บทที่ บทที่ 14 · For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the

. 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 Adèle 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 Adèle were to go downstairs. I brushed Adèle’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,

Adèle 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?”

Adèle 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

_tête-à-tête_ 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 Adèle 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.”

Adèle, 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 Adèle (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. 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

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 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.

“Where are you going?”

“To put Adèle 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: Adèle 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 Adèle (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 à l’instant même!’ 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 Céline 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, Adèle’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 chasséed 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 bonté;” 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.”