Authors: Charlotte Brontë
In the second week of October, 18—, I got the appointment of
English professor to all the classes of — College, Brussels,
with a salary of three thousand francs per annum; and the
certainty of being able, by dint of the reputation and publicity
accompanying the position, to make as much more by private means.
The official notice, which communicated this information,
mentioned also that it was the strong recommendation of M.
Vandenhuten, negociant, which had turned the scale of choice in
my favour.
No sooner had I read the announcement than I hurried to M.
Vandenhuten's bureau, pushed the document under his nose, and
when he had perused it, took both his hands, and thanked him with
unrestrained vivacity. My vivid words and emphatic gesture moved
his Dutch calm to unwonted sensation. He said he was happy—glad
to have served me; but he had done nothing meriting such thanks.
He had not laid out a centime—only scratched a few words on a
sheet of paper.
Again I repeated to him—
"You have made me quite happy, and in a way that suits me; I do
not feel an obligation irksome, conferred by your kind hand; I do
not feel disposed to shun you because you have done me a favour;
from this day you must consent to admit me to your intimate
acquaintance, for I shall hereafter recur again and again to the
pleasure of your society."
"Ainsi soit-il," was the reply, accompanied by a smile of
benignant content. I went away with its sunshine in my heart.
IT was two o'clock when I returned to my lodgings; my dinner,
just brought in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on the table; I
sat down thinking to eat—had the plate been heaped with
potsherds and broken glass, instead of boiled beef and haricots,
I could not have made a more signal failure: appetite had
forsaken me. Impatient of seeing food which I could not taste, I
put it all aside into a cupboard, and then demanded, "What shall
I do till evening?" for before six P.M. it would be vain to seek
the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me it had but
one) was detained by her vocation elsewhere. I walked in the
streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own room from two o'clock
till six; never once in that space of time did I sit down. I was
in my chamber when the last-named hour struck; I had just bathed
my face and feverish hands, and was standing near the glass; my
cheek was crimson, my eye was flame, still all my features looked
quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and
stepping out, I was glad to see Twilight drawing on in clouds;
such shade was to me like a grateful screen, and the chill of
latter Autumn, breathing in a fitful wind from the north-west,
met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to
others, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the
men had their coats buttoned close.
When are we quite happy? Was I so then? No; an urgent and
growing dread worried my nerves, and had worried them since the
first moment good tidings had reached me. How was Frances? It
was ten weeks since I had seen her, six since I had heard from
her, or of her. I had answered her letter by a brief note,
friendly but calm, in which no mention of continued
correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my bark
hung on the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on
what shoal the onward rush of the billow might hurl it; I would
not then attach her destiny to mine by the slightest thread; if
doomed to split on the rock, or run a aground on the sand-bank, I
was resolved no other vessel should share my disaster: but six
weeks was a long time; and could it be that she was still well
and doing well? Were not all sages agreed in declaring that
happiness finds no climax on earth? Dared I think that but half
a street now divided me from the full cup of contentment—the
draught drawn from waters said to flow only in heaven?
I was at the door; I entered the quiet house; I mounted the
stairs; the lobby was void and still, all the doors closed; I
looked for the neat green mat; it lay duly in its place.
"Signal of hope!" I said, and advanced. "But I will be a little
calmer; I am not going to rush in, and get up a scene directly."
Forcibly staying my eager step, I paused on the mat.
"What an absolute hush! Is she in? Is anybody in?" I demanded
to myself. A little tinkle, as of cinders falling from a grate,
replied; a movement—a fire was gently stirred; and the slight
rustle of life continuing, a step paced equably backwards and
forwards, backwards and forwards, in the apartment. Fascinated,
I stood, more fixedly fascinated when a voice rewarded the
attention of my strained ear—so low, so self-addressed, I never
fancied the speaker otherwise than alone; solitude might speak
thus in a desert, or in the hall of a forsaken house.
"'And ne'er but once, my son,' he said,
'Was yon dark cavern trod;
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew;
And oft he stopp'd and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night-winds blew.
For trampling round by Cheviot-edge
Were heard the troopers keen;
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between,'" &c. &c.
The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause
ensued; then another strain followed, in French, of which the
purport, translated, ran as follows:—
I gave, at first, attention close;
Then interest warm ensued;
From interest, as improvement rose,
Succeeded gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon,
And labour was no pain;
If tired, a word, a glance alone
Would give me strength again.
From others of the studious band,
Ere long he singled me;
But only by more close demand,
And sterner urgency.
The task he from another took,
From me he did reject;
He would no slight omission brook,
And suffer no defect.
If my companions went astray,
He scarce their wanderings blam'd;
If I but falter'd in the way,
His anger fiercely flam'd.
Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be
surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily
entered. Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly
in her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight
only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these
sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking, ere I
entered, in poetry. Sir Walter Scott's voice, to her a foreign,
far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first
stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance,
was the language of her own heart. Her face was grave, its
expression concentrated; she bent on me an unsmiling eye—an eye
just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams:
well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair,
orderly her tranquil room; but what—with her thoughtful look,
her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply
inspiration—what had she to do with love? "Nothing," was the
answer of her own sad, though gentle countenance; it seemed to
say, "I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one is to
be my support and the other my solace through life. Human
affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me."
Other women have such thoughts. Frances, had she been as
desolate as she deemed, would not have been worse off than
thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid and formal race of old
maids—the race whom all despise; they have fed themselves, from
youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of
them get ossified with the dry diet; self-control is so
continually their thought, so perpetually their object, that at
last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of their
nature; and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned out of a
little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will tell you that
there is a heart in the withered old maid's carcase—the same as
in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land. Can
this be so? I really don't know; but feel inclined to doubt it.
I came forward, bade Frances "good evening," and took my seat.
The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it
stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I
know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she
did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my
greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me,
and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always met, as master
and pupil—nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers;
Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room,
brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain
over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the
already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat
down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top
was a translation of some grave French author into English, but
underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands.
Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil,
saying, that was nothing—a mere copy of verses. I put by
resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but
on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had
quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her
hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the
present I forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was
occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not
exactly the writer's own experience, but a composition by
portions of that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was
avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I
translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal; it
continued thus:—
When sickness stay'd awhile my course,
He seem'd impatient still,
Because his pupil's flagging force
Could not obey his will.
One day when summoned to the bed
Where pain and I did strive,
I heard him, as he bent his head,
Say, "God, she must revive!"
I felt his hand, with gentle stress,
A moment laid on mine,
And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign.
But pow'rless then to speak or move,
I only felt, within,
The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,
Their healing work begin.
And as he from the room withdrew,
My heart his steps pursued;
I long'd to prove, by efforts new;
My speechless gratitude.
When once again I took my place,
Long vacant, in the class,
Th' unfrequent smile across his face
Did for one moment pass.
The lessons done; the signal made
Of glad release and play,
He, as he passed, an instant stay'd,
One kindly word to say.
"Jane, till to-morrow you are free
From tedious task and rule;
This afternoon I must not see
That yet pale face in school.
"Seek in the garden-shades a seat,
Far from the play-ground din;
The sun is warm, the air is sweet:
Stay till I call you in."
A long and pleasant afternoon
I passed in those green bowers;
All silent, tranquil, and alone
With birds, and bees, and flowers.
Yet, when my master's voice I heard
Call, from the window, "Jane!"
I entered, joyful, at the word,
The busy house again.
He, in the hall, paced up and down;
He paused as I passed by;
His forehead stern relaxed its frown:
He raised his deep-set eye.
"Not quite so pale," he murmured low.
Now Jane, go rest awhile."
And as I smiled, his smoothened brow
Returned as glad a smile.
My perfect health restored, he took
His mien austere again;
And, as before, he would not brook
The slightest fault from Jane.
The longest task, the hardest theme
Fell to my share as erst,
And still I toiled to place my name
In every study first.
He yet begrudged and stinted praise,
But I had learnt to read
The secret meaning of his face,
And that was my best meed.
Even when his hasty temper spoke
In tones that sorrow stirred,
My grief was lulled as soon as woke
By some relenting word.
And when he lent some precious book,
Or gave some fragrant flower,
I did not quail to Envy's look,
Upheld by Pleasure's power.
At last our school ranks took their ground,
The hard-fought field I won;
The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound
My throbbing forehead on.
Low at my master's knee I bent,
The offered crown to meet;
Its green leaves through my temples sent
A thrill as wild as sweet.
The strong pulse of Ambition struck
In every vein I owned;
At the same instant, bleeding broke
A secret, inward wound.
The hour of triumph was to me
The hour of sorrow sore;
A day hence I must cross the sea,
Ne'er to recross it more.
An hour hence, in my master's room
I with him sat alone,
And told him what a dreary gloom
O'er joy had parting thrown.
He little said; the time was brief,
The ship was soon to sail,
And while I sobbed in bitter grief,
My master but looked pale.
They called in haste; he bade me go,
Then snatched me back again;
He held me fast and murmured low,
"Why will they part us, Jane?"