Jude the Obscure (Oxford World's Classics)

At Shaston


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deserves––you spirit, you disembodied creature, you dear, sweet,
tantalizing phantom––hardly 
flesh at all; so that when I put my arms
round you I almost expect them to pass through you as through air!
Forgive me for being gross, as you call it! Remember that our calling
cousins when really strangers was a snare. The enmity of our parents
gave a piquancy to you in my eyes that was intenser even than the
novelty of ordinary new acquaintance.’
‘Say those pretty lines, then, from Shelley’s “Epipsychidion” as if
they meant me!’ she solicited, slanting up closer to him as they stood.
‘Don’t you know them?’
‘I know hardly any poetry,’ he replied mournfully.
‘Don’t you? These are some of them:
“There was a Being whom my spirit oft
Met on its visioned wanderings far aloft.
.
.
.
.
.
A seraph of Heaven, too gentle to be human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman. . . . ”
O it is too 
flattering, so I won’t go on! But say it’s me!––say it’s me!’
‘It is you, dear; exactly like you!’
‘Now I forgive you! And you shall kiss me just once there––not
very long.’ She put the tip of her 
finger gingerly to her cheek; and he
did as commanded. ‘You do care for me very much, don’t you, in
spite of my not––you know?’
‘Yes, sweet!’ he said with a sigh; and bade her good-night.
Jude the Obscure


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IV.–vi.
I
 returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phil-
lotson had won the interest and awakened the memories of the
inhabitants, who, though they did not honour him for his miscel-
laneous acquirements as he would have been honoured elsewhere,
retained for him a sincere regard. When, shortly after his arrival, he
brought home a pretty wife––awkwardly pretty for him, if he did not
take care, they said––they were glad to have her settle among them.
For some time after her 
flight from that home, Sue’s absence did
not excite comment. Her place as monitor in the school was taken by
another young woman within a few days of her vacating it, which
substitution also passed without remark, Sue’s services having been
of a provisional nature only. When, however, a month had passed,
and Phillotson casually admitted to acquaintance that he did not
know where his wife was staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till,
jumping to conclusions, people ventured to a
ffirm that Sue had
played him false and run away from him. The schoolmaster’s grow-
ing languor and listlessness over his work gave countenance to the
idea.
Though Phillotson had held his tongue as long as he could, except
to his friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would not allow
him to do so when misapprehensions as to Sue’s conduct spread
abroad. On a Monday morning the chairman of the School Commit-
tee called, and after attending to the business of the school drew
Phillotson aside out of earshot of the children.
‘You’ll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since everybody is talking of
it: is this true as to your domestic a
ffairs––that your wife’s going
away was on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover? If so, I
condole with you.’
‘Don’t,’ said Phillotson. ‘There was no secret about it.’
‘She has gone to visit friends?’
‘No.’
‘Then what has happened?’
‘She has gone away under circumstances that usually call for
condolence with the husband. But I gave my consent.’
The chairman looked as if he had not apprehended the remark.

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‘What I say is quite true,’ Phillotson continued testily. ‘She asked
leave to go away with her lover, and I let her. Why shouldn’t I? A
woman of full age, it was a question for her own conscience––not for
me. I was not her gaoler. I can’t explain any further. I don’t wish to
be questioned.’
The children observed that much seriousness marked the faces of
the two men, and went home and told their parents that something
new had happened about Mrs. Phillotson. Then Phillotson’s little
maidservant, who was a schoolgirl just out of her standards,* said that
Mr. Phillotson had helped in his wife’s packing, had o
ffered her what
money she required, and had written a friendly letter to her young
man, telling him to take care of her. The chairman of committee
thought the matter over, and talked to the other managers of the
school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet them privately. The
meeting lasted a long time, and at the end the schoolmaster came
home, looking as usual pale and worn. Gillingham was sitting in his
house awaiting him.
‘Well; it is as you said,’ observed Phillotson, 
flinging himself down
wearily in a chair. ‘They have requested me to send in my resignation
on account of my scandalous conduct in giving my tortured wife her
liberty––or, as they call it, condoning her adultery. But I shan’t
resign.’
‘I think I would.’
‘I won’t. It is no business of theirs. It doesn’t a
ffect me in my
public capacity at all. They may expel me if they like.’
‘If you make a fuss it will get into the papers, and you’ll never get
appointed to another school. You see, they have to consider what you
did as done by a teacher of youth––and its e
ffects as such upon the
morals of the town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position is
indefensible. You must let me say that.’
To this good advice, however, Phillotson would not listen.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I don’t go unless I am turned out. And for
this reason; that by resigning I acknowledge I have acted wrongly by
her; when I am more and more convinced every day that in the sight
of Heaven and by all natural, straightforward humanity, I have acted
rightly.’
Gillingham saw that his rather headstrong friend would not be
able to maintain such a position as this; but he said nothing further,
and in due time––indeed, in a quarter of an hour––the formal letter