Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  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, etcetera, 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 enclosure, 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.

  Chapter Six

  The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight. But this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of washing. The water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the ewers to ice.

  Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast time came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt— the quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.

  In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me, hitherto, I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood. I was now to become an actor therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult—the frequent change from task to task, too, bewildered me—and I was glad when, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with needle, thimble, etcetera., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise, but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd’s chair reading, and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history—among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah—at the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant notice. She was continually addressing to her such phrases as the following, “Burns”—such it seems was her name, the girls here were all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere—“Burns, you are standing on the side of your shoe, turn your toes out immediately.

  “Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasantly; draw it in.

  “Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude,” etcetera, etcetera.

  A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and ship-money, which most of them appeared unable to answer. Still, every little difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns, her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention, but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out, “You dirty, disagreeable girl! You have never cleaned your nails this morning!”

  Burns made no answer. I wondered at her silence. Why, thought I, does she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen?

  My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a skein of thread, while she was winding it, she talked to me from time to time, asking whether I had ever been at school before, whether I could mark, stitch, knit, etcetera, till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd’s movements. When I returned to my seat, that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the import, but Burns immediately left the class, and going into the small inner room where the books were kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy, then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunc
h of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns’ eye, and while I paused from my sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression.

  “Hardened girl!” exclaimed Miss Scatcherd, “nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits, carry the rod away.”

  Burns obeyed. I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book closet. She was just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.

  The play hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood, the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at five o’clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger. The long restraint of the day was slackened, the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning—its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly, to supply, in some measure, the place of candles, not yet introduced. The ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave one a welcome sense of liberty.

  On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely. When I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked out. It snowed fast, a drift was already forming against the lower panes. Putting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.

  Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the separation. That wind would then have saddened my heart, this obscure chaos would have disturbed my peace! As it was, I derived from both a strange excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished the wind to howl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the confusion to rise to clamour.