Jude the Obscure

IV

Jude's reverie was interrupted by the creak of footsteps ascendingthe stairs.

He whisked Sue's clothing from the chair where it was drying, thrustit under the bed, and sat down to his book. Somebody knocked andopened the door immediately. It was the landlady.

”Oh, I didn't know whether you was in or not, Mr. Fawley. Iwanted to know if you would require supper. I see you've a younggentleman--”

”Yes, ma'am. But I think I won't come down to-night. Will you bringsupper up on a tray, and I'll have a cup of tea as well.”

It was Jude's custom to go downstairs to the kitchen, and eat hismeals with the family, to save trouble. His landlady brought up thesupper, however, on this occasion, and he took it from her at thedoor.

When she had descended he set the teapot on the hob, and drew outSue's clothes anew; but they were far from dry. A thick woollengown, he found, held a deal of water. So he hung them up again, andenlarged his fire and mused as the steam from the garments went upthe chimney.

Suddenly she said, ”Jude!”

”Yes. All right. How do you feel now?”

”Better. Quite well. Why, I fell asleep, didn't I? What time isit? Not late surely?”

”It is past ten.”

”Is it really? What SHALL I do!” she said, starting up.

”Stay where you are.”

”Yes; that's what I want to do. But I don't know what they wouldsay! And what will you do?”

”I am going to sit here by the fire all night, and read. To-morrowis Sunday, and I haven't to go out anywhere. Perhaps you will besaved a severe illness by resting there. Don't be frightened. I'mall right. Look here, what I have got for you. Some supper.”

When she had sat upright she breathed plaintively and said, ”I dofeel rather weak still. I thought I was well; and I ought not to behere, ought I?” But the supper fortified her somewhat, and when shehad had some tea and had lain back again she was bright and cheerful.

The tea must have been green, or too long drawn, for she seemedpreternaturally wakeful afterwards, though Jude, who had not takenany, began to feel heavy; till her conversation fixed his attention.

”You called me a creature of civilization, or something, didn't you?”she said, breaking a silence. ”It was very odd you should have donethat.”

”Why?”

”Well, because it is provokingly wrong. I am a sort of negation ofit.”

”You are very philosophical. 'A negation' is profound talking.”

”Is it? Do I strike you as being learned?” she asked, with a touchof raillery.

”No--not learned. Only you don't talk quite like a girl--well, agirl who has had no advantages.”

”I have had advantages. I don't know Latin and Greek, though I knowthe grammars of those tongues. But I know most of the Greek andLatin classics through translations, and other books too. I readLempriere, Catullus, Martial, Juvenal, Lucian, Beaumont and Fletcher,Boccaccio, Scarron, De Brantome, Sterne, De Foe, Smollett, Fielding,Shakespeare, the Bible, and other such; and found that all interestin the unwholesome part of those books ended with its mystery.”

”You have read more than I,” he said with a sigh. ”How came you toread some of those queerer ones?”

”Well,” she said thoughtfully, ”it was by accident. My life has beenentirely shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me. I have nofear of men, as such, nor of their books. I have mixed with them--oneor two of them particularly--almost as one of their own sex. I meanI have not felt about them as most women are taught to feel--to be ontheir guard against attacks on their virtue; for no average man--noman short of a sensual savage--will molest a woman by day or night,at home or abroad, unless she invites him. Until she says by a look'Come on' he is always afraid to, and if you never say it, or lookit, he never comes. However, what I was going to say is that when Iwas eighteen I formed a friendly intimacy with an undergraduate atChristminster, and he taught me a great deal, and lent me books whichI should never have got hold of otherwise.”

”Is your friendship broken off?”

”Oh yes. He died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had takenhis degree and left Christminster.”

”You saw a good deal of him, I suppose?”

”Yes. We used to go about together--on walking tours, reading tours,and things of that sort--like two men almost. He asked me to livewith him, and I agreed to by letter. But when I joined him in LondonI found he meant a different thing from what I meant. He wanted meto be his mistress, in fact, but I wasn't in love with him--and onmy saying I should go away if he didn't agree to MY plan, he didso. We shared a sitting-room for fifteen months; and he became aleader-writer for one of the great London dailies; till he was takenill, and had to go abroad. He said I was breaking his heart byholding out against him so long at such close quarters; he couldnever have believed it of woman. I might play that game once toooften, he said. He came home merely to die. His death caused aterrible remorse in me for my cruelty--though I hope he died ofconsumption and not of me entirely. I went down to Sandbourneto his funeral, and was his only mourner. He left me a littlemoney--because I broke his heart, I suppose. That's how menare--so much better than women!”

”Good heavens!--what did you do then?”

”Ah--now you are angry with me!” she said, a contralto note oftragedy coming suddenly into her silvery voice. ”I wouldn't havetold you if I had known!”

”No, I am not. Tell me all.”

”Well, I invested his money, poor fellow, in a bubble scheme, andlost it. I lived about London by myself for some time, and then Ireturned to Christminster, as my father-- who was also in London, andhad started as an art metal-worker near Long-Acre--wouldn't have meback; and I got that occupation in the artist-shop where you foundme... I said you didn't know how bad I was!”

Jude looked round upon the arm-chair and its occupant, as if to readmore carefully the creature he had given shelter to. His voicetrembled as he said: ”However you have lived, Sue, I believe you areas innocent as you are unconventional!”

”I am not particularly innocent, as you see, now that I have

'twitched the robe From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped,'”

said she, with an ostensible sneer, though he could hear that she wasbrimming with tears. ”But I have never yielded myself to any lover,if that's what you mean! I have remained as I began.”

”I quite believe you. But some women would not have remained as theybegan.”

”Perhaps not. Better women would not. People say I must becold-natured--sexless--on account of it. But I won't have it!Some of the most passionately erotic poets have been the mostself-contained in their daily lives.”

”Have you told Mr. Phillotson about this university scholar friend?”

”Yes--long ago. I have never made any secret of it to anybody.”

”What did he say?”

”He did not pass any criticism--only said I was everything to him,whatever I did; and things like that.”

Jude felt much depressed; she seemed to get further and further awayfrom him with her strange ways and curious unconsciousness of gender.

”Aren't you REALLY vexed with me, dear Jude?” she suddenly asked, ina voice of such extraordinary tenderness that it hardly seemed tocome from the same woman who had just told her story so lightly. ”Iwould rather offend anybody in the world than you, I think!”

”I don't know whether I am vexed or not. I know I care very muchabout you!”

”I care as much for you as for anybody I ever met.”

”You don't care MORE! There, I ought not to say that. Don't answerit!”

There was another long silence. He felt that she was treatinghim cruelly, though he could not quite say in what way. Her veryhelplessness seemed to make her so much stronger than he.

”I am awfully ignorant on general matters, although I have worked sohard,” he said, to turn the subject. ”I am absorbed in theology, youknow. And what do you think I should be doing just about now, if youweren't here? I should be saying my evening prayers. I suppose youwouldn't like--”

”Oh no, no,” she answered, ”I would rather not, if you don't mind.I should seem so--such a hypocrite.”

”I thought you wouldn't join, so I didn't propose it. You mustremember that I hope to be a useful minister some day.”

”To be ordained, I think you said?”

”Yes.”

”Then you haven't given up the idea?--I thought that perhaps you hadby this time.”

”Of course not. I fondly thought at first that you felt as I doabout that, as you were so mixed up in Christminster Anglicanism.And Mr. Phillotson--”

”I have no respect for Christminster whatever, except, in a qualifieddegree, on its intellectual side,” said Sue Bridehead earnestly. ”Myfriend I spoke of took that out of me. He was the most irreligiousman I ever knew, and the most moral. And intellect at Christminsteris new wine in old bottles. The mediaevalism of Christminster mustgo, be sloughed off, or Christminster itself will have to go. Tobe sure, at times one couldn't help having a sneaking liking forthe traditions of the old faith, as preserved by a section of thethinkers there in touching and simple sincerity; but when I was in mysaddest, rightest mind I always felt,

'O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods!'”...

”Sue, you are not a good friend of mine to talk like that!”

”Then I won't, dear Jude!” The emotional throat-note had come back,and she turned her face away.

”I still think Christminster has much that is glorious; though Iwas resentful because I couldn't get there.” He spoke gently, andresisted his impulse to pique her on to tears.

”It is an ignorant place, except as to the townspeople, artizans,drunkards, and paupers,” she said, perverse still at his differingfrom her. ”THEY see life as it is, of course; but few of the peoplein the colleges do. You prove it in your own person. You are oneof the very men Christminster was intended for when the collegeswere founded; a man with a passion for learning, but no money, oropportunities, or friends. But you were elbowed off the pavementby the millionaires' sons.”

”Well, I can do without what it confers. I care for somethinghigher.”

”And I for something broader, truer,” she insisted. ”At presentintellect in Christminster is pushing one way, and religion theother; and so they stand stock-still, like two rams butting eachother.”

”What would Mr. Phillotson--”

”It is a place full of fetishists and ghost-seers!”

He noticed that whenever he tried to speak of the schoolmaster sheturned the conversation to some generalizations about the offendinguniversity. Jude was extremely, morbidly, curious about her life asPhillotson's _protegee_ and betrothed; yet she would not enlightenhim.

”Well, that's just what I am, too,” he said. ”I am fearful of life,spectre-seeing always.”

”But you are good and dear!” she murmured.

His heart bumped, and he made no reply.

”You are in the Tractarian stage just now, are you not?” she added,putting on flippancy to hide real feeling, a common trick with her.”Let me see--when was I there? In the year eighteen hundred and--”

”There's a sarcasm in that which is rather unpleasant to me, Sue.Now will you do what I want you to? At this time I read a chapter,and then say prayers, as I told you. Now will you concentrate yourattention on any book of these you like, and sit with your back tome, and leave me to my custom? You are sure you won't join me?”

”I'll look at you.”

”No. Don't tease, Sue!”

”Very well--I'll do just as you bid me, and I won't vex you, Jude,”she replied, in the tone of a child who was going to be good for everafter, turning her back upon him accordingly. A small Bible otherthan the one he was using lay near her, and during his retreat shetook it up, and turned over the leaves.

”Jude,” she said brightly, when he had finished and come back to her;”will you let me make you a NEW New Testament, like the one I madefor myself at Christminster?”

”Oh yes. How was that made?”

”I altered my old one by cutting up all the Epistles and Gospels intoseparate _brochures_, and rearranging them in chronological order aswritten, beginning the book with Thessalonians, following on with theEpistles, and putting the Gospels much further on. Then I had thevolume rebound. My university friend Mr.--but never mind his name,poor boy--said it was an excellent idea. I know that reading itafterwards made it twice as interesting as before, and twice asunderstandable.”

”H'm!” said Jude, with a sense of sacrilege.

”And what a literary enormity this is,” she said, as she glancedinto the pages of Solomon's Song. ”I mean the synopsis at the headof each chapter, explaining away the real nature of that rhapsody.You needn't be alarmed: nobody claims inspiration for the chapterheadings. Indeed, many divines treat them with contempt. It seemsthe drollest thing to think of the four-and-twenty elders, orbishops, or whatever number they were, sitting with long faces andwriting down such stuff.”

Jude looked pained. ”You are quite Voltairean!” he murmured.

”Indeed? Then I won't say any more, except that people have noright to falsify the Bible! I HATE such hum-bug as could attempt toplaster over with ecclesiastical abstractions such ecstatic, natural,human love as lies in that great and passionate song!” Her speechhad grown spirited, and almost petulant at his rebuke, and her eyesmoist. ”I WISH I had a friend here to support me; but nobody is everon my side!”

”But my dear Sue, my very dear Sue, I am not against you!” he said,taking her hand, and surprised at her introducing personal feelinginto mere argument.

”Yes you are, yes you are!” she cried, turning away her face that hemight not see her brimming eyes. ”You are on the side of the peoplein the training-school--at least you seem almost to be! What Iinsist on is, that to explain such verses as this: 'Whither is thybeloved gone, O thou fairest among women?' by the note: '_The Churchprofesseth her faith_,' is supremely ridiculous!”

”Well then, let it be! You make such a personal matter ofeverything! I am--only too inclined just now to apply the wordsprofanely. You know YOU are fairest among women to me, come tothat!”

”But you are not to say it now!” Sue replied, her voice changingto its softest note of severity. Then their eyes met, and theyshook hands like cronies in a tavern, and Jude saw the absurdity ofquarrelling on such a hypothetical subject, and she the silliness ofcrying about what was written in an old book like the Bible.

”I won't disturb your convictions--I really won't!” she went onsoothingly, for now he was rather more ruffled than she. ”But I didwant and long to ennoble some man to high aims; and when I saw you,and knew you wanted to be my comrade, I--shall I confess it?--thoughtthat man might be you. But you take so much tradition on trust thatI don't know what to say.”

”Well, dear; I suppose one must take some things on trust. Lifeisn't long enough to work out everything in Euclid problems beforeyou believe it. I take Christianity.”

”Well, perhaps you might take something worse.”

”Indeed I might. Perhaps I have done so!” He thought of Arabella.

”I won't ask what, because we are going to be VERY nice with eachother, aren't we, and never, never, vex each other any more?” Shelooked up trustfully, and her voice seemed trying to nestle in hisbreast.

”I shall always care for you!” said Jude.

”And I for you. Because you are single-hearted, and forgiving toyour faulty and tiresome little Sue!”

He looked away, for that epicene tenderness of hers was tooharrowing. Was it that which had broken the heart of the poorleader-writer; and was he to be the next one? ... But Sue was sodear! ... If he could only get over the sense of her sex, as sheseemed to be able to do so easily of his, what a comrade she wouldmake; for their difference of opinion on conjectural subjects onlydrew them closer together on matters of daily human experience. Shewas nearer to him than any other woman he had ever met, and he couldscarcely believe that time, creed, or absence, would ever divide himfrom her.

But his grief at her incredulities returned. They sat on till shefell asleep again, and he nodded in his chair likewise. Wheneverhe aroused himself he turned her things, and made up the fire anew.About six o'clock he awoke completely, and lighting a candle, foundthat her clothes were dry. Her chair being a far more comfortableone than his she still slept on inside his great-coat, looking warmas a new bun and boyish as a Ganymede. Placing the garments by herand touching her on the shoulder he went downstairs, and washedhimself by starlight in the yard.