Jane Eyre (20 page)

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight, rising into the sky was a woman’s shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star, the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour, the eyes shone dark and wild, the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight, the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky, a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head—a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was ‘the likeness of a kingly crown’ what it diademed was ‘the shape which shape had none’.

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr Rochester presently.

“I was absorbed, sir, yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few, but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”

“I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night. The length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork, in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite. You have secured the shadow of your thought, but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being, yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? For the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! Put the drawings away!”

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, he said abruptly, “It is nine o’clock, what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adèle sit up so long? Take her to bed.”

Adèle went to kiss him before quitting the room. He endured the caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so much.

“I wish you all good-night, now,” said he, making a movement of the hand towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished to dismiss us. Mrs Fairfax folded up her knitting. I took my portfolio, we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.

“You said Mr Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs Fairfax,” I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adèle to bed.

“Well, is he?”

“I think so, he is very changeful and abrupt.”

“True, no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.”

“Why?”

“Partly because it is his nature—and we can none of us help our nature and partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal.”

“What about?”

“Family troubles, for one thing.”

“But he has no family.”

“Not now, but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother a few years since.”

“His
elder
brother?”

“Yes. The present Mr Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property; only about nine years.”

“Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?”

“Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them. Mr Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr Edward and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr Rochester and Mr Rowland combined to bring Mr Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune, what the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving, he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I don’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the estate and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place.”

“Why should he shun it?”

“Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer, but Mrs Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr Rochester’s trials. She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly.

 Chapter Fourteen

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 Adèle 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 Adèle were to go downstairs. I brushed Adèle’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, Adèle 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?”

Adèle 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
tête-à-tête
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 Adèle 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.”

Adèle, 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 Adèle—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 enquired 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?”