Jude the Obscure

Chapter 2

Passing out into the streets on this errand he found that the

colleges had treacherously changed their sympathetic countenances:

some were pompous; some had put on the look of family vaults above

ground; something barbaric loomed in the masonries of all. The

spirits of the great men had disappeared.

The numberless architectural pages around him he read, naturally,

less as an artist-critic of their forms than as an artizan and

comrade of the dead handicraftsmen whose muscles had actually

executed those forms. He examined the mouldings, stroked them as

one who knew their beginning, said they were difficult or easy in

the working, had taken little or much time, were trying to the arm,

or convenient to the tool.

What at night had been perfect and ideal was by day the more or

less defective real. Cruelties, insults, had, he perceived, been

inflicted on the aged erections. The condition of several moved him

as he would have been moved by maimed sentient beings. They were

wounded, broken, sloughing off their outer shape in the deadly

struggle against years, weather, and man.

The rottenness of these historical documents reminded him that he was

not, after all, hastening on to begin the morning practically as he

had intended. He had come to work, and to live by work, and the

morning had nearly gone. It was, in one sense, encouraging to think

that in a place of crumbling stones there must be plenty for one of

his trade to do in the business of renovation. He asked his way to

the workyard of the stone-mason whose name had been given him at

Alfredston; and soon heard the familiar sound of the rubbers and

chisels.

The yard was a little centre of regeneration. Here, with keen edges

and smooth curves, were forms in the exact likeness of those he had

seen abraded and time-eaten on the walls. These were the ideas in

modern prose which the lichened colleges presented in old poetry.

Even some of those antiques might have been called prose when they

were new. They had done nothing but wait, and had become poetical.

How easy to the smallest building; how impossible to most men.

He asked for the foreman, and looked round among the new traceries,

mullions, transoms, shafts, pinnacles, and battlements standing on

the bankers half worked, or waiting to be removed. They were marked

by precision, mathematical straightness, smoothness, exactitude:

there in the old walls were the broken lines of the original idea;

jagged curves, disdain of precision, irregularity, disarray.

For a moment there fell on Jude a true illumination; that here in the

stone yard was a centre of effort as worthy as that dignified by the

name of scholarly study within the noblest of the colleges. But he

lost it under stress of his old idea. He would accept any employment

which might be offered him on the strength of his late employer's

recommendation; but he would accept it as a provisional thing only.

This was his form of the modern vice of unrest.

Moreover he perceived that at best only copying, patching and

imitating went on here; which he fancied to be owing to some

temporary and local cause. He did not at that time see that

medi valism was as dead as a fern-leaf in a lump of coal; that other

developments were shaping in the world around him, in which Gothic

architecture and its associations had no place. The deadly animosity

of contemporary logic and vision towards so much of what he held in

reverence was not yet revealed to him.

Having failed to obtain work here as yet he went away, and thought

again of his cousin, whose presence somewhere at hand he seemed to

feel in wavelets of interest, if not of emotion. How he wished he

had that pretty portrait of her! At last he wrote to his aunt to

send it. She did so, with a request, however, that he was not to

bring disturbance into the family by going to see the girl or her

relations. Jude, a ridiculously affectionate fellow, promised

nothing, put the photograph on the mantel-piece, kissed it--he did

not know why--and felt more at home. She seemed to look down and

preside over his tea. It was cheering--the one thing uniting him to

the emotions of the living city.

There remained the schoolmaster--probably now a reverend parson.

But he could not possibly hunt up such a respectable man just yet;

so raw and unpolished was his condition, so precarious were his

fortunes. Thus he still remained in loneliness. Although people

moved round him he virtually saw none. Not as yet having mingled

with the active life of the place it was largely non-existent to him.

But the saints and prophets in the window-tracery, the paintings

in the galleries, the statues, the busts, the gargoyles, the

corbel-heads--these seemed to breathe his atmosphere. Like all

newcomers to a spot on which the past is deeply graven he heard that

past announcing itself with an emphasis altogether unsuspected by,

and even incredible to, the habitual residents.

For many days he haunted the cloisters and quadrangles of the

colleges at odd minutes in passing them, surprised by impish

echoes of his own footsteps, smart as the blows of a mallet. The

Christminster "sentiment," as it had been called, ate further and

further into him; till he probably knew more about those buildings

materially, artistically, and historically, than any one of their

inmates.

It was not till now, when he found himself actually on the spot of

his enthusiasm, that Jude perceived how far away from the object of

that enthusiasm he really was. Only a wall divided him from those

happy young contemporaries of his with whom he shared a common mental

life; men who had nothing to do from morning till night but to read,

mark, learn, and inwardly digest. Only a wall--but what a wall!

Every day, every hour, as he went in search of labour, he saw them

going and coming also, rubbed shoulders with them, heard their

voices, marked their movements. The conversation of some of the

more thoughtful among them seemed oftentimes, owing to his long and

persistent preparation for this place, to be peculiarly akin to his

own thoughts. Yet he was as far from them as if he had been at the

antipodes. Of course he was. He was a young workman in a white

blouse, and with stone-dust in the creases of his clothes; and in

passing him they did not even see him, or hear him, rather saw

through him as through a pane of glass at their familiars beyond.

Whatever they were to him, he to them was not on the spot at all; and

yet he had fancied he would be close to their lives by coming there.

But the future lay ahead after all; and if he could only be so

fortunate as to get into good employment he would put up with the

inevitable. So he thanked God for his health and strength, and took

courage. For the present he was outside the gates of everything,

colleges included: perhaps some day he would be inside. Those

palaces of light and leading; he might some day look down on the

world through their panes.

At length he did receive a message from the stone-mason's yard--that

a job was waiting for him. It was his first encouragement, and he

closed with the offer promptly.

He was young and strong, or he never could have executed with such

zest the undertakings to which he now applied himself, since they

involved reading most of the night after working all the day. First

he bought a shaded lamp for four and six-pence, and obtained a good

light. Then he got pens, paper, and such other necessary books as he

had been unable to obtain elsewhere. Then, to the consternation of

his landlady, he shifted all the furniture of his room--a single one

for living and sleeping--rigged up a curtain on a rope across the

middle, to make a double chamber out of one, hung up a thick blind

that nobody should know how he was curtailing the hours of sleep,

laid out his books, and sat down.

Having been deeply encumbered by marrying, getting a cottage, and

buying the furniture which had disappeared in the wake of his wife,

he had never been able to save any money since the time of those

disastrous ventures, and till his wages began to come in he was

obliged to live in the narrowest way. After buying a book or two

he could not even afford himself a fire; and when the nights reeked

with the raw and cold air from the Meadows he sat over his lamp in

a great-coat, hat, and woollen gloves.

From his window he could perceive the spire of the cathedral, and the

ogee dome under which resounded the great bell of the city. The tall

tower, tall belfry windows, and tall pinnacles of the college by the

bridge he could also get a glimpse of by going to the staircase.

These objects he used as stimulants when his faith in the future was

dim.

Like enthusiasts in general he made no inquiries into details of

procedure. Picking up general notions from casual acquaintance, he

never dwelt upon them. For the present, he said to himself, the one

thing necessary was to get ready by accumulating money and knowledge,

and await whatever chances were afforded to such an one of becoming

a son of the University. "For wisdom is a defence, and money is a

defence; but the excellency of knowledge is, that wisdom giveth life

to them that have it." His desire absorbed him, and left no part of

him to weigh its practicability.

At this time he received a nervously anxious letter from his poor old

aunt, on the subject which had previously distressed her--a fear that

Jude would not be strong-minded enough to keep away from his cousin

Sue Bridehead and her relations. Sue's father, his aunt believed,

had gone back to London, but the girl remained at Christminster. To

make her still more objectionable she was an artist or designer of

some sort in what was called an ecclesiastical warehouse, which was

a perfect seed-bed of idolatry, and she was no doubt abandoned to

mummeries on that account--if not quite a Papist. (Miss Drusilla

Fawley was of her date, Evangelical.)

As Jude was rather on an intellectual track than a theological, this

news of Sue's probable opinions did not much influence him one way or

the other, but the clue to her whereabouts was decidedly interesting.

With an altogether singular pleasure he walked at his earliest spare

minutes past the shops answering to his great-aunt's description; and

beheld in one of them a young girl sitting behind a desk, who was

suspiciously like the original of the portrait. He ventured to enter

on a trivial errand, and having made his purchase lingered on the

scene. The shop seemed to be kept entirely by women. It contained

Anglican books, stationery, texts, and fancy goods: little plaster

angels on brackets, Gothic-framed pictures of saints, ebony crosses

that were almost crucifixes, prayer-books that were almost missals.

He felt very shy of looking at the girl in the desk; she was so

pretty that he could not believe it possible that she should belong

to him. Then she spoke to one of the two older women behind the

counter; and he recognized in the accents certain qualities of his

own voice; softened and sweetened, but his own. What was she doing?

He stole a glance round. Before her lay a piece of zinc, cut to

the shape of a scroll three or four feet long, and coated with a

dead-surface paint on one side. Hereon she was designing or

illuminating, in characters of Church text, the single word

A L L E L U J A

"A sweet, saintly, Christian business, hers!" thought he.

Her presence here was now fairly enough explained, her skill in

work of this sort having no doubt been acquired from her father's

occupation as an ecclesiastical worker in metal. The lettering on

which she was engaged was clearly intended to be fixed up in some

chancel to assist devotion.

He came out. It would have been easy to speak to her there and then,

but it seemed scarcely honourable towards his aunt to disregard her

request so incontinently. She had used him roughly, but she had

brought him up: and the fact of her being powerless to control him

lent a pathetic force to a wish that would have been inoperative as

an argument.

So Jude gave no sign. He would not call upon Sue just yet. He had

other reasons against doing so when he had walked away. She seemed

so dainty beside himself in his rough working-jacket and dusty

trousers that he felt he was as yet unready to encounter her, as he

had felt about Mr. Phillotson. And how possible it was that she had

inherited the antipathies of her family, and would scorn him, as

far as a Christian could, particularly when he had told her that

unpleasant part of his history which had resulted in his becoming

enchained to one of her own s*x whom she would certainly not admire.

Thus he kept watch over her, and liked to feel she was there.

The consciousness of her living presence stimulated him. But she

remained more or less an ideal character, about whose form he began

to weave curious and fantastic day-dreams.

Between two and three weeks afterwards Jude was engaged with some

more men, outside Crozier College in Old-time Street, in getting a

block of worked freestone from a waggon across the pavement, before

hoisting it to the parapet which they were repairing. Standing in

position the head man said, "Spaik when he heave! He-ho!" And they

heaved.

All of a sudden, as he lifted, his cousin stood close to his elbow,

pausing a moment on the bend of her foot till the obstructing object

should have been removed. She looked right into his face with

liquid, untranslatable eyes, that combined, or seemed to him to

combine, keenness with tenderness, and mystery with both, their

expression, as well as that of her lips, taking its life from some

words just spoken to a companion, and being carried on into his face

quite unconsciously. She no more observed his presence than that of

the dust-motes which his manipulations raised into the sunbeams.

His closeness to her was so suggestive that he trembled, and turned

his face away with a shy instinct to prevent her recognizing him,

though as she had never once seen him she could not possibly do so;

and might very well never have heard even his name. He could

perceive that though she was a country-girl at bottom, a latter

girlhood of some years in London, and a womanhood here, had taken

all rawness out of her.

When she was gone he continued his work, reflecting on her. He had

been so caught by her influence that he had taken no count of her

general mould and build. He remembered now that she was not a large

figure, that she was light and slight, of the type dubbed elegant.

That was about all he had seen. There was nothing statuesque in her;

all was nervous motion. She was mobile, living, yet a painter might

not have called her handsome or beautiful. But the much that she was

surprised him. She was quite a long way removed from the rusticity

that was his. How could one of his cross-grained, unfortunate,

almost accursed stock, have contrived to reach this pitch of

niceness? London had done it, he supposed.

From this moment the emotion which had been accumulating in his

breast as the bottled-up effect of solitude and the poetized

locality he dwelt in, insensibly began to precipitate itself on this

half-visionary form; and he perceived that, whatever his obedient

wish in a contrary direction, he would soon be unable to resist the

desire to make himself known to her.

He affected to think of her quite in a family way, since there were

crushing reasons why he should not and could not think of her in any

other.

The first reason was that he was married, and it would be wrong.

The second was that they were cousins. It was not well for cousins

to fall in love even when circumstances seemed to favour the passion.

The third: even were he free, in a family like his own where marriage

usually meant a tragic sadness, marriage with a blood-relation would

duplicate the adverse conditions, and a tragic sadness might be

intensified to a tragic horror.

Therefore, again, he would have to think of Sue with only a

relation's mutual interest in one belonging to him; regard her in

a practical way as some one to be proud of; to talk and nod to;

later on, to be invited to tea by, the emotion spent on her being

rigorously that of a kinsman and well-wisher. So would she be to him

a kindly star, an elevating power, a companion in Anglican worship,

a tender friend.