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. .
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.