finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_18_part_0.txt
Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 19
chapter 19
{"name": "Phase III: \"The Rally,\" Chapter Nineteen", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-19", "summary": "Dairyman Crick has a rule that the cows should be milked randomly--if the cow develops a preference for a particular milkmaid or milkman, he ends up having problems after they leave his farm. Knowing this, Tess tries to take whatever cows happen to be next in line, but notices that she keeps ending up with the eight or so cows that she particularly likes. She realizes that it's because Angel has been sneakily arranging the cows in that order as they come in from the field. She accuses him of sending her favorites her way, and he shrugs, and says \"So what? You'll always be here to milk them.\" She hopes she will be... but she doesn't know that. She later regrets that she called him on it. One evening in June, the air is so still that you can hear a pin drop from across the yard. Tess hears the notes of a harp out in the garden, and wanders out towards it. Tess, as we know, loves music. The harp music she hears now gives her the same kind of out-of-body experience that she described before at the breakfast table. The description of her reaction to the music makes it sound sexy. The music stops, and Tess waits for him to begin again. He doesn't, so she tries to slip away unseen, but he spots her light-colored dress against the darkness in the garden. He calls her back, and asks why she's afraid. She says she's not--at least, not of outdoor things. He asks if she's afraid of life in general, and she says yes. He says he agrees with her, but asks her why she finds life to be a burden. She innocently describes her sense of how oppressive the future is, like an inescapable progression of tomorrows. Angel is startled to find such sad thoughts in a young milkmaid, and he finds her even more interesting because of it. On her side, Tess is startled to find that the wealthy son of a parson should find life to be a burden. Neither of them understands the other, but both are interested in learning more as the opportunity presents itself. Every day they learn more about each other. She feels daunted by his superior intelligence, so he offers to teach her anything she'd like to know that he's able to teach--history, for example. She doesn't see the use in learning history. She doesn't want to know that her own life isn't unique, and that countless others have gone through similar experiences before her. All she wants to know is why the world is so unjust. Again, he's startled to find so much bitterness in such a young woman, and he walks away. Tess is ashamed of her childishness, and wonders what she can do to restore his good opinion of her. She thinks about telling him about her D'Urberville heritage, but decides to test the waters a bit first. She asks Dairyman Crick if Mr. Clare respects old families. Not at all, he tells her. Mr. Clare thinks that old families are all dried up and useless. Hearing this, Tess is glad that she hadn't told Angel about her family.", "analysis": ""}


In general the cows were milked as they presented themselves, without
fancy or choice.  But certain cows will show a fondness for a
particular pair of hands, sometimes carrying this predilection so far
as to refuse to stand at all except to their favourite, the pail of a
stranger being unceremoniously kicked over.

It was Dairyman Crick's rule to insist on breaking down these
partialities and aversions by constant interchange, since otherwise,
in the event of a milkman or maid going away from the dairy, he was
placed in a difficulty.  The maids' private aims, however, were the
reverse of the dairyman's rule, the daily selection by each damsel of
the eight or ten cows to which she had grown accustomed rendering the
operation on their willing udders surprisingly easy and effortless.

Tess, like her compeers, soon discovered which of the cows had a
preference for her style of manipulation, and her fingers having
become delicate from the long domiciliary imprisonments to which
she had subjected herself at intervals during the last two or three
years, she would have been glad to meet the milchers' views in
this respect.  Out of the whole ninety-five there were eight in
particular--Dumpling, Fancy, Lofty, Mist, Old Pretty, Young Pretty,
Tidy, and Loud--who, though the teats of one or two were as hard as
carrots, gave down to her with a readiness that made her work on them
a mere touch of the fingers.  Knowing, however, the dairyman's wish,
she endeavoured conscientiously to take the animals just as they
came, excepting the very hard yielders which she could not yet
manage.

But she soon found a curious correspondence between the ostensibly
chance position of the cows and her wishes in this matter, till she
felt that their order could not be the result of accident.  The
dairyman's pupil had lent a hand in getting the cows together of
late, and at the fifth or sixth time she turned her eyes, as she
rested against the cow, full of sly inquiry upon him.

"Mr Clare, you have ranged the cows!" she said, blushing; and in
making the accusation, symptoms of a smile gently lifted her upper
lip in spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lower
lip remaining severely still.

"Well, it makes no difference," said he.  "You will always be here to
milk them."

"Do you think so?  I HOPE I shall!  But I don't KNOW."

She was angry with herself afterwards, thinking that he, unaware of
her grave reasons for liking this seclusion, might have mistaken her
meaning.  She had spoken so earnestly to him, as if his presence
were somehow a factor in her wish.  Her misgiving was such that at
dusk, when the milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, to
continue her regrets that she had disclosed to him her discovery of
his considerateness.

It was a typical summer evening in June, the atmosphere being in
such delicate equilibrium and so transmissive that inanimate objects
seemed endowed with two or three senses, if not five.  There was no
distinction between the near and the far, and an auditor felt close
to everything within the horizon.  The soundlessness impressed her as
a positive entity rather than as the mere negation of noise.  It was
broken by the strumming of strings.

Tess had heard those notes in the attic above her head.  Dim,
flattened, constrained by their confinement, they had never appealed
to her as now, when they wandered in the still air with a stark
quality like that of nudity.  To speak absolutely, both instrument
and execution were poor; but the relative is all, and as she listened
Tess, like a fascinated bird, could not leave the spot.  Far from
leaving she drew up towards the performer, keeping behind the hedge
that he might not guess her presence.

The outskirt of the garden in which Tess found herself had been
left uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rank with
juicy grass which sent up mists of pollen at a touch; and with tall
blooming weeds emitting offensive smells--weeds whose red and yellow
and purple hues formed a polychrome as dazzling as that of cultivated
flowers.  She went stealthily as a cat through this profusion of
growth, gathering cuckoo-spittle on her skirts, cracking snails that
were underfoot, staining her hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime,
and rubbing off upon her naked arms sticky blights which, though
snow-white on the apple-tree trunks, made madder stains on her skin;
thus she drew quite near to Clare, still unobserved of him.

Tess was conscious of neither time nor space.  The exaltation which
she had described as being producible at will by gazing at a star
came now without any determination of hers; she undulated upon the
thin notes of the second-hand harp, and their harmonies passed like
breezes through her, bringing tears into her eyes.  The floating
pollen seemed to be his notes made visible, and the dampness of
the garden the weeping of the garden's sensibility.  Though near
nightfall, the rank-smelling weed-flowers glowed as if they would not
close for intentness, and the waves of colour mixed with the waves of
sound.

The light which still shone was derived mainly from a large hole in
the western bank of cloud; it was like a piece of day left behind
by accident, dusk having closed in elsewhere.  He concluded his
plaintive melody, a very simple performance, demanding no great
skill; and she waited, thinking another might be begun.  But, tired
of playing, he had desultorily come round the fence, and was rambling
up behind her.  Tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if
hardly moving at all.

Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low
tones reaching her, though he was some distance off.

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

"Oh no, sir--not of outdoor things; especially just now when the
apple-blooth is falling, and everything is so green."

"But you have your indoor fears--eh?"

"Well--yes, sir."

"What of?"

"I couldn't quite say."

"The milk turning sour?"

"No."

"Life in general?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah--so have I, very often.  This hobble of being alive is rather
serious, don't you think so?"

"It is--now you put it that way."

"All the same, I shouldn't have expected a young girl like you to see
it so just yet.  How is it you do?"

She maintained a hesitating silence.

"Come, Tess, tell me in confidence."

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

"The trees have inquisitive eyes, haven't they?--that is, seem as
if they had.  And the river says,--'Why do ye trouble me with your
looks?'  And you seem to see numbers of to-morrows just all in a
line, the first of them the biggest and clearest, the others getting
smaller and smaller as they stand farther away; but they all seem
very fierce and cruel and as if they said, 'I'm coming!  Beware of
me!  Beware of me!' ...  But YOU, sir, can raise up dreams with your
music, and drive all such horrid fancies away!"

He was surprised to find this young woman--who though but a milkmaid
had just that touch of rarity about her which might make her the
envied of her housemates--shaping such sad imaginings.  She was
expressing in her own native phrases--assisted a little by her Sixth
Standard training--feelings which might almost have been called those
of the age--the ache of modernism.  The perception arrested him less
when he reflected that what are called advanced ideas are really in
great part but the latest fashion in definition--a more accurate
expression, by words in _logy_ and _ism_, of sensations which men and
women have vaguely grasped for centuries.

Still, it was strange that they should have come to her while yet so
young; more than strange; it was impressive, interesting, pathetic.
Not guessing the cause, there was nothing to remind him that
experience is as to intensity, and not as to duration.  Tess's
passing corporeal blight had been her mental harvest.

Tess, on her part, could not understand why a man of clerical family
and good education, and above physical want, should look upon it as a
mishap to be alive.  For the unhappy pilgrim herself there was very
good reason.  But how could this admirable and poetic man ever have
descended into the Valley of Humiliation, have felt with the man of
Uz--as she herself had felt two or three years ago--"My soul chooseth
strangling and death rather than my life.  I loathe it; I would not
live alway."

It was true that he was at present out of his class.  But she knew
that was only because, like Peter the Great in a shipwright's yard,
he was studying what he wanted to know.  He did not milk cows because
he was obliged to milk cows, but because he was learning to be a
rich and prosperous dairyman, landowner, agriculturist, and breeder
of cattle.  He would become an American or Australian Abraham,
commanding like a monarch his flocks and his herds, his spotted
and his ring-straked, his men-servants and his maids.  At times,
nevertheless, it did seem unaccountable to her that a decidedly
bookish, musical, thinking young man should have chosen deliberately
to be a farmer, and not a clergyman, like his father and brothers.

Thus, neither having the clue to the other's secret, they were
respectively puzzled at what each revealed, and awaited new knowledge
of each other's character and mood without attempting to pry into
each other's history.


Every day, every hour, brought to him one more little stroke of
her nature, and to her one more of his.  Tess was trying to lead a
repressed life, but she little divined the strength of her own
vitality.

At first Tess seemed to regard Angel Clare as an intelligence rather
than as a man.  As such she compared him with herself; and at every
discovery of the abundance of his illuminations, of the distance
between her own modest mental standpoint and the unmeasurable, Andean
altitude of his, she became quite dejected, disheartened from all
further effort on her own part whatever.

He observed her dejection one day, when he had casually mentioned
something to her about pastoral life in ancient Greece.  She was
gathering the buds called "lords and ladies" from the bank while he
spoke.

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

"Oh, 'tis only--about my own self," she said, with a frail laugh of
sadness, fitfully beginning to peel "a lady" meanwhile.  "Just a
sense of what might have been with me!  My life looks as if it had
been wasted for want of chances!  When I see what you know, what you
have read, and seen, and thought, I feel what a nothing I am!  I'm
like the poor Queen of Sheba who lived in the Bible.  There is no
more spirit in me."

"Bless my soul, don't go troubling about that!  Why," he said with
some enthusiasm, "I should be only too glad, my dear Tess, to help
you to anything in the way of history, or any line of reading you
would like to take up--"

"It is a lady again," interrupted she, holding out the bud she had
peeled.

"What?"

"I meant that there are always more ladies than lords when you come
to peel them."

"Never mind about the lords and ladies.  Would you like to take up
any course of study--history, for example?"

"Sometimes I feel I don't want to know anything more about it than I
know already."

"Why not?"

"Because what's the use of learning that I am one of a long row
only--finding out that there is set down in some old book somebody
just like me, and to know that I shall only act her part; making me
sad, that's all.  The best is not to remember that your nature and
your past doings have been just like thousands' and thousands', and
that your coming life and doings 'll be like thousands's and
thousands'."

"What, really, then, you don't want to learn anything?"

"I shouldn't mind learning why--why the sun do shine on the just and
the unjust alike," she answered, with a slight quaver in her voice.
"But that's what books will not tell me."

"Tess, fie for such bitterness!"  Of course he spoke with a
conventional sense of duty only, for that sort of wondering had not
been unknown to himself in bygone days.  And as he looked at the
unpracticed mouth and lips, he thought that such a daughter of the
soil could only have caught up the sentiment by rote.  She went on
peeling the lords and ladies till Clare, regarding for a moment the
wave-like curl of her lashes as they dropped with her bent gaze on
her soft cheek, lingeringly went away.  When he was gone she stood
awhile, thoughtfully peeling the last bud; and then, awakening
from her reverie, flung it and all the crowd of floral nobility
impatiently on the ground, in an ebullition of displeasure with
herself for her _niaiserie_, and with a quickening warmth in her
heart of hearts.

How stupid he must think her!  In an access of hunger for his good
opinion she bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavoured to
forget, so unpleasant had been its issues--the identity of her family
with that of the knightly d'Urbervilles.  Barren attribute as it was,
disastrous as its discovery had been in many ways to her, perhaps
Mr Clare, as a gentleman and a student of history, would respect
her sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the lords and
ladies if he knew that those Purbeck-marble and alabaster people in
Kingsbere Church really represented her own lineal forefathers; that
she was no spurious d'Urberville, compounded of money and ambition
like those at Trantridge, but true d'Urberville to the bone.

But, before venturing to make the revelation, dubious Tess indirectly
sounded the dairyman as to its possible effect upon Mr Clare, by
asking the former if Mr Clare had any great respect for old county
families when they had lost all their money and land.

"Mr Clare," said the dairyman emphatically, "is one of the most
rebellest rozums you ever knowed--not a bit like the rest of his
family; and if there's one thing that he do hate more than another
'tis the notion of what's called a' old family.  He says that it
stands to reason that old families have done their spurt of work in
past days, and can't have anything left in 'em now.  There's the
Billets and the Drenkhards and the Greys and the St Quintins and
the Hardys and the Goulds, who used to own the lands for miles down
this valley; you could buy 'em all up now for an old song a'most.
Why, our little Retty Priddle here, you know, is one of the
Paridelles--the old family that used to own lots o' the lands out by
King's Hintock, now owned by the Earl o' Wessex, afore even he or
his was heard of.  Well, Mr Clare found this out, and spoke quite
scornful to the poor girl for days.  'Ah!' he says to her, 'you'll
never make a good dairymaid!  All your skill was used up ages ago
in Palestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git
strength for more deeds!'  A boy came here t'other day asking for
a job, and said his name was Matt, and when we asked him his surname
he said he'd never heard that 'a had any surname, and when we asked
why, he said he supposed his folks hadn't been 'stablished long
enough.  'Ah! you're the very boy I want!' says Mr Clare, jumping
up and shaking hands wi'en; 'I've great hopes of you;' and gave him
half-a-crown.  O no! he can't stomach old families!"

After hearing this caricature of Clare's opinion poor Tess was glad
that she had not said a word in a weak moment about her family--even
though it was so unusually old almost to have gone round the circle
and become a new one.  Besides, another diary-girl was as good as
she, it seemed, in that respect.  She held her tongue about the
d'Urberville vault and the Knight of the Conqueror whose name she
bore.  The insight afforded into Clare's character suggested to her
that it was largely owing to her supposed untraditional newness that
she had won interest in his eyes.



Phase III: "The Rally," Chapter Nineteen
Dairyman Crick has a rule that the cows should be milked randomly--if the cow develops a preference for a particular milkmaid or milkman, he ends up having problems after they leave his farm. Knowing this, Tess tries to take whatever cows happen to be next in line, but notices that she keeps ending up with the eight or so cows that she particularly likes. She realizes that it's because Angel has been sneakily arranging the cows in that order as they come in from the field. She accuses him of sending her favorites her way, and he shrugs, and says "So what? You'll always be here to milk them." She hopes she will be... but she doesn't know that. She later regrets that she called him on it. One evening in June, the air is so still that you can hear a pin drop from across the yard. Tess hears the notes of a harp out in the garden, and wanders out towards it. Tess, as we know, loves music. The harp music she hears now gives her the same kind of out-of-body experience that she described before at the breakfast table. The description of her reaction to the music makes it sound sexy. The music stops, and Tess waits for him to begin again. He doesn't, so she tries to slip away unseen, but he spots her light-colored dress against the darkness in the garden. He calls her back, and asks why she's afraid. She says she's not--at least, not of outdoor things. He asks if she's afraid of life in general, and she says yes. He says he agrees with her, but asks her why she finds life to be a burden. She innocently describes her sense of how oppressive the future is, like an inescapable progression of tomorrows. Angel is startled to find such sad thoughts in a young milkmaid, and he finds her even more interesting because of it. On her side, Tess is startled to find that the wealthy son of a parson should find life to be a burden. Neither of them understands the other, but both are interested in learning more as the opportunity presents itself. Every day they learn more about each other. She feels daunted by his superior intelligence, so he offers to teach her anything she'd like to know that he's able to teach--history, for example. She doesn't see the use in learning history. She doesn't want to know that her own life isn't unique, and that countless others have gone through similar experiences before her. All she wants to know is why the world is so unjust. Again, he's startled to find so much bitterness in such a young woman, and he walks away. Tess is ashamed of her childishness, and wonders what she can do to restore his good opinion of her. She thinks about telling him about her D'Urberville heritage, but decides to test the waters a bit first. She asks Dairyman Crick if Mr. Clare respects old families. Not at all, he tells her. Mr. Clare thinks that old families are all dried up and useless. Hearing this, Tess is glad that she hadn't told Angel about her family.