Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
He took it. “You give it up very gleefully,” said he; “I don’t quite
understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what
employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are
relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you
now?”
“My first aim will be to _clean down_ (do you comprehend the full force
of the expression?)—to _clean down_ Moor House from chamber to cellar;
my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of
cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair,
table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go
near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room;
and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are
expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs,
sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes,
chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other
culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the
uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an
absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next
Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome
when they come.”
St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.
“It is all very well for the present,” said he; “but seriously, I trust
that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little
higher than domestic endearments and household joys.”
“The best things the world has!” I interrupted.
“No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt
to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful.”
“I mean, on the contrary, to be busy.”
“Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months’ grace I allow you for
the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with
this late-found charm of relationship; but _then_, I hope you will
begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and
the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope
your energies will then once more trouble you with their strength.”
I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are
almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen,
and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?”
“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to
your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict
account. Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously—I warn you of
that. And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you
throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don’t cling so
tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an
adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do
you hear, Jane?”
“Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause
to be happy, and I _will_ be happy. Goodbye!”
Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she
was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house
turned topsy-turvy—how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook.
And really, after a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was
delightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had
made. I had previously taken a journey to S—— to purchase some new
furniture: my cousins having given me _carte blanche_ to effect what
alterations I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for that
purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they
were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing
again the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the
spectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some novelty was
necessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I wished it
to be invested. Dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement
of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze,
new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables,
answered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare
parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and
crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the
stairs. When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model
of bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen
of wintry waste and desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark,
and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in
perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness.
St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the
house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the
commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its walls
sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen,
watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking.
Approaching the hearth, he asked, “If I was at last satisfied with
housemaid’s work?” I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a
general inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty, I
got him to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I
opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I
must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have
effected such considerable changes in so short a time: but not a
syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his
abode.
This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed
some old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case:
no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone.
“Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously
respected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed
more thought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes, for
instance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very
room?—By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a book was?”
I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing
to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I began
to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and
cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for
him—its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived only to
aspire—after what was good and great, certainly; but still he would
never rest, nor approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his
lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone—at his fine lineaments
fixed in study—I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a
good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I
understood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss Oliver;
I agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. I comprehended
how he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised
over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should
mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I
saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes—Christian
and Pagan—her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast
bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too
often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
“This parlour is not his sphere,” I reflected: “the Himalayan ridge or
Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him
better. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his
element: there his faculties stagnate—they cannot develop or appear to
advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger—where courage is
proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked—that he will speak
and move, the leader and superior. A merry child would have the
advantage of him on this hearth. He is right to choose a missionary’s
career—I see it now.”
“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Hannah, throwing open the
parlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran.
It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had
a lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened
the door: first one well-known form, then another, stepped out. In a
minute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first with Mary’s
soft cheek, then with Diana’s flowing curls. They laughed—kissed
me—then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked
eagerly if all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, hastened
into the house.
They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and
chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances
expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah brought
in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from
the parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once. He gave
each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a
while to be talked to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would
soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give
hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me.
They were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms;
with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases:
they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of
feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I
had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return home.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so
eloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St.
John’s taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in
their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The
event of the day—that is, the return of Diana and Mary—pleased him; but
the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee
of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. In
the very meridian of the night’s enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a
rap was heard at the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that “a
poor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see
his mother, who was drawing away.”
“Where does she live, Hannah?”
“Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss
all the way.”
“Tell him I will go.”
“I’m sure, sir, you had better not. It’s the worst road to travel after
dark that can be: there’s no track at all over the bog. And then it is
such a bitter night—the keenest wind you ever felt. You had better send
word, sir, that you will be there in the morning.”
But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and without
one objection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine o’clock: he
did not return till midnight. Starved and tired enough he was: but he
looked happier than when he set out. He had performed an act of duty;
made an exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and was on
better terms with himself.
I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. It was
Christmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent it in a
sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom
of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary’s spirits like
some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning till noon, and from
noon till night. They could always talk; and their discourse, witty,
pithy, original, had such charms for me, that I preferred listening to,
and sharing in it, to doing anything else. St. John did not rebuke our