Jude the Obscure
tease you.—Ever,
SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.
Jude screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied:
MY DEAR SUE,—Of course I wish you joy! And also of course I will give
you away. What I suggest is that, as you have no house of your own, you
do not marry from your school friend’s, but from mine. It would be more
proper, I think, since I am, as you say, the person nearest related to
you in this part of the world.
I don’t see why you sign your letter in such a new and terribly
formal way? Surely you care a bit about me still!—Ever your
affectionate,
JUDE.
What had jarred on him even more than the signature was a little sting
he had been silent on—the phrase “married relation”—What an idiot it
made him seem as her lover! If Sue had written that in satire, he could
hardly forgive her; if in suffering—ah, that was another thing!
His offer of his lodging must have commended itself to Phillotson at
any rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of warm thanks,
accepting the convenience. Sue also thanked him. Jude immediately moved
into more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage of the
suspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue’s unpleasant
experience as for the sake of room.
Then Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for the wedding; and Jude
decided, after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the
following Saturday, which would allow of a ten days’ stay in the city
prior to the ceremony, sufficiently representing a nominal residence of
fifteen.
She arrived by the ten o’clock train on the day aforesaid, Jude not
going to meet her at the station, by her special request, that he
should not lose a morning’s work and pay, she said (if this were her
true reason). But so well by this time did he know Sue that the
remembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emotional crises might, he
thought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to dinner she
had taken possession of her apartment.
She lived in the same house with him, but on a different floor, and
they saw each other little, an occasional supper being the only meal
they took together, when Sue’s manner was something like that of a
scared child. What she felt he did not know; their conversation was
mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill. Phillotson came
frequently, but mostly when Jude was absent. On the morning of the
wedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday, Sue and her cousin had
breakfast together for the first and last time during this curious
interval; in his room—the parlour—which he had hired for the period of
Sue’s residence. Seeing, as women do, how helpless he was in making the
place comfortable, she bustled about.
“What’s the matter, Jude?” she said suddenly.
He was leaning with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands,
looking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched out on the
tablecloth.
“Oh—nothing!”
“You are ‘father’, you know. That’s what they call the man who gives
you away.”
Jude could have said “Phillotson’s age entitles him to be called that!”
But he would not annoy her by such a cheap retort.
She talked incessantly, as if she dreaded his indulgence in reflection,
and before the meal was over both he and she wished they had not put
such confidence in their new view of things, and had taken breakfast
apart. What oppressed Jude was the thought that, having done a wrong
thing of this sort himself, he was aiding and abetting the woman he
loved in doing a like wrong thing, instead of imploring and warning her
against it. It was on his tongue to say, “You have quite made up your
mind?”
After breakfast they went out on an errand together moved by a mutual
thought that it was the last opportunity they would have of indulging
in unceremonious companionship. By the irony of fate, and the curious
trick in Sue’s nature of tempting Providence at critical times, she
took his arm as they walked through the muddy street—a thing she had
never done before in her life—and on turning the corner they found
themselves close to a grey perpendicular church with a low-pitched
roof—the church of St. Thomas.
“That’s the church,” said Jude.
“Where I am going to be married?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed!” she exclaimed with curiosity. “How I should like to go in and
see what the spot is like where I am so soon to kneel and do it.”
Again he said to himself, “She does not realize what marriage means!”
He passively acquiesced in her wish to go in, and they entered by the
western door. The only person inside the gloomy building was a
charwoman cleaning. Sue still held Jude’s arm, almost as if she loved
him. Cruelly sweet, indeed, she had been to him that morning; but his
thoughts of a penance in store for her were tempered by an ache:
… I can find no way
How a blow should fall, such as falls on men,
Nor prove too much for your womanhood!
They strolled undemonstratively up the nave towards the altar railing,
which they stood against in silence, turning then and walking down the
nave again, her hand still on his arm, precisely like a couple just
married. The too suggestive incident, entirely of her making, nearly
broke down Jude.
“I like to do things like this,” she said in the delicate voice of an
epicure in emotions, which left no doubt that she spoke the truth.
“I know you do!” said Jude.
“They are interesting, because they have probably never been done
before. I shall walk down the church like this with my husband in about
two hours, shan’t I!”
“No doubt you will!”
“Was it like this when you were married?”
“Good God, Sue—don’t be so awfully merciless! … There, dear one, I
didn’t mean it!”
“Ah—you are vexed!” she said regretfully, as she blinked away an access
of eye moisture. “And I promised never to vex you! … I suppose I ought
not to have asked you to bring me in here. Oh, I oughtn’t! I see it
now. My curiosity to hunt up a new sensation always leads me into these
scrapes. Forgive me! … You will, won’t you, Jude?”
The appeal was so remorseful that Jude’s eyes were even wetter than
hers as he pressed her hand for Yes.
“Now we’ll hurry away, and I won’t do it any more!” she continued
humbly; and they came out of the building, Sue intending to go on to
the station to meet Phillotson. But the first person they encountered
on entering the main street was the schoolmaster himself, whose train
had arrived sooner than Sue expected. There was nothing really to demur
to in her leaning on Jude’s arm; but she withdrew her hand, and Jude
thought that Phillotson had looked surprised.
“We have been doing such a funny thing!” said she, smiling candidly.
“We’ve been to the church, rehearsing as it were. Haven’t we, Jude?”
“How?” said Phillotson curiously.
Jude inwardly deplored what he thought to be unnecessary frankness; but
she had gone too far not to explain all, which she accordingly did,
telling him how they had marched up to the altar.
Seeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude said as cheerfully as he
could, “I am going to buy her another little present. Will you both
come to the shop with me?”
“No,” said Sue, “I’ll go on to the house with him”; and requesting her
lover not to be a long time she departed with the schoolmaster.
Jude soon joined them at his rooms, and shortly after they prepared for
the ceremony. Phillotson’s hair was brushed to a painful extent, and
his shirt collar appeared stiffer than it had been for the previous
twenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and thoughtful, and
altogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict that he would
make a kind and considerate husband. That he adored Sue was obvious;
and she could almost be seen to feel that she was undeserving his
adoration.
Although the distance was so short he had hired a fly from the Red
Lion, and six or seven women and children had gathered by the door when
they came out. The schoolmaster and Sue were unknown, though Jude was
getting to be recognized as a citizen; and the couple were judged to be
some relations of his from a distance, nobody supposing Sue to have
been a recent pupil at the training school.
In the carriage Jude took from his pocket his extra little
wedding-present, which turned out to be two or three yards of white
tulle, which he threw over her bonnet and all, as a veil.
“It looks so odd over a bonnet,” she said. “I’ll take the bonnet off.”
“Oh no—let it stay,” said Phillotson. And she obeyed.
When they had passed up the church and were standing in their places
Jude found that the antecedent visit had certainly taken off the edge
of this performance, but by the time they were half-way on with the
service he wished from his heart that he had not undertaken the
business of giving her away. How could Sue have had the temerity to ask
him to do it—a cruelty possibly to herself as well as to him? Women
were different from men in such matters. Was it that they were, instead
of more sensitive, as reputed, more callous, and less romantic; or were
they more heroic? Or was Sue simply so perverse that she wilfully gave
herself and him pain for the odd and mournful luxury of practising
long-suffering in her own person, and of being touched with tender pity
for him at having made him practise it? He could perceive that her face
was nervously set, and when they reached the trying ordeal of Jude
giving her to Phillotson she could hardly command herself; rather,
however, as it seemed, from her knowledge of what her cousin must feel,
whom she need not have had there at all, than from self-consideration.
Possibly she would go on inflicting such pains again and again, and
grieving for the sufferer again and again, in all her colossal
inconsistency.
Phillotson seemed not to notice, to be surrounded by a mist which
prevented his seeing the emotions of others. As soon as they had signed
their names and come away, and the suspense was over, Jude felt
relieved.
The meal at his lodging was a very simple affair, and at two o’clock
they went off. In crossing the pavement to the fly she looked back; and
there was a frightened light in her eyes. Could it be that Sue had
acted with such unusual foolishness as to plunge into she knew not what
for the sake of asserting her independence of him, of retaliating on
him for his secrecy? Perhaps Sue was thus venturesome with men because
she was childishly ignorant of that side of their natures which wore
out women’s hearts and lives.
When her foot was on the carriage-step she turned round, saying that
she had forgotten something. Jude and the landlady offered to get it.
“No,” she said, running back. “It is my handkerchief. I know where I
left it.”
Jude followed her back. She had found it, and came holding it in her
hand. She looked into his eyes with her own tearful ones, and her lips
suddenly parted as if she were going to avow something. But she went
on; and whatever she had meant to say remained unspoken.
VIII
Jude wondered if she had really left her handkerchief behind; or
whether it were that she had miserably wished to tell him of a love
that at the last moment she could not bring herself to express.
He could not stay in his silent lodging when they were gone, and
fearing that he might be tempted to drown his misery in alcohol he went
upstairs, changed his dark clothes for his white, his thin boots for
his thick, and proceeded to his customary work for the afternoon.
But in the cathedral he seemed to hear a voice behind him, and to be
possessed with an idea that she would come back. She could not possibly
go home with Phillotson, he fancied. The feeling grew and stirred. The
moment that the clock struck the last of his working hours he threw
down his tools and rushed homeward. “Has anybody been for me?” he
asked.