32 Jane Eyre Read By Stephanie Poppins

Jane Eyre is a woman with a difficult past. Her childhood was at Gateshead Hall, where she was emotionally and physically abused by her aunt and cousins. Her education was at Lowood School, where she gained few friends and role models and suffered privations and oppression. Then she arrives at Thornfield and meets the inimitable Mr Rochester...

In this episode:
Jane comes to understand just who St. John is.

Transcript

This is S.

D.

Hudson Magic Jane Eyre Chapter 32 I continued the labors of the village school as actively and as faithfully as I could.

It was truly hard work at first.

Some time elapsed before,

With all my efforts,

I could comprehend my scholars and their nature.

Wholly untaught,

With faculties quite torpid,

They seemed to me hopelessly dull,

And at first sight all dull alike.

But I soon found I was mistaken.

There was a difference amongst them,

As amongst the educated.

And when I got to know them and they me,

This difference rapidly developed itself.

Their amazement at me,

My language,

My rules and my ways,

Once subsided,

I found some of these heavy-looking,

Gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough.

Many showed themselves obliging and amiable too,

And I discovered amongst them not a few examples of natural politeness and innate self-respect,

As well as of excellent capacity that won both my goodwill and my admiration.

They soon took pleasure in doing their work,

In keeping their persons neat,

In learning their tasks regularly and acquiring quiet and orderly manners.

The rapidity of their progress in some instances was even surprising,

And an honest and happy pride I took in it.

Besides,

I began personally to like some of the best girls,

And they liked me.

I had amongst my scholars several farmer's daughters,

Young women,

Grown almost.

They could already write and sew,

And to them I taught the elements of grammar,

Geography,

History and the finer kinds of needlework.

I found estimable characters amongst them,

Characters desirous of information and disposed for improvement,

With whom I passed many a pleasant evening hour in their own homes.

Their parents,

The farmer and his wife,

Loaded me with attentions,

And there was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness,

And in repaying it by a consideration to which they were perhaps at all times accustomed,

And to which both charmed and benefited them.

I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood.

Whenever I went out,

I heard on all sides cordial salutations and was welcomed with friendly smiles.

To live amidst general regard,

Though it be but the regard of working people,

Is like sitting in sunshine calm and sweet.

At this period of my life,

My heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection,

And yet,

Reader,

To tell you all in the midst of this calm and useful existence,

After a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars,

I used to rush into strange dreams at night,

Dreams many-coloured,

Agitated,

Full of the ideal,

The stirring,

The stormy.

Dreams where,

Amidst unusual scenes,

Charged with adventure,

Agitating risk and romantic chance,

I still again and again met Mr.

Rochester,

Always at some exciting crisis.

And then the sense of being in his arms,

Hearing his voice,

Meeting his eye,

Touching his hand and cheek,

Loving him,

Being loved by him,

The hope of passing a lifetime at his side would be renewed with all its first force and fire.

Then I awoke,

Then I recalled where I was and how situated,

Then I rose up on my curtainless bed,

Trembling and quivering,

And then the still,

Dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair and heard the burst of passion.

By nine o'clock the next morning I was punctually opening the school,

Tranquil,

Settled,

Prepared for the steady duties of the day.

Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me.

Her call at the school was generally made up in the course of her morning ride.

She would canter up to the door on her pony,

Followed by a mounted livery servant.

Anything more exquisite than her appearance in her purple habit with her Amazon's cap of black velvet,

Placed gracefully amongst the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders,

Can scarcely be imagined.

And it was thus she would enter the rustic building and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children.

She generally came at the hour when Mr.

Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson.

Keenly,

I feared,

Did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor's heart.

A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance,

Even when he did not see it,

And when he was looking quite away from the door,

If she appeared at it,

His cheek would glow and his marble-seeming features,

Though they refused to relax,

Changed indescribably.

Of course she knew her power.

Indeed,

He did not because he could not conceal it.

In spite of his Christian stoicism,

When she went up and addressed him and smiled gaily,

Encouragingly,

Even fondly in his face,

His hand would tremble and his eye burn.

He seemed to say with his sad and resolute look,

As if he did not say it with his lips,

I love you and I know you prefer me.

It's not despair of success that keeps me dumb.

If I offered my heart I believe you would accept it.

But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar.

The fire is arranged around it and it will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed.

And then she would pout like a disappointed child.

A pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity.

She would withdraw her hand hastily from his and turn in transient petulance from his aspect,

At once so heroic and so martyr-like.

St John no doubt would have given the world to follow,

Recall,

Retain her when she thus left him.

But he would not give one chance of heaven nor relinquish one hope of the true eternal paradise.

Besides,

He could not bound all that he had in his nature,

The rover,

The aspirant,

The poet,

The priest,

In the limits of a single passion.

He would not renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale Hall.

I learned so much from himself in an inroad I once,

Despite his reserve,

Had the daring to make on his confidence.

Miss Oliver had already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage.

I had learned her whole character,

Which was without mystery or disguise.

She was coquettish,

But not heartless,

Exacting,

But not worthlessly selfish.

She had been indulged from her birth,

But was not absolutely spoilt.

She was hasty but good-humoured,

Vain but not affected,

Liberal-handed,

Innocent of the pride of wealth,

Sufficiently intelligent,

Gay,

Lively and unthinking.

She was very charming in short,

Even to a cool observer of her own sex like me,

But she was not profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive.

A very different sort of mind was hers from that,

For instance,

Of the sisters of St John.

Still,

I liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adele,

Except that for a child whom we have watched over and taught,

A closer affection is engendered than we can give an equally attractive adult acquaintance.

She said I was like Mr Rivers.

I was good,

Clever,

Composed and firm,

Just like him.

And,

Coincidentally enough,

One evening,

While I was busy with my art,

After one rapid tap,

My door unclosed,

Admitting St John Rivers himself.

I have come to see how you are,

He said.

Not,

I hope,

In thought.

No,

That is well.

While you draw,

You will not feel lonely.

You see,

I mistrust you still,

Although you have borne up wonderfully so far.

I have brought you a book for evening solace.

He laid on the table a new publication,

One of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those days,

The golden age of modern literature.

While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of Marmion,

For Marmion it was,

St John stooped to examine my drawing.

His tall figure sprang erect again with a start,

But he said nothing.

I looked at him,

And he shunned my eye.

I knew his thoughts well,

And I could read his heart plainly.

At the moment I felt calmer and cooler than he.

I had then temporarily the advantage of him,

And I conceived an inclination to do him some good if I could.

Take a chair,

Mr Rivers,

I said first.

I am determined.

Solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me.

I'll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence,

And find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed one drop of the balm of sympathy.

Is this portrait like?

I asked bluntly,

About the drawing of Rosamond Oliver.

Like whom?

I did not observe it closely,

He said.

You did,

Mr Rivers.

He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness,

And looked at me astonished.

Oh,

That is nothing yet,

I muttered within.

I don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on your part.

I'm prepared to go to considerable lengths.

I continued.

You observed it closely and distinctly,

But I have no objection to your looking at it again.

I rose and placed it in his hand.

A well-executed picture,

He said.

Very soft,

Clear colouring.

Very graceful and correct drawing.

Yes,

Yes,

I know all that,

Said I.

But what of the resemblance?

Who is it like?

And mastering some hesitation,

He answered.

Miss Oliver,

I presume.

Of course,

Said I.

And now,

Sir,

To reward you for the accurate guess,

I will promise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very picture.

Provided you admit the gift would be acceptable to you.

I do not wish to throw away my time and trouble on an offering you would deem worthless.

St John continued to gaze at the picture.

The longer he looked,

The firmer he held it,

And the more he seemed to covet it.

It is like,

He murmured.

The eye is well managed,

The colour light,

Expression perfect.

It smiles.

Would it comfort or would it wound you to have a similar painting?

Tell me that,

I asked.

When you are at Madagascar or the Cape or in India,

Would it be a consolation to have that memento in your possession?

Or would the sight of it bring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?

He now furtively raised his eyes and glanced at me,

Irresolute,

Disturbed.

That I should like to have it,

It is certain.

Whether it would be judicious or wise,

Is another question.

Since I had ascertained that Rosamund really preferred him,

And that her father was not likely to oppose the match,

It had been strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union.

And with this persuasion I now answered,

As far as I can see,

It would be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once.

He sat down and laid the picture on the table before him,

With his brow supported on both hands.

He hung fondly over it.

I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity.

I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he seemed unapproachable,

To hear it thus freely handled,

Was beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure,

An unhoped-for relief.

Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive.

The sternest-seeming Stoic is human after all,

And to burst with boldness and goodwill into the silent sea of their souls is often to confer on them the first of obligations.

She likes you,

I'm sure,

Said I as I stood behind his chair,

And her father respects you.

Moreover,

She's a sweet girl,

Rather thoughtless,

But you would have sufficient thought for both yourself and her.

You ought to marry her.

Does she like me?

He asked.

Certainly,

Better than she likes anyone else.

She talks of you continually.

There is no subject she enjoys so much,

Or touches upon so often.

It is very pleasant to hear this,

He said.

Very.

Go on for another quarter of an hour.

And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time.

But where is the use of going on,

I asked,

When you are probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?

Don't imagine such hard things.

Fancy me yielding and melting as I am doing.

Human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation,

All the field I have so carefully and with such labour prepared,

So assiduously sown with the seeds of good intentions,

Of self-denying plans.

And now it is deluged with a netarious flood,

The young germs swamped,

Delicious poison cankering them.

Now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamund Oliver's feet.

She is talking to me with her sweet voice,

Gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has copied so well.

She is mine,

I am hers.

This present life and passing world suffice to me.

Let the time I marked pass in peace.

I humoured him.

The watch ticked on.

He breathed fast and low.

I stood silent.

Amidst this hush the quarter sped.

Then he replaced the watch,

Laid the picture down,

Rose and stood on the hearth.

Now,

Said he,

That little space was given to delirium and delusion.

I rested my temples on the breast of temptation and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers.

I tasted her cup.

The pillow was burning.

There is an asp in the garland.

The wine has a bitter taste.

Her promises are hollow.

Her offers false.

I see and know all this.

I gazed at him in wonder.

It is strange,

Pursued he,

That while I love Rosamund Oliver so wildly,

With all the intensity indeed of a first passion,

I experience at the same time a calm,

Unwalked consciousness that she would not make me a good wife,

That she is not the partner suited to me,

That I should discover this within a year after marriage and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret.

This I know.

The End

Reviews

I was so hazy with sleep, I listened numerous times, but interesting that he could so quickly calculate out the small amount of joy he would glean and decide against… stronger than I😂🥰 thank you 🙏🏼❤️