Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy

      Tess of the d’Urbervilles

      TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES

      First published in 1891, this book is still one of the most sensitive stories we have about the feelings of a young woman.

      It is a very sad book: a young girl’s life is slowly, but surely, destroyed – not by her enemies, but by the people who say they love her. What kind of love is this that destroys the thing it loves?

      The sadness lies in watching the mistakes happen and being unable to stop them. Tess is a girl who overflows with happiness. Her life could be so happy – but the right man hesitates, and the wrong man finds her first. ‘Don’t let her go!’ we want to shout, or ‘Tell him now, before it’s too late!’

      But it is already too late: it happened a hundred years ago – it happens every day. And we can do nothing but watch as the great world turns, destroys Tess, and turns again … as if she had never existed.

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First published in Oxford Bookworms 1989

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ISBN 978 0 19 479268 4

A complete recording of this Bookworms edition of Tess of d’Ubervilles is available on audio CD ISBN 978 0 19 479248 6

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Photographs © Columbia Pictures Industries Inc

The publishers would like to thank Columbia for their kind permission to reproduce photographs

Word count (main text): 33,060 words

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      The Maiden

      1

      One evening at the end of May a middle-aged man was walking home from Shaston to the village of Marlott in the Vale of Blackmoor. His legs were thin and weak, and he could not walk in a straight line. He had an empty egg-basket on his arm, and his hat was old and worn. After a while he passed an elderly parson riding a grey horse.

      ‘Good night,’ said the man with the basket.

      ‘Good night, Sir John,’ said the parson.

      After another step or two the man stopped and turned round to speak to the parson.

      ‘Now, sir, last market-day we met on this road at the same time, and I said "Good night" and you answered "Good night, Sir John", as you did just now.’

      ‘I did,’ said the parson.

      ‘And once before that, almost a month ago.’

      ‘I may have.’

      ‘So why do you call me Sir John, when I am only John Durbeyfield?’

      The parson rode nearer, and after a moment’s hesitation, explained: ‘It was because I’ve discovered something of historical interest. I am Parson Tringham, the historian. Do you really not know, Durbeyfield, that you are a direct descendant of the ancient and noble family of the d’Urbervilles? They descended from Sir Pagan d’Urberville, who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror in 1066.’

      ‘Never heard that before, sir!’

      ‘Well, it’s true. Let me see your face. Yes, you have the d’Urberville nose and chin. d’Urbervilles have owned land and served their King for hundreds of years. There have been many Sir Johns, and you could have been Sir John yourself.’

      ‘Well!’ exclaimed the man. ‘And how long has this news about me been known, Parson Tringham?’

      ‘Nobody knows about it at all,’ said the parson. ‘I just happened to discover it last spring, when I was trying to find out more about the d’Urbervilles and noticed your name in the village.’

      ‘I’ve got an old silver spoon, and an old seal too at home,’ said the man, wondering. ‘So where do we d’Urbervilles live now, parson?’

      ‘You don’t live anywhere. You have died, as a noble family.’

      ‘That’s bad. So where do we lie?’

      ‘In the churchyard at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill.’

      ‘And where are our family lands?’

      ‘You haven’t any.’

      John Durbeyfield paused. ‘And what should I do about it, sir?’

      ‘Oh, nothing. It’s a fact of historical interest, nothing more. Good night.’

      ‘But you’ll come and have some beer with me, Parson Tringham?’

      ‘No, thank you, not this evening, Durbeyfield. You’ve had enough already.’ The parson rode away, half regretting that he had told Durbeyfield of his discovery.

      Durbeyfield walked on a few steps in a dream, then sat down with his basket. In a few minutes a boy appeared. Durbeyfield called to him.

      ‘Boy! Take this basket! I want you to go and do something for me.’

      The boy frowned. ‘Who are you, 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! Well, Fred, I don’t mind telling you that the secret is that I’m one of a noble family.’ And Durbeyfield lay back comfortably on the grass. ‘Sir John d’Urberville, that’s who I am. And I’ve got the family seal to prove it!’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Now take up the basket, and tell them in the village to send a horse and carriage to me immediately. Here’s a shilling for you.’

      This made a difference to the boy’s view of the situation. ‘Yes, Sir John. Thank you, Sir John.’

      As they spoke, sounds of music came through the evening air from the village.

      ‘What’s that?’ said Durbeyfield. ‘Have they heard my news already?’

      ‘It’s the women dancing, Sir John.’

      The boy went on his way and Durbeyfield lay waiting in the evening sun. Nobody passed by for a long time, and he could just hear the faint music in the distance.

      The village of Marlott lies in the beautiful Vale of Blackmoor. Although this valley is only four hours away from London, it has not yet been discovered by tourists and artists. The best view of the vale is from the hills surrounding it; it looks like a map spread out. It is a quiet, sheltered part of the countryside, where the fields are always green and the rivers never dry up. To the south lies the great dividing line of hills. From here to the coast the hills are open, the sun