Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
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 Adèle 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 Adèle 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 Adèle were to go downstairs. I brushed Adèle’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,
Adèle 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?”
Adèle 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
_tête-à-tête_ 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 Adèle 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.”
Adèle, 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 Adèle (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?”