Jane Eyre (21 page)

“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 tonight.”

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 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. Adèle 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 tonight 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 Adèle 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 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 verily 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.