Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  “Jane,” he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must have become in some degree attached to the house—you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”

  “I am attached to it, indeed.”

  “And though I don’t comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adèle too, and even for simple dame Fairfax?”

  “Yes, sir. In different ways, I have an affection for both.”

  “And would be sorry to part with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity!” he said, and sighed and paused. “It is always the way of events in this life,” he continued presently, “no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.”

  “Must I move on, sir?” I asked. I wondered if he could see the way my pulse raced so awfully. This was the moment I’d dreaded; yet I knew it must surely come. “Must I leave Thornfield?”

  “I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.”

  This was a blow, but I did not let it prostrate me.

  “Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.”

  “It is come now—I must give it tonight.”

  “Then you are going to be married, sir?”

  “Ex-act-ly—pre-cise-ly, with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.”

  “Soon, sir?”

  “Very soon, my—that is, Miss Eyre, and you’ll remember, Jane, the first time I, or rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor’s neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony—to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short—she’s an extensive armful. But that’s not to the point—one can’t have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche—well, as I was saying—listen to me, Jane! You’re not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, ‘flying away home’. I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you—with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position—that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adèle had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved. Indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I’ll try to forget it. I shall notice only its wisdom, which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adèle must go to school and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.”

  “Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately, and meantime, I suppose—” I was going to say, “I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to,” but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.

  “In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,” continued Mr Rochester, “and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am sorry to give—”

  “Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her. Indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit. It is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think, they’re such warm-hearted people there, they say.”

  I struggled to school my voice. I looked at Mr Rochester, with his broad forehead and studious expression as if to memorise his features. I should have to sketch him again, so as to have something during the dreary, endless days of the future. “It is a long way off, sir.”

  “No matter—a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.”

  “Not the voyage, but the distance, and then the sea is a barrier—”

  “From what, Jane?”

  “From England and from Thornfield, and—”

  “Well?”

  “From you, sir.”

  I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however. I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean—wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.

  “It is a long way,” I again said.

  “It is, to be sure and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane, that’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane, have we not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! We’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half an hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder, here is the chestnut tree, here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace tonight, though we should never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself.

  “It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels, but if I can’t do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?”

  I could risk no sort of answer by this time, my heart was still.

  “Because,” he said, “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now. It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you—you’d forget me.”

  “That I never should, sir, you know—” Impossible to proceed.

  “Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!”

  In listening, I sobbed convulsively, for I could repress what I endured no longer. I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

  “Because you are sorry to leave it?”

  The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last, yes—and to speak.

  “I grieve to leave Thornfield, I love Thornfield—I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life—momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr Rochester and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you forever. I see the necessity of departure and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

  “Where do you see the necessity?” he asked suddenly.

  “Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.”

  “In what shape?”

  “In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman—your bride.”

  “My bride! What bride? I have no bride!”

  “But you will have.”

  “Yes—I
will!—I will!” He set his teeth.

  “Then I must go—you have said it yourself.”

  “No, you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be kept.”

  “I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?—A machine without feelings? And can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal—as we are!”

  “As we are!” repeated Mr Rochester—“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips very quickly, “so, Jane!”

  “Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined, “and yet not so, for you are a married man—or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you—to one with whom you have no sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love, for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union, therefore I am better than you—let me go!” I could endure no more; not his touch; not his words; not the past; not the unbearable, barren future! More passionately I enjoin him again, “Let me go!”

  “Where, Jane? To Ireland?”

  “Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”

  “Jane, be still, don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”

  “I am no bird and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”

  Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

  “And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said. “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”

  “You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”

  “I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”

  “For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.”

  “Jane, be still a few moments, you are over-excited. I will be still too.”

  My master captured my wrists and secured them behind my back. I was imprisoned; his skill prevented my movements.

  Again he rejoined me, finally piercing the armour I’d worn like a cloak. Desperately I sought to shut out the dreadful pain of knowing I must go. We would both have an interminable future—he with the lovely and hollow Miss Ingram, and me entombed hundreds of miles away. With my pain, I choked back a cry and whispered, “I cannot, Mr Rochester, by all that is holy—”

  “Be still, Janet, I implore you,” he interjected. His bass tone was soothing as well as demanding. When he issued a command, there would be no refusing him. “Be still.”

  He exerted the force of his will as effortlessly as he schooled my person, relentlessly and with an inexorable force, he commanded me against his body. Those torrid throbbings of desire surely filled my deepest recesses. No matter how I controlled my mind, my very flesh was weak. How I yearned for his mastery—even now, especially now!

  No matter how I longed to quit his presence and nurse my emotional injuries, I was powerless to tear myself away. I wanted him to compel me to my knees as he took the knot from my hair and filled me as only he could. This very well could be our last time together. I would seize it. I would have a lifetime for regrets while tonight I merely had this moment.

  “Look at me, Jane—”

  “Do not tease me, sir, I beg you!”

  With his strong and powerful grip on my wrists, he forced me up onto my tiptoes.

  At once I saw he meant to kiss me again. His lips would be relentless and ruthless and the taste of him—the smokiness of his cigar combined with his uncivilised power—would render me helpless.

  “Surrender, sweet Jane.”

  “Nay, sir, I cannot. I will not.”

  His thick brows furrowed above those eyes. Though the sun had been swallowed by eve, the intent was as clear as a spring brook. Mr Rochester would have me.

  Any further protest was swallowed by his lips.

  I knew I could have turned away; he held my hands—thus my upper body—imprisoned at the small of my back, my head was free.

  “Kiss me,” he commanded, moving closer.

  “Indeed not,” I rejoined. My voice sounded fragile, even to my own ears.

  “Then you leave me no choice.”

  My heart pounded like a vicious storm. He held my eyes captive. Nature won out, and as he came closer, I closed my eyes. Thornfield’s master claimed my lips. At first, it was a simple press; nothing untoward, much like his earlier, much more hurried one.

  This, I could endure; soon it would be over. I barely felt any response.

  But then, he pulled back and said, “Open your mouth, Miss Eyre.”

  I did open my mouth, but only to continue my protests. He’d succeeded in his singular mission. He entered my mouth, and with his tongue, he stilled my words.

  He tasted of wine; he tasted of force. His will be done. The thought was as blasphemous as it was truthful for this man, when he set his rich mind to something, would see it to fruition. Even though he was intended for another, he would have me. I reminded myself of the vow I’d taken upon leaving Lowood. I would sip from all life’s experiences. I knew now the folly of that reckless promise. The thought of never seeing my love again was unendurable.

  God insulate me from the pain of knowing this momentary pleasure!

  I tried to pull away. Mr Rochester subdued me instantly. He forced me more firmly against his body. I felt the uncompromising strength of his chest against mine. To admit the truth to myself as well as others, I confess I didn’t put up much of a fight. I wanted to be mastered. My struggles were more internal than external. I should not want this, but I did.

  He plundered my mouth; he demanded my compliance.

  After a few more valiant moments of resistance—resistance that was worthless against his superior strength—I yielded.

  Once I became more compliant, he loosened his hold on me. My shoulders were not forced so far out of position. His fingers relaxed on my wrists. With determination he continued the sensual assault on my person, deepening the thrust of his tongue and seeking my response until my knees could hardly support me. I knew that if he would but release me, I would cling to him, throw myself on his mercy and beg him to have me.

  Now that I was dazed by a sensual fog, Mr Rochester held me with only one hand. The other he moved to my head. He dug his fingers into my hair immediately disentangling the knot I’d so carefully constructed and he held my tresses as leverage to pull my head backwards, forcing my neck to be exposed. With my body contoured into this unusual position, I was more open and revealed to him.

  Very slowly—backing away the pressure by slight measures—he ended the kiss. “Open your eyes, fair one, and look at me.”

  It was by far the most difficult of requests to comply with. I wished to remain in my cocoon of delirium, but Mr Rochester urged me, as always, to become the butterfly. At times such as these, he rarely allowed me the respite of my thoughts.

  Eventually I opened my eyes to find him looking at me. His lips had punished mine, bruising them; breaths laboured in my chest, seeking escape.

  “My penis is hard, Jane. That is what kissing you does to me. My body is filled with desire.”

  His blunt words would have shocked previously. Now they stirred me.

  “Dare I hope you are similarly afflicted?”

  I would have looked away to hide the flush that stole up my cheeks, but his grip on my hair prevented such liber
ty.

  “Answer me directly and honestly, Jane.”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Speak so the night and all her creatures can hear your words.”

  I said firmly, “Yes, sir. I am excited by the taste of your mouth.”

  “I wish to receive proof of this claim. Lift your dress.”

  During his adulthood, Mr Rochester had many paramours. I knew I could never compare to the beauty of his French opera-girl. Even though I was but a plain governess, my master made me feel exquisite.

  “Do I need to repeat myself?”

  His tone had changed, sharpened somewhat. The sound of his voice could put me into a trancelike state in mere moments. I shook my head as much as I was able against the firm grip with which he held me.

  “Jane, it is always my desire to hear your voice. It speaks to my heart. Your words and the way they are said gives me insight into your well-being. Thus I require you to answer me clearly and plainly. Tell me you understand.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Very well. What did I order you to do?”

  “To lift my dress, sir.”

  “Then do so.”

  He loosened his hold enough that I could extract my hands.

  I was grateful for the gloaming. I prayed it made the trembling of my limbs less visible, and it would help me feel less exposed to his gaze.

  As he’d wished, I lifted the front of my black dress.

  “I shall see you attired in the finest of fabrics, the loveliest of silks and satins.”

  “No, sir.” This I had no problem saying firmly. I would always be the sensible Jane Eyre, even in my selection of undergarments.

  “Defy me always, will you, Jane?”

  “At every turn, sir.” Of course, he would expect nothing less. But in our more intimate moments, I would deny him nothing.