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 washed my face and dressed. 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 and she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey and 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. She helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet and we left the nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in and bid Missis good-bye?”
“No, she came to me last night and said I need not disturb her in the morning. 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 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. Raw and chill was the winter morning and my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter’s lodge and 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. The distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach and 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 and the guard and coachman loudly urged haste. My trunk was hoisted up and 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 and a voice exclaimed “All right.”
Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead and thus whirled away into unknown.
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 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. After a long while the guard returned and once more I was stowed away in the coach and we rattled away.
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 since we ceased to pass through towns. The country changed and 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 and the coach-door was opened. 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.
Gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I could see a house or houses—for the building spread far—with many windows and lights burning in some. I followed my guide up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and we 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, warming my numbed fingers over the blaze when an individual carrying a light entered, followed by another close behind. The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, a large forehead, and a grave countenance.
“She had better be put to bed soon,” said she. “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 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, and then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger saying, “I hope you will be good.” Then she dismissed me along with Miss Miller.
Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment and from passage to passage of a large and irregular building. We emerged at last into a wide, long room, with two great deal tables on 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 and they were engaged in conning over tomorrow’s task.
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, a pitcher of water and a mug. All was then handed around but when it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food since excitement and fatigue had rendered me incapable of eating.
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, it was very long. Tonight I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow and she helped me to undress. In ten minutes the single light was extinguished, and there was silence. I remember briefly telling myself with relief that I now never needed to fear that I would ever receive a midnight visit from John Reed; that temptation at least was far behind me. After that, 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 and the girls were up and dressing. I too rose reluctantly since it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty. 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 and afterwards she called out, “Form classes!”
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 rang again and 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 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. The tall girls of the first class whispered, “Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”
“Silence!” yelled a voice.
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 and 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.
A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult for in that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room and a group of great girls standing about her spoke with serious and s ullen 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 cheek the general wrath and doubtless she shared in it.
A clock in the schoolroom struck nine and Miss Miller left her circle. Standing in the middle of the room, she cried, “Silence! To your seats!”
Discipline prevailed and in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into order and comparative silence. The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts but still, all seemed to wait. I gazed around the room, confused, but suddenly, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no order given and 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 surveying the two rows of girls silently and gravely.
“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”
While the direction was being executed, the lady moved slowly up the room. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely. This I later learnt, was 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. 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 and 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 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 middle space divided into scores of little 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, while the other girls ran about and played. After a while, I noticed a hollow cough behind me.
The sound made me turn my head and I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench nearby. She was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent and from where I stood I could see the title—”Rasselas.” 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, but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading. I had spoken to no one here thus far and I was craving human company.
“You may look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.
I did so and a brief examination convinced me that the contents looked dull to my trifling taste. I returned it to her and she received it quietly. She was about to relapse into her former studious mood, when 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.”
“Does this house belong to that tall lady 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.”
“Do you like the other teachers here?”
“Well enough.”
“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.”