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CHAPTER XVIII
Angel Clare rises out of the past not altogether as a distinct figure, but as an
appreciative voice, a long regard of fixed, abstracted eyes, and a mobility of mouth
somewhat too small and delicately lined for
a man's, though with an unexpectedly firm close of the lower lip now and then; enough
to do away with any inference of indecision.
Nevertheless, something nebulous, preoccupied, vague, in his bearing and
regard, marked him as one who probably had no very definite aim or concern about his
material future.
Yet as a lad people had said of him that he was one who might do anything if he tried.
He was the youngest son of his father, a poor parson at the other end of the county,
and had arrived at Talbothays Dairy as a six months' pupil, after going the round of
some other farms, his object being to
acquire a practical skill in the various processes of farming, with a view either to
the Colonies or the tenure of a home-farm, as circumstances might decide.
His entry into the ranks of the agriculturists and breeders was a step in
the young man's career which had been anticipated neither by himself nor by
others.
Mr Clare the elder, whose first wife had died and left him a daughter, married a
second late in life.
This lady had somewhat unexpectedly brought him three sons, so that between Angel, the
youngest, and his father the Vicar there seemed to be almost a missing generation.
Of these boys the aforesaid Angel, the child of his old age, was the only son who
had not taken a University degree, though he was the single one of them whose early
promise might have done full justice to an academical training.
Some two or three years before Angel's appearance at the Marlott dance, on a day
when he had left school and was pursuing his studies at home, a parcel came to the
Vicarage from the local bookseller's, directed to the Reverend James Clare.
The Vicar having opened it and found it to contain a book, read a few pages; whereupon
he jumped up from his seat and went straight to the shop with the book under
his arm.
"Why has this been sent to my house?" he asked peremptorily, holding up the volume.
"It was ordered, sir." "Not by me, or any one belonging to me, I
am happy to say."
The shopkeeper looked into his order-book. "Oh, it has been misdirected, sir," he
said. "It was ordered by Mr Angel Clare, and
should have been sent to him."
Mr Clare winced as if he had been struck. He went home pale and dejected, and called
Angel into his study. "Look into this book, my boy," he said.
"What do you know about it?"
"I ordered it," said Angel simply. "What for?"
"To read." "How can you think of reading it?"
"How can I?
Why--it is a system of philosophy. There is no more moral, or even religious,
work published." "Yes--moral enough; I don't deny that.
But religious!--and for YOU, who intend to be a minister of the Gospel!"
"Since you have alluded to the matter, father," said the son, with anxious thought
upon his face, "I should like to say, once for all, that I should prefer not to take
Orders.
I fear I could not conscientiously do so. I love the Church as one loves a parent.
I shall always have the warmest affection for her.
There is no institution for whose history I have a deeper admiration; but I cannot
honestly be ordained her minister, as my brothers are, while she refuses to liberate
her mind from an untenable redemptive theolatry."
It had never occurred to the straightforward and simple-minded Vicar
that one of his own flesh and blood could come to this!
He was stultified, shocked, paralysed.
And if Angel were not going to enter the Church, what was the use of sending him to
Cambridge?
The University as a step to anything but ordination seemed, to this man of fixed
ideas, a preface without a volume.
He was a man not merely religious, but devout; a firm believer--not as the phrase
is now elusively construed by theological thimble-riggers in the Church and out of
it, but in the old and ardent sense of the Evangelical school: one who could
Indeed opine That the Eternal and Divine
Did, eighteen centuries ago In very truth...
Angel's father tried argument, persuasion, entreaty.
"No, father; I cannot underwrite Article Four (leave alone the rest), taking it 'in
the literal and grammatical sense' as required by the Declaration; and,
therefore, I can't be a parson in the present state of affairs," said Angel.
"My whole instinct in matters of religion is towards reconstruction; to quote your
favorite Epistle to the Hebrews, 'the removing of those things that are shaken,
as of things that are made, that those things which cannot be shaken may remain.'"
His father grieved so deeply that it made Angel quite ill to see him.
"What is the good of your mother and me economizing and stinting ourselves to give
you a University education, if it is not to be used for the honour and glory of God?"
his father repeated.
"Why, that it may be used for the honour and glory of man, father."
Perhaps if Angel had persevered he might have gone to Cambridge like his brothers.
But the Vicar's view of that seat of learning as a stepping-stone to Orders
alone was quite a family tradition; and so rooted was the idea in his mind that
perseverance began to appear to the
sensitive son akin to an intent to misappropriate a trust, and wrong the pious
heads of the household, who had been and were, as his father had hinted, compelled
to exercise much thrift to carry out this
uniform plan of education for the three young men.
"I will do without Cambridge," said Angel at last.
"I feel that I have no right to go there in the circumstances."
The effects of this decisive debate were not long in showing themselves.
He spent years and years in desultory studies, undertakings, and meditations; he
began to evince considerable indifference to social forms and observances.
The material distinctions of rank and wealth he increasingly despised.
Even the "good old family" (to use a favourite phrase of a late local worthy)
had no aroma for him unless there were good new resolutions in its representatives.
As a balance to these austerities, when he went to live in London to see what the
world was like, and with a view to practising a profession or business there,
he was carried off his head, and nearly
entrapped by a woman much older than himself, though luckily he escaped not
greatly the worse for the experience.
Early association with country solitudes had bred in him an unconquerable, and
almost unreasonable, aversion to modern town life, and shut him out from such
success as he might have aspired to by
following a mundane calling in the impracticability of the spiritual one.
But something had to be done; he had wasted many valuable years; and having an
acquaintance who was starting on a thriving life as a Colonial farmer, it occurred to
Angel that this might be a lead in the right direction.
Farming, either in the Colonies, America, or at home--farming, at any rate, after
becoming well qualified for the business by a careful apprenticeship--that was a
vocation which would probably afford an
independence without the sacrifice of what he valued even more than a competency--
intellectual liberty.
So we find Angel Clare at six-and-twenty here at Talbothays as a student of kine,
and, as there were no houses near at hand in which he could get a comfortable
lodging, a boarder at the dairyman's.
His room was an immense attic which ran the whole length of the dairy-house.
It could only be reached by a ladder from the cheese-loft, and had been closed up for
a long time till he arrived and selected it as his retreat.
Here Clare had plenty of space, and could often be heard by the dairy-folk pacing up
and down when the household had gone to rest.
A portion was divided off at one end by a curtain, behind which was his bed, the
outer part being furnished as a homely sitting-room.
At first he lived up above entirely, reading a good deal, and strumming upon an
old harp which he had bought at a sale, saying when in a bitter humour that he
might have to get his living by it in the streets some day.
But he soon preferred to read human nature by taking his meals downstairs in the
general dining-kitchen, with the dairyman and his wife, and the maids and men, who
all together formed a lively assembly; for
though but few milking hands slept in the house, several joined the family at meals.
The longer Clare resided here the less objection had he to his company, and the
more did he like to share quarters with them in common.
Much to his surprise he took, indeed, a real delight in their companionship.
The conventional farm-folk of his imagination-- personified in the newspaper-
press by the pitiable dummy known as Hodge- -were obliterated after a few days'
residence.
At close quarters no Hodge was to be seen. At first, it is true, when Clare's
intelligence was fresh from a contrasting society, these friends with whom he now
hobnobbed seemed a little strange.
Sitting down as a level member of the dairyman's household seemed at the outset
an undignified proceeding. The ideas, the modes, the surroundings,
appeared retrogressive and unmeaning.
But with living on there, day after day, the acute sojourner became conscious of a
new aspect in the spectacle.
Without any objective change whatever, variety had taken the place of
monotonousness.
His host and his host's household, his men and his maids, as they became intimately
known to Clare, began to differentiate themselves as in a chemical process.
The thought of Pascal's was brought home to him: "A mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit, on
trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. Les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de
difference entre les hommes."
The typical and unvarying Hodge ceased to exist.
He had been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures--beings of many
minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a few depressed, one
here and there bright even to genius, some
stupid, others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially
Cromwellian--into men who had private views of each other, as he had of his friends;
who could applaud or condemn each other,
amuse or sadden themselves by the contemplation of each other's foibles or
vices; men every one of whom walked in his own individual way the road to dusty death.
Unexpectedly he began to like the outdoor life for its own sake, and for what it
brought, apart from its bearing on his own proposed career.
Considering his position he became wonderfully free from the chronic
melancholy which is taking hold of the civilized races with the decline of belief
in a beneficent Power.
For the first time of late years he could read as his musings inclined him, without
any eye to cramming for a profession, since the few farming handbooks which he deemed
it desirable to master occupied him but little time.
He grew away from old associations, and saw something new in life and humanity.
Secondarily, he made close acquaintance with phenomena which he had before known
but darkly--the seasons in their moods, morning and evening, night and noon, winds
in their different tempers, trees, waters
and mists, shades and silences, and the voices of inanimate things.
The early mornings were still sufficiently cool to render a fire acceptable in the
large room wherein they breakfasted; and, by Mrs Crick's orders, who held that he was
too genteel to mess at their table, it was
Angel Clare's custom to sit in the yawning chimney-corner during the meal, his cup-
and-saucer and plate being placed on a hinged flap at his elbow.
The light from the long, wide, mullioned window opposite shone in upon his nook,
and, assisted by a secondary light of cold blue quality which shone down the chimney,
enabled him to read there easily whenever disposed to do so.
Between Clare and the window was the table at which his companions sat, their munching
profiles rising sharp against the panes; while to the side was the milk-house door,
through which were visible the rectangular
leads in rows, full to the brim with the morning's milk.
At the further end the great churn could be seen revolving, and its slip-slopping
heard--the moving power being discernible through the window in the form of a
spiritless horse walking in a circle and driven by a boy.
For several days after Tess's arrival Clare, sitting abstractedly reading from
some book, periodical, or piece of music just come by post, hardly noticed that she
was present at table.
She talked so little, and the other maids talked so much, that the babble did not
strike him as possessing a new note, and he was ever in the habit of neglecting the
particulars of an outward scene for the general impression.
One day, however, when he had been conning one of his music-scores, and by force of
imagination was hearing the tune in his head, he lapsed into listlessness, and the
music-sheet rolled to the hearth.
He looked at the fire of logs, with its one flame pirouetting on the top in a dying
dance after the breakfast-cooking and boiling, and it seemed to jig to his inward
tune; also at the two chimney crooks
dangling down from the cotterel, or cross- bar, plumed with soot, which quivered to
the same melody; also at the half-empty kettle whining an accompaniment.
The conversation at the table mixed in with his phantasmal orchestra till he thought:
"What a fluty voice one of those milkmaids has!
I suppose it is the new one."
Clare looked round upon her, seated with the others.
She was not looking towards him. Indeed, owing to his long silence, his
presence in the room was almost forgotten.
"I don't know about ghosts," she was saying; "but I do know that our souls can
be made to go outside our bodies when we are alive."
The dairyman turned to her with his mouth full, his eyes charged with serious
inquiry, and his great knife and fork (breakfasts were breakfasts here) planted
erect on the table, like the beginning of a gallows.
"What--really now? And is it so, maidy?" he said.
"A very easy way to feel 'em go," continued Tess, "is to lie on the grass at night and
look straight up at some big bright star; and, by fixing your mind upon it, you will
soon find that you are hundreds and
hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to want at all."
The dairyman removed his hard gaze from Tess, and fixed it on his wife.
"Now that's a rum thing, Christianer--hey?
To think o' the miles I've vamped o' starlight nights these last thirty year,
courting, or trading, or for doctor, or for nurse, and yet never had the least notion
o' that till now, or feeled my soul rise so much as an inch above my shirt-collar."
The general attention being drawn to her, including that of the dairyman's pupil,
Tess flushed, and remarking evasively that it was only a fancy, resumed her breakfast.
Clare continued to observe her.
She soon finished her eating, and having a consciousness that Clare was regarding her,
began to trace imaginary patterns on the tablecloth with her forefinger with the
constraint of a domestic animal that perceives itself to be watched.
"What a fresh and virginal daughter of Nature that milkmaid is!" he said to
himself.
And then he seemed to discern in her something that was familiar, something
which carried him back into a joyous and unforeseeing past, before the necessity of
taking thought had made the heavens gray.
He concluded that he had beheld her before; where he could not tell.
A casual encounter during some country ramble it certainly had been, and he was
not greatly curious about it.
But the circumstance was sufficient to lead him to select Tess in preference to the
other pretty milkmaids when he wished to contemplate contiguous womankind.