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 FragmentWelcome to consult...e, too, to add to the ripe lips—a soft curl here and there to
the tresses—a deeper tinge to the shadow of the lash under the
azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the execution of these nice
details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting St.
John Rivers.

“I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,” he said.
“Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you will
not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you have borne
up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a book for evening
solace,” and he laid on the table a new publication—a poem: one
of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate
public of those days—the golden age of modern literature. Alas!
the readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! I will not
pause either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is not dead, nor
genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, to bind or

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Jane Eyre 527

slay: they will both assert their existence, their presence, their
liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in
heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones
weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banished?
No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the thought. No;
they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without their divine
influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell—the hell of
your own meanness.

While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of “Marmion”
(for “Marmion” it was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing.
His tall figure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I
looked up at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well,
and could read his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and
cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I
conceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could.

“With all his firmness and self-control,” thought I, “he tasks
himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within—expresses,
confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a
little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to
marry: I will make him talk.”

I said first, “Take a chair, Mr. Rivers.” But he answered, as he
always did, that he could not stay. “Very well,” I responded,
mentally, “stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet, I am
determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me. I’ll try
if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence, and find
an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed one
drop of the balm of sympathy.”

“Is this portrait like?” I asked bluntly.

“Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely.”

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Jane Eyre 528

“You did, Mr. Rivers.”

He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness: he
looked at me astonished. “Oh, that is nothing yet,” I muttered
within. “I don’t mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on your part;
I’m prepared to go to considerable lengths.” I continued, “You
observed it closely and distinctly; but I have no objection to your
looking at it again,” and I rose and placed it in his hand.

“A well-executed pictu

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