Jude the Obscure (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Thomas Hardy

  Jude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the spot where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of sackcloth for a cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the bare block.

  “Yes; yes,” said Phillotson abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his eyes resting on the ground as if he were trying to remember where he was. “I won’t keep you long. It was merely that I have heard that you have seen my little friend Sue recently. It occurred to me to speak to you on that account. I merely want to ask—about her.”

  “I think I know what!” Jude hurriedly said. “About her escaping from the Training School, and her coming to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well”—Jude for a moment felt an unprincipled and fiendish wish to annihilate his rival at all cost. By the exercise of that treachery which love for the same woman renders possible to men the most honourable in every other relation of life, he could send off Phillotson in agony and defeat by saying that the scandal was true, and that Sue had irretrievably committed herself with him. But his action did not respond for a moment to his animal instinct; and what he said was, “I am glad of your kindness in coming to talk plainly to me about it. You know what they say?—that I ought to marry her.”

  “What!”

  “And I wish with all my soul I could!”

  Phillotson trembled, and his naturally pale face acquired a corpse-like sharpness in its lines. “I had no idea that it was of this nature! God forbid!”

  “No, no!” said Jude aghast. “I thought you understood? I mean that were I in a position to marry her, or some one, and settle down, instead of living in lodgings here and there, I should be glad!”

  What he had really meant was simply that he loved her.

  “But—since this painful matter has been opened up—what really happened?” asked Phillotson, with the firmness of a man who felt that a sharp smart now was better than a long agony of suspense hereafter. “Cases arise, and this one, when even ungenerous questions must be put to make false assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal.”

  Jude explained readily; giving the whole series of adventures, including the night at the shepherd’s, her wet arrival at his lodging, her indisposition from her immersion, their vigil of discussion, and his seeing her off next morning.

  “Well now,” said Phillotson at the conclusion, “I take it as your final word, and I know I can believe you, that the suspicion which led to her rustication is an absolutely baseless one?”

  “It is,” said Jude solemnly. “Absolutely. So help me God!”

  The schoolmaster rose. Each of the twain felt that the interview could not comfortably merge in a friendly discussion of their recent experiences, after the manner of friends; and when Jude had taken him round, and shown him some features of the renovation which the old cathedral was undergoing, Phillotson bade the young man good-day and went away.

  This visit took place about eleven o’clock in the morning; but no Sue appeared. When Jude went to his dinner at one he saw his beloved ahead of him in the street leading up from the North Gate, walking as if in no way looking for him. Speedily overtaking her he remarked that he had asked her to come to him at the Cathedral, and she had promised.

  “I have been to get my things from the College,” she said—an observation which he was expected to take as an answer, though it was not one. Finding her to be in this evasive mood he felt inclined to give her the information so long withheld.

  “You have not seen Mr. Phillotson to-day?” he ventured to inquire.

  “I have not. But I am not going to be cross-examined about him; and if you ask anything more I won’t answer!”

  “It is very odd that—” He stopped, regarding her.

  “What?”

  “That you are often not so nice in your real presence as you are in your letters!”

  “Does it really seem so to you?” said she, smiling with quick curiosity. “Well, that’s strange; but I feel just the same about you, Jude. When you are gone away I seem such a cold-hearted—”

  As she knew his sentiment towards her Jude saw that they were getting upon dangerous ground. It was now, he thought, that he must speak as an honest man.

  But he did not speak, and she continued: “it was that which made me write and say—I didn”t mind your loving me,—if you wanted to, much!”

  The exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to imply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested rigid till he began: “I have never told you—”

  “Yes you have,” murmured she.

  “I mean, I have never told you my history—all of it.”

  “But I guess it. I know nearly.”

  Jude looked up. Could she possibly know of that morning performance of his with Arabella; which in a few months had ceased to be a marriage more completely than by death? He saw that she did not.

  “I can’t quite tell you here in the street,” he went on with a gloomy tongue. “And you had better not come to my lodgings. Let us go in here.”

  The building by which they stood was the market-house; it was the only place available; and they entered, the market being over, and the stalls and areas empty. He would have preferred a more congenial spot, but, as usually happens, in place of a romantic field or solemn aisle for his tale, it was told while they walked up and down over a floor littered with rotten cabbage-leaves, and amid all the usual squalors of decayed vegetable matter and unsaleable refuse. He began and finished his brief narrative, which merely led up to the information that he had married a wife some years earlier, and that his wife was living still. Almost before her countenance had time to change she hurried out the words,

  “Why didn’t you tell me before!”

  “I couldn’t. It seemed so cruel to tell it.”

  “To yourself, Jude. So it was better to be cruel to me!”

  “No, dear darling!” cried Jude passionately. He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it. Their old relations of confidence seemed suddenly to have ended, and the antagonisms of sex to sex were left without any counterpoising predilections. She was his comrade, friend, unconscious sweetheart no longer; and her eyes regarded him in estranged silence.

  “I was ashamed of the episode in my life which brought about the marriage,” he continued. “I can’t explain it precisely now. I could have done it if you had taken it differently!”

  “But how can I?” she burst out. “Here I have been saying, or writing, that—that you might love me, or something of the sort!—just out of charity—and all the time—O it is perfectly damnable how things are!” she said, stamping her foot in a nervous quiver.

  “You take me wrong, Sue! I never thought you cared for me at all, till quite lately; so I felt it did not matter! Do you care for me, Sue?—you know how I mean?—I don’t like ‘out of charity’ at all!”

  It was a question which in the circumstances Sue did not choose to answer.

  “I suppose she—your wife—is—a very pretty woman, even if she’s wicked?” she asked quickly.

  “She’s pretty enough, as far as that goes.”

  “Prettier than I am, no doubt!”

  “You are not the least alike. And I have never seen her for years.... But she’s sure to come back—they always do!”

  “How strange of you to stay apart from her like this!” said Sue, her trembling lip and lumpy throat belying her irony. “You, such a religious man. How will the demi-gods in your Pantheon—I mean those legendary persons you call Saints—intercede for you after this? Now if I had done such a thing it would have been different, and not remarkable, for I at least don’t regard marriage as a Sacrament. Your theories are not so advanced as your practice!”

  “Sue, you are terribly cutting when you like to be—a perfect Voltaire! But you must treat me as you will!”

  When she saw how wretched he was she softened, and trying to blink away her sympathetic tears said with all the winning reproach-fulness of a heart-hurt woman: “Ah—you shou
ld have told me before you gave me that idea that you wanted to be allowed to love me! I had no feeling before that moment at the railway-station, except—” For once Sue was as miserable as he, in her attempts to keep herself free from emotion, and her less than half-success.

  “Don’t cry, dear!” he implored.

  “I am—not crying—because I meant to—love you; but because of your want of—confidence!”

  They were quite screened from the Market-square without, and he could not help putting out his arm towards her waist. His momentary desire was the means of her rallying. “No, no!” she said, drawing back stringently, and wiping her eyes. “Of course not! It would be hypocrisy to pretend that it would be meant as from my cousin; and it can’t be in any other way.”

  They moved on a dozen paces, and she showed herself recovered. It was distracting to Jude, and his heart would have ached less had she appeared anyhow but as she did appear; essentially large-minded and generous on reflection, despite a previous exercise of those narrow womanly humours on impulse that were necessary to give her sex.

  “I don’t blame you for what you couldn’t help,” she said smiling. “How should I be so foolish! I do blame you a little bit for not telling me before. But after all it doesn’t matter. We should have had to keep apart, you see, even if this had not been in your life.”

  “No, we shouldn’t, Sue! This is the only obstacle!”

  “You forget that I must have loved you, and wanted to be your wife, even if there had been no obstacle,” said Sue, with a gentle seriousness which did not reveal her mind. “And then we are cousins, and it is bad for cousins to marry. And—I am engaged to somebody else. As to our going on together as we were going, in a sort of friendly way, the people round us would have made it unable to continue. Their views of the relations of man and woman are limited, as is proved by their expelling me from the school. Their philosophy only recognizes relations based on animal desire. The wide field of strong attachment where desire plays, at least, only a secondary part, is ignored by them—the part of—who is it?—Venus Urania.”bz

  Her being able to talk learnedly showed that she was mistress of herself again; and before they parted she had almost regained her vivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner, and her second-thought attitude of critical largeness towards others of her age and sex.

  He could speak more freely now. “There were several reasons against my telling you rashly. One was what I have said; another, that it was always impressed upon me that I ought not to marry—that I belonged to an odd and peculiar family—the wrong breed for marriage.”

  “Ah—who used to say that to you?”

  “My great-aunt. She said it always ended badly with us Fawleys.”

  “That’s strange. My father used to say the same to me!”

  They stood possessed by the same thought, ugly enough, even as an assumption: that a union between them, had such been possible, would have meant a terrible intensification of unfitness—two bitters in one dish.

  “0 but there can’t be anything in it!” she said with nervous lightness. “Our family have been unlucky of late years in choosing mates—that’s all.”

  And then they pretended to persuade themselves that all that had happened was of no consequence, and that they could still be cousins and friends and warm correspondents, and have happy genial times when they met, even if they met less frequently than before. Their parting was in good friendship, and yet Jude’s last look into her eyes was tinged with inquiry, for he felt that he did not even now quite know her mind.

  III.-VII.

  TIDINGS FROM SUE A day or two after passed across Jude like a withering blast.

  Before reading the letter he was led to suspect that its contents were of a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the signature—which was in her full name, never used in her correspondence with him since her first note:“MY DEAR JUDE,—I have something to tell you which perhaps you will not be surprised to hear, though certainly it may strike you as being accelerated (as the railway companies say of their trains). Mr. Phillotson and I are to be married quite soon—in three or four weeks. We had intended, as you know, to wait till I had gone through my course of training and obtained my certificate, so as to assist him, if necessary, in the teaching. But he generously says he does not see any object in waiting, now I am not at the Training School. It is so good of him, because the awkwardness of my situation has really come about by my fault in getting expelled.

  “Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn’t refuse! —Your affectionate cousin,

  “SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.”

  Jude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on drinking tea because his mouth was so dry. Then presently he went back to his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so confronted. Everything seemed turning to satire. And yet, what could the poor girl do? he asked himself: and felt worse than shedding tears.

  “0 Susanna Florence Mary!” he said as he worked. “You don’t know what marriage means!”

  Could it be possible that his announcement of his own marriage had pricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in liquor may have pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to exist these other and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for her decision; but Sue was not a very practical or calculating person; and he was compelled to think that a pique at having his secret sprung upon her had moved her to give way to Phillotson’s probable representations, that the best course to prove how unfounded were the suspicions of the school authorities would be to marry him off-hand, as in fulfillment of an ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awkward corner. Poor Sue!

  He determined to play the Spartan; to make the best of it, and support her; but he could not write the requested good wishes for a day or two. Meanwhile there came another note from his impatient little dear:“Jude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could do it so conveniently as you, being the only married relation I have here on the spot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing, which he isn’t. I hope you won’t think it a trouble? I have been looking at the marriage service in the Prayer-book, and it seems to me very humiliating that a giver-away should be required at all. According to the ceremony as there printed, my bridegroom chooses me of his own will and pleasure; but I don’t choose him. Somebody gives me to him, like a she-ass or she-goat, or any other domestic animal. Bless your exalted views of woman, O Churchman! But I forget: I am no longer privileged to tease you.—Ever,

  “SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.”

  Jude screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied:

  “MY DEAR SUE,—Of course I wish you joy! And also of course I will give you away. What I suggest is that, as you have no house of your own, you do not marry from your school friend’s, but from mine. It would be more proper, I think, since I am, as you say, the person nearest related to you in this part of the world.

  “I don’t see why you sign your letter in such a new and terribly formal way? Surely you care a bit about me still!—Ever your affectionate,

  JUDE.”

  What had jarred on him even more than the signature was a little sting he had been silent on—the phrase “married relation”—What an idiot it made him seem as her lover! If Sue had written that in satire, he could hardly forgive her; if in suffering—ah. that was another thing!

  His offer of his lodging must have commended itself to Phillotson at any rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of warm thanks, accepting the convenience. Sue also thanked him. Jude immediately moved into more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage of the suspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue’s unpleasant experience as for the sake of room.

  Then Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for the wedding; and Jude decided, after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the following Saturday, which would allow of a ten days’ stay in the city prior to the ceremony, sufficiently
representing a nominal residence of fifteen.

  She arrived by the ten o’clock train on the day aforesaid, Jude not going to meet her at the station, by her special request, that he should not lose a morning’s work and pay, she said (if this were her true reason). But so well by this time did he know Sue that the remembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emotional crises might, he thought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to dinner she had taken possession of her apartment.

  She lived in the same house with him, but on a different floor, and they saw each other little, an occasional supper being the only meal they took together, when Sue’s manner was something that of a scared child. What she felt he did not know; their conversation was mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill. Phillotson came frequently, but mostly when Jude was absent. On the morning of the wedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday, Sue and her cousin had breakfast together for the first and last time during this curious interval; in his room—the parlour—which he had hired for the period of Sue’s residence. Seeing, as women do, how helpless he was in making the place comfortable, she bustled about.

  “What’s the matter, Jude?” she said suddenly.

  He was leaning with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands, looking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched out on the tablecloth.