This is SDHudsonMagic Jane Eyre Chapter 14 Continued Repentance is said to be its cure,
Sir,
Said Jane.
It is not its cure.
Reformation may be its cure,
And I could reform,
Said Mr.
Rochester.
I do have strength yet for that.
But where is the use of thinking of it?
Hampered,
Burdened,
Cursed as I am.
Besides,
Since happiness is irrevocably denied me,
I have the right to get pleasure out of life,
And I will get it,
Cost what it may.
Then you will denigrate 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 flitted 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 is 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.
Distrusted,
Sir,
It is not a true angel.
Once more,
How do you know?
By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen syrup of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne,
Between a guide and a seducer?
I judge by your countenance,
Sir,
Which was troubled.
When you said the suggestion that had returned upon you,
I feel sure it would work you more misery if you listened 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 channel.
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 solid 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 are both 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 of dangerous maxim,
Sir,
Because one can see at once 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 entrusted.
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 Adele to bed,
It's past her bedtime.
You are afraid of me,
Because I talk like a sphinx.
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 lowered constraint still clings to you somewhat,
Controlling your features,
And muffling your voice,
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.
Adele is not ready to go to bed yet.
My position,
Miss Err,
With my back to the fire and my face to the room,
Favours observation.
While talking to you,
I have also occasionally watched Adele.
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 almost 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 laissez,
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 Véran,
As she used to appear on the boards.
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.
Earlong,
Adele'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,
Pounding forwards.
Et ma soulière?
Et mes bains?
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 around him on tiptoe,
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?
Precisely,
Was the answer.
And,
Comme cela,
She charmed my English gold out of my British breeches pocket.
I have been green too,
Monsieur.
Aye,
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 flowerette 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 shall explain all this some day.
Good night.
