Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy (bearly read books txt) 📗

“Is your friendship broken off?”

“O yes. He died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had taken his degree and left Christminster.”

“You saw a good deal of him, I suppose?”

“Yes. We used to go about together⁠—on walking tours, reading tours, and things of that sort⁠—like two men almost. He asked me to live with him, and I agreed to by letter. But when I joined him in London I found he meant a different thing from what I meant. He wanted me to be his mistress, in fact, but I wasn’t in love with him⁠—and on my saying I should go away if he didn’t agree to my plan, he did so. We shared a sitting-room for fifteen months; and he became a leader-writer for one of the great London dailies; till he was taken ill, and had to go abroad. He said I was breaking his heart by holding out against him so long at such close quarters; he could never have believed it of woman. I might play that game once too often, he said. He came home merely to die. His death caused a terrible remorse in me for my cruelty⁠—though I hope he died of consumption and not of me entirely. I went down to Sandbourne to his funeral, and was his only mourner. He left me a little money⁠—because I broke his heart, I suppose. That’s how men are⁠—so much better than women!”

“Good heavens!⁠—what did you do then?”

“Ah⁠—now you are angry with me!” she said, a contralto note of tragedy coming suddenly into her silvery voice. “I wouldn’t have told you if I had known!”

“No, I am not. Tell me all.”

“Well, I invested his money, poor fellow, in a bubble scheme, and lost it. I lived about London by myself for some time, and then I returned to Christminster, as my father⁠—who was also in London, and had started as an art metalworker near Long-Acre⁠—wouldn’t have me back; and I got that occupation in the artist-shop where you found me.⁠ ⁠… I said you didn’t know how bad I was!”

Jude looked round upon the armchair and its occupant, as if to read more carefully the creature he had given shelter to. His voice trembled as he said: “However you have lived, Sue, I believe you are as innocent as you are unconventional!”

“I am not particularly innocent, as you see, now that I have

‘twitched the robe
From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped,’ ”

said she, with an ostensible sneer, though he could hear that she was brimming with tears. “But I have never yielded myself to any lover, if that’s what you mean! I have remained as I began.”

“I quite believe you. But some women would not have remained as they began.”

“Perhaps not. Better women would not. People say I must be cold-natured⁠—sexless⁠—on account of it. But I won’t have it! Some of the most passionately erotic poets have been the most self-contained in their daily lives.”

“Have you told Mr. Phillotson about this University-scholar-friend?”

“Yes⁠—long ago. I have never made any secret of it to anybody.”

“What did he say?”

“He did not pass any criticism⁠—only said I was everything to him, whatever I did; and things like that.”

Jude felt much depressed; she seemed to get further and further away from him with her strange ways and curious unconsciousness of gender.

“Aren’t you really vexed with me, dear Jude?” she suddenly asked, in a voice of such extraordinary tenderness that it hardly seemed to come from the same woman who had just told her story so lightly. “I would rather offend anybody in the world than you, I think!”

“I don’t know whether I am vexed or not. I know I care very much about you!”

“I care as much for you as for anybody I ever met.”

“You don’t care more! There, I ought not to say that. Don’t answer it!”

There was another long silence. He felt that she was treating him cruelly, though he could not quite say in what way. Her very helplessness seemed to make her so much stronger than he.

“I am awfully ignorant on general matters, although I have worked so hard,” he said, to turn the subject. “I am absorbed in Theology, you know. And what do you think I should be doing just about now, if you weren’t here? I should be saying my evening prayers. I suppose you wouldn’t like⁠—”

“O no, no,” she answered, “I would rather not, if you don’t mind. I should seem so⁠—such a hypocrite.”

“I thought you wouldn’t join, so I didn’t propose it. You must remember that I hope to be a useful minister some day.”

“To be ordained, I think you said?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t given up the idea?⁠—I thought that perhaps you had by this time.”

“Of course not. I fondly thought at first that you felt as I do about that, as you were so mixed up in Christminster Anglicanism. And Mr. Phillotson⁠—”

“I have no respect for Christminster whatever, except, in a qualified degree, on its intellectual side,” said Sue Bridehead earnestly. “My friend I spoke of took that out of me. He was the most irreligious man I ever knew, and the most moral. And intellect at Christminster is new wine in old bottles. The medievalism of Christminster must go, be sloughed off, or Christminster itself will have to go. To be sure, at times one couldn’t help having a sneaking liking for the traditions of the old faith, as preserved by a section of the thinkers there in touching and simple sincerity; but when I was in my saddest, rightest mind I always felt,

‘O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods!’ ”⁠ ⁠…

“Sue, you are not a good friend of mine to talk like that!”

“Then I won’t, dear Jude!” The emotional throat-note had come back, and she turned her face away.

“I still think Christminster has much that is glorious; though I was resentful because I couldn’t get there.” He spoke gently, and resisted his impulse to pique her on to