Books: Jane Eyre

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I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adele
and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

"No crowding," said Mr. Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand
as I finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine."

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he
laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from
him.

"Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax," said he, "and
look at them with Adele; -- you" (glancing at me) "resume your seat,
and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by
one hand: was that hand yours?"

"Yes."

"And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time,
and some thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I
had no other occupation."

"Where did you get your copies?"

"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"

"I should think it may have: I should hope -- better."

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are:
and first, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The
subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with
the spiritual eye, before I attempted to embody them, they were
striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and in each case
it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds
low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was
in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest
billows, for there was no land. One gleam of light lifted into
relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and
large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold bracelet
set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my
palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil
could impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse
glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb
clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak
of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze.
Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight:
rising into the sky was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in
tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was
crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as through the
suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed
shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail.
On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint
lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed
this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter
sky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close
serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose,
in the foreground, a head, -- a colossal head, inclined towards
the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under
the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a
sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow
and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone
were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of
black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud,
gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid
tinge. This pale crescent was "the likeness of a kingly crown;"
what it diademed was "the shape which shape had none."

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr.
Rochester presently.

"I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in
short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known."

"That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account,
have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist's
dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did
you sit at them long each day?"

"I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat
at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the
length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply."

"And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"

"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and
my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was
quite powerless to realise."

"Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no
more, probably. You had not enough of the artist's skill and science
to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl,
peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the
Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make
them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet
above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn
depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale
in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For
that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away!"

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking
at his watch, he said abruptly -

"It is nine o'clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adele
sit up so long? Take her to bed."

Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the
caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have
done, nor so much.

"I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making a movement of the
hand towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company,
and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I
took my portfolio: we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in
return, and so withdrew.

"You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax,"
I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adele
to bed.

"Well, is he?"

"I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt."

"True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so
accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has
peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made."

"Why?"

"Partly because it is his nature -- and we can none of us help our
nature; and partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to
harass him, and make his spirits unequal."

"What about?"

"Family troubles, for one thing."

"But he has no family."

"Not now, but he has had -- or, at least, relatives. He lost his
elder brother a few years since."

"His ELDER brother?"

"Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession
of the property; only about nine years."

"Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother
as to be still inconsolable for his loss?"

"Why, no -- perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings
between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr.
Edward; and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old
gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate
together. He did not like to diminish the property by division,
and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too,
to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of
age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a
great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined
to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for
the sake of making his fortune: what the precise nature of that
position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook
what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke
with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled
kind of life. I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield
for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without
a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he
shuns the old place."

"Why should he shun it?"

"Perhaps he thinks it gloomy."

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but
Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit
information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials.
She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew
was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she
wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly.

CHAPTER XIV

For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the
mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon,
gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes
stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit
of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return
these visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.

During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence,
and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional
rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he
would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging
my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow
and smile with gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did
not offend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their
alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected
with me.

One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio;
in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went
away early, to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax
informed me; but the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester
did not accompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell:
a message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed
Adele's hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was
myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch
-- all being too close and plain, braided locks included, to admit
of disarrangement -- we descended, Adele wondering whether the
petit coffre was at length come; for, owing to some mistake, its
arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it
stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered the dining-room.
She appeared to know it by instinct.

"Ma boite! ma boite!" exclaimed she, running towards it.

"Yes, there is your 'boite' at last: take it into a corner, you
genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling
it," said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester,
proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside.
"And mind," he continued, "don't bother me with any details of the
anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the entrails:
let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille,
enfant; comprends-tu?"

Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning -- she had already retired
to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which
secured the lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted
certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed -

"Oh ciel! Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic
contemplation.

"Is Miss Eyre there?" now demanded the master, half rising from
his seat to look round to the door, near which I still stood.

"Ah! well, come forward; be seated here." He drew a chair near
his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued;
"for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations
connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass
a whole evening tete-e-tete with a brat. Don't draw that chair
farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it -- if
you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually
forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies.
By-the-bye, I must have mine in mind; it won't do to neglect her;
she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker
than water."

He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon
arrived, knitting-basket in hand.

"Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I
have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is
bursting with repletion: have the goodness to serve her as auditress
and interlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you
ever performed."

Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her
to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain,
the ivory, the waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime,
explanations and raptures in such broken English as she was mistress
of.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester,
"put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at
liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair
still a little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot
see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair,
which I have no mind to do."

I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained
somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of
giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which
had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of
light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains
hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch;
everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared
not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter
rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked
different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern
-- much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes
sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it
very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more
expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid
and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim,
cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair,
and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features,
and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very
fine eyes, too -- not without a certain change in their depths
sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least,
of that feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking
the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught
my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"

I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by
something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow
slipped from my tongue before I was aware -- "No, sir."

"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said
he: "you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave,
and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes
generally bent on the carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are
directed piercingly to my face; as just now, for instance); and
when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are
obliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not
blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?"

"Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied
that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question
about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is
of little consequence, or something of that sort."

"You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence,
indeed! And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage,
of stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife
under my ear! Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray? I
suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other
man?"

"Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no
pointed repartee: it was only a blunder."

"Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise
me: does my forehead not please you?"

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over
his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs,
but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should
have risen.

"Now, ma'am, am I a fool?"

"Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired
in return whether you are a philanthropist?"

"There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended
to pat my head: and that is because I said I did not like the
society of children and old women (low be it spoken!). No, young
lady, I am not a general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;"
and he pointed to the prominences which are said to indicate
that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficiently
conspicuous; giving, indeed, a marked breadth to the upper part of
his head: "and, besides, I once had a kind of rude tenderness of
heart. When I was as old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough,
partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has
knocked me about since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles,
and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber
ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one
sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes: does that leave
hope for me?"

"Hope of what, sir?"

"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?"

"Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not
know what answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell
whether he was capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not
pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you;
besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of
yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted
flowers of the rug; so puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be
gregarious and communicative to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning
his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was
seen plainly as well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest,
disproportionate almost to his length of limb. I am sure most
people would have thought him an ugly man; yet there was so much
unconscious pride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such
a look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so
haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or
adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness,
that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared the indifference,
and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence.

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night,"
he repeated, "and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the
chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have
been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a degree better, but
still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded,
can suit me if you will: you puzzled me the first evening I
invited you down here. I have almost forgotten you since: other
ideas have driven yours from my head; but to-night I am resolved
to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases.
It would please me now to draw you out -- to learn more of you --
therefore speak."

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive
smile either.

"Speak," he urged.

"What about, sir?"

"Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the
manner of treating it entirely to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing: "If he expects me to talk
for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has
addressed himself to the wrong person," I thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with
a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put
my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg
your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you
like an inferior: that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only
such superiority as must result from twenty years' difference in
age and a century's advance in experience. This is legitimate,
et j'y tiens, as Adele would say; and it is by virtue of this
superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness
to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled
with dwelling on one point -- cankering as a rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not
feel insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.

"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir -- quite willing; but I
cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest
you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them."

"Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right
to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes,
on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your
father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with
many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while
you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"

"Do as you please, sir."

"That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a
very evasive one. Reply clearly."

"I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because
you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world
than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have
made of your time and experience."

"Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it
would never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to
say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the
question, then, you must still agree to receive my orders now and
then, without being piqued or hurt by the tone of command. Will
you?"

I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar -- he
seems to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving
his orders.

"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing
expression; "but speak too."

"I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves
to inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and
hurt by their orders."

"Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you?
Oh yes, I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary
ground, will you agree to let me hector a little?"

"No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget
it, and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in
his dependency, I agree heartily."

"And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional
forms and phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from
insolence?"

"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence:
one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to,
even for a salary."

"Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary;
therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of
which you are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands
with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for
the manner in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech;
the manner was frank and sincere; one does not often see such a
manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid,
coarse-minded misapprehension of one's meaning are the usual rewards
of candour. Not three in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses
would have answered me as you have just done. But I don't mean to
flatter you: if you are cast in a different mould to the majority,
it is no merit of yours: Nature did it. And then, after all,
I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet know, you may
be no better than the rest; you may have intolerable defects to
counterbalance your few good points."

"And so may you," I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed
my mind: he seemed to read the glance, answering as if
its import had been spoken as well as imagined -

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of
my own: I know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure
you. God wot I need not be too severe about others; I have a past
existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within
my own breast, which might well call my sneers and censures from
my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather (for like other
defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse
circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-
twenty, and have never recovered the right course since: but I
might have been very different; I might have been as good as you
-- wiser -- almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind,
your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a
memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure
-- an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?"