Шарлотта Бронте - The Professor

I came forward, bade Frances "good evening," and took my seat. The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met as we had always met, as master and pupil—nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers; Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing—a mere copy of verses. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer's own experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal; it continued thus:—

When sickness stay'd awhile my course,

He seem'd impatient still,

Because his pupil's flagging force

Could not obey his will.

One day when summoned to the bed

Where pain and I did strive,

I heard him, as he bent his head,

Say, "God, she must revive!"

I felt his hand, with gentle stress,

A moment laid on mine,

And wished to mark my consciousness

By some responsive sign.

But pow'rless then to speak or move,

I only felt, within,

The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,

Their healing work begin.

And as he from the room withdrew,

My heart his steps pursued;

I long'd to prove, by efforts new;

My speechless gratitude.

When once again I took my place,

Long vacant, in the class,

Th' unfrequent smile across his face

Did for one moment pass.

The lessons done; the signal made

Of glad release and play,

He, as he passed, an instant stay'd,

One kindly word to say.

"Jane, till to–morrow you are free

From tedious task and rule;

This afternoon I must not see

That yet pale face in school.

"Seek in the garden–shades a seat,

Far from the play–ground din;

The sun is warm, the air is sweet:

Stay till I call you in."

A long and pleasant afternoon

I passed in those green bowers;

All silent, tranquil, and alone

With birds, and bees, and flowers.

Yet, when my master's voice I heard

Call, from the window, "Jane!"

I entered, joyful, at the word,

The busy house again.

He, in the hall, paced up and down;

He paused as I passed by;

His forehead stern relaxed its frown:

He raised his deep–set eye.

"Not quite so pale," he murmured low.

"Now Jane, go rest awhile."

And as I smiled, his smoothened brow

Returned as glad a smile.

My perfect health restored, he took

His mien austere again;

And, as before, he would not brook

The slightest fault from Jane.

The longest task, the hardest theme

Fell to my share as erst,

And still I toiled to place my name

In every study first.

He yet begrudged and stinted praise,

But I had learnt to read

The secret meaning of his face,

And that was my best meed.

Even when his hasty temper spoke

In tones that sorrow stirred,

My grief was lulled as soon as woke

By some relenting word.

And when he lent some precious book,

Or gave some fragrant flower,

I did not quail to Envy's look,

Upheld by Pleasure's power.

At last our school ranks took their ground,

The hard–fought field I won;

The prize, a laurel–wreath, was bound

My throbbing forehead on.

Low at my master's knee I bent,

The offered crown to meet;

Its green leaves through my temples sent

A thrill as wild as sweet.

The strong pulse of Ambition struck

In every vein I owned;

At the same instant, bleeding broke

A secret, inward wound.

The hour of triumph was to me

The hour of sorrow sore;

A day hence I must cross the sea,

Ne'er to recross it more.

An hour hence, in my master's room

I with him sat alone,

And told him what a dreary gloom

O'er joy had parting thrown.

He little said; the time was brief,

The ship was soon to sail,

And while I sobbed in bitter grief,

My master but looked pale.

They called in haste; he bade me go,

Then snatched me back again;

He held me fast and murmured low,

"Why will they part us, Jane?"

"Were you not happy in my care?

Did I not faithful prove?

Will others to my darling bear

As true, as deep a love?

"O God, watch o'er my foster child!

O guard her gentle head!

When minds are high and tempests wild

Protection round her spread!

"They call again; leave then my breast;

Quit thy true shelter, Jane;

But when deceived, repulsed, opprest,

Come home to me again!"

I read—then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking that "Jane" was now at my side; no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty's curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master's manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its expanse into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow—to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour.

Frances rose, as if restless; she passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring; she lifted and put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece; her dress waved within a yard of me; slight, straight, and elegant, she stood erect on the hearth.

There are impulses we can control; but there are others which control us, because they attain us with a tiger–leap, and are our masters ere we have seen them. Perhaps, though, such impulses are seldom altogether bad; perhaps Reason, by a process as brief as quiet, a process that is finished ere felt, has ascertained the sanity of the deed Instinct meditates, and feels justified in remaining passive while it is performed. I know I did not reason, I did not plan or intend, yet, whereas one moment I was sitting solus on the chair near the table, the next, I held Frances on my knee, placed there with sharpness and decision, and retained with exceeding tenacity.

"Monsieur!" cried Frances, and was still: not another word escaped her lips; sorely confounded she seemed during the lapse of the first few moments; but the amazement soon subsided; terror did not succeed, nor fury: after all, she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before, to one she habitually respected and trusted; embarrassment might have impelled her to contend, but self–respect checked resistance where resistance was useless.