Jude the Obscure

ue’s distressful confession recurred to Jude’s mind all the night as
being a sorrow indeed.

The morning after, when it was time for her to go, the neighbours saw
her companion and herself disappearing on foot down the hill path which
led into the lonely road to Alfredston. An hour passed before he
returned along the same route, and in his face there was a look of
exaltation not unmixed with recklessness. An incident had occurred.

They had stood parting in the silent highway, and their tense and
passionate moods had led to bewildered inquiries of each other on how
far their intimacy ought to go; till they had almost quarrelled, and
she said tearfully that it was hardly proper of him as a parson in
embryo to think of such a thing as kissing her even in farewell as he
now wished to do. Then she had conceded that the fact of the kiss would
be nothing: all would depend upon the spirit of it. If given in the
spirit of a cousin and a friend she saw no objection: if in the spirit
of a lover she could not permit it. “Will you swear that it will not be
in that spirit?” she had said.

No: he would not. And then they had turned from each other in
estrangement, and gone their several ways, till at a distance of twenty
or thirty yards both had looked round simultaneously. That look behind
was fatal to the reserve hitherto more or less maintained. They had
quickly run back, and met, and embracing most unpremeditatedly, kissed
close and long. When they parted for good it was with flushed cheeks on
her side, and a beating heart on his.

The kiss was a turning-point in Jude’s career. Back again in the
cottage, and left to reflection, he saw one thing: that though his kiss
of that aerial being had seemed the purest moment of his faultful life,
as long as he nourished this unlicensed tenderness it was glaringly
inconsistent for him to pursue the idea of becoming the soldier and
servant of a religion in which sexual love was regarded as at its best
a frailty, and at its worst damnation. What Sue had said in warmth was
really the cold truth. When to defend his affection tooth and nail, to
persist with headlong force in impassioned attentions to her, was all
he thought of, he was condemned ipso facto as a professor of the
accepted school of morals. He was as unfit, obviously, by nature, as he
had been by social position, to fill the part of a propounder of
accredited dogma.

Strange that his first aspiration—towards academical proficiency—had
been checked by a woman, and that his second aspiration—towards
apostleship—had also been checked by a woman. “Is it,” he said, “that
the women are to blame; or is it the artificial system of things, under
which the normal sex-impulses are turned into devilish domestic gins
and springs to noose and hold back those who want to progress?”

It had been his standing desire to become a prophet, however humble, to
his struggling fellow-creatures, without any thought of personal gain.
Yet with a wife living away from him with another husband, and himself
in love erratically, the loved one’s revolt against her state being
possibly on his account, he had sunk to be barely respectable according
to regulation views.

It was not for him to consider further: he had only to confront the
obvious, which was that he had made himself quite an impostor as a
law-abiding religious teacher.

At dusk that evening he went into the garden and dug a shallow hole, to
which he brought out all the theological and ethical works that he
possessed, and had stored here. He knew that, in this country of true
believers, most of them were not saleable at a much higher price than
waste-paper value, and preferred to get rid of them in his own way,
even if he should sacrifice a little money to the sentiment of thus
destroying them. Lighting some loose pamphlets to begin with, he cut
the volumes into pieces as well as he could, and with a three-pronged
fork shook them over the flames. They kindled, and lighted up the back
of the house, the pigsty, and his own face, till they were more or less
consumed.

Though he was almost a stranger here now, passing cottagers talked to
him over the garden hedge.

“Burning up your awld aunt’s rubbidge, I suppose? Ay; a lot gets heaped
up in nooks and corners when you’ve lived eighty years in one house.”

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning before the leaves, covers, and
binding of Jeremy Taylor, Butler, Doddridge, Paley, Pusey, Newman and
the rest had gone to ashes, but the night was quiet, and as he turned
and turned the paper shreds with the fork, the sense of being no longer
a hypocrite to himself afforded his mind a relief which gave him calm.
He might go on believing as before, but he professed nothing, and no
longer owned and exhibited engines of faith which, as their proprietor,
he might naturally be supposed to exercise on himself first of all. In
his passion for Sue he could not stand as an ordinary sinner, and not
as a whited sepulchre.

Meanwhile Sue, after parting from him earlier in the day, had gone
along to the station, with tears in her eyes for having run back and
let him kiss her. Jude ought not to have pretended that he was not a
lover, and made her give way to an impulse to act unconventionally, if
not wrongly. She was inclined to call it the latter; for Sue’s logic
was extraordinarily compounded, and seemed to maintain that before a
thing was done it might be right to do, but that being done it became
wrong; or, in other words, that things which were right in theory were
wrong in practice.

“I have been too weak, I think!” she jerked out as she pranced on,
shaking down tear-drops now and then. “It was burning, like a
lover’s—oh, it was! And I won’t write to him any more, or at least for
a long time, to impress him with my dignity! And I hope it will hurt
him very much—expecting a letter to-morrow morning, and the next, and
the next, and no letter coming. He’ll suffer then with suspense—won’t
he, that’s all!—and I am very glad of it!”—Tears of pity for Jude’s
approaching sufferings at her hands mingled with those which had surged
up in pity for herself.

Then the slim little wife of a husband whose person was disagreeable to
her, the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl, quite unfitted by
temperament and instinct to fulfil the conditions of the matrimonial
relation with Phillotson, possibly with scarce any man, walked fitfully
along, and panted, and brought weariness into her eyes by gazing and
worrying hopelessly.

Phillotson met her at the arrival station, and, seeing that she was
troubled, thought it must be owing to the depressing effect of her
aunt’s death and funeral. He began telling her of his day’s doings, and
how his friend Gillingham, a neighbouring schoolmaster whom he had not
seen for years, had called upon him. While ascending to the town,
seated on the top of the omnibus beside him, she said suddenly and with
an air of self-chastisement, regarding the white road and its bordering
bushes of hazel:

“Richard—I let Mr. Fawley hold my hand a long while. I don’t know
whether you think it wrong?”

He, waking apparently from thoughts of far different mould, said
vaguely, “Oh, did you? What did you do that for?”

“I don’t know. He wanted to, and I let him.”

“I hope it pleased him. I should think it was hardly a novelty.”

They lapsed into silence. Had this been a case in the court of an
omniscient judge, he might have entered on his notes the curious fact
that Sue had placed the minor for the major indiscretion, and had not
said a word about the kiss.

After tea that evening Phillotson sat balancing the school registers.
She remained in an unusually silent, tense, and restless condition, and
at last, saying she was tired, went to bed early. When Phillotson
arrived upstairs, weary with the drudgery of the attendance-numbers, it
was a quarter to twelve o’clock. Entering their chamber, which by day
commanded a view of some thirty or forty miles over the Vale of
Blackmoor, and even into Outer Wessex, he went to the window, and,
pressing his face against the pane, gazed with hard-breathing fixity
into the mysterious darkness which now covered the far-reaching scene.
He was musing, “I think,” he said at last, without turning his head,
“that I must get the committee to change the school-stationer. All the
copybooks are sent wrong this time.”

There was no reply. Thinking Sue was dozing he went on:

“And there must be a rearrangement of that ventilator in the
class-room. The wind blows down upon my head unmercifully and gives me
the ear-ache.”

As the silence seemed more absolute than ordinarily he turned round.
The heavy, gloomy oak wainscot, which extended over the walls upstairs
and down in the dilapidated “Old-Grove Place,” and the massive
chimney-piece reaching to the ceiling, stood in odd contrast to the new
and shining brass bedstead, and the new suite of birch furniture that
he had bought for her, the two styles seeming to nod to each other
across three centuries upon the shaking floor.

“Soo!” he said (this being the way in which he pronounced her name).

She was not in the bed, though she had apparently been there—the
clothes on her side being flung back. Thinking she might have forgotten
some kitchen detail and gone downstairs for a moment to see to it, he
pulled off his coat and idled quietly enough for a few minutes, when,
finding she did not come, he went out upon the landing, candle in hand,
and said again “Soo!”

“Yes!” came back to him in her voice, from the distant kitchen quarter.

“What are you doing down there at midnight—tiring yourself out for
nothing!”

“I am not sleepy; I am reading; and there is a larger fire here.”

He went to bed. Some time in the night he awoke. She was not there,
even now. Lighting a candle he hastily stepped out upon the landing,
and again called her name.

She answered “Yes!” as before, but the tones were small and confined,
and whence they came he could not at first understand. Under the
staircase was a large clothes-closet, without a window; they seemed to
come from it. The door was shut, but there was no lock or other
fastening. Phillotson, alarmed, went towards it, wondering if she had
suddenly become deranged.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked.

“Not to disturb you I came here, as it was so late.”

“But there’s no bed, is there? And no ventilation! Why, you’ll be
suffocated if you stay all night!”

“Oh no, I think not. Don’t trouble about me.”

“But—” Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door. She had
fastened it inside with a piece of string, which broke at his pull.
There being no bedstead she had flung down some rugs and made a little
nest for herself in the very cramped quarters the closet afforded.

When he looked in upon her she sprang out of her lair, great-eyed and
trembling.

“You ought not to have pulled open the door!” she cried excitedly. “It
is not becoming in you! Oh, will you go away; please will you!”

She looked so pitiful and pleading in her white nightgown against the
shadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried. She continued to beseech
him not to disturb her.

He said: “I’ve been kind to you, and given you every liberty; and it is
monstrous that you should feel in this way!”

“Yes,” said she, weeping. “I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me, I
suppose! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am to blame!”

“Who is then? Am I?”

“No—I don’t know! The universe, I suppose—things in general, because
they are so horrid and cruel!”

“Well, it is no use talking like that. Making a man’s house so unseemly
at this time o’ night! Eliza will hear if we don’t mind.” (He meant the
servant.) “Just think if either of the parsons in this town was to see
us now! I hate such eccentricities, Sue. There’s no order or regularity
in your sentiments! … But I won’t intrude on you further; only I would
advise you not to shut the door too tight, or I shall find you stifled
to-morrow.”

On rising the next morning he immediately looked into the closet, but
Sue had already gone downstairs. There was a little nest where she had
lain, and spiders’ webs hung overhead. “What must a woman’s aversion be
when it is stronger than her fear of spiders!” he said bitterly.

He found her sitting at the breakfast-table, and the meal began almost
in silence, the burghers walking past upon the pavement—or rather
roadway, pavements being scarce here—which was two or three feet above
the level of the parlour floor. They nodded down to the happy couple
their morning greetings, as they went on.

“Richard,” she said all at once; “would you mind my living away from
you?”

“Away from me? Why, that’s what you were doing when I married you. What
then was the meaning of marrying at all?”

“You wouldn’t like me any the better for telling you.”

“I don’t object to know.”

“Because I thought I could do nothing else. You had got my promise a
long time before that, remember. Then, as time went on, I regretted I
had promised you, and was trying to see an honourable way to break it
off. But as I couldn’t I became rather reckless and careless about the
conventions. Then you know what scandals were spread, and how I was
turned out of the training school you had taken such time and trouble
to prepare me for and get me into; and this frightened me and it seemed
then that the one thing I could do would be to let the engagement
stand. Of course I, of all people, ought not to have cared what was
said, for it was just what I fancied I never did care for. But I was a
coward—as so many women are—and my theoretic unconventionality broke
down. If that had not entered into the case it would have been better
to have hurt your feelings once for all then, than to marry you and
hurt them all my life after… And you were so generous in never giving
credit for a moment to the rumour.”

“I am bound in honesty to tell you that I weighed its probability and
inquired of your cousin about it.”

“Ah!” she said with pained surprise.

“I didn’t doubt you.”

“But you inquired!”

“I took his word.”

Her eyes had filled. “He wouldn’t have inquired!” she said. “But you
haven’t answered me. Will you let me go away? I know how irregular it
is of me to ask it—”

“It is irregular.”

“But I do ask it! Domestic laws should be made according to
temperaments, which should be classified. If people are at all peculiar
in character they have to suffer from the very rules that produce
comfort in others! … Will you let me?”

“But we married—”

“What is the use of thinking of laws and ordinances,” she burst out,
“if they make you miserable when you know you are committing no sin?”

“But you are committing a sin in not liking me.”

“I do like you! But I didn’t reflect it would be—that it would be so
much more than that… For a man and woman to live on intimate terms when
one feels as I do is adultery, in any circumstances, however legal.
There—I’ve said it! … Will you let me, Richard?”

“You distress me, Susanna, by such importunity!”

“Why can’t we agree to free each other? We made the compact, and surely
we can cancel it—not legally of course; but we can morally, especially
as no new interests, in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked
after. Then we might be friends, and meet without pain to either. Oh
Richard, be my friend and have pity! We shall both be dead in a few
years, and then what will it matter to anybody that you relieved me
from constraint for a little while? I daresay you think me eccentric,
or super-sensitive, or something absurd. Well—why should I suffer for
what I was born to be, if it doesn’t hurt other people?”

“But it does—it hurts me! And you vowed to love me.”

“Yes—that’s it! I am in the wrong. I always am! It is as culpable to
bind yourself to love always as to believe a creed always, and as silly
as to vow always to like a particular food or drink!”

“And do you mean, by living away from me, living by yourself?”

“Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude.”

“As his wife?”

“As I choose.”

Phillotson writhed.

Sue continued: “She, or he, ‘who lets the world, or his own portion of
it, choose his plan of life for him, has no need of any other faculty
than the apelike one of imitation.’ J. S. Mill’s words, those are. I
have been reading it up. Why can’t you act upon them? I wish to,
always.”

“What do I care about J. S. Mill!” moaned he. “I only want to lead a
quiet life! Do you mind my saying that I have guessed what never once
occurred to me before our marriage—that you were in love, and are in
love, with Jude Fawley!”

“You may go on guessing that I am, since you have begun. But do you
suppose that if I had been I should have asked you to let me go and
live with him?”

The ringing of the school bell saved Phillotson from the necessity of
replying at present to what apparently did not strike him as being such
a convincing argumentum ad verecundiam as she, in her loss of courage
at the last moment, meant it to appear. She was beginning to be so
puzzling and unstateable that he was ready to throw in with her other
little peculiarities the extremest request which a wife could make.

They proceeded to the schools that morning as usual, Sue entering the
class-room, where he could see the back of her head through the glass
partition whenever he turned his eyes that way. As he went on giving
and hearing lessons his forehead and eyebrows twitched from
concentrated agitation of thought, till at length he tore a scrap from
a sheet of scribbling paper and wrote:

Your request prevents my attending to work at all. I don’t know what I
am doing! Was it seriously made?

He folded the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little boy to
take to Sue. The child toddled off into the class-room. Phillotson saw
his wife turn and take the note, and the bend of her pretty head as she
read it, her lips slightly crisped, to prevent undue expression under
fire of so many young eyes. He could not see her hands, but she changed
her position, and soon the child returned, bringing nothing in reply.
In a few minutes, however, one of Sue’s class appeared, with a little
note similar to his own. These words only were pencilled therein:

I am sincerely sorry to say that it was seriously made.

Phillotson looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place of
his brows twitched again. In ten minutes he called up the child he had
just sent to her, and dispatched another missive:

God knows I don’t want to thwart you in any reasonable way. My whole
thought is to make you comfortable and happy. But I cannot agree to
such a preposterous notion as your going to live with your lover. You
would lose everybody’s respect and regard; and so should I!

After an interval a similar part was enacted in the class-room, and an
answer came:

I know you mean my good. But I don’t want to be respectable! To produce
“Human development in its richest diversity” (to quote your Humboldt)
is to my mind far above respectability. No doubt my tastes are low—in
your view—hopelessly low! If you won’t let me go to him, will you grant
me this one request—allow me to live in your house in a separate way?

To this he returned no answer.

She wrote again:

I know what you think. But cannot you have pity on me? I beg you to; I
implore you to be merciful! I would not ask if I were not almost
compelled by what I can’t bear! No poor woman has ever wished more than
I that Eve had not fallen, so that (as the primitive Christians
believed) some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise.
But I won’t trifle! Be kind to me—even though I have not been kind to
you! I will go away, go abroad, anywhere, and never trouble you.

Nearly an hour passed, and then he returned an answer:

I do not wish to pain you. How well you know I don’t! Give me a
little time. I am disposed to agree to your last request.

One line from her:

Thank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.

All day Phillotson bent a dazed regard upon her through the glazed
partition; and he felt as lonely as when he had not known her.

But he was as good as his word, and consented to her living apart in
the house. At first, when they met at meals, she had seemed more
composed under the new arrangement; but the irksomeness of their
position worked on her temperament, and the fibres of her nature seemed
strained like harp-strings. She talked vaguely and indiscriminately to
prevent his talking pertinently.