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Chapter 14


CHAPTER XIV


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 Adele 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 Adele were to go downstairs.  I brushed
Adele'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, Adele 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?"

Adele 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 tete-e-tete 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 Adele 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."

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, 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 Adele (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 inquired
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?"

"Hope of what, sir?"

"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?"

"Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not know
what answer to make to his queer question:  how could I tell whether
he was capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not
pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you;
besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of
yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted
flowers of the rug; so puzzle on.  Young lady, I am disposed to be
gregarious and communicative to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning
his arm on the marble mantelpiece:  in that attitude his shape was
seen plainly as well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest,
disproportionate almost to his length of limb.  I am sure most
people would have thought him an ugly man; yet there was so much
unconscious pride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such a
look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so
haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or
adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness,
that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared the indifference,
and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence.

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night," 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; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded,
can suit me if you will:  you puzzled me the first evening I invited
you down here.  I have almost forgotten you since:  other ideas have
driven yours from my head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease;
to dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases.  It would
please me now to draw you out--to learn more of you--therefore
speak."

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or
submissive smile either.

"Speak," he urged.

"What about, sir?"

"Whatever you like.  I leave both the choice of subject and the
manner of treating it entirely to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing:  "If he expects me to talk for
the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has
addressed himself to the wrong person," I thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still.  He bent his head a little towards me, and with a
single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed.  Ah! it is consistent.  I put my
request in an absurd, almost insolent form.  Miss Eyre, I beg your
pardon.  The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like
an inferior:  that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only such
superiority as must result from twenty years' difference in age and
a century's advance in experience.  This is legitimate, et j'y
tiens, as Adele would say; and it is by virtue of this superiority,
and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me
a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling
on one point--cankering as a rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel
insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.

"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir--quite willing; but I
cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest
you?  Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them."

"Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right
to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on
the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your
father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with
many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while you
have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"

"Do as you please, sir."

"That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a
very evasive one.  Reply clearly."

"I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because
you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world
than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have
made of your time and experience."

"Humph!  Promptly spoken.  But I won't allow that, seeing that it
would never suit my case, as 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 thought to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar--he seems
to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving his
orders.

"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing
expression; "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."

"Paid subordinates!  What! you are my paid subordinate, are you?  Oh
yes, I had forgotten the salary!  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?"

"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence:
one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even
for a salary."

"Humbug!  Most things free-born will submit to anything for a
salary; therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on
generalities of which you are intensely ignorant.  However, I
mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its
inaccuracy; and as much for the manner in which it was said, as for
the substance of the speech; the manner was frank and sincere; one
does not often see such a manner:  no, on the contrary, affectation,
or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of one's
meaning are the usual rewards of candour.  Not three in three
thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you
have just done.  But I don't mean to flatter you:  if you are cast
in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours:
Nature did it.  And then, after all, I go too fast in my
conclusions:  for what I yet know, you may be no better than the
rest; you may have intolerable defects to counterbalance your few
good points."

"And so may you," I thought.  My eye met his as the idea crossed my
mind:  he seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had
been spoken as well as imagined -

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of my
own:  I know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure you.
God wot I need not be too severe about others; I have a past
existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within
my own breast, which might well call my sneers and censures from my
neighbours to myself.  I started, or rather (for like other
defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse
circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-
twenty, and have never recovered the right course since:  but I
might have been very different; I might have been as good as you--
wiser--almost as stainless.  I envy you your peace of mind, your
clean conscience, your unpolluted memory.  Little girl, a memory
without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an
inexhaustible source of pure refreshment:  is it not?"

"How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"

"All right then; limpid, salubrious:  no gush of bilge water had
turned it to fetid puddle.  I was your equal at eighteen--quite your
equal.  Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre;
one of the better kind, and you see I am not so.  You would say you
don't see it; at least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye
(beware, by-the-bye, what you express with that organ; I am quick at
interpreting its language).  Then take my word for it,--I am not a
villain:  you are not to suppose that--not to attribute to me any
such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to
circumstances than to my natural bent, 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?  Know, that in the course of your future life you will
often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of your
acquaintances' secrets:  people will instinctively find out, as I
have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to
listen while others talk of themselves; they will feel, too, that
you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but with
a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and encouraging
because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."

"How do you know?--how can you guess all this, sir?"

"I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were
writing my thoughts in a diary.  You would say, I should have been
superior to circumstances; so I should--so I should; but you see I
was not.  When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool:
I turned desperate; then I degenerated.  Now, when any vicious
simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot
flatter myself that I am better than he:  I am forced to confess
that he and I are on a level.  I wish I had stood firm--God knows I
do!  Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse
is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."

"It is not its cure.  Reformation may be its cure; and I could
reform--I have strength yet for that--if--but where is the use of
thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am?  Besides, since
happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure
out of life:  and I WILL get it, cost what it may."

"Then you will degenerate still more, sir."

"Possibly:  yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure?
And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee
gathers on the moor."

"It will sting--it will taste bitter, sir."

"How do you know?--you never tried it.  How very serious--how very
solemn you look:  and you are as ignorant of the matter as this
cameo head" (taking one from the mantelpiece).  "You have no right
to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of
life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries."

"I only remind you of your own words, sir:  you said error brought
remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."

"And who talks of error now?  I scarcely think the notion that
flittered across my brain was an error.  I believe it was an
inspiration rather than a temptation:  it was very genial, very
soothing--I know that.  Here it comes again!  It is no devil, I
assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of
light.  I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance
to my heart."

"Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel."

"Once more, how do you know?  By what instinct do you pretend to
distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger
from the eternal throne--between a guide and a seducer?"

"I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said
the suggestion had returned upon you.  I feel sure it will work you
more misery if you listen to it."

"Not at all--it bears the most gracious message in the world:  for
the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself
uneasy.  Here, come in, bonny wanderer!"

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his
own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his
chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

"Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the
pilgrim--a disguised deity, as I verify believe.  Already it has
done me good:  my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a
shrine."

"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all:  I cannot keep
up the conversation, because it has got out of my depth.  Only one
thing, I know:  you said you were not as good as you should like to
be, and that you regretted your own imperfection;--one thing I can
comprehend:  you intimated that to have a sullied memory was a
perpetual bane.  It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would
in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve;
and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your
thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new
and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with
pleasure."

"Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am
paving hell with energy."

"Sir?"

"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint.
Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have
been."

"And better?"

"And better--so much better as pure ore is than foul dross.  You
seem to doubt me; I don't doubt myself:  I know what my aim is, what
my motives are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that
of the Medes and Persians, that both are right."

"They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise
them."

"They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute:
unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules."

"That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once
that it is liable to abuse."

"Sententious sage! so it is:  but I swear by my household gods not
to abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am:  so are you--what then?"

"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the
divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"

"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,--'Let
it be right.'"

"'Let it be right'--the very words:  you have pronounced them."

"MAY it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to
continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides,
sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my
penetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the
uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a
conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"

"To put Adele to bed:  it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical, sir:  but though I am bewildered, I
am certainly not afraid."

"You ARE afraid--your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive--I have no wish to talk
nonsense."

"If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should
mistake it for sense.  Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?  Don't trouble
yourself to answer--I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very
merrily:  believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I
am naturally vicious.  The Lowood constraint still clings to you
somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and
restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a
brother--or father, or master, or what you will--to smile too gaily,
speak too freely, or move too quickly:  but, in time, I think you
will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be
conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have
more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now.  I see at
intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set
bars of a cage:  a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were
it but free, it would soar cloud-high.  You are still bent on
going?"

"It has struck nine, sir."

"Never mind,--wait a minute:  Adele is not ready to go to bed yet.
My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the
room, favours observation.  While talking to you, I have also
occasionally watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a
curious study,--reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you
some day).  She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a
little pink silk frock; 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 e
l'instant meme!' and she rushed out of the room.  She is now with
Sophie, undergoing a robing process:  in a few minutes she will re-
enter; and I know what I shall see,--a miniature of Celine Varens,
as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of-- But never
mind that.  However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a
shock:  such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be
realised."

Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall.
She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted.  A dress of
rose-coloured satin, very 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?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes
souliers? et mes bas?  Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till,
having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him
on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming -

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising,
she added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas,
monsieur?"

"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed my
English gold out of my British breeches' pocket.  I have been green,
too, Miss Eyre,--ay, grass green:  not a more vernal tint freshens
you now than once freshened me.  My Spring is gone, however, but it
has left me that French floweret on my hands, which, in some moods,
I would fain be rid of.  Not valuing now the root whence it sprang;
having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could
manure, 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 some day.  Good-
night."


Charlotte Bronte