Tess of the D'Urbervilles (Pulp! The Classics)by Thomas Hardy
She's No Angel…
Tess is just a humble milkmaid when the local landowner has his wicked way. Her new beau, the smarmy Angel Clare, is none too pleased when he finds out she's already been deflowered. What is a girl to do?
Bloody revenge of course, and an ending to touch the hardest of hearts.
She's No Angel…
Tess is just a humble milkmaid when the local landowner has his wicked way. Her new beau, the smarmy Angel Clare, is none too pleased when he finds out she's already been deflowered. What is a girl to do?
Bloody revenge of course, and an ending to touch the hardest of hearts.
Read an Excerpt
Tess of the d'Urbervilles
A Pure Woman
By Thomas Hardy
Oldcastle BooksCopyright © 2013 Thomas Hardy
All rights reserved.
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. An empty egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a grey mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.
'Good night t'ee,' said the man with the basket.
'Good night, Sir John,' said the parson.
The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.
'Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I said "Good night," and you made reply "Good night, Sir John," as now.'
'I did,' said the parson.
'And once before that – near a month ago.'
'I may have.'
'Then what might your meaning be in calling me "Sir John" these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?'
The parson rode a step or two nearer.
'It was only my whim,' he said; and, after a moment's hesitation: 'It was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history. I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane. Don't you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?'
'Never heard it before, sir!'
'Well it's true. Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of your face better. Yes, that's the d'Urberville nose and chin – a little debased. Your ancestor was one of the twelve knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his conquest of Glamorganshire. Branches of your family held manors over all this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the time of King Stephen. In the reign of King John one of them was rich enough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers; and in Edward the Second's time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there. You declined a little in Oliver Cromwell's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Second's reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your loyalty. Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among you, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it practically was in old times, when men were knighted from father to son, you would be Sir John now.'
'Ye don't say so!'
'In short,' concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, 'there's hardly such another family in England.'
'Daze my eyes, and isn't there?' said Durbeyfield. 'And here have I been knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the commonest feller in the parish ... And how long hev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham?'
The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite died out of knowledge, and could hardly be said to be known at all. His own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring when, having been engaged in tracing the vicissitudes of the d'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's name on his waggon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiries about his father and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.
'At first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of information,' said he. 'However, our impulses are too strong for our judgement sometimes. I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while.'
'Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen better days afore they came to Blackmoor. But I took no notice o't, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one. I've got a wold silver spoon, and a wold graven seal at home, too; but, Lord, what's a spoon and seal? ... And to think that I and these noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time. 'Twas said that my gr't -granfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk of where he came from ... And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we d'Urbervilles live?'
'You don't live anywhere. You are extinct – as a county family.'
'Yes – what the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male line – that is, gone down – gone under.'
'Then where do we lie?'
'At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults, with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.'
'And where be our family mansions and estates?'
'You haven't any.'
'Oh? No lands neither?'
'None; though you once had 'em in abundance, as I said, for your family consisted of numerous branches. In this county there was a seat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another in Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.'
'And shall we ever come into our own again?'
'Ah – that I can't tell!'
'And what had I better do about it, sir?' asked Durbeyfield, after a pause.
'Oh – nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of "how are the mighty fallen". It is a fact of some interest to the local historian and genealogist, nothing more. There are several families among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre. Good night.'
'But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength o't, Pa'son Tringham? There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Drop – though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's.'
'No, thank you – not this evening, Durbeyfield. You've had enough already.' Concluding thus, the parson rode on his way, with doubts as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.
When he was gone, Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a profound reverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside, depositing his basket before him. In a few minutes a youth appeared in the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been pursued by Durbeyfield. The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand, and the lad quickened his pace and came near.
'Boy, take up that basket! I want 'ee to go on an errand for me.'
The lath-like stripling frowned. 'Who be you, then, John Durbeyfield, to order me about and call me "boy"? You know my name as well as I know yours!'
'Do you, do you? That's the secret – that's the secret! Now obey my orders, and take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi' ... Well, Fred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a noble race – it has been just found out by me this present afternoon, pm.' And as he made the announcement, Durbeyfield, declining from his sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank among the daisies.
The lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from crown to toe.
'Sir John d'Urberville – that's who I am,' continued the prostrate man. 'That is if knights were baronets – which they be. 'Tis recorded in history all about me. Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?'
'Ees. I've been there to Greenhill Fair.'
'Well, under the church of that city there lie – '
"Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twaddn' when I was there – 'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o' place.'
'Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the question before us. Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestors – hundreds of 'em – in coats of mail and jewels, in gr't lead coffins weighing tons and tons. There's not a man in the county o' South-Wessex that's got grander and nobler skillentons in his family than I.'
'Now take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when you've come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell 'em to send a horse and carriage to me immed'ately, to carry me home. And in the bottom o' the carriage they be to put a noggin o' rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up to my account. And when you've done that goo on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she needn't finish it, and wait till I come home, as I've news to tell her.'
As the lad stood in a dubious attitude, Durbeyfield put his hand in his pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that he possessed.
'Here's for your labour, lad.'
This made a difference in the young man's estimate of the position.
'Yes, Sir John. Thank 'ee. Anything else I can do for 'ee, Sir John?'
'Tell 'em at home that I should like for supper, – well, lamb's fry if they can get it; and if they can't, black-pot; and if they can't get that, well chitterlings will do.'
'Yes, Sir John.'
The boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass band were heard from the direction of the village.
'What's that?' said Durbeyfield. 'Not on account o' I?'
"Tis the women's club-walking, Sir John. Why, your da'ter is one o' the members.'
'To be sure – I'd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things! Well, vamp on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club.'
The lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and daisies in the evening sun. Not a soul passed that way for a long while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds audible within the rim of blue hills.CHAPTER 2
The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London.
It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it – except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways.
This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor.
The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest. The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine. In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded. Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures.
The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain. Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised form. The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or 'club -walking,' as it was there called.
It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony. Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the members being solely women. In men's clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) of this their glory and consummation. The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia. It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still.
The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns – a gay survival from Old Style days, when cheerfulness and Maytime were synonyms – days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average. Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style.
In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care.
There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation. In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she should say, 'I have no pleasure in them', than of her juvenile comrades. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm.
The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown. Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all. A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes.
And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will. They were all cheerful, and many of them merry.
They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said –
'The Load-a-Lord! Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding home in a carriage!'
A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl – not handsomer than some others, possibly – but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape. She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment. As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbows. This was the cheerful servant of that establishment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times. Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative –
Excerpted from Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Copyright © 2013 Thomas Hardy. Excerpted by permission of Oldcastle Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928) was a novelist and poet whose novels include Far from the Madding Crowd and Jude the Obscure.
- Date of Birth:
- June 2, 1840
- Date of Death:
- January 11, 1928
- Place of Birth:
- Higher Brockhampon, Dorset, England
- Place of Death:
- Max Gate, Dorchester, England
- Served as apprentice to architect James Hicks
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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An enchanting, yet tragic story, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, has definitely shown its true Realism colors. Demonstrating how a woman's gender and status will always make society belittle her, Tess was a young maiden representing purity, natural beauty, innocence, and virtue. She has shown us the acts of sacrifice for love and her own sex. This story is calling out to woman everywhere, and for all history. Tess was a woman who stood strong no matter how unlucky she had been presented as. For example, when her rich and cynical cousin Alec had seduced/raped her while she was sleeping she had still tried to go on with her life. This shows that Tess was innocent no matter what people thought about her and she only wanted to find happiness in her life. In addition, her child Sorrow had died because it was so unhealthy, but she did stay in remorse. Her baby's name also tells us that her relationship between her and Alec was built with sorrow and sadness and ended in that way. She was also a great woman of virtue. Like from the very beginning she had protected her father from the rude gossipers, even though she knew herself that he was like that. This shows that although her family had put shame upon her, she had still treated them with respect and kindness. Furthermore, before she was about to get hanged, she asked her only true love to marry her sister. This shows, that even though she loved him, she showed no jealousy but desired what was best for him. But most of all, Tess was a woman of sacrifice. For example, when she had stabbed Alec to death in order to gain forgiveness from Angel Clare. This shows that even death and immorality cannot withstand her overflowing romance and love for Angel. In addition, before she gets captured, she sleeps on the Stonehenge; in that time, the Stonehenge was an immoral icon. This shows that she was lying there as if she was a sacrifice to the Heathen gods and in the same way she was sacrificing her life as the police came to arrest her. This fictional character signifies all women that have sacrificed their lives all because of men's greed and pride. Women who have tried to make a difference in this world so that maybe someone could not bias them because of their gender. But Thomas Hardy recognizes them, and asks us to recognize them too. He also aks us as Eves to continue to fight for our rights and their rights even in the 21st century, and all the centuries to come until we have finally reached our goals of being Adam's equal in all society, and in all humanity.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading Tess of the d'Urbervilles because, as with most well-written novels, I was instantly endeared to the characters. You truly sympathize with the main character, Tess, and feel all the unfairness life heaps upon her. Hardy's characters come alive with passion and sorrow (and a little sarcasm) and he paints a clear picture of the duplicity of how one action so drastically affects two people. The opinions expressed on religion, morality and humanity give much food for thought. I felt at times the language ran on a little long, but I highly reccomend this book.
One word of warning though...it's not a happy-ending book, and I was pretty depressed the whole of the next day. That being said, I'm still glad I read it and am looking forward to seeing the mini-series.
I've read this book over and over again many times during the past 10 years and each time I read it, I come away with something that I missed the previous time. I feel that Thomas Hardy is a genius and Tess is his greatest character. This story of a young woman wronged by society still rings true in our day. No matter how much women are given equal rights, it's still a man's world. Take the time to read this book and I promise that it will become one of your favourites as well.
I really enjoyed this book and found that it had a lot of unexpected turns. At times I found it a little hard to relate to the main character but enjoyed it all the same. Unfortunately I am finding that the classics do not alway end 'happily ever after'!
I love this book. It is actually my favorite. Tess's story is tragic, as many others have pointed out. She's manipulated, used, abused, and eventually just breaks. The story is more or less a psychological study of this poor girl. I recommend this book to everyone who ever asks me. It's beautifully written and truly a wonderful book.
Thomas Hardy was way ahead of his time, and Tess is one of the most memorable characters in literature. One can't help but become emotionally involved and reminded of many of the problems with society that have changed little a century later.
I somewhat enjoyed this novel. However, at times I was confused about what was going on because of the descriptiveness of the writing. This novel seems to have a deeper meaning but it was kind of hard to pinpoint it. At times the writing is very bland and boring, but the dialogue is very enjoyable. It was extremely emotional and touching.
This book is required reading for upper division English in Colleges and Universities. To call it depressing is dismissive and sophomoric . Of course it's depressing, most Hardy novels are depressing by nature, but he examines the human condition from a vulnerable, innocent, well meaning character's point of view. Some might feel it goes a little over the top in terms of misfortune, but I have always seen this as a testament of strength of the character. What ironically breaks her is when utmost desperate, she commits murder, which plunges her into the depths of despair. The use of Stonehenge as a symbol of sacrifice makes the situation all the more poignant . Anyone who says she is bored with this needs to stop reading action novels and start looking a little deeper than 2 inches.
This is a great change of pace.
Loved this book! Truely the only book that I've actually cried at the ending.
What can I say-I love Hardy. Why do I love an author whose books seem to move from one heartbreak to another? He is definitely not one you read for a light pick-me-up, that is for certain. But his writing is so nuanced that it feels as if I am floating down a quiescent rural stream; I know turbulent water lies ahead-I can feel the increasing pull beneath me-yet there seems to be no urgency to try to pull away in opposition. Going there just seems to be the natural flow of life. So why do I love this man whose plots I willingly follow into the very depths of despondency? Because the prose...oh, the prose! Thomas Hardy is a master of every literary element. For him, setting, especially, takes on such presence that it becomes an amalgamation of every place you have ever been. All of your senses become engaged. You hear the church bells peal across the meadow. The flank of the cow against Tess' cheek feels warm and fluid beneath your own. As she toils in the field you feel the grit of harvested grain in the sweaty crease of your neck and taste its dryness in your mouth. You feel refreshed by the wind and gladdened by the birds in flight. When it comes to character, Hardy is the consummate teacher. We don't just know that Tess' mother is hard at work on wash day. Her weariness is palpable. We aren't told that Tess is a good daughter. She pitches in just where she is needed, time and time again. Each character, major and minor, is presented so completely through their speech and actions that the narrator need fill in very little. For me they each even acquire a distinctive voice in my head. So if you have shied away from Hardy for lack of interest in his wrenching plots, I urge you to give one of his novels a try and experience the power of his incomparable prose.
I enjoyed this book, you can really get attached to Tess as a character a feel for her and what she is going though. I cried a lot reading this book and there were times where I had to take a break from it. Over all I liked the book. If you like Classics go for it!
The writing style, characters, and plot were all excellent, but the ending was very depressing.
This was a well written book, but if you are going to read it, be prepared because it is one of the most tragic books i have ever read. Don't expect a happy ending, it concludes, so you aren't left hanging, but like most books during this time period. It is depressing. For like a whole day after i read it, i felt very down. BUT if you can handle it, it is good. I don't regret reading it.
Can be a bit slow and lengthy at times but overall is a very good read. The characters seem so real and you can't help but hoping that everything will turn out well for Tess. You begin to love some characters while completely hating others. Tess is so naive and helpless at times that you just want to jump into the novel and help her. However, it is definitely not the easiest of reads; but for those who love classic literature and are ok with having a box of tissues near them when they're reading, it's definitely a must read!
I liked the part where Tess was trying to figure out a way to support her parents after their horse died.
So tragic and frustrating, it makes you glad you live in the 21st century. All of the opportunities lost by Tess and her companions due to misunderstandings and 'coincidences' make you feel the bitter pain of Tess' hardships as if they were your own. Thomas Hardy probably never imagined that he would be making young maiden girls weep at the horrible beauty of his story decades after it was written! I recommend this book only to those who don't mind heartache - this book certainly brings its share.
This novel had me frustrated at times but I did love it very much! I do not want to spoil the story, but I wish there was more forgiveness for Tess since it was not her fault. At times I found the language a bit too much, and could not make out what things meant and had to use spark notes for references- I would not have known what happened to Tess with Alec if I did not use the cheat! Overall the story is great, and I felt for the protagonist very much!
There are whole paragraphs in this edition that seem not to have been transcribed well. Sentences don't make sense, punctuation is missing, weird symbols appear in random places. Sometimes a page will just end midway with no period. The next page moves on normally, but it makes me wonder what I'm missing. If this were a hard copy I would return it to the store. Not sure if that's possible with e-books.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles is both tragic and beautiful. Through this work of art, Thomas Hardy speaks of sin and redemption, love and sacrifice. I do not recommend this story if you are lacking either time or patience. Pieces of the story tend to move slowly, but I believe that this serves to better connect the reader with the characters, which makes the faster-paced sections of the tale more exciting and heart-wrenching. I often say that a story is well-written if it causes the reader to feel something (anger, frustration, saddness, joy, etc.). Based on this standard, Tess of the D'Urbervilles is a masterpiece.
I have read Tess multiple times and looking forward to the next time, too. The enchanting scenes (when Angel carries Tess across the water) and emotionally shocking scenes (the ending, beginning with Angels return) draw you in. Yes, the novel is tragic but beautiful all the same.