Tess of the d'Urbervilles

he dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of
the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the maids
walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep their
shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each girl sat down on her
three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against
the cow, and looked musingly along the animal’s flank at Tess as she
approached. The male milkers, with hat-brims turned down, resting flat
on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not observe her.

One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man—whose long white “pinner” was
somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of the others, and whose
jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect—the
master-dairyman, of whom she was in quest, his double character as a
working milker and butter maker here during six days, and on the
seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church,
being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme:

Dairyman Dick
All the week:
On Sundays Mister Richard Crick.

Seeing Tess standing at gaze he went across to her.

The majority of dairymen have a cross manner at milking time, but it
happened that Mr Crick was glad to get a new hand—for the days were
busy ones now—and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother and
the rest of the family—(though this as a matter of form merely, for in
reality he had not been aware of Mrs Durbeyfield’s existence till
apprised of the fact by a brief business-letter about Tess).

“Oh—ay, as a lad I knowed your part o’ the country very well,” he said
terminatively. “Though I’ve never been there since. And a aged woman of
ninety that use to live nigh here, but is dead and gone long ago, told
me that a family of some such name as yours in Blackmoor Vale came
originally from these parts, and that ’twere a old ancient race that
had all but perished off the earth—though the new generations didn’t
know it. But, Lord, I took no notice of the old woman’s ramblings, not
I.”

“Oh no—it is nothing,” said Tess.

Then the talk was of business only.

“You can milk ’em clean, my maidy? I don’t want my cows going azew at
this time o’ year.”

She reassured him on that point, and he surveyed her up and down. She
had been staying indoors a good deal, and her complexion had grown
delicate.

“Quite sure you can stand it? ’Tis comfortable enough here for rough
folk; but we don’t live in a cowcumber frame.”

She declared that she could stand it, and her zest and willingness
seemed to win him over.

“Well, I suppose you’ll want a dish o’ tay, or victuals of some sort,
hey? Not yet? Well, do as ye like about it. But faith, if ’twas I, I
should be as dry as a kex wi’ travelling so far.”

“I’ll begin milking now, to get my hand in,” said Tess.

She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment—to the
surprise—indeed, slight contempt—of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind it
had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage.

“Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so,” he said indifferently, while
holding up the pail that she sipped from. “’Tis what I hain’t touched
for years—not I. Rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerds like lead.
You can try your hand upon she,” he pursued, nodding to the nearest
cow. “Not but what she do milk rather hard. We’ve hard ones and we’ve
easy ones, like other folks. However, you’ll find out that soon
enough.”

When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her
stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists into the
pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation
for her future. The conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she
was able to look about her.

The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men
operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier
natures. It was a large dairy. There were nearly a hundred milchers
under Crick’s management, all told; and of the herd the master-dairyman
milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These
were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his journey-milkmen being
more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to
their treatment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them
fully; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack
of finger-grip; with the result that in course of time the cows would
“go azew”—that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made
slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there
came decline, and ultimately cessation, of supply.

After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in
the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the milk-jets
into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other
of the beasts requesting her to turn round or stand still. The only
movements were those of the milkers’ hands up and down, and the swing
of the cows’ tails. Thus they all worked on, encompassed by the vast
flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley—a level
landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt,
differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed
now.

“To my thinking,” said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had
just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in one hand and
the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard-yielder in his
vicinity, “to my thinking, the cows don’t gie down their milk to-day as
usual. Upon my life, if Winker do begin keeping back like this, she’ll
not be worth going under by midsummer.”

“’Tis because there’s a new hand come among us,” said Jonathan Kail.
“I’ve noticed such things afore.”

“To be sure. It may be so. I didn’t think o’t.”

“I’ve been told that it goes up into their horns at such times,” said a
dairymaid.

“Well, as to going up into their horns,” replied Dairyman Crick
dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical
possibilities, “I couldn’t say; I certainly could not. But as nott cows
will keep it back as well as the horned ones, I don’t quite agree to
it. Do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan? Why do nott
cows give less milk in a year than horned?”

“I don’t!” interposed the milkmaid, “Why do they?”

“Because there bain’t so many of ’em,” said the dairyman. “Howsomever,
these gam’sters do certainly keep back their milk to-day. Folks, we
must lift up a stave or two—that’s the only cure for’t.”

Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement to
the cows when they showed signs of withholding their usual yield; and
the band of milkers at this request burst into melody—in purely
business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity; the
result, according to their own belief, being a decided improvement
during the song’s continuance. When they had gone through fourteen or
fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a murderer who was afraid to
go to bed in the dark because he saw certain brimstone flames around
him, one of the male milkers said—

“I wish singing on the stoop didn’t use up so much of a man’s wind! You
should get your harp, sir; not but what a fiddle is best.”

Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the words were addressed to
the dairyman, but she was wrong. A reply, in the shape of “Why?” came
as it were out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had been
spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto
perceived.

“Oh yes; there’s nothing like a fiddle,” said the dairyman. “Though I
do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows—at least that’s
my experience. Once there was an old aged man over at Mellstock—William
Dewy by name—one of the family that used to do a good deal of business
as tranters over there—Jonathan, do ye mind?—I knowed the man by sight
as well as I know my own brother, in a manner of speaking. Well, this
man was a coming home along from a wedding, where he had been playing
his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and for shortness’ sake he took a
cut across Forty-acres, a field lying that way, where a bull was out to
grass. The bull seed William, and took after him, horns aground, begad;
and though William runned his best, and hadn’t much drink in him
(considering ’twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he’d
never reach the fence and get over in time to save himself. Well, as a
last thought, he pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a
jig, turning to the bull, and backing towards the corner. The bull
softened down, and stood still, looking hard at William Dewy, who
fiddled on and on; till a sort of a smile stole over the bull’s face.
But no sooner did William stop his playing and turn to get over hedge
than the bull would stop his smiling and lower his horns towards the
seat of William’s breeches. Well, William had to turn about and play
on, willy-nilly; and ’twas only three o’clock in the world, and ’a
knowed that nobody would come that way for hours, and he so leery and
tired that ’a didn’t know what to do. When he had scraped till about
four o’clock he felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and
he said to himself, ‘There’s only this last tune between me and eternal
welfare! Heaven save me, or I’m a done man.’ Well, then he called to
mind how he’d seen the cattle kneel o’ Christmas Eves in the dead o’
night. It was not Christmas Eve then, but it came into his head to play
a trick upon the bull. So he broke into the ’Tivity Hymm, just as at
Christmas carol-singing; when, lo and behold, down went the bull on his
bended knees, in his ignorance, just as if ’twere the true ’Tivity
night and hour. As soon as his horned friend were down, William turned,
clinked off like a long-dog, and jumped safe over hedge, before the
praying bull had got on his feet again to take after him. William used
to say that he’d seen a man look a fool a good many times, but never
such a fool as that bull looked when he found his pious feelings had
been played upon, and ’twas not Christmas Eve. Yes, William Dewy, that
was the man’s name; and I can tell you to a foot where’s he a-lying in
Mellstock Churchyard at this very moment—just between the second
yew-tree and the north aisle.”

“It’s a curious story; it carries us back to medieval times, when faith
was a living thing!”

The remark, singular for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice behind
the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, no notice was
taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply
scepticism as to his tale.

“Well, ’tis quite true, sir, whether or no. I knowed the man well.”

“Oh yes; I have no doubt of it,” said the person behind the dun cow.

Tess’s attention was thus attracted to the dairyman’s interlocutor, of
whom she could see but the merest patch, owing to his burying his head
so persistently in the flank of the milcher. She could not understand
why he should be addressed as “sir” even by the dairyman himself. But
no explanation was discernible; he remained under the cow long enough
to have milked three, uttering a private ejaculation now and then, as
if he could not get on.

“Take it gentle, sir; take it gentle,” said the dairyman. “’Tis knack,
not strength, that does it.”

“So I find,” said the other, standing up at last and stretching his
arms. “I think I have finished her, however, though she made my fingers
ache.”

Tess could then see him at full length. He wore the ordinary white
pinner and leather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and his
boots were clogged with the mulch of the yard; but this was all his
local livery. Beneath it was something educated, reserved, subtle, sad,
differing.

But the details of his aspect were temporarily thrust aside by the
discovery that he was one whom she had seen before. Such vicissitudes
had Tess passed through since that time that for a moment she could not
remember where she had met him; and then it flashed upon her that he
was the pedestrian who had joined in the club-dance at Marlott—the
passing stranger who had come she knew not whence, had danced with
others but not with her, and slightingly left her, and gone on his way
with his friends.

The flood of memories brought back by this revival of an incident
anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest, recognizing
her also, he should by some means discover her story. But it passed
away when she found no sign of remembrance in him. She saw by degrees
that since their first and only encounter his mobile face had grown
more thoughtful, and had acquired a young man’s shapely moustache and
beard—the latter of the palest straw colour where it began upon his
cheeks, and deepening to a warm brown farther from its root. Under his
linen milking-pinner he wore a dark velveteen jacket, cord breeches and
gaiters, and a starched white shirt. Without the milking-gear nobody
could have guessed what he was. He might with equal probability have
been an eccentric landowner or a gentlemanly ploughman. That he was but
a novice at dairy work she had realized in a moment, from the time he
had spent upon the milking of one cow.

Meanwhile many of the milkmaids had said to one another of the
newcomer, “How pretty she is!” with something of real generosity and
admiration, though with a half hope that the auditors would qualify the
assertion—which, strictly speaking, they might have done, prettiness
being an inexact definition of what struck the eye in Tess. When the
milking was finished for the evening they straggled indoors, where Mrs
Crick, the dairyman’s wife—who was too respectable to go out milking
herself, and wore a hot stuff gown in warm weather because the
dairymaids wore prints—was giving an eye to the leads and things.

Only two or three of the maids, Tess learnt, slept in the dairy-house
besides herself, most of the helpers going to their homes. She saw
nothing at supper-time of the superior milker who had commented on the
story, and asked no questions about him, the remainder of the evening
being occupied in arranging her place in the bed-chamber. It was a
large room over the milk-house, some thirty feet long; the
sleeping-cots of the other three indoor milkmaids being in the same
apartment. They were blooming young women, and, except one, rather
older than herself. By bedtime Tess was thoroughly tired, and fell
asleep immediately.

But one of the girls, who occupied an adjoining bed, was more wakeful
than Tess, and would insist upon relating to the latter various
particulars of the homestead into which she had just entered. The
girl’s whispered words mingled with the shades, and, to Tess’s drowsy
mind, they seemed to be generated by the darkness in which they
floated.

“Mr Angel Clare—he that is learning milking, and that plays the
harp—never says much to us. He is a pa’son’s son, and is too much taken
up wi’ his own thoughts to notice girls. He is the dairyman’s
pupil—learning farming in all its branches. He has learnt sheep-farming
at another place, and he’s now mastering dairy-work.... Yes, he is
quite the gentleman-born. His father is the Reverend Mr Clare at
Emminster—a good many miles from here.”

“Oh—I have heard of him,” said her companion, now awake. “A very
earnest clergyman, is he not?”

“Yes—that he is—the earnestest man in all Wessex, they say—the last of
the old Low Church sort, they tell me—for all about here be what they
call High. All his sons, except our Mr Clare, be made pa’sons too.”

Tess had not at this hour the curiosity to ask why the present Mr Clare
was not made a parson like his brethren, and gradually fell asleep
again, the words of her informant coming to her along with the smell of
the cheeses in the adjoining cheeseloft, and the measured dripping of
the whey from the wrings downstairs.