Jude the Obscure

rabella was preparing breakfast in the downstairs back room of this
small, recently hired tenement of her father’s. She put her head into
the little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready. Donn,
endeavouring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue
blouse, and with a strap round his waist from which a steel dangled,
came in promptly.

“You must mind the shop this morning,” he said casually. “I’ve to go
and get some inwards and half a pig from Lumsdon, and to call
elsewhere. If you live here you must put your shoulder to the wheel, at
least till I get the business started!”

“Well, for to-day I can’t say.” She looked deedily into his face. “I’ve
got a prize upstairs.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“A husband—almost.”

“No!”

“Yes. It’s Jude. He’s come back to me.”

“Your old original one? Well, I’m damned!”

“Well, I always did like him, that I will say.”

“But how does he come to be up there?” said Donn, humour-struck, and
nodding to the ceiling.

“Don’t ask inconvenient questions, Father. What we’ve to do is to keep
him here till he and I are—as we were.”

“How was that?”

“Married.”

“Ah… Well it is the rummest thing I ever heard of—marrying an old
husband again, and so much new blood in the world! He’s no catch, to my
thinking. I’d have had a new one while I was about it.”

“It isn’t rum for a woman to want her old husband back for
respectability, though for a man to want his old wife back—well,
perhaps it is funny, rather!” And Arabella was suddenly seized with a
fit of loud laughter, in which her father joined more moderately.

“Be civil to him, and I’ll do the rest,” she said when she had
recovered seriousness. “He told me this morning that his head ached fit
to burst, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. And no wonder,
considering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly
and cheerful here for a day or two, and not let him go back to his
lodging. Whatever you advance I’ll pay back to you again. But I must go
up and see how he is now, poor deary.”

Arabella ascended the stairs, softly opened the door of the first
bedroom, and peeped in. Finding that her shorn Samson was asleep she
entered to the bedside and stood regarding him. The fevered flush on
his face from the debauch of the previous evening lessened the
fragility of his ordinary appearance, and his long lashes, dark brows,
and curly back hair and beard against the white pillow completed the
physiognomy of one whom Arabella, as a woman of rank passions, still
felt it worth while to recapture, highly important to recapture as a
woman straitened both in means and in reputation. Her ardent gaze
seemed to affect him; his quick breathing became suspended, and he
opened his eyes.

“How are you now, dear?” said she. “It is I—Arabella.”

“Ah!—where—oh yes, I remember! You gave me shelter… I am
stranded—ill—demoralized—damn bad! That’s what I am!”

“Then do stay here. There’s nobody in the house but father and me, and
you can rest till you are thoroughly well. I’ll tell them at the
stoneworks that you are knocked up.”

“I wonder what they are thinking at the lodgings!”

“I’ll go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, or
they’ll think we’ve run away?”

“Yes. You’ll find enough money in my pocket there.”

Quite indifferent, and shutting his eyes because he could not bear the
daylight in his throbbing eye-balls, Jude seemed to doze again.
Arabella took his purse, softly left the room, and putting on her
outdoor things went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the
evening before.

Scarcely half an hour had elapsed ere she reappeared round the corner,
walking beside a lad wheeling a truck on which were piled all Jude’s
household possessions, and also the few of Arabella’s things which she
had taken to the lodging for her short sojourn there. Jude was in such
physical pain from his unfortunate break-down of the previous night,
and in such mental pain from the loss of Sue and from having yielded in
his half-somnolent state to Arabella, that when he saw his few chattels
unpacked and standing before his eyes in this strange bedroom,
intermixed with woman’s apparel, he scarcely considered how they had
come there, or what their coming signalized.

“Now,” said Arabella to her father downstairs, “we must keep plenty of
good liquor going in the house these next few days. I know his nature,
and if he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into
sometimes, he’ll never do the honourable thing by me in this world, and
I shall be left in the lurch. He must be kept cheerful. He has a little
money in the savings bank, and he has given me his purse to pay for
anything necessary. Well, that will be the licence; for I must have
that ready at hand, to catch him the moment he’s in the humour. You
must pay for the liquor. A few friends, and a quiet convivial party
would be the thing, if we could get it up. It would advertise the shop,
and help me too.”

“That can be got up easy enough by anybody who’ll afford victuals and
drink… Well yes—it would advertise the shop—that’s true.”

Three days later, when Jude had recovered somewhat from the fearful
throbbing of his eyes and brain, but was still considerably confused in
his mind by what had been supplied to him by Arabella during the
interval—to keep him, jolly, as she expressed it—the quiet convivial
gathering, suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking point,
took place.

Donn had only just opened his miserable little pork and sausage shop,
which had as yet scarce any customers; nevertheless that party
advertised it well, and the Donns acquired a real notoriety among a
certain class in Christminster who knew not the colleges, nor their
works, nor their ways. Jude was asked if he could suggest any guest in
addition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a saturnine
humour of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the
decayed auctioneer, and others whom he remembered as having been
frequenters of the well-known tavern during his bout therein years
before. He also suggested Freckles and Bower o’ Bliss. Arabella took
him at his word so far as the men went, but drew the line at the
ladies.

Another man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he lived in the same
street, was not invited; but as he went homeward from a late job on the
evening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for trotters.
There were none in, but he was promised some the next morning. While
making his inquiry Taylor glanced into the back room, and saw the
guests sitting round, card-playing, and drinking, and otherwise
enjoying themselves at Donn’s expense. He went home to bed, and on his
way out next morning wondered how the party went off. He thought it
hardly worth while to call at the shop for his provisions at that hour,
Donn and his daughter being probably not up, if they caroused late the
night before. However, he found in passing that the door was open, and
he could hear voices within, though the shutters of the meat-stall were
not down. He went and tapped at the sitting-room door, and opened it.

“Well—to be sure!” he said, astonished.

Hosts and guests were sitting card-playing, smoking, and talking,
precisely as he had left them eleven hours earlier; the gas was burning
and the curtains drawn, though it had been broad daylight for two hours
out of doors.

“Yes!” cried Arabella, laughing. “Here we are, just the same. We ought
to be ashamed of ourselves, oughtn’t we? But it is a sort of
housewarming, you see; and our friends are in no hurry. Come in, Mr.
Taylor, and sit down.”

The tinker, or rather reduced ironmonger, was nothing loath, and
entered and took a seat. “I shall lose a quarter, but never mind,” he
said. “Well, really, I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked in!
It seemed as if I was flung back again into last night, all of a
sudden.”

“So you are. Pour out for Mr. Taylor.”

He now perceived that she was sitting beside Jude, her arm being round
his waist. Jude, like the rest of the company, bore on his face the
signs of how deeply he had been indulging.

“Well, we’ve been waiting for certain legal hours to arrive, to tell
the truth,” she continued bashfully, and making her spirituous crimson
look as much like a maiden blush as possible. “Jude and I have decided
to make up matters between us by tying the knot again, as we find we
can’t do without one another after all. So, as a bright notion, we
agreed to sit on till it was late enough, and go and do it off-hand.”

Jude seemed to pay no great heed to what she was announcing, or indeed
to anything whatever. The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into
the company, and they remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her
father: “Now we may as well go.”

“But the parson don’t know?”

“Yes, I told him last night that we might come between eight and nine,
as there were reasons of decency for doing it as early and quiet as
possible; on account of it being our second marriage, which might make
people curious to look on if they knew. He highly approved.”

“Oh very well, I’m ready,” said her father, getting up and shaking
himself.

“Now, old darling,” she said to Jude. “Come along, as you promised.”

“When did I promise anything?” asked he, whom she had made so tipsy by
her special knowledge of that line of business as almost to have made
him sober again—or to seem so to those who did not know him.

“Why!” said Arabella, affecting dismay. “You’ve promised to marry me
several times as we’ve sat here to-night. These gentlemen have heard
you.”

“I don’t remember it,” said Jude doggedly. “There’s only one woman—but
I won’t mention her in this Capharnaum!”

Arabella looked towards her father. “Now, Mr. Fawley be honourable,”
said Donn. “You and my daughter have been living here together these
three or four days, quite on the understanding that you were going to
marry her. Of course I shouldn’t have had such goings on in my house if
I hadn’t understood that. As a point of honour you must do it now.”

“Don’t say anything against my honour!” enjoined Jude hotly, standing
up. “I’d marry the W–––– of Babylon rather than do anything
dishonourable! No reflection on you, my dear. It is a mere rhetorical
figure—what they call in the books, hyperbole.”

“Keep your figures for your debts to friends who shelter you,” said
Donn.

“If I am bound in honour to marry her—as I suppose I am—though how I
came to be here with her I know no more than a dead man—marry her I
will, so help me God! I have never behaved dishonourably to a woman or
to any living thing. I am not a man who wants to save himself at the
expense of the weaker among us!”

“There—never mind him, deary,” said she, putting her cheek against
Jude’s. “Come up and wash your face, and just put yourself tidy, and
off we’ll go. Make it up with Father.”

They shook hands. Jude went upstairs with her, and soon came down
looking tidy and calm. Arabella, too, had hastily arranged herself, and
accompanied by Donn away they went.

“Don’t go,” she said to the guests at parting. “I’ve told the little
maid to get the breakfast while we are gone; and when we come back
we’ll all have some. A good strong cup of tea will set everybody right
for going home.”

When Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared on their matrimonial
errand the assembled guests yawned themselves wider awake, and
discussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the
most sober, reasoned the most lucidly.

“I don’t wish to speak against friends,” he said. “But it do seem a
rare curiosity for a couple to marry over again! If they couldn’t get
on the first time when their minds were limp, they won’t the second, by
my reckoning.”

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

“He’s been put upon his honour by the woman, so he med.”

“He’d hardly do it straight off like this. He’s got no licence nor
anything.”

“She’s got that, bless you. Didn’t you hear her say so to her father?”

“Well,” said Tinker Taylor, relighting his pipe at the gas-jet. “Take
her all together, limb by limb, she’s not such a bad-looking
piece—particular by candlelight. To be sure, halfpence that have been
in circulation can’t be expected to look like new ones from the mint.
But for a woman that’s been knocking about the four hemispheres for
some time, she’s passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch
perhaps: but I like a woman that a puff o’ wind won’t blow down.”

Their eyes followed the movements of the little girl as she spread the
breakfast-cloth on the table they had been using, without wiping up the
slops of the liquor. The curtains were undrawn, and the expression of
the house made to look like morning. Some of the guests, however, fell
asleep in their chairs. One or two went to the door, and gazed along
the street more than once. Tinker Taylor was the chief of these, and
after a time he came in with a leer on his face.

“By Gad, they are coming! I think the deed’s done!”

“No,” said Uncle Joe, following him in. “Take my word, he turned rusty
at the last minute. They are walking in a very unusual way; and that’s
the meaning of it!”

They waited in silence till the wedding-party could be heard entering
the house. First into the room came Arabella boisterously; and her face
was enough to show that her strategy had succeeded.

“Mrs. Fawley, I presume?” said Tinker Taylor with mock courtesy.

“Certainly. Mrs. Fawley again,” replied Arabella blandly, pulling off
her glove and holding out her left hand. “There’s the padlock, see…
Well, he was a very nice, gentlemanly man indeed. I mean the clergyman.
He said to me as gentle as a babe when all was done: ‘Mrs. Fawley, I
congratulate you heartily,’ he says. ‘For having heard your history,
and that of your husband, I think you have both done the right and
proper thing. And for your past errors as a wife, and his as a husband,
I think you ought now to be forgiven by the world, as you have forgiven
each other,’ says he. Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man. ‘The
Church don’t recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking,’ he
says: ‘and bear in mind the words of the service in your goings out and
your comings in: What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’
Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man… But, Jude, my dear, you were
enough to make a cat laugh! You walked that straight, and held yourself
that steady, that one would have thought you were going ’prentice to a
judge; though I knew you were seeing double all the time, from the way
you fumbled with my finger.”

“I said I’d do anything to—save a woman’s honour,” muttered Jude. “And
I’ve done it!”

“Well now, old deary, come along and have some breakfast.”

“I want—some—more whisky,” said Jude stolidly.

“Nonsense, dear. Not now! There’s no more left. The tea will take the
muddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks.”

“All right. I’ve—married you. She said I ought to marry you again, and
I have straightway. It is true religion! Ha—ha—ha!”