9 Jane Eyre - Stephanie Poppins

This is chapter 9 of the classic novel by Charlotte Bronte follows the story of Jane, a seemingly plain and simple girl as she battles through life's struggles. Jane has many obstacles in her life - her cruel and abusive Aunt Reed, the grim conditions at Lowood school, her love for Mr Rochester, and Mr Rochester's marriage. Read by Children's author Stephanie Poppins. Please note: this is a very powerful chapter and may be very moving/upsetting for those who are sensitive to childhood death. It is considered compelling listening.

Transcript

This is SD Hudson Magic Jane Eyre Chapter 9 But the privations,

Or rather the hardships of Lowood,

Lessened.

Spring drew on.

She was indeed already come.

The frost of winter had ceased.

Its snows were melted,

Its cutting winds ameliorated.

My wretched feet,

Flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January,

Began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April.

The nights and mornings,

No longer by their Canadian temperature,

Froze the very blood in our veins.

We could now endure the play hour passed in the garden.

Sometimes on a sunny day,

It began even to be pleasant and genial,

And a greenness grew over those brown buds,

Which,

Freshening daily,

Suggested the thought that hope traversed them at night,

And left each morning brighter traces of her steps.

Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves,

Snowdrops,

Crocuses,

Purple auriculars,

And golden-eyed pansies.

On Thursday afternoons,

Half-holidays,

We now took walks,

And found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside under the hedges.

I discovered,

Too,

That a great pleasure,

An enjoyment which the horizon only bounded,

Lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden.

This pleasure consisted in a prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill hollow,

Rich in verdure and shadow,

In a bright beck,

Full of dark stones and sparkling eddies.

How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter,

Stiffened in frost,

Shrouded with snow.

When mists as chill death wandered to the impulse of east winds along these purple peaks,

And rolled down ing and home till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck,

That beck itself was then a torrent,

Turbid and curbless.

It tore asunder the wood,

And set a raving sound through the air.

Wintertime thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet,

And for the forest on its banks that showed only ranks of skeletons.

April advanced to May,

A bright serene May it was.

Days of blue sky,

Placid sunshine,

And soft western or southern gales filed up its duration.

And now vegetation matured with vigour.

Low wood shook loose its tresses,

It became all green,

All flowery.

Its great elm,

Ash and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life.

Woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses.

Unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows,

And it made a strange ground sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants.

I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest luster.

All this I enjoyed often and fully,

Free,

Unwatched,

And almost alone.

For this unwanted liberty and pleasure there was a cause,

To which it now becomes my task to advert.

Have I not described a pleasant sight for a dwelling,

When I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood and rising from the verge of a stream?

Assuredly pleasant enough,

But whether healthy or not is another question.

That forest dell where low wood lay was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence,

Which quickening with a quickening spring crept into the orphan asylum,

Breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory,

And ere May arrived,

Transformed the seminary into a hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection.

Forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time.

Classes were broken up,

Rules relaxed.

The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license,

Because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health,

And had it been otherwise,

No one had leisure to watch or restrain them.

Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients.

She lived in the sick-room,

Never quitting it except to snatch a few hours rest at night.

The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion.

Many,

Already smitten,

Went home only to die.

Some died at the school,

And were buried quietly and quickly,

The nature of the malady forbidding delay.

Wild disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood,

And death its frequent visitor.

While there was gloom and fear within its walls,

While its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells,

The drug and the pastille,

Striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality,

That bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors.

Its garden,

Too,

Glowed with flowers.

Hollyhocks had sprung up as tall as trees,

Lilies had opened,

Tulips and roses were in bloom,

The borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies.

The sweet briars gave out,

Morning and evening,

Their scent of spice and apples,

And these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood,

Except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

But I,

And the rest who continued well,

Enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season.

They let us ramble in the wood like gypsies from morning till night.

We did what we liked,

Went where we liked.

We lived better,

Too.

Mr Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now.

Household matters were not scrutinised into.

The cross-housekeeper was gone,

Driven away by the fear of infection.

Her successor,

Who had been matron at the Lowton dispensary,

Unused to the ways of her new abode,

Provided with comparative liberality.

Besides there were fewer to feed.

The sick could eat little,

Our breakfast basins were better filled.

When there was no time to prepare a regular dinner,

Which often happened,

She would give us a large piece of cold pie or a thick slice of bread and cheese,

And this we carried away with us to the wood,

Where we each chose the spot we liked best and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone,

Rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck,

And only to be got at by wading through the water,

A feat I accomplished barefoot.

The stone was just broad enough to accommodate,

Comfortably,

Another girl and me,

And at that time my chosen comrade,

One Mary Anne Wilson,

A shrewd,

Observant personage whose society I took pleasure in,

Partly because she was witty and original,

And partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease.

Some years older than I,

She knew more of the world and could tell me many things I liked to hear.

With her my curiosity found gratification.

To my thoughts also she gave ample indulgence,

Never imposing curb or rein on anything I said.

She had a turn for narrative,

I for analysis.

She liked to inform,

I to question,

So we got on swimmingly together,

Deriving much entertainment,

If not much improvement,

From our mutual intercourse.

And where meantime was Helen Burns?

Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her?

Had I forgotten her,

Or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society?

Surely the Mary Anne Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance.

She could only tell me amusing stories and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in,

While,

If I have spoken truth of Helen,

She was qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things.

True reader,

And I knew and felt this,

And though I am a defective being with many faults and few redeeming points,

Yet I never tired of Helen Burns,

Nor ever ceased to cherish for her her sentiment of attachment,

As strong,

Tender and respectful as any that ever animated my heart.

How could it be otherwise,

When Helen at all times and under all circumstances,

Convinced me for a quiet and faithful friendship which ill-humour never soured,

Nor irritation ever troubled?

But Helen was ill at present.

For some weeks she had been removed from my sight till I knew not what room upstairs.

She was not,

I was told,

In the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients,

For her complaint was consumption,

Not typhus.

And by consumption I,

In my ignorance,

Understood something mild,

Which time and care would be sure to alleviate.

I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden,

But on these occasions I was not allowed to go and speak to her,

I only saw her from the schoolroom window,

And then not distinctly,

For she was very much wrapped up,

And sat at a distance under the veranda.

One evening in the beginning of June,

I had stayed out very late with Mary Anne in the wood.

We had as usual separated ourselves from the others and had wandered far,

So far that we lost our way and had to ask it at a lonely cottage where a man and woman lived,

Who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood.

When we got back,

It was after moonrise.

A pony,

Which we knew to be the surgeons,

Was standing at the garden door.

Mary Anne remarked that she supposed someone must be very ill,

As mister Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening.

She went into the house.

I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest,

And which I feared would wither if I left them till morning.

This done,

I lingered yet longer.

The flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell.

It was such a pleasant evening,

So serene,

So warm.

The still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow.

The moon rose with such majesty in the grave east.

I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might,

When it entered my mind as it had never done before.

How sad to be lying now on a sickbed and to be in danger of dying.

This world is pleasant.

It would be dreary to be called from it,

And to have to go who knows where.

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell,

And for the first time it recoiled,

Baffled,

And for the first time,

Glancing behind on each side and before it,

It saw all around an unfathomed gulf.

It felt the one point where it stood,

The present.

All the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth.

And it shuddered at the thought of tottering and plunging amid that chaos.

While pondering this new idea,

I heard the front door open.

Mr.

Bates came out,

And with him was a nurse.

After she had seen him mount his horse and depart,

She was about to close the door,

But I ran up to her.

How is Helen Burns?

Very poorly,

Was the answer.

Is it her Mr.

Bates has been to see?

Yes.

And what does he say about her?

He says she'll not be here long.

This phrase uttered in my hearing yesterday would have only conveyed the notion she was about to be removed to Northumberland,

To her own home.

I should not have suspected it meant she was dying,

But I knew instantly now.

It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world and that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits,

If such a region there were.

I experienced a shock of horror,

Then a strong thrill of grief,

Then a desire,

A necessity to see her,

And I asked in what room she lay.

She's in Miss Temple's room,

Said the nurse.

May I go up and speak to her?

Oh no,

Child,

It's not likely,

And now it's time for you to come in.

You'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling.

The nurse closed the front door.

I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom.

I was just in time.

It was nine o'clock and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later,

Probably near eleven,

When I,

Not having been able to fall asleep and deeming from the perfect silence of the dormitory that my companions were all wrapped in profound repose,

Rose softly,

Put on my frock over my nightdress,

And without shoes crept from the apartment and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room.

It was quiet at the other end of the house,

But I knew my way,

And the light of the unclouded summer moon entering here and there at passage windows enabled me to find it without difficulty.

An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room,

And I passed its door quickly,

Fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me.

I dreaded being discovered and sent back,

For I must see Helen,

I must embrace her before she died,

I must give her one last kiss,

Exchange with her one last word.

Having descended a staircase,

Traversed a portion of the house below and succeeded in opening and shutting,

Without noise,

Two doors,

I reached another flight of steps.

These I mounted,

And then just opposite to me was Miss Temple's room.

A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door.

A profound stillness pervaded the vicinity.

Coming near,

I found the door slightly ajar,

Probably to emit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness.

Indisposed to hesitate and full of impatient impulses,

Soul and senses quivering with keen throes,

I put it back and looked in.

My eyes sought Helen and feared to find death.

Just by Miss Temple's bed,

And half covered with its white curtains,

There stood a little crib.

I saw the outline of a form under the clothes,

But the face was hid by the hangings.

The nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy chair,

Asleep,

An unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table.

Miss Temple was not to be seen.

I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever room.

I advanced,

Then paused by the crib side.

My hand was on the curtain,

But I preferred speaking before I withdrew it.

I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

I whispered softly,

Are you awake?

She stirred herself,

Put back the curtain and I saw her face,

Pale,

Wasted,

But quite composed.

She looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated.

Can it be you,

Jane?

She asked in her own gentle voice.

Oh,

I thought,

She's not going to die,

They're mistaken.

She could not speak and look so calmly if she were.

I got onto her crib and kissed her.

Her forehead was cold and her cheek both cold and thin,

And so were her hand and wrist.

But she smiled as of old.

Why,

You come here,

Jane.

It's past eleven o'clock.

I heard it strike some minutes since.

I came to see you,

Helen.

I heard you were very ill and I couldn't sleep till I'd spoken to you.

You came to bid me goodbye,

Then.

You're just in time,

Probably.

Are you going somewhere,

Helen?

Are you going home?

Yes,

To my long home.

My last home.

No,

No,

Helen.

I stopped,

Distressed.

When I tried to devour my tears,

A fit of coughing seized Helen.

It did not,

However,

Wake the nurse.

When it was over,

She lay some minutes exhausted.

Then she whispered,

Jane,

Your little feet are bare.

Lie down and cover yourself with my quilt.

I did so.

She put her arm over me and I nestled close to her.

After a long silence,

She resumed,

Still whispering,

I'm very happy,

Jane.

And when you hear that I am dead,

You must be sure not to grieve.

There's nothing to grieve about.

We must all die one day.

And the illness which is removing me is not painful.

It's gentle and gradual.

My mind is at rest.

I leave no one to regret me much.

I have only a father and he's lately married and will not miss me.

By dying young,

I shall escape great sufferings.

I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world.

I should have been continually at fault.

But where are you going to,

Helen?

Can you see?

Do you know?

I believe.

I have faith.

I am going to God.

Where is God?

What is God?

My maker and yours,

Who will never destroy what he created.

I rely implicitly on his power and confide wholly in his goodness.

I count the hours till that eventful one arrives,

Which will restore me to him,

Reveal me to him.

You are sure then,

Helen,

There's such a place as heaven and that our souls can get to it when we die?

I am sure there is a future state.

I believe God is good.

I can resign my immortal part to him without any misgiving.

God is my father.

God is my friend.

I love him.

And I believe he loves me.

And shall I see you again,

Helen,

When I die?

You will come to the same region of happiness.

To be received by the same mighty universal parent,

No doubt,

Dear Jane.

Again I questioned,

But this time only in thought.

Where is that region?

Does it exist?

And I clasped my arms close around Helen.

She seemed dearer to me than ever.

I felt as if I could not let her go.

I lay with my face hidden on her neck.

Presently,

She said in the sweetest tone,

How comfortable I am.

That last bit of coughing has tired me a little.

I feel as if I could sleep.

But don't leave me,

Jane.

I'd like to have you near me.

I'll stay with you,

Dear Helen.

No one shall take me away.

Are you warm,

Darling?

Good night,

Jane.

Good night,

Helen.

She kissed me,

And I her.

And we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke,

It was day.

An unusual movement roused me.

I looked up.

I was in somebody's arms.

The nurse held me.

She was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory.

I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed.

People had something else to think about.

No explanation was afforded then to my many questions.

But a day or two afterwards,

I learned that Miss Temple,

On returning to her own room at dawn,

Had found me laid in a little crib,

My face against Helen Byrne's shoulder,

My arms around her neck.

I was asleep.

And Helen was dead.

Her grave is in Brockle Bridge Churchyard.

For fifteen years after her death,

It was only covered by a grassy mound.

But now a grey marble tablet marks the spot,

Inscribed with her name,

And the word Resurgam.

Reviews

Oh how heavy, but flush with detail and also your sweet voice. Jane would be proud ❤️