Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  The other was as certainly Georgiana, but not the Georgiana I remembered—the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too, but its fashion was so different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and becoming—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.

  In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother—and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent’s Cairngorm eye, the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin—perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.

  Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of “Miss Eyre.” Eliza’s greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her “How d’ye do?” several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone, and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot—now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a ‘quiz’ without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.

  A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed, as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other—Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise—pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow—that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.

  “How is Mrs Reed?” I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.

  “Mrs Reed? Ah! Mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly, I doubt if you can see her tonight.”

  “If,” said I, “you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you.”

  Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. “I know she had a particular wish to see me,” I added, “and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  “Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,” remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie—who was, I dared say, in the kitchen—and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs Reed was disposed to receive me or not tonight. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance, received as I had been today, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; my experience at Thornfield Hall and its master had marked me quite changed, brave, filled with the knowledge I could endure, and now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better—or dead, as to her daughters’ pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself, I met Bessie on the landing.

  “Missis is awake,” said she. “I have told her you are here, come and let us see if she will know you.”

  I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie. I softly opened the door, a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed. I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

  Well did I remember Mrs Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity.

  The well-known face was there, stern, relentless as ever—there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! And how the recollection of childhood’s terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her, she looked at me.

  “Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.

  “Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?”

  I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again, I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet, had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me—her feeling towards me—was unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye—opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears—that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure, only a sense of mortification.

  I felt pain, and then I felt ire and then I felt a determination to subdue her—to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood. I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head. I sat down and leaned over the pillow.

  “You sent for me,” I said, “and I am here and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on.”

  “Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind, tonight it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say—let me see—”

  The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down, she was at once irritated.

  “Sit up!” said she, “don’t annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?”

  “I am Jane Eyre.”

  “I have had more trouble with that child than anyone would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands—and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one’s movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend—no child ever spoke or looked as she did. I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die, but I said she did—I wish she had died!”

  “A strange wish, Mrs Reed; why do you hate her so?”

  “I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was m
y husband’s only sister, and a great favourite with him, he opposed the family’s disowning her when she made her low marriage and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long—not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own, more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar, the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse, but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it. John is like me and like my brothers—he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money? I have no more money to give him, we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that—yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses—poor boy! He is beset by sharpers. John is sunk and degraded—his look is frightful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.”

  She was getting much excited. “I think I had better leave her now,” said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.

  “Perhaps you had, Miss, but she often talks in this way towards night—in the morning she is calmer.”

  I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs Reed, “there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me—he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine, and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass. I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?”

  Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught, she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.

  More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or lethargic and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement. I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.

  Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination, a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad’s head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.

  One morning I fell to sketching a face, what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage, that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it, of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes, I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large. I shaped them well, the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. “Good! but not quite the thing,” I thought, as I surveyed the effect, “they want more force and spirit,” and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend’s face under my gaze and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it. I smiled at the speaking likeness, I was absorbed and content.

  “Is that a portrait of someone you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied, it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr Rochester as I remembered him from that morning before I left. Our relationship had changed; that was reflected in his eyes. There was a softness about his eyes, an easing of the furrow between his thick brows that had been missing till now. Perhaps in this portrait, his hair was thicker than before, for now that I had had my hands in it, I knew how thick the sable length felt. He had changed in my eyes and in my rendering. But what was that to her, or to anyone but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that “an ugly man.” They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing, this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation, she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago—of the admiration she had there excited—the attention she had received and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on, various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day, they always ran on the same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’s sick-room, and no more.

  Eliza still spoke little, she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did, or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way, this routine sufficed for her and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.

  She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John’s conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her, but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure and when her mother died—and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger
long—she would execute a long-cherished project, seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

  “Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common, they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course and she, Eliza, would take hers.”

  Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. “It would be so much better,” she said, “if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “all being over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister’s indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus, “Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person’s strength, if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon, you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered—you must have music, dancing, and society—or you languish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task, leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes—include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment. You have had to seek no one’s company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice, the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or anyone else, happen what may. Neglect it—go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling—and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly and listen, for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother’s death, I wash my hands of you, from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim, I can tell you this—if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.”