Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
“So I think: you have no ghost, then?”
“None that I ever heard of,” returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.
“Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?”
“I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a
violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the
reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now.”
“Yes—‘after life’s fitful fever they sleep well,’” I muttered. “Where
are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?” for she was moving away.
“On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?” I
followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by
a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on
a level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests. Leaning
over the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid
out like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey
base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its ancient
timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown,
greener with moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the
gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day’s
sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with
pearly white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was
pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could
scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault
compared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and
to that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the
hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.
Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by dint
of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend
the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which
this led, separating the front and back rooms of the third storey:
narrow, low, and dim, with only one little window at the far end, and
looking, with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a
corridor in some Bluebeard’s castle.
While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still
a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct,
formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it
began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It
passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every
lonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and I could have
pointed out the door whence the accents issued.
“Mrs. Fairfax!” I called out: for I now heard her descending the great
stairs. “Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?”
“Some of the servants, very likely,” she answered: “perhaps Grace
Poole.”
“Did you hear it?” I again inquired.
“Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.
Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together.”
The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an
odd murmur.
“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as
tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it
was high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the
curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear,
I should have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me
I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.
The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,—a woman of between
thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a
hard, plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could
scarcely be conceived.
“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Remember directions!”
Grace curtseyed silently and went in.
“She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid’s
work,” continued the widow; “not altogether unobjectionable in some
points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with
your new pupil this morning?”
The conversation, thus turned on Adèle, continued till we reached the
light and cheerful region below. Adèle came running to meet us in the
hall, exclaiming—
“Mesdames, vous êtes servies!” adding, “J’ai bien faim, moi!”
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax’s room.
CHAPTER XII
The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to
Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer
acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to
be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of
competent education and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively
child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes
wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my care, and no
injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for
her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient
and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character,
no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch
above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she any
deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable
progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very
profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to
please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment sufficient
to make us both content in each other’s society.
This, _par parenthèse_, will be thought cool language by persons who
entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and
the duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an
idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism,
to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt
a conscientious solicitude for Adèle’s welfare and progress, and a
quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs.
Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society
proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation
of her mind and character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then,
when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the
gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adèle
played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom,
I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and
having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and
hill, and along dim sky-line—that then I longed for a power of vision
which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world,
towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that then I
desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of
intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character,
than was here within my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax,
and what was good in Adèle; but I believed in the existence of other
and more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to
behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I
could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to
pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of
the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and
solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever
bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and
glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which,
while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of
all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my
imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of
incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual
existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with
tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they
cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and
millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many
rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life
which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but
women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties,
and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they
suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely
as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged
fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making
puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and
embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them,
if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced
necessary for their sex.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s laugh: the same
peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled
me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There
were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could
not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would
come out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand,
go down to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic
reader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of
porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised
by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to
which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into
conversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic
reply usually cut short every effort of that sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the
housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no
respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I
asked her questions about her native country; but she was not of a
descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and
confused answers as were calculated rather to check than encourage
inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs.
Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as
Adèle seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious
occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,
deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a
fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the
library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a
letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak
and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a
pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adèle comfortably seated in
her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given her her
best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a
drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and
having replied to her “Revenez bientôt, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle.
Jeannette,” with a kiss, I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked
fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the
species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was
three o’clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the
charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding
and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for
wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now
possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best