Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy (snow like ashes .txt) 📕

of Jude, and all the accidents, mistakes, fears, errors of the last. He was their nodal point, their focus, their expression in a single term. For the rashness of those parents he had groaned, for their ill-assortment he had quaked, and for the misfortunes of these he had died.

When the house was silent, and they could do nothing but await the coroner’s inquest, a subdued, large, low voice spread into the air of the room from behind the heavy walls at the back.

“What is it?” said Sue, her spasmodic breathing suspended.

“The organ of the College chapel. The organist practising I suppose. It’s the anthem from the seventy-third Psalm; ‘Truly God is loving unto Israel.’ ”

She sobbed again. “O, O my babies! They had done no harm! Why should they have been taken away, and not I!”

There was another stillness⁠—broken at last by two persons in conversation somewhere without.

“They are talking about us, no doubt!” moaned Sue. “ ‘We are made a spectacle unto the world, and to angels, and to men!’ ”

Jude listened⁠—“No⁠—they are not talking of us,” he said. “They are two clergymen of different views, arguing about the eastward position. Good God⁠—the eastward position, and all creation groaning!”

Then another silence, till she was seized with another uncontrollable fit of grief. “There is something external to us which says, ‘You shan’t!’ First it said, ‘You shan’t learn!’ Then it said, ‘You shan’t labour!’ Now it says, ‘You shan’t love!’ ”

He tried to soothe her by saying, “That’s bitter of you, darling.”

“But it’s true!”

Thus they waited, and she went back again to her room. The baby’s frock, shoes, and socks, which had been lying on a chair at the time of his death, she would not now have removed, though Jude would fain have got them out of her sight. But whenever he touched them she implored him to let them lie, and burst out almost savagely at the woman of the house when she also attempted to put them away.

Jude dreaded her dull apathetic silences almost more than her paroxysms. “Why don’t you speak to me, Jude?” she cried out, after one of these. “Don’t turn away from me! I can’t bear the loneliness of being out of your looks!”

“There, dear; here I am,” he said, putting his face close to hers.

“Yes.⁠ ⁠… O my comrade, our perfect union⁠—our two-in-oneness⁠—is now stained with blood!”

“Shadowed by death⁠—that’s all.”

“Ah; but it was I who incited him really, though I didn’t know I was doing it! I talked to the child as one should only talk to people of mature age. I said the world was against us, that it was better to be out of life than in it at this price; and he took it literally. And I told him I was going to have another child. It upset him. O how bitterly he upbraided me!”

“Why did you do it, Sue?”

“I can’t tell. It was that I wanted to be truthful. I couldn’t bear deceiving him as to the facts of life. And yet I wasn’t truthful, for with a false delicacy I told him too obscurely.⁠—Why was I half wiser than my fellow-women? and not entirely wiser! Why didn’t I tell him pleasant untruths, instead of half realities? It was my want of self-control, so that I could neither conceal things nor reveal them!”

“Your plan might have been a good one for the majority of cases; only in our peculiar case it chanced to work badly perhaps. He must have known sooner or later.”

“And I was just making my baby darling a new frock; and now I shall never see him in it, and never talk to him any more!⁠ ⁠… My eyes are so swollen that I can scarcely see; and yet little more than a year ago I called myself happy! We went about loving each other too much⁠—indulging ourselves to utter selfishness with each other! We said⁠—do you remember?⁠—that we would make a virtue of joy. I said it was Nature’s intention, Nature’s law and raison d’être that we should be joyful in what instincts she afforded us⁠—instincts which civilization had taken upon itself to thwart. What dreadful things I said! And now Fate has given us this stab in the back for being such fools as to take Nature at her word!”

She sank into a quiet contemplation, till she said, “It is best, perhaps, that they should be gone.⁠—Yes⁠—I see it is! Better that they should be plucked fresh than stay to wither away miserably!”

“Yes,” replied Jude. “Some say that the elders should rejoice when their children die in infancy.”

“But they don’t know!⁠ ⁠… O my babies, my babies, could you be alive now! You may say the boy wished to be out of life, or he wouldn’t have done it. It was not unreasonable for him to die: it was part of his incurably sad nature, poor little fellow! But then the others⁠—my own children and yours!”

Again Sue looked at the hanging little frock, and at the socks and shoes; and her figure quivered like a string. “I am a pitiable creature,” she said, “good neither for earth nor heaven any more! I am driven out of my mind by things! What ought to be done?” She stared at Jude, and tightly held his hand.

“Nothing can be done,” he replied. “Things are as they are, and will be brought to their destined issue.”

She paused. “Yes! Who said that?” she asked heavily.

“It comes in the chorus of the Agamemnon. It has been in my mind continually since this happened.”

“My poor Jude⁠—how you’ve missed everything!⁠—you more than I, for I did get you! To think you should know that by your unassisted reading, and yet be in poverty and despair!”

After such momentary diversions her grief would return in a wave.

The jury duly came and viewed the bodies, the inquest was held; and next arrived the melancholy morning of the funeral. Accounts in the newspapers had brought to the spot curious idlers, who stood apparently counting the windowpanes and the stones of the