Clare, restless, went out into the dusk when evening drew on, she who had won him having retired to her chamber.

The night was as sultry as the day. There was no coolness after dark unless on the grass. Roads, garden-paths, the house-fronts, the barton-walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontide temperature into the noctambulist's face.

He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feeling had indeed smothered judgment that day.

Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart. She seemed stilled, almost alarmed, at what had occurred, while the novelty, unpremeditation, mastery of circumstance disquieted him - palpitating, contemplative being that he was. He could hardly realize their true relations to each other as yet, and what their mutualbearing should be before third parties thenceforward.

Angel had come as pupil to this dairy in the idea that his temporary existence here was to be the merest episode in his life, soon passed through and early forgotten; he had come as to a place from which as from a screened alcove he could calmly view the absorbing world without, and, apostrophizing it with Walt Whitman--

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, How curious you are to me!--

resolve upon a plan for plunging into that world anew. But, behold, the absorbing scene had been imported hither. What had been the engrossing world had dissolved into an uninteresting outer dumb-show; while here, in this apparently dim and un-impassioned place, novelty had volcanically started up, as it had never, for him, started up elsewhere.

Every window of the house being open Clare could hear across the yard each trivial sound of the retiring household. That dairy-house, so humble, so insignificant, so purely to him a place of constrained sojourn that he had never hitherto deemed it of sufficient importance to be reconnoitred as an object of any quality whatever in the landscape; what was it now? The aged and lichened brick gables breathed forth `Stay!' The windows smiled, the door coaxed and beckoned, the creeper blushed confederacy. A personality within it was so far-reaching in her influence as to spread into and make the bricks, mortar, and whole overhanging sky throb with a burning sensibility. Whose was this mighty personality? A milkmaid's.

It was amazing, indeed, to find how great a matter the life of the obscure dairy had become to him. And though new love was to be held partly responsible for this it was not solely so. Many besides Angel have learnt that the magnitude of lives is not as to their external displacements, but as to their subjective experiences. The impressionable peasant leads a larger, fuller, more dramatic life than the pachydermatous king. Looking at it thus he found that life was to be seen of the same magnitude here as elsewhere.

Despite his heterodoxy, faults, and weaknesses, Clare was a man with a conscience. Tess was no insignificant creature to toy with and dismiss; but a woman living her precious life - a life which, to herself who endured or enjoyed it, possessed as great a dimension as the life of the mightiest to himself. Upon her sensations the whole world depended to Tess; through her existence all her fellow-creatures existed, to her. The universe itself only came into being for Tess on the particular day in the particular year in which she was born.

This consciousness upon which he had intruded was the single opportunity of existence ever vouchsafed to Tess by an unsympathetic First Cause - her all; her every and only chance. How then should he look upon her as of less consequence than himself; as a pretty trifle to caress and grow weary of; and not deal in the greatest seriousness with the affection which he knew that he had awakened in her - so fervid and so impressionable as she was under her reserve; in order that it might not agonize and wreck her?

To encounter her daily in the accustomed manner would be to develop what had begun. Living in such close relations, to meet meant to fall into endearment; flesh and blood could not resist it; and, having arrived at no conclusion as to the issue of such a tendency, he decided to hold aloof for the present from occupations in which they would be mutually engaged. As yet the harm done was small.

But it was not easy to carry out the resolution never to approach her. He was driven towards her by every heave of his pulse.

He thought he would go and see his friends. It might be possible to sound them upon this. In less than five months his term here would have ended, and after a few additional months spent upon other farms he would be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge, and in a position to start on his own account. Would not a farmer want a wife, and should a farmer's wife be a drawing-room wax-figure, or a woman who understood farming? Notwithstanding the pleasing answer returned to him by the silence he resolved to go his journey.

One morning when they sat down to breakfast at Talbothays Dairy some maid observed that she had not seen anything of Mr Clare that day.

`O no,' said Dairyman Crick. `Mr Clare has gone hwome to Emminster to spend a few days wi' his kinsfolk.'

For four impassioned ones around that table the sunshine of the morning went out at a stroke, and the birds muffled their song. But neither girl by word or gesture revealed her blankness.

`He's getting on towards the end of his time wi' me,' added the dairyman, with a phlegm which unconsciously was brutal; `and so I suppose he is beginning to see about his plans elsewhere.'

`How much longer is he to bide here?' asked Izz Huett, the only one of the gloom-stricken bevy who could trust her voice with the question.

The others waited for the dairyman's answer as if their lives hung upon it; Retty, with parted lips, gazing on the table-cloth, Marian with heat added to her redness, Tess throbbing and looking out at the meads.

`Well, I can't mind the exact day without looking at my memorandum-book,' replied Crick, with the same intolerable unconcern. `And even that may be altered a bit. He'll bide to get a little practice in the calving out at the straw-yard, for certain. He'll hang on till the end of the year I should say.'

Four months or so of torturing ecstasy in his society - of `pleasure girdled about with pain'. After that the blackness of unutterable night.

At this moment of the morning Angel Clare was riding along a narrow lane ten miles distant from the breakfasters, in the direction of his father's vicarage at Emminster, carrying, as well as he could, a little basket which contained some black-puddings and a bottle of mead, sent by Mrs Crick, with her kind respects, to his parents. The white lane stretched before him, and his eyes were upon it; but they were staring into next year, and not at the lane. He loved her; ought he to marry her? Dared he to marry her? What would his mother and his brothers say? What would he himself say a couple of years after the event? That would depend upon whether the germs of staunch comradeship underlay the temporary emotion, or whether it were a sensuous joy in her form only, with no substratum of everlastingness.

His father's hill-surrounded little town, the Tudor church-tower of red stone, the clump of trees near the vicarage, came at last into view beneath him, and he rode down towards the well-known gate. Casting a glance in the direction of the church before entering his home, he beheld standing by the vestry-door a group of girls, of ages between twelve and sixteen, apparently awaiting the arrival of some other one, who in a moment became visible; a figure somewhat older than the school-girls, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and highly-starched cambric morning-gown, with a couple of books in her hand.

Clare knew her well. He could not be sure that she observed him; he hoped she did not, so as to render it unnecessary that he should go and speak to her, blameless creature that she was. An overpowering reluctance to greet her made him decide that she had not seen him. The young lady was Miss Mercy Chant, the only daughter of his father's neighbour and friend, whom it was his parents quiet hope that he might wed some day. She was great at Antinomianism and Bible-classes, and was plainly going to hold a class now. Clare's mind flew to the impassioned, summer steeped heathens in the Var Vale, their rosy faces court-patched with cow-droppings; and to one the most impassioned of them all.

It was on the impulse of the moment that he had resolved to trot over to Emminster, and hence had not written to apprise his mother and father, aiming, however, to arrive about the breakfast hour, before they should have gone out to their parish duties. He was a little late, and they had already sat down to the morning meal. The group at table jumped up to welcome him as soon as be entered. They were his father and mother, his brother the Reverend Felix - curate at a town in the adjoining county, home for the inside of a fortnight - and his other brother, the Reverend Cuthbert, the classical scholar, and Fellow and Dean of his College, down from Cambridge for the long vacation. His mother appeared in a cap and silver spectacles, and his father looked what in fact he was - an earnest, God-fearing man, somewhat gaunt, in years about sixty-five, his pale face lined with thought and purpose. Over their heads hung the picture of Angel's sister, the eldest of the family, sixteen years his senior, who had married a missionary and gone out to Africa.

Old Mr Clare was a clergyman of a type which, within the last twenty years, has wellnigh dropped out of contemporary life. A spiritual descendant in the direct line from Wycliff, Huss, Luther, Calvin; an Evangelical of the Evangelicals, a Conversionist, a man of Apostolic simplicity in life and thought, he had in his raw youth made up his mind once for all on the deeper questions of existence, and admitted no further reasoning on them thenceforward. He was regarded even by those of his own date and school of thinking as extreme; while, on the other hand, those totally opposed to him were unwillingly won to admiration for his thoroughness, and for the remarkable power he showed in dismissing all question as to principles in his energy for applying them. He loved Paul of Tarsus, liked St John, hated St James as much as he dared, and regarded with mixed feelings Timothy, Titus, and Philemon. The New Testament was less a Christiad than a Pauliad to his intelligence - less an argument than an intoxication. His creed of determinism was such that it almost amounted to a vice, and quite amounted, on its negative side, to a renunciative philosophy which had cousinship with that of Schopenhauer and Leopardi. He despised the Canons and Rubric, swore by the Articles, and deemed himself consistent through the whole category which in a way he might have been. One thing he certainly was - sincere.

To the aesthetic, sensuous, pagan pleasure in natural life and lush womanhood which his son Angel had lately been experiencing in Var Vale, his temper would have been antipathetic in a high degree, had he either by inquiry or imagination been able to apprehend it. Once upon a time Angel had been so unlucky as to say to his father, in a moment of irritation, that it might have resulted far better for mankind if Greece had been the source of the religion of modern civilization, and not Palestine; and his father's grief was of that blank description which could not realize that there might lurk a thousandth part of a truth, much less a half truth or a whole truth, in such a proposition. He had simply preached austerely at Angel for some time after. But the kindness of his heart was such that he never resented anything for long, and welcomed his son to-day with a smile which was as candidly sweet as a child's.

Angel sat down, and the place felt like home; yet he did not so much as formerly feel himself one of the family gathered there. Every time that he returned hither he was conscious of this divergence, and since he had last shared in the Vicarage life it had grown even more distinctly foreign to his own than usual. Its transcendental aspirations - still unconsciously based on the geocentric view of things, a zenithal paradise, a nadiral hell - were as foreign to his own as if they had been the dreams of people on another planet. Latterly he had seen only Life, felt only the great passionate pulse of existence, unwarped, uncontorted, untrammelled by those creeds which futilely attempt to check what wisdom would be content to regulate.

On their part they saw a great difference in him, a growing divergence from the Angel Clare of former times. It was chiefly a difference in his manner that they noticed just now, particularly bis brothers. He was getting to behave like a farmer; he flung his legs about; the muscles of his face had grown more expressive; his eyes looked as much information as his tongue spoke, and more. The manner of the scholar had nearly disappeared; still more the manner of the drawing-room young man. A prig would have said that he had lost culture, and a prude that he had become coarse. Such was the contagion of domiciliary fellowship with the Talbothays nymphs and swains.

After breakfast he walked with his two brothers, non-evangelical, well-educated, hall-marked young men, correct to their remotest fibre; such unimpeachable models as are turned out yearly by the lathe of a systematic tuition. They were both somewhat shortsighted, and when it was the custom to wear a single eyeglass and string they wore a single eyeglass and string; when it was the custom to wear a double glass they wore a double glass; when it was the custom to wear spectacles they wore spectacles straightway, all without reference to the particular variety of defect in their own vision. When Wordsworth was enthroned they carried pocket copies; and when Shelley was belittled they allowed him to grow dusty on their shelves. When Correggio's Holy Families were admired, they admired Correggio's Holy Families; when he was decried in favour of Velasquez, they sedulously followed suit without any personal objection.

If these two noticed Angel's growing social ineptness, he noticed their growing mental limitations. Felix seemed to him all Church; Cuthbert all College. His Diocesan Synod and Visitations were the main-springs of the world to the one; Cambridge to the other. Each brother candidly recognized that there were a few unimportant scores of millions of outsiders in civilized society, persons who were neither University men nor churchmen; but they were to be tolerated rather than reckoned with and respected.

They were both dutiful and attentive sons, and were regular in their visits to their parents. Felix, though an offshoot from a far more recent point in the devolution of theology than his father, was less self-sacrificing and disinterested. More tolerant than his father of a contradictory opinion, in its aspect as a danger to its holder, he was less ready than his father to pardon it as a slight to his own teaching. Cuthbert was, upon the whole, the more liberal-minded, though, with greater subtlety, he had not so much heart.

As they walked along the hillside Angel's former feeling revived in him - that whatever their advantages by comparison with himself, neither saw or set forth life as it really was lived. Perhaps, as with many men, their opportunities of observation were not so good as their opportunities of expression. Neither had an adequate conception of the complicated forces at work outside the smooth and gentle current in which they and their associates floated. Neither saw the difference between local truth and universal truth; that what the inner world said in their clerical and academichearing was quite a different thing from what the outer world was thinking.

`I suppose it is farming or nothing for you now, my dear fellow,' Felix was saying, among other things, to his youngest brother, as he looked through his spectacles at the distant fields with sad austerity. `And, therefore, we must make the best of it. But I do entreat you to endeavour to keep as much as possible in touch with moral ideals. Farming, of course, means roughing it externally; but high thinking may go with plain living, nevertheless.'

`Of course it may,' said Angel. `Was it not proved nineteen hundred years ago - if I may trespass upon your domain a little? Why should you think, Felix, that I am likely to drop my high thinking and my moral ideals?'

`Well, I fancied, from the tone of your letters and our conversation - It may be fancy only - that you were somehow losing intellectual grasp. Hasn't it struck you, Cuthbert?'

`Now, Felix,' said Angel drily, `we are very good friends, you know; each of us treading our allotted circles; but if it comes to intellectual grasp, I think you, as a contented dogmatist, had better leave mine alone, and inquire what has become of yours.'

They returned down the hill to dinner, which was fixed at any time at which their father's and mother's morning work in the parish usually concluded. Convenience as regarded afternoon callers was the last thing to enter into the consideration of unselfish Mr and Mrs Clare; though the three sons were sufficiently in unison on this matter to wish that their parents would conform a little to modern notions.

The walk had made them hungry, Angel in particular, who was now an outdoor man, accustomed to the profuse dapes inemptae of the dairyman's somewhat coarsely-laden table. But neither of the old people had arrived, and it was not till the sons were almost tired of waiting that their parents entered. The self-denying pair had been occupied in coaxing the appetites of some of their sick parishioners, whom they, somewhat inconsistently, tried to keep imprisoned in the flesh, their own appetites being quite forgotten.

The family sat down to table, and a frugal meal of cold viands was deposited before them. Angel looked round for Mrs Crick's black-puddings, which he had directed to be nicely grilled, as they did them at the dairy, and of which he wished his father and mother to appreciate the marvellous herbal savours as highly as he did himself.

`Ah! you are looking for the black-puddings, my dear boy,' observed Clare's mother. `But I am sure you will not mind doing without them, as I am sure your father and I shall not, when you know the reason. I suggested to him that we should take Mrs Crick's kind present to the children of the man who can earn nothing just now because of his attacks of delirium tremens; and lie agreed that it would be a great pleasure to them; so we did.'

`Of course,' said Angel cheerfully, looking round for the mead.

`I found the mead so extremely alcoholic,' continued his mother, `that it was quite unfit for use as a beverage, but as valuable as rum or brandy in an emergency; so I have put it in my medicine-closet.'

`We never drink spirits at this table, on principle,' added his father.

`But what shall I tell the dairyman's wife?' said Angel.

`The truth, of course,' said his father.

`I rather wanted to say we enjoyed the mead and the blackpuddings very much. She is a kind, jolly sort of body, and is sure to ask me directly I return.'

`You cannot, if we did not,' Mr Clare answered lucidly.

`AH - no; though that mead was a drop of pretty tipple.'

`A what?' said Cuthbert and Felix both.

`Oh--'tis an expression they use down at Talbothays,' replied Angel, blushing. He felt that his parents were right in their practice if wrong in their want of sentiment, and said no more.



傍晚来临的时候，坐立不安的克莱尔走出门外，来到苍茫的暮色里，而被他征服的她也已经回到了自己的房问。

　　晚上还是和白天一样地闷热。天黑以后，要是不到草地上去，就没有一丝凉气。道路、院中的小径、房屋正面的墙壁，还有院子的围墙，都热得像壁炉一样，而且还把正午的热气，反射到夜间行人的脸上。

　　他坐在奶牛场院子东边的栅栏门上，不知道怎样来看待自己。白天，他的感情的确压倒了他的理智。

　　自从三个小时以前突然发生拥抱以来，他们两个人就再也没有在一块儿呆过。她似乎是对白天发生的事保持镇静，但实际上是几乎给吓坏了，他自己也因为这件事的新奇、不容思索和受环境支配的结果而惶惶不安起来，因为他是一个易于激动和爱好思索的人。到目前为止，他还不大清楚他们两个人的真实关系，也不知道他们在其他人的面前应该怎样应付。

　　安琪尔来到这个奶牛场里当学徒，心想在这儿的短暂停留只不过是他人生中的一段插曲，不久就过去了，很快就忘掉了；他来到这儿，就像来到一个隐蔽的洞室，可以从里面冷静地观察外面吸引人的世界，并且同华尔特·惠特曼一起高喊--

　　你们这一群男女，身着日常的服饰，

　　在我眼里是多么地新奇！①

　　

　　①华尔特·惠特曼（Walt Whitman，1819-1892），美国诗人，着有诗集《草叶集》，哈代所引的诗出自《过布鲁克林渡口》一诗。

　　同时心里计划着，决心再重新进入到那个世界里去。但是你看，那吸引人的景象向这边转移过来了。曾经那样吸引人的世界，在外面又变成了一出索然无味的哑剧了；而在这个表面上沉闷和缺少激情的地方，新奇的东西却像火山一样喷发出来，这是他在其它地方从来没有见到过的。

　　房子的每个窗子都开着，克莱尔听得见全屋子人安歇时发出的每一种细小的声音。奶牛场的住宅简陋不堪，无足轻重，他纯粹是迫不得已才来这儿寄居的，所以从来就没有重视它，也没有发现在这片景物里有一件有价值的东西让他留恋。但是这所住宅现在又是什么样子呢？古老的长满了苔藓的砖墙在轻声呼喊"留下来吧"，窗子在微微含笑，房门在好言劝说，在举手召唤，长春藤也因为暗中同谋而露出了羞愧。这是因为屋子里住着一个人物，她的影响是如此深远广大，深入到了砖墙、灰壁和头顶的整个蓝天之中，使它们带着燃烧的感觉搏动。什么人会有这么大的力量呢？是一个挤奶女工的力量。

　　这个偏僻奶牛场里的生活变成了对安琪尔·克莱尔非常重要的事情，这的确让人感到惊讶不已。虽然部分原因是因为刚刚产生的爱情，但是也不是完全如此。除了安琪尔而外，许多人知道，人生意义的大小不在于外部的变迁，而在于主观经验。一个天性敏感的农民，他的生活比一个天性迟钝的国王的生活更广阔、更丰富、更激动人心。如此看来，他发现这儿的生活同其它地方的生活一样有着重要的意义。

　　尽管克莱尔相信异端学说，身上有种种缺点和弱点，他仍然是一个具有是非感的人。苔丝不是一个无足轻重的人，不是随意玩弄以后就可以把她丢开的；而是一个过着宝贵生活的妇女--这种生活对她来说无论是受苦还是享受，也像最伟大人物的生活一样重要。对于苔丝来说，整个世界的存在全凭她的感觉，所有生物的存在也全凭她的存在。对于苔丝，宇宙本身的诞生，就是在她降生的某一年中的某一天里诞生的。

　　他已经进入的这个知觉世界，是无情的造物主赐给苔丝的唯一的生存机会--是她的一切；是所有的也是仅有的机会。那么他怎么能够把她看得不如自己重要呢？怎么能够把她当作一件漂亮的小物件去玩弄，然后又去讨厌它呢？怎么能够不以最严肃认真的态度来对待他在她身上唤起来的感情呢？--她看起来很沉静，其实却非常热烈，非常容易动情；因此他怎么能够去折磨她和让她痛苦呢？

　　像过去的习惯那样天天和她见面，已经开了头的事情就会继续向前发展。他们的关系既然是这样亲密，见面就意味着相互温存；这是血肉之躯不能抗拒的；既然不知道这种趋向的发展会导致什么样的结果，他决定目前还是避开他们有可能共同参与的工作。但是要坚持不同她接近的决心，却不是一件容易的事。他的脉搏每跳动一次，都把他向她的身边推动一步。

　　他想他可以去看看他的朋友们。他可以就这件事听听他们的意见。在不到五个月的时间里，他在这儿学习的时间就要结束了，然后再到其它的农场上学习几个月，他就完全具备了从事农业的知识了；也就可以独立地创建自己的事业了。一个农场主应不应该娶一个妻子？一个农场主的妻子应该是客厅里的蜡像呢，或者应该是一个懂得干农活的女人呢？不用说答案是他喜欢的那一种，尽管如此，他还是决定动身上路。