One day, he had company to dinner and sent for my portfolio. I had no idea why he would wish to exhibit its contents, but I was agreeable. Soon after his guests were gone, a message came that I was to bring Adele downstairs.
I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat and checked my own appearance before we descended. As usual, Adele prattled on, wondering whether her presents were at last arrived, and how did her
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hair look, and was her dress quite the right one for the occasion. I told her she should concern herself more with her behavior than her appearance, and she pouted prettily. A little carton greeted her on the table, and she beamed again.
"Ma boîte! ma boîte!" she exclaimed, running towards it.
"Yes, there is your boîte at last. Take it into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disemboweling 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. Let your operation be conducted in silence. Tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?"
She was then absorbed in the contents of the box.
"Is Miss Slayre there?" he demanded, half rising from his seat to look around to the door, near which I still stood.
I caught his gaze, and my heart gave the tiniest little skip. What was it? I'd already established that he did not make me nervous. It must have been excitement at considering a chance for some interesting conversation.
"Ah! Well, come forward. Be seated here." He drew a chair near his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children, I must explain. Old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisping voices."
I suppose he wanted me to simper or protest, as women might over the dismissal of their children's charms. But Adele was only my pupil, not my child, and furthermore, I found his honesty engaging. Still, I pushed my chair a little back from where he'd placed it, so close to his own.
"Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Slayre. Sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. I suppose I should call for the old lady, too."
He rang and dispatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon arrived, knitting basket in hand.
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"Good evening, madam. I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents. Have the goodness to attend to her."
Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax than she summoned her to her sofa and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, and the waxen contents of her boîte, pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in her usual broken English.
"Now I have performed the part of a good host," said Mr. Rochester. "I've put my guests into the way of amusing each other, so I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Slayre, 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 sitting not quite so close to him. Everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele 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 and much less gloomy. A definite smile was on his lips, and his eyes sparkled. Still, an air of the grim remained about him. I doubted he could help it. His rugged, rough-hewn masculinity leant itself to natural intimidation of others.
He had been looking at the fire, and I had been looking at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on him.
"You examine me, Miss Slayre. Do you think me handsome?"
I should have said something conventionally vague and polite, but a different, more provoking answer somehow slipped from my tongue. "No, sir."
"Ah! By my word! There is something singular about you. You have the air of a little abbess. You sit with your hands on your lap, with your eyes generally bent on the carpet except when they are directed to my face, as just now, for instance. And when one asks
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you a question or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a blunt rejoinder. What do you mean by it?"
"Sir, 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."
"Beauty of little consequence? 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."
"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.
"It is like marble, sir. Shall I compose a sonnet?" My insolence knew no bounds!
"There again! Another stick of the penknife when she pretended to pat my head."
Perhaps he had had too much wine. I did not know what else to say.
"You look very much puzzled, Miss Slayre. Though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, a puzzled air becomes you. Besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours busy with the worsted flowers of the rug, so puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative tonight."
With this announcement he rose from his chair and stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece. In that attitude, his shape was plainly seen as well as his face. What is handsome? I could not truly say. I could allow that his breadth of chest, length of limb, and sound and solid build was indeed more impressive than his face. So much unconscious pride was in his port, so much ease in his demeanor, such a look of complete indifference to his external
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appearance, and so haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, that it atoned for a lack of mere personal attractiveness, had one truly been lacking.
"I am disposed to be gregarious tonight," he repeated, "and that is why I sent for you. The fire and the chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark. So, too, Mrs. Fairfax. You, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will. You puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here. But tonight I am resolved to be at ease. It would please me now to draw you out, to learn more of you, therefore speak."
"What about, sir?"
"Whatever you like."
Accordingly I sat and said nothing. I had spent weeks longing for the same thing he now asked for, some interesting conversation, yet when ordered to provide it, I refused to satisfy him. Something in me forced me to thwart him. It made little sense to me, but I would not speak.
"Stubborn? And perhaps annoyed? Ah! It is consistent. I put my request in an almost insolent form. Miss Slayre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like an inferior. I claim only such superiority as must result from fifteen years' difference in age and a century's advance in experience."
"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir. I cannot introduce a topic without knowing what will interest you, though. Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them."
He paced a second, hand on his chin, then his gaze again met mine. "Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, and abrupt, sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am older, and that I have roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"
"I don't think, sir, that the fact that you are older than I or have seen more of the world gives you a right to command me.
Your
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claim to superiority all depends on the use you have made of your time and experience."
"Hmph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it would never suit my case. 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 would accept his reasonable commands merely because, as his employee, he paid me to do so, but it was odd he did not add this to his argument.
"The smile is very well," he said. "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."
"You are my paid subordinate, yes. 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 dependent 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?"
How curious that he seemed so eager to secure my good opinion, or at least to avoid my censure. "I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence. One I rather like, the other nothing freeborn would submit to, even for a salary."
"Most things freeborn will submit to anything as long as their price is met. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy. You have proven yourself a worthy partner. Your manner is frank and sincere, no affectation or coldness, or coarse-minded misapprehensions. Not three in three thousand raw schoolgirl governesses would have answered me as you have just done. Don't take this as flattery. As far as I know, you have some intolerable faults to balance your few good points."
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"And so may you," I thought, but did not dare to speak. But my eye met his as the idea crossed my mind, and he seemed to read the thought as if I had spoken it.
"Yes, yes, you are right. I have plenty of faults of my own. I am a severe judge of character. I became steered off course at age twenty-one and haven't managed to right myself yet. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, and your unpolluted memory. Little abbess, a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment. Is it not?"
Would that my memory were without blot. I had no intention of speaking of my own circumstances, however. I turned his question back to him. "How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"
"All right then. I was your equal at eighteen--quite your equal. Nature intended for me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Slayre. One of the better kind, and you see I am not so. Do not disagree. You have no idea. Take my word for it. I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that I am. In fact, 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?"
"A little, sir."
"If you knew the whole of it, you would probably say that I should have been superior to circumstances. So I should. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool. Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Slayre. Remorse is the poison of life."
"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."
He waved his hand. "It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure. I could reform--I have strength yet for that, if I could only see the use for it. Since true happiness is irrevocably denied me, I've decided that I have a right to get any sort of pleasure I can out of life. And I will get it, cost what it may."
"Then you will degenerate still more, sir."
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"Possibly. Yet why should I? Why shouldn't I seek and enjoy some pleasure?"
"It will sting, sir."
"How do you know?" he laughed. "You never tried it, my little abbess. How very solemn you look."
I shrugged. "I only remind you of your own words, sir. You said error brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."
"I scarcely think the notion that I deserve some pleasure was an error."
"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all. The conversation has got out of my depth. I only know that you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection. It seems to me that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve, and then you could find happiness and freely seek your pleasures."
"Rightly said, Miss Slayre. I will try hard. We'll see what comes of it."
"Very good, then," I said as I rose.
"Where are you going?"
"To put Adele to bed. It is past her bedtime." I wasn't going to stay too long and wait for him to reprimand me.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, his dark brow arching. "You think me a monster?"
"I have no idea what you could have done to make me think you a monster," I said frankly. I wished he would be more clear on it. "But rest assured, Mr. Rochester, I have faced my share of monsters and come out quite victorious. You don't frighten me in the least. Now good night."
"No, wait a minute. Don't run off. We've spoken enough of dark things for tonight. I would prefer to hear you laugh, my little abbess. Oh, don't bristle at the name, just an endearment really. I think you are as naturally austere as I am vicious. That is, not at all. In time,
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you will relax around me, I think. We will share some laughs and good times. I feel it. You are still bent on going?"
"It has struck nine, sir."
"Never mind that. Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Slayre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours observation of our little charge. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adele. Sit. We shall talk of Adele. A safe subject."
Hesitant, I sat down again.
"She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock," he said, taking the opposite chair and speaking low. "Rapture lit her face as she unfolded it. Coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. 'Il faut que je l'essaie!' cried she. 'Et à l'instant même!' and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie. In a few minutes she will reenter, and I know what I shall see--a miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear at the theater. But never mind that. However, my tender feelings are about to receive a shock. Such is my presentiment. Stay now, to see whether it will be realised."
I stayed. Ere long, Adele was heard tripping across the hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, short, and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn. A wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead. Her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals.
"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" she cried, bounding forward. "Et mes souliers? Et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"
Spreading out her dress, she skipped across the room until, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tiptoe, then dropped on one knee at his feet. "Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté. C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"
"Precisely!" was his answer. "And, comme cela, she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green,
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too, Miss Slayre. Ay, grass green. My springtime is gone, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. I have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this someday. Now you may take her to bed. Good night."
CHAPTER 18
ON A FUTURE OCCASION, Mr. Rochester did finally explain. It was one afternoon when he chanced to meet Adele and me on the grounds. She ran about and played with Pilot on the lawn. As she was safely occupied, he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.
He then poured out the story of his relationship with a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a grande passion.
"Miss Slayre, so much was I flattered by her compliments that I installed her in a hotel and gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, and whatever her heart desired. In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the received style."
"Are you sure you wish to tell me all, sir?" I boldly put my hand on his arm. "It isn't necessary to inform me."
He shook his head. "Let me finish."
"Very well." I continued walking at his side.
"Happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me, I found her out. It was a warm night, and I was tired with strolling
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through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir to await her, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out onto the balcony. I sat down and took out a cigar." he patted down his jacket and withdrew one from his pocket. "I will take one now, if you will excuse me?"
I excused him. He lit it, placed it to his lips, and breathed a trail of havana incense on the cold and sunless air.
"An elegant carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses pulled up. I knew it as the one I had given Celine. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door. My flame alighted, though muffled in a cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance on so warm a June evening. Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur Mon ange--in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her, cloaked also, with a hat pulled down low on his head.
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