Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
note particulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the
height of Mr. Brocklehurst’s nose, that he was within a yard of me, and
that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of
silvery plumage extended and waved below me.
Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.
“Ladies,” said he, turning to his family, “Miss Temple, teachers, and
children, you all see this girl?”
Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning-glasses
against my scorched skin.
“You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form
of childhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given
to all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a marked character.
Who would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent
in her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case.”
A pause—in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel
that the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer to be
shirked, must be firmly sustained.
“My dear children,” pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos,
“this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn
you, that this girl, who might be one of God’s own lambs, is a little
castaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper
and an alien. You must be on your guard against her; you must shun her
example; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from your sports,
and shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her: keep
your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinise her
actions, punish her body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation
be possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this
child, the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen
who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut—this girl
is—a liar!”
Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in
perfect possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts
produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics,
while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger
ones whispered, “How shocking!”
Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.
“This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable
lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own
daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid
by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent
patroness was obliged to separate her from her own young ones, fearful
lest her vicious example should contaminate their purity: she has sent
her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their diseased to
the troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of
you not to allow the waters to stagnate round her.”
With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button
of his surtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to
Miss Temple, and then all the great people sailed in state from the
room. Turning at the door, my judge said—
“Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak
to her during the remainder of the day.”
There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the
shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now
exposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations
were, no language can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my
breath and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me: in
passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them! What
an extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new
feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave
or victim, and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered the rising
hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen
Burns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was
chidden for the triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and
smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and
I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it
lit up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like
a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen
Burns wore on her arm “the untidy badge;” scarcely an hour ago I had
heard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on
the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such
is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the
clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd’s can only see those
minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.
CHAPTER VIII
Ere the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was dismissed, and
all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it
was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The
spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction
took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I
sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was
not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and
my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so
much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win
affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had
reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss
Temple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing,
and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement
two months longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils;
treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any;
now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise
more?
“Never,” I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out
this wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up—again
Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the
long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.
“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me, feeling
as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition.
Helen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my
agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down
on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her
head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I
was the first who spoke—
“Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a
liar?”
“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you
called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”
“But what have I to do with millions? The eighty I know despise me.”
“Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises
or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much.”
“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?”
“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man:
he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had
he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies,
declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would
offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly
on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their
hearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere
long appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression.
Besides, Jane”—she paused.
“Well, Helen?” said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers
gently to warm them, and went on—
“If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own
conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be
without friends.”
“No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if
others don’t love me I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be
solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from
you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly
submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or
to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest—”
“Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are
too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your
frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than
your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth,
and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom
of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those
spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were
dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred
crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if
innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst
has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I
read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and
God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a
full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress,
when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to
happiness—to glory?”
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted
there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of
woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having
done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I
momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.
Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she
drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus,
when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a
rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in
through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching
figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she; “I want you in my
room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”
We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we had to thread some
intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her
apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple
told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the
hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.
“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried
your grief away?”
“I am afraid I never shall do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am, and everybody
else, will now think me wicked.”
“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue
to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us.”
“Shall I, Miss Temple?”
“You will,” said she, passing her arm round me. “And now tell me who is
the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”
“Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her
care.”
“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”
“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have
often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that
she would always keep me.”
“Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a
criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence.
You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as
you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and
exaggerate nothing.”
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most