Jude the Obscure
to you!” she brokenly murmured. “Dislike to you! But I can’t say any
more—it breaks my heart—it will be undoing all I have begun!
Jude—good-night!”
“Good-night,” he said, and turned to go.
“Oh but you shall kiss me!” said she, starting up. “I can’t—bear—!”
He clasped her, and kissed her weeping face as he had scarcely ever
done before, and they remained in silence till she said, “Good-bye,
good-bye!” And then gently pressing him away she got free, trying to
mitigate the sadness by saying: “We’ll be dear friends just the same,
Jude, won’t we? And we’ll see each other sometimes—yes!—and forget all
this, and try to be as we were long ago?”
Jude did not permit himself to speak, but turned and descended the
stairs.
IV
The man whom Sue, in her mental _volte-face_, was now regarding as her
inseparable husband, lived still at Marygreen.
On the day before the tragedy of the children, Phillotson had seen both
her and Jude as they stood in the rain at Christminster watching the
procession to the theatre. But he had said nothing of it at the moment
to his companion Gillingham, who, being an old friend, was staying with
him at the village aforesaid, and had, indeed, suggested the day’s trip
to Christminster.
“What are you thinking of?” said Gillingham, as they went home. “The
university degree you never obtained?”
“No, no,” said Phillotson gruffly. “Of somebody I saw to-day.” In a
moment he added, “Susanna.”
“I saw her, too.”
“You said nothing.”
“I didn’t wish to draw your attention to her. But, as you did see her,
you should have said: ‘How d’ye do, my dear-that-was?’”
“Ah, well. I might have. But what do you think of this: I have good
reason for supposing that she was innocent when I divorced her—that I
was all wrong. Yes, indeed! Awkward, isn’t it?”
“She has taken care to set you right since, anyhow, apparently.”
“H’m. That’s a cheap sneer. I ought to have waited, unquestionably.”
At the end of the week, when Gillingham had gone back to his school
near Shaston, Phillotson, as was his custom, went to Alfredston market;
ruminating again on Arabella’s intelligence as he walked down the long
hill which he had known before Jude knew it, though his history had not
beaten so intensely upon its incline. Arrived in the town he bought his
usual weekly local paper; and when he had sat down in an inn to refresh
himself for the five miles’ walk back, he pulled the paper from his
pocket and read awhile. The account of the “strange suicide of a
stone-mason’s children” met his eye.
Unimpassioned as he was, it impressed him painfully, and puzzled him
not a little, for he could not understand the age of the elder child
being what it was stated to be. However, there was no doubt that the
newspaper report was in some way true.
“Their cup of sorrow is now full!” he said: and thought and thought of
Sue, and what she had gained by leaving him.
Arabella having made her home at Alfredston, and the schoolmaster
coming to market there every Saturday, it was not wonderful that in a
few weeks they met again—the precise time being just after her return
from Christminster, where she had stayed much longer than she had at
first intended, keeping an interested eye on Jude, though Jude had seen
no more of her. Phillotson was on his way homeward when he encountered
Arabella, and she was approaching the town.
“You like walking out this way, Mrs. Cartlett?” he said.
“I’ve just begun to again,” she replied. “It is where I lived as maid
and wife, and all the past things of my life that are interesting to my
feelings are mixed up with this road. And they have been stirred up in
me too, lately; for I’ve been visiting at Christminster. Yes; I’ve seen
Jude.”
“Ah! How do they bear their terrible affliction?”
“In a ve-ry strange way—ve-ry strange! She don’t live with him any
longer. I only heard of it as a certainty just before I left; though I
had thought things were drifting that way from their manner when I
called on them.”
“Not live with her husband? Why, I should have thought ’twould have
united them more.”
“He’s not her husband, after all. She has never really married him
although they have passed as man and wife so long. And now, instead of
this sad event making ’em hurry up, and get the thing done legally,
she’s took in a queer religious way, just as I was in my affliction at
losing Cartlett, only hers is of a more ’sterical sort than mine. And
she says, so I was told, that she’s your wife in the eye of Heaven and
the Church—yours only; and can’t be anybody else’s by any act of man.”
“Ah—indeed? … Separated, have they!”
“You see, the eldest boy was mine—”
“Oh—yours!”
“Yes, poor little fellow—born in lawful wedlock, thank God. And perhaps
she feels, over and above other things, that I ought to have been in
her place. I can’t say. However, as for me, I am soon off from here.
I’ve got Father to look after now, and we can’t live in such a hum-drum
place as this. I hope soon to be in a bar again at Christminster, or
some other big town.”
They parted. When Phillotson had ascended the hill a few steps he
stopped, hastened back, and called her.
“What is, or was, their address?”
Arabella gave it.
“Thank you. Good afternoon.”
Arabella smiled grimly as she resumed her way, and practised
dimple-making all along the road from where the pollard willows begin
to the old almshouses in the first street of the town.
Meanwhile Phillotson ascended to Marygreen, and for the first time
during a lengthened period he lived with a forward eye. On crossing
under the large trees of the green to the humble schoolhouse to which
he had been reduced he stood a moment, and pictured Sue coming out of
the door to meet him. No man had ever suffered more inconvenience from
his own charity, Christian or heathen, than Phillotson had done in
letting Sue go. He had been knocked about from pillar to post at the
hands of the virtuous almost beyond endurance; he had been nearly
starved, and was now dependent entirely upon the very small stipend
from the school of this village (where the parson had got ill-spoken of
for befriending him). He had often thought of Arabella’s remarks that
he should have been more severe with Sue, that her recalcitrant spirit
would soon have been broken. Yet such was his obstinate and illogical
disregard of opinion, and of the principles in which he had been
trained, that his convictions on the rightness of his course with his
wife had not been disturbed.
Principles which could be subverted by feeling in one direction were
liable to the same catastrophe in another. The instincts which had
allowed him to give Sue her liberty now enabled him to regard her as
none the worse for her life with Jude. He wished for her still, in his
curious way, if he did not love her, and, apart from policy, soon felt
that he would be gratified to have her again as his, always provided
that she came willingly.
But artifice was necessary, he had found, for stemming the cold and
inhumane blast of the world’s contempt. And here were the materials
ready made. By getting Sue back and remarrying her on the respectable
plea of having entertained erroneous views of her, and gained his
divorce wrongfully, he might acquire some comfort, resume his old
courses, perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to the
Church as a licentiate.
He thought he would write to Gillingham to inquire his views, and what
he thought of his, Phillotson’s, sending a letter to her. Gillingham
replied, naturally, that now she was gone it were best to let her be,
and considered that if she were anybody’s wife she was the wife of the
man to whom she had borne three children and owed such tragical
adventures. Probably, as his attachment to her seemed unusually strong,
the singular pair would make their union legal in course of time, and
all would be well, and decent, and in order.
“But they won’t—Sue won’t!” exclaimed Phillotson to himself.
“Gillingham is so matter of fact. She’s affected by Christminster
sentiment and teaching. I can see her views on the indissolubility of
marriage well enough, and I know where she got them. They are not mine;
but I shall make use of them to further mine.”
He wrote a brief reply to Gillingham. “I know I am entirely wrong, but
I don’t agree with you. As to her having lived with and had three
children by him, my feeling is (though I can advance no logical or
moral defence of it, on the old lines) that it has done little more
than finish her education. I shall write to her, and learn whether what
that woman said is true or no.”
As he had made up his mind to do this before he had written to his
friend, there had not been much reason for writing to the latter at
all. However, it was Phillotson’s way to act thus.
He accordingly addressed a carefully considered epistle to Sue, and,
knowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthine strictness
into the lines here and there, carefully hiding his heterodox feelings,
not to frighten her. He stated that, it having come to his knowledge
that her views had considerably changed, he felt compelled to say that
his own, too, were largely modified by events subsequent to their
parting. He would not conceal from her that passionate love had little
to do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their lives,
if not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they
threatened to become, through his acting on what he had considered at
the time a principle of justice, charity, and reason.
To indulge one’s instinctive and uncontrolled sense of justice and
right, was not, he had found, permitted with impunity in an old
civilization like ours. It was necessary to act under an acquired and
cultivated sense of the same, if you wished to enjoy an average share
of comfort and honour; and to let crude loving kindness take care of
itself.
He suggested that she should come to him there at Marygreen.
On second thoughts he took out the last paragraph but one; and having
rewritten the letter he dispatched it immediately, and in some
excitement awaited the issue.
A few days after a figure moved through the white fog which enveloped
the Beersheba suburb of Christminster, towards the quarter in which
Jude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue. A
timid knock sounded upon the door of his abode.
It was evening—so he was at home; and by a species of divination he
jumped up and rushed to the door himself.
“Will you come out with me? I would rather not come in. I want to—to
talk with you—and to go with you to the cemetery.”
It had been in the trembling accents of Sue that these words came. Jude
put on his hat. “It is dreary for you to be out,” he said. “But if you
prefer not to come in, I don’t mind.”
“Yes—I do. I shall not keep you long.”
Jude was too much affected to go on talking at first; she, too, was now
such a mere cluster of nerves that all initiatory power seemed to have
left her, and they proceeded through the fog like Acherontic shades for
a long while, without sound or gesture.
“I want to tell you,” she presently said, her voice now quick, now
slow, “so that you may not hear of it by chance. I am going back to
Richard. He has—so magnanimously—agreed to forgive all.”
“Going back? How can you go—”
“He is going to marry me again. That is for form’s sake, and to satisfy
the world, which does not see things as they are. But of course I _am_
his wife already. Nothing has changed that.”
He turned upon her with an anguish that was well-nigh fierce.
“But you are _my_ wife! Yes, you are. You know it. I have always
regretted that feint of ours in going away and pretending to come back
legally married, to save appearances. I loved you, and you loved me;