Jude the Obscure (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Thomas Hardy

  “Not at all, my dear boy. I could hearken to ’ee all day.”

  As Jude reflected more and more on her news, and grew more restless, he began in his mental agony to use terribly profane language about social conventions, which started a fit of coughing. Presently there came a knock at the door downstairs. As nobody answered it Mrs. Edlin herself went down.

  The visitor said blandly: “The doctor.” The lanky form was that of Physician Vilbert, who had been called in by Arabella.

  “How is my patient at present?” asked the physician.

  “0 bad—very bad! Poor chap, he got excited, and do blaspeam terribly, since I let out some gossip by accident—the more to my blame. But there—you must excuse a man in suffering for what he says, and I hope God will forgive him.”

  “Ah. I’ll go up and see him. Mrs. Fawley at home?”

  “She’s not in at present, but she’ll be here soon.”

  Vilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto taken the medicines of that skilful practitioner with the greatest indifference whenever poured down his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay by events that he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician’s face, and so forcibly, and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried downstairs again. At the door he met Arabella, Mrs. Edlin having left. Arabella inquired how he thought her husband was now, and seeing that the doctor looked ruffled, asked him to take something. He assented.

  “I’ll bring it to you here in the passage,” she said. “There’s nobody but me about the house to-day.”

  She brought him a bottle and a glass, and he drank. Arabella began shaking with suppressed laughter. “What is this, my dear?” he asked, smacking his lips.

  “O—a drop of wine—and something in it.” Laughing again she said: “I poured your own love-philter into it, that you sold me at the Agricultural Show, don’t you remember?”

  “I do, I do! Clever woman! But you must be prepared for the consequences.” Putting his arm round her shoulders he kissed her there and then.

  “Don’t, don’t,” she whispered, laughing good-humouredly. “My man will hear.”

  She let him out of the house, and as she went back she said to herself : “Well! Weak women must provide for a rainy day. And if my poor fellow upstairs do go off—as I suppose he will soon—it’s well to keep chances open. And I can’t pick and choose now as I could when I was younger. And one must take the old if one can’t get the young.”

  VI.-XI.

  THE LAST PAGES TO which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader’s attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude’s bedroom when leafy summer came round again.

  His face was now so thin that his old friends would hardly have known him. It was afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling her hair, which operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in the flame of a candle she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing lock. When she had finished this, practised a dimple, and put on her things, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping, though his position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him lying down.

  Arabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse.

  Certain sounds from without revealed that the town was in festivity, ff though little of the festival, whatever it might have been, could be seen here. Bells began to ring, and the notes came into the room through the open window, and travelled round Jude’s head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herself: “Why ever doesn’t father come!”

  She looked again at Jude, critically gauged his ebbing life, as she had done so many times during the late months, and glancing at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still he slept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs. The house was empty. The attraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away the other inmates long before.

  It was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and hastened round into Chief Street, and when near the Theatre could hear the notes of the organ, a rehearsal for a coming concert being in progress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate College, where men were putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball in the Hall that evening. People who had come up from the country for the day were picnicking on the grass, and Arabella walked along the gravel paths and under the aged lines. But finding this place rather dull she returned to the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the concert, numerous Dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female companions, crowding up likewise. When the doors were closed, and the concert began, she moved on.

  The powerful notes of that concert rolled forth through the swinging yellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops, and into the still air of the lanes. They reached so far as to the room in which Jude lay; and it was about this time that his cough began again and awakened him.

  As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed: “A little water, please.”

  Nothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and he coughed to exhaustion again―saying still more feebly: “Water—some water—Sue—Arabella!”

  The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again; “Throat—water—Sue—darling—drop of water—please—O please!”

  No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee’s hum, rolled in as before.

  While he remained, his face changing, shouts and hurrahs came from somewhere in the direction of the river.

  “Ah—yes! The Remembrance games,” he murmured. “And I here. And Sue defiled!”1

  The hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint organ notes. Jude’s face changed more: he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving:

  “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.”

  (“Hurrah! ”)

  “Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.”

  (“Hurrah! ”)

  “Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? ... For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest!”

  (“Hurrah! ”)

  “There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor.... The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?”2

  Meanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure nook into the quad of Cardinal. It was full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight with flowers and other preparations for a ball here also. A carpenter nodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of Jude’s. A corridor was in course of erection from the entrance to the Hall staircase, of gay red and buff bunting. Waggonloads of boxes containing bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and the great staircase was covered with red cloth. She nodded to one workman and another, and ascended to the Hall on the strength of their acquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and decorating for the dance. The cathedral bell close at hand was sounding for five o’clock service.

  “I should not mind having a spin there with a fellow’s arm round my waist,” she said to one of the men. “But Lord, I must be getting home again—there’s a lot to do. No dancing for me!”

  When she reached home she was met at the door by Stagg, and one or two other of Jude’s fellow stone-workers. “We are just going down to the river,” said the former, “to see the boat-bumping.fg But we’ve called round on our way to ask how your husband is.”

  “He’s sleeping nicely, thank you,” said Arabella.

  “That’s right. Well now, can’t you give yourself half-a
n-hour’s relaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us? ‘Twould do you good.”

  “I should like to go,” said she. “I’ve never seen the boat-racing, and I hear it is good fun.”

  “Come along!”

  “How I wish I could!” She looked longingly down the street. “Wait a minute, then. I’ll just run up and see how he is now. Father is with him, I believe; so I can most likely come.”

  They waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as before, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the procession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found that her father had not even now come.

  “Why couldn’t he have been here!” she said impatiently. “He wants to see the boats himself—that’s what it is!”

  However, on looking round to the bed she brightened, for she saw that Jude was apparently sleeping, though he was not in the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the bed. His face was quite white, and gradually becoming rigid. She touched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm. She listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near thirty years had ceased.

  After her first appalled sense of what had happened the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the river reached her ears; and in a provoked tone she exclaimed, “To think he should die just now! Why did he die just now!” Then meditating another moment or two she went to the door, softly closed it as before, and again descended the stairs.

  “Here she is!” said one of the workmen. “We wondered if you were coming after all. Come along; we must be quick to get a good place.... Well, how is he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don’t want to drag ’ee away if——”

  “0 yes—sleeping quite sound. He won’t wake yet,” she said hurriedly.

  They went with the crowd down Cardinal Street, where they presently reached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their view. Thence they passed by a narrow slit down to the riverside path—now dusty, hot, and thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the grand procession of boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the stream, as they were lowered from the perpendicular.

  “O, I say—how jolly! I’m glad I’ve come,” said Arabella. “And—it can’t hurt my husband—my being away.”

  On the opposite side of the river, on the crowded barges, were gorgeous nosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in green, pink, blue, and white. The blue flag of the Boat Club denoted the centre of interest, beneath which a band in red uniform gave out the notes she had already heard in the death-chamber. Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with ladies, watching keenly for “our” boat, darted up and down. While she regarded the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the ribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert.

  “That philter is operating, you know! he said with a leer. ”Shame on ’ee to wreck a heart so!”

  “I shan’t talk of love to-day.”

  “Why not? It is a general holiday.”

  She did not reply. Vilbert’s arm stole round her waist, which act could be performed unobserved in the crowd. An arch expression overspread Arabella’s face at the feel of the arm, but she kept her eyes on the river as if she did not know of the embrace.

  The crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her friends sometimes nearly into the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the horse-play that succeeded, if the imprint on her mind’s eye of a pale, statuesque countenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little.

  The fun on the water reached the acme of excitement; there were immersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and won, the pink and blue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the people who had watched began to move.

  “Well—it’s been awfully good,” cried Arabella. “But I think I must get back to my poor man. Father is there, so far as I know; but I had better get back.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “Well, I must go.... Dear, dear, this is awkward!”

  At the narrow gangway where the people ascended from the riverside path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass—Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Arabella exclaiming, “Dear, dear!” more and more impatiently; for it had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alone an inquest might be deemed necessary.

  “What a fidget you are, my love,” said the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no need of personal effort for contact. “Just as well have patience: there’s no getting away yet!”

  It was nearly ten minutes before the wedged multitude moved sufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the street Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her further that day. She did not go straight to her house; but to the abode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the poorer dead; where she knocked.

  “My husband has just gone, poor soul,” she said. “Can you come and lay him out?”

  Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages.

  “I must call at the sexton’s about the bell, too,” said Arabella. “It is just round here, isn’t it? I’ll meet you at my door.”

  By ten o’clock that night Jude was lying on the bedstead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the joyous throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at Cardinal.

  Two days later, when the sky was equally cloudless, and the air equally still, two persons stood beside Jude’s open coffin in the same little bedroom. On one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They were both looking at Jude’s face, the worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin being red.

  “How beautiful he is!” said she.

  “Yes. He’s a ’andsome corpse,” said Arabella.

  The window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a distance came voices; and an apparent noise of persons stamping.

  “What’s that?” murmured the old woman.

  “Oh, that’s the doctors in the Theatre, conferring Honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort. It’s Remembrance Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men.”

  “Ay; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here.”

  An occasional word, as from some one making a speech, floated from the open windows of the Theatre across to this quiet corner, at which there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few other volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously ; and their reverberations travelled round the bedroom.

  Arabella’s eyes removed from Jude to Mrs. Edlin. “D’ye think she will come?” she asked.

  “I could not say. She swore not to see him again.”

  “How is she looking?”

  “Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you saw her last. Quite a staid, worn woman now. ’Tis the man;—she can’t stomach un, even now!”

  “If Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly have cared for her any more, perhaps.”

  “That’s what we don’t know. ... Didn’t he ever ask you to send for her, since he came to see her in that strange way?”

  “No. Quite the contrary. I offered to send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was.”

  “Did he forgive her?”

  “Not as I know.”

  “Well�
��poor little thing, ’tis to be believed she’s found forgiveness somewhere! She said she had found peace!”

  “She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross upon her necklace till she’s hoarse, but it won’t be true!” said Arabella. “She’s never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she’s as he is now!”

  THE END

  ENDNOTES

  All references to the Bible are to the King James Version.

  Title Page

  1 . “The letter killeth”: The reference is to the Bible, 2 Corinthians 3:6: “Who also hath made us able ministers of the new testament; not of the letter, but of the spirit: for the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.”

  Part First: At Marygreen

  I.-I.

  1 (p. 12) hamlet of Marygreen: Hardy uses fictional place names that usually correspond to actual locations in south-central England. Marygreen is Great Fawley, a village in the county of Berkshire. See the map “The Wessex of the Novels” at the beginning of this edition for the location of places in Jude the Obscure. Hardy drew this map of his fictional world, showing actual names in capital letters and fictitious names in uppercase and lowercase.

  2 (p. 12) a tall new building of modern Gothic design: Hardy was trained as an architect and, like Jude, undertook work on churches. The novel contains many architectural references and opinions.

  I.-II.

  1 (p. 18) “‘whose fathers I would have disdained to have set with the dogs of my flock”’. Drusilla Fawley, Jude’s aunt and guardian, is quoting from the Bible, Job 30:1. Hardy invokes Job, who epitomizes religious suffering, repeatedly in the novel, especially in its conclusion. Here it is ironic that Mrs. Fawley is quoting from Job and drawing attention to her own suffering when it is Jude who suffers when Farmer Troutham beats him.

  2 (p.18) city of Christminster: Christminster is Hardy’s fictional name for Oxford. In his posthumous autobiography, The Life of Thomas Hardy, he says that Christminster is suggested by Oxford but makes the point that Christminster is a richly detailed fictional place while Oxford is only the general model.