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”
“
Perhaps
it
will
be
just
the
same
to
him
if
you
don
’
t
?
.
.
.
Will
it
be
just
the
same
?
Don
’
t
for
God
’
s
sake
speak
as
saint
to
sinner
,
but
as
you
yourself
to
me
myself
—
poor
me
!
”
How
the
Vicar
reconciled
his
answer
with
the
strict
notions
he
supposed
himself
to
hold
on
these
subjects
it
is
beyond
a
layman
’
s
power
to
tell
,
though
not
to
excuse
.
Somewhat
moved
,
he
said
in
this
case
also
—
“
It
will
be
just
the
same
.
”
So
the
baby
was
carried
in
a
small
deal
box
,
under
an
ancient
woman
’
s
shawl
,
to
the
churchyard
that
night
,
and
buried
by
lantern
-
light
,
at
the
cost
of
a
shilling
and
a
pint
of
beer
to
the
sexton
,
in
that
shabby
corner
of
God
’
s
allotment
where
He
lets
the
nettles
grow
,
and
where
all
unbaptized
infants
,
notorious
drunkards
,
suicides
,
and
others
of
the
conjecturally
damned
are
laid
.
In
spite
of
the
untoward
surroundings
,
however
,
Tess
bravely
made
a
little
cross
of
two
laths
and
a
piece
of
string
,
and
having
bound
it
with
flowers
,
she
stuck
it
up
at
the
head
of
the
grave
one
evening
when
she
could
enter
the
churchyard
without
being
seen
,
putting
at
the
foot
also
a
bunch
of
the
same
flowers
in
a
little
jar
of
water
to
keep
them
alive
.
What
matter
was
it
that
on
the
outside
of
the
jar
the
eye
of
mere
observation
noted
the
words
“
Keelwell
’
s
Marmalade
”
?
The
eye
of
maternal
affection
did
not
see
them
in
its
vision
of
higher
things
.
“
By
experience
,
”
says
Roger
Ascham
,
“
we
find
out
a
short
way
by
a
long
wandering
.
”
Not
seldom
that
long
wandering
unfits
us
for
further
travel
,
and
of
what
use
is
our
experience
to
us
then
?
Tess
Durbeyfield
’
s
experience
was
of
this
incapacitating
kind
.
At
last
she
had
learned
what
to
do
;
but
who
would
now
accept
her
doing
?
If
before
going
to
the
d
’
Urbervilles
’
she
had
vigorously
moved
under
the
guidance
of
sundry
gnomic
texts
and
phrases
known
to
her
and
to
the
world
in
general
,
no
doubt
she
would
never
have
been
imposed
on
.
But
it
had
not
been
in
Tess
’
s
power
—
nor
is
it
in
anybody
’
s
power
—
to
feel
the
whole
truth
of
golden
opinions
while
it
is
possible
to
profit
by
them
.
She
—
and
how
many
more
—
might
have
ironically
said
to
God
with
Saint
Augustine
:
“
Thou
hast
counselled
a
better
course
than
Thou
hast
permitted
.
”
She
remained
at
her
father
’
s
house
during
the
winter
months
,
plucking
fowls
,
or
cramming
turkeys
and
geese
,
or
making
clothes
for
her
sisters
and
brothers
out
of
some
finery
which
d
’
Urberville
had
given
her
,
and
she
had
put
by
with
contempt
.
Apply
to
him
she
would
not
.
But
she
would
often
clasp
her
hands
behind
her
head
and
muse
when
she
was
supposed
to
be
working
hard
.
She
philosophically
noted
dates
as
they
came
past
in
the
revolution
of
the
year
;
the
disastrous
night
of
her
undoing
at
Trantridge
with
its
dark
background
of
The
Chase
;
also
the
dates
of
the
baby
’
s
birth
and
death
;
also
her
own
birthday
;
and
every
other
day
individualized
by
incidents
in
which
she
had
taken
some
share
.
She
suddenly
thought
one
afternoon
,
when
looking
in
the
glass
at
her
fairness
,
that
there
was
yet
another
date
,
of
greater
importance
to
her
than
those
;
that
of
her
own
death
,
when
all
these
charms
would
had
disappeared
;
a
day
which
lay
sly
and
unseen
among
all
the
other
days
of
the
year
,
giving
no
sign
or
sound
when
she
annually
passed
over
it
;
but
not
the
less
surely
there
.
When
was
it
?
Why
did
she
not
feel
the
chill
of
each
yearly
encounter
with
such
a
cold
relation
?
She
had
Jeremy
Taylor
’
s
thought
that
some
time
in
the
future
those
who
had
known
her
would
say
:
“
It
is
the
—
th
,
the
day
that
poor
Tess
Durbeyfield
died
”
;
and
there
would
be
nothing
singular
to
their
minds
in
the
statement
.
Of
that
day
,
doomed
to
be
her
terminus
in
time
through
all
the
ages
,
she
did
not
know
the
place
in
month
,
week
,
season
or
year
.
