by Thomas Hardy
Jude and Sue started as he mechanically replied in the affirmative, for the voice was Arabella’s.
He formally requested her to come in, and she sat down in the window bench, where they could distinctly see her outline against the light; but no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general aspect and air. Yet something seemed to denote that she was not quite so comfortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly attired, as she had been during Cartlett’s lifetime.
The three attempted an awkward conversation about the tragedy, of which Jude had felt it to be his duty to inform her immediately, though she had never replied to his letter.
“I have just come from the cemetery,” she said. “I inquired and found the child’s grave. I couldn’t come to the funeral—thank you for inviting me all the same. I read all about it in the papers, and I felt I wasn’t wanted.... No—I couldn’t come to the funeral,” repeated Arabella, who, seeming utterly unable to reach the ideal of a catastrophic manner, fumbled with iterations. “But I am glad I found the grave. As ‘tis your trade, Jude, you’ll be able to put up a handsome stone to ’em.”
“I shall put up a headstone,” said Jude drearily.
“He was my child, and naturally I feel for him.”
“I hope so. We all did.”
“The others that weren’t mine I didn’t feel so much for, as was natural.”
“Of course.”
A sigh came from the dark corner where Sue sat.
“I had often wished I had mine with me,” continued Mrs. Cartlett. “Perhaps ’twouldn’t have happened then! But of course I didn’t wish to take him away from your wife.”
“I am not his wife,” came from Sue.
The unexpectedness of her words struck Jude silent.
“O I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said Arabella. “I thought you were!”
Jude had known from the quality of Sue’s tone that her new and transcendental views lurked in her words; but all except their obvious meaning was, naturally, missed by Arabella. The latter, after evincing that she was struck by Sue’s avowal, recovered herself, and went on to talk with placid bluntness about “her” boy, for whom, though in his lifetime she had shown no care at all, she now exhibited a ceremonial mournfulness that was apparently sustaining to the conscience. She alluded to the past, and in making some remark appealed again to Sue. There was no answer: Sue had invisibly left the room.
“She said she was not your wife?” resumed Arabella in another voice. “Why should she do that?”
“I cannot inform you,” said Jude shortly.
“She is, isn’t she? She once told me so.”
“I don’t criticize what she says.”
“Ah—I see! Well, my time is up. I am staying here to-night, and thought I could do no less than call, after our mutual affliction. I am sleeping at the place where I used to be barmaid, and to-morrow I go back to Alfredston. Father is come home again, and I am living with him.”
“He has returned from Australia?” said Jude with languid curiosity.
“Yes. Couldn’t get on there. Had a rough time of it. Mother died of dys—what do you call it—in the hot weather, and father and two of the young ones have just got back. He has got a cottage near the old place, and for the present I am keeping house for him.”
Jude’s former wife had maintained a stereotyped manner of strict good breeding even now that Sue was gone, and limited her stay to a number of minutes that should accord with the highest respectability. When she had departed Jude, much relieved, went to the stairs and called Sue—feeling anxious as to what had become of her.
There was no answer, and the carpenter who kept the lodgings said she had not come in. Jude was puzzled, and became quite alarmed at her absence, for the hour was growing late. The carpenter called his wife, who conjectured that Sue might have gone to St. Silas’ church, as she often went there.
“Surely not at this time o’ night?” said Jude. “It is shut.”
“She knows somebody who keeps the key, and she has it whenever she wants it.”
“How long has she been going on with this?”
“0, some few weeks, I think.”
Jude went vaguely in the direction of the church, which he had never once approached since he lived out that way years before, when his young opinions were more mystical than they were now. The spot was deserted, but the door was certainly unfastened; he lifted the latch without noise, and pushing to the door behind him, stood absolutely still inside. The prevalent silence seemed to contain a faint sound, explicable as a breathing, or a sobbing, which came from the other end of the building. The floor-cloth deadened his footsteps as he moved in that direction through the obscurity, which was broken only by the faintest reflected night-light from without.
High overhead, above the chancel steps, Jude could discern a huge, solidly constructed Latin cross—as large, probably, as the original it was designed to commemorate. It seemed to be suspended in the air by invisible wires; it was set with large jewels, which faintly glimmered in some weak ray caught from outside, as the cross swayed to and fro in a silent and scarcely perceptible motion. Underneath, upon the floor, lay what appeared to be a heap of black clothes, and from this was repeated the sobbing that he had heard before. It was his Sue’s form, prostrate on the paving.
“Sue!” he whispered.
Something white disclosed itself; she had turned up her face.
“What—do you want with me here, Jude?” she said almost sharply. “You shouldn’t come! I wanted to be alone! Why did you intrude here?”
“How can you ask!” he retorted in quick reproach, for his full heart was wounded to its centre at this attitude of hers towards him. “Why do I come? Who has a right to come, I should like to know, if I have not! I, who love you better than my own self—better—O far better—than you have loved me! What made you leave me to come here alone?”
“Don’t criticize me, Jude—I can’t bear it!—I have often told you so. You must take me as I am. I am a wretch—broken by my distractions ! I couldn’t bear it when Arabella came—I felt so utterly miserable I had to come away. She seems to be your wife still, and Richard to be my husband!”
“But they are nothing to us!”
“Yes, dear friend, they are. I see marriage differently now. My babies have been taken from me to show me this! Arabella’s child killing mine was a judgment—the right slaying the wrong. What, what shall I do! I am such a vile creature—too worthless to mix with ordinary human beings!”
“This is terrible!” said Jude, verging on tears. “It is monstrous and unnatural for you to be so remorseful when you have done no wrong!”
“Ah—you don’t know my badness!”
He returned vehemently: “I do! Every atom and dreg of it! You make me hate Christianity, or mysticism, or Sacerdotalism,eo or whatever it may be called, if it’s that which has caused this deterioration in you. That a woman-poet, a woman-seer, a woman whose soul shone like a diamond—whom all the wise of the world would have been proud of, if they could have known you—should degrade herself like this! I am glad I had nothing to do with Divinity—damn glad—if it’s going to ruin you in this way!”
“You are angry, Jude, and unkind to me, and don’t see how things are.
“Then come along home with me, dearest, and perhaps I shall. I am over-burdened-and you, too, are unhinged just now.” He put his arm round her and lifted her; but though she came, she preferred to walk without his support.
“I don’t dislike you, Jude,” she said in a sweet and imploring voice. “I love you as much as ever! Only—I ought not to love you—any more. 0 I must not any more!”
“I can’t own it.”
“But I have made up my mind that I am not your wife! I belong to him—I sacramentally joined myself to him for life. Nothing can alter it!”
“But surely we are man and wife, if ever two people were in this world? Nature’s own marriage it is, unquestionably!”
“But not Heaven�
�s. Another was made for me there, and ratified eternally in the church at Melchester.”
“Sue, Sue—affliction has brought you to this unreasonable state! After converting me to your views on so many things, to find you suddenly turn to the right-about like this—for no reason whatever, confounding all you have formerly said through sentiment merely! You root out of me what little affection and reverence I had left in me for the Church as an old acquaintance.... What I can’t understand in you is your extraordinary blindness now to your old logic. Is it peculiar to you, or is it common to woman? Is a woman a thinking unit at all, or a fraction always wanting its integer? How you argued that marriage was only a clumsy contract—which it is—how you showed all the objections to it—all the absurdities! If two and two made four when we were happy together, surely they make four now? I can’t understand it, I repeat!”
“Ah, dear Jude; that’s because you are like a totally deaf man observing people listening to music. You say ‘What are they regarding? Nothing is there.’ But something is.”
“That is a hard saying from you; and not a true parallel! You threw off old husks of prejudices, and taught me to do it; and now you go back upon yourself. I confess I am utterly stultified in my estimate of you.
“Dear friend, my only friend, don’t be hard with me! I can’t help being as I am, I am convinced I am right—that I see the light at last. But 0, how to profit by it!”
They walked along a few more steps till they were outside the building, and she had returned the key. “Can this be the girl,” said Jude when she came back, feeling a slight renewal of elasticity now that he was in the open street; “can this be the girl who brought the Pagan deities into this most Christian city?—who mimicked Miss Fontover when she crushed them with her heel?—quoted Gibbon, and Shelley, and Mill? Where are dear Apollo, and dear Venus now!”
“O don’t, don’t be so cruel to me, Jude, and I so unhappy!” she sobbed. “I can’t bear it! I was in error—I cannot reason with you. I was wrong—proud in my own conceit! Arabella’s coming was the finish. Don’t satirize me: it cuts like a knife!”
He flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately there in the silent street, before she could hinder him. They went on till they came to a little coffee-house. “Jude,” she said with suppressed tears, “would you mind getting a lodging here?”
“I will—if, if you really wish? But do you? Let me go to our door and understand you.”
He went and conducted her in. She said she wanted no supper, and went in the dark upstairs and struck a light. Turning she found that Jude had followed her, and was standing at the chamber door. She went to him, put her hand in his, and said “Good-night.”
“But Sue! Don’t we live here?”
“You said you would do as I wished!”
“Yes. Very well! ... Perhaps it was wrong of me to argue distaste-fully as I have done! Perhaps as we couldn’t conscientiously marry at first in the old-fashioned way, we ought to have parted. Perhaps the world is not illuminated enough for such experiments as ours! Who were we, to think we could act as pioneers!”
“I am so glad you see that much, at any rate. I never deliberately meant to do as I did. I slipped into my false position through jealousy and agitation!”
“But surely through love—you loved me?”
“Yes. But I wanted to let it stop there, and go on always as mere lovers; until—”
“But people in love couldn’t live for ever like that!”
“Women could: men can’t, because they—won’t. An average woman is in this superior to an average man—that she never instigates, only responds. We ought to have lived in mental communion, and no more.”
“I was the unhappy cause of the change, as I have said before! ... Well, as you will! ... But human nature can’t help being itself.”
“0 yes—that’s just what it has to learn—self-mastery”
“I repeat—if either were to blame it was not you but I.”
“No—it was I. Your wickedness was only the natural man’s desire to possess the woman. Mine was not the reciprocal wish till envy stimulated me to oust Arabella. I had thought I ought in charity to let you approach me—that it was damnably selfish to torture you as I did my other friend. But I shouldn’t have given way if you hadn’t broken me down by making me fear you would go back to her.... But don’t let us say any more about it! Jude, will you leave me to myself now?”
“Yes.... But Sue—my wife, as you are!” he burst out; “my old reproach to you was, after all, a true one. You have never loved me as I love you—never—never! Yours is not a passionate heart—your heart does not burn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite—not a woman!”
“At first I did not love you, Jude; that I own. When I first knew you I merely wanted you to love me. I did not exactly flirt with you; but that inborn craving which undermines some women’s morals almost more than unbridled passion—the craving to attract and captivate, regardless of the injury it may do the man—was in me; and when I found I had caught you, I was frightened. And then—I don’t know how it was—I couldn’t bear to let you go—possibly to Arabella again—and so I got to love you, Jude. But you see, however fondly it ended, it began in the selfish and cruel wish to make your heart ache for me without letting mine ache for you.”
“And now you add to your cruelty by leaving me!”
“Ah—yes! The further I flounder, the more harm I do!”
“0 Sue!” said he with a sudden sense of his own danger. “Do not do an immoral thing for moral reasons! You have been my social salvation. Stay with me for humanity’s sake! You know what a weak fellow I am. My two Arch Enemies you know—my weakness for womankind and my impulse to strong liquor. Don’t abandon me to them, Sue, to save your own soul only! They have been kept entirely at a distance since you became my guardian-angel! Since I have had you I have been able to go into any temptations of the sort, without risk. Isn’t my safety worth a little sacrifice of dogmatic principle? I am in terror lest, if you leave me, it will be with me another case of the pig that was washed turning back to his wallowing in the mire!”
Sue burst out weeping. “0 but you must not. Jude! You won’t! I’ll pray for you night and day!”
“Well—never mind; don’t grieve,” said Jude generously. “I did suffer, God knows, about you at that time; and now I suffer again. But perhaps not so much as you. The woman mostly gets the worst of it in the long run!”
“She does.”
“Unless she is absolutely worthless and contemptible. And this one is not that, anyhow!”
Sue drew a nervous breath or two. “She is—I fear! ... Now Jude—good-night,—please!”
“I mustn’t stay?—Not just once more? As it has been so many times—O Sue, my wife, why not!”
“No—no—not wife! ... I am in your hands, Jude—don’t tempt me back now I have advanced so far!”
“Very well. I do your bidding. I owe that to you, darling, in penance for how I over-ruled it at the first time. My God, how selfish I was! Perhaps—perhaps I spoilt one of the highest and purest loves that ever existed between man and woman! ... Then let the veil of our temple be rent in twoep from this hour!”
He went to the bed, removed one of the pair of pillows thereon, and flung it to the floor.
Sue looked at him, and bending over the bed-rail wept silently. “You don’t see that it is a matter of conscience with me, and not of dislike to you!” she brokenly murmured. “Dislike to you! But I can’t say any more—it breaks my heart—it will be undoing all I have begun! Jude—good-night!”
“Good-night,” he said, and turned to go.
“O but you shall kiss me!” said she, starting up. “I can’t—bear—!”
He clasped her, and kissed her weeping face as he had scarcely ever done before, and they remained in silence till she said, “Good-bye, good-bye!” And then gently pressing him away she got free, trying to mitigate the sadness by saying: “We’ll be dear f
riends just the same, Jude, won’t we? And we’ll see each other sometimes—Yes!—and forget all this, and try to be as we were long ago?”
Jude did not permit himself to speak, but turned and descended the stairs.
VI.-IV.
THE MAN WHOM SUE, in her mental volte-face, was now regarding as her inseparable husband, lived still at Marygreen.
On the day before the tragedy of the children, Phillotson had seen both her and Jude as they stood in the rain at Christminster watching the procession to the Theatre. But he had said nothing of it at the moment to his companion Gillingham, who, being an old friend, was staying with him at the village aforesaid, and had, indeed, suggested the day’s trip to Christminster.
“What are you thinking of?” said Gillingham, as they went home. “The University degree you never obtained?”
“No, no,” said Phillotson gruffly. “Of somebody I saw to-day.” In a moment he added, “Susanna.”
“I saw her, too.”
“You said nothing.”
“I didn’t wish to draw your attention to her. But, as you did see her, you should have said: ‘How d’ye do, my dear-that-was?’ ”
“Ah, well. I might have. But what do you think of this: I have good reason for supposing that she was innocent when I divorced her—that I was all wrong. Yes, indeed! Awkward, isn’t it?”
“She has taken care to set you right since, anyhow, apparently.”
“H’m. That’s a cheap sneer. I ought to have waited, unquestionably.”
At the end of the week, when Gillingham had gone back to his school near Shaston, Phillotson, as was his custom, went to Alfredston market; ruminating again on Arabella’s intelligence as he walked down the long hill which he had known before Jude knew it, though his history had not beaten so intensely upon its incline. Arrived in the town he bought his usual weekly local paper; and when he had sat down in an inn to refresh himself for the five miles’ walk back, he pulled the paper from his pocket and read awhile. The account of the “Strange suicide of a stonemason’s children” met his eye.
Unimpassioned as he was, it impressed him painfully, and puzzled him not a little, for he could not understand the age of the elder child being what it was stated to be. However, there was no doubt that the newspaper report was in some way true.
