Jude the Obscure

he stroke of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning he laughed
at his self-conceit. But the laugh was not a healthy one. He re-read
the letter from the master, and the wisdom in its lines, which had at
first exasperated him, chilled and depressed him now. He saw himself as
a fool indeed.

Deprived of the objects of both intellect and emotion, he could not
proceed to his work. Whenever he felt reconciled to his fate as a
student, there came to disturb his calm his hopeless relations with
Sue. That the one affined soul he had ever met was lost to him through
his marriage returned upon him with cruel persistency, till, unable to
bear it longer, he again rushed for distraction to the real
Christminster life. He now sought it out in an obscure and low-ceiled
tavern up a court which was well known to certain worthies of the
place, and in brighter times would have interested him simply by its
quaintness. Here he sat more or less all the day, convinced that he was
at bottom a vicious character, of whom it was hopeless to expect
anything.

In the evening the frequenters of the house dropped in one by one, Jude
still retaining his seat in the corner, though his money was all spent,
and he had not eaten anything the whole day except a biscuit. He
surveyed his gathering companions with all the equanimity and
philosophy of a man who has been drinking long and slowly, and made
friends with several: to wit, Tinker Taylor, a decayed
church-ironmonger who appeared to have been of a religious turn in
earlier years, but was somewhat blasphemous now; also a red-nosed
auctioneer; also two Gothic masons like himself, called Uncle Jim and
Uncle Joe. There were present, too, some clerks, and a gown- and
surplice-maker’s assistant; two ladies who sported moral characters of
various depths of shade, according to their company, nicknamed “Bower
o’ Bliss” and “Freckles”; some horsey men “in the know” of betting
circles; a travelling actor from the theatre, and two devil-may-care
young men who proved to be gownless undergraduates; they had slipped in
by stealth to meet a man about bull-pups, and stayed to drink and smoke
short pipes with the racing gents aforesaid, looking at their watches
every now and then.

The conversation waxed general. Christminster society was criticized,
the dons, magistrates, and other people in authority being sincerely
pitied for their shortcomings, while opinions on how they ought to
conduct themselves and their affairs to be properly respected, were
exchanged in a large-minded and disinterested manner.

Jude Fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery, and aplomb of a
strong-brained fellow in liquor, threw in his remarks somewhat
peremptorily; and his aims having been what they were for so many
years, everything the others said turned upon his tongue, by a sort of
mechanical craze, to the subject of scholarship and study, the extent
of his own learning being dwelt upon with an insistence that would have
appeared pitiable to himself in his sane hours.

“I don’t care a damn,” he was saying, “for any provost, warden,
principal, fellow, or cursed master of arts in the university! What I
know is that I’d lick ’em on their own ground if they’d give me a
chance, and show ’em a few things they are not up to yet!”

“Hear, hear!” said the undergraduates from the corner, where they were
talking privately about the pups.

“You always was fond o’ books, I’ve heard,” said Tinker Taylor, “and I
don’t doubt what you state. Now with me ’twas different. I always saw
there was more to be learnt outside a book than in; and I took my steps
accordingly, or I shouldn’t have been the man I am.”

“You aim at the Church, I believe?” said Uncle Joe. “If you are such a
scholar as to pitch yer hopes so high as that, why not give us a
specimen of your scholarship? Canst say the Creed in Latin, man? That
was how they once put it to a chap down in my country.”

“I should think so!” said Jude haughtily.

“Not he! Like his conceit!” screamed one of the ladies.

“Just you shut up, Bower o’ Bliss!” said one of the undergraduates.
“Silence!” He drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rapped with it on
the counter, and announced, “The gentleman in the corner is going to
rehearse the Articles of his Belief, in the Latin tongue, for the
edification of the company.”

“I won’t!” said Jude.

“Yes—have a try!” said the surplice-maker.

“You can’t!” said Uncle Joe.

“Yes, he can!” said Tinker Taylor.

“I’ll swear I can!” said Jude. “Well, come now, stand me a small Scotch
cold, and I’ll do it straight off.”

“That’s a fair offer,” said the undergraduate, throwing down the money
for the whisky.

The barmaid concocted the mixture with the bearing of a person
compelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species, and the glass
was handed across to Jude, who, having drunk the contents, stood up and
began rhetorically, without hesitation:

“Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Factorem coeli et terrae,
visibilium omnium et invisibilium.”

“Good! Excellent Latin!” cried one of the undergraduates, who, however,
had not the slightest conception of a single word.

A silence reigned among the rest in the bar, and the maid stood still,
Jude’s voice echoing sonorously into the inner parlour, where the
landlord was dozing, and bringing him out to see what was going on.
Jude had declaimed steadily ahead, and was continuing:

“Crucifixus etiam pro nobis: sub Pontio Pilato passus, et sepultus
est. Et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas.”

“That’s the Nicene,” sneered the second undergraduate. “And we wanted
the Apostles’!”

“You didn’t say so! And every fool knows, except you, that the Nicene
is the most historic creed!”

“Let un go on, let un go on!” said the auctioneer.

But Jude’s mind seemed to grow confused soon, and he could not get on.
He put his hand to his forehead, and his face assumed an expression of
pain.

“Give him another glass—then he’ll fetch up and get through it,” said
Tinker Taylor.

Somebody threw down threepence, the glass was handed, Jude stretched
out his arm for it without looking, and having swallowed the liquor,
went on in a moment in a revived voice, raising it as he neared the end
with the manner of a priest leading a congregation:

“Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre
Filioque procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et
conglorificatur. Qui locutus est per prophetas.

“Et unam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum Baptisma
in remissionem peccatorum. Et exspecto Resurrectionem mortuorum. Et
vitam venturi saeculi. Amen.”

“Well done!” said several, enjoying the last word, as being the first
and only one they had recognized.

Then Jude seemed to shake the fumes from his brain, as he stared round
upon them.

“You pack of fools!” he cried. “Which one of you knows whether I have
said it or no? It might have been the Ratcatcher’s Daughter in double
Dutch for all that your besotted heads can tell! See what I have
brought myself to—the crew I have come among!”

The landlord, who had already had his license endorsed for harbouring
queer characters, feared a riot, and came outside the counter; but
Jude, in his sudden flash of reason, had turned in disgust and left the
scene, the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.

He hastened down the lane and round into the straight broad street,
which he followed till it merged in the highway, and all sound of his
late companions had been left behind. Onward he still went, under the
influence of a childlike yearning for the one being in the world to
whom it seemed possible to fly—an unreasoning desire, whose ill
judgement was not apparent to him now. In the course of an hour, when
it was between ten and eleven o’clock, he entered the village of
Lumsdon, and reaching the cottage, saw that a light was burning in a
downstairs room, which he assumed, rightly as it happened, to be hers.

Jude stepped close to the wall, and tapped with his finger on the pane,
saying impatiently, “Sue, Sue!”

She must have recognized his voice, for the light disappeared from the
apartment, and in a second or two the door was unlocked and opened, and
Sue appeared with a candle in her hand.

“Is it Jude? Yes, it is! My dear, dear cousin, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, I am—I couldn’t help coming, Sue!” said he, sinking down upon the
doorstep. “I am so wicked, Sue—my heart is nearly broken, and I could
not bear my life as it was! So I have been drinking, and blaspheming,
or next door to it, and saying holy things in disreputable
quarters—repeating in idle bravado words which ought never to be
uttered but reverently! Oh, do anything with me, Sue—kill me—I don’t
care! Only don’t hate me and despise me like all the rest of the
world!”

“You are ill, poor dear! No, I won’t despise you; of course I won’t!
Come in and rest, and let me see what I can do for you. Now lean on me,
and don’t mind.” With one hand holding the candle and the other
supporting him, she led him indoors, and placed him in the only easy
chair the meagrely furnished house afforded, stretching his feet upon
another, and pulling off his boots. Jude, now getting towards his sober
senses, could only say, “Dear, dear Sue!” in a voice broken by grief
and contrition.

She asked him if he wanted anything to eat, but he shook his head. Then
telling him to go to sleep, and that she would come down early in the
morning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night and
ascended the stairs.

Almost immediately he fell into a heavy slumber, and did not wake till
dawn. At first he did not know where he was, but by degrees his
situation cleared to him, and he beheld it in all the ghastliness of a
right mind. She knew the worst of him—the very worst. How could he face
her now? She would soon be coming down to see about breakfast, as she
had said, and there would he be in all his shame confronting her. He
could not bear the thought, and softly drawing on his boots, and taking
his hat from the nail on which she had hung it, he slipped noiselessly
out of the house.

His fixed idea was to get away to some obscure spot and hide, and
perhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him was Marygreen. He
called at his lodging in Christminster, where he found awaiting him a
note of dismissal from his employer; and having packed up he turned his
back upon the city that had been such a thorn in his side, and struck
southward into Wessex. He had no money left in his pocket, his small
savings, deposited at one of the banks in Christminster, having
fortunately been left untouched. To get to Marygreen, therefore, his
only course was walking; and the distance being nearly twenty miles, he
had ample time to complete on the way the sobering process begun in
him.

At some hour of the evening he reached Alfredston. Here he pawned his
waistcoat, and having gone out of the town a mile or two, slept under a
rick that night. At dawn he rose, shook off the hayseeds and stems from
his clothes, and started again, breasting the long white road up the
hill to the downs, which had been visible to him a long way off, and
passing the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved his hopes years
ago.

He reached the ancient hamlet while the people were at breakfast. Weary
and mud-bespattered, but quite possessed of his ordinary clearness of
brain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did so what a poor
Christ he made. Seeing a trough of water near he bathed his face, and
went on to the cottage of his great-aunt, whom he found breakfasting in
bed, attended by the woman who lived with her.

“What—out o’ work?” asked his relative, regarding him through eyes
sunken deep, under lids heavy as pot-covers, no other cause for his
tumbled appearance suggesting itself to one whose whole life had been a
struggle with material things.

“Yes,” said Jude heavily. “I think I must have a little rest.”

Refreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his old room and lay down in
his shirt-sleeves, after the manner of the artizan. He fell asleep for
a short while, and when he awoke it was as if he had awakened in hell.
It was hell—“the hell of conscious failure,” both in ambition and in
love. He thought of that previous abyss into which he had fallen before
leaving this part of the country; the deepest deep he had supposed it
then; but it was not so deep as this. That had been the breaking in of
the outer bulwarks of his hope: this was of his second line.

If he had been a woman he must have screamed under the nervous tension
which he was now undergoing. But that relief being denied to his
virility, he clenched his teeth in misery, bringing lines about his
mouth like those in the Laocoön, and corrugations between his brows.

A mournful wind blew through the trees, and sounded in the chimney like
the pedal notes of an organ. Each ivy leaf overgrowing the wall of the
churchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned, pecked its neighbour
smartly, and the vane on the new Victorian-Gothic church in the new
spot had already begun to creak. Yet apparently it was not always the
outdoor wind that made the deep murmurs; it was a voice. He guessed its
origin in a moment or two; the curate was praying with his aunt in the
adjoining room. He remembered her speaking of him. Presently the sounds
ceased, and a step seemed to cross the landing. Jude sat up, and
shouted “Hoi!”

The step made for his door, which was open, and a man looked in. It was
a young clergyman.

“I think you are Mr. Highridge,” said Jude. “My aunt has mentioned you
more than once. Well, here I am, just come home; a fellow gone to the
bad; though I had the best intentions in the world at one time. Now I
am melancholy mad, what with drinking and one thing and another.”

Slowly Jude unfolded to the curate his late plans and movements, by an
unconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual and ambitious side
of his dream, and more upon the theological, though this had, up till
now, been merely a portion of the general plan of advancement.

“Now I know I have been a fool, and that folly is with me,” added Jude
in conclusion. “And I don’t regret the collapse of my university hopes
one jot. I wouldn’t begin again if I were sure to succeed. I don’t care
for social success any more at all. But I do feel I should like to do
some good thing; and I bitterly regret the Church, and the loss of my
chance of being her ordained minister.”

The curate, who was a new man to this neighbourhood, had grown deeply
interested, and at last he said: “If you feel a real call to the
ministry, and I won’t say from your conversation that you do not, for
it is that of a thoughtful and educated man, you might enter the Church
as a licentiate. Only you must make up your mind to avoid strong
drink.”

“I could avoid that easily enough, if I had any kind of hope to support
me!”

Part Third AT MELCHESTER

“For there was no other girl, O bridegroom, like her!”
—SAPPHO (H. T. Wharton).