Mr. Rochester did,
on a future occasion, explain it.
It was one afternoon, when he chanced
to meet me and Adele in the grounds:
and
while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk
up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.
He
then said that
she was the
daughter of a French opera-dancer,
Celine Varens, towards whom he
had once cherished what he called
a "grande passion." This passion
Celine had professed to return
with even superior ardour. He
thought himself her idol, ugly
as he was: he believed, as he
said, that she preferred his "taille
d'athlete" to the elegance of
the Apollo Belvidere.
"And, Miss Eyre, so much was
I flattered by this preference
of the Gallic sylph for her British
gnome, that I installed her in
an hotel; gave her a complete
establishment of servants, a
carriage, cashmeres, diamonds,
dentelles, &c. In short, I began
the process of ruining myself
in the received style, like any
other spoony. I had not, it seems,
the originality to chalk out
a new road to shame and destruction,
but trode the old track with
stupid exactness not to deviate
an inch from the beaten centre.
I had--as I deserved to have--the
fate of all other spoonies. Happening
to call one evening when Celine
did not expect me, I found her
out; but it was a warm night,
and I was tired with strolling
through Paris, so I sat down
in her boudoir; happy to breathe
the air consecrated so lately
by her presence. No,--I exaggerate;
I never thought there was any
consecrating virtue about her:
it was rather a sort of pastille
perfume she had left; a scent
of musk and amber, than an odour
of sanctity. I was just beginning
to stifle with the fumes of conservatory
flowers and sprinkled essences,
when I bethought myself to open
the window and step out on to
the balcony. It was moonlight
and gaslight besides, and very
still and serene. The balcony
was furnished with a chair or
two; I sat down, and took out
a cigar,--I will take one now,
if you will excuse me."
Here ensued a pause, filled
up by the producing and lighting
of a cigar; having placed it
to his lips and breathed a trail
of Havannah incense on the freezing
and sunless air, he went on -
"I
liked bonbons
too in those
days, Miss Eyre, and I was croquant--
(overlook the barbarism)--croquant
chocolate comfits, and smoking
alternately, watching meantime
the equipages that rolled along
the fashionable streets towards
the neighbouring opera-house,
when in an elegant close carriage
drawn by a beautiful pair of
English horses, and distinctly
seen in the brilliant city-night,
I recognised the 'voiture' I
had given Celine. She was returning:
of course my heart thumped with
impatience against the iron rails
I leant upon. The carriage stopped,
as I had expected, at the hotel
door; my flame (that is the very
word for an opera inamorata)
alighted: though muffed in a
cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance,
by-the-bye, on so warm a June
evening--I knew her instantly
by her little foot, seen peeping
from the skirt of her dress,
as she skipped from the carriage-step.
Bending over the balcony, I was
about to murmur 'Mon ange'--in
a tone, of course, which should
be audible to the ear of love
alone--when a figure jumped from
the carriage after her; cloaked
also; but that was a spurred
heel which had rung on the pavement,
and that was a hatted head which
now passed under the arched porte
cochere of the hotel.
"You
never felt
jealousy, did
you, Miss Eyre? Of course not:
I need not ask you; because you
never felt love. You have both
sentiments yet to experience:
your soul sleeps; the shock is
yet to be given which shall waken
it. You think all existence lapses
in as quiet a flow as that in
which your youth has hitherto
slid away. Floating on with closed
eyes and muffled ears, you neither
see the rocks bristling not far
off in the bed of the flood,
nor hear the breakers boil at
their base. But I tell you--and
you may mark my words--you will
come some day to a craggy pass
in the channel, where the whole
of life's stream will be broken
up into whirl and tumult, foam
and noise: either you will be
dashed to atoms on crag points,
or lifted up and borne on by
some master-wave into a calmer
current- -as I am now.
"I
like this day;
I like that
sky of steel; I like the sternness
and stillness of the world under
this frost. I like Thornfield,
its antiquity, its retirement,
its old crow-trees and thorn-trees,
its grey facade, and lines of
dark windows reflecting that
metal welkin: and yet how long
have I abhorred the very thought
of it, shunned it like a great
plague-house? How I do still
abhor -"
He ground his teeth and was
silent: he arrested his step
and struck his boot against the
hard ground. Some hated thought
seemed to have him in its grip,
and to hold him so tightly that
he could not advance.
We were ascending the avenue
when he thus paused; the hall
was before us. Lifting his eye
to its battlements, he cast over
them a glare such as I never
saw before or since. Pain, shame,
ire, impatience, disgust, detestation,
seemed momentarily to hold a
quivering conflict in the large
pupil dilating under his ebon
eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle
which should be paramount; but
another feeling rose and triumphed:
something hard and cynical: self-willed
and resolute: it settled his
passion and petrified his countenance:
he went on -
"During
the moment
I was silent,
Miss Eyre, I was arranging a
point with my destiny. She stood
there, by that beech-trunk--a
hag like one of those who appeared
to Macbeth on the heath of Forres.
'You like Thornfield?' she said,
lifting her finger; and then
she wrote in the air a memento,
which ran in lurid hieroglyphics
all along the house-front, between
the upper and lower row of windows,
'Like it if you can! Like it
if you dare!'
"'I will like it,' said I;
'I dare like it;' and" (he subjoined
moodily) "I will keep my word;
I will break obstacles to happiness,
to goodness--yes, goodness. I
wish to be a better man than
I have been, than I am; as Job's
leviathan broke the spear, the
dart, and the habergeon, hindrances
which others count as iron and
brass, I will esteem but straw
and rotten wood."
Adele
here ran before
him with her
shuttlecock. "Away!" he cried
harshly; "keep at a distance,
child; or go in to Sophie!" Continuing
then to pursue his walk in silence,
I ventured to recall him to the
point whence he had abruptly
diverged -
"Did you leave the balcony,
sir," I asked, "when Mdlle. Varens
entered?"
I
almost expected
a rebuff for
this hardly
well-timed
question,
but, on the contrary, waking
out of his scowling abstraction,
he turned his eyes towards me,
and the shade seemed to clear
off his brow. "Oh, I had forgotten
Celine! Well, to resume. When
I saw my charmer thus come in
accompanied by a cavalier, I
seemed to hear a hiss, and the
green snake of jealousy, rising
on undulating coils from the
moonlit balcony, glided within
my waistcoat, and ate its way
in two minutes to my heart's
core. Strange!" he exclaimed,
suddenly starting again from
the point. "Strange that I should
choose you for the confidant
of all this, young lady; passing
strange that you should listen
to me quietly, as if it were
the most usual thing in the world
for a man like me to tell stories
of his opera-mistresses to a
quaint, inexperienced girl like
you! But the last singularity
explains the first, as I intimated
once before: you, with your gravity,
considerateness, and caution
were made to be the recipient
of secrets. Besides, I know what
sort of a mind I have placed
in communication with my own:
I know it is one not liable to
take infection: it is a peculiar
mind: it is a unique one. Happily
I do not mean to harm it: but,
if I did, it would not take harm
from me. The more you and I converse,
the better; for while I cannot
blight you, you may refresh me." After
this digression he proceeded
-
"I
remained in
the balcony.
'They will come to her boudoir,
no doubt,' thought I: 'let me
prepare an ambush.' So putting
my hand in through the open window,
I drew the curtain over it, leaving
only an opening through which
I could take observations; then
I closed the casement, all but
a chink just wide enough to furnish
an outlet to lovers' whispered
vows: then I stole back to my
chair; and as I resumed it the
pair came in. My eye was quickly
at the aperture. Celine's chamber-maid
entered, lit a lamp, left it
on the table, and withdrew. The
couple were thus revealed to
me clearly: both removed their
cloaks, and there was 'the Varens,'
shining in satin and jewels,--my
gifts of course,--and there was
her companion in an officer's
uniform; and I knew him for a
young roue of a vicomte--a brainless
and vicious youth whom I had
sometimes met in society, and
had never thought of hating because
I despised him so absolutely.
On recognising him, the fang
of the snake Jealousy was instantly
broken; because at the same moment
my love for Celine sank under
an extinguisher. A woman who
could betray me for such a rival
was not worth contending for;
she deserved only scorn; less,
however, than I, who had been
her dupe.
"They
began to talk;
their conversation
eased me completely:
frivolous, mercenary, heartless,
and senseless, it was rather
calculated to weary than enrage
a listener. A card of mine lay
on the table; this being perceived,
brought my name under discussion.
Neither of them possessed energy
or wit to belabour me soundly,
but they insulted me as coarsely
as they could in their little
way: especially Celine, who even
waxed rather brilliant on my
personal defects--deformities
she termed them. Now it had been
her custom to launch out into
fervent admiration of what she
called my 'beaute male:' wherein
she differed diametrically from
you, who told me point-blank,
at the second interview, that
you did not think me handsome.
The contrast struck me at the
time and--"
Adele here came running up
again.
"Monsieur,
John has just
been to say
that your agent
has called
and wishes to see you."
"Ah! in that case I must abridge.
Opening the window, I walked
in upon them; liberated Celine
from my protection; gave her
notice to vacate her hotel; offered
her a purse for immediate exigencies;
disregarded screams, hysterics,
prayers, protestations, convulsions;
made an appointment with the
vicomte for a meeting at the
Bois de Boulogne. Next morning
I had the pleasure of encountering
him; left a bullet in one of
his poor etiolated arms, feeble
as the wing of a chicken in the
pip, and then thought I had done
with the whole crew. But unluckily
the Varens, six months before,
had given me this filette Adele,
who, she affirmed, was my daughter;
and perhaps she may be, though
I see no proofs of such grim
paternity written in her countenance:
Pilot is more like me than she.
Some years after I had broken
with the mother, she abandoned
her child, and ran away to Italy
with a musician or singer. I
acknowledged no natural claim
on Adele's part to be supported
by me, nor do I now acknowledge
any, for I am not her father;
but hearing that she was quite
destitute, I e'en took the poor
thing out of the slime and mud
of Paris, and transplanted it
here, to grow up clean in the
wholesome soil of an English
country garden. Mrs. Fairfax
found you to train it; but now
you know that it is the illegitimate
offspring of a French opera-
girl, you will perhaps think
differently of your post and
protegee: you will be coming
to me some day with notice that
you have found another place--that
you beg me to look out for a
new governess, &c.- -Eh?"
"No:
Adele is not
answerable
for either
her mother's
faults
or yours: I have a regard for
her; and now that I know she
is, in a sense, parentless--forsaken
by her mother and disowned by
you, sir-- I shall cling closer
to her than before. How could
I possibly prefer the spoilt
pet of a wealthy family, who
would hate her governess as a
nuisance, to a lonely little
orphan, who leans towards her
as a friend?"
"Oh,
that is the
light in which
you view it! Well, I must go
in now; and you too: it darkens."
But I stayed out a few minutes
longer with Adele and Pilot--ran
a race with her, and played a
game of battledore and shuttlecock.
When we went in, and I had removed
her bonnet and coat, I took her
on my knee; kept her there an
hour, allowing her to prattle
as she liked: not rebuking even
some little freedoms and trivialities
into which she was apt to stray
when much noticed, and which
betrayed in her a superficiality
of character, inherited probably
from her mother, hardly congenial
to an English mind. Still she
had her merits; and I was disposed
to appreciate all that was good
in her to the utmost. I sought
in her countenance and features
a likeness to Mr. Rochester,
but found none: no trait, no
turn of expression announced
relationship. It was a pity:
if she could but have been proved
to resemble him, he would have
thought more of her.
It was not till after I had
withdrawn to my own chamber for
the night, that I steadily reviewed
the tale Mr. Rochester had told
me. As he had said, there was
probably nothing at all extraordinary
in the substance of the narrative
itself: a wealthy Englishman's
passion for a French dancer,
and her treachery to him, were
every- day matters enough, no
doubt, in society; but there
was something decidedly strange
in the paroxysm of emotion which
had suddenly seized him when
he was in the act of expressing
the present contentment of his
mood, and his newly revived pleasure
in the old hall and its environs.
I meditated wonderingly on this
incident; but gradually quitting
it, as I found it for the present
inexplicable, I turned to the
consideration of my master's
manner to myself. The confidence
he had thought fit to repose
in me seemed a tribute to my
discretion: I regarded and accepted
it as such. His deportment had
now for some weeks been more
uniform towards me than at the
first. I never seemed in his
way; he did not take fits of
chilling hauteur: when he met
me unexpectedly, the encounter
seemed welcome; he had always
a word and sometimes a smile
for me: when summoned by formal
invitation to his presence, I
was honoured by a cordiality
of reception that made me feel
I really possessed the power
to amuse him, and that these
evening conferences were sought
as much for his pleasure as for
my benefit.
I, indeed, talked comparatively
little, but I heard him talk
with relish. It was his nature
to be communicative; he liked
to open to a mind unacquainted
with the world glimpses of its
scenes and ways (I do not mean
its corrupt scenes and wicked
ways, but such as derived their
interest from the great scale
on which they were acted, the
strange novelty by which they
were characterised); and I had
a keen delight in receiving the
new ideas he offered, in imagining
the new pictures he portrayed,
and following him in thought
through the new regions he disclosed,
never startled or troubled by
one noxious allusion.
The ease of his manner freed
me from painful restraint: the
friendly frankness, as correct
as cordial, with which he treated
me, drew me to him. I felt at
times as if he were my relation
rather than my master: yet he
was imperious sometimes still;
but I did not mind that; I saw
it was his way. So happy, so
gratified did I become with this
new interest added to life, that
I ceased to pine after kindred:
my thin crescent-destiny seemed
to enlarge; the blanks of existence
were filled up; my bodily health
improved; I gathered flesh and
strength.
And was Mr. Rochester now ugly
in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude,
and many associations, all pleasurable
and genial, made his face the
object I best liked to see; his
presence in a room was more cheering
than the brightest fire. Yet
I had not forgotten his faults;
indeed, I could not, for he brought
them frequently before me. He
was proud, sardonic, harsh to
inferiority of every description:
in my secret soul I knew that
his great kindness to me was
balanced by unjust severity to
many others. He was moody, too;
unaccountably so; I more than
once, when sent for to read to
him, found him sitting in his
library alone, with his head
bent on his folded arms; and,
when he looked up, a morose,
almost a malignant, scowl blackened
his features. But I believed
that his moodiness, his harshness,
and his former faults of morality
(I say FORMER, for now he seemed
corrected of them) had their
source in some cruel cross of
fate. I believed he was naturally
a man of better tendencies, higher
principles, and purer tastes
than such as circumstances had
developed, education instilled,
or destiny encouraged. I thought
there were excellent materials
in him; though for the present
they hung together somewhat spoiled
and tangled. I cannot deny that
I grieved for his grief, whatever
that was, and would have given
much to assuage it.
Though I had now extinguished
my candle and was laid down in
bed, I could not sleep for thinking
of his look when he paused in
the avenue, and told how his
destiny had risen up before him,
and dared him to be happy at
Thornfield.
"Why not?" I asked myself. "What
alienates him from the house?
Will he leave it again soon?
Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed
here longer than a fortnight
at a time; and he has now been
resident eight weeks. If he does
go, the change will be doleful.
Suppose he should be absent spring,
summer, and autumn: how joyless
sunshine and fine days will seem!"
I hardly know whether I had
slept or not after this musing;
at any rate, I started wide awake
on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar
and lugubrious, which sounded,
I thought, just above me. I wished
I had kept my candle burning:
the night was drearily dark;
my spirits were depressed. I
rose and sat up in bed, listening.
The sound was hushed.
I
tried again
to sleep; but
my heart beat anxiously: my inward
tranquillity was broken. The
clock, far down in the hall,
struck two. Just then it seemed
my chamber-door was touched;
as if fingers had swept the panels
in groping a way along the dark
gallery outside. I said, "Who
is there?" Nothing answered.
I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that
it might be Pilot, who, when
the kitchen-door chanced to be
left open, not unfrequently found
his way up to the threshold of
Mr. Rochester's chamber: I had
seen him lying there myself in
the mornings. The idea calmed
me somewhat: I lay down. Silence
composes the nerves; and as an
unbroken hush now reigned again
through the whole house, I began
to feel the return of slumber.
But it was not fated that I should
sleep that night. A dream had
scarcely approached my ear, when
it fled affrighted, scared by
a marrow-freezing incident enough.
This
was a demoniac
laugh--low,
suppressed, and deep--uttered,
as it seemed, at the very keyhole
of my chamber door. The head
of my bed was near the door,
and I thought at first the goblin-laugher
stood at my bedside--or rather,
crouched by my pillow: but I
rose, looked round, and could
see nothing; while, as I still
gazed, the unnatural sound was
reiterated: and I knew it came
from behind the panels. My first
impulse was to rise and fasten
the bolt; my next, again to cry
out, "Who is there?"
Something gurgled and moaned.
Ere long, steps retreated up
the gallery towards the third-storey
staircase: a door had lately
been made to shut in that staircase;
I heard it open and close, and
all was still.
"Was that Grace Poole? and
is she possessed with a devil?" thought
I. Impossible now to remain longer
by myself: I must go to Mrs.
Fairfax. I hurried on my frock
and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt
and opened the door with a trembling
hand. There was a candle burning
just outside, and on the matting
in the gallery. I was surprised
at this circumstance: but still
more was I amazed to perceive
the air quite dim, as if filled
with smoke; and, while looking
to the right hand and left, to
find whence these blue wreaths
issued, I became further aware
of a strong smell of burning.
Something creaked: it was a
door ajar; and that door was
Mr. Rochester's, and the smoke
rushed in a cloud from thence.
I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax;
I thought no more of Grace Poole,
or the laugh: in an instant,
I was within the chamber. Tongues
of flame darted round the bed:
the curtains were on fire. In
the midst of blaze and vapour,
Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless,
in deep sleep.
"Wake! wake!" I
cried. I shook
him, but he only murmured and
turned: the smoke had stupefied
him. Not a moment could be lost:
the very sheets were kindling,
I rushed to his basin and ewer;
fortunately, one was wide and
the other deep, and both were
filled with water. I heaved them
up, deluged the bed and its occupant,
flew back to my own room, brought
my own water-jug, baptized the
couch afresh, and, by God's aid,
succeeded in extinguishing the
flames which were devouring it.
The hiss of the quenched element,
the breakage of a pitcher which
I flung from my hand when I had
emptied it, and, above all, the
splash of the shower-bath I had
liberally bestowed, roused Mr.
Rochester at last. Though it
was now dark, I knew he was awake;
because I heard him fulminating
strange anathemas at finding
himself lying in a pool of water.
"Is there a flood?" he
cried.
"No, sir," I answered; "but
there has been a fire: get up,
do; you are quenched now; I will
fetch you a candle."
"In the name of all the elves
in Christendom, is that Jane
Eyre?" he demanded. "What have
you done with me, witch, sorceress?
Who is in the room besides you?
Have you plotted to drown me?"
"I
will fetch
you a candle,
sir; and, in Heaven's name, get
up. Somebody has plotted something:
you cannot too soon find out
who and what it is."
"There!
I am up now;
but at your
peril you fetch
a candle
yet: wait two minutes till I
get into some dry garments, if
any dry there be--yes, here is
my dressing-gown. Now run!"
I did run; I brought the candle
which still remained in the gallery.
He took it from my hand, held
it up, and surveyed the bed,
all blackened and scorched, the
sheets drenched, the carpet round
swimming in water.
"What is it? and who did it?" he
asked. I briefly related to him
what had transpired: the strange
laugh I had heard in the gallery:
the step ascending to the third
storey; the smoke,--the smell
of fire which had conducted me
to his room; in what state I
had found matters there, and
how I had deluged him with all
the water I could lay hands on.
He listened very gravely; his
face, as I went on, expressed
more concern than astonishment;
he did not immediately speak
when I had concluded.
"Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" I
asked.
"Mrs.
Fairfax? No;
what the deuce
would you call
her for?
What can she do? Let her sleep
unmolested."
"Then
I will fetch
Leah, and wake
John and his
wife."
"Not
at all: just
be still. You
have a shawl
on. If you
are
not warm enough, you may take
my cloak yonder; wrap it about
you, and sit down in the arm-chair:
there,--I will put it on. Now
place your feet on the stool,
to keep them out of the wet.
I am going to leave you a few
minutes. I shall take the candle.
Remain where you are till I return;
be as still as a mouse. I must
pay a visit to the second storey.
Don't move, remember, or call
any one."
He
went: I watched
the light withdraw.
He passed up
the gallery
very softly, unclosed the staircase
door with as little noise as
possible, shut it after him,
and the last ray vanished. I
was left in total darkness. I
listened for some noise, but
heard nothing. A very long time
elapsed. I grew weary: it was
cold, in spite of the cloak;
and then I did not see the use
of staying, as I was not to rouse
the house. I was on the point
of risking Mr. Rochester's displeasure
by disobeying his orders, when
the light once more gleamed dimly
on the gallery wall, and I heard
his unshod feet tread the matting. "I
hope it is he," thought I, "and
not something worse."
He
re-entered,
pale and very
gloomy. "I have found it all
out," said he, setting his candle
down on the washstand; "it is
as I thought."
"How,
sir?"
He made no reply, but stood
with his arms folded, looking
on the ground. At the end of
a few minutes he inquired in
rather a peculiar tone -
"I
forget whether
you said you
saw anything
when you opened
your chamber door."
"No,
sir, only the
candlestick
on the ground."
"But
you heard an
odd laugh?
You have heard
that laugh
before,
I should think, or something
like it?"
"Yes,
sir: there
is a woman
who sews here,
called Grace
Poole,--she
laughs in that way. She is a
singular person."
"Just so. Grace Poole--you
have guessed it. She is, as you
say, singular--very. Well, I
shall reflect on the subject.
Meantime, I am glad that you
are the only person, besides
myself, acquainted with the precise
details of to-night's incident.
You are no talking fool: say
nothing about it. I will account
for this state of affairs" (pointing
to the bed): "and now return
to your own room. I shall do
very well on the sofa in the
library for the rest of the night.
It is near four:- in two hours
the servants will be up."
"Good-night, then, sir," said
I, departing.
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, them 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, goodnight!"
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. Sense would resist
delirium: judgment would warn
passion. Too feverish to rest,
I rose as soon as day dawned.
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