'Save his own soul he hath no star .'-Swinburne .'Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit;Tempore crevit amor.'-Ovid .II-i The next noteworthy move in Jude's life was that in which he appeared gliding steadily onward through a dusky landscape of some three years'later leafage than had graced his courtship of Arabella,and the disruption of his coarse conjugal life with her.He was walking towards Christminster City,at a point a mile or two to the south-west of it.
He had at last found himself clear of Marygreen and Alfredston:
he was out of his apprenticeship,and with his tools at his back seemed to be in the way of making a new start -the start to which,barring the interruption involved in his intimacy and married experience with Arabella,he had been looking forward for about ten years.
Jude would now have been described as a young man with a forcible,meditative,and earnest rather than handsome cast of countenance.He was of dark complexion,with dark harmonizing eyes,and he wore a closely trimmed black beard of more advanced growth than is usual at his age;this,with his great mass of black curly hair,was some trouble to him in combing and washing out the stone-dust that settled on it in the pursuit of his trade.His capabilities in the latter,having been acquired in the country,were of an all-round sort,including monumental stone-cutting,gothic free-stone work for the restoration of churches,and carving of a general kind.In London he would probably have become specialized and have made himself a 'moulding mason,'a 'foliage sculptor'-perhaps a 'statuary.'
He had that afternoon driven in a cart from Alfredston to the village nearest the city in this direction,and was now walking the remaining four miles rather from choice than from necessity,having always fancied himself arriving thus.
The ultimate impulse to come had had a curious origin -one more nearly related to the emotional side of him than to the intellectual,as is often the case with young men.One day while in lodgings at Alfredston he had gone to Marygreen to see his old aunt,and had observed between the brass candlesticks on her mantlepiece the photograph of a pretty girlish face,in a broad hat with radiating folds under the brim like the rays of a halo.He had asked who she was.His grand-aunt had gruffly replied that she was his cousin Sue Bridehead,of the inimical branch of the family;and on further questioning the old woman had replied that the girl lived in Christminster,though she did not know where,or what she was doing.
His aunt would not give him the photograph.But it haunted him;and ultimately formed a quickening ingredient in his latent intent of following his friend the school master thither.
He now paused at the top of a crooked and gentle declivity,and obtained his first near view of the city.Grey-stoned and dun-roofed,it stood within hail of the Wessex border,and almost with the tip of one small toe within it,at the northernmost point of the crinkled line along which the leisurely Thames strokes the fields of that ancient kingdom.
The buildings now lay quiet in the sunset,a vane here and there on their many spires and domes giving sparkle to a picture of sober secondary and tertiary hues.
Reaching the bottom he moved along the level way between pollard willows growing indistinct in the twilight,and soon confronted the outmost lamps of the town -some of those lamps which had sent into the sky the gleam and glory that caught his strained gaze in his days of dreaming,so many years ago.They winked their yellow eyes at him dubiously,and as if,though they had been awaiting him all these years in disappointment at his tarrying,they did not much want him now.
He was a species of Dick Whittington whose spirit was touched to finer issues than a mere material gain.He went along the outlying streets with the cautious tread of an explorer.He saw nothing of the real city in the suburbs on this side.His first want being a lodging he scrutinized carefully such localities as seemed to offer on inexpensive terms the modest type of accommodation he demanded;and after inquiry took a room in a suburb nicknamed 'Beersheba,'though he did not know this at the time.Here he installed himself,and having had some tea sallied forth.
It was a windy,whispering,moonless night.To guide himself he opened under a lamp a map he had brought.The breeze ruffled and fluttered it,but he could see enough to decide on the direction he should take to reach the heart of the place.
After many turnings he came up to the first ancient mediaeval pile that he had encountered.It was a college,as he could see by the gateway.He entered it,walked round,and penetrated to dark corners which no lamplight reached.Close to this college was another;and a little further on another;and then he began to be encircled as it were with the breath and sentiment of the venerable city.When he passed objects out of harmony with its general expression he allowed his eyes to slip over them as if he did not see them.
A bell began clanging,and he listened till a hundred-and-one strokes had sounded.He must have made a mis-take,he thought:it was meant for a hundred.
When the gates were shut,and he could no longer get into the quadrangles,he rambled under the walls and doorways,feeling with his fingers the contours of their mouldings and carving.The minutes passed,fewer and fewer people were visible,and still he serpentined among the shadows,for had he not imagined these scenes through ten bygone years,and what mattered a night's rest for once?High against the black sky the flash of a lamp would show crocketed pinnacles and indented battlements.
