Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
“You have spoken of him often: do you like him?”
“He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him.”
“A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of fifty?
Or what does it mean?”
“St John was only twenty-nine, sir.”
“‘_Jeune encore_,’ as the French say. Is he a person of low stature,
phlegmatic, and plain? A person whose goodness consists rather in his
guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue.”
“He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to
perform.”
“But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but you
shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?”
“He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain
is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous.”
“Is he an able man, then?”
“Truly able.”
“A thoroughly educated man?”
“St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar.”
“His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?—priggish and
parsonic?”
“I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,
they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike.”
“His appearance,—I forget what description you gave of his
appearance;—a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white
neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?”
“St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue
eyes, and a Grecian profile.”
(Aside.) “Damn him!”—(To me.) “Did you like him, Jane?”
“Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before.”
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got
hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him
respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore,
immediately charm the snake.
“Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?”
was the next somewhat unexpected observation.
“Why not, Mr. Rochester?”
“The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too
overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a
graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,—tall, fair,
blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,—a
real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the
bargain.”
“I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like
Vulcan, sir.”
“Well, you can leave me, ma’am: but before you go” (and he retained me
by a firmer grasp than ever), “you will be pleased just to answer me a
question or two.” He paused.
“What questions, Mr. Rochester?”
Then followed this cross-examination.
“St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his
cousin?”
“Yes.”
“You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?”
“Daily.”
“He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for
you are a talented creature!”
“He approved of them—yes.”
“He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to
find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come
there to see you?”
“Now and then.”
“Of an evening?”
“Once or twice.”
A pause.
“How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship
was discovered?”
“Five months.”
“Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?”
“Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the
window, and we by the table.”
“Did he study much?”
“A good deal.”
“What?”
“Hindostanee.”
“And what did you do meantime?”
“I learnt German, at first.”
“Did he teach you?”
“He did not understand German.”
“Did he teach you nothing?”
“A little Hindostanee.”
“Rivers taught you Hindostanee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And his sisters also?”
“No.”
“Only you?”
“Only me.”
“Did you ask to learn?”
“No.”
“He wished to teach you?”
“Yes.”
A second pause.
“Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?”
“He intended me to go with him to India.”
“Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?”
“He asked me to marry him.”
“That is a fiction—an impudent invention to vex me.”
“I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than
once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be.”
“Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the
same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I
have given you notice to quit?”
“Because I am comfortable there.”
“No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not
with me: it is with this cousin—this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I
thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even
when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we
have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never
thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But it
is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers.”
“Shake me off, then, sir,—push me away, for I’ll not leave you of my
own accord.”
“Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds
so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that
you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool—go—”
“Where must I go, sir?”
“Your own way—with the husband you have chosen.”
“Who is that?”
“You know—this St. John Rivers.”
“He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not
love him. He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a
beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only
because he thought I should make a suitable missionary’s wife, which
she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me,
cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his
side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me—no
fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth—only a few
useful mental points.—Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him?”
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind
but beloved master. He smiled.
“What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between
you and Rivers?”
“Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a
little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than
grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I
_do_ love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours,
sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to
exile the rest of me from your presence for ever.”
Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.
“My seared vision! My crippled strength!” he murmured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and
wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a
minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle
down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
“I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in
Thornfield orchard,” he remarked ere long. “And what right would that
ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?”
“You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: you are green and
vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or
not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they
grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your
strength offers them so safe a prop.”
Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.
“You speak of friends, Jane?” he asked.
“Yes, of friends,” I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant
more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ. He
helped me.
“Ah! Jane. But I want a wife.”
“Do you, sir?”
“Yes: is it news to you?”
“Of course: you said nothing about it before.”
“Is it unwelcome news?”
“That depends on circumstances, sir—on your choice.”
“Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision.”
“Choose then, sir—_her who loves you best_.”
“I will at least choose—_her I love best_. Jane, will you marry me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to
wait on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Truly, Jane?”
“Most truly, sir.”
“Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!”
“Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life—if ever I thought
a good thought—if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer—if ever
I wished a righteous wish,—I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for
me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.”
“Because you delight in sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for
content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value—to press my
lips to what I love—to repose on what I trust: is that to make a
sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.”
“And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies.”
“Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really
be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when
you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector.”
“Hitherto I have hated to be helped—to be led: henceforth, I feel I
shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling’s,
but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane’s little fingers. I
preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but
Jane’s soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit
her?”
“To the finest fibre of my nature, sir.”
“The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must
be married instantly.”
He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.
“We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the
licence to get—then we marry.”
“Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its
meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at
your watch.”
“Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no
use for it.”
“It is nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, sir. Don’t you feel
hungry?”
“The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine
clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip.”
“The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it
is quite hot.”
“Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment
fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since
the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her.”
“We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way.”
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.
“Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells
with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees
not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far
more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent
flower—breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from
me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation:
instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued
its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass through
the valley of the shadow of death. _His_ chastisements are mighty; and
one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my
strength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign
guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane—only—only of
late—I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began
to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my