feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_16_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 17
feat_summary_id: chapter 17
feat_summary: {"name": "Phase III: \"The Rally,\" Chapter Seventeen", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-17", "summary": "This was long before the days of milking machines, so when the cows are all in the barnyard, the dairymaids and dairymen come out of their cottages to start milking. The dairymaids all sit alongside the cows on their stools, with their cheeks pressed against the animals' flanks, watching Tess curiously as they milk the cows. One of the men comes over to her--it's \"Dairyman Dick,\" a.k.a. \"Mr. Richard Crick,\" the owner of the farm and Tess's new boss. He looks her over, asks about her experience, and says he knew her mother well--she had come from this part of the country, and had only moved to Blackmoor Vale after marrying Jack Durbeyfield. He offers Tess a cup of tea, but she says she'll start milking immediately. Tess begins milking, and finds the rhythmic pumping of the cow's udders to be soothing and meditative. Dairyman Crick does his share of the milking, too, and they all set to work in silence. There are more than one hundred cows in his herd--quite a lot. Someone remarks that the cows aren't giving up their usual yield. Some think it's because there's a new dairymaid. They sing a ballad as a group, because tradition has it that singing helps induce the cows to give more milk. One of the dairymen asks someone to bring out his harp, while admitting that a fiddle would be better. The dairyman in question asks why fiddles are better. Tess hadn't seen him before, and still can't. He's on the other side of his cow. The first dairyman gives a lengthy explanation in the form of a folktale about a man who played a Christmas hymn to a bull on a fiddle, and tricked the bull into thinking it was the Nativity. The second dairyman finishes his cow, under the watchful eye of Dairyman Crick, who gives him a few pointers. The second dairyman stands up, and Tess has a good look at him. He's dressed the same as everyone else, but he looks different--more educated, more reserved, more sad. He looks familiar to her. She realizes that it's the man who had been walking through Marlott on the day of the club-walking--it's the man who had not danced with her. She panics momentarily. What if he has connections in Blackmoor, and is able to learn about her past? But he doesn't seem to recognize her. He's grown up a fair amount in the last couple of years, too. She doesn't see him at supper, and asks no questions about him. Her bedroom is over the milk house, and she shares it with three other milkmaids. Tess is ready to fall asleep immediately, but the girl in the bed next to her insists on telling her about the strange milkman. His name is Mr. Angel Clare, and he's learning about milking, and about all kinds of farming so that he can be a gentleman farmer somewhere. He plays the harp, and is the son of a parson, and is too busy \"wi' his own thoughts to notice girls.\" His father, the parson Mr. Clare, is a very good preacher. That's the parson that the man had told Tess about on her way back from Trantridge, so she perks up a bit, and asks more about him. The girl tells Tess that both of Angel's brothers are parsons now, like their father, but Angel opted for a different career route. Tess isn't able to stay awake for much more gossip, so she falls asleep.", "analysis": ""}
text: 
  
  The dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out
  of the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the
  maids walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep
  their shoes above the mulch of the barton.  Each girl sat down on
  her three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting
  against the cow, and looked musingly along the animal's flank at Tess
  as she approached.  The male milkers, with hat-brims turned down,
  resting flat on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not
  observe her.
  
  One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man--whose long white "pinner"
  was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of the others, and
  whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect--the
  master-dairyman, of whom she was in quest, his double character as
  a working milker and butter maker here during six days, and on the
  seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church,
  being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme:
  
  
               Dairyman Dick
               All the week:--
       On Sundays Mister Richard Crick.
  
  
  Seeing Tess standing at gaze he went across to her.
  
  The majority of dairymen have a cross manner at milking time, but it
  happened that Mr Crick was glad to get a new hand--for the days were
  busy ones now--and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother
  and the rest of the family--(though this as a matter of form merely,
  for in reality he had not been aware of Mrs Durbeyfield's existence
  till apprised of the fact by a brief business-letter about Tess).
  
  "Oh--ay, as a lad I knowed your part o' the country very well," he
  said terminatively.  "Though I've never been there since.  And a aged
  woman of ninety that use to live nigh here, but is dead and gone long
  ago, told me that a family of some such name as yours in Blackmoor
  Vale came originally from these parts, and that 'twere a old ancient
  race that had all but perished off the earth--though the new
  generations didn't know it.  But, Lord, I took no notice of the old
  woman's ramblings, not I."
  
  "Oh no--it is nothing," said Tess.
  
  Then the talk was of business only.
  
  "You can milk 'em clean, my maidy? I don't want my cows going azew at
  this time o' year."
  
  She reassured him on that point, and he surveyed her up and down.
  She had been staying indoors a good deal, and her complexion had
  grown delicate.
  
  "Quite sure you can stand it?  'Tis comfortable enough here for rough
  folk; but we don't live in a cowcumber frame."
  
  She declared that she could stand it, and her zest and willingness
  seemed to win him over.
  
  "Well, I suppose you'll want a dish o' tay, or victuals of some sort,
  hey?  Not yet?  Well, do as ye like about it.  But faith, if 'twas I,
  I should be as dry as a kex wi' travelling so far."
  
  "I'll begin milking now, to get my hand in," said Tess.
  
  She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment--to the
  surprise--indeed, slight contempt--of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind
  it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage.
  
  "Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," he said indifferently, while
  holding up the pail that she sipped from.  "'Tis what I hain't
  touched for years--not I.  Rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerds
  like lead.  You can try your hand upon she," he pursued, nodding to
  the nearest cow.  "Not but what she do milk rather hard.  We've hard
  ones and we've easy ones, like other folks.  However, you'll find out
  that soon enough."
  
  When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her
  stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists
  into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new
  foundation for her future.  The conviction bred serenity, her pulse
  slowed, and she was able to look about her.
  
  The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the
  men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier
  natures.  It was a large dairy.  There were nearly a hundred
  milchers under Crick's management, all told; and of the herd the
  master-dairyman milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away
  from home.  These were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his
  journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not
  entrust this half-dozen to their treatment, lest, from indifference,
  they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest they should
  fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in
  course of time the cows would "go azew"--that is, dry up.  It was not
  the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that
  with the decline of demand there came decline, and ultimately
  cessation, of supply.
  
  After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk
  in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the
  milk-jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation
  to one or other of the beasts requesting her to turn round or stand
  still. The only movements were those of the milkers' hands up and
  down, and the swing of the cows' tails.  Thus they all worked on,
  encompassed by the vast flat mead which extended to either slope
  of the valley--a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long
  forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from
  the landscape they composed now.
  
  "To my thinking," said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow
  he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in
  one hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next
  hard-yielder in his vicinity, "to my thinking, the cows don't gie
  down their milk to-day as usual.  Upon my life, if Winker do begin
  keeping back like this, she'll not be worth going under by
  midsummer."
  
  "'Tis because there's a new hand come among us," said Jonathan Kail.
  "I've noticed such things afore."
  
  "To be sure.  It may be so.  I didn't think o't."
  
  "I've been told that it goes up into their horns at such times," said
  a dairymaid.
  
  "Well, as to going up into their horns," replied Dairyman Crick
  dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical
  possibilities, "I couldn't say; I certainly could not.  But as nott
  cows will keep it back as well as the horned ones, I don't quite
  agree to it.  Do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan?
  Why do nott cows give less milk in a year than horned?"
  
  "I don't!" interposed the milkmaid, "Why do they?"
  
  "Because there bain't so many of 'em," said the dairyman.
  "Howsomever, these gam'sters do certainly keep back their milk
  to-day.  Folks, we must lift up a stave or two--that's the only cure
  for't."
  
  Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement
  to the cows when they showed signs of withholding their usual yield;
  and the band of milkers at this request burst into melody--in purely
  business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity; the
  result, according to their own belief, being a decided improvement
  during the song's continuance.  When they had gone through fourteen
  or fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a murderer who was
  afraid to go to bed in the dark because he saw certain brimstone
  flames around him, one of the male milkers said--
  
  "I wish singing on the stoop didn't use up so much of a man's wind!
  You should get your harp, sir; not but what a fiddle is best."
  
  Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the words were addressed to
  the dairyman, but she was wrong.  A reply, in the shape of "Why?"
  came as it were out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had
  been spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto
  perceived.
  
  "Oh yes; there's nothing like a fiddle," said the dairyman. "Though
  I do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows--at least
  that's my experience.  Once there was an old aged man over at
  Mellstock--William Dewy by name--one of the family that used to do
  a good deal of business as tranters over there--Jonathan, do ye
  mind?--I knowed the man by sight as well as I know my own brother, in
  a manner of speaking.  Well, this man was a coming home along from a
  wedding, where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight
  night, and for shortness' sake he took a cut across Forty-acres, a
  field lying that way, where a bull was out to grass.  The bull seed
  William, and took after him, horns aground, begad; and though William
  runned his best, and hadn't MUCH drink in him (considering 'twas a
  wedding, and the folks well off), he found he'd never reach the fence
  and get over in time to save himself.  Well, as a last thought, he
  pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, turning to
  the bull, and backing towards the corner.  The bull softened down,
  and stood still, looking hard at William Dewy, who fiddled on and on;
  till a sort of a smile stole over the bull's face.  But no sooner
  did William stop his playing and turn to get over hedge than the
  bull would stop his smiling and lower his horns towards the seat of
  William's breeches.  Well, William had to turn about and play on,
  willy-nilly; and 'twas only three o'clock in the world, and 'a knowed
  that nobody would come that way for hours, and he so leery and tired
  that 'a didn't know what to do.  When he had scraped till about four
  o'clock he felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and he
  said to himself, 'There's only this last tune between me and eternal
  welfare! Heaven save me, or I'm a done man.'  Well, then he called to
  mind how he'd seen the cattle kneel o' Christmas Eves in the dead o'
  night.  It was not Christmas Eve then, but it came into his head to
  play a trick upon the bull.  So he broke into the 'Tivity Hymm, just
  as at Christmas carol-singing; when, lo and behold, down went the
  bull on his bended knees, in his ignorance, just as if 'twere the
  true 'Tivity night and hour.  As soon as his horned friend were down,
  William turned, clinked off like a long-dog, and jumped safe over
  hedge, before the praying bull had got on his feet again to take
  after him.  William used to say that he'd seen a man look a fool
  a good many times, but never such a fool as that bull looked when
  he found his pious feelings had been played upon, and 'twas not
  Christmas Eve. ...  Yes, William Dewy, that was the man's name; and
  I can tell you to a foot where's he a-lying in Mellstock Churchyard
  at this very moment--just between the second yew-tree and the north
  aisle."
  
  "It's a curious story; it carries us back to medieval times, when
  faith was a living thing!"
  
  The remark, singular for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice
  behind the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, no notice
  was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply
  scepticism as to his tale.
  
  "Well, 'tis quite true, sir, whether or no.  I knowed the man well."
  
  "Oh yes; I have no doubt of it," said the person behind the dun cow.
  
  Tess's attention was thus attracted to the dairyman's interlocutor,
  of whom she could see but the merest patch, owing to his burying his
  head so persistently in the flank of the milcher.  She could not
  understand why he should be addressed as "sir" even by the dairyman
  himself.  But no explanation was discernible; he remained under the
  cow long enough to have milked three, uttering a private ejaculation
  now and then, as if he could not get on.
  
  "Take it gentle, sir; take it gentle," said the dairyman.  "'Tis
  knack, not strength, that does it."
  
  "So I find," said the other, standing up at last and stretching his
  arms.  "I think I have finished her, however, though she made my
  fingers ache."
  
  Tess could then see him at full length.  He wore the ordinary white
  pinner and leather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and his
  boots were clogged with the mulch of the yard; but this was all his
  local livery.  Beneath it was something educated, reserved, subtle,
  sad, differing.
  
  But the details of his aspect were temporarily thrust aside by
  the discovery that he was one whom she had seen before.  Such
  vicissitudes had Tess passed through since that time that for a
  moment she could not remember where she had met him; and then it
  flashed upon her that he was the pedestrian who had joined in the
  club-dance at Marlott--the passing stranger who had come she knew
  not whence, had danced with others but not with her, and slightingly
  left her, and gone on his way with his friends.
  
  The flood of memories brought back by this revival of an incident
  anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest,
  recognizing her also, he should by some means discover her story.
  But it passed away when she found no sign of remembrance in him.  She
  saw by degrees that since their first and only encounter his mobile
  face had grown more thoughtful, and had acquired a young man's
  shapely moustache and beard--the latter of the palest straw colour
  where it began upon his cheeks, and deepening to a warm brown farther
  from its root.  Under his linen milking-pinner he wore a dark
  velveteen jacket, cord breeches and gaiters, and a starched white
  shirt.  Without the milking-gear nobody could have guessed what
  he was.  He might with equal probability have been an eccentric
  landowner or a gentlemanly ploughman.  That he was but a novice at
  dairy work she had realized in a moment, from the time he had spent
  upon the milking of one cow.
  
  Meanwhile many of the milkmaids had said to one another of the
  newcomer, "How pretty she is!" with something of real generosity and
  admiration, though with a half hope that the auditors would qualify
  the assertion--which, strictly speaking, they might have done,
  prettiness being an inexact definition of what struck the eye in
  Tess.  When the milking was finished for the evening they straggled
  indoors, where Mrs Crick, the dairyman's wife--who was too
  respectable to go out milking herself, and wore a hot stuff gown in
  warm weather because the dairymaids wore prints--was giving an eye
  to the leads and things.
  
  Only two or three of the maids, Tess learnt, slept in the dairy-house
  besides herself, most of the helpers going to their homes.  She saw
  nothing at supper-time of the superior milker who had commented on
  the story, and asked no questions about him, the remainder of the
  evening being occupied in arranging her place in the bed-chamber.
  It was a large room over the milk-house, some thirty feet long; the
  sleeping-cots of the other three indoor milkmaids being in the same
  apartment.  They were blooming young women, and, except one, rather
  older than herself.  By bedtime Tess was thoroughly tired, and fell
  asleep immediately.
  
  But one of the girls, who occupied an adjoining bed, was more wakeful
  than Tess, and would insist upon relating to the latter various
  particulars of the homestead into which she had just entered.  The
  girl's whispered words mingled with the shades, and, to Tess's drowsy
  mind, they seemed to be generated by the darkness in which they
  floated.
  
  "Mr Angel Clare--he that is learning milking, and that plays
  the harp--never says much to us.  He is a pa'son's son, and is
  too much taken up wi' his own thoughts to notice girls.  He is
  the dairyman's pupil--learning farming in all its branches.  He
  has learnt sheep-farming at another place, and he's now mastering
  dairy-work....  Yes, he is quite the gentleman-born.  His father is
  the Reverent Mr Clare at Emminster--a good many miles from here."
  
  "Oh--I have heard of him," said her companion, now awake.  "A very
  earnest clergyman, is he not?"
  
  "Yes--that he is--the earnestest man in all Wessex, they say--the
  last of the old Low Church sort, they tell me--for all about here be
  what they call High.  All his sons, except our Mr Clare, be made
  pa'sons too."
  
  Tess had not at this hour the curiosity to ask why the present Mr
  Clare was not made a parson like his brethren, and gradually fell
  asleep again, the words of her informant coming to her along with the
  smell of the cheeses in the adjoining cheeseloft, and the measured
  dripping of the whey from the wrings downstairs.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Phase III: "The Rally," Chapter Seventeen
target: This was long before the days of milking machines, so when the cows are all in the barnyard, the dairymaids and dairymen come out of their cottages to start milking. The dairymaids all sit alongside the cows on their stools, with their cheeks pressed against the animals' flanks, watching Tess curiously as they milk the cows. One of the men comes over to her--it's "Dairyman Dick," a.k.a. "Mr. Richard Crick," the owner of the farm and Tess's new boss. He looks her over, asks about her experience, and says he knew her mother well--she had come from this part of the country, and had only moved to Blackmoor Vale after marrying Jack Durbeyfield. He offers Tess a cup of tea, but she says she'll start milking immediately. Tess begins milking, and finds the rhythmic pumping of the cow's udders to be soothing and meditative. Dairyman Crick does his share of the milking, too, and they all set to work in silence. There are more than one hundred cows in his herd--quite a lot. Someone remarks that the cows aren't giving up their usual yield. Some think it's because there's a new dairymaid. They sing a ballad as a group, because tradition has it that singing helps induce the cows to give more milk. One of the dairymen asks someone to bring out his harp, while admitting that a fiddle would be better. The dairyman in question asks why fiddles are better. Tess hadn't seen him before, and still can't. He's on the other side of his cow. The first dairyman gives a lengthy explanation in the form of a folktale about a man who played a Christmas hymn to a bull on a fiddle, and tricked the bull into thinking it was the Nativity. The second dairyman finishes his cow, under the watchful eye of Dairyman Crick, who gives him a few pointers. The second dairyman stands up, and Tess has a good look at him. He's dressed the same as everyone else, but he looks different--more educated, more reserved, more sad. He looks familiar to her. She realizes that it's the man who had been walking through Marlott on the day of the club-walking--it's the man who had not danced with her. She panics momentarily. What if he has connections in Blackmoor, and is able to learn about her past? But he doesn't seem to recognize her. He's grown up a fair amount in the last couple of years, too. She doesn't see him at supper, and asks no questions about him. Her bedroom is over the milk house, and she shares it with three other milkmaids. Tess is ready to fall asleep immediately, but the girl in the bed next to her insists on telling her about the strange milkman. His name is Mr. Angel Clare, and he's learning about milking, and about all kinds of farming so that he can be a gentleman farmer somewhere. He plays the harp, and is the son of a parson, and is too busy "wi' his own thoughts to notice girls." His father, the parson Mr. Clare, is a very good preacher. That's the parson that the man had told Tess about on her way back from Trantridge, so she perks up a bit, and asks more about him. The girl tells Tess that both of Angel's brothers are parsons now, like their father, but Angel opted for a different career route. Tess isn't able to stay awake for much more gossip, so she falls asleep.