the possibility of a retribution lurking in the present
catastrophe.  Doubtless some of Tess d'Urberville's mailed ancestors
rollicking home from a fray had dealt the same measure even more
ruthlessly towards peasant girls of their time.  But though to visit
the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morality good
enough for divinities, it is scorned by average human nature; and it
therefore does not mend the matter.

As Tess's own people down in those retreats are never tired of saying
among each other in their fatalistic way: "It was to be."  There
lay the pity of it.  An immeasurable social chasm was to divide our
heroine's personality thereafter from that previous self of hers
who stepped from her mother's door to try her fortune at Trantridge
poultry-farm.

END OF PHASE THE FIRST

Phase the Second: Maiden No More

Tess admits to Alec that she is much obliged to him. He asks her why she dislikes him kissing her, and she says it is because she does not love him, and is angry with him sometimes. Alec did not object to this confession, because he prefers her anger to frigidity. He asks if he has offended her by love-making, and she says sometimes. She does not answer when he asks if she is offended every time he tries. Tess is weary, and nearly falls asleep on Alec's shoulder. Alec stops the horse and encloses her waist with his arm to support her, which immediately puts her on the defensive. When she pushes him away, he calls her devilish unkind, for he means no harm. He asks if she can show her belief in him by letting him clasp her with his arm. She finally submits and allows him to do so. Later on their journey, Tess finds that Alec has prolonged the ride home, and they are now in The Chase, the oldest wood in England. Tess calls him treacherous, and asks him to let her down so she may walk home. He agrees to let her walk home only after he finds a nearby house and ascertains their distance from Trantridge. Alec gives her an overcoat and walks away. In the meantime, he goes to ascertain which quarter of The Chase he is actually in, for he had purposely ridden at random. He returns to Tess and finds her sleeping. Tess' guardian angel' is nowhere to be seen, and Tess is seduced by Alec d'Urberville.

The final conquest of Tess Durbeyfield comes to fruition in this chapter, in which Alec d'Urberville uses several factors particular to this situation to seduce his distant relative. The seduction does not come easily; in fact Hardy leaves the details of the conquest so vague that it allows the distinct possibility that Tess did not consent at all to Alec. Nevertheless, assuming that Tess consented to Alec's demands, Hardy constructs several factors that precipitated the event. At this point in the novel Alec is at his most heroic to Tess, having saved her from Car Darch. Alec frames his arguments against Tess as evidence that she is frigid, untrusting and ungrateful; she must defend her refusal to give in to Alec rather than Alec having to defend his much less excusable behavior. Finally, and perhaps most critical in Tess letting down her guard is that she is intensely tired and Alec's final proposition of her is unexpected. He comes upon her when she is sleeping and, at last, she may not have had the strength to refuse him at this point

Alec canters off with Tess, and slows to a walk when she asks him to. He asks why she doesn't like him to kiss her, and she answers that it's because she doesn't love him. There's some more back-and-forth here--she says that he makes her angry, and offended when he flirts with her, and he doesn't argue . The horse walks slowly through the wood until they're surrounded by a deep fog. Alec hasn't taken the usual Trantridge path through the woods. Tess is exhausted--she's been up early and working hard all week, and it's now almost 1 a.m. At one point she starts to fall asleep, and slumps forward against Alec's back. He twists around to put his arm around her--but she wakes quickly enough to push him away. He's off balance and almost falls off of his horse. Alec says that he was only trying to keep her from falling, so Tess apologizes. He goes on to complain that she has "no confidence" in him and has been jerking him around for months now. He says he loves her. Tess stammers out a reply, and he puts his arm around her again. Tess realizes that they should already be back by this time, and asks where they are. He says that they're in The Chase--the oldest forest in the area. It's such a nice night, he says, why not enjoy it? Extend their ride a bit? Tess is mad--he lulled her into a false sense of security by making her feel guilty about shoving him. She asks to get down and walk home, but he says that she'd wander for hours in the fog and the trees. Alec says that he's not exactly sure where they are anyway, because of the fog. So they both dismount, and Alec says that he'll take a look around to get his bearings. Alec spreads his jacket on the ground for Tess to sit on while he looks around. Just then, he tells her that "someone" gave her father a new horse that day. Tess thanks him but feels awkward that she has to thank him at that moment. He asks if she's cold , and she admits that she is, a little. He takes a bottle out of the saddlebag, and puts it to her lips before she knows what he's up to. She swallows as he pours to keep it from spilling on her best dress. He assures her that it's medicinal, and then disappears into the fog and the trees. Alec really doesn't know where they are--he wasn't just trying to tease Tess. But after climbing up a nearby hill he finds the edge of the highway and figures out where they are. When he gets back, he calls her name. She doesn't answer--she's asleep under the trees. The narrator asks, "where was Tess's guardian angel? where was Providence?" , but neither her guardian angel nor Providence comes to help her. There are good men and women waking up in cottages not too far away from them, but not one of them knew "that their sister was in the hands of the spoiler" . . The narrator muses that perhaps one of Tess's distant knighted ancestors had "dealt the same wrong upon peasant girls of their time" . The first phase of the novel ends with the "fatalistic" remark common to Tess's neighbors: "it was to be" . Note that Hardy never once uses the word "rape" in this scene--he leaves it slightly ambiguous.

CHAPTER 11 Summary Alec takes advantage of having Tess all alone. Instead of heading straight to Trantridge, he lets his horse wander off the road and into the woods. As they ride, he tells Tess he wants to be her lover; she says that she does not appreciate his advances. As they have talked, Alec has not paid attention and is truly lost. He leaves Tess by the horse to go and search for a way out of the woods. While he is gone, Tess, who has had an exhausting day, falls asleep. When he returns, he looks at the sleeping beauty, and his passion is aroused. He approaches her with lust. She is shocked by his treacherous moves and starts weeping. He plays on her emotions by narrating the good he has done for her family, which always makes Tess feel beholden to him. Alec then seduces Tess, and she is too tired to resist his advances. Notes Hardy has carefully structured this chapter to show how fate is in control. Tess has agreed to ride with Alec, for she feels she has no other alternative. Her friends are drunk and fighting with her, she is tired and hungry, and she fears walking the next two miles back to Trantridge alone. She has never trusted Alec and often refused his offers of kindness. Once on the horse with him this fateful night, Tess, who is usually observant and cautious, is too exhausted to notice that Alec has allowed the horse to veer off the road and into the woods. Once they are lost in the darkness and forced to dismount, Tess is helpless to fight off Alec's advances. Hardy creates the perfect setting for the seduction. The oldest woods of England stand as mute spectators to the crime. The darkness and the silence shield Alec's sinister desires from the innocent and exhausted Tess. Hardy also creates a perfect contrast between the two characters. Tess's white muslin figure and moonlit face is a total contrast to Alec's darkness. Tess's innocence and naivete is a total contrast to Alec's selfish, evil nature. Tess is at the most vulnerable stage of her life, and unfortunately, as Hardy puts it, her guardian angel is not present to protect her. By the end of the chapter, Tess is a fallen woman, not by her own doing, but at the cruel hands of fate


The basket was heavy and the bundle was large, but she lugged them
along like a person who did not find her especial burden in material
things.  Occasionally she stopped to rest in a mechanical way by some
gate or post; and then, giving the baggage another hitch upon her
full round arm, went steadily on again.

It was a Sunday morning in late October, about four months after Tess
Durbeyfield's arrival at Trantridge, and some few weeks subsequent to
the night ride in The Chase.  The time was not long past daybreak,
and the yellow luminosity upon the horizon behind her back lighted
the ridge towards which her face was set--the barrier of the vale
wherein she had of late been a stranger--which she would have to
climb over to reach her birthplace.  The ascent was gradual on this
side, and the soil and scenery differed much from those within
Blakemore Vale.  Even the character and accent of the two peoples
had shades of difference, despite the amalgamating effects of a
roundabout railway; so that, though less than twenty miles from the
place of her sojourn at Trantridge, her native village had seemed a
far-away spot.  The field-folk shut in there traded northward and
westward, travelled, courted, and married northward and westward,
thought northward and westward; those on this side mainly directed
their energies and attention to the east and south.

The incline was the same down which d'Urberville had driven her so
wildly on that day in June.  Tess went up the remainder of its length
without stopping, and on reaching the edge of the escarpment gazed
over the familiar green world beyond, now half-veiled in mist.  It
was always beautiful from here; it was terribly beautiful to Tess
to-day, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the
serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing, and her views of life had
been totally changed for her by the lesson.  Verily another girl than
the simple one she had been at home was she who, bowed by thought,
stood still here, and turned to look behind her. She could not bear
to look forward into the Vale.

Ascending by the long white road that Tess herself had just laboured
up, she saw a two-wheeled vehicle, beside which walked a man, who
held up his hand to attract her attention.

She obeyed the signal to wait for him with unspeculative repose, and
in a few minutes man and horse stopped beside her.

"Why did you slip away by stealth like this?" said d'Urberville, with
upbraiding breathlessness; "on a Sunday morning, too, when people
were all in bed!  I only discovered it by accident, and I have been
driving like the deuce to overtake you.  Just look at the mare.  Why
go off like this?  You know that nobody wished to hinder your going.
And how unnecessary it has been for you to toil along on foot, and
encumber yourself with this heavy load!  I have followed like a
madman, simply to drive you the rest of the distance, if you won't
come back."

"I shan't come back," said she.

"I thought you wouldn't--I said so!  Well, then, put up your basket,
and let me help you on."

She listlessly placed her basket and bundle within the dog-cart, and
stepped up, and they sat side by side.  She had no fear of him now,
and in the cause of her confidence her sorrow lay.

D'Urberville mechanically lit a cigar, and the journey was continued
with broken unemotional conversation on the commonplace objects by
the wayside.  He had quite forgotten his struggle to kiss her when,
in the early summer, they had driven in the opposite direction along
the same road.  But she had not, and she sat now, like a puppet,
replying to his remarks in monosyllables.  After some miles they came
in view of the clump of trees beyond which the village of Marlott
stood.  It was only then that her still face showed the least
emotion, a tear or two beginning to trickle down.

"What are you crying for?" he coldly asked.

"I was only thinking that I was born over there," murmured Tess.

"Well--we must all be born somewhere."

"I wish I had never been born--there or anywhere else!"

"Pooh!  Well, if you didn't wish to come to Trantridge why did you
come?"

She did not reply.

"You didn't come for love of me, that I'll swear."

"'Tis quite true.  If I had gone for love o' you, if I had ever
sincerely loved you, if I loved you still, I should not so loathe and
hate myself for my weakness as I do now! ...  My eyes were dazed by
you for a little, and that was all."

He shrugged his shoulders.  She resumed--

"I didn't understand your meaning till it was too late."

"That's what every woman says."

"How can you dare to use such words!" she cried, turning impetuously
upon him, her eyes flashing as the latent spirit (of which he was to
see more some day) awoke in her.  "My God!  I could knock you out of
the gig!  Did it never strike your mind that what every woman says
some women may feel?"

"Very well," he said, laughing; "I am sorry to wound you.  I did
wrong--I admit it."  He dropped into some little bitterness as he
continued: "Only you needn't be so everlastingly flinging it in my
face.  I am ready to pay to the uttermost farthing.  You know you
need not work in the fields or the dairies again.  You know you may
clothe yourself with the best, instead of in the bald plain way you
have lately affected, as if you couldn't get a ribbon more than you
earn."

Her lip lifted slightly, though there was little scorn, as a rule,
in her large and impulsive nature.

"I have said I will not take anything more from you, and I will
not--I cannot!  I SHOULD be your creature to go on doing that, and
I won't!"

"One would think you were a princess from your manner, in addition
to a true and original d'Urberville--ha! ha!  Well, Tess, dear, I
can say no more.  I suppose I am a bad fellow--a damn bad fellow.
I was born bad, and I have lived bad, and I shall die bad in all
probability.  But, upon my lost soul, I won't be bad towards you
again, Tess.  And if certain circumstances should arise--you
understand--in which you are in the least need, the least difficulty,
send me one line, and you shall have by return whatever you require.
I may not be at Trantridge--I am going to London for a time--I can't
stand the old woman.  But all letters will be forwarded."

She said that she did not wish him to drive her further, and they
stopped just under the clump of trees.  D'Urberville alighted, and
lifted her down bodily in his arms, afterwards placing her articles
on the ground beside her.  She bowed to him slightly, her eye just
lingering in his; and then she turned to take the parcels for
departure.

Alec d'Urberville removed his cigar, bent towards her, and said--

"You are not going to turn away like that, dear!  Come!"

"If you wish," she answered indifferently.  "See how you've mastered
me!"

She thereupon turned round and lifted her face to his, and remained
like a marble term while he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek--half
perfunctorily, half as if zest had not yet quite died out.  Her eyes
vaguely rested upon the remotest trees in the lane while the kiss was
given, as though she were nearly unconscious of what he did.

"Now the other side, for old acquaintance' sake."

She turned her head in the same passive way, as one might turn at the
request of a sketcher or hairdresser, and he kissed the other side,
his lips touching cheeks that were damp and smoothly chill as the
skin of the mushrooms in the fields around.

"You don't give me your mouth and kiss me back.  You never willingly
do that--you'll never love me, I fear."

"I have said so, often.  It is true.  I have never really and truly
loved you, and I think I never can."  She added mournfully, "Perhaps,
of all things, a lie on this thing would do the most good to me now;
but I have honour enough left, little as 'tis, not to tell that lie.
If I did love you, I may have the best o' causes for letting you know
it.  But I don't."

He emitted a laboured breath, as if the scene were getting rather
oppressive to his heart, or to his conscience, or to his gentility.

"Well, you are absurdly melancholy, Tess.  I have no
reason for flattering you now, and I can say plainly
that you need not be so sad.  You can hold your own for
beauty against any woman of these parts, gentle or
simple; I say it to you as a practical man and
well-wisher.  If you are wise you will show it to the
world more than you do before it fades...  And yet,
Tess, will you come back to me!  Upon my soul, I don't
like to let you go like this!"

"Never, never!  I made up my mind as soon as I saw--what I ought to
have seen sooner; and I won't come."

"Then good morning, my four months' cousin--good-bye!"

He leapt up lightly, arranged the reins, and was gone between the
tall red-berried hedges.

Tess did not look after him, but slowly wound along the crooked lane.
It was still early, and though the sun's lower limb was just free of
the hill, his rays, ungenial and peering, addressed the eye rather
than the touch as yet.  There was not a human soul near.  Sad October
and her sadder self seemed the only two existences haunting that
lane.

As she walked, however, some footsteps approached behind her, the
footsteps of a man; and owing to the briskness of his advance he was
close at her heels and had said "Good morning" before she had been
long aware of his propinquity.  He appeared to be an artisan of some
sort, and carried a tin pot of red paint in his hand.  He asked
in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, which she
permitted him to do, walking beside him.

"It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn!" he said cheerfully.

"Yes," said Tess.

"When most people are at rest from their week's work."

She also assented to this.

"Though I do more real work to-day than all the week besides."

"Do you?"

"All the week I work for the glory of man, and on Sunday for the
glory of God.  That's more real than the other--hey?  I have a little
to do here at this stile."  The man turned, as he spoke, to an
opening at the roadside leading into a pasture.  "If you'll wait a
moment," he added, "I shall not be long."

As he had her basket she could not well do otherwise; and she waited,
observing him.  He set down her basket and the tin pot, and stirring
the paint with the brush that was in it began painting large square
letters on the middle board of the three composing the stile, placing
a comma after each word, as if to give pause while that word was
driven well home to the reader's heart--

      THY, DAMNATION, SLUMBERETH, NOT.
                         2 Pet. ii. 3.

Against the peaceful landscape, the pale, decaying tints of the
copses, the blue air of the horizon, and the lichened stile-boards,
these staring vermilion words shone forth.  They seemed to shout
themselves out and make the atmosphere ring.  Some people might have
cried "Alas, poor Theology!" at the hideous defacement--the last
grotesque phase of a creed which had served mankind well in its time.
But the words entered Tess with accusatory horror.  It was as if this
man had known her recent history; yet he was a total stranger.

Having finished his text he picked up her basket, and she
mechanically resumed her walk beside him.

"Do you believe what you paint?" she asked in low tones.

"Believe that tex?  Do I believe in my own existence!"

"But," said she tremulously, "suppose your sin was not of your own
seeking?"

He shook his head.

"I cannot split hairs on that burning query," he said.  "I have
walked hundreds of miles this past summer, painting these texes on
every wall, gate, and stile the length and breadth of this district.
I leave their application to the hearts of the people who read 'em."

"I think they are horrible," said Tess.  "Crushing!  Killing!"

"That's what they are meant to be!" he replied in a trade voice.
"But you should read my hottest ones--them I kips for slums and
seaports.  They'd make ye wriggle!  Not but what this is a very good
tex for rural districts. ...  Ah--there's a nice bit of blank wall up
by that barn standing to waste.  I must put one there--one that it
will be good for dangerous young females like yerself to heed.  Will
ye wait, missy?"

"No," said she; and taking her basket Tess trudged on. A little way
forward she turned her head.  The old gray wall began to advertise
a similar fiery lettering to the first, with a strange and unwonted
mien, as if distressed at duties it had never before been called upon
to perform.  It was with a sudden flush that she read and realized
what was to be the inscription he was now halfway through--

      THOU, SHALT, NOT, COMMIT--

Her cheerful friend saw her looking, stopped his brush, and shouted--

"If you want to ask for edification on these things of moment,
there's a very earnest good man going to preach a charity-sermon
to-day in the parish you are going to--Mr Clare of Emminster.  I'm
not of his persuasion now, but he's a good man, and he'll expound as
well as any parson I know.  'Twas he began the work in me."

But Tess did not answer; she throbbingly resumed her walk, her eyes
fixed on the ground.  "Pooh--I don't believe God said such things!"
she murmured contemptuously when her flush had died away.

A plume of smoke soared up suddenly from her father's chimney, the
sight of which made her heart ache.  The aspect of the interior, when
she reached it, made her heart ache more.  Her mother, who had just
come down stairs, turned to greet her from the fireplace, where she
was kindling barked-oak twigs under the breakfast kettle.  The young
children were still above, as was also her father, it being Sunday
morning, when he felt justified in lying an additional half-hour.

"Well!--my dear Tess!" exclaimed her surprised mother, jumping up and
kissing the girl. "How be ye?  I didn't see you till you was in upon
me!  Have you come home to be married?"

"No, I have not come for that, mother."

"Then for a holiday?"

"Yes--for a holiday; for a long holiday," said Tess.

"What, isn't your cousin going to do the handsome thing?"

"He's not my cousin, and he's not going to marry me."

Her mother eyed her narrowly.

"Come, you have not told me all," she said.

Then Tess went up to her mother, put her face upon Joan's neck, and
told.

"And yet th'st not got him to marry 'ee!" reiterated her mother. "Any
woman would have done it but you, after that!"

"Perhaps any woman would except me."

"It would have been something like a story to come back with, if
you had!" continued Mrs Durbeyfield, ready to burst into tears of
vexation.  "After all the talk about you and him which has reached
us here, who would have expected it to end like this!  Why didn't ye
think of doing some good for your family instead o' thinking only of
yourself?  See how I've got to teave and slave, and your poor weak
father with his heart clogged like a dripping-pan.  I did hope for
something to come out o' this!  To see what a pretty pair you and he
made that day when you drove away together four months ago!  See what
he has given us--all, as we thought, because we were his kin.  But if
he's not, it must have been done because of his love for 'ee.  And
yet you've not got him to marry!"

Get Alec d'Urberville in the mind to marry her!  He marry HER!  On
matrimony he had never once said a word.  And what if he had?  How a
convulsive snatching at social salvation might have impelled her to
answer him she could not say.  But her poor foolish mother little
knew her present feeling towards this man.  Perhaps it was unusual
in the circumstances, unlucky, unaccountable; but there it was; and
this, as she had said, was what made her detest herself.  She had
never wholly cared for him; she did not at all care for him now.  She
had dreaded him, winced before him, succumbed to adroit advantages
he took of her helplessness; then, temporarily blinded by his ardent
manners, had been stirred to confused surrender awhile: had suddenly
despised and disliked him, and had run away.  That was all.  Hate him
she did not quite; but he was dust and ashes to her, and even for her
name's sake she scarcely wished to marry him.

"You ought to have been more careful if you didn't mean to get him to
make you his wife!"

"O mother, my mother!" cried the agonized girl, turning passionately
upon her parent as if her poor heart would break.  "How could I be
expected to know?  I was a child when I left this house four months
ago.  Why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk?  Why
didn't you warn me?  Ladies know what to fend hands against, because
they read novels that tell them of these tricks; but I never had the
chance o' learning in that way, and you did not help me!"

Her mother was subdued.

"I thought if I spoke of his fond feelings and what they might lead
to, you would be hontish wi' him and lose your chance," she murmured,
wiping her eyes with her apron.  "Well, we must make the best of it,
I suppose.  'Tis nater, after all, and what do please God!"

On a Sunday morning in late October, several weeks after the night ride in The Chase, Tess travels home. Ascending the road, she sees Alec d'Urberville, who has been looking for her. He asks why she is slipping away, for nobody wished to hinder her leaving. She vows never to come back. When he asks why she is crying, she says that she sees the village where she was born, and wishes she had not been born at all. Tess tells Alec that she did not come to Trantridge for him, and that she hates herself for her weakness; her eyes were a little dazed by him, she explains. Alec admits that he is a bad fellow, but vows not to be unkind to her again. He attempts to kiss her once more, but she insists that she has never loved him. He tells her that she is being absurd. He asks her to come back to him, but once again she refuses. After Alec finally leaves her, Tess sees a man carrying a tin pot of red paint. He paints a quote from the Bible on a stile: "Thy, Damnation, Slumbereth Not. She asks if he believes what he paints, and he replies quite adamantly that he does. She asks him to suppose that one's sin is not of one's own seeking, but he says that he cannot split hairs on that question. He tells her that if she wants edification, she should speak to Mr. Clare of Emminster, who will preach today. Tess reaches home and says that she is staying for a long holiday. Tess admits to her mother what occurred, and she scolds Tess for not getting Alec to marry her. Tess asks her mother why she did not warn her about the danger that men pose.

Hardy continues to leave many of the details of Tess's seduction ambiguous by allowing a certain space of time to pass between the night at The Chase and Tess' return to Marlott several weeks later. Both Tess and Alec, however, indicate that their sexual encounter was to some degree consensual. Most importantly, Tess admits that her "eyes were a little dazed" by Alec and that the event was a moment of weakness. This is the first concrete indication that Tess realizes her capability for sexuality; previously unaware of others' sexual designs for her and disdainful of the lust exhibited by others, Tess now admits that she too was capable of some degree of lust for Alec. This is significant as a development of Tess's sexual attitudes and as an indication of her inherent self-criticism. She finds herself to blame for Alec's seduction of her, rather than accusing him of treachery. The encounter between Tess and the sign painter introduces the theme of forgiveness that will pervade the novel. Tess wonders whether or not what she has done may be forgiven, and seems to find the answer that she cannot in Christian teaching. The encounter also introduces the character of Reverend Clare, whose son appeared during an early chapter and will play a large part in future chapters. Joan Durbeyfield's reprimand of her daughter for being seduced by Alec d'Urberville is ironic, for it is she who promoted the idea of a romantic attachment between Tess and Alec. When Tess submitted to Alec, she essentially followed her mother's orders, yet now faces her family's scorn

Tess is walking up the road between Trantridge and her home in Marlott, carrying a heavy bundle. She's thinking sadly about what a difference there is between the girl she was last June, when she came to Trantridge, and the girl she is now. She's just reached the top of a hill--the very one that Alec had driven down so wildly--when she is overtaken by a cart coming up behind her. It's Alec. He offers to drive her the rest of the way, if he can't persuade her to come back. He can't, of course. Tess climbs into the cart, and answers his questions spiritlessly. She's clearly depressed. She cries a bit when she sees the edge of her village, and says she wishes that she'd never been born. Alec asks why she had come to Trantridge, if she didn't wish to--it surely wasn't "for love of " . Tess says that, if she had loved him, she wouldn't "hate self" for her "weakness" as she does. But, she says, "I didn't understand your meaning till it was too late" . Alec answers flippantly: "That's what every woman says" . Wrong answer: Tess gets frustrated, and says that she really feels that way. She actually was innocent of what he was trying to do until it was too late. Alec gets defensive. He admits that he has done wrong, but tells her not to keep guilting him about it. He offers to pay for it--and he does mean, literally, to pay for it. But Tess doesn't want his money. That would make her "his creature" even more than she already is. Basically, it would make her feel like a prostitute . He thinks she's being too proud, but he doesn't push the point, other than to hint that if "certain circumstances should arise" , she should let him know, and he'd take care of her . Tess doesn't answer, but asks to get down from the cart. They've reached the edge of Marlott. She starts to walk away, but he stops her, and asks for a kiss. She turns her mouth up to him indifferently, saying, "see how you've mastered me!" . He kisses her, but she doesn't kiss him back. He remarks on this, and she says it's because she doesn't love him. Lying to herself or to him, and saying that she did love him, might make her feel better, but she has "honour enough left not to tell that lie" . Alec feels either hurt or guilty , and says goodbye. Tess walks along the road into the village. After a few minutes, a man catches up with her, and says "Good morning!" He's carrying a pot of paint. He offers to carry her basket, and chats about how early it is on a Sunday morning to be out walking. But, he says, he works "for the glory of God" on Sundays. He pauses at a stile to paint a verse from the Bible on it: "Thy damnation slumbereth not" . Given what has just happened to her, the lines horrify Tess. She asks if he believes the words--of course he does. He walks around every Sunday painting them on blank walls and gates. Tess thinks the words are "crushing," but he says they're supposed to be . But what, she asks, if "your sin was not of your own seeking?" . He shakes his head. He stops at another wall, and asks if she'll wait. She continues without him, but pauses long enough to see him write "Thou Shalt Not Commit--" . As she walks away, he calls after her that a preacher is in Marlott who would be able to explain it all to her, if she liked. His name is Clare. Tess walks along, trying to persuade herself that she doesn't believe a word of it. Tess gets to her parents' house, and walks in. Her mother asks if she's come home to be married, or for a holiday? Tess tells her what happened. Her mother is shocked and horrified that Tess isn't going to be married, after what happened. She says that "any woman would have" gotten him to marry her. Tess isn't like other women. And her mother doesn't understand her feelings towards Alec--she doesn't quite hate him, but he's nothing to her, and she wouldn't want to marry him even to save her good name . Besides, Alec hadn't said anything about marriage. He'd given the horse to her father in an attempt to get Tess to trust him, so that he could seduce her. It wasn't because he was trying to persuade her to marry him. Her mother continues to complain as Tess thinks all these things to herself, and Tess is about to cry. She asks her mother how she could have known? She was a girl when she left Marlott, and didn't know there was any danger from men, and her mother didn't warn her. Her mother recognizes the truth in this, and stops complaining. Mrs. Durbeyfield says that they'll just have to make the best of it, because it is, after all, natural.

CHAPTER 12 Tess remains with Alec at Trantridge for a few weeks and then packs her things and leaves for her home at Marlott. Alec follows her and questions her about her sudden decision of leaving. She refuses to go back and to take his material help, and he sees no point in coaxing her. Although her contempt for Alec remains, Tess no longer fears him and accepts a ride with him for a few miles. When they part, Alex tells Tess to call him if she ever needs him. At home, Tess's parents, though sad at her misfortune, take her into their fold. Joan, however, is terribly disappointed that Tess has lost a golden opportunity of marrying into the rich D'Urberville family. Tess is unsuccessful in explaining to her mother that marriage was never on Alec's mind. Tess also accuses her mother of hiding the dangers of life from her, making her ill prepared to cope with the likes of Alec. Notes Although this chapter does not describe the last few weeks of Tess's life, it is assumed that she has been with Alec, tolerating his passionate advances. She soon has enough and leaves for home, filled with shame and remorse for her behavior. She knows she does not love Alec, and he has made no offer of marriage. When Alec realizes she has left, however, he does catch up to her and asks her to return. When she refuses, he offers material help, which she also refuses. Although she is a changed woman in many ways at this point in the novel, she is still proud and in control. Alec is impressed with her lofty thinking, and Hardy foreshadows that Alec will again be attracted to it in the future. On her way home, Tess by chance, meets a sign painter, who reappears several times in the novel. He is a symbol of morality, and his signs are warnings to sinners. He has just finished painting a sign that says, "THY DAMNATION, SLUMBERETH NOT". When Tess sees these words, standing out in vermilion paint against the pale background of the landscape, she feels even guiltier about what has happened to her. Her consolation that her sin was not of her own seeking serves as a weak defense against the accusation on the sign. At home, the honest Tess explains all of the events at Trantridge to her mother. Joan's reaction to Tess's calamity is surprising. In a truly rustic way of thinking, her mother considers what has happened to be Tess's destiny and believes that there was God's will in it. She is also disappointed that Tess has missed out on the opportunity to marry a wealthy man. It is important to notice that the Tess who arrives home in Marlott is very different from the Tess who left there four months earlier. Because of her stay in Trantridge, she is no longer a pure and simple country girl. She knows much more about life; as a result, her views have totally changed. Although she blames herself for what has happened with Alec, she also blames her mother, accusing her of withholding information about the dangers of life from her daughter. Hardy, however, still makes it clear that Tess was really an innocent who was misled by a sinister force; he also makes it clear that Tess's current troubles are caused by the shame and guilt she feels


The event of Tess Durbeyfield's return from the manor of her bogus
kinsfolk was rumoured abroad, if rumour be not too large a word for
a space of a square mile.  In the afternoon several young girls of
Marlott, former schoolfellows and acquaintances of Tess, called to
see her, arriving dressed in their best starched and ironed, as
became visitors to a person who had made a transcendent conquest (as
they supposed), and sat round the room looking at her with great
curiosity.  For the fact that it was this said thirty-first cousin,
Mr d'Urberville, who had fallen in love with her, a gentleman
not altogether local, whose reputation as a reckless gallant and
heartbreaker was beginning to spread beyond the immediate boundaries
of Trantridge, lent Tess's supposed position, by its fearsomeness, a
far higher fascination that it would have exercised if unhazardous.

Their interest was so deep that the younger ones whispered when her
back was turned--

"How pretty she is; and how that best frock do set her off!  I
believe it cost an immense deal, and that it was a gift from him."

Tess, who was reaching up to get the tea-things from the
corner-cupboard, did not hear these commentaries.  If she had heard
them, she might soon have set her friends right on the matter.  But
her mother heard, and Joan's simple vanity, having been denied the
hope of a dashing marriage, fed itself as well as it could upon
the sensation of a dashing flirtation.  Upon the whole she felt
gratified, even though such a limited and evanescent triumph should
involve her daughter's reputation; it might end in marriage yet, and
in the warmth of her responsiveness to their admiration she invited
her visitors to stay to tea.

Their chatter, their laughter, their good-humoured innuendoes, above
all, their flashes and flickerings of envy, revived Tess's spirits
also; and, as the evening wore on, she caught the infection of their
excitement, and grew almost gay.  The marble hardness left her face,
she moved with something of her old bounding step, and flushed in all
her young beauty.

At moments, in spite of thought, she would reply to their inquiries
with a manner of superiority, as if recognizing that her experiences
in the field of courtship had, indeed, been slightly enviable.  But
so far was she from being, in the words of Robert South, "in love
with her own ruin," that the illusion was transient as lightning;
cold reason came back to mock her spasmodic weakness; the ghastliness
of her momentary pride would convict her, and recall her to reserved
listlessness again.

And the despondency of the next morning's dawn, when it was no longer
Sunday, but Monday; and no best clothes; and the laughing visitors
were gone, and she awoke alone in her old bed, the innocent younger
children breathing softly around her.  In place of the excitement of
her return, and the interest it had inspired, she saw before her a
long and stony highway which she had to tread, without aid, and with
little sympathy.  Her depression was then terrible, and she could
have hidden herself in a tomb.

In the course of a few weeks Tess revived sufficiently to show
herself so far as was necessary to get to church one Sunday morning.
She liked to hear the chanting--such as it was--and the old Psalms,
and to join in the Morning Hymn.  That innate love of melody, which
she had inherited from her ballad-singing mother, gave the simplest
music a power over her which could well-nigh drag her heart out of
her bosom at times.

To be as much out of observation as possible for reasons of her own,
and to escape the gallantries of the young men, she set out before
the chiming began, and took a back seat under the gallery, close to
the lumber, where only old men and women came, and where the bier
stood on end among the churchyard tools.

Parishioners dropped in by twos and threes, deposited themselves
in rows before her, rested three-quarters of a minute on their
foreheads as if they were praying, though they were not; then sat up,
and looked around. When the chants came on, one of her favourites
happened to be chosen among the rest--the old double chant
"Langdon"--but she did not know what it was called, though she would
much have liked to know.  She thought, without exactly wording the
thought, how strange and god-like was a composer's power, who from
the grave could lead through sequences of emotion, which he alone had
felt at first, a girl like her who had never heard of his name, and
never would have a clue to his personality.

The people who had turned their heads turned them again as the
service proceeded; and at last observing her, they whispered to each
other.  She knew what their whispers were about, grew sick at heart,
and felt that she could come to church no more.

The bedroom which she shared with some of the children formed her
retreat more continually than ever.  Here, under her few square yards
of thatch, she watched winds, and snows, and rains, gorgeous sunsets,
and successive moons at their full.  So close kept she that at length
almost everybody thought she had gone away.

The only exercise that Tess took at this time was after dark; and it
was then, when out in the woods, that she seemed least solitary.  She
knew how to hit to a hair's-breadth that moment of evening when the
light and the darkness are so evenly balanced that the constraint of
day and the suspense of night neutralize each other, leaving absolute
mental liberty.  It is then that the plight of being alive becomes
attenuated to its least possible dimensions.  She had no fear of the
shadows; her sole idea seemed to be to shun mankind--or rather that
cold accretion called the world, which, so terrible in the mass, is
so unformidable, even pitiable, in its units.

On these lonely hills and dales her quiescent glide was of a piece
with the element she moved in.  Her flexuous and stealthy figure
became an integral part of the scene.  At times her whimsical fancy
would intensify natural processes around her till they seemed a part
of her own story.  Rather they became a part of it; for the world is
only a psychological phenomenon, and what they seemed they were.  The
midnight airs and gusts, moaning amongst the tightly-wrapped buds and
bark of the winter twigs, were formulae of bitter reproach.  A wet
day was the expression of irremediable grief at her weakness in the
mind of some vague ethical being whom she could not class definitely
as the God of her childhood, and could not comprehend as any other.

But this encompassment of her own characterization, based on shreds
of convention, peopled by phantoms and voices antipathetic to her,
was a sorry and mistaken creation of Tess's fancy--a cloud of moral
hobgoblins by which she was terrified without reason.  It was they
that were out of harmony with the actual world, not she.  Walking
among the sleeping birds in the hedges, watching the skipping rabbits
on a moonlit warren, or standing under a pheasant-laden bough, she
looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts
of Innocence.  But all the while she was making a distinction where
there was no difference.  Feeling herself in antagonism, she was
quite in accord.  She had been made to break an accepted social law,
but no law known to the environment in which she fancied herself such
an anomaly.

Tess Durbeyfield's return to Marlott became the subject of gossip. In the course of several weeks Tess revived sufficiently to get to church. When she goes to church, she notices others around her staring at her and whispering; she knows what their whispers concern and feels that she cannot come to church anymore. The only exercise that Tess takes is after dark when she can be alone. She perceives herself as a figure of Guilt introducing into the haunts of Innocence.

Tess's return to Marlott becomes the subject of gossip in the town precisely because it is such a stunning reversal of fortune for the girl. Although she left to claim kinship with a noble family, she returns to Marlott in a lower social standing than before, unmarried yet pregnant with Alec d'Urberville's child. The weight of this disdain for Tess as well as her own personal guilt lead her to shrink from society, finding refuge only in the natural habitat around her. Hardy makes clear that Tess feels herself a sinner for what occurred to her and that her personal pain and regret outweigh any social opposition she may face

The afternoon of Tess's arrival, several old friends come over to see her, dressed in their best clothes. They assume that she's going to marry Alec D'Urberville, and are fascinated by the idea of their old friend marrying a gentleman--especially a gentleman with a reputation for being a player and a heart-breaker. The cheerfulness of her friends is contagious, and Tess becomes almost cheerful herself. The next morning, though, is a Monday--a workday--and there are no visitors to cheer her up. She's terribly depressed. One week she goes to church, because she loves to hear the music , but everyone looks around and whispers about her. She spends much of her time in the bedroom that she shares with the younger children. She hardly goes out anymore, and many of their neighbors think that she's gone away. Only after dark does she venture outside the house. She doesn't worry about the dark in the woods, but she does want to avoid other people as much as possible. Tess feels guilty about her past, even though it was a social law that she was "made" to break, according to the narrator .

CHAPTER 13 Summary At first, when friends call on her in Marlott, Tess feels more cheerful; but before long she is the talk of the village. They whisper behind her back and cause her to think about her future, which seems like "a long and stony highway which she must tread, without aid, and with little sympathy. To avoid their words and stares, she only goes out at night, hoping not to be seen and discussed. Her only relief is her work in the fields; but even as she works, Tess is full of remorse and considers herself a "Figure of Guilt". Notes Tess becomes the talk of the village. The village folk talk about the gentleman who fell in love with her and whisper to each other about the gifts she received from him. It is sad to notice, however, that no one seems to genuinely sympathize with her, not her mother or her friends. As a result, her grief and remorse grow greater until she feels she is a symbol of guilt