JANE
EYRE
PART
5
CHAPTER V
Five
o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, when Bessie
brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly
dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my
face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting, whose
rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I was to leave
Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six a.m.
Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where
she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited
with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having pressed me in
vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for
me, wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she
helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she
and I left the nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will
you go in and bid Missis good-bye?”
“No,
Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to supper, and
said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and she told
me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of her and
be grateful to her accordingly.”
“What did
you say, Miss?”
“Nothing:
I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to the wall.”
“That was
wrong, Miss Jane.”
“It was
quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has been my
foe.”
“O Miss
Jane! don’t say so!”
“Good-bye
to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front
door.
The moon
was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light glanced on
wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the
winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There
was a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter’s
wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening
before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and
shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the
coming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through
the gloom.
“Is she
going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.
“Yes.”
“And how
far is it?”
“Fifty
miles.”
“What a
long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far alone.”
The coach
drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its top laden with
passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up;
I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.
“Be sure
and take good care of her,” cried she to the guard, as he lifted me into the
inside.
“Ay, ay!”
was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed “All right,” and on
we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead; thus whirled away
to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.
I remember
but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of a
preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles of
road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, the
coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to
dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some
dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a
fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red
gallery high up against the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I
walked about for a long time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive
of some one coming in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their
exploits having frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles. At
last the guard returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector
mounted his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the
“stony street” of L-.
The
afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began to feel
that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass through
towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the horizon: as
twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night
had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.
Lulled by
the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when the sudden
cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person like a
servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps.
“Is there
a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I answered “Yes,” and
was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly drove
away.
I was
stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the coach:
Gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness
filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door
open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked
it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses—for the building
spread far—with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad
pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led
me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood
and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there was no
candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered
walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlour, not so
spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable
enough. I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall,
when the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed
close behind.
The first
was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her
figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing
erect.
“The child
is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her candle down on the
table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further
added—
“She had
better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?” she asked, placing
her hand on my shoulder.
“A little,
ma’am.”
“And
hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss
Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to
school, my little girl?”
I
explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had
been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write,
and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and
saying, “She hoped I should be a good child,” dismissed me along with Miss
Miller.
The lady I
had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared some
years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss
Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn
countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity
of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was,
an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment,
from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from
the total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we
had traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a
wide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which
burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of
girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of
the dips, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality
exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint
fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were
engaged in conning over their to-morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the
combined result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss
Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up to the top
of the long room she cried out—
“Monitors,
collect the lesson-books and put them away!”
Four tall
girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered the books and
removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command—
“Monitors,
fetch the supper-trays!”
The tall
girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with portions of
something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in
the middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those who liked
took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When it came to
my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and
fatigue rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin
oaten cake shared into fragments.
The meal
over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed off, two and two,
upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed
what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw
it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she
helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each
of which was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light
was extinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.
The night
passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to hear
the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to be
sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again
unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day
had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I
too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for
shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur
soon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down the middle of
the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in
that order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom:
here prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—
“Form
classes!”
A great
tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly
exclaimed, “Silence!” and “Order!” When it subsided, I saw them all drawn
up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all held
books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before
the vacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by the low,
vague hum of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this
indefinite sound.
A distant
bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked to a table
and took her seat. Miss Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair, which was
that nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the children were
assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottom of it.
Business
now began, the day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts of Scripture were
said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible,
which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had
fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the
classes were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I
was to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly
sick from inanition, having taken so little the day before.
The
refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked
basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far
from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the
fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the
van of the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered
words—
“Disgusting!
The porridge is burnt again!”
“Silence!”
ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the upper teachers, a
little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who
installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at
the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the night before;
she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and
a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards
found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was
said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers, and
the meal began.
Ravenous,
and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my portion without thinking
of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in
hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes;
famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw
each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort
was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had
breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second
hymn chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one
of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a
basin of the porridge and taste it; she looked at the others; all their
countenances expressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—
“Abominable
stuff! How shameful!”
A quarter
of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the schoolroom was
in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk
loud and more freely, and they used their privilege. The whole
conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poor
things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the
only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with
serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst
pronounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly;
but she made no great effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in
it.
A clock in
the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the
middle of the room, cried—
“Silence!
To your seats!”
Discipline
prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into order, and
comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper
teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to
wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat
motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks
combed from their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and
surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of holland
(shaped something like a Highlander’s purse) tied in front of their frocks, and
destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen
stockings and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above
twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young
women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.
I was
still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the teachers—none of
whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the dark one
not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor
thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and over-worked—when, as my eye wandered
from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a
common spring.
What was
the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I had
gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes were now
turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered the
personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the
long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the
two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed
to ask her a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place,
and said aloud—
“Monitor
of the first class, fetch the globes!”
While the
direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the
room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain
yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen
now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a
benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round,
relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of
a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of
those times, when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her
dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of
Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then
as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture,
refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage,
and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of
the exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written
in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.
The
superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seat before
a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the first class round
her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes were called
by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on for an hour;
writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss Temple
to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by
the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose—
“I have a
word to address to the pupils,” said she.
The tumult
of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it sank at her
voice. She went on—
“You had
this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be hungry:—I have
ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served to all.”
The
teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.
“It is to
be done on my responsibility,” she added, in an explanatory tone to them, and
immediately afterwards left the room.
The bread
and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the high delight and
refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given “To the
garden!” Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured
calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and,
following the stream, I made my way into the open air.
The garden
was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to exclude every glimpse
of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a
middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds were assigned as
gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full
of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of
January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood
and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not
positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was
still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the
girls ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones
herded together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as
the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the
sound of a hollow cough.
As yet I
had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; I stood lonely
enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it did not oppress
me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle
close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped me without, and the
unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within, delivered myself up to the
employment of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined
and fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and
my past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was
vague and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked
round the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half
of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part,
containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed
windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore
this inscription:—
“Lowood
Institution.—This portion was rebuilt A.D. ---, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of
Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.” “Let your light so shine before men,
that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in
heaven.”—St. Matt. v. 16.
I read
these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to them,
and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering the
signification of “Institution,” and endeavouring to make out a connection
between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough
close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone
bench near; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed
intent: from where I stood I could see the title—it was “Rasselas;” a name that
struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she
happened to look up, and I said to her directly—
“Is your
book interesting?” I had already formed the intention of asking her to
lend it to me some day.
“I like
it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined
me.
“What is
it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to
open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and
habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I
too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest
or comprehend the serious or substantial.
“You may
look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.
I did so;
a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the
title: “Rasselas” looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about
fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the
closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and
without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood:
again I ventured to disturb her—
“Can you
tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is
Lowood Institution?”
“This
house where you are come to live.”
“And why
do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from other
schools?”
“It is
partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are
charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father
or your mother dead?”
“Both died
before I can remember.”
“Well, all
the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an
institution for educating orphans.”
“Do we pay
no money? Do they keep us for nothing?”
“We pay,
or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”
“Then why
do they call us charity-children?”
“Because
fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is
supplied by subscription.”
“Who
subscribes?”
“Different
benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London.”
“Who was
Naomi Brocklehurst?”
“The lady
who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son
overlooks and directs everything here.”
“Why?”
“Because
he is treasurer and manager of the establishment.”
“Then this
house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and who said we were
to have some bread and cheese?”
“To Miss
Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr.
Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all
our clothes.”
“Does he
live here?”
“No—two
miles off, at a large hall.”
“Is he a
good man?”
“He is a
clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”
“Did you
say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”
“Yes.”
“And what
are the other teachers called?”
“The one
with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and cuts out—for
we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little
one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and
hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a
pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot:
she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.”
“Do you
like the teachers?”
“Well
enough.”
“Do you
like the little black one, and the Madame ---?—I cannot pronounce her name as
you do.”
“Miss
Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrot is not
a bad sort of person.”
“But Miss
Temple is the best—isn’t she?”
“Miss
Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she knows
far more than they do.”
“Have you
been long here?”
“Two
years.”
“Are you
an orphan?”
“My mother
is dead.”
“Are you
happy here?”
“You ask
rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the
present: now I want to read.”
But at
that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house. The
odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that
which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge
tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I
found the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty
meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant
plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered
within myself whether every day’s fare would be like this.
After
dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and
were continued till five o’clock.
The only
marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had
conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a
history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom.
The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so
great a girl—she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show
signs of great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor
blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes.
“How can she bear it so quietly—so firmly?” I asked of myself. “Were I in
her place, it seems to me I should wish the earth to open and swallow me
up. She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond her
punishment—beyond her situation: of something not round her nor before
her. I have heard of day-dreams—is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes
are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it—her sight seems turned
in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I
believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she
is—whether good or naughty.”
Soon after
five p.m. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of coffee, and
half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank my coffee with
relish; but I should have been glad of as much more—I was still hungry.
Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass of water and
the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood.
To be continued
