THOMAS HARDY’s final novel, Jude the Obscure (1895), was ahead of its time in more ways than one. Upon its publication, it provoked controversy with its explicit criticism of organised religion and traditional marriage, leading to book burnings and public criticism.

Hardy attributed the public criticism to his retirement from novel writing. He had already courted controversy in the literary establishment a few years earlier by describing the unmarried mother who (spoiler alert) goes on to commit murder at the centre of Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1891) as “a pure woman.” But Jude the Obscure was his most searing attack yet on the hypocrisies of late Victorian society.

The novel’s apparent endorsement of free love, and damning portrait of conventional marriage, alienated many readers including — perhaps unsurprisingly — Hardy’s wife, with whom the novel caused an irreparable breach.

This article is part of Rethinking the Classics. The stories in this series offer insightful new ways to think about and interpret classic books and artworks. This is the canon — with a twist.

There’s no getting away from it, the story is something of a downer. It’s the tale of a young man — the “obscure” Jude — whose life starts off hard and gets harder as he faces a string of obstacles in the pursuit of his dreams. And he is a dreamer.

The novel opens with a young Jude being introduced to the idea of a university education, as his beloved schoolteacher leaves him for the dreaming spires of Oxford (called Christminster in the novel). Gazing at the “mirage” of the cityscape on the horizon and captivated by the idea of this “beautiful city,” Jude is immediately cautioned by his guardian that it “is a place much too good for you.”

As the somewhat bleak title suggests, this is a story about alienation and social exclusion. Unperturbed by the ominous warnings, the working-class Jude seeks to prepare himself for a university education by self-educating, using borrowed textbooks to teach himself Ancient Greek and Latin and studying diligently for many years.

As a young man, working as a stonemason in Christminster, Jude is determined to prove that universities are not, as he is told, “only for them with plenty o’ money.” He writes to the university, seeking advice on how to further his ambition of studying with them. The answer, when it comes, is crushing. Jude is advised that “as a working-man … [he] will have a better chance of success in life by remaining in [his] own sphere and sticking to [his] trade.”

In one of the most visceral images in the book, Jude responds by scrawling on the outside walls of the university: “I have understanding as well as you. I am not inferior to you.”

Sadly, this act of protest is still resonant today. As Jude understands, education is a path to social mobility. His impassioned defence of his own worth, as a scholar and as a human being, highlights the barriers faced by economically disadvantaged young people.

In today’s society, it is unlikely that any hopeful student would receive such overt “stay in your lane” advice. Contemporary higher education aspires to a culture of widening participation, in which students from traditionally underrepresented groups are encouraged through outreach initiatives, contextual offers (in which applicants from disadvantaged backgrounds are given slightly lower grade requirements) and scholarships to apply to university.

Well-publicised schemes such as the Stormzy Scholarships, which seek to make University of Cambridge degrees more affordable for black students, have the explicit aim of redressing historical inequalities to make the university admissions process a more equitable system.

However, inequalities persist. Students from the poorest backgrounds are still drastically underrepresented at the UK’s most elite universities. Admissions statistics show that at Oxford, the object of Jude’s ambitions, applicants from fee-paying schools are more likely to be accepted than those from state schools.

Factor in, too, the increasingly eye-watering costs of living for students and, despite years of effort, the danger is that a university education remains the preserve of “them with plenty o’ money.”

As Hardy shows in the novel, the consequences can be devastating. While on a population level it results in stagnating social mobility, on a personal level the frustrations associated with the failure to fulfil your potential are profound, and the practical implications of being forced to remain in a position of economic dependence are severe.

Jude’s persistent reliance on the goodwill of others, and his struggles to provide for his growing family, all stem from his exclusion from the opportunity to raise his social position.

As his desperate scrawls on the walls of the university argue, access to higher education should be for those with merit, not money. Some 130 years on from the publication of Hardy’s novel, it seems work still needs to be done, lest we risk future generations falling into obscurity.

Shelley Galpin is a lecturer in Culture, Media and Creative Industries, King’s College London
This is an abridged version of an article republished from the Conversation under a Creative Commons license

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