Jude the Obscure (Oxford World's Classics)

At Melchester
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III.–iv.
J
’s reverie was interrupted by the creak of footsteps ascending
the stairs.
He whisked Sue’s clothing from the chair where it was drying,
thrust it under the bed, and sat down to his book. Somebody
knocked and opened the door immediately. It was the landlady.
‘O I didn’t know whether you was in or not, Mr. Fawley. I wanted
to know if you would require supper. I see you’ve a young
gentleman——’
‘Yes, ma’am. But I think I won’t come down tonight. Will you
bring supper up on a tray, and I’ll have a cup of tea as well.’
It was Jude’s custom to go downstairs to the kitchen, and eat his
meals with the family, to save trouble. His landlady brought up the
supper, however, on this occasion, and he took it from her at the
door.
When she had descended he set the teapot on the hob, and drew
out Sue’s clothes anew; but they were far from dry. A thick woollen
gown, he found, held a deal of water. So he hung them up again, and
enlarged his 
fire, and mused as the steam from the garments went up
the chimney.
Suddenly she said ‘Jude!’
‘Yes. All right. How do you feel now?’
‘Better. Quite well. Why, I fell asleep, didn’t I? What time is it?
Not late surely?’
‘It is past ten.’
‘Is it really? What shall I do?’ she said, starting up.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘Yes; that’s what I want to do. But I don’t know what they would
say! And what will you do?’
‘I am going to sit here by the 
fire all night, and read. Tomorrow is
Sunday, and I haven’t to go out anywhere. Perhaps you will be saved
a severe illness by resting there. Don’t be frightened. I’m all right.
Look here, what I have got for you. Some supper.’
When she had sat upright she breathed plaintively and said ‘I do
feel rather weak still. I thought I was well. And I ought not to be
here, ought I?’ But the supper forti
fied her somewhat, and when she

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had had some tea and had lain back again she was bright and
cheerful.
The tea must have been green, or too long drawn, for she seemed
preternaturally wakeful afterwards, though Jude, who had not taken
any, began to feel heavy; till her conversation 
fixed his attention.
‘You called me a creature of civilization, or something, didn’t
you?’ she said, breaking a silence. ‘It was very odd you should have
done that.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because it is provokingly wrong. I am a sort of negation of
it.’
‘You are very philosophical. “A negation” is profound talking.’
‘Is it? Do I strike you as being learned?’ she asked, with a touch of
raillery.
‘No––not learned. Only you don’t talk quite like a girl––well, a
girl who has had no advantages.’
‘I have had advantages. I don’t know Latin and Greek, though
I know the grammars of those tongues. But I know most of the
Greek and Latin classics through translations, and other books
too. I read Lemprière, Catullus, Martial, Juvenal, Lucian, Beaumont
and Fletcher, Boccaccio, Scarron, De Brantôme, Sterne, De Foe,
Smollett, Fielding, Shakespeare,* the Bible, and other such; and
found that all interest in the unwholesome part of those books ended
with its mystery.’
‘You have read more than I,’ he said with a sigh. ‘How came you to
read some of those queerer ones?’
‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it was by accident. My life has been
entirely shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me. I have no fear
of men, as such, nor of their books. I have mixed with them––one or
two of them particularly––almost as one of their own sex. I mean I
have not felt about them as most women are taught to feel––to be on
their guard against attacks on their virtue; for no average man––no
man short of a sensual savage––will molest a woman by day or night,
at home or abroad, unless she invites him. Until she says by a look
“Come on” he is always afraid to, and if you never say it, or look it,
he never comes. However, what I was going to say is that when I was
eighteen I formed a friendly intimacy with an undergraduate at
Christminster, and he taught me a great deal, and lent me books
which I should never have got hold of otherwise.’