Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
“But you can’t get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all
air; and neither you nor she can fly.”
“Adèle, look at that field.” We were now outside Thornfield gates, and
bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was
well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty
timber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.
“In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight
since—the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard
meadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me
on a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began
to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had
for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight
was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped
two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of
gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at
my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I
read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to
this effect—
“It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to
make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely
place—such as the moon, for instance—and it nodded its head towards her
horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver
vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it,
as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.
“‘Oh,’ returned the fairy, ‘that does not signify! Here is a talisman
will remove all difficulties;’ and she held out a pretty gold ring.
‘Put it,’ she said, ‘on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am
yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own
heaven yonder.’ She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adèle, is in my
breeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to
change it to a ring again.”
“But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don’t care for the fairy:
you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?”
“Mademoiselle is a fairy,” he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon
I told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a
fund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester “un vrai
menteur,” and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his
“contes de fée,” and that “du reste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et quand
même il y en avait:” she was sure they would never appear to him, nor
ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.
The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr.
Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was
ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged
leave to defer it: no—it should be gone through with now. By dint of
entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to
two: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I
watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of
the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in
a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and
a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his
choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I
persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and
pearl-grey silk. “It might pass for the present,” he said; “but he
would yet see me glittering like a parterre.”
Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a
jeweller’s shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a
sense of annoyance and degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and
I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of
events, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten—the letter of my uncle,
John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his
legatee. “It would, indeed, be a relief,” I thought, “if I had ever so
small an independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by
Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower
falling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home,
and tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had
but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of
fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now.” And somewhat
relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I
ventured once more to meet my master’s and lover’s eye, which most
pertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He
smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a
blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had
enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously,
and thrust it back to him red with the passionate pressure.
“You need not look in that way,” I said; “if you do, I’ll wear nothing
but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I’ll be married in
this lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of
the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the
black satin.”
He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. “Oh, it is rich to see and hear her!”
he exclaimed. “Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange
this one little English girl for the Grand Turk’s whole seraglio,
gazelle-eyes, houri forms, and all!”
The Eastern allusion bit me again. “I’ll not stand you an inch in the
stead of a seraglio,” I said; “so don’t consider me an equivalent for
one. If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir,
to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive
slave-purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend
satisfactorily here.”
“And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of
flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?”
“I’ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty
to them that are enslaved—your harem inmates amongst the rest. I’ll get
admitted there, and I’ll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw
as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our
hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have
signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred.”
“I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane.”
“I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with
an eye like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that
whatever charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when
released, would be to violate its conditions.”
“Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go
through a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the
altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms—what will they
be?”
“I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do
you remember what you said of Céline Varens?—of the diamonds, the
cashmeres you gave her? I will not be your English Céline Varens. I
shall continue to act as Adèle’s governess; by that I shall earn my
board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I’ll furnish my
own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but—”
“Well, but what?”
“Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be
quit.”
“Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven’t
your equal,” said he. We were now approaching Thornfield. “Will it
please you to dine with me to-day?” he asked, as we re-entered the
gates.
“No, thank you, sir.”
“And what for, ‘no, thank you?’ if one may inquire.”
“I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should
now: till—”
“Till what? You delight in half-phrases.”
“Till I can’t help it.”
“Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the
companion of my repast?”
“I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on
as usual for another month.”
“You will give up your governessing slavery at once.”
“Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with
it as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been
accustomed to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel
disposed to see me, and I’ll come then; but at no other time.”
“I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all
this, ‘pour me donner une contenance,’ as Adèle would say; and
unfortunately I have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But
listen—whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine
presently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold,
I’ll just—figuratively speaking—attach you to a chain like this”
(touching his watch-guard). “Yes, bonny wee thing, I’ll wear you in my
bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.”
He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he
afterwards lifted out Adèle, I entered the house, and made good my
retreat upstairs.
He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an
occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in
a _tête-à-tête_ conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he
liked to sing—good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and,
in his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in
listening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that
hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the
lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love
of heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and
that he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was
like the present.
“Did I like his voice?” he asked.
“Very much.” I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of
his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e’en soothe
and stimulate it.
“Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment.”
“Very well, sir, I will try.”
I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated “a
little bungler.” Being pushed unceremoniously to one side—which was
precisely what I wished—he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany
himself: for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the
window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees
and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following
strain:—
“The truest love that ever heart
Felt at its kindled core,
Did through each vein, in quickened start,
The tide of being pour.
Her coming was my hope each day,
Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
Was ice in every vein.
I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
As I loved, loved to be;
And to this object did I press
As blind as eagerly.
But wide as pathless was the space
That lay our lives between,
And dangerous as the foamy race
Of ocean-surges green.
And haunted as a robber-path
Through wilderness or wood;
For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
Between our spirits stood.
I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;
I omens did defy:
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
I passed impetuous by.
On sped my rainbow, fast as light;
I flew as in a dream;
For glorious rose upon my sight
That child of Shower and Gleam.
Still bright on clouds of suffering dim
Shines that soft, solemn joy;
Nor care I now, how dense and grim
Disasters gather nigh.
I care not in this moment sweet,
Though all I have rushed o’er
Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
Proclaiming vengeance sore:
Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
Swear endless enmity.
My love has placed her little hand
With noble faith in mine,