'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 L30 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 dependant 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 verily 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 or 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
