VII
THE stroke of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning
he laughed at his self-conceit. But the laugh was not a healthy one.
He re-read the letter from the master, and the wisdom in its lines,
which had at first exasperated him, chilled and depressed him now.
He saw himself as a fool indeed.
Deprived of the objects of both intellect and emotion, he could not proceed
to his work. Whenever he felt reconciled to his fate as a student,
there came to disturb his calm his hopeless relations with Sue.
That the one affined soul he had ever met was lost to him through his
marriage returned upon him with cruel persistency, till, unable to bear
it longer, he again rushed for distraction to the real Christminster life.
He now sought it out in an obscure and low-ceiled tavern up a court
which was well known to certain worthies of the place, and in brighter
times would have interested him simply by its quaintness. Here he sat more
or less all the day, convinced that he was at bottom a vicious character,
of whom it was hopeless to expect anything.
In the evening the frequenters of the house dropped in one by one,
Jude still retaining his seat in the corner, though his money was all spent,
and he had not eaten anything the whole day except a biscuit. He surveyed
his gathering companions with all the equanimity and philosophy of a man
who has been drinking long and slowly, and made friends with several:
to wit, Tinker Taylor, a decayed church-ironmonger who appeared to have been
of a religious turn in earlier years, but was somewhat blasphemous now;
also a red-nosed auctioneer; also two Gothic masons like himself,
called Uncle Jim and Uncle Joe. There were present, too, some clerks,
and a gown- and surplice-maker's assistant; two ladies who sported moral
characters of various depths of shade, according to their company,
nicknamed "Bower o' Bliss" and "Freckles"; some horsey men "in the know"
of betting circles; a travelling actor from the theatre, and two
devil-may-care young men who proved to be gownless undergraduates;
they had slipped in by stealth to meet a man about bull-pups, and stayed
to drink and smoke short pipes with the racing gents aforesaid, looking at
their watches every now and then.
The conversation waxed general. Christminster society was criticized,
the dons, magistrates, and other people in authority being sincerely
pitied for their shortcomings, while opinions on how they ought to conduct
themselves and their affairs to be properly respected, were exchanged
in a large-minded and disinterested manner.
Jude Fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery, and APLOMB
of a strong-brained fellow in liquor, threw in his remarks
somewhat peremptorily; and his aims having been what they
were for so many years, everything the others said turned upon
his tongue, by a sort of mechanical craze, to the subject
of scholarship and study, the extent of his own learning
being dwelt upon with an insistence that would have appeared
pitiable to himself in his sane hours.
"I don't care a damn," he was saying, "for any provost, warden,
principal, fellow, or cursed master of arts in the university!
What I know is that I'd lick 'em on their own ground if they'd
give me a chance, and show 'em a few things they are not up to yet!"
"Hear, hear!" said the undergraduates from the corner, where they
were talking privately about the pups
"You always was fond o' books, I've heard," said Tinker Taylor,
"and I don't doubt what you state. Now with me 'twas different.
I always saw there was more to be learnt outside a book than in;
and I took my steps accordingly, or I shouldn't have been the man
I am."
"You aim at the Church, I believe?" said Uncle Joe.
"If you are such a scholar as to pitch yer hopes so high
as that, why not give us a specimen of your scholarship?
Canst say the Creed in Latin, man? That was how they once put it
to a chap down in my country."
"I should think so!" said Jude haughtily.
"Not he! Like his conceit!" screamed one of the ladies.
"Just you shut up, Bower o' Bliss!" said one of the undergraduates.
"Silence!" He drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rapped with it
on the counter, and announced, "The gentleman in the corner is
going to rehearse the Articles of his Belief, in the Latin tongue,
for the edification of the company."
"I won't!" said Jude.
"Yes--have a try!" said the surplice-maker.
"You can't!" said Uncle Joe.
"Yes, he can!" said Tinker Taylor.
"I'll swear I can!" said Jude. "Well, come now, stand me a small Scotch cold,
and I'll do it straight off."
"That's a fair offer," said the undergraduate, throwing down the money
for the whisky.
The barmaid concocted the mixture with the bearing of a person
compelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species,
and the glass was handed across to Jude, who, having drunk
the contents, stood up and began rhetorically, without hesitation:
"CREDO IN UNUM DEUM, PATREM OMNIPOTENTEM, FACTOREM COELI ET TERRAE,
VISIBILIUM OMNIUM ET INVISIBILIUM."
"Good! Excellent Latin!" cried one of the undergraduates,
who, however, had not the slightest conception of a single word.
A silence reigned among the rest in the bar, and the maid stood still,
Jude's voice echoing sonorously into the inner parlour, where the
landlord was dozing, and bringing him out to see what was going on.
Jude had declaimed steadily ahead, and was continuing:
"CRUCIFIXUS ETIAM PRO NOBIS: SUB PONTIO PILATO PASSUS, ET SEPULTUS EST.
ET RESURREXIT TERTIA DIE, SECUNDUM SCRIPTURAS."
"That's the Nicene," sneered the second undergraduate.
"And we wanted the Apostles'!"
"You didn't say so! And every fool knows, except you, that the Nicene
is the most historic creed!"
"Let un go on, let un go on!" said the auctioneer.
But Jude's mind seemed to grow confused soon, and he could not get on.
He put his hand to his forehead, and his face assumed an expression
of pain.
"Give him another glass--then he'll fetch up and get through it,"
said Tinker Taylor.
Somebody threw down threepence, the glass was handed, Jude stretched
out his arm for it without looking, and having swallowed the liquor,
went on in a moment in a revived voice, raising it as he neared the end
with the manner of a priest leading a congregation:
"ET IN SPIRITUM SANCTUM, DOMINUM ET VIVIFICANTEM, QUI EX PATRE
FILIOQUE PROCEDIT. QUI CUM PATRE ET FILIO SIMUL ADORATUR
ET CONGLORIFICATUR. QUI LOCUTUS EST PER PROPHETAS.
"ET UNAM CATHOLICAM ET APOSTOLICAM ECCLESIAM. CONFITEOR UNUM BAPTISMA
IN REMISSIONEM PECCATORUM. ET EXSPECTO RESURRECTIONEM MORTUORUM.
ET VITAM VENTURI SAECULI. AMEN."
"Well done!" said several, enjoying the last word, as being
the first and only one they had recognized.
Then Jude seemed to shake the fumes from his brain, as he stared
round upon them.
"You pack of fools!" he cried. "Which one of you knows whether I
have said it or no? It might have been the Ratcatcher's Daughter
in double Dutch for all that your besotted heads can tell!
See what I have brought myself to--the crew I have come among!"
The landlord, who had already had his license endorsed for harbouring
queer characters, feared a riot, and came outside the counter; but Jude,
in his sudden flash of reason, had turned in disgust and left the scene,
the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.
He hastened down the lane and round into the straight
broad street, which he followed till it merged in the highway,
and all sound of his late companions had been left behind.
Onward he still went, under the influence of a childlike yearning
for the one being in the world to whom it seemed possible to fly--
an unreasoning desire, whose ill judgement was not apparent
to him now. In the course of an hour, when it was between
ten and eleven o'clock, he entered the village of Lumsdon,
and reaching the cottage, saw that a light was burning in a
downstairs room, which he assumed, rightly as it happened,
to be hers.
Jude stepped close to the wall, and tapped with his finger on the pane,
saying impatiently, "Sue, Sue!"
She must have recognized his voice, for the light disappeared from
the apartment, and in a second or two the door was unlocked and opened,
and Sue appeared with a candle in her hand.
"Is it Jude? Yes, it is! My dear, dear cousin, what's the matter?"
"Oh, I am--I couldn't help coming, Sue!" said he, sinking down upon
the doorstep. "I am so wicked, Sue--my heart is nearly broken, and I could
not bear my life as it was! So I have been drinking, and blaspheming,
or next door to it, and saying holy things in disreputable quarters--
repeating in idle bravado words which ought never to be uttered
but reverently! Oh, do anything with me, Sue--kill me--I don't care!
Only don't hate me and despise me like all the rest of the world!"
"You are ill, poor dear! No, I won't despise you; of course I
won't! Come in and rest, and let me see what I can do for you.
Now lean on me, and don't mind." With one hand holding
the candle and the other supporting him, she led him indoors,
and placed him in the only easy chair the meagrely furnished
house afforded, stretching his feet upon another, and pulling
off his boots. Jude, now getting towards his sober senses,
could only say, "Dear, dear Sue!" in a voice broken by grief
and contrition.
She asked him if he wanted anything to eat, but he shook his head.
Then telling him to go to sleep, and that she would come down early
in the morning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night
and ascended the stairs.
Almost immediately he fell into a heavy slumber, and did not wake till dawn.
At first he did not know where he was, but by degrees his situation
cleared to him, and he beheld it in all the ghastliness of a right mind.
She knew the worst of him--the very worst. How could he face her now?
She would soon be coming down to see about breakfast, as she had said,
and there would he be in all his shame confronting her. He could not
bear the thought, and softly drawing on his boots, and taking his hat
from the nail on which she had hung it, he slipped noiselessly out of
the house.
His fixed idea was to get away to some obscure spot and hide,
and perhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him
was Marygreen. He called at his lodging in Christminster,
where he found awaiting him a note of dismissal from his employer;
and having packed up he turned his back upon the city that had
been such a thorn in his side, and struck southward into Wessex.
He had no money left in his pocket, his small savings,
deposited at one of the banks in Christminster, having fortunately
been left untouched. To get to Marygreen, therefore, his only
course was walking; and the distance being nearly twenty miles,
he had ample time to complete on the way the sobering process begun
in him.
At some hour of the evening he reached Alfredston. Here he pawned
his waistcoat, and having gone out of the town a mile or two,
slept under a rick that night. At dawn he rose, shook off
the hayseeds and stems from his clothes, and started again,
breasting the long white road up the hill to the downs,
which had been visible to him a long way off, and passing
the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved his hopes
years ago.
He reached the ancient hamlet while the people were at breakfast.
Weary and mud-bespattered, but quite possessed of his ordinary
clearness of brain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did
so what a poor Christ he made. Seeing a trough of water near
he bathed his face, and went on to the cottage of his great-aunt,
whom he found breakfasting in bed, attended by the woman who lived
with her.
"What--out o' work?" asked his relative, regarding him through
eyes sunken deep, under lids heavy as pot-covers, no other cause
for his tumbled appearance suggesting itself to one whose whole
life had been a struggle with material things.
"Yes," said Jude heavily. "I think I must have a little rest."
Refreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his old room and lay
down in his shirt-sleeves, after the manner of the artizan.
He fell asleep for a short while, and when he awoke it
was as if he had awakened in hell. It WAS hell--"the hell
of conscious failure," both in ambition and in love.
He thought of that previous abyss into which he had fallen
before leaving this part of the country; the deepest deep
he had supposed it then; but it was not so deep as this.
That had been the breaking in of the outer bulwarks of his hope:
this was of his second line.
If he had been a woman he must have screamed under the nervous
tension which he was now undergoing. But that relief being
denied to his virility, he clenched his teeth in misery,
bringing lines about his mouth like those in the Laocoon,
and corrugations between his brows.
A mournful wind blew through the trees, and sounded in the chimney
like the pedal notes of an organ. Each ivy leaf overgrowing
the wall of the churchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned,
pecked its neighbour smartly, and the vane on the new Victorian-Gothic
church in the new spot had already begun to creak. Yet apparently
it was not always the outdoor wind that made the deep murmurs;
it was a voice. He guessed its origin in a moment or two;
the curate was praying with his aunt in the adjoining room.
He remembered her speaking of him. Presently the sounds ceased,
and a step seemed to cross the landing. Jude sat up,
and shouted "Hoi!"
The step made for his door, which was open, and a man looked in.
It was a young clergyman.
"I think you are Mr. Highridge," said Jude. "My aunt has
mentioned you more than once. Well, here I am, just come home;
a fellow gone to the bad; though I had the best intentions
in the world at one time. Now I am melancholy mad, what with
drinking and one thing and another."
Slowly Jude unfolded to the curate his late plans and movements,
by an unconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual
and ambitious side of his dream, and more upon the theological,
though this had, up till now, been merely a portion of the general
plan of advancement.
"Now I know I have been a fool, and that folly is with me,"
added Jude in conclusion. "And I don't regret the collapse of my
university hopes one jot. I wouldn't begin again if I were sure
to succeed. I don't care for social success any more at all.
But I do feel I should like to do some good thing; and I bitterly
regret the Church, and the loss of my chance of being her
ordained minister."
The curate, who was a new man to this neighbourhood,
had grown deeply interested, and at last he said: "If you
feel a real call to the ministry, and I won't say from your
conversation that you do not, for it is that of a thoughtful
and educated man, you might enter the Church as a licentiate.
Only you must make up your mind to avoid strong drink."
"I could avoid that easily enough, if I had any kind of hope to support me!"
