singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few weeks?
Giacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months.
Clara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible:
not one whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to
set her up in a good line of business, and so get decently rid of her.
But, Jane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable
opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled
rake: don't you?'
'I don't like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir.
Did it not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first
with one mistress and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of
course.'
'It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling fashion
of existence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress
is the next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature,
and always by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with
inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I
passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara.'
I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain
inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching
that had ever been instilled into me, as- under any pretext- with
any justification- through any temptation- to become the successor
of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same
feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not
give utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I
impressed it on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as
aid in the time of trial.
'Now, Jane, why don't you say "Well, sir?" I have not done. You are
looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to
the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses- in a harsh, bitter
frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life-
corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and
especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion
of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream),
recalled by business, I came back to England.
'On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield
Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace- no pleasure there. On a
stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I
passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I
had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning
that the arbitress of my life- my genius for good or evil- waited
there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion
of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help.
Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped
to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly;
but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange
perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be
aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.
'When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new- a fresh
sap and sense- stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this
elf must return to me- that it belonged to my house down below- or I
could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it
vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come
home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I
thought of you or watched for you. The next day I observed you- myself
unseen- for half an hour, while you played with Adele in the
gallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out
of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar: I could both listen and
watch. Adele claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied
your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patient with her, my
little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at
last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook
yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a
casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to
the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think
those day visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable
illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your
aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your
look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit
follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal
heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the
hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself,
Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and
seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say- "My
fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are
absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my
brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough
tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter."
You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the
weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think
it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight.
'Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my
presence. An unusual- to me- a perfectly new character I suspected was
yours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered
the room with a look and air at once shy and independent: you were
quaintly dressed- much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I
found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were
restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether
that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a
good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by
some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a
daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's face: there was
penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close
questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seemed
to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of sympathy
between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was
astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised
your manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear,
annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now
and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot
describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I
liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I
treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was an
intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of
making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while
troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely
its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I
did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the
radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover,
I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you- but you
did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and
easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as
little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your
habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not
despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had
little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of
me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.
'I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your
glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a
social heart; it was the silent schoolroom- it was the tedium of
your life- that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of
being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became
soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by
your lips in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting
with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your
manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble- a hovering doubt: you
did not know what my caprice might be- whether I was going to play the
master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too
fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my
hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young,
wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and
there to my heart.'
'Don't talk any more of those days, sir,' I interrupted,
furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was
torture to me; for I knew what I must do- and do soon- and these
reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings, only made my
work more difficult.
'No, Jane,' he returned: 'what necessity is there to dwell on the
Past, when the Present is so much surer- the Future so much brighter?'
I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
'You see now how the case stands- do you not?' he continued. 'After
a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in
dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly
love- I have found you. You are my sympathy- my better self- my good
angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good,
gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my
heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life,
wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame,
fuses you and me in one.
'It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you.
To tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now
that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you;
but I feared a stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared
early instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before
hazarding confidences. This was cowardly: I should have appealed to
your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now- opened to you
plainly my life of agony- described to you my hunger and thirst
after a higher and worthier existence- shown to you, not my resolution
(that word is weak), but my resistless bent to love faithfully and
well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I should
have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours.
Jane- give it me now.'
A pause.
'Why are you silent, Jane?'
I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my
vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a
human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was
loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must
renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable
duty- 'Depart!'
'Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise- "I
will be yours, Mr. Rochester."'
'Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.'
Another long silence.
'Jane!' recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with
grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror- for this still
voice was the pant of a lion rising- 'Jane, do you mean to go one
way in the world, and to let me go another?'
'I do.'
'Jane' (bending towards and embracing me), 'do you mean it now?'
'I do.'
'And now?' softly kissing my forehead and cheek.
'I do,' extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.
'Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This- this is wicked. It would not be
wicked to love me.'
'It would to obey you.'
A wild look raised his brows- crossed his features: he rose; but he
forbore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I
shook, I feared- but I resolved.
'One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you
are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left?
For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer
me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where
turn for a companion and for some hope?'
'Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope
to meet again there.'
'Then you will not yield?'
'No.'
'Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?' His
voice rose.
'I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil.'
'Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on
lust for a passion- vice for an occupation?'
'Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at
it for myself. We were born to strive and endure- you as well as I: do
so. You will forget me before I forget you.'
'You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I
declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change
soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in
your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a
fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man
being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor
acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?'
This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason
turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting
him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured
wildly. 'Oh, comply!' it said. 'Think of his misery; think of his
danger- look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong
