Jude the Obscure

by Thomas Hardy

  Part Fourth

  AT SHASTON

  "Whoso prefers either Matrimony or other Ordinance before the Good of Man and the plain Exigence of Charity, let him profess Papist, or Protestant, or what he will, he is no better than a Pharisee."--J. MILTON.

  I

  Shaston, the ancient British Palladour,

  From whose foundation first such strange reports arise,

  (as Drayton sang it), was, and is, in itself the city of a dream.Vague imaginings of its castle, its three mints, its magnificentapsidal abbey, the chief glory of South Wessex, its twelve churches,its shrines, chantries, hospitals, its gabled freestone mansions--allnow ruthlessly swept away--throw the visitor, even against his will,into a pensive melancholy, which the stimulating atmosphere andlimitless landscape around him can scarcely dispel. The spot was theburial-place of a king and a queen, of abbots and abbesses, saintsand bishops, knights and squires. The bones of King Edward "theMartyr," carefully removed hither for holy preservation, broughtShaston a renown which made it the resort of pilgrims from every partof Europe, and enabled it to maintain a reputation extending farbeyond English shores. To this fair creation of the great Middle-Agethe Dissolution was, as historians tell us, the death-knell. Withthe destruction of the enormous abbey the whole place collapsed in ageneral ruin: the Martyr's bones met with the fate of the sacred pilethat held them, and not a stone is now left to tell where they lie.

  The natural picturesqueness and singularity of the town still remain;but strange to say these qualities, which were noted by many writersin ages when scenic beauty is said to have been unappreciated, arepassed over in this, and one of the queerest and quaintest spots inEngland stands virtually unvisited to-day.

  It has a unique position on the summit of a steep and imposing scarp,rising on the north, south, and west sides of the borough out ofthe deep alluvial Vale of Blackmoor, the view from the Castle Greenover three counties of verdant pasture--South, Mid, and NetherWessex--being as sudden a surprise to the unexpectant traveller'seyes as the medicinal air is to his lungs. Impossible to a railway,it can best be reached on foot, next best by light vehicles; andit is hardly accessible to these but by a sort of isthmus on thenorth-east, that connects it with the high chalk table-land on thatside.

  Such is, and such was, the now world-forgotten Shaston or Palladour.Its situation rendered water the great want of the town; and withinliving memory, horses, donkeys and men may have been seen toilingup the winding ways to the top of the height, laden with tubs andbarrels filled from the wells beneath the mountain, and hawkersretailing their contents at the price of a halfpenny a bucketful.

  This difficulty in the water supply, together with two other oddfacts, namely, that the chief graveyard slopes up as steeply as aroof behind the church, and that in former times the town passedthrough a curious period of corruption, conventual and domestic, gaverise to the saying that Shaston was remarkable for three consolationsto man, such as the world afforded not elsewhere. It was a placewhere the churchyard lay nearer heaven than the church steeple, wherebeer was more plentiful than water, and where there were more wantonwomen than honest wives and maids. It is also said that after theMiddle Ages the inhabitants were too poor to pay their priests,and hence were compelled to pull down their churches, and refrainaltogether from the public worship of God; a necessity which theybemoaned over their cups in the settles of their inns on Sundayafternoons. In those days the Shastonians were apparently notwithout a sense of humour.

  There was another peculiarity--this a modern one--which Shastonappeared to owe to its site. It was the resting-place andheadquarters of the proprietors of wandering vans, shows,shooting-galleries, and other itinerant concerns, whose businesslay largely at fairs and markets. As strange wild birds are seenassembled on some lofty promontory, meditatively pausing for longerflights, or to return by the course they followed thither, so here,in this cliff-town, stood in stultified silence the yellow and greencaravans bearing names not local, as if surprised by a change in thelandscape so violent as to hinder their further progress; and herethey usually remained all the winter till they turned to seek againtheir old tracks in the following spring.

  It was to this breezy and whimsical spot that Jude ascended from thenearest station for the first time in his life about four o'clock oneafternoon, and entering on the summit of the peak after a toilsomeclimb, passed the first houses of the aerial town; and drew towardsthe school-house. The hour was too early; the pupils were still inschool, humming small, like a swarm of gnats; and he withdrew a fewsteps along Abbey Walk, whence he regarded the spot which fate hadmade the home of all he loved best in the world. In front of theschools, which were extensive and stone-built, grew two enormousbeeches with smooth mouse-coloured trunks, as such trees will onlygrow on chalk uplands. Within the mullioned and transomed windows hecould see the black, brown, and flaxen crowns of the scholars overthe sills, and to pass the time away he walked down to the levelterrace where the abbey gardens once had spread, his heart throbbingin spite of him.

  Unwilling to enter till the children were dismissed he remained heretill young voices could be heard in the open air, and girls in whitepinafores over red and blue frocks appeared dancing along the pathswhich the abbess, prioress, subprioress, and fifty nuns had demurelypaced three centuries earlier. Retracing his steps he found that hehad waited too long, and that Sue had gone out into the town at theheels of the last scholar, Mr. Phillotson having been absent all theafternoon at a teachers' meeting at Shottsford.

  Jude went into the empty schoolroom and sat down, the girl who wassweeping the floor having informed him that Mrs. Phillotson would beback again in a few minutes. A piano stood near--actually the oldpiano that Phillotson had possessed at Marygreen--and though the darkafternoon almost prevented him seeing the notes Jude touched them inhis humble way, and could not help modulating into the hymn which hadso affected him in the previous week.

  A figure moved behind him, and thinking it was still the girl withthe broom Jude took no notice, till the person came close and laidher fingers lightly upon his bass hand. The imposed hand was alittle one he seemed to know, and he turned.

  "Don't stop," said Sue. "I like it. I learnt it before I leftMelchester. They used to play it in the training school."

  "I can't strum before you! Play it for me."

  "Oh well--I don't mind."

  Sue sat down, and her rendering of the piece, though not remarkable,seemed divine as compared with his own. She, like him, was evidentlytouched--to her own surprise--by the recalled air; and when shehad finished, and he moved his hand towards hers, it met his ownhalf-way. Jude grasped it--just as he had done before her marriage.

  "It is odd," she said, in a voice quite changed, "that I should careabout that air; because--"

  "Because what?"

  "I am not that sort--quite."

  "Not easily moved?"

  "I didn't quite mean that."

  "Oh, but you ARE one of that sort, for you are just like me atheart!"

  "But not at head."

  She played on and suddenly turned round; and by an unpremeditatedinstinct each clasped the other's hand again.

  She uttered a forced little laugh as she relinquished his quickly."How funny!" she said. "I wonder what we both did that for?"

  "I suppose because we are both alike, as I said before."

  "Not in our thoughts! Perhaps a little in our feelings."

  "And they rule thoughts... Isn't it enough to make one blasphemethat the composer of that hymn is one of the most commonplace men Iever met!"

  "What--you know him?"

  "I went to see him."

  "Oh, you goose--to do just what I should have done! Why did you?"

  "Because we are not alike," he said drily.

  "Now we'll have some tea," said Sue. "Shall we have it here insteadof in my house? It is no trouble to get the kettle and thingsbrought in. We don't live at the school you know, but in thatancient dwelli
ng across the way called Old-Grove Place. It is soantique and dismal that it depresses me dreadfully. Such houses arevery well to visit, but not to live in--I feel crushed into the earthby the weight of so many previous lives there spent. In a new placelike these schools there is only your own life to support. Sit down,and I'll tell Ada to bring the tea-things across."

  He waited in the light of the stove, the door of which she flung openbefore going out, and when she returned, followed by the maiden withtea, they sat down by the same light, assisted by the blue rays of aspirit-lamp under the brass kettle on the stand.

  "This is one of your wedding-presents to me," she said, signifyingthe latter.

  "Yes," said Jude.

  The kettle of his gift sang with some satire in its note, to hismind; and to change the subject he said, "Do you know of any goodreadable edition of the uncanonical books of the New Testament? Youdon't read them in the school I suppose?"

  "Oh dear no!--'twould alarm the neighbourhood... Yes, there is one.I am not familiar with it now, though I was interested in it when myformer friend was alive. Cowper's _Apocryphal Gospels_."

  "That sounds like what I want." His thoughts, however reverted witha twinge to the "former friend"--by whom she meant, as he knew, theuniversity comrade of her earlier days. He wondered if she talked ofhim to Phillotson.

  "The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice," she went on to keep him fromhis jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, as she always did.Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there wasever a second silent conversation passing between their emotions,so perfect was the reciprocity between them. "It is quite like thegenuine article. All cut up into verses, too; so that it is likeone of the other evangelists read in a dream, when things are thesame, yet not the same. But, Jude, do you take an interest in thosequestions still? Are you getting up _Apologetica_?"

  "Yes. I am reading Divinity harder than ever."

  She regarded him curiously.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" said Jude.

  "Oh--why do you want to know?"

  "I am sure you can tell me anything I may be ignorant of in thatsubject. You must have learnt a lot of everything from your deardead friend!"

  "We won't get on to that now!" she coaxed. "Will you be carving outat that church again next week, where you learnt the pretty hymn?"

  "Yes, perhaps."

  "That will be very nice. Shall I come and see you there? It is inthis direction, and I could come any afternoon by train for half anhour?"

  "No. Don't come!"

  "What--aren't we going to be friends, then, any longer, as we used tobe?"

  "No."

  "I didn't know that. I thought you were always going to be kind tome!"

  "No, I am not."

  "What have I done, then? I am sure I thought we two--" The_tremolo_ in her voice caused her to break off.

  "Sue, I sometimes think you are a flirt," said he abruptly.

  There was a momentary pause, till she suddenly jumped up; and to hissurprise he saw by the kettle-flame that her face was flushed.

  "I can't talk to you any longer, Jude!" she said, the tragiccontralto note having come back as of old. "It is getting too darkto stay together like this, after playing morbid Good Friday tunesthat make one feel what one shouldn't! ... We mustn't sit and talkin this way any more. Yes--you must go away, for you mistake me! Iam very much the reverse of what you say so cruelly--Oh, Jude, it WAScruel to say that! Yet I can't tell you the truth--I should shockyou by letting you know how I give way to my impulses, and how much Ifeel that I shouldn't have been provided with attractiveness unlessit were meant to be exercised! Some women's love of being loved isinsatiable; and so, often, is their love of loving; and in the lastcase they may find that they can't give it continuously to thechamber-officer appointed by the bishop's licence to receive it.But you are so straightforward, Jude, that you can't understandme! ... Now you must go. I am sorry my husband is not at home."

  "Are you?"

  "I perceive I have said that in mere convention! Honestly I don'tthink I am sorry. It does not matter, either way, sad to say!"

  As they had overdone the grasp of hands some time sooner, she touchedhis fingers but lightly when he went out now. He had hardly gonefrom the door when, with a dissatisfied look, she jumped on a formand opened the iron casement of a window beneath which he was passingin the path without. "When do you leave here to catch your train,Jude?" she asked.

  He looked up in some surprise. "The coach that runs to meet it goesin three-quarters of an hour or so."

  "What will you do with yourself for the time?"

  "Oh--wander about, I suppose. Perhaps I shall go and sit in the oldchurch."

  "It does seem hard of me to pack you off so! You have thought enoughof churches, Heaven knows, without going into one in the dark. Staythere."

  "Where?"

  "Where you are. I can talk to you better like this than when youwere inside... It was so kind and tender of you to give up halfa day's work to come to see me! ... You are Joseph the dreamer ofdreams, dear Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes youare St. Stephen, who, while they were stoning him, could see Heavenopened. Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you'll suffer yet!"

  Now that the high window-sill was between them, so that he could notget at her, she seemed not to mind indulging in a frankness she hadfeared at close quarters.

  "I have been thinking," she continued, still in the tone of onebrimful of feeling, "that the social moulds civilization fits us intohave no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventionalshapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. Iam called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life withmy counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. RichardPhillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrantpassions, and unaccountable antipathies... Now you mustn't waitlonger, or you will lose the coach. Come and see me again. Youmust come to the house then."

  "Yes!" said Jude. "When shall it be?"

  "To-morrow week. Good-bye--good-bye!" She stretched out her handand stroked his forehead pitifully--just once. Jude said good-bye,and went away into the darkness.

  Passing along Bimport Street he thought he heard the wheels of thecoach departing, and, truly enough, when he reached the Duke's Armsin the Market Place the coach had gone. It was impossible for himto get to the station on foot in time for this train, and he settledhimself perforce to wait for the next--the last to Melchester thatnight.

  He wandered about awhile, obtained something to eat; and then, havinganother half-hour on his hands, his feet involuntarily took himthrough the venerable graveyard of Trinity Church, with its avenuesof limes, in the direction of the schools again. They were entirelyin darkness. She had said she lived over the way at Old-GrovePlace, a house which he soon discovered from her description of itsantiquity.

  A glimmering candlelight shone from a front window, the shuttersbeing yet unclosed. He could see the interior clearly--the floorsinking a couple of steps below the road without, which had becomeraised during the centuries since the house was built. Sue,evidently just come in, was standing with her hat on in this frontparlour or sitting-room, whose walls were lined with wainscotingof panelled oak reaching from floor to ceiling, the latter beingcrossed by huge moulded beams only a little way above her head. Themantelpiece was of the same heavy description, carved with Jacobeanpilasters and scroll-work. The centuries did, indeed, ponderouslyoverhang a young wife who passed her time here.

  She had opened a rosewood work-box, and was looking at a photograph.Having contemplated it a little while she pressed it against herbosom, and put it again in its place.

  Then becoming aware that she had not obscured the windows she cameforward to do so, candle in hand. It was too dark for her to seeJude without, but he could see her face distinctly, and there was anunmistakable tearfulness about the dark, long-lashed eyes.

  She closed the shutters, and Jude turned away to p
ursue his solitaryjourney home. "Whose photograph was she looking at?" he said. Hehad once given her his; but she had others, he knew. Yet it was his,surely?

  He knew he should go to see her again, according to her invitation.Those earnest men he read of, the saints, whom Sue, with gentleirreverence, called his demi-gods, would have shunned such encountersif they doubted their own strength. But he could not. He might fastand pray during the whole interval, but the human was more powerfulin him than the Divine.