The Complete Works: Charlotte, Emily, Anne, Patrick & Branwell Brontë. Anne Bronte

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      “The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination, — tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan, — a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain.”

      “I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir.”

      “Well, you can leave me, ma’am: but before you go” (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), “you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two.” He paused.

      “What questions, Mr. Rochester?”

      Then followed this cross-examination.

      “St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?”

      “Yes.”

      “You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?”

      “Daily.”

      “He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature!”

      “He approved of them — yes.”

      “He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary.”

      “I don’t know about that.”

      “You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come there to see you?”

      “Now and then?”

      “Of an evening?”

      “Once or twice.”

      A pause.

      “How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?”

      “Five months.”

      “Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?”

      “Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the window, and we by the table.”

      “Did he study much?”

      “A good deal.”

      “What?”

      “Hindostanee.”

      “And what did you do meantime?”

      “I learnt German, at first.”

      “Did he teach you?”

      “He did not understand German.”

      “Did he teach you nothing?”

      “A little Hindostanee.”

      “Rivers taught you Hindostanee?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And his sisters also?”

      “No.”

      “Only you?”

      “Only me.”

      “Did you ask to learn?”

      “No.”

      “He wished to teach you?”

      “Yes.”

      A second pause.

      “Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?”

      “He intended me to go with him to India.”

      “Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?”

      “He asked me to marry him.”

      “That is a fiction — an impudent invention to vex me.”

      “I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be.”

      “Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?”

      “Because I am comfortable there.”

      “No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with me: it is with this cousin — this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers.”

      “Shake me off, then, sir, — push me away, for I’ll not leave you of my own accord.”

      “Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool — go — ”

      “Where must I go, sir?”

      “Your own way — with the husband you have chosen.”

      “Who is that?”

      “You know — this St. John Rivers.”

      “He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not love him. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary’s wife, which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me — no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth — only a few useful mental points. — Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him?”

      I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. He smiled.

      “What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between you and Rivers?”

      “Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I do love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever.”

      Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.

      “My seared vision! My crippled strength!” he murmured regretfully.

      I caressed, in order to soothe him. I СКАЧАТЬ