prompt:
Chapter: He was a handy man at his trade, an all-round man, as artizans in
country-towns are apt to be.  In London the man who carves the boss
or knob of leafage declines to cut the fragment of moulding which
merges in that leafage, as if it were a degradation to do the second
half of one whole.  When there was not much Gothic moulding for
Jude to run, or much window-tracery on the bankers, he would go out
lettering monuments or tombstones, and take a pleasure in the change
of handiwork.

The next time that he saw her was when he was on a ladder executing
a job of this sort inside one of the churches.  There was a short
morning service, and when the parson entered Jude came down from his
ladder, and sat with the half-dozen people forming the congregation,
till the prayer should be ended, and he could resume his tapping.  He
did not observe till the service was half over that one of the women
was Sue, who had perforce accompanied the elderly Miss Fontover
thither.

Jude sat watching her pretty shoulders, her easy, curiously
nonchalant risings and sittings, and her perfunctory genuflexions,
and thought what a help such an Anglican would have been to him in
happier circumstances.  It was not so much his anxiety to get on with
his work that made him go up to it immediately the worshipers began
to take their leave: it was that he dared not, in this holy spot,
confront the woman who was beginning to influence him in such an
indescribable manner.  Those three enormous reasons why he must
not attempt intimate acquaintance with Sue Bridehead, now that his
interest in her had shown itself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind,
loomed as stubbornly as ever.  But it was also obvious that man could
not live by work alone; that the particular man Jude, at any rate,
wanted something to love.  Some men would have rushed incontinently
to her, snatched the pleasure of easy friendship which she could
hardly refuse, and have left the rest to chance.  Not so Jude--at
first.

But as the days, and still more particularly the lonely evenings,
dragged along, he found himself, to his moral consternation,
to be thinking more of her instead of thinking less of her, and
experiencing a fearful bliss in doing what was erratic, informal, and
unexpected.  Surrounded by her influence all day, walking past the
spots she frequented, he was always thinking of her, and was obliged
to own to himself that his conscience was likely to be the loser in
this battle.

To be sure she was almost an ideality to him still.  Perhaps to know
her would be to cure himself of this unexpected and unauthorized
passion.  A voice whispered that, though he desired to know her, he
did not desire to be cured.

There was not the least doubt that from his own orthodox point of
view the situation was growing immoral.  For Sue to be the loved one
of a man who was licensed by the laws of his country to love Arabella
and none other unto his life's end, was a pretty bad second beginning
when the man was bent on such a course as Jude purposed.  This
conviction was so real with him that one day when, as was frequent,
he was at work in a neighbouring village church alone, he felt it to
be his duty to pray against his weakness.  But much as he wished to
be an exemplar in these things he could not get on.  It was quite
impossible, he found, to ask to be delivered from temptation when
your heart's desire was to be tempted unto seventy times seven.  So
he excused himself.  "After all," he said, "it is not altogether
an _erotolepsy_ that is the matter with me, as at that first time.
I can see that she is exceptionally bright; and it is partly a wish
for intellectual sympathy, and a craving for loving-kindness in my
solitude."  Thus he went on adoring her, fearing to realize that
it was human perversity.  For whatever Sue's virtues, talents, or
ecclesiastical saturation, it was certain that those items were not
at all the cause of his affection for her.

On an afternoon at this time a young girl entered the stone-mason's
yard with some hesitation, and, lifting her skirts to avoid draggling
them in the white dust, crossed towards the office.

"That's a nice girl," said one of the men known as Uncle Joe.

"Who is she?" asked another.

"I don't know--I've seen her about here and there.  Why, yes, she's
the daughter of that clever chap Bridehead who did all the wrought
ironwork at St. Silas' ten years ago, and went away to London
afterwards.  I don't know what he's doing now--not much I fancy--as
she's come back here."

Meanwhile the young woman had knocked at the office door and asked if
Mr. Jude Fawley was at work in the yard.  It so happened that Jude
had gone out somewhere or other that afternoon, which information she
received with a look of disappointment, and went away immediately.
When Jude returned they told him, and described her, whereupon he
exclaimed, "Why--that's my cousin Sue!"

He looked along the street after her, but she was out of sight.  He
had no longer any thought of a conscientious avoidance of her, and
resolved to call upon her that very evening.  And when he reached
his lodging he found a note from her--a first note--one of those
documents which, simple and commonplace in themselves, are seen
retrospectively to have been pregnant with impassioned consequences.
The very unconsciousness of a looming drama which is shown in such
innocent first epistles from women to men, or _vice versa_, makes
them, when such a drama follows, and they are read over by the purple
or lurid light of it, all the more impressive, solemn, and in cases,
terrible.

Sue's was of the most artless and natural kind.  She addressed him
as her dear cousin Jude; said she had only just learnt by the merest
accident that he was living in Christminster, and reproached him with
not letting her know.  They might have had such nice times together,
she said, for she was thrown much upon herself, and had hardly any
congenial friend.  But now there was every probability of her soon
going away, so that the chance of companionship would be lost perhaps
for ever.

A cold sweat overspread Jude at the news that she was going away.
That was a contingency he had never thought of, and it spurred him
to write all the more quickly to her.  He would meet her that very
evening, he said, one hour from the time of writing, at the cross in
the pavement which marked the spot of the Martyrdoms.

When he had despatched the note by a boy he regretted that in his
hurry he should have suggested to her to meet him out of doors, when
he might have said he would call upon her.  It was, in fact, the
country custom to meet thus, and nothing else had occurred to him.
Arabella had been met in the same way, unfortunately, and it might
not seem respectable to a dear girl like Sue.  However, it could not
be helped now, and he moved towards the point a few minutes before
the hour, under the glimmer of the newly lighted lamps.

The broad street was silent, and almost deserted, although it was
not late.  He saw a figure on the other side, which turned out to
be hers, and they both converged towards the crossmark at the same
moment.  Before either had reached it she called out to him:

"I am not going to meet you just there, for the first time in my
life!  Come further on."

The voice, though positive and silvery, had been tremulous.  They
walked on in parallel lines, and, waiting her pleasure, Jude watched
till she showed signs of closing in, when he did likewise, the place
being where the carriers' carts stood in the daytime, though there
was none on the spot then.

"I am sorry that I asked you to meet me, and didn't call," began Jude
with the bashfulness of a lover.  "But I thought it would save time
if we were going to walk."

"Oh--I don't mind that," she said with the freedom of a friend.  "I
have really no place to ask anybody in to.  What I meant was that the
place you chose was so horrid--I suppose I ought not to say horrid--I
mean gloomy and inauspicious in its associations...  But isn't it
funny to begin like this, when I don't know you yet?"  She looked him
up and down curiously, though Jude did not look much at her.

"You seem to know me more than I know you," she added.

"Yes--I have seen you now and then."

"And you knew who I was, and didn't speak?  And now I am going away!"

"Yes.  That's unfortunate.  I have hardly any other friend.  I have,
indeed, one very old friend here somewhere, but I don't quite like
to call on him just yet.  I wonder if you know anything of him--Mr.
Phillotson?  A parson somewhere about the county I think he is."

"No--I only know of one Mr. Phillotson.  He lives a little way out in
the country, at Lumsdon.  He's a village schoolmaster."

"Ah!  I wonder if he's the same.  Surely it is impossible!  Only a
schoolmaster still!  Do you know his Christian name--is it Richard?"

"Yes--it is; I've directed books to him, though I've never seen him."

"Then he couldn't do it!"

Jude's countenance fell, for how could he succeed in an enterprise
wherein the great Phillotson had failed?  He would have had a day of
despair if the news had not arrived during his sweet Sue's presence,
but even at this moment he had visions of how Phillotson's failure in
the grand university scheme would depress him when she had gone.

"As we are going to take a walk, suppose we go and call upon him?"
said Jude suddenly.  "It is not late."

She agreed, and they went along up a hill, and through some prettily
wooded country.  Presently the embattled tower and square turret
of the church rose into the sky, and then the school-house. They
inquired of a person in the street if Mr. Phillotson was likely to
be at home, and were informed that he was always at home.  A knock
brought him to the school-house door, with a candle in his hand and a
look of inquiry on his face, which had grown thin and careworn since
Jude last set eyes on him.

That after all these years the meeting with Mr. Phillotson should be
of this homely complexion destroyed at one stroke the halo which had
surrounded the school-master's figure in Jude's imagination ever
since their parting.  It created in him at the same time a sympathy
with Phillotson as an obviously much chastened and disappointed man.
Jude told him his name, and said he had come to see him as an old
friend who had been kind to him in his youthful days.

"I don't remember you in the least," said the school-master
thoughtfully.  "You were one of my pupils, you say?  Yes, no doubt;
but they number so many thousands by this time of my life, and have
naturally changed so much, that I remember very few except the quite
recent ones."

"It was out at Marygreen," said Jude, wishing he had not come.

"Yes.  I was there a short time.  And is this an old pupil, too?"

"No--that's my cousin...  I wrote to you for some grammars, if you
recollect, and you sent them?"

"Ah--yes!--I do dimly recall that incident."

"It was very kind of you to do it.  And it was you who first started
me on that course.  On the morning you left Marygreen, when your
goods were on the waggon, you wished me good-bye, and said your
scheme was to be a university man and enter the Church--that a degree
was the necessary hall-mark of one who wanted to do anything as a
theologian or teacher."

"I remember I thought all that privately; but I wonder I did not keep
my own counsel.  The idea was given up years ago."

"I have never forgotten it.  It was that which brought me to this
part of the country, and out here to see you to-night."

"Come in," said Phillotson.  "And your cousin, too."

They entered the parlour of the school-house, where there was a lamp
with a paper shade, which threw the light down on three or four
books.  Phillotson took it off, so that they could see each other
better, and the rays fell on the nervous little face and vivacious
dark eyes and hair of Sue, on the earnest features of her cousin,
and on the schoolmaster's own maturer face and figure, showing him
to be a spare and thoughtful personage of five-and-forty, with a
thin-lipped, somewhat refined mouth, a slightly stooping habit, and
a black frock coat, which from continued frictions shone a little at
the shoulder-blades, the middle of the back, and the elbows.

The old friendship was imperceptibly renewed, the schoolmaster
speaking of his experiences, and the cousins of theirs.  He told them
that he still thought of the Church sometimes, and that though he
could not enter it as he had intended to do in former years he might
enter it as a licentiate.  Meanwhile, he said, he was comfortable in
his present position, though he was in want of a pupil-teacher.

They did not stay to supper, Sue having to be indoors before it grew
late, and the road was retraced to Christminster.  Though they had
talked of nothing more than general subjects, Jude was surprised to
find what a revelation of woman his cousin was to him.  She was so
vibrant that everything she did seemed to have its source in feeling.
An exciting thought would make her walk ahead so fast that he could
hardly keep up with her; and her sensitiveness on some points
was such that it might have been misread as vanity.  It was with
heart-sickness he perceived that, while her sentiments towards him
were those of the frankest friendliness only, he loved her more than
before becoming acquainted with her; and the gloom of the walk home
lay not in the night overhead, but in the thought of her departure.

"Why must you leave Christminster?" he said regretfully.  "How can
you do otherwise than cling to a city in whose history such men as
Newman, Pusey, Ward, Keble, loom so large!"

"Yes--they do.  Though how large do they loom in the history of the
world? ...  What a funny reason for caring to stay!  I should never
have thought of it!"  She laughed.

"Well--I must go," she continued.  "Miss Fontover, one of the
partners whom I serve, is offended with me, and I with her; and it
is best to go."

"How did that happen?"

"She broke some statuary of mine."

"Oh?  Wilfully?"

"Yes.  She found it in my room, and though it was my property she
threw it on the floor and stamped on it, because it was not according
to her taste, and ground the arms and the head of one of the figures
all to bits with her heel--a horrid thing!"

"Too Catholic-Apostolic for her, I suppose?  No doubt she called them
popish images and talked of the invocation of saints."

"No...  No, she didn't do that.  She saw the matter quite
differently."

"Ah!  Then I am surprised!"

"Yes.  It was for quite some other reason that she didn't like my
patron-saints.  So I was led to retort upon her; and the end of it
was that I resolved not to stay, but to get into an occupation in
which I shall be more independent."

"Why don't you try teaching again?  You once did, I heard."

"I never thought of resuming it; for I was getting on as an
art-designer."

"DO let me ask Mr. Phillotson to let you try your hand in his
school?  If you like it, and go to a training college, and become a
first-class certificated mistress, you get twice as large an income
as any designer or church artist, and twice as much freedom."

"Well--ask him.  Now I must go in.  Good-bye, dear Jude!  I am so
glad we have met at last.  We needn't quarrel because our parents
did, need we?"

Jude did not like to let her see quite how much he agreed with her,
and went his way to the remote street in which he had his lodging.

To keep Sue Bridehead near him was now a desire which operated
without regard of consequences, and the next evening he again set out
for Lumsdon, fearing to trust to the persuasive effects of a note
only.  The school-master was unprepared for such a proposal.

"What I rather wanted was a second year's transfer, as it is called,"
he said.  "Of course your cousin would do, personally; but she has
had no experience.  Oh--she has, has she?  Does she really think of
adopting teaching as a profession?"

Jude said she was disposed to do so, he thought, and his ingenious
arguments on her natural fitness for assisting Mr. Phillotson, of
which Jude knew nothing whatever, so influenced the schoolmaster that
he said he would engage her, assuring Jude as a friend that unless
his cousin really meant to follow on in the same course, and regarded
this step as the first stage of an apprenticeship, of which her
training in a normal school would be the second stage, her time would
be wasted quite, the salary being merely nominal.

The day after this visit Phillotson received a letter from Jude,
containing the information that he had again consulted his cousin,
who took more and more warmly to the idea of tuition; and that
she had agreed to come.  It did not occur for a moment to the
schoolmaster and recluse that Jude's ardour in promoting the
arrangement arose from any other feelings towards Sue than the
instinct of co-operation common among members of the same family.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Jude once again sees Sue in church with Miss Fontover but again does not present himself to her. He is uneasy about his growing attachment to her. Meanwhile, Sue has heard of Jude's presence in Christminster and visits him at work, but finding him out, she leaves a friendly note for him. Jude sends her a note in reply and they arrange to meet. Sue tells him she will be leaving Christminster. Jude talks of his old schoolmaster, Phillotson, and discovers from Sue that he is still a village teacher at Lumsdon, outside Christminster. Jude is disappointed that Phillotson has remained only a teacher and not graduated from the university. They decide to call on Phillotson together. Jude's old schoolmaster barely remembers him, but the friendship is renewed. Although Jude reminds him that his path has always inspired him, Phillotson informs Jude that he has given up all hope of ever enrolling in the university. Phillotson also mentions that he is in need of a pupil-teacher. On their way back to Christminster, Sue tells Jude that she quarreled with Miss Fontover over her pagan statues. As a result of this argument, she has to leave. Jude is anxious to keep Sue near him and suggests a career in teaching while working as Phillotson's assistant. He returns to Phillotson the next day and recommends his cousin Sue as an assistant teacher. Phillotson readily agrees to this suggestion.


prompt:
Chapter: The schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school,
both being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old
house in which his teacher Sue had a lodging.  The arrangement had
been concluded very quickly.  A pupil-teacher who was to have been
transferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had
been taken as stop-gap.  All such provisional arrangements as these
could only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose
approval was necessary to make them permanent.  Having taught for
some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of
late, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought
there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he
already wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four
weeks.  He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her;
and what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who
saves him half his labour?

It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he
was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would
follow.  At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed
on her head; and he watched her as a curiosity.  A new emanation,
which had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to
surround her this morning.  He went to the school also, and Sue
remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day
under his eye.  She certainly was an excellent teacher.

It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening,
and some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable,
elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and
the taught were of different sexes.  Richard Phillotson thought of
the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough
to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat
down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house
Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing.  The regulation was,
indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the
dwelling.

Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working
at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile
at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive
all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong.  Phillotson was
not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel
way which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor.  Perhaps she
knew that he was thinking of her thus.

For a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in
itself was a delight to him.  Then it happened that the children were
to be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the
shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at
a penny a head in the interests of education.  They marched along
the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton
sunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson
behind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick
genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her
arrival.  The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they
entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves.
The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment,
and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his
features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the
young people the various quarters and places known to them by name
from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat,
the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there
was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white
cross.  The spot, he said, was Calvary.

"I think," said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a
little in the background, "that this model, elaborate as it is, is a
very imaginary production.  How does anybody know that Jerusalem was
like this in the time of Christ?  I am sure this man doesn't."

"It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits
to the city as it now exists."

"I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem," she said, "considering we
are not descended from the Jews.  There was nothing first-rate about
the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome,
Alexandria, and other old cities."

"But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!"

She was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived
behind the group of children clustered round the model a young man
in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent
inspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost
hidden from view by the Mount of Olives.  "Look at your cousin Jude,"
continued the schoolmaster.  "He doesn't think we have had enough of
Jerusalem!"

"Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice.
"Jude--how seriously you are going into it!"

Jude started up from his reverie, and saw her.  "Oh--Sue!" he said,
with a glad flush of embarrassment.  "These are your school-children,
of course!  I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and
thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't
remember where I was.  How it carries one back, doesn't it!  I could
examine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately;
for I am in the middle of a job out here."

"Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it
unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire.  "She is
quite sceptical as to its correctness."

"No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether!  I hate to be what is
called a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered
Sue sensitively.  "I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except
that it was what you don't understand!"

"_I_ know your meaning," said Jude ardently (although he did not).
"And I think you are quite right."

"That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!"  She impulsively
seized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster
turned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself
felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle.  She had not
the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at
this momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was
building up thereby in the futures of both.

The model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not
to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all
marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work.  He watched the
juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the
street towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad,
dissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives
had possession of him.  Phillotson had invited him to walk out
and see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to
give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the
opportunity.

Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next
day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was
surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective
view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place.

"I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at
it?" he said.

"I hardly did," said she, "but I remembered that much of it."

"It is more than I had remembered myself."

Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying
"surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching
unawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons,
the latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman,
the king of terrors--to pupil-teachers.

To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the
story, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared.
But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was
towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind
her and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware
of his presence.  She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment
had come.  The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a
cry of fright.  Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude
quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her
falling from faintness.  She soon recovered herself, and laughed;
but when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was
so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some
brandy to bring her round.  She found him holding her hand.

"You ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly, "that one of the
inspector's surprise-visits was imminent!  Oh, what shall I do!  Now
he'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be
disgraced for ever!"

"He won't do that, my dear little girl.  You are the best teacher
ever I had!"

He looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she
had upbraided him.  When she was better she went home.

Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday.  On
both Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence
of his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance
along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to
his room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind
on the page.  On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he
thought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set
out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet.  The trees overhead
deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him,
impressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he
knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her
than he was.

On turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that
greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming
out of the vicarage gate.  He was too far back for them to notice
him, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson.  The
latter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently
been paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected
with the school work.  And as they walked along the wet and deserted
lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist;
whereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it
remain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving.  She did
not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who
sank into the hedge like one struck with a blight.  There he remained
hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in,
Phillotson going on to the school hard by.

"Oh, he's too old for her--too old!" cried Jude in all the terrible
sickness of hopeless, handicapped love.

He could not interfere.  Was he not Arabella's?  He was unable to
go on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster.  Every
tread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account
stand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue.  Phillotson was perhaps
twenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made
in such conditions of age.  The ironical clinch to his sorrow was
given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the
schoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Sue proves to be quite a success as a teacher, and Phillotson is happy with her work. But he soon begins to be interested in her as a woman. He starts giving her lessons in the evening with her landlady as chaperone. One day Sue and Phillotson take the school children to Christminster to see an exhibition of a model of the city of Jerusalem. Sue is skeptical about its accuracy and critiques Jerusalem as an ancient city. Phillotson mildly reprimands her. Then they see Jude at the exhibition. He is greatly fascinated by the model. Phillotson repeats Sue's criticism to Jude, and Sue turns to Jude for comfort. The next day, in school, Sue draws on the blackboard an accurate model, which demonstrates her remarkable powers of observation. That same day the school inspector pays a surprise visit to the school. Sue is very upset, due to her inexperience. Phillotson's protective instincts are aroused, and he revives Sue's spirits with brandy and encouraging words. A few days later Jude comes to visit her in the rain. He catches sight of Sue and Phillotson leaving the vicarage under one umbrella; Phillotson's arm is around Sue. He is overcome with jealousy and returns without calling on them. He knows Phillotson is about twenty years older than Sue and rues the fact that it was he who brought them together.


prompt:
Chapter: The schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school,
both being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old
house in which his teacher Sue had a lodging.  The arrangement had
been concluded very quickly.  A pupil-teacher who was to have been
transferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had
been taken as stop-gap.  All such provisional arrangements as these
could only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose
approval was necessary to make them permanent.  Having taught for
some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of
late, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought
there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he
already wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four
weeks.  He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her;
and what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who
saves him half his labour?

It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he
was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would
follow.  At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed
on her head; and he watched her as a curiosity.  A new emanation,
which had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to
surround her this morning.  He went to the school also, and Sue
remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day
under his eye.  She certainly was an excellent teacher.

It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening,
and some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable,
elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and
the taught were of different sexes.  Richard Phillotson thought of
the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough
to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat
down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house
Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing.  The regulation was,
indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the
dwelling.

Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working
at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile
at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive
all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong.  Phillotson was
not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel
way which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor.  Perhaps she
knew that he was thinking of her thus.

For a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in
itself was a delight to him.  Then it happened that the children were
to be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the
shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at
a penny a head in the interests of education.  They marched along
the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton
sunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson
behind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick
genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her
arrival.  The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they
entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves.
The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment,
and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his
features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the
young people the various quarters and places known to them by name
from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat,
the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there
was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white
cross.  The spot, he said, was Calvary.

"I think," said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a
little in the background, "that this model, elaborate as it is, is a
very imaginary production.  How does anybody know that Jerusalem was
like this in the time of Christ?  I am sure this man doesn't."

"It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits
to the city as it now exists."

"I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem," she said, "considering we
are not descended from the Jews.  There was nothing first-rate about
the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome,
Alexandria, and other old cities."

"But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!"

She was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived
behind the group of children clustered round the model a young man
in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent
inspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost
hidden from view by the Mount of Olives.  "Look at your cousin Jude,"
continued the schoolmaster.  "He doesn't think we have had enough of
Jerusalem!"

"Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice.
"Jude--how seriously you are going into it!"

Jude started up from his reverie, and saw her.  "Oh--Sue!" he said,
with a glad flush of embarrassment.  "These are your school-children,
of course!  I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and
thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't
remember where I was.  How it carries one back, doesn't it!  I could
examine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately;
for I am in the middle of a job out here."

"Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it
unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire.  "She is
quite sceptical as to its correctness."

"No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether!  I hate to be what is
called a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered
Sue sensitively.  "I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except
that it was what you don't understand!"

"_I_ know your meaning," said Jude ardently (although he did not).
"And I think you are quite right."

"That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!"  She impulsively
seized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster
turned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself
felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle.  She had not
the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at
this momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was
building up thereby in the futures of both.

The model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not
to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all
marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work.  He watched the
juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the
street towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad,
dissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives
had possession of him.  Phillotson had invited him to walk out
and see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to
give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the
opportunity.

Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next
day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was
surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective
view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place.

"I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at
it?" he said.

"I hardly did," said she, "but I remembered that much of it."

"It is more than I had remembered myself."

Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying
"surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching
unawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons,
the latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman,
the king of terrors--to pupil-teachers.

To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the
story, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared.
But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was
towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind
her and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware
of his presence.  She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment
had come.  The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a
cry of fright.  Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude
quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her
falling from faintness.  She soon recovered herself, and laughed;
but when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was
so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some
brandy to bring her round.  She found him holding her hand.

"You ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly, "that one of the
inspector's surprise-visits was imminent!  Oh, what shall I do!  Now
he'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be
disgraced for ever!"

"He won't do that, my dear little girl.  You are the best teacher
ever I had!"

He looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she
had upbraided him.  When she was better she went home.

Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday.  On
both Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence
of his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance
along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to
his room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind
on the page.  On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he
thought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set
out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet.  The trees overhead
deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him,
impressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he
knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her
than he was.

On turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that
greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming
out of the vicarage gate.  He was too far back for them to notice
him, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson.  The
latter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently
been paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected
with the school work.  And as they walked along the wet and deserted
lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist;
whereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it
remain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving.  She did
not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who
sank into the hedge like one struck with a blight.  There he remained
hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in,
Phillotson going on to the school hard by.

"Oh, he's too old for her--too old!" cried Jude in all the terrible
sickness of hopeless, handicapped love.

He could not interfere.  Was he not Arabella's?  He was unable to
go on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster.  Every
tread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account
stand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue.  Phillotson was perhaps
twenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made
in such conditions of age.  The ironical clinch to his sorrow was
given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the
schoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On Sunday Jude goes to Marygreen to visit Aunt Drusilla, who is now bed-ridden. He cannot help talking about Sue and Aunt Drusilla immediately warns him to stay away from his cousin. His aunt's nurse recounts tales about Sue as a child: her skill at recitation, her cleverness and her unconventional ways. Sue comes across as a fiercely independent child. Jude, on his way back to Christminster, meets some villagers who inquire as to whether he has succeeded in entering the university. They imply that such places are only for those with money. Jude is spurred to make inquiries at Christminster and writes to several masters of colleges for advice. He waits several days but on receiving no response becomes dejected. In the meantime he hears that Phillotson is moving to a bigger school in mid-Wessex, and Jude wonders what implications this transfer will have. Jude starts making indirect inquiries about entering the university and realizes that an open scholarship is the only solution. But he would need a good deal of coaching for that to be possible. He would not be able to compete with those who have had the benefit of trained teachers all their lives. Buying" his way into the university is impossible; it would take him fifteen years. The task seems hopeless and he realizes how impractical his illusions have been. He has been stumbling in the dark with his private study. Finally, one night he gets a note from one of the heads of a college. He advises Jude to stick to his own trade. Although he knows this is sensible advice, Jude is unable to accept it. In utter despair he goes out and starts drinking. He wanders about, enters a music-hall concert and realizes that there are two Christminsters: the population of students and teachers inhabiting the prestigious colleges which forbid him entry and the other Christminster, made of ordinary, common folk and workers. In a fit of rebellion he scrawls a few lines from Job on the walls of the college to which he was denied entry.


prompt:
Chapter: The stroke of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning he
laughed at his self-conceit. But the laugh was not a healthy one.
He re-read the letter from the master, and the wisdom in its lines,
which had at first exasperated him, chilled and depressed him now.
He saw himself as a fool indeed.

Deprived of the objects of both intellect and emotion, he could not
proceed to his work.  Whenever he felt reconciled to his fate as a
student, there came to disturb his calm his hopeless relations with
Sue.  That the one affined soul he had ever met was lost to him
through his marriage returned upon him with cruel persistency, till,
unable to bear it longer, he again rushed for distraction to the
real Christminster life.  He now sought it out in an obscure and
low-ceiled tavern up a court which was well known to certain worthies
of the place, and in brighter times would have interested him simply
by its quaintness.  Here he sat more or less all the day, convinced
that he was at bottom a vicious character, of whom it was hopeless to
expect anything.

In the evening the frequenters of the house dropped in one by one,
Jude still retaining his seat in the corner, though his money was all
spent, and he had not eaten anything the whole day except a biscuit.
He surveyed his gathering companions with all the equanimity
and philosophy of a man who has been drinking long and slowly,
and made friends with several: to wit, Tinker Taylor, a decayed
church-ironmonger who appeared to have been of a religious turn in
earlier years, but was somewhat blasphemous now; also a red-nosed
auctioneer; also two Gothic masons like himself, called Uncle Jim and
Uncle Joe.  There were present, too, some clerks, and a gown- and
surplice-maker's assistant; two ladies who sported moral characters
of various depths of shade, according to their company, nicknamed
"Bower o' Bliss" and "Freckles"; some horsey men "in the know"
of betting circles; a travelling actor from the theatre, and two
devil-may-care young men who proved to be gownless undergraduates;
they had slipped in by stealth to meet a man about bull-pups,
and stayed to drink and smoke short pipes with the racing gents
aforesaid, looking at their watches every now and then.

The conversation waxed general.  Christminster society was
criticized, the dons, magistrates, and other people in authority
being sincerely pitied for their shortcomings, while opinions on how
they ought to conduct themselves and their affairs to be properly
respected, were exchanged in a large-minded and disinterested manner.

Jude Fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery, and _aplomb_ of
a strong-brained fellow in liquor, threw in his remarks somewhat
peremptorily; and his aims having been what they were for so many
years, everything the others said turned upon his tongue, by a sort
of mechanical craze, to the subject of scholarship and study, the
extent of his own learning being dwelt upon with an insistence that
would have appeared pitiable to himself in his sane hours.

"I don't care a damn," he was saying, "for any provost, warden,
principal, fellow, or cursed master of arts in the university!  What
I know is that I'd lick 'em on their own ground if they'd give me a
chance, and show 'em a few things they are not up to yet!"

"Hear, hear!" said the undergraduates from the corner, where they
were talking privately about the pups.

"You always was fond o' books, I've heard," said Tinker Taylor, "and
I don't doubt what you state.  Now with me 'twas different.  I always
saw there was more to be learnt outside a book than in; and I took my
steps accordingly, or I shouldn't have been the man I am."

"You aim at the Church, I believe?" said Uncle Joe.  "If you are such
a scholar as to pitch yer hopes so high as that, why not give us a
specimen of your scholarship?  Canst say the Creed in Latin, man?
That was how they once put it to a chap down in my country."

"I should think so!" said Jude haughtily.

"Not he!  Like his conceit!" screamed one of the ladies.

"Just you shut up, Bower o' Bliss!" said one of the undergraduates.
"Silence!"  He drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rapped with it
on the counter, and announced, "The gentleman in the corner is going
to rehearse the Articles of his Belief, in the Latin tongue, for the
edification of the company."

"I won't!" said Jude.

"Yes--have a try!" said the surplice-maker.

"You can't!" said Uncle Joe.

"Yes, he can!" said Tinker Taylor.

"I'll swear I can!" said Jude.  "Well, come now, stand me a small
Scotch cold, and I'll do it straight off."

"That's a fair offer," said the undergraduate, throwing down the
money for the whisky.

The barmaid concocted the mixture with the bearing of a person
compelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species, and the
glass was handed across to Jude, who, having drunk the contents,
stood up and began rhetorically, without hesitation:

"_Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Factorem coeli et terrae,
visibilium omnium et invisibilium._"

"Good!  Excellent Latin!" cried one of the undergraduates, who,
however, had not the slightest conception of a single word.

A silence reigned among the rest in the bar, and the maid stood
still, Jude's voice echoing sonorously into the inner parlour, where
the landlord was dozing, and bringing him out to see what was going
on.  Jude had declaimed steadily ahead, and was continuing:

"_Crucifixus etiam pro nobis: sub Pontio Pilato passus, et sepultus
est.  Et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas._"

"That's the Nicene," sneered the second undergraduate.  "And we
wanted the Apostles'!"

"You didn't say so!  And every fool knows, except you, that the
Nicene is the most historic creed!"

"Let un go on, let un go on!" said the auctioneer.

But Jude's mind seemed to grow confused soon, and he could not get
on.  He put his hand to his forehead, and his face assumed an
expression of pain.

"Give him another glass--then he'll fetch up and get through it,"
said Tinker Taylor.

Somebody threw down threepence, the glass was handed, Jude stretched
out his arm for it without looking, and having swallowed the liquor,
went on in a moment in a revived voice, raising it as he neared the
end with the manner of a priest leading a congregation:

"_Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre
Filioque procedit.  Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et
conglorificatur.  Qui locutus est per prophetas.

"Et unam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam.  Confiteor unum
Baptisma in remissionem peccatorum.  Et exspecto Resurrectionem
mortuorum.  Et vitam venturi saeculi.  Amen._"

"Well done!" said several, enjoying the last word, as being the first
and only one they had recognized.

Then Jude seemed to shake the fumes from his brain, as he stared
round upon them.

"You pack of fools!" he cried.  "Which one of you knows whether I
have said it or no?  It might have been the Ratcatcher's Daughter
in double Dutch for all that your besotted heads can tell!  See what
I have brought myself to--the crew I have come among!"

The landlord, who had already had his license endorsed for harbouring
queer characters, feared a riot, and came outside the counter; but
Jude, in his sudden flash of reason, had turned in disgust and left
the scene, the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.

He hastened down the lane and round into the straight broad street,
which he followed till it merged in the highway, and all sound of his
late companions had been left behind.  Onward he still went, under
the influence of a childlike yearning for the one being in the world
to whom it seemed possible to fly--an unreasoning desire, whose ill
judgement was not apparent to him now.  In the course of an hour,
when it was between ten and eleven o'clock, he entered the village of
Lumsdon, and reaching the cottage, saw that a light was burning in
a downstairs room, which he assumed, rightly as it happened, to be
hers.

Jude stepped close to the wall, and tapped with his finger on the
pane, saying impatiently, "Sue, Sue!"

She must have recognized his voice, for the light disappeared from
the apartment, and in a second or two the door was unlocked and
opened, and Sue appeared with a candle in her hand.

"Is it Jude?  Yes, it is!  My dear, dear cousin, what's the matter?"

"Oh, I am--I couldn't help coming, Sue!" said he, sinking down upon
the doorstep.  "I am so wicked, Sue--my heart is nearly broken,
and I could not bear my life as it was!  So I have been drinking,
and blaspheming, or next door to it, and saying holy things in
disreputable quarters--repeating in idle bravado words which ought
never to be uttered but reverently!  Oh, do anything with me,
Sue--kill me--I don't care!  Only don't hate me and despise me like
all the rest of the world!"

"You are ill, poor dear!  No, I won't despise you; of course I won't!
Come in and rest, and let me see what I can do for you.  Now lean on
me, and don't mind."  With one hand holding the candle and the other
supporting him, she led him indoors, and placed him in the only easy
chair the meagrely furnished house afforded, stretching his feet upon
another, and pulling off his boots.  Jude, now getting towards his
sober senses, could only say, "Dear, dear Sue!" in a voice broken by
grief and contrition.

She asked him if he wanted anything to eat, but he shook his head.
Then telling him to go to sleep, and that she would come down early
in the morning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night
and ascended the stairs.

Almost immediately he fell into a heavy slumber, and did not wake
till dawn.  At first he did not know where he was, but by degrees his
situation cleared to him, and he beheld it in all the ghastliness
of a right mind.  She knew the worst of him--the very worst.  How
could he face her now?  She would soon be coming down to see about
breakfast, as she had said, and there would he be in all his shame
confronting her.  He could not bear the thought, and softly drawing
on his boots, and taking his hat from the nail on which she had hung
it, he slipped noiselessly out of the house.

His fixed idea was to get away to some obscure spot and hide, and
perhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him was Marygreen.
He called at his lodging in Christminster, where he found awaiting
him a note of dismissal from his employer; and having packed up he
turned his back upon the city that had been such a thorn in his
side, and struck southward into Wessex.  He had no money left in
his pocket, his small savings, deposited at one of the banks in
Christminster, having fortunately been left untouched.  To get to
Marygreen, therefore, his only course was walking; and the distance
being nearly twenty miles, he had ample time to complete on the way
the sobering process begun in him.

At some hour of the evening he reached Alfredston.  Here he pawned
his waistcoat, and having gone out of the town a mile or two, slept
under a rick that night.  At dawn he rose, shook off the hayseeds and
stems from his clothes, and started again, breasting the long white
road up the hill to the downs, which had been visible to him a long
way off, and passing the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved
his hopes years ago.

He reached the ancient hamlet while the people were at breakfast.
Weary and mud-bespattered, but quite possessed of his ordinary
clearness of brain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did so
what a poor Christ he made.  Seeing a trough of water near he bathed
his face, and went on to the cottage of his great-aunt, whom he found
breakfasting in bed, attended by the woman who lived with her.

"What--out o' work?" asked his relative, regarding him through eyes
sunken deep, under lids heavy as pot-covers, no other cause for his
tumbled appearance suggesting itself to one whose whole life had been
a struggle with material things.

"Yes," said Jude heavily.  "I think I must have a little rest."

Refreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his old room and lay down
in his shirt-sleeves, after the manner of the artizan.  He fell
asleep for a short while, and when he awoke it was as if he had
awakened in hell.  It WAS hell--"the hell of conscious failure," both
in ambition and in love.  He thought of that previous abyss into
which he had fallen before leaving this part of the country; the
deepest deep he had supposed it then; but it was not so deep as this.
That had been the breaking in of the outer bulwarks of his hope:
this was of his second line.

If he had been a woman he must have screamed under the nervous
tension which he was now undergoing.  But that relief being denied to
his virility, he clenched his teeth in misery, bringing lines about
his mouth like those in the Laocoon, and corrugations between his
brows.

A mournful wind blew through the trees, and sounded in the chimney
like the pedal notes of an organ.  Each ivy leaf overgrowing the wall
of the churchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned, pecked its
neighbour smartly, and the vane on the new Victorian-Gothic church in
the new spot had already begun to creak.  Yet apparently it was not
always the outdoor wind that made the deep murmurs; it was a voice.
He guessed its origin in a moment or two; the curate was praying with
his aunt in the adjoining room.  He remembered her speaking of him.
Presently the sounds ceased, and a step seemed to cross the landing.
Jude sat up, and shouted "Hoi!"

The step made for his door, which was open, and a man looked in.
It was a young clergyman.

"I think you are Mr. Highridge," said Jude.  "My aunt has mentioned
you more than once.  Well, here I am, just come home; a fellow gone
to the bad; though I had the best intentions in the world at one
time.  Now I am melancholy mad, what with drinking and one thing and
another."

Slowly Jude unfolded to the curate his late plans and movements, by
an unconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual and ambitious
side of his dream, and more upon the theological, though this had, up
till now, been merely a portion of the general plan of advancement.

"Now I know I have been a fool, and that folly is with me," added
Jude in conclusion.  "And I don't regret the collapse of my
university hopes one jot.  I wouldn't begin again if I were sure to
succeed.  I don't care for social success any more at all.  But I do
feel I should like to do some good thing; and I bitterly regret the
Church, and the loss of my chance of being her ordained minister."

The curate, who was a new man to this neighbourhood, had grown deeply
interested, and at last he said: "If you feel a real call to the
ministry, and I won't say from your conversation that you do not,
for it is that of a thoughtful and educated man, you might enter the
Church as a licentiate.  Only you must make up your mind to avoid
strong drink."

"I could avoid that easily enough, if I had any kind of hope to
support me!"

Part Third

AT MELCHESTER

   "For there was no other girl, O bridegroom,
    like her!"--SAPPHO (H. T. Wharton).

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next day, in a state of deep depression, Jude goes to a tavern and becomes very drunk. Wallowing in self-pity, he criticizes the university and its scholars and boasts of his own learning. When asked to prove his claims, he recites the Nicene Creed in Latin. He finally leaves the pub and goes out walking. Utterly dejected, he decides to visit Sue at Lumsdon, which he reaches late at night. Sue listens to him as he confesses his misdeeds. Then she encourages him to get some sleep. At dawn, Jude feels ashamed of having come to see her and decides to slip away. On returning to Christminster, he finds he has lost his job and decides to go to his aunt's house at Marygreen. Once there, he realizes his folly and has a talk with a clergyman who is visiting his aunt. The clergyman, Mr. Highridge, suggests that Jude could train to enter the church as a licentiate, rather attend the university.


prompt:
Chapter: It was a new idea--the ecclesiastical and altruistic life as distinct
from the intellectual and emulative life.  A man could preach and
do good to his fellow-creatures without taking double-firsts in the
schools of Christminster, or having anything but ordinary knowledge.
The old fancy which had led on to the culminating vision of the
bishopric had not been an ethical or theological enthusiasm at all,
but a mundane ambition masquerading in a surplice.  He feared that
his whole scheme had degenerated to, even though it might not have
originated in, a social unrest which had no foundation in the nobler
instincts; which was purely an artificial product of civilization.
There were thousands of young men on the same self-seeking track
at the present moment.  The sensual hind who ate, drank, and lived
carelessly with his wife through the days of his vanity was a more
likable being than he.

But to enter the Church in such an unscholarly way that he could not
in any probability rise to a higher grade through all his career than
that of the humble curate wearing his life out in an obscure village
or city slum--that might have a touch of goodness and greatness in
it; that might be true religion, and a purgatorial course worthy of
being followed by a remorseful man.

The favourable light in which this new thought showed itself by
contrast with his foregone intentions cheered Jude, as he sat there,
shabby and lonely; and it may be said to have given, during the next
few days, the _coup de grace_ to his intellectual career--a career
which had extended over the greater part of a dozen years.  He did
nothing, however, for some long stagnant time to advance his new
desire, occupying himself with little local jobs in putting up and
lettering headstones about the neighbouring villages, and submitting
to be regarded as a social failure, a returned purchase, by the
half-dozen or so of farmers and other country-people who condescended
to nod to him.

The human interest of the new intention--and a human interest is
indispensable to the most spiritual and self-sacrificing--was created
by a letter from Sue, bearing a fresh postmark.  She evidently
wrote with anxiety, and told very little about her own doings, more
than that she had passed some sort of examination for a Queen's
Scholarship, and was going to enter a training college at Melchester
to complete herself for the vocation she had chosen, partly by his
influence.  There was a theological college at Melchester; Melchester
was a quiet and soothing place, almost entirely ecclesiastical in its
tone; a spot where worldly learning and intellectual smartness had no
establishment; where the altruistic feeling that he did possess would
perhaps be more highly estimated than a brilliancy which he did not.

As it would be necessary that he should continue for a time to work
at his trade while reading up Divinity, which he had neglected at
Christminster for the ordinary classical grind, what better course
for him than to get employment at the further city, and pursue this
plan of reading?  That his excessive human interest in the new place
was entirely of Sue's making, while at the same time Sue was to be
regarded even less than formerly as proper to create it, had an
ethical contradictoriness to which he was not blind.  But that much
he conceded to human frailty, and hoped to learn to love her only as
a friend and kinswoman.

He considered that he might so mark out his coming years as to begin
his ministry at the age of thirty--an age which much attracted him as
being that of his exemplar when he first began to teach in Galilee.
This would allow him plenty of time for deliberate study, and for
acquiring capital by his trade to help his aftercourse of keeping the
necessary terms at a theological college.

Christmas had come and passed, and Sue had gone to the Melchester
Normal School.  The time was just the worst in the year for Jude to
get into new employment, and he had written suggesting to her that
he should postpone his arrival for a month or so, till the days had
lengthened.  She had acquiesced so readily that he wished he had not
proposed it--she evidently did not much care about him, though she
had never once reproached him for his strange conduct in coming to
her that night, and his silent disappearance.  Neither had she ever
said a word about her relations with Mr. Phillotson.

Suddenly, however, quite a passionate letter arrived from Sue.
She was quite lonely and miserable, she told him.  She hated the
place she was in; it was worse than the ecclesiastical designer's;
worse than anywhere.  She felt utterly friendless; could he come
immediately?--though when he did come she would only be able to
see him at limited times, the rules of the establishment she found
herself in being strict to a degree.  It was Mr. Phillotson who had
advised her to come there, and she wished she had never listened to
him.

Phillotson's suit was not exactly prospering, evidently; and Jude
felt unreasonably glad.  He packed up his things and went to
Melchester with a lighter heart than he had known for months.

This being the turning over a new leaf he duly looked about for
a temperance hotel, and found a little establishment of that
description in the street leading from the station.  When he had
had something to eat he walked out into the dull winter light over
the town bridge, and turned the corner towards the Close.  The
day was foggy, and standing under the walls of the most graceful
architectural pile in England he paused and looked up.  The lofty
building was visible as far as the roofridge; above, the dwindling
spire rose more and more remotely, till its apex was quite lost in
the mist drifting across it.

The lamps now began to be lighted, and turning to the west front
he walked round.  He took it as a good omen that numerous blocks
of stone were lying about, which signified that the cathedral was
undergoing restoration or repair to a considerable extent.  It seemed
to him, full of the superstitions of his beliefs, that this was an
exercise of forethought on the part of a ruling Power, that he might
find plenty to do in the art he practised while waiting for a call to
higher labours.

Then a wave of warmth came over him as he thought how near he now
stood to the bright-eyed vivacious girl with the broad forehead
and pile of dark hair above it; the girl with the kindling glance,
daringly soft at times--something like that of the girls he had
seen in engravings from paintings of the Spanish school.  She was
here--actually in this Close--in one of the houses confronting this
very west facade.

He went down the broad gravel path towards the building.  It was
an ancient edifice of the fifteenth century, once a palace, now
a training-school, with mullioned and transomed windows, and a
courtyard in front shut in from the road by a wall.  Jude opened the
gate and went up to the door through which, on inquiring for his
cousin, he was gingerly admitted to a waiting-room, and in a few
minutes she came.

Though she had been here such a short while, she was not as he had
seen her last.  All her bounding manner was gone; her curves of
motion had become subdued lines.  The screens and subtleties of
convention had likewise disappeared.  Yet neither was she quite the
woman who had written the letter that summoned him.  That had plainly
been dashed off in an impulse which second thoughts had somewhat
regretted; thoughts that were possibly of his recent self-disgrace.
Jude was quite overcome with emotion.

"You don't--think me a demoralized wretch--for coming to you as I
was--and going so shamefully, Sue?"

"Oh, I have tried not to!  You said enough to let me know what had
caused it.  I hope I shall never have any doubt of your worthiness,
my poor Jude!  And I am glad you have come!"

She wore a murrey-coloured gown with a little lace collar.  It was
made quite plain, and hung about her slight figure with clinging
gracefulness.  Her hair, which formerly she had worn according to the
custom of the day was now twisted up tightly, and she had altogether
the air of a woman clipped and pruned by severe discipline,
an under-brightness shining through from the depths which that
discipline had not yet been able to reach.

She had come forward prettily, but Jude felt that she had hardly
expected him to kiss her, as he was burning to do, under other
colours than those of cousinship.  He could not perceive the least
sign that Sue regarded him as a lover, or ever would do so, now that
she knew the worst of him, even if he had the right to behave as one;
and this helped on his growing resolve to tell her of his matrimonial
entanglement, which he had put off doing from time to time in sheer
dread of losing the bliss of her company.

Sue came out into the town with him, and they walked and talked with
tongues centred only on the passing moments.  Jude said he would like
to buy her a little present of some sort, and then she confessed,
with something of shame, that she was dreadfully hungry.  They were
kept on very short allowances in the college, and a dinner, tea, and
supper all in one was the present she most desired in the world.
Jude thereupon took her to an inn and ordered whatever the house
afforded, which was not much.  The place, however, gave them a
delightful opportunity for a _tete-a-tete_, nobody else being in the
room, and they talked freely.

She told him about the school as it was at that date, and the rough
living, and the mixed character of her fellow-students, gathered
together from all parts of the diocese, and how she had to get up and
work by gas-light in the early morning, with all the bitterness of
a young person to whom restraint was new.  To all this he listened;
but it was not what he wanted especially to know--her relations with
Phillotson.  That was what she did not tell.  When they had sat and
eaten, Jude impulsively placed his hand upon hers; she looked up
and smiled, and took his quite freely into her own little soft one,
dividing his fingers and coolly examining them, as if they were the
fingers of a glove she was purchasing.

"Your hands are rather rough, Jude, aren't they?" she said.

"Yes.  So would yours be if they held a mallet and chisel all day."

"I don't dislike it, you know.  I think it is noble to see a man's
hands subdued to what he works in...  Well, I'm rather glad I came
to this training-school, after all.  See how independent I shall be
after the two years' training!  I shall pass pretty high, I expect,
and Mr. Phillotson will use his influence to get me a big school."

She had touched the subject at last.  "I had a suspicion, a fear,"
said Jude, "that he--cared about you rather warmly, and perhaps
wanted to marry you."

"Now don't be such a silly boy!"

"He has said something about it, I expect."

"If he had, what would it matter?  An old man like him!"

"Oh, come, Sue; he's not so very old.  And I know what I saw him
doing--"

"Not kissing me--that I'm certain!"

"No. But putting his arm round your waist."

"Ah--I remember.  But I didn't know he was going to."

"You are wriggling out if it, Sue, and it isn't quite kind!"

Her ever-sensitive lip began to quiver, and her eye to blink, at
something this reproof was deciding her to say.

"I know you'll be angry if I tell you everything, and that's why I
don't want to!"

"Very well, then, dear," he said soothingly.  "I have no real right
to ask you, and I don't wish to know."

"I shall tell you!" said she, with the perverseness that was
part of her.  "This is what I have done: I have promised--I
have promised--that I will marry him when I come out of the
training-school two years hence, and have got my certificate; his
plan being that we shall then take a large double school in a great
town--he the boys' and I the girls'--as married school-teachers often
do, and make a good income between us."

"Oh, Sue! ...  But of course it is right--you couldn't have done
better!"

He glanced at her and their eyes met, the reproach in his own belying
his words.  Then he drew his hand quite away from hers, and turned
his face in estrangement from her to the window.  Sue regarded him
passively without moving.

"I knew you would be angry!" she said with an air of no emotion
whatever.  "Very well--I am wrong, I suppose!  I ought not to have
let you come to see me!  We had better not meet again; and we'll only
correspond at long intervals, on purely business matters!"

This was just the one thing he would not be able to bear, as she
probably knew, and it brought him round at once.  "Oh yes, we will,"
he said quickly.  "Your being engaged can make no difference to me
whatever.  I have a perfect right to see you when I want to; and I
shall!"

"Then don't let us talk of it any more.  It is quite spoiling our
evening together.  What does it matter about what one is going to do
two years hence!"

She was something of a riddle to him, and he let the subject drift
away.  "Shall we go and sit in the cathedral?" he asked, when their
meal was finished.

"Cathedral?  Yes.  Though I think I'd rather sit in the railway
station," she answered, a remnant of vexation still in her voice.
"That's the centre of the town life now.  The cathedral has had its
day!"

"How modern you are!"

"So would you be if you had lived so much in the Middle Ages as I
have done these last few years!  The cathedral was a very good place
four or five centuries ago; but it is played out now...  I am not
modern, either.  I am more ancient than mediaevalism, if you only
knew."

Jude looked distressed.

"There--I won't say any more of that!" she cried.  "Only you don't
know how bad I am, from your point of view, or you wouldn't think so
much of me, or care whether I was engaged or not.  Now there's just
time for us to walk round the Close, then I must go in, or I shall be
locked out for the night."

He took her to the gate and they parted.  Jude had a conviction that
his unhappy visit to her on that sad night had precipitated this
marriage engagement, and it did anything but add to his happiness.
Her reproach had taken that shape, then, and not the shape of words.
However, next day he set about seeking employment, which it was not
so easy to get as at Christminster, there being, as a rule, less
stone-cutting in progress in this quiet city, and hands being mostly
permanent.  But he edged himself in by degrees.  His first work was
some carving at the cemetery on the hill; and ultimately he became
engaged on the labour he most desired--the cathedral repairs, which
were very extensive, the whole interior stonework having been
overhauled, to be largely replaced by new.  It might be a labour of
years to get it all done, and he had confidence enough in his own
skill with the mallet and chisel to feel that it would be a matter of
choice with himself how long he would stay.

The lodgings he took near the Close Gate would not have disgraced a
curate, the rent representing a higher percentage on his wages than
mechanics of any sort usually care to pay.  His combined bed and
sitting-room was furnished with framed photographs of the rectories
and deaneries at which his landlady had lived as trusted servant in
her time, and the parlour downstairs bore a clock on the mantelpiece
inscribed to the effect that it was presented to the same
serious-minded woman by her fellow-servants on the occasion of her
marriage.  Jude added to the furniture of his room by unpacking
photographs of the ecclesiastical carvings and monuments that he
had executed with his own hands; and he was deemed a satisfactory
acquisition as tenant of the vacant apartment.

He found an ample supply of theological books in the city book-shops,
and with these his studies were recommenced in a different spirit and
direction from his former course.  As a relaxation from the Fathers,
and such stock works as Paley and Butler, he read Newman, Pusey, and
many other modern lights.  He hired a harmonium, set it up in his
lodging, and practised chants thereon, single and double.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On Sunday Jude goes to Marygreen to visit Aunt Drusilla, who is now bed-ridden. He cannot help talking about Sue and Aunt Drusilla immediately warns him to stay away from his cousin. His aunt's nurse recounts tales about Sue as a child: her skill at recitation, her cleverness and her unconventional ways. Sue comes across as a fiercely independent child. Jude, on his way back to Christminster, meets some villagers who inquire as to whether he has succeeded in entering the university. They imply that such places are only for those with money. Jude is spurred to make inquiries at Christminster and writes to several masters of colleges for advice. He waits several days but on receiving no response becomes dejected. In the meantime he hears that Phillotson is moving to a bigger school in mid-Wessex, and Jude wonders what implications this transfer will have. Jude starts making indirect inquiries about entering the university and realizes that an open scholarship is the only solution. But he would need a good deal of coaching for that to be possible. He would not be able to compete with those who have had the benefit of trained teachers all their lives. "Buying" his way into the university is impossible; it would take him fifteen years. The task seems hopeless and he realizes how impractical his illusions have been. He has been stumbling in the dark with his private study. Finally, one night he gets a note from one of the heads of a college. He advises Jude to stick to his own trade. Although he knows this is sensible advice, Jude is unable to accept it. In utter despair he goes out and starts drinking. He wanders about, enters a music-hall concert and realizes that there are two Christminsters: the population of students and teachers inhabiting the prestigious colleges which forbid him entry and the other Christminster, made of ordinary, common folk and workers. In a fit of rebellion he scrawls a few lines from Job on the walls of the college to which he was denied entry.


prompt:
Chapter: "To-morrow is our grand day, you know.  Where shall we go?"

"I have leave from three till nine.  Wherever we can get to and come
back from in that time.  Not ruins, Jude--I don't care for them."

"Well--Wardour Castle.  And then we can do Fonthill if we like--all
in the same afternoon."

"Wardour is Gothic ruins--and I hate Gothic!"

"No.  Quite otherwise.  It is a classic building--Corinthian, I
think; with a lot of pictures."

"Ah--that will do.  I like the sound of Corinthian.  We'll go."

Their conversation had run thus some few weeks later, and next
morning they prepared to start.  Every detail of the outing was
a facet reflecting a sparkle to Jude, and he did not venture to
meditate on the life of inconsistency he was leading.  His Sue's
conduct was one lovely conundrum to him; he could say no more.

There duly came the charm of calling at the college door for her; her
emergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that was rather enforced
than desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porters'
"B'your leave!," the screaming of the trains--everything formed the
basis of a beautiful crystallization.  Nobody stared at Sue, because
she was so plainly dressed, which comforted Jude in the thought that
only himself knew the charms those habiliments subdued.  A matter
of ten pounds spent in a drapery-shop, which had no connection
with her real life or her real self, would have set all Melchester
staring.  The guard of the train thought they were lovers, and put
them into a compartment all by themselves.

"That's a good intention wasted!" said she.

Jude did not respond.  He thought the remark unnecessarily cruel,
and partly untrue.

They reached the park and castle and wandered through the
picture-galleries, Jude stopping by preference in front of the
devotional pictures by Del Sarto, Guido Reni, Spagnoletto,
Sassoferrato, Carlo Dolci, and others.  Sue paused patiently beside
him, and stole critical looks into his face as, regarding the
Virgins, Holy Families, and Saints, it grew reverent and abstracted.
When she had thoroughly estimated him at this, she would move on and
wait for him before a Lely or Reynolds.  It was evident that her
cousin deeply interested her, as one might be interested in a man
puzzling out his way along a labyrinth from which one had one's self
escaped.

When they came out a long time still remained to them and Jude
proposed that as soon as they had had something to eat they should
walk across the high country to the north of their present position,
and intercept the train of another railway leading back to
Melchester, at a station about seven miles off.  Sue, who was
inclined for any adventure that would intensify the sense of her
day's freedom, readily agreed; and away they went, leaving the
adjoining station behind them.

It was indeed open country, wide and high.  They talked and bounded
on, Jude cutting from a little covert a long walking-stick for Sue
as tall as herself, with a great crook, which made her look like a
shepherdess.  About half-way on their journey they crossed a main
road running due east and west--the old road from London to Land's
End.  They paused, and looked up and down it for a moment, and
remarked upon the desolation which had come over this once lively
thoroughfare, while the wind dipped to earth and scooped straws and
hay-stems from the ground.

They crossed the road and passed on, but during the next half-mile
Sue seemed to grow tired, and Jude began to be distressed for her.
They had walked a good distance altogether, and if they could not
reach the other station it would be rather awkward.  For a long
time there was no cottage visible on the wide expanse of down and
turnip-land; but presently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the
shepherd, pitching hurdles.  He told them that the only house near
was his mother's and his, pointing to a little dip ahead from which a
faint blue smoke arose, and recommended them to go on and rest there.

This they did, and entered the house, admitted by an old woman
without a single tooth, to whom they were as civil as strangers can
be when their only chance of rest and shelter lies in the favour of
the householder.

"A nice little cottage," said Jude.

"Oh, I don't know about the niceness.  I shall have to thatch it
soon, and where the thatch is to come from I can't tell, for straw do
get that dear, that 'twill soon be cheaper to cover your house wi'
chainey plates than thatch."

They sat resting, and the shepherd came in.  "Don't 'ee mind I," he
said with a deprecating wave of the hand; "bide here as long as ye
will.  But mid you be thinking o' getting back to Melchester to-night
by train?  Because you'll never do it in this world, since you don't
know the lie of the country.  I don't mind going with ye some o' the
ways, but even then the train mid be gone."

They started up.

"You can bide here, you know, over the night--can't 'em, Mother?
The place is welcome to ye.  'Tis hard lying, rather, but volk may do
worse."  He turned to Jude and asked privately: "Be you a married
couple?"

"Hsh--no!" said Jude.

"Oh--I meant nothing ba'dy--not I!  Well then, she can go into
Mother's room, and you and I can lie in the outer chimmer after
they've gone through.  I can call ye soon enough to catch the first
train back.  You've lost this one now."

On consideration they decided to close with this offer, and drew up
and shared with the shepherd and his mother the boiled bacon and
greens for supper.

"I rather like this," said Sue, while their entertainers were
clearing away the dishes.  "Outside all laws except gravitation and
germination."

"You only think you like it; you don't: you are quite a product of
civilization," said Jude, a recollection of her engagement reviving
his soreness a little.

"Indeed I am not, Jude.  I like reading and all that, but I crave to
get back to the life of my infancy and its freedom."

"Do you remember it so well?  You seem to me to have nothing
unconventional at all about you."

"Oh, haven't I!  You don't know what's inside me."

"What?"

"The Ishmaelite."

"An urban miss is what you are."

She looked severe disagreement, and turned away.

The shepherd aroused them the next morning, as he had said.  It was
bright and clear, and the four miles to the train were accomplished
pleasantly.  When they had reached Melchester, and walked to the
Close, and the gables of the old building in which she was again to
be immured rose before Sue's eyes, she looked a little scared.  "I
expect I shall catch it!" she murmured.

They rang the great bell and waited.

"Oh, I bought something for you, which I had nearly forgotten," she
said quickly, searching her pocket.  "It is a new little photograph
of me.  Would you like it?"

"WOULD I!"  He took it gladly, and the porter came.  There seemed to
be an ominous glance on his face when he opened the gate.  She passed
in, looking back at Jude, and waving her hand.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Some weeks later Jude and Sue go by train from Melchester for an afternoon's outing to Wardour Castle. While wandering through the picture galleries, Jude is fascinated by the religious paintings of del Sarto, Guido Reni, Dolci and others. Sue is more interested in Lely and Reynolds. They decide to walk over the hills to another station to catch the train back, but they walk further than planned and stop at a shepherd's cottage to rest. They are told they have missed the train and they are offered accommodation for the night. When told they are not married, the shepherd arranges separate bedrooms for them. The next morning they return to Melchester. Sue is worried at having stayed away overnight without permission. She gives Jude a very recent photograph of herself. The college porter receives her with a questioning look.