by Thomas Hardy
Meanwhile Sue, after parting from him earlier in the day, had gone along to the station, with tears in her eyes for having run back and let him kiss her. Jude ought not to have pretended that he was not a lover, and made her give way to an impulse to act unconventionally, if not wrongly. She was inclined to call it the latter; for Sue’s logic was extraordinarily compounded, and seemed to maintain that before a thing was done it might be right to do, but that being done it became wrong; or, in other words, that things which were right in theory were wrong in practice.
“I have been too weak, I think!” she jerked out as she pranced on, shaking down tear-drops now and then. “It was burning, like a lover’s—O it was! And I won’t write to him any more, or at least for a long time, to impress him with my dignity! And I hope it will hurt him very much—expecting a letter to-morrow morning, and the next, and the next, and no letter coming. He’ll suffer then with suspense—won’ t he, that’s all!—and I am very glad of it!”—Tears of pity for Jude’s approaching sufferings at her hands mingled with those which had surged up in pity for herself
Then the slim little wife of a husband whose person was disagreeable to her, the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl, quite unfitted by temperament and instinct to fulfil the conditions of the matrimonial relation with Phillotson, possibly with scarce any man, walked fitfully along, and panted, and brought weariness into her eyes by gazing and worrying hopelessly.
Phillotson met her at the arrival station, and, seeing that she was troubled, thought it must be owing to the depressing effect of her aunt’s death and funeral. He began telling her of his day’s doings, and how his friend Gillingham, a neighbouring schoolmaster whom he had not seen for years, had called upon him. While ascending to the town, seated on the top of the omnibus beside him, she said suddenly and with an air of self-chastisement, regarding the white road and its bordering bushes of hazel:
“Richard—I let Mr. Fawley hold my hand a long while. I don’t know whether you think it wrong?”
He, waking apparently from thoughts of far different mould, said vaguely, “0, did you? What did you do that for?”
“I don’t know. He wanted to, and I let him.”
“I hope it pleased him. I should think it was hardly a novelty.”
They lapsed into silence. Had this been a case in the court of an omniscient judge he might have entered on his notes the curious fact that Sue had placed the minor for the major indiscretion, and had not said a word about the kiss.
After tea that evening Phillotson sat balancing the school registers. She remained in an unusually silent, tense, and restless condition, and at last, saying she was tired, went to bed early. When Phillotson arrived upstairs, weary with the drudgery of the attendance-numbers, it was a quarter to twelve o’clock. Entering their chamber, which by day commanded a view of some thirty or forty miles over the Vale of Blackmoor, and even into Outer Wessex, he went to the window, and, pressing his face against the pane, gazed with hard-breathing fixity into the mysterious darkness which now covered the far-reaching scene. He was musing. “I think,” he said at last, without turning his head, “that I must get the Committee to change the school-stationer. All the copybooks are sent wrong this time.”
There was no reply. Thinking Sue was dozing he went on:
“And there must be a re-arrangement of that ventilator in the class-room. The wind blows down upon my head unmercifully, and gives me the earache.”
As the silence seemed more absolute than ordinarily he turned round. The heavy, gloomy oak wainscot, which extended over the walls upstairs and down in the dilapidated “Old-Grove House,” and the massive chimney-piece reaching to the ceiling, stood in odd contrast to the new and shining brass bedstead, and the new suite of birch furniture that he had bought for her, the two styles seeming to nod to each other across three centuries upon the shaking floor.
“Soo!” he said (this being the way in which he pronounced her name).
She was not in the bed, though she had apparently been there—the clothes on her side being flung back. Thinking she might have forgotten some kitchen detail and gone downstairs for a moment to see to it, he pulled off his coat and idled quietly enough for a few minutes, when, finding she did not come, he went out upon the landing, candle in hand, and said again “Soo!”
“Yes!” came back to him in her voice, from the distant kitchen quarter.
“What are you doing down there at midnight—tiring yourself out for nothing!”
“I am not sleepy; I am reading; and there is a larger fire here.”
He went to bed. Some time in the night he awoke. She was not there, even now. Lighting a candle he hastily stepped out upon the landing, and again called her name.
She answered “Yes!” as before; but the tones were small and confined, and whence they came he could not at first understand. Under the staircase was a large clothes-closet, without a window; they seemed to come from it. The door was shut, but there was no lock or other fastening. Phillotson, alarmed, went towards it, wondering if she had suddenly become deranged.
“What are you doing in there?” he asked.
“Not to disturb you I came here, as it was so late.”
“But there’s no bed, is there? And no ventilation! Why, you’ll be suffocated if you stay all night!”
“0 no, I think not. Don’t trouble about me.”
“But—” Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door. She had fastened it inside with a piece of string, which broke at his pull. There being no bedstead she had flung down some rugs and made a little nest for herself in the very cramped quarters the closet afforded. 2
When he looked in upon her she sprang out of her lair, great-eyed and trembling.
“You ought not to have pulled open the door!” she cried excitedly. “It is not becoming in you! O, will you go away; please will you!”
She looked so pitiful and pleading in her white night-gown against the shadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried. She continued to beseech him not to disturb her.
He said: “I’ve been kind to you, and given you every liberty; and it is monstrous that you should feel in this way!”
“Yes,” said she, weeping. “I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me, I suppose! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am to blame!”
“Who is then? Am I?”
“No—I don’t know! The universe, I suppose—things in general, because they are so horrid and cruel!”
“Well, it is no use talking like that. Making a man’s house so unseemly at this time o’ night! Eliza will hear, if we don’t mind.” (He meant the servant.) “Just think if either of the parsons in this town was to see us now! I hate such eccentricities, Sue. There’s no order or regularity in your sentiments! ... But I won’t intrude on you further ; only I would advise you not to shut the door too tight, or I shall find you stifled to-morrow.”
On rising the next morning he immediately looked into the closet, but Sue had already gone downstairs. There was a lttle nest where she had lain, and spiders’ webs hung overhead. “What must a woman’s aversion be when it is stronger than her fear of spiders!” he said bitterly.
He found her sitting at the breakfast-table, and the meal began almost in silence, the burghers walking past upon the pavement—or rather roadway, pavements being scarce here—which was two or three feet above the level of the parlour floor. They nodded down to the happy couple their morning greetings, as they went on.
“Richard,” she said all at once; “would you mind my living away from you?”
“Away from me? Why, that’s what you were doing when I married you. What then was the meaning of marrying at all?”
“You wouldn’t like me any the better for telling you.”
“I don’t object to know.”
“Because I thought I could do nothing else. You had got my promise a long time before that, remember. Then, as time went on, I regretted I had promised you, and was trying to see an honourable way to break i
t off. But as I couldn’t I became rather reckless and careless about the conventions. Then you know what scandals were spread, and how I was turned out of the Training School you had taken such time and trouble to prepare me for and get me into; and this frightened me, and it seemed then that the one thing I could do would be to let the engagement stand. Of course I, of all people, ought not to have cared what was said, for it was just what I fancied I never did care for. But I was a coward—as so many women are—and my theoretic unconventionality broke down. If that had not entered into the case it would have been better to have hurt your feelings once for all then, than to marry you and hurt them all my life after.... And you were so generous in never giving credit for a moment to the rumour.”
“I am bound in honesty to tell you that I weighed its probability, and inquired of your cousin about it.”
“Ah!” she said with pained surprise.
“I didn’t doubt you.”
“But you inquired!”
“I took his word.”
Her eyes had filled. “He wouldn’t have inquired!” she said. “But you haven’t answered me. Will you let me go away? I know how irregular it is of me to ask it———”
“It is irregular.”
“But I do ask it! Domestic laws should be made according to temperaments, which should be classified. If people are at all peculiar in character they have to suffer from the very rules that produce comfort in others! ... Will you let me?”
“But we married———”
“What is the use of thinking of laws and ordinances,” she burst out, “if they make you miserable when you know you are committing no sin?”
“But you are committing a sin in not liking me.”
“I do like you! But I didn’t reflect it would be—that it would be so much more than that.... For a man and woman to live on intimate terms when one feels as I do is adultery,3 in any circumstances, however legal. There—I’ve said it! ... Will you let me, Richard?”
“You distress me, Susanna, by such importunity!”
“Why can’t we agree to free each other? We made the compact, and surely we can cancel it—not legally, of course; but we can morally, especially as no new interests, in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked after. Then we might be friends, and meet without pain to either. 0 Richard, be my friend and have pity! We shall both be dead in a few years, and then what will it matter to anybody that you relieved me from constraint for a little while? I daresay you think me eccentric, or super-sensitive, or something absurd. Well—why should I suffer for what I was born to be, if it doesn’t hurt other people?”
“But it does—it hurts me! And you vowed to love me.”
“Yes—that’s it! I am in the wrong. I always am! It is as culpable to bind yourself to love always as to believe a creed always, and as silly as to vow always to like a particular food or drink!”
“And do you mean, by living away from me, living by yourself?”
“Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude.”
“As his wife?”
“As I choose.”
Phillotson writhed.
Sue continued; “She, or he, ‘who lets the world, or his own portion of it, choose his plan of life for him, has no need of any other faculty than the ape-like one of imitation.’cq J. S. Mill’s words, those are. I have been reading it up. Why can’t you act upon them? I wish to, always.”
“What do I care about J. S. Mill!” moaned he. “I only wanted to lead a quiet life! Do you mind my saying that I have guessed what never once occurred to me before our marriage—that you were in love, and are in love, with Jude Fawley!”
“You may go on guessing that I am, since you have begun. But do you suppose that if I had been I should have asked you to let me go and live with him?”
The ringing of the school bell saved Phillotson from the necessity of replying at present to what apparently did not strike him as being such a convincing argumentum ad verecundiamcr as she, in her loss of courage at the last moment, meant it to appear. She was beginning to be so puzzling and unstateable that he was ready to throw in with her other little peculiarities the extremest request which a wife could make.
They proceeded to the schools that morning as usual, Sue entering the class-room, where he could see the back of her head through the glass partition whenever he turned his eyes that way. As he went on giving and hearing lessons his forehead and eyebrows twitched from concentrated agitation of thought; till at length he tore a scrap from a sheet of scribbling paper and wrote:“Your request prevents my attending to work at all. I don’t know what I am doing! Was it seriously made?”
He folded the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little boy to take to Sue. The child toddled off into the class-room. Phillotson saw his wife turn and take the note, and the bend of her pretty head as she read it, her lips slightly crisped, to prevent undue expression under fire of so many young eyes. He could not see her hands, but she changed her position, and soon the child returned, bringing nothing in reply. In a few minutes, however, one of Sue’s class appeared, with a little note similar to his own. These words only were pencilled therein:“I am sincerely sorry to say that it was seriously made.”
Phillotson looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place of his brows twitched again. In ten minutes he called up the child he had just sent to her, and despatched another missive:“God knows I don’t want to thwart you in any reasonable way. My whole thought is to make you comfortable and happy. But I cannot agree to such a preposterous notion as your going to live with your lover. You would lose everybody’s respect and regard; and so should I!”
After an interval a similar part was enacted in the class-room, and an answer came:“I know you mean my good. But I don’t want to be respectable! To produce ’Human development in its richest diversity’ (to quote your Humboldt)cs is to my mind far above respectability. No doubt my tastes are low—in your view—hopelessly low! If you won’t let me go to him, will you grant me this one request—allow me to live in your house in a separate way?”
To this he returned no answer.
She wrote again:“I know what you think. But cannot you have pity on me? I beg you to; I implore you to be merciful! I would not ask if I were not almost compelled by what I can’t bear! No poor woman has ever wished more than I that Eve had not fallen, so that (as the primitive Christians believed) some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise. But I won’t trifle! Be kind to me—even though I have not been kind to you! I will go away, go abroad, anywhere, and never trouble you.”
Nearly an hour passed, and then he returned an answer:“I do not wish to pain you. How well you know I don’t! Give me a little time. I am disposed to agree to your last request.”
One line from her:“Thank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.
All day Phillotson bent a dazed regard upon her through the glazed partition; and he felt as lonely as when he had not known her.
But he was as good as his word, and consented to her living apart in the house. At first, when they met at meals, she had seemed more composed under the new arrangement; but the irksomeness of their position worked on her temperament, and the fibres of her nature seemed strained like harp-strings. She talked vaguely and indiscriminately to prevent his talking pertinently.
IV.-IV.
PHILLOTSON WAS SITTING UP late, as was often his custom, trying to get together the materials for his long-neglected hobby of Roman antiquities. For the first time since reviving the subject he felt a return of his old interest in it. He forgot time and place, and when he remembered himself and ascended to rest it was nearly two o’clock.
His preoccupation was such that, though he now slept on the other side of the house, he mechanically went to the room that he and his wife had occupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove Place, which since his differences with Sue had been hers exclusively. He entered, and unconsciously began to undress.
&n
bsp; There was a cry from the bed, and a quick movement. Before the schoolmaster had realized where he was he perceived Sue starting up half-awake, staring wildly, and springing out upon the floor on the side away from him, which was towards the window. This was somewhat hidden by the canopy of the bedstead, and in a moment he heard her flinging up the sash. Before he had thought that she meant to do more than get air she had mounted upon the sill and leapt out. She disappeared in the darkness, and he heard her fall below.
Phillotson, horrified, ran downstairs, striking himself sharply against the newel in his haste. Opening the heavy door he ascended the two or three steps to the level of the ground, and there on the gravel before him lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in his arms, and bringing Sue into the hall seated her on a chair, where he gazed at her by the flapping light of the candle which he had set down in the draught on the bottom stair.
She had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyes that seemed not to take him in; and though not particularly large in general they appeared so now. She pressed her side and rubbed her arm, as if conscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, in evident distress at his gaze.
“Thank God—you are not killed! Though it’s not for want of trying—not much hurt I hope?”
Her fall, in fact, had not been a serious one, probably owing to the lowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the ground without. Beyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side she had apparently incurred little harm.
“I was asleep, I think!” she began, her pale face still turned away from him. “And something frightened me—a terrible dream—I thought I saw you—” The actual circumstances seemed to come back to her, and she was silent.
