Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Томас Харди

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СКАЧАТЬ work of imagination poor Tess and her parents were naturally in ignorance—much to their discomfiture; indeed, the very possibility of such annexations was unknown to them; who supposed that, though to be well-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a family name came by nature.

      Tess still stood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge, hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere, when a figure came forth from the dark triangular door of the tent. It was that of a tall young man, smoking.

      He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded, though red and smooth, above which was a well-groomed black moustache with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or four-and-twenty. Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours, there was a singular force in the gentleman’s face, and in his bold rolling eye.

      ‘Well, my Beauty, what can I do for you?’ said he, coming forward. And perceiving that she stood quite confounded: ‘Never mind me. I am Mr. d’Urberville. Have you come to see me or my mother?’

      This embodiment of a d’Urberville and a namesake differed even more from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed. She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of all the d’Urberville lineaments, furrowed with incarnate memories representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family’s and England’s history. But she screwed herself up to the work in hand, since she could not get out of it, and answered—

      ‘I came to see your mother, sir.’

      ‘I am afraid you cannot see her—she is an invalid,’ replied the present representative of the spurious house; for this was Mr. Alec, the only son of the lately deceased gentleman. ‘Cannot I answer your purpose? What is the business you wish to see her about?’

      ‘It isn’t business—it is—I can hardly say what!’

      ‘Pleasure?’

      ‘Oh no. Why, sir, if I tell you, it will seem—’

      Tess’s sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him, and her general discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile, much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander.

      ‘It is so very foolish,’ she stammered; ‘I fear I can’t tell you!’

      ‘Never mind; I like foolish things. Try again, my dear,’ said he kindly.

      ‘Mother asked me to come,’ Tess continued; ‘and, indeed, I was in the mind to do so myself likewise. But I did not think it would be like this. I came, sir, to tell you that we are of the same family as you.’

      ‘No! Poor relations?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Stokes?’

      ‘No; d’Urbervilles.’

      ‘Ay, ay; I mean d’Urbervilles.’

      ‘Our names are worn away to Durbeyfield; but we have several proofs that we are d’Urbervilles. Antiquarians hold we are—and—and we have an old seal, marked with a ramping lion on a shield, and a castle over him. And we have a very old silver spoon, round in the bowl like a little ladle, and marked with the same castle. But it is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup.’

      ‘A castle argent is certainly my crest,’ said he blandly. ‘And my arms a lion rampant.’

      ‘And so mother said we ought to make ourselves be-known to you—as we’ve lost our horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o’ the family.’

      ‘Very kind of your mother, I’m sure. And I, for one, don’t regret her step.’ Alec looked at Tess as he spoke, in a way that made her blush a little. ‘And so, my pretty girl, you’ve come on a friendly visit to us, as relations?’

      ‘I suppose I have,’ faltered Tess, looking uncomfortable again.

      ‘Well—there’s no harm in it. Where do you live? What are you?’

      She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who had brought her.

      ‘It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross. Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?’

      Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him. He conducted her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence to the fruit-garden and green-houses, where he asked her if she liked strawberries.

      ‘Yes,’ said Tess, ‘when they come.’

      ‘They are already here.’ D’Urberville began gathering specimens of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and, presently, selecting a specially fine product of the ‘British Queen’ variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.

      ‘No—no!’ she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and her lips. ‘I would rather take it in my own hand.’

      ‘Nonsense!’ he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips and took it in.

      They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d’Urberville offered her. When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the rose trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty. At last, looking at his watch, he said, ‘Now, by the time you have had something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to catch the carrier to Shaston. Come here, and I’ll see what grub I can find.’

      Stoke-d’Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which he put before her himself. It was evidently the gentleman’s wish not to be disturbed in this pleasant tête-à-tête by the servantry.

      ‘Do you mind my smoking?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh, not at all, sir.’

      He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine, as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the ‘tragic mischief’ of her drama—one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the spectrum of her young life. She had an attribute which amounted to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec d’Urberville’s eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from her mother without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure.

      She soon had finished her lunch. ‘Now I am going home, sir,’ she said, rising.

      ‘And what do they call you?’ he asked, as he accompanied her along the drive till they were out of sight of the house.

      ‘Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott.’

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