Jane Eyre | Page 2

I
think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his
sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation,
were to take his warnings in time -- they or their seed might yet escape
a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because
I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his
contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as the first
social regenerator of the day -- as the very master of that working corps
who would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I
think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison
that suits him, the terms which rightly characterise his talent. They say
he is like Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He
resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on
carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour
attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the
mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the
summer-cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally,
I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him -- if he will accept the
tribute of a total stranger -- I have dedicated this second edition of
"JANE EYRE."
CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of "Jane Eyre"
affords me, of again addressing a word to the Public, to explain that my
claim to the title of novelist rests on this one work alone. If, therefore,
the authorship of other works of fiction has been attributed to me, an
honour is awarded where it is not merited; and consequently, denied
where it is justly due.

This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which may already have
been made, and to prevent future errors.
CURRER BELL.
April 13th, 1848.

CHAPTER I
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been
wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning;
but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early)
the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain
so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the
question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly
afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight,
with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of
Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical
inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their
mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside,
and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor
crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the
group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at
a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by
her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to
acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and
sprightly manner -- something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were
-- she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for
contented, happy, little children."
"What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked.

"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something
truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be
seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."
A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It
contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care
that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the
window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and,
having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in
double retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left
were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from
the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of
my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a
pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat
shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and
lamentable blast.
I returned to my book -- Bewick's History of British Birds: the
letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there
were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass
quite as a blank. They were those