Jane Eyre

Chapter 19

The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl--

if Sibyl she were--was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the

chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or

rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped

handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the

table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little

black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she

muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read;

she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she

wished to finish a paragraph.

I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with

sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as

composed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the

gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and

slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I

could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked

all brown and black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white

band which passed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or

rather jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a bold and direct

gaze.

The old crone "nichered" a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she

then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it began to smoke.

Having indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body,

took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire,

said very deliberately--"You are cold; you are sick; and you are

silly."

"I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no

contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick;

because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to

man, keeps far away from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you

may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir one step

to meet it where it waits you."

"You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly

situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The

materials are all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine

them. Chance laid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached

and bliss results."

I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which

she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned

it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She ached her face to

the palm, and pored over it without touching it.

"It is too fine," said she. "I can make nothing of such a hand as

that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is

not written there."

"No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the

eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up your head."

I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so that a

ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however,

as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it

illumined.

"I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night," she said,

when she had examined me a while. "I wonder what thoughts are busy

in your heart during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the

fine people flitting before you like shapes in a magic-lantern:

just as little sympathetic communion passing between you and them as

if they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual

substance."

"Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my

earnings to set up a school some day in a little house rented by

myself."

"Don't be alarmed," continued the strange being; "she's a safe hand

is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in

her. But, as I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do you

think of nothing but your future school? Have you no present

interest in any of the company who occupy the sofas and chairs

before you? Is there not one face you study? one figure whose

movements you follow with at least curiosity?"

"Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme--

courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe--marriage."

"Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health,

charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune,

sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you--"

"I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a

syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I

consider some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others

young, dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at

liberty to be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my

feeling disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me."

"You don't know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a

syllable with one of them? Will you say that of the master of the

house!"

"A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote

this morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does

that circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance--

blot him, as it were, out of existence?"

"I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of

late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes that

they overflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never

remarked that?"

"No question about his right: but have you never observed that, of

all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been

favoured with the most lively and the most continuous?"

"The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator." I

said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk,

voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One

unexpected sentence came from her lips after another, till I got

involved in a web of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit

had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and

taking record of every pulse.

"Eagerness of a listener!" repeated she: "yes; Mr. Rochester has

sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took

such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was

so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given

him; you have noticed this?"

"Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though,

with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to

question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love

such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she

loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know she

considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though

(God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about an hour

ago which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her mouth

fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look

out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll,--he's

dished--"

"But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester's fortune: I

came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it."

"Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait

contradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness:

that I know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has

laid it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends

on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether

you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug."

"The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks

soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is

susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear sphere;

where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs

on the lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness.

It turns from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to

deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have

already made,--to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin:

its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is

favourable.

"As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed

to impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be

silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was

never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude:

it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have

human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is

propitious.

"I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow

professes to say,--'I can live alone, if self-respect, and

circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy

bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me

alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only

at a price I cannot afford to give.' The forehead declares, 'Reason

sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings

burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage

furiously, like true heathens, as they are; and the desires may

imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment shall still have the

last word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision.

Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I shall

follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the

dictates of conscience.'

"Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have

formed my plans--right plans I deem them--and in them I have

attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I

know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of

bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were

detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution--such is

not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight--to earn gratitude,

not to wring tears of blood--no, nor of brine: my harvest must be

in smiles, in endearments, in sweet-- That will do. I think I rave

in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract this

moment ad infinitum; but I dare not. So far I have governed myself

thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act; but

further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave

me; the play is played out'."

Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I

dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her

gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass--as

the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I

stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and

her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart.

The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on

the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no

more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple

member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring

flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it,

and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at

the face; which was no longer turned from me--on the contrary, the

bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

"No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been

trying to draw me out--or in; you have been talking nonsense to make

me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir."

"I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection,

I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive

you; but it was not right."

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort;

but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the

interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and

fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman

had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her

anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on

Grace Poole--that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I

considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

"I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.

Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here

since you left this morning?"

Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to

lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip;

the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his breath.

"Mason!--the West Indies!" he said, in the tone one might fancy a

speaking automaton to enounce its single words; "Mason!--the West

Indies!" he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times,

growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly

seemed to know what he was doing.

He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both

his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most

troubled and dreary look.

"My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with

only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed

from me."

"Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they

will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what

he is doing."

I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr.

Rochester had said; they were not seated at table,--the supper was

arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they

stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in

their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and

conversation were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the

fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any

of them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me

frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I

daresay), and I returned to the library.

"Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!" he said. He swallowed

the contents and returned it to me. "What are they doing, Jane?"

He half smiled. "But if I were to go to them, and they only looked

at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then

dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with

them?"

"Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in

his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him

in here and then leave me."

I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight

among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded

him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went

upstairs.

At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the

visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester's

voice, and heard him say, "This way, Mason; this is your room."

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.