conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Tess, Victorian, England entitled Tess of the d'Urbervilles.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1924 film): A young servant girl is seduced and raped by an older middle class man in Victorian England when employed in his household.\nAfter moving on with her path, she gets married.\nAll is well until her husband discovers her past.\nThis fact prompts her on a life of wandering, murder, and execution.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: \nAfter moving on with her path, she gets married.\nAll is well until her husband discovers her past.\nThis fact prompts her on a life of wandering, murder, and execution.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Tess of the d'Urbervilles
  In respect of places described under fictitious or ancient names – for reasons that seemed good at the time of writing – discerning persons have affirmed in print that they clearly recognize the originals: such as Shaftesbury in 'Shaston', Sturminster Newton in 'Stourcastle', Dorchester in 'Casterbridge', Salisbury in 'Melchester', Salisbury Plain in 'The Great Plain', Cranbourne in 'Chaseborough', Cranbourne Chase in 'The Chase', Beaminster in 'Emminster', Bere Regis in 'Kingsbere', Woodbury Hill in 'Greenhill', Wool Bridge in 'Wellbridge', Hartfoot or Harput Lane in 'Stagfoot Lane', Hazelbury in 'Nuttlebury',24 Bridport in 'Port-Bredy', Maiden Newton in 'Chalk Newton', a farm near Nettlecombe Tout in 'Flintcomb-Ash', Sherborne in 'Sherton Abbas', Milton Abbey in 'Middleton Abbey', Cerne Abbas in 'Abbot's Cernel', Evershot in 'Evershead', Taunton in 'Tone-borough', Bournemouth in 'Sandbourne', Winchester in 'Wintoncester', and so on. I shall not be the one to contradict them: I accept their statements as at least an indication of their real and kindly interest in the scenes.
  The present edition of this novel contains a few pages that have never appeared in any previous edition. When the detached episodes were collected as stated in the preface of 1891, these pages were overlooked, though they were in the original manuscript. They occur in Chapter x.
  Most of the action in the first five phases centres upon the 'rival vales' (XVI) of Blackmoor and the Froom (the Frome): 'the valley of her birth and the valley of her love' (XLII). The Vale of Blackmoor, where the novel opens, is characterized by the heaviness of its soil and its 'languorous' atmosphere. It is bounded to the south by the chalk ridge that forms the edge of the cretaceous upland which will feature so prominently later in the novel – the same flat and featureless landscape which Tess approaches from the south-west (after working as a milkmaid in the small dairies to the west, near Port Bredy) when she comes to Flintcomb-Ash. Viewed from the Vale of Blackmoor, however, this chalk ridge is a striking and dramatic series of hills rising over 800 feet. These are Hardy's 'Wessex Heights': Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High-Stoy and Bubb Down.
  The 'fertile and sheltered' vale of Blackmoor is separated from the Valley of the Great Dairies by the belt of heathland ('the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon' – XVI) which encroaches from the south-east and meets the dip-slope of the chalk upland. This intervening flat and brown terrain serves to keep apart the two emotionally charged landscapes of Blackmoor and the Valley of the Great Dairies. With its 'vast flat' meadows – 'a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed now' (XVII) – the Froom valley is a 'green trough of sappiness and humidity' (XXVII), WHICH LACKS 'the intensely blue atmosphere' of Blackmoor Vale 'and its heavy soils and scents' (XVI). Where the latter is characterized by heaviness, the former is all lightness: the waters of the Froom are clear and rapid, 'with pebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long', unlike the waters of Blackmoor, which are 'slow, silent, often turbid; flowing over beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish unawares' (XVI).
  To the south and east of Blackmoor Vale, and on the north-eastern edge of the chalk upland, lies The Chase (Cranborne Chase), the 'truly venerable tract of forest land, one of the few remaining woodlands in England of undoubted primæval date'. When Tess returns to Marlott after her stay on the Stoke-D'Urberville property at Trantridge (the real-life Pentridge), near Chaseborough, she finds that 'the soil and scenery differed much from those within Blakemore Vale'.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Meanwhile the vanished twain cantered along for some while without speech, the girl as she clung to her knight still panting in her triumph yet in other respects dubious; though she had not heard the old woman's laconic cry, 'Out of the frying-pan into the fire.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sis, who mused on the christening a good deal, wondered if it were doctrinally sufficient to secure a Christian burial for the child. Nobody could tell this but the parson of the parish, and he was a new-comer, and a very reserved man. She went to his house after dusk, and stood by the gate, but could not summon courage to go in. The enterprise would have been abandoned if she had not by accident met him coming homeward as she turned away. In the gloom she did not mind speaking freely.
  He expressed his willingness to listen, and she told the story of the extemporized ordinance, and its reason, owing to her father's pride and the baby's illness. 'And now, sir,' she added earnestly, 'can you tell me this – will it be just the same for him as if you had baptized him?'
  The dignity of the girl, the strange tenderness in her voice, combined to affect the Vicar's natural feelings – or rather those that he had left in him after ten years of endeavour to graft technical belief on actual scepticism. The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the victory fell to the man. 'My dear girl,' he said, 'it will be just the same.'
  How he 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 the enclosure where 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, Sis 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.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 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. Nobody could tell this but the parson of the parish, and he was a new-comer, and a very reserved man. She went to his house after dusk, and stood by the gate, but could not summon courage to go in. The enterprise would have been abandoned if she had not by accident met him coming homeward as she turned away. In the gloom she did not mind speaking freely.
  He expressed his willingness to listen, and she told the story of the extemporized ordinance, and its reason, owing to her father's pride and the baby's illness. 'And now, sir,' she added earnestly, 'can you tell me this – will it be just the same for him as if you had baptized him?'
  The dignity of the girl, the strange tenderness in her voice, combined to affect the Vicar's natural feelings – or rather those that he had left in him after ten years of endeavour to graft technical belief on actual scepticism. The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the victory fell to the man. 'My dear girl,' he said, 'it will be just the same.'
  How he 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 the enclosure where 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, Sis 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.Sis, who mused on the christening a good deal, wondered if it were doctrinally sufficient to secure a Christian burial for the child.