Jude the Obscure

he next day Jude Fawley was pausing in his bedroom with the sloping
ceiling, looking at the books on the table, and then at the black mark
on the plaster above them, made by the smoke of his lamp in past
months.

It was Sunday afternoon, four-and-twenty hours after his meeting with
Arabella Donn. During the whole bygone week he had been resolving to
set this afternoon apart for a special purpose,—the re-reading of his
Greek Testament—his new one, with better type than his old copy,
following Griesbach’s text as amended by numerous correctors, and with
variorum readings in the margin. He was proud of the book, having
obtained it by boldly writing to its London publisher, a thing he had
never done before.

He had anticipated much pleasure in this afternoon’s reading, under the
quiet roof of his great-aunt’s house as formerly, where he now slept
only two nights a week. But a new thing, a great hitch, had happened
yesterday in the gliding and noiseless current of his life, and he felt
as a snake must feel who has sloughed off its winter skin, and cannot
understand the brightness and sensitiveness of its new one.

He would not go out to meet her, after all. He sat down, opened the
book, and with his elbows firmly planted on the table, and his hands to
his temples, began at the beginning:

Η ΚΑΙΝΗ ΔΙΑΘΗΚΗ.

Had he promised to call for her? Surely he had! She would wait indoors,
poor girl, and waste all her afternoon on account of him. There was a
something in her, too, which was very winning, apart from promises. He
ought not to break faith with her. Even though he had only Sundays and
week-day evenings for reading he could afford one afternoon, seeing
that other young men afforded so many. After to-day he would never
probably see her again. Indeed, it would be impossible, considering
what his plans were.

In short, as if materially, a compelling arm of extraordinary muscular
power seized hold of him—something which had nothing in common with the
spirits and influences that had moved him hitherto. This seemed to care
little for his reason and his will, nothing for his so-called elevated
intentions, and moved him along, as a violent schoolmaster a schoolboy
he has seized by the collar, in a direction which tended towards the
embrace of a woman for whom he had no respect, and whose life had
nothing in common with his own except locality.

Η ΚΑΙΝΗ ΔΙΑΘΗΚΗ was no more heeded, and the predestinate Jude sprang up
and across the room. Foreseeing such an event he had already arrayed
himself in his best clothes. In three minutes he was out of the house
and descending by the path across the wide vacant hollow of corn-ground
which lay between the village and the isolated house of Arabella in the
dip beyond the upland.

As he walked he looked at his watch. He could be back in two hours,
easily, and a good long time would still remain to him for reading
after tea.

Passing the few unhealthy fir-trees and cottage where the path joined
the highway he hastened along, and struck away to the left, descending
the steep side of the country to the west of the Brown House. Here at
the base of the chalk formation he neared the brook that oozed from it,
and followed the stream till he reached her dwelling. A smell of
piggeries came from the back, and the grunting of the originators of
that smell. He entered the garden, and knocked at the door with the
knob of his stick.

Somebody had seen him through the window, for a male voice on the
inside said:

“Arabella! Here’s your young man come coorting! Mizzle, my girl!”

Jude winced at the words. Courting in such a businesslike aspect as it
evidently wore to the speaker was the last thing he was thinking of. He
was going to walk with her, perhaps kiss her; but “courting” was too
coolly purposeful to be anything but repugnant to his ideas. The door
was opened and he entered, just as Arabella came downstairs in radiant
walking attire.

“Take a chair, Mr. What’s-your-name?” said her father, an energetic,
black-whiskered man, in the same businesslike tones Jude had heard from
outside.

“I’d rather go out at once, wouldn’t you?” she whispered to Jude.

“Yes,” said he. “We’ll walk up to the Brown House and back, we can do
it in half an hour.”

Arabella looked so handsome amid her untidy surroundings that he felt
glad he had come, and all the misgivings vanished that had hitherto
haunted him.

First they clambered to the top of the great down, during which ascent
he had occasionally to take her hand to assist her. Then they bore off
to the left along the crest into the ridgeway, which they followed till
it intersected the high-road at the Brown House aforesaid, the spot of
his former fervid desires to behold Christminster. But he forgot them
now. He talked the commonest local twaddle to Arabella with greater
zest than he would have felt in discussing all the philosophies with
all the Dons in the recently adored university, and passed the spot
where he had knelt to Diana and Phœbus without remembering that there
were any such people in the mythology, or that the sun was anything
else than a useful lamp for illuminating Arabella’s face. An
indescribable lightness of heel served to lift him along; and Jude, the
incipient scholar, prospective D.D., professor, bishop, or what not,
felt himself honoured and glorified by the condescension of this
handsome country wench in agreeing to take a walk with him in her
Sunday frock and ribbons.

They reached the Brown House barn—the point at which he had planned to
turn back. While looking over the vast northern landscape from this
spot they were struck by the rising of a dense volume of smoke from the
neighbourhood of the little town which lay beneath them at a distance
of a couple of miles.

“It is a fire,” said Arabella. “Let’s run and see it—do! It is not
far!”

The tenderness which had grown up in Jude’s bosom left him no will to
thwart her inclination now—which pleased him in affording him excuse
for a longer time with her. They started off down the hill almost at a
trot; but on gaining level ground at the bottom, and walking a mile,
they found that the spot of the fire was much further off than it had
seemed.

Having begun their journey, however, they pushed on; but it was not
till five o’clock that they found themselves on the scene,—the distance
being altogether about half-a-dozen miles from Marygreen, and three
from Arabella’s. The conflagration had been got under by the time they
reached it, and after a short inspection of the melancholy ruins they
retraced their steps—their course lying through the town of Alfredston.

Arabella said she would like some tea, and they entered an inn of an
inferior class, and gave their order. As it was not for beer they had a
long time to wait. The maid-servant recognized Jude, and whispered her
surprise to her mistress in the background, that he, the student “who
kept hisself up so particular,” should have suddenly descended so low
as to keep company with Arabella. The latter guessed what was being
said, and laughed as she met the serious and tender gaze of her
lover—the low and triumphant laugh of a careless woman who sees she is
winning her game.

They sat and looked round the room, and at the picture of Samson and
Delilah which hung on the wall, and at the circular beer-stains on the
table, and at the spittoons underfoot filled with sawdust. The whole
aspect of the scene had that depressing effect on Jude which few places
can produce like a tap-room on a Sunday evening when the setting sun is
slanting in, and no liquor is going, and the unfortunate wayfarer finds
himself with no other haven of rest.

It began to grow dusk. They could not wait longer, really, for the tea,
they said. “Yet what else can we do?” asked Jude. “It is a three-mile
walk for you.”

“I suppose we can have some beer,” said Arabella.

“Beer, oh yes. I had forgotten that. Somehow it seems odd to come to a
public-house for beer on a Sunday evening.”

“But we didn’t.”

“No, we didn’t.” Jude by this time wished he was out of such an
uncongenial atmosphere; but he ordered the beer, which was promptly
brought.

Arabella tasted it. “Ugh!” she said.

Jude tasted. “What’s the matter with it?” he asked. “I don’t understand
beer very much now, it is true. I like it well enough, but it is bad to
read on, and I find coffee better. But this seems all right.”

“Adulterated—I can’t touch it!” She mentioned three or four ingredients
that she detected in the liquor beyond malt and hops, much to Jude’s
surprise.

“How much you know!” he said good-humouredly.

Nevertheless she returned to the beer and drank her share, and they
went on their way. It was now nearly dark, and as soon as they had
withdrawn from the lights of the town they walked closer together, till
they touched each other. She wondered why he did not put his arm round
her waist, but he did not; he merely said what to himself seemed a
quite bold enough thing: “Take my arm.”

She took it, thoroughly, up to the shoulder. He felt the warmth of her
body against his, and putting his stick under his other arm held with
his right hand her right as it rested in its place.

“Now we are well together, dear, aren’t we?” he observed.

“Yes,” said she; adding to herself: “Rather mild!”

“How fast I have become!” he was thinking.

Thus they walked till they reached the foot of the upland, where they
could see the white highway ascending before them in the gloom. From
this point the only way of getting to Arabella’s was by going up the
incline, and dipping again into her valley on the right. Before they
had climbed far they were nearly run into by two men who had been
walking on the grass unseen.

“These lovers—you find ’em out o’ doors in all seasons and
weathers—lovers and homeless dogs only,” said one of the men as they
vanished down the hill.

Arabella tittered lightly.

“Are we lovers?” asked Jude.

“You know best.”

“But you can tell me?”

For answer she inclined her head upon his shoulder. Jude took the hint,
and encircling her waist with his arm, pulled her to him and kissed
her.

They walked now no longer arm in arm but, as she had desired, clasped
together. After all, what did it matter since it was dark, said Jude to
himself. When they were half-way up the long hill they paused as by
arrangement, and he kissed her again. They reached the top, and he
kissed her once more.

“You can keep your arm there, if you would like to,” she said gently.

He did so, thinking how trusting she was.

Thus they slowly went towards her home. He had left his cottage at
half-past three, intending to be sitting down again to the New
Testament by half-past five. It was nine o’clock when, with another
embrace, he stood to deliver her up at her father’s door.

She asked him to come in, if only for a minute, as it would seem so odd
otherwise, and as if she had been out alone in the dark. He gave way,
and followed her in. Immediately that the door was opened he found, in
addition to her parents, several neighbours sitting round. They all
spoke in a congratulatory manner, and took him seriously as Arabella’s
intended partner.

They did not belong to his set or circle, and he felt out of place and
embarrassed. He had not meant this: a mere afternoon of pleasant
walking with Arabella, that was all he had meant. He did not stay
longer than to speak to her stepmother, a simple, quiet woman without
features or character; and bidding them all good night plunged with a
sense of relief into the track over the down.

But that sense was only temporary: Arabella soon re-asserted her sway
in his soul. He walked as if he felt himself to be another man from the
Jude of yesterday. What were his books to him? what were his
intentions, hitherto adhered to so strictly, as to not wasting a single
minute of time day by day? “Wasting!” It depended on your point of view
to define that: he was just living for the first time: not wasting
life. It was better to love a woman than to be a graduate, or a parson;
ay, or a pope!

When he got back to the house his aunt had gone to bed, and a general
consciousness of his neglect seemed written on the face of all things
confronting him. He went upstairs without a light, and the dim interior
of his room accosted him with sad inquiry. There lay his book open,
just as he had left it, and the capital letters on the title-page
regarded him with fixed reproach in the grey starlight, like the
unclosed eyes of a dead man:

Η ΚΑΙΝΗ ΔΙΑΘΗΚΗ.

* * * * * * * * *

Jude had to leave early next morning for his usual week of absence at
lodgings; and it was with a sense of futility that he threw into his
basket upon his tools and other necessaries the unread book he had
brought with him.

He kept his impassioned doings a secret almost from himself. Arabella,
on the contrary, made them public among all her friends and
acquaintances.

Retracing by the light of dawn the road he had followed a few hours
earlier under cover of darkness, with his sweetheart by his side, he
reached the bottom of the hill, where he walked slowly, and stood
still. He was on the spot where he had given her the first kiss. As the
sun had only just risen it was possible that nobody had passed there
since. Jude looked on the ground and sighed. He looked closely, and
could just discern in the damp dust the imprints of their feet as they
had stood locked in each other’s arms. She was not there now, and “the
embroidery of imagination upon the stuff of nature” so depicted her
past presence that a void was in his heart which nothing could fill. A
pollard willow stood close to the place, and that willow was different
from all other willows in the world. Utter annihilation of the six days
which must elapse before he could see her again as he had promised
would have been his intensest wish if he had had only the week to live.

An hour and a half later Arabella came along the same way with her two
companions of the Saturday. She passed unheedingly the scene of the
kiss, and the willow that marked it, though chattering freely on the
subject to the other two.

“And what did he tell ’ee next?”

“Then he said—” And she related almost word for word some of his
tenderest speeches. If Jude had been behind the fence he would have
felt not a little surprised at learning how very few of his sayings and
doings on the previous evening were private.

“You’ve got him to care for ’ee a bit, ’nation if you han’t!” murmured
Anny judicially. “It’s well to be you!”

In a few moments Arabella replied in a curiously low, hungry tone of
latent sensuousness: “I’ve got him to care for me: yes! But I want him
to more than care for me; I want him to have me—to marry me! I must
have him. I can’t do without him. He’s the sort of man I long for. I
shall go mad if I can’t give myself to him altogether! I felt I should
when I first saw him!”

“As he is a romancing, straightfor’ard, honest chap, he’s to be had,
and as a husband, if you set about catching him in the right way.”

Arabella remained thinking awhile. “What med be the right way?” she
asked.

“Oh you don’t know—you don’t!” said Sarah, the third girl.

“On my word I don’t!—No further, that is, than by plain courting, and
taking care he don’t go too far!”

The third girl looked at the second. “She don’t know!”

“’Tis clear she don’t!” said Anny.

“And having lived in a town, too, as one may say! Well, we can teach
’ee som’at then, as well as you us.”

“Yes. And how do you mean—a sure way to gain a man? Take me for an
innocent, and have done wi’ it!”

“As a husband.”

“As a husband.”

“A countryman that’s honourable and serious-minded such as he; God
forbid that I should say a sojer, or sailor, or commercial gent from
the towns, or any of them that be slippery with poor women! I’d do no
friend that harm!”

“Well, such as he, of course!”

Arabella’s companions looked at each other, and turning up their eyes
in drollery began smirking. Then one went up close to Arabella, and,
although nobody was near, imparted some information in a low tone, the
other observing curiously the effect upon Arabella.

“Ah!” said the last-named slowly. “I own I didn’t think of that way! …
But suppose he isn’t honourable? A woman had better not have tried
it!”

“Nothing venture nothing have! Besides, you make sure that he’s
honourable before you begin. You’d be safe enough with yours. I wish I
had the chance! Lots of girls do it; or do you think they’d get married
at all?”

Arabella pursued her way in silent thought. “I’ll try it!” she
whispered; but not to them.