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
Adele 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 Adele were to go downstairs.
I brushed Adele'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, Adele 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?"
Adele 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 tete-e-tete
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 Adele 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."
Adele,
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 Adele (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?"
"Of
my final re-transformation
from India-rubber back to flesh?"
"Decidedly he has had too much
wine," I thought; and I did not
know what answer to make to his
queer question: how could I tell
whether he was capable of being
re-transformed?
"You
looked very
much puzzled,
Miss Eyre; and though you are
not pretty any more than I am
handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes
you; besides, it is convenient,
for it keeps those searching
eyes of yours away from my physiognomy,
and busies them with the worsted
flowers of the rug; so puzzle
on. Young lady, I am disposed
to be gregarious and communicative
to-night."
With this announcement he rose
from his chair, and stood, leaning
his arm on the marble mantelpiece:
in that attitude his shape was
seen plainly as well as his face;
his unusual breadth of chest,
disproportionate almost to his
length of limb. I am sure most
people would have thought him
an ugly man; yet there was so
much unconscious pride in his
port; so much ease in his demeanour;
such a look of complete indifference
to his own external appearance;
so haughty a reliance on the
power of other qualities, intrinsic
or adventitious, to atone for
the lack of mere personal attractiveness,
that, in looking at him, one
inevitably shared the indifference,
and, even in a blind, imperfect
sense, put faith in the confidence.
"I am disposed to be gregarious
and communicative to-night," he
repeated, "and that is why I
sent for you: the fire and the
chandelier were not sufficient
company for me; nor would Pilot
have been, for none of these
can talk. Adele is a degree better,
but still far below the mark;
Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am
persuaded, can suit me if you
will: you puzzled me the first
evening I invited you down here.
I have almost forgotten you since:
other ideas have driven yours
from my head; but to-night I
am resolved to be at ease; to
dismiss what importunes, and
recall what pleases. It would
please me now to draw you out--to
learn more of you--therefore
speak."
Instead of speaking, I smiled;
and not a very complacent or
submissive smile either.
"Speak," he
urged.
"What
about, sir?"
"Whatever
you like. I
leave both
the choice
of subject
and
the manner of treating it entirely
to yourself."
Accordingly
I sat and said
nothing: "If he expects me to
talk for the mere sake of talking
and showing off, he will find
he has addressed himself to the
wrong person," I thought.
"You
are dumb, Miss
Eyre."
I was dumb still. He bent his
head a little towards me, and
with a single hasty glance seemed
to dive into my eyes.
"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed.
Ah! it is consistent. I put my
request in an absurd, almost
insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg
your pardon. The fact is, once
for all, I don't wish to treat
you like an inferior: that is" (correcting
himself), "I claim only such
superiority as must result from
twenty years' difference in age
and a century's advance in experience.
This is legitimate, et j'y tiens,
as Adele would say; and it is
by virtue of this superiority,
and this alone, that I desire
you to have the goodness to talk
to me a little now, and divert
my thoughts, which are galled
with dwelling on one point--cankering
as a rusty nail."
He had deigned an explanation,
almost an apology, and I did
not feel insensible to his condescension,
and would not seem so.
"I
am willing
to amuse you,
if I can, sir--quite willing;
but I cannot introduce a topic,
because how do I know what will
interest you? Ask me questions,
and I will do my best to answer
them."
"Then,
in the first
place, do you
agree with
me that I have
a right to be a little masterful,
abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes,
on the grounds I stated, namely,
that I am old enough to be your
father, and that I have battled
through a varied experience with
many men of many nations, and
roamed over half the globe, while
you have lived quietly with one
set of people in one house?"
"Do
as you please,
sir."
"That
is no answer;
or rather it
is a very irritating,
because
a very evasive one. Reply clearly."
"I
don't think,
sir, you have
a right to command me, merely
because you are older than I,
or because you have seen more
of the world than I have; your
claim to superiority depends
on the use you have made of your
time and experience."
"Humph!
Promptly spoken.
But I won't
allow that,
seeing that
it would never suit my case,
as I have made an indifferent,
not to say a bad, use of both
advantages. Leaving superiority
out of the question, then, you
must still agree to receive my
orders now and then, without
being piqued or hurt by the tone
of command. Will you?"
I smiled: I thought to myself
Mr. Rochester IS peculiar--he
seems to forget that he pays
me 30 pounds per annum for receiving
his orders.
"The smile is very well," said
he, catching instantly the passing
expression; "but speak too."
"I
was thinking,
sir, that very
few masters
would trouble
themselves to inquire whether
or not their paid subordinates
were piqued and hurt by their
orders."
"Paid
subordinates!
What! you are
my paid subordinate,
are
you? Oh yes, I had forgotten
the salary! Well then, on that
mercenary ground, will you agree
to let me hector a little?"
"No,
sir, not on
that ground;
but, on the ground that you did
forget it, and that you care
whether or not a dependent is
comfortable in his dependency,
I agree heartily."
"And
will you consent
to dispense
with a great many conventional
forms and phrases, without thinking
that the omission arises from
insolence?"
"I
am sure, sir,
I should never
mistake informality for insolence:
one I rather like, the other
nothing free-born would submit
to, even for a salary."
"Humbug!
Most things
free-born will
submit to anything
for a
salary; therefore, keep to yourself,
and don't venture on generalities
of which you are intensely ignorant.
However, I mentally shake hands
with you for your answer, despite
its inaccuracy; and as much for
the manner in which it was said,
as for the substance of the speech;
the manner was frank and sincere;
one does not often see such a
manner: no, on the contrary,
affectation, or coldness, or
stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension
of one's meaning are the usual
rewards of candour. Not three
in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses
would have answered me as you
have just done. But I don't mean
to flatter you: if you are cast
in a different mould to the majority,
it is no merit of yours: Nature
did it. And then, after all,
I go too fast in my conclusions:
for what I yet know, you may
be no better than the rest; you
may have intolerable defects
to counterbalance your few good
points."
"And so may you," I
thought. My
eye met his
as the idea
crossed
my mind: he seemed to read the
glance, answering as if its import
had been spoken as well as imagined
-
"Yes, yes, you are right," said
he; "I have plenty of faults
of my own: I know it, and I don't
wish to palliate them, I assure
you. God wot I need not be too
severe about others; I have a
past existence, a series of deeds,
a colour of life to contemplate
within my own breast, which might
well call my sneers and censures
from my neighbours to myself.
I started, or rather (for like
other defaulters, I like to lay
half the blame on ill fortune
and adverse circumstances) was
thrust on to a wrong tack at
the age of one-and- twenty, and
have never recovered the right
course since: but I might have
been very different; I might
have been as good as you-- wiser--almost
as stainless. I envy you your
peace of mind, your clean conscience,
your unpolluted memory. Little
girl, a memory without blot or
contamination must be an exquisite
treasure--an inexhaustible source
of pure refreshment: is it not?"
"How
was your memory
when you were
eighteen, sir?"
"All
right then;
limpid, salubrious:
no gush of bilge water had turned
it to fetid puddle. I was your
equal at eighteen--quite your
equal. Nature meant me to be,
on the whole, a good man, Miss
Eyre; one of the better kind,
and you see I am not so. You
would say you don't see it; at
least I flatter myself I read
as much in your eye (beware,
by-the-bye, what you express
with that organ; I am quick at
interpreting its language). Then
take my word for it,--I am not
a villain: you are not to suppose
that--not to attribute to me
any such bad eminence; but, owing,
I verily believe, rather to circumstances
than to my natural bent, I am
a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed
in all the poor petty dissipations
with which the rich and worthless
try to put on life. Do you wonder
that I avow this to you? Know,
that in the course of your future
life you will often find yourself
elected the involuntary confidant
of your acquaintances' secrets:
people will instinctively find
out, as I have done, that it
is not your forte to tell of
yourself, but to listen while
others talk of themselves; they
will feel, too, that you listen
with no malevolent scorn of their
indiscretion, but with a kind
of innate sympathy; not the less
comforting and encouraging because
it is very unobtrusive in its
manifestations."
"How
do you know?--how
can you guess
all this, sir?"
"I
know it well;
therefore I
proceed almost
as freely as
if I were writing my thoughts
in a diary. You would say, I
should have been superior to
circumstances; so I should--so
I should; but you see I was not.
When fate wronged me, I had not
the wisdom to remain cool: I
turned desperate; then I degenerated.
Now, when any vicious simpleton
excites my disgust by his paltry
ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself
that I am better than he: I am
forced to confess that he and
I are on a level. I wish I had
stood firm--God knows I do! Dread
remorse when you are tempted
to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is
the poison of life."
"Repentance
is said to
be its cure,
sir."
"It
is not its
cure. Reformation
may be its cure; and I could
reform--I have strength yet for
that--if--but where is the use
of thinking of it, hampered,
burdened, cursed as I am? Besides,
since happiness is irrevocably
denied me, I have a right to
get pleasure out of life: and
I WILL get it, cost what it may."
"Then
you will degenerate
still more,
sir."
"Possibly:
yet why should
I, if I can
get sweet,
fresh pleasure?
And I may get it as sweet and
fresh as the wild honey the bee
gathers on the moor."
"It
will sting--it
will taste
bitter, sir."
"How do you know?--you never
tried it. How very serious--how
very solemn you look: and you
are as ignorant of the matter
as this cameo head" (taking one
from the mantelpiece). "You have
no right to preach to me, you
neophyte, that have not passed
the porch of life, and are absolutely
unacquainted with its mysteries."
"I
only remind
you of your
own words, sir: you said error
brought remorse, and you pronounced
remorse the poison of existence."
"And
who talks of
error now?
I scarcely
think the notion
that
flittered across my brain was
an error. I believe it was an
inspiration rather than a temptation:
it was very genial, very soothing--I
know that. Here it comes again!
It is no devil, I assure you;
or if it be, it has put on the
robes of an angel of light. I
think I must admit so fair a
guest when it asks entrance to
my heart."
"Distrust
it, sir; it
is not a true
angel."
"Once
more, how do
you know? By
what instinct
do you pretend
to distinguish between a fallen
seraph of the abyss and a messenger
from the eternal throne--between
a guide and a seducer?"
"I
judged by your
countenance,
sir, which was troubled when
you said the suggestion had returned
upon you. I feel sure it will
work you more misery if you listen
to it."
"Not
at all--it
bears the most
gracious message in the world:
for the rest, you are not my
conscience-keeper, so don't make
yourself uneasy. Here, come in,
bonny wanderer!"
He said this as if he spoke
to a vision, viewless to any
eye but his own; then, folding
his arms, which he had half extended,
on his chest, he seemed to enclose
in their embrace the invisible
being.
"Now," he continued, again
addressing me, "I have received
the pilgrim--a disguised deity,
as I verify believe. Already
it has done me good: my heart
was a sort of charnel; it will
now be a shrine."
"To
speak truth,
sir, I don't
understand you at all: I cannot
keep up the conversation, because
it has got out of my depth. Only
one thing, I know: you said you
were not as good as you should
like to be, and that you regretted
your own imperfection;--one thing
I can comprehend: you intimated
that to have a sullied memory
was a perpetual bane. It seems
to me, that if you tried hard,
you would in time find it possible
to become what you yourself would
approve; and that if from this
day you began with resolution
to correct your thoughts and
actions, you would in a few years
have laid up a new and stainless
store of recollections, to which
you might revert with pleasure."
"Justly
thought; rightly
said, Miss
Eyre; and,
at this moment,
I am paving hell with energy."
"Sir?"
"I
am laying down
good intentions,
which I believe durable as flint.
Certainly, my associates and
pursuits shall be other than
they have been."
"And
better?"
"And
better--so
much better
as pure ore is than foul dross.
You seem to doubt me; I don't
doubt myself: I know what my
aim is, what my motives are;
and at this moment I pass a law,
unalterable as that of the Medes
and Persians, that both are right."
"They
cannot be,
sir, if they
require a new statute to legalise
them."
"They
are, Miss Eyre,
though they
absolutely
require a new
statute: unheard-of combinations
of circumstances demand unheard-of
rules."
"That
sounds a dangerous
maxim, sir;
because one
can see at
once
that it is liable to abuse."
"Sententious
sage! so it
is: but I swear
by my household
gods
not to abuse it."
"You
are human and
fallible."
"I
am: so are
you--what then?"
"The
human and fallible
should not
arrogate a
power with
which
the divine and perfect alone
can be safely intrusted."
"What
power?"
"That
of saying of
any strange,
unsanctioned line of action,--'Let
it be right.'"
"'Let
it be right'--the
very words:
you have pronounced
them."
"MAY it be right then," I
said, as I
rose, deeming
it useless
to continue a discourse which
was all darkness to me; and,
besides, sensible that the character
of my interlocutor was beyond
my penetration; at least, beyond
its present reach; and feeling
the uncertainty, the vague sense
of insecurity, which accompanies
a conviction of ignorance.
"Where
are you going?"
"To
put Adele to
bed: it is
past her bedtime."
"You
are afraid
of me, because
I talk like a Sphynx."
"Your
language is
enigmatical,
sir: but though I am bewildered,
I am certainly not afraid."
"You
ARE afraid--your
self-love dreads
a blunder."
"In
that sense
I do feel apprehensive--I
have no wish to talk nonsense."
"If
you did, it
would be in
such a grave, quiet manner, I
should mistake it for sense.
Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?
Don't trouble yourself to answer--I
see you laugh rarely; but you
can laugh very merrily: believe
me, you are not naturally austere,
any more than I am naturally
vicious. The Lowood constraint
still clings to you somewhat;
controlling your features, muffling
your voice, and restricting your
limbs; and you fear in the presence
of a man and a brother--or father,
or master, or what you will--to
smile too gaily, speak too freely,
or move too quickly: but, in
time, I think you will learn
to be natural with me, as I find
it impossible to be conventional
with you; and then your looks
and movements will have more
vivacity and variety than they
dare offer now. I see at intervals
the glance of a curious sort
of bird through the close-set
bars of a cage: a vivid, restless,
resolute captive is there; were
it but free, it would soar cloud-high.
You are still bent on going?"
"It
has struck
nine, sir."
"Never
mind,--wait
a minute: Adele
is not ready
to go to bed
yet. My position, Miss Eyre,
with my back to the fire, and
my face to the room, favours
observation. While talking to
you, I have also occasionally
watched Adele (I have my own
reasons for thinking her a curious
study,--reasons that I may, nay,
that I shall, impart to you some
day). She pulled out of her box,
about ten minutes ago, a little
pink silk frock; rapture lit
her face as she unfolded it;
coquetry runs in her blood, blends
with her brains, and seasons
the marrow of her bones. 'Il
faut que je l'essaie!' cried
she, 'et e l'instant meme!' and
she rushed out of the room. She
is now with Sophie, undergoing
a robing process: in a few minutes
she will re- enter; and I know
what I shall see,--a miniature
of Celine Varens, as she used
to appear on the boards at the
rising of-- But never mind that.
However, my tenderest feelings
are about to receive a shock:
such is my presentiment; stay
now, to see whether it will be
realised."
Ere long, Adele's little foot
was heard tripping across the
hall. She entered, transformed
as her guardian had predicted.
A dress of rose-coloured satin,
very short, and as full in the
skirt as it could be gathered,
replaced the brown frock she
had previously worn; a wreath
of rosebuds circled her forehead;
her feet were dressed in silk
stockings and small white satin
sandals.
"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried
she, bounding forwards; "et mes
souliers? et mes bas? Tenez,
je crois que je vais danser!"
And spreading out her dress,
she chasseed across the room
till, having reached Mr. Rochester,
she wheeled lightly round before
him on tip-toe, then dropped
on one knee at his feet, exclaiming
-
"Monsieur, je vous remercie
mille fois de votre bonte;" then
rising, she added, "C'est comme
cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce
pas, monsieur?"
"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and,
'comme cela,' she charmed my
English gold out of my British
breeches' pocket. I have been
green, too, Miss Eyre,--ay, grass
green: not a more vernal tint
freshens you now than once freshened
me. My Spring is gone, however,
but it has left me that French
floweret on my hands, which,
in some moods, I would fain be
rid of. Not valuing now the root
whence it sprang; having found
that it was of a sort which nothing
but gold dust could manure, I
have but half a liking to the
blossom, especially when it looks
so artificial as just now. I
keep it and rear it rather on
the Roman Catholic principle
of expiating numerous sins, great
or small, by one good work. I'll
explain all this some day. Good-
night."
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