I would always rather be happy than dignified.
As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in
his iron silence all he felt towards me: the disappointment of an
austere and despotic nature, which has met resistance where it expected
submission—the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which has
detected in another feelings and views in which it has no power to
sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me into
obedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with
my perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection and
repentance.
That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to
forget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence.
I—who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him—was hurt by
the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.
“I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,” said Diana,
“during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in
the passage expecting you—he will make it up.”
I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather
be happy than dignified; and I ran after him—he stood at the foot of
the stairs.
“Good-night, St. John,” said I.
“Good-night, Jane,” he replied calmly.
“Then shake hands,” I added.
What a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply
displeased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm,
nor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had with him—no
cheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian was patient
and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that he
was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he
had nothing to forgive, not having been offended.
And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me
down.
CHAPTER XXXV
He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would.
He deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me
feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet
implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him.
I am not an angel, I asserted; and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me - for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.
“This
very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must
choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in
four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down
below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a
brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun:
to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is
famous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the
life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison
with others.”
“Shall I travel?—and with you, sir?”
“You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and
Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you:
wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten
years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and
rage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with
a very angel as my comforter.”
I laughed at him as he said this. “I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and
I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must
neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get
it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all
anticipate.”
“What do you anticipate of me?”
“For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,—a very little
while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious;
and then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you:
but when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me
again,—_like_ me, I say, not _love_ me. I suppose your love will
effervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by
men, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband’s ardour
extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to
become quite distasteful to my dear master.”
“Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, and
yet again: and I will make you confess I do not only _like_, but _love_
you—with truth, fervour, constancy.”
“Yet are you not capricious, sir?”
“To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I
find out they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a
perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility,
coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue,
to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not
break—at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent—I am ever
tender and true.
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!
I have talked,
face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,—with an
original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.
Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I
absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of
departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”
“Where do you see the necessity?” he asked suddenly.
“Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.”
“In what shape?”
“In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,—your bride.”
“My bride! What bride? I have no bride!”
“But you will have.”
“Yes;—I will!—I will!” He set his teeth.
“Then I must go:—you have said it yourself.”
“No: you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be kept.”
“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion.
“Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an
automaton?—a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel
of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from
my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I
am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as
you,—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty
and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as
it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the
medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;—it is my
spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through
the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”
“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester—“so,” he added, enclosing me in his
arms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so,
Jane!”
“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married
man—or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you—to one
with whom you have no sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love;
for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union:
therefore I am better than you—let me go!”
“Where, Jane? To Ireland?”
“Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”
“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is
rending its own plumage in its desperation.”
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an
independent will, which I now exert to leave you.
Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.
But I’ll
shut up Thornfield Hall: I’ll nail up the front door and board the
lower windows: I’ll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here
with _my wife_, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for
money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to
bear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when
_my wife_ is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at
night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on—”
“Sir,” I interrupted him, “you are inexorable for that unfortunate
lady: you speak of her with hate—with vindictive antipathy. It is
cruel—she cannot help being mad.”
“Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you
don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not
because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should
hate you?”
“I do indeed, sir.”
“Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing
about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh
is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be
dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my
treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a
strait waistcoat—your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me:
if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should
receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive.
I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your
quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I
could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no
smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they
had no longer a ray of recognition for me.—But why do I follow that
train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you
know, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only
ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then,
farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair
to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from
unwelcome intrusion—even from falsehood and slander.
I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, great and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at
the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the
ladies.
No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I
might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn
involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under control:
they would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked, and had an
acute pleasure in looking,—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold,
with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing
man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned,
yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.
Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s
colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows,
deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision,
will,—were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than
beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite
mastered me,—that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them
in his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought
hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and
now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived,
green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the
Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—even the military
distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith
and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their
expression: yet I could imagine that most observers would call them
attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.
Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them
smile, laugh—it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul
in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as
their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:—his stern features softened;
his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and
sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I
wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so
penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under
it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.
All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.
He does not love me: I do not
love him. He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a
beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only
because he thought I should make a suitable missionary’s wife, which
she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me,
cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his
side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me—no
fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth—only a few
useful mental points.—Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him?”
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind
but beloved master. He smiled.
“What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between
you and Rivers?”
“Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a
little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than
grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I
_do_ love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours,
sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to
exile the rest of me from your presence for ever.”
Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.
“My seared vision! My crippled strength!” he murmured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and
wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a
minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle
down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
“I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in
Thornfield orchard,” he remarked ere long. “And what right would that
ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?”
“You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: you are green and
vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or
not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they
grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your
strength offers them so safe a prop.”
Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.
“You speak of friends, Jane?” he asked.
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way:
fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly,
extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some
minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some fear—or hope—that
here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and
knees, and then again raised to my feet—as eager and as determined as
ever to reach the road.
When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and
while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up and
lifted my hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the driver
named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no
connections. I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said
thirty shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to
make it do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the
vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never
shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May
you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in
that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the
instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me
down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the
sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the
world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment
I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the
coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it
must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set
up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at
a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the
nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription,
distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known
names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a
north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I
see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are
waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet.
I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me absurd, selfish -- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.
Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you
shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.”
He replied not: he seemed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened
his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little
embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities;
and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had
indeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me
to be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because
unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his
own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance
becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been
all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began
gently to withdraw myself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched me
closer.
“No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt
the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation: I
cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself—I must have
you. The world may laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not
signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will
take deadly vengeance on its frame.”
“Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.”
“Yes—but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand
another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and
chair—to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an
affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make
sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no
doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for
you: do you think so? Come—tell me.”
“I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse,
if you think it better.”
“But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young—you must marry
one day.”
“I don’t care about being married.”
“You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make
you care—but—a sightless block!”
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful,
and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where
the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite
relieved from my previous embarrassment.
It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I cant do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still. Because, he said, I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land some broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then Ive a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, - youd forget me.
O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck
cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam,
destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side
I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean—wealth,
caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably
loved.
“It is a long way,” I again said.
“It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught,
Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that’s morally certain. I
never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the
country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the
little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we’ll talk
over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the
stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the
chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit
there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit
there together.” He seated me and himself.
“It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little
friend on such weary travels: but if I can’t do better, how is it to be
helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?”
I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.
“Because,” he said, “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to
you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string
somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a
similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little
frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of
land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be
snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding
inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”
“That I _never_ should, sir: you know—” Impossible to proceed.
“Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!”
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured
no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot
with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an
impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
“Because you are sorry to leave it?”
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was
claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right
to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,—and
to speak.
“I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:—I love it, because I
have lived in it a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. I
have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been
buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of
communion with what is bright and energetic and high.
It does good to no woman to be flattered [by a man] who does not intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis-fatuus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,
wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night—of the
general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight
past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way, a
plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and
rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgment to this effect:—
That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of
life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet
lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
“_You_,” I said, “a favourite with Mr. Rochester? _You_ gifted with the
power of pleasing him? _You_ of importance to him in any way? Go! your
folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens
of preference—equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man
of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid
dupe!—Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to
yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?—Cover your face
and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind
puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed
senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her
superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in
all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned
and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and
responded to, must lead, _ignis-fatuus_-like, into miry wilds whence
there is no extrication.
“Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass
before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without
softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing
irregularity; write under it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected,
poor, and plain.’
“Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one prepared in your
drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest
tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate
carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest
shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs.
Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental
eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!—no
sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall
the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let
the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit
neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,
aërial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call
it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.
Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you dont know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?I do indeed, sir.Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat--your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.
Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but
to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect
assassination, even of what I most hate.
“Concealing the mad-woman’s neighbourhood from you, however, was
something like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a
upas-tree: that demon’s vicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I’ll
shut up Thornfield Hall: I’ll nail up the front door and board the
lower windows: I’ll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here
with _my wife_, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for
money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to
bear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when
_my wife_ is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at
night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on—”
“Sir,” I interrupted him, “you are inexorable for that unfortunate
lady: you speak of her with hate—with vindictive antipathy. It is
cruel—she cannot help being mad.”
“Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you
don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not
because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should
hate you?”
“I do indeed, sir.”
“Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing
about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh
is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be
dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my
treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a
strait waistcoat—your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me:
if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should
receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive.
I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your
quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I
could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no
smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they
had no longer a ray of recognition for me.—But why do I follow that
train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you
know, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only
ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then,
farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair
to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from
unwelcome intrusion—even from falsehood and slander.”
“And take Adèle with you, sir,” I interrupted; “she will be a companion
for you.”
“What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adèle to school; and
what do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own child,—a
French dancer’s bastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say, why
do you assign Adèle to me for a companion?”
“You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull:
too dull for you.”
“Solitude! solitude!” he reiterated with irritation. “I see I must come
to an explanation. I don’t know what sphynx-like expression is forming
in your countenance.
I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest -- blest beyond what language can express because I am my husbands life as fully as he is mine.
I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this
impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another—my
husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more
indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often,
and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for
anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her
new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her
studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great
measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a
pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and
well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long
since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to
offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of
married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names
have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely
for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely
blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s
life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than
I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I
know no weariness of my Edward’s society: he knows none of mine, any
more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our
separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is
for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We
talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more
animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him,
all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in
character—perfect concord is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps
it was that circumstance that drew us so very near—that knit us so very
close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand.
Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw
nature—he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his
behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town,
river, cloud, sunbeam—of the landscape before us; of the weather round
us—and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp
on his eye.
I knew, you would do me good, in some way, at some time;- I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not- (again he stopped)- did not (he proceeded hastily) strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing.
He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to
go.
“What!” he exclaimed, “are you quitting me already, and in that way?”
“You said I might go, sir.”
“But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of
acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry
fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched me from a horrible and
excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual
strangers! At least shake hands.”
He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, then in
both his own.
“You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a
debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been
tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation:
but you: it is different;—I feel your benefits no burden, Jane.”
He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,—but
his voice was checked.
“Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation,
in the case.”
“I knew,” he continued, “you would do me good in some way, at some
time;—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression
and smile did not”—(again he stopped)—“did not” (he proceeded hastily)
“strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of
natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of
truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, good-night!”
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.
“I am glad I happened to be awake,” I said: and then I was going.
“What! you _will_ go?”
“I am cold, sir.”
“Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!” But he still
retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an
expedient.
“I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,” said I.
“Well, leave me:” he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I
was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble
rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild
waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a
freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards
the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counteracting
breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest - blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husbands life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edwards society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character - perfect concord is the result.
I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this
impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another—my
husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more
indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often,
and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for
anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her
new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her
studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great
measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a
pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and
well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long
since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to
offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of
married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names
have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely
for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely
blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s
life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than
I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I
know no weariness of my Edward’s society: he knows none of mine, any
more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our
separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is
for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We
talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more
animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him,
all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in
character—perfect concord is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps
it was that circumstance that drew us so very near—that knit us so very
close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand.
Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw
nature—he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his
behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town,
river, cloud, sunbeam—of the landscape before us; of the weather round
us—and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp
on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of
conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished
to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most
exquisite, even though sad—because he claimed these services without
painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he
knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him
so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest
wishes.
Most true is it that beauty is in the eye of the gazer. My master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth, — all energy, decision, will, — were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me, — that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I
try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes
of the purse I am forming—I wish to think only of the work I have in my
hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my
lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall
the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he
deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down
on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager
to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached
him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change his
and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we
were! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to
me. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at
the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the
ladies.
No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I
might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn
involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under control:
they would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked, and had an
acute pleasure in looking,—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold,
with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing
man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned,
yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.
Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s
colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows,
deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision,
will,—were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than
beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite
mastered me,—that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them
in his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought
hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and
now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived,
green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the
Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—even the military
distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith
and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their
expression: yet I could imagine that most observers would call them
attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.
Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them
smile, laugh—it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul
in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as
their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:—his stern features softened;
his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and
sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I
wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so
penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under
it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.
Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
”
“As you do, Bessie?”
“I don’t dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all
the others.”
“You don’t show it.”
“You little sharp thing! you’ve got quite a new way of talking. What
makes you so venturesome and hardy?”
“Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides”—I was going to say
something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but on second
thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that head.
“And so you’re glad to leave me?”
“Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.”
“Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say
now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say
you’d _rather_ not.”
“I’ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.” Bessie stooped; we
mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted.
That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie
told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her
sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
CHAPTER V
Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,
when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and
nearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had
washed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just
setting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I
was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates
at six A.M. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in
the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children
can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I.
Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled
milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a
paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse
and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the
nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in
and bid Missis good-bye?
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy, their practical
sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended
Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I
must thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are
certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted
and high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to
them, _i.e._, to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say
cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.
Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved
me, I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not,
therefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who
doubt the tendency of such books as “Jane Eyre:” in whose eyes whatever
is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against
bigotry—that parent of crime—an insult to piety, that regent of God on
earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions; I
would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To
attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the
face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of
Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct
as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be
confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human
doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be
substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat
it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly
and clearly the line of separation between them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been
accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show
pass for sterling worth—to let white-washed walls vouch for clean
shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the
gilding, and show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and
reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to him.
Life is so constructed that an event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.
he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly—that he was
my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tender
deference—that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful when taught
how. He had called me “sister.” It was well. Yes; he might call me what
he pleased, so long as he confided in me. I was willing to be his
sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill that relation to
some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was to celibacy, of
this dilemma there seemed little danger.
Through most of the succeeding night I pondered that evening’s
interview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened for
the bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers and
breakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at last
which brought me the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a more
thorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how
much of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; to prove
how much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discover whether I
could summon a sister’s courage, and he a brother’s frankness.
He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will
not, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted me. His
lesson was given rather more quietly than usual, more mildly, and also
more gravely. He was fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherly
to me. Ere he left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; I got
neither: to my portion fell one nod—hurried, shy.
This distance, I argued, is accidental—it is involuntary; patience, and
it will vanish. It vanished not; it continued for days; it increased. I
suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever other feelings began to
surge.
Well might I ask when he offered fraternity—“Dare I rely on you?” Well
might he, doubtless knowing himself, withhold all pledge. True, he had
bid me make my own experiments—tease and try him. Vain injunction!
Privilege nominal and unavailable! Some women might use it! Nothing in
my powers or instinct placed me amongst this brave band. Left alone, I
was passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten—my lips would not utter,
nor my eyes dart a reminder. It seemed there had been an error
somewhere in my calculations, and I wanted for time to disclose it.
God surely did not create us, and cause us to live, with the sole end of wishing always to die. I believe, in my heart, we were intended to prize life and enjoy it, so long as we retain it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless, blank, pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many, and is becoming to me, among the rest.
"I never find Miss Ainley oppressed with despondency or lost in grief,"
she thought; "yet her cottage is a still, dim little place, and she is
without a bright hope or near friend in the world. I remember, though,
she told me once she had tutored her thoughts to tend upwards to heaven.
She allowed there was, and ever had been, little enjoyment in this world
for her, and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of the world to come. So
do nuns, with their close cell, their iron lamp, their robe strait as a
shroud, their bed narrow as a coffin. She says often she has no fear of
death--no dread of the grave; no more, doubtless, had St. Simeon
Stylites, lifted up terrible on his wild column in the wilderness; no
more has the Hindu votary stretched on his couch of iron spikes. Both
these having violated nature, their natural likings and antipathies are
reversed; they grow altogether morbid. I do fear death as yet, but I
believe it is because I am young. Poor Miss Ainley would cling closer to
life if life had more charms for her. God surely did not create us and
cause us to live with the sole end of wishing always to die. I believe
in my heart we were intended to prize life and enjoy it so long as we
retain it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless,
blank, pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many, and is
becoming to me among the rest.
"Nobody," she went on--"nobody in particular is to blame, that I can
see, for the state in which things are; and I cannot tell, however much
I puzzle over it, how they are to be altered for the better; but I feel
there is something wrong somewhere. I believe single women should have
more to do--better chances of interesting and profitable occupation than
they possess now. And when I speak thus I have no impression that I
displease God by my words; that I am either impious or impatient,
irreligious or sacrilegious. My consolation is, indeed, that God hears
many a groan, and compassionates much grief which man stops his ears
against, or frowns on with impotent contempt. I say _impotent_, for I
observe that to such grievances as society cannot readily cure it
usually forbids utterance, on pain of its scorn, this scorn being only a
sort of tinselled cloak to its deformed weakness. People hate to be
reminded of ills they are unable or unwilling to remedy. Such reminder,
in forcing on them a sense of their own incapacity, or a more painful
sense of an obligation to make some unpleasant effort, troubles their
ease and shakes their self-complacency.
[O]ur honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine.
Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long
neither: and he’s done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!”
and he politely pulled his forelock.
“Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this.” I
put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I
left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after,
I caught the words—
“She’ll happen do better for him nor ony o’ t’ grand ladies.” And
again, “If she ben’t one o’ th’ handsomest, she’s noan faâl and varry
good-natured; and i’ his een she’s fair beautiful, onybody may see
that.”
I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had
done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary
approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just
give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see
me.
“She had better not wait till then, Jane,” said Mr. Rochester, when I
read her letter to him; “if she does, she will be too late, for our
honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your
grave or mine.”
How St. John received the news, I don’t know: he never answered the
letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me,
without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester’s name or alluding to my
marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He
has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever
since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live
without God in the world, and only mind earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten little Adèle, have you, reader? I had not;
I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at
the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me
again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not
happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its
course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with
me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this
impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another—my
husband needed them all.
