Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  This was in the dawn of time, before the morning stars were set, and while they yet sang together.

  The epoch is so remote, the mists and dewy gray of matin twilight veil it with so vague an obscurity, that all distinct feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade perception and baffle research. It must suffice to know that the world then existed; that men peopled it; that man’s nature, with its passions, sympathies, pains, and pleasures, informed the planet and gave it soul.

  A certain tribe colonized a certain spot on the globe; of what race this tribe — unknown; in what region that spot — untold. We usually think of the East when we refer to transactions of that date; but who shall declare that there was no life in the West, the South, the North? What is to disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm groves in Asia, wandered beneath island oak woods rooted in our own seas of Europe?

  It is no sandy plain, nor any circumscribed and scant oasis I seem to realize. A forest valley, with rocky sides and brown profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding on tree, descends deep before me. Here, indeed, dwell human beings, but so few, and in alleys so thick branched and overarched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they savage? Doubtless. They live by the crook and the bow; half shepherds, half hunters, their flocks wander wild as their prey. Are they happy? No, not more happy than we are at this day. Are they good? No, not better than ourselves. Their nature is our nature — human both. There is one in this tribe too often miserable — a child bereaved of both parents. None cares for this child. She is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten. A hut rarely receives her; the hollow tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives more with the wild beast and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades; sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Unheeded and unvalued, she should die; but she both lives and grows. The green wilderness nurses her, and becomes to her a mother; feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine root and nut.

  There is something in the air of this clime which fosters life kindly. There must be something, too, in its dews which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, no sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ of pure thought and purer feeling. Not grotesquely fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage, not violently vivid the colouring of flower and bird. In all the grandeur of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness.

  The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree, bestowed on deer and dove, has not been denied to the human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful. Nature cast her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses. Her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows plenteous, long, and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy. Above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample — a clear, candid page, whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record. You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or vacant. She haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful, though of what one so untaught can think it is not easy to divine.

  On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being utterly alone — for she had lost all trace of her tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where — she went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag overspread by a tree was her station. The oak roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat; the oak boughs, thick-leaved, wove a canopy.

  Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus from the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death. The wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in their lair.

  The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, in wishing than hoping, in imagining than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, the night, boundlessly mighty. Of all things herself seemed to herself the centre — a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed — a star in an else starless firmament, which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest tracked as a guide or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded, when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?

  She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening. Heaven and Evening gazed back on her. She bent down, searching bank, hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded by oracles. She heard — she was impressed; but she could not understand. Above her head she raised her hands joined together.

  “Guidance — help — comfort — come!” was her cry.

  There was no voice, nor any that answered.

  She waited, kneeling, steadfastly looking up. Yonder sky was sealed; the solemn stars shone alien and remote.

  At last one overstretched chord of her agony slacked; she thought Something above relented; she felt as if Something far round drew nigher; she heard as if Silence spoke. There was no language, no word, only a tone.

  Again — a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a storm whispering, made twilight undulate.

  Once more, profounder, nearer, clearer, it rolled harmonious.

  Yet again — a distinct voice passed between Heaven and Earth.

  “Eva!”

  If Eva were not this woman’s name, she had none. She rose. “Here am I.”

  “Eva!”

  “O Night (it can be but Night that speaks), I am here!”

  The voice, descending, reached Earth.

  “Eva!”

  “Lord,” she cried, “behold thine handmaid!”

  She had her religion — all tribes held some creed.

  “I come — a Comforter!”

  “Lord, come quickly!”

  The Evening flushed full of hope; the Air panted; the Moon — rising before — ascended large, but her light showed no shape.

  “Lean towards me, Eva. Enter my arms; repose thus.”

  “Thus I lean, O Invisible but felt! And what art thou?”

  “Eva, I have brought a living draught from heaven. Daughter of Man, drink of my cup!”

  “I drink: it is as if sweetest dew visited my lips in a full current. My arid heart revives; my affliction is lightened; my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes! the wood, the hill, the moon, the wide sky — all change!”

  “All change, and for ever. I take from thy vision darkness; I loosen from thy faculties fetters! I level in thy path obstacles; I with my presence fill vacancy. I claim as mine the lost atom of life. I take to myself the spark of soul — burning heretofore forgotten!”

  “O take me! O claim me! This is a god.”

  “This is a son of God — one who feels himself in the portion of life that stirs you. He is suffered to reclaim his own, and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish hopeless.”

  “A son of God! Am I indeed chosen?”

  “Thou only in this land. I saw thee that thou wert fair; I knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to rescue, to sustain, to cherish mine own. Acknowledge in me that Seraph on earth named Genius.”

  “My glorious Bridegroom! true Dayspring from on high! All I would have at last I possess. I receive a revelation. The dark hint, the obscure whisper, which have haunted me from childhood, are interpreted. Thou art He I sought. Godborn, take me, thy bride!”

  “Unhumbled, I can take what is mine. Did I not give from the
altar the very flame which lit Eva’s being? Come again into the heaven whence thou wert sent.”

  That Presence, invisible but mighty, gathered her in like a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft but all-pervading, vibrated through her heart like music. Her eye received no image; and yet a sense visited her vision and her brain as of the serenity of stainless air, the power of sovereign seas, the majesty of marching stars, the energy of colliding elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and, above all, as of the lustre of heroic beauty rushing victorious on the Night, vanquishing its shadows like a diviner sun.

  Such was the bridal hour of Genius and Humanity. Who shall rehearse the tale of their after-union? Who shall depict its bliss and bale? Who shall tell how He between whom and the Woman God put enmity forged deadly plots to break the bond or defile its purity? Who shall record the long strife between Serpent and Seraph: — How still the Father of Lies insinuated evil into good, pride into wisdom, grossness into glory, pain into bliss, poison into passion? How the “dreadless Angel” defied, resisted, and repelled? How again and again he refined the polluted cup, exalted the debased emotion, rectified the perverted impulse, detected the lurking venom, baffled the frontless temptation — purified, justified, watched, and withstood? How, by his patience, by his strength, by that unutterable excellence he held from God — his Origin — this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fight through time; and, when Time’s course closed, and Death was encountered at the end, barring with fleshless arm the portals of Eternity, how Genius still held close his dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage, bore her triumphant into his own home, Heaven; restored her, redeemed, to Jehovah, her Maker; and at last, before Angel and Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality?

  Who shall of these things write the chronicle?

  “I never could correct that composition,” observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. “Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to fathom.”

  She had taken a crayon from the tutor’s desk, and was drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses, on the margin of the book.

  “French may be half forgotten, but the habits of the French lesson are retained, I see,” said Louis. “My books would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly-bound St. Pierre would soon be like my Racine — Miss Keeldar, her mark, traced on every page.”

  Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.

  “Tell me what were the faults of that devoir?” she asked. “Were they grammatical errors, or did you object to the substance?”

  “I never said that the lines I drew were indications of faults at all. You would have it that such was the case, and I refrained from contradiction.”

  “What else did they denote?”

  “No matter now.”

  “Mr. Moore,” cried Henry, “make Shirley repeat some of the pieces she used to say so well by heart.”

  “If I ask for any, it will be ‘Le Cheval Dompté,’” said Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldar had worn to a stump.

  She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek, forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.

  “Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, sir,” said Henry, exultant. “She knows how naughty she was.”

  A smile, which Shirley would not permit to expand, made her lip tremble; she bent her face, and hid it half with her arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped, fell loose again. “Certainly I was a rebel,” she answered.

  “A rebel!” repeated Henry. “Yes; you and papa had quarrelled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and Mrs. Pryor, and everybody, at defiance. You said he had insulted you — — “

  “He had insulted me,” interposed Shirley.

  “And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your trunk; mamma cried, Mrs. Pryor cried; they both stood wringing their hands begging you to be patient; and you knelt on the floor with your things and your up-turned box before you, looking, Shirley, looking — why, in one of your passions. Your features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are fixed, but quite beautiful. You scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in a certain haste; yet one feels that at such times an obstacle cast across your path would be split as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore.”

  “Enough, Henry.”

  “No, it is not enough. I hardly know how Mr. Moore managed, except that I recollect he suggested to papa that agitation would bring on his gout; and then he spoke quietly to the ladies, and got them away; and afterwards he said to you, Miss Shirley, that it was of no use talking or lecturing now, but that the tea-things were just brought into the schoolroom, and he was very thirsty, and he would be glad if you would leave your packing for the present and come and make a cup of tea for him and me. You came; you would not talk at first, but soon you softened and grew cheerful. Mr. Moore began to tell us about the Continent, the war, and Bonaparte — subjects we were both fond of listening to. After tea he said we should neither of us leave him that evening; he would not let us stray out of his sight, lest we should again get into mischief. We sat one on each side of him. We were so happy. I never passed so pleasant an evening. The next day he gave you, missy, a lecture of an hour, and wound it up by marking you a piece to learn in Bossuet as a punishment-lesson — ‘Le Cheval Dompté.’ You learned it instead of packing up, Shirley. We heard no more of your running away. Mr. Moore used to tease you on the subject for a year afterwards.”

  “She never said a lesson with greater spirit,” subjoined Moore. “She then, for the first time, gave me the treat of hearing my native tongue spoken without accent by an English girl.”

  “She was as sweet as summer cherries for a month afterwards,” struck in Henry: “a good hearty quarrel always left Shirley’s temper better than it found it.”

  “You talk of me as if I were not present,” observed Miss Keeldar, who had not yet lifted her face.

  “Are you sure you are present?” asked Moore. “There have been moments since my arrival here when I have been tempted to inquire of the lady of Fieldhead if she knew what had become of my former pupil.”

  “She is here now.”

  “I see her, and humble enough; but I would neither advise Harry nor others to believe too implicitly in the humility which one moment can hide its blushing face like a modest little child, and the next lift it pale and lofty as a marble Juno.”

  “One man in times of old, it is said, imparted vitality to the statue he had chiselled; others may have the contrary gift of turning life to stone.”

  Moore paused on this observation before he replied to it. His look, at once struck and meditative, said, “A strange phrase; what may it mean?” He turned it over in his mind, with thought deep and slow, as some German pondering metaphysics.

  “You mean,” he said at last, “that some men inspire repugnance, and so chill the kind heart.”

  “Ingenious!” responded Shirley. “If the interpretation pleases you, you are welcome to hold it valid. I don’t care.”

  And with that she raised her head, lofty in look and statue-like in hue, as Louis had described it.

  “Behold the metamorphosis!” he said; “scarce imagined ere it is realized: a lowly nymph develops to an inaccessible goddess. But Henry must not be disappointed of his recitation, and Olympia will deign to oblige him. Let us begin.”

  “I have forgotten the very first line.”

  “Which I have not. My memory, if a slow, is a retentive one. I acquire deliberately both knowledge and liking. The acquisition grows into my brain, and the sentiment into my breast; and it is not as the rapid-springing produce which, having no root in itself, flourishes verdurous enough for a time, but too soon falls withered away. Attention, Henry! Miss Keeldar consents to favour you. ‘Voyez ce cheval ardent et impétueux,’ so it commences.”

  Miss Keeldar did consent to make the effort; but she
soon stopped.

  “Unless I heard the whole repeated I cannot continue it,” she said.

  “Yet it was quickly learned — ‘soon gained, soon gone,’” moralized the tutor. He recited the passage deliberately, accurately, with slow, impressive emphasis.

  Shirley, by degrees, inclined her ear as he went on. Her face, before turned from him, returned towards him. When he ceased, she took the word up as if from his lips; she took his very tone; she seized his very accent; she delivered the periods as he had delivered them; she reproduced his manner, his pronunciation, his expression.

  It was now her turn to petition.

  “Recall ‘Le Songe d’Athalie,’” she entreated, “and say it.”

  He said it for her. She took it from him; she found lively excitement in the pleasure of making his language her own. She asked for further indulgence; all the old school pieces were revived, and with them Shirley’s old school days.

  He had gone through some of the best passages of Racine and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own deep tones in the girl’s voice, that modulated itself faithfully on his. “Le chêne et le Roseau,” that most beautiful of La Fontaine’s fables, had been recited, well recited, by the tutor, and the pupil had animatedly availed herself of the lesson. Perhaps a simultaneous feeling seized them now, that their enthusiasm had kindled to a glow, which the slight fuel of French poetry no longer sufficed to feed; perhaps they longed for a trunk of English oak to be thrown as a Yule log to the devouring flame. Moore observed, “And these are our best pieces! And we have nothing more dramatic, nervous, natural!”

  And then he smiled and was silent. His whole nature seemed serenely alight. He stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, musing not unblissfully.

  Twilight was closing on the diminished autumn day. The schoolroom windows — darkened with creeping plants, from which no high October winds had as yet swept the sere foliage — admitted scarce a gleam of sky; but the fire gave light enough to talk by.