Jude the Obscure Read online

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  The time arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife hadfattened in their sty during the autumn months, and the butcheringwas timed to take place as soon as it was light in the morning, sothat Jude might get to Alfredston without losing more than a quarterof a day.

  The night had seemed strangely silent. Jude looked out of the windowlong before dawn, and perceived that the ground was covered withsnow--snow rather deep for the season, it seemed, a few flakes stillfalling.

  "I'm afraid the pig-killer won't be able to come," he said toArabella.

  "Oh, he'll come. You must get up and make the water hot, if you wantChallow to scald him. Though I like singeing best."

  "I'll get up," said Jude. "I like the way of my own county."

  He went downstairs, lit the fire under the copper, and began feedingit with bean-stalks, all the time without a candle, the blazeflinging a cheerful shine into the room; though for him the sense ofcheerfulness was lessened by thoughts on the reason of that blaze--toheat water to scald the bristles from the body of an animal that asyet lived, and whose voice could be continually heard from a cornerof the garden. At half-past six, the time of appointment with thebutcher, the water boiled, and Jude's wife came downstairs.

  "Is Challow come?" she asked.

  "No."

  They waited, and it grew lighter, with the dreary light of a snowydawn. She went out, gazed along the road, and returning said, "He'snot coming. Drunk last night, I expect. The snow is not enough tohinder him, surely!"

  "Then we must put it off. It is only the water boiled for nothing.The snow may be deep in the valley."

  "Can't be put off. There's no more victuals for the pig. He ate thelast mixing o' barleymeal yesterday morning."

  "Yesterday morning? What has he lived on since?"

  "Nothing."

  "What--he has been starving?"

  "Yes. We always do it the last day or two, to save bother with theinnerds. What ignorance, not to know that!"

  "That accounts for his crying so. Poor creature!"

  "Well--you must do the sticking--there's no help for it. I'll showyou how. Or I'll do it myself--I think I could. Though as it issuch a big pig I had rather Challow had done it. However, his basketo' knives and things have been already sent on here, and we can use'em."

  "Of course you shan't do it," said Jude. "I'll do it, since it mustbe done."

  He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of acouple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with theknives and ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparationsfrom the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of thescene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joinedher husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed theaffrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose torepeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and togetherthey hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Judeheld him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs tokeep him from struggling.

  The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but thecry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless.

  "Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have hadthis to do!" said Jude. "A creature I have fed with my own hands."

  "Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife--the one with the point. Now whatever you do, don't stick un toodeep."

  "I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That'sthe chief thing."

  "You must not!" she cried. "The meat must be well bled, and to dothat he must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meatis red and bloody! Just touch the vein, that's all. I was broughtup to it, and I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long.He ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least."

  "He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat maylook," said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig'supturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat;then plunged in the knife with all his might.

  "'Od damn it all!" she cried, "that ever I should say it! You'veover-stuck un! And I telling you all the time--"

  "Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!"

  "Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don't talk!"

  However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done. Theblood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream shehad desired. The dying animal's cry assumed its third and finaltone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves onArabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizingat last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends.

  "Make un stop that!" said Arabella. "Such a noise will bringsomebody or other up here, and I don't want people to know we aredoing it ourselves." Picking up the knife from the ground whereonJude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and slit thewindpipe. The pig was instantly silent, his dying breath comingthrough the hole.

  "That's better," she said.

  "It is a hateful business!" said he.

  "Pigs must be killed."

  The animal heaved in a final convulsion, and, despite the rope,kicked out with all his last strength. A tablespoonful of blackclot came forth, the trickling of red blood having ceased for someseconds.

  "That's it; now he'll go," said she. "Artful creatures--they alwayskeep back a drop like that as long as they can!"

  The last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to make Jude stagger, andin recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in which the bloodhad been caught.

  "There!" she cried, thoroughly in a passion. "Now I can't make anyblackpot. There's a waste, all through you!"

  Jude put the pail upright, but only about a third of the wholesteaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed overthe snow, and forming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle--to those whosaw it as other than an ordinary obtaining of meat. The lips andnostrils of the animal turned livid, then white, and the muscles ofhis limbs relaxed.

  "Thank God!" Jude said. "He's dead."

  "What's God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, Ishould like to know!" she said scornfully. "Poor folks must live."

  "I know, I know," said he. "I don't scold you."

  Suddenly they became aware of a voice at hand.

  "Well done, young married volk! I couldn't have carried it out muchbetter myself, cuss me if I could!" The voice, which was husky,came from the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughterthey saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate,critically surveying their performance.

  "'Tis well for 'ee to stand there and glane!" said Arabella. "Owingto your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! 'Twon'tfetch so much by a shilling a score!"

  Challow expressed his contrition. "You should have waited a bit"he said, shaking his head, "and not have done this--in the delicatestate, too, that you be in at present, ma'am. 'Tis risking yourselftoo much."

  "You needn't be concerned about that," said Arabella, laughing.Jude too laughed, but there was a strong flavour of bitterness inhis amusement.

  Challow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal in thescalding and scraping. Jude felt dissatisfied with himself as a manat what he had done, though aware of his lack of common sense, andthat the deed would have amounted to the same thing if carried out bydeputy. The white snow, stained with the blood of his fellow-mortal,wore an illogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say aChristian; but he could not see how the matter was to be mended. Nodoubt he was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool.

  He did not like the road to Alfredston now. It stared him cynicallyin the face. The wayside objects reminded him so much of hiscourtship of his wife that, to keep them out of his eyes, heread whenever he could as he walked to and from his work. Yethe sometimes felt that by caring for books he was not escapingcommon-place nor gaining rare ideas, every working-man being of that
taste now. When passing near the spot by the stream on which he hadfirst made her acquaintance he one day heard voices just as he haddone at that earlier time. One of the girls who had been Arabella'scompanions was talking to a friend in a shed, himself being thesubject of discourse, possibly because they had seen him in thedistance. They were quite unaware that the shed-walls were so thinthat he could hear their words as he passed.

  "Howsomever, 'twas I put her up to it! 'Nothing venture nothinghave,' I said. If I hadn't she'd no more have been his mis'ess thanI."

  "'Tis my belief she knew there was nothing the matter when she toldhim she was..."

  What had Arabella been put up to by this woman, so that he shouldmake her his "mis'ess," otherwise wife? The suggestion was horridlyunpleasant, and it rankled in his mind so much that instead ofentering his own cottage when he reached it he flung his basketinside the garden-gate and passed on, determined to go and see hisold aunt and get some supper there.

  This made his arrival home rather late. Arabella however, was busymelting down lard from fat of the deceased pig, for she had been outon a jaunt all day, and so delayed her work. Dreading lest what hehad heard should lead him to say something regrettable to her hespoke little. But Arabella was very talkative, and said among otherthings that she wanted some money. Seeing the book sticking out ofhis pocket she added that he ought to earn more.

  "An apprentice's wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on,as a rule, my dear."

  "Then you shouldn't have had one."

  "Come, Arabella! That's too bad, when you know how it came about."

  "I'll declare afore Heaven that I thought what I told you was true.Doctor Vilbert thought so. It was a good job for you that it wasn'tso!"

  "I don't mean that," he said hastily. "I mean before that time.I know it was not your fault; but those women friends of yours gaveyou bad advice. If they hadn't, or you hadn't taken it, we should atthis moment have been free from a bond which, not to mince matters,galls both of us devilishly. It may be very sad, but it is true."

  "Who's been telling you about my friends? What advice? I insistupon you telling me."

  "Pooh--I'd rather not."

  "But you shall--you ought to. It is mean of 'ee not to!"

  "Very well." And he hinted gently what had been revealed to him."But I don't wish to dwell upon it. Let us say no more about it."

  Her defensive manner collapsed. "That was nothing," she said,laughing coldly. "Every woman has a right to do such as that. Therisk is hers."

  "I quite deny it, Bella. She might if no lifelong penalty attachedto it for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weaknessof the moment could end with the moment, or even with the year.But when effects stretch so far she should not go and do that whichentraps a man if he is honest, or herself if he is otherwise."

  "What ought I to have done?"

  "Given me time... Why do you fuss yourself about melting down thatpig's fat to-night? Please put it away!"

  "Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won't keep."

  "Very well--do."