Jude the Obscure

t this memorable date of his life he was, one Saturday, returning from
Alfredston to Marygreen about three o’clock in the afternoon. It was
fine, warm, and soft summer weather, and he walked with his tools at
his back, his little chisels clinking faintly against the larger ones
in his basket. It being the end of the week he had left work early, and
had come out of the town by a round-about route which he did not
usually frequent, having promised to call at a flour-mill near
Cresscombe to execute a commission for his aunt.

He was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living
comfortably in Christminster in the course of a year or two, and
knocking at the doors of one of those strongholds of learning of which
he had dreamed so much. He might, of course, have gone there now, in
some capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a
little more assurance as to means than he could be said to feel at
present. A warm self-content suffused him when he considered what he
had already done. Now and then as he went along he turned to face the
peeps of country on either side of him. But he hardly saw them; the act
was an automatic repetition of what he had been accustomed to do when
less occupied; and the one matter which really engaged him was the
mental estimate of his progress thus far.

“I have acquired quite an average student’s power to read the common
ancient classics, Latin in particular.” This was true, Jude possessing
a facility in that language which enabled him with great ease to
himself to beguile his lonely walks by imaginary conversations therein.

“I have read two books of the Iliad, besides being pretty familiar
with passages such as the speech of Phœnix in the ninth book, the fight
of Hector and Ajax in the fourteenth, the appearance of Achilles
unarmed and his heavenly armour in the eighteenth, and the funeral
games in the twenty-third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap
of Thucydides, and a lot of the Greek Testament… I wish there was only
one dialect all the same.

“I have done some mathematics, including the first six and the eleventh
and twelfth books of Euclid; and algebra as far as simple equations.

“I know something of the Fathers, and something of Roman and English
history.

“These things are only a beginning. But I shall not make much farther
advance here, from the difficulty of getting books. Hence I must next
concentrate all my energies on settling in Christminster. Once there I
shall so advance, with the assistance I shall there get, that my
present knowledge will appear to me but as childish ignorance. I must
save money, and I will; and one of those colleges shall open its doors
to me—shall welcome whom now it would spurn, if I wait twenty years for
the welcome.

“I’ll be D.D. before I have done!”

And then he continued to dream, and thought he might become even a
bishop by leading a pure, energetic, wise, Christian life. And what an
example he would set! If his income were £5000 a year, he would give
away £4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for him) on
the remainder. Well, on second thoughts, a bishop was absurd. He would
draw the line at an archdeacon. Perhaps a man could be as good and as
learned and as useful in the capacity of archdeacon as in that of
bishop. Yet he thought of the bishop again.

“Meanwhile I will read, as soon as I am settled in Christminster, the
books I have not been able to get hold of here: Livy, Tacitus,
Herodotus, Æschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes—”

“Ha, ha, ha! Hoity-toity!” The sounds were expressed in light voices on
the other side of the hedge, but he did not notice them. His thoughts
went on:

“—Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, Lucretius, Epictetus, Seneca, Antoninus.
Then I must master other things: the Fathers thoroughly; Bede and
ecclesiastical history generally; a smattering of Hebrew—I only know
the letters as yet—”

“Hoity-toity!”

“—but I can work hard. I have staying power in abundance, thank God!
and it is that which tells… Yes, Christminster shall be my Alma Mater;
and I’ll be her beloved son, in whom she shall be well pleased.”

In his deep concentration on these transactions of the future Jude’s
walk had slackened, and he was now standing quite still, looking at the
ground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic lantern. On
a sudden something smacked him sharply in the ear, and he became aware
that a soft cold substance had been flung at him, and had fallen at his
feet.

A glance told him what it was—a piece of flesh, the characteristic part
of a barrow-pig, which the countrymen used for greasing their boots, as
it was useless for any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful
hereabout, being bred and fattened in large numbers in certain parts of
North Wessex.

On the other side of the hedge was a stream, whence, as he now for the
first time realized, had come the slight sounds of voices and laughter
that had mingled with his dreams. He mounted the bank and looked over
the fence. On the further side of the stream stood a small homestead,
having a garden and pig-sties attached; in front of it, beside the
brook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and platters
beside them containing heaps of pigs’ chitterlings, which they were
washing in the running water. One or two pairs of eyes slyly glanced
up, and perceiving that his attention had at last been attracted, and
that he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspection by
putting their mouths demurely into shape and recommencing their rinsing
operations with assiduity.

“Thank you!” said Jude severely.

“I didn’t throw it, I tell you!” asserted one girl to her neighbour,
as if unconscious of the young man’s presence.

“Nor I,” the second answered.

“Oh, Anny, how can you!” said the third.

“If I had thrown anything at all, it shouldn’t have been that!”

“Pooh! I don’t care for him!” And they laughed and continued their
work, without looking up, still ostentatiously accusing each other.

Jude grew sarcastic as he wiped his face, and caught their remarks.

“You didn’t do it—oh no!” he said to the up-stream one of the three.

She whom he addressed was a fine dark-eyed girl, not exactly handsome,
but capable of passing as such at a little distance, despite some
coarseness of skin and fibre. She had a round and prominent bosom, full
lips, perfect teeth, and the rich complexion of a Cochin hen’s egg. She
was a complete and substantial female animal—no more, no less; and Jude
was almost certain that to her was attributable the enterprise of
attracting his attention from dreams of the humaner letters to what was
simmering in the minds around him.

“That you’ll never be told,” said she deedily.

“Whoever did it was wasteful of other people’s property.”

“Oh, that’s nothing.”

“But you want to speak to me, I suppose?”

“Oh yes; if you like to.”

“Shall I clamber across, or will you come to the plank above here?”

Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of
the brown girl rested in his own when he had said the words, and there
was a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb announcement of affinity
in posse between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was
concerned, had no sort of premeditation in it. She saw that he had
singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such
cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in
commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters,
unconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of
their lives is to be occupied with the feminine.

Springing to her feet, she said: “Bring back what is lying there.”

Jude was now aware that no message on any matter connected with her
father’s business had prompted her signal to him. He set down his
basket of tools, picked up the scrap of offal, beat a pathway for
himself with his stick, and got over the hedge. They walked in parallel
lines, one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge.
As the girl drew nearer to it, she gave without Jude perceiving it, an
adroit little suck to the interior of each of her cheeks in succession,
by which curious and original manœuvre she brought as by magic upon its
smooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she was able to
retain there as long as she continued to smile. This production of
dimples at will was a not unknown operation, which many attempted, but
only a few succeeded in accomplishing.

They met in the middle of the plank, and Jude, tossing back her
missile, seemed to expect her to explain why she had audaciously
stopped him by this novel artillery instead of by hailing him.

But she, slyly looking in another direction, swayed herself backwards
and forwards on her hand as it clutched the rail of the bridge; till,
moved by amatory curiosity, she turned her eyes critically upon him.

“You don’t think I would shy things at you?”

“Oh no.”

“We are doing this for my father, who naturally doesn’t want anything
thrown away. He makes that into dubbin.” She nodded towards the
fragment on the grass.

“What made either of the others throw it, I wonder?” Jude asked,
politely accepting her assertion, though he had very large doubts as to
its truth.

“Impudence. Don’t tell folk it was I, mind!”

“How can I? I don’t know your name.”

“Ah, no. Shall I tell it to you?”

“Do!”

“Arabella Donn. I’m living here.”

“I must have known it if I had often come this way. But I mostly go
straight along the high-road.”

“My father is a pig-breeder, and these girls are helping me wash the
innerds for black-puddings and such like.”

They talked a little more and a little more, as they stood regarding
each other and leaning against the hand-rail of the bridge. The
unvoiced call of woman to man, which was uttered very distinctly by
Arabella’s personality, held Jude to the spot against his
intention—almost against his will, and in a way new to his experience.
It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that till this moment Jude had
never looked at a woman to consider her as such, but had vaguely
regarded the sex as beings outside his life and purposes. He gazed from
her eyes to her mouth, thence to her bosom, and to her full round naked
arms, wet, mottled with the chill of the water, and firm as marble.

“What a nice-looking girl you are!” he murmured, though the words had
not been necessary to express his sense of her magnetism.

“Ah, you should see me Sundays!” she said piquantly.

“I don’t suppose I could?” he answered

“That’s for you to think on. There’s nobody after me just now, though
there med be in a week or two.” She had spoken this without a smile,
and the dimples disappeared.

Jude felt himself drifting strangely, but could not help it. “Will you
let me?”

“I don’t mind.”

By this time she had managed to get back one dimple by turning her face
aside for a moment and repeating the odd little sucking operation
before mentioned, Jude being still unconscious of more than a general
impression of her appearance. “Next Sunday?” he hazarded. “To-morrow,
that is?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I call?”

“Yes.”

She brightened with a little glow of triumph, swept him almost tenderly
with her eyes in turning, and retracing her steps down the brookside
grass rejoined her companions.

Jude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and resumed his lonely way,
filled with an ardour at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just
inhaled a single breath from a new atmosphere, which had evidently been
hanging round him everywhere he went, for he knew not how long, but had
somehow been divided from his actual breathing as by a sheet of glass.
The intentions as to reading, working, and learning, which he had so
precisely formulated only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a
curious collapse into a corner, he knew not how.

“Well, it’s only a bit of fun,” he said to himself, faintly conscious
that to common sense there was something lacking, and still more
obviously something redundant in the nature of this girl who had drawn
him to her which made it necessary that he should assert mere
sportiveness on his part as his reason in seeking her—something in her
quite antipathetic to that side of him which had been occupied with
literary study and the magnificent Christminster dream. It had been no
vestal who chose that missile for opening her attack on him. He saw
this with his intellectual eye, just for a short fleeting while, as by
the light of a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on
a wall before being enshrouded in darkness. And then this passing
discriminative power was withdrawn, and Jude was lost to all conditions
of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having
found a new channel for emotional interest hitherto unsuspected, though
it had lain close beside him. He was to meet this enkindling one of the
other sex on the following Sunday.

Meanwhile the girl had joined her companions, and she silently resumed
her flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the pellucid stream.

“Catched un, my dear?” laconically asked the girl called Anny.

“I don’t know. I wish I had thrown something else than that!”
regretfully murmured Arabella.

“Lord! he’s nobody, though you med think so. He used to drive old
Drusilla Fawley’s bread-cart out at Marygreen, till he ’prenticed
himself at Alfredston. Since then he’s been very stuck up, and always
reading. He wants to be a scholar, they say.”

“Oh, I don’t care what he is, or anything about ’n. Don’t you think it,
my child!”

“Oh, don’t ye! You needn’t try to deceive us! What did you stay talking
to him for, if you didn’t want un? Whether you do or whether you don’t,
he’s as simple as a child. I could see it as you courted on the bridge,
when he looked at ’ee as if he had never seen a woman before in his
born days. Well, he’s to be had by any woman who can get him to care
for her a bit, if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way.”