search | about the author | about the text
SCENE III—Exterior of Farm House—ROCHESTER discovered—his arms stretched out—he is blind—his hair streaming in the breeze.—The picture as before in the vision.
Roch. Jane! Jane! ah, if you but knew what sky and mountain, field and flower, are shut out from me for ever, you would not desert the proud, strong man in the day of his affliction. In the wickedness of my heart I spurned all control, and would have done thee wrong, angel of brightness and purity; but I am punished, sorely punished. In vain for me the day dawns and breaks, the sun rises and the seasons change. All is to me a blank; my existence shrouded in unending night. Twelve months—twelve long, leaden, fearful months have passed since that bright earthly vision fled from me—even as the pure and good will ever flee from the assassin of the soul; yet how often has the cruel delusion seized me that was in my very presence, though unseen; just as I feel this fire’s genial glow, but cannot see the flame which causes it.
Enter JANE, L.H., with tray, tumbler of water on it.
Even now my mocking sense would almost persuade me that I heard her breathe; out upon this heart-consuming deception—it almost drives me to despair [Sits.
Jane. Ah, what a sight—what a sight! [very quietly.
Roch. There is some one near me. Grace, have you brought the water? [JANE hands it to him—he drinks.] Thanks. No news, I suppose, silent; ah, I knwe it! I knew it. Thus for ever must I stretch the chord of expectation and of life until they snap together. Hush; do you not hear something—a small quiet murmuring sound like hers so like Jane’s. I heard it but a short time since; it said, “Rochester, I come! I come!” as dstinctly as ever sound reached my ear. Ah! malicious spirits that sport with human hearts, this is the cruelest pastime. I hear nothing. Oh! for one week’s eyesight. I would find her or a grave. [JANE sighs.] Who is that! that wasn’t you, Grace? is there any one with you? answer me. Is that you, Grace?
Jane. Grace is in the kitchen, sir.
Roch. [starts up in violent agitation.] I know that voice, if the cheating demon is not practising on my sense once more. Who is this? What is it? Speak again, whoever you are.
Jane. Will you have a little more water, sir?
Roch. Again—great heaven! this is distraction. Why don’t you tell me whether you are a living thing or another of those tantalizing fiends that worry me to the verge of madness. Who or what are you?
Jane. I come to wait on you.
Roch. Delusion, nothing but delusion. What sweet madness has seized me?
Jane. No delusion, sir, no madness; your mind is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.
Roch. And where is this speaker? is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but I must touch you or my heart will stop and my brain burst. [JANE approaches him—he takes her hand.
Roch. Her very fingers, her small slight fingers; if so, there must be more [touches, and finally clasps her in his arms] It is Jane! What is it? it has her shape and feature.
Jane. Yes, Rochester, and her voice and heart. Jane is here—here with you.
Roch. In truth and in flesh! my living Jane!
Jane. You hold me in your arms. I am not vacant like the air.
Roch. But if I let you go will you not fade away, vanish as all the rest have done?
Jane. Never! never! from this day.
Roch. Never, says the vision; but don’t you know, unearthly thing, that bright as are these delicious moments, they must have an end. I know that in a moment this hand, which I foolishly deem real, will elude my grasp, and that voice which sounded to my enraptured sense like heavenly music will die away upon the echoes and be heard no more. Gentle, soft dream, you will fly me like those who came before, many, oh, many a time.
Jane. Is it a dream to grasp your kind hand with the warm truthfulness of love; to tell you that I am here—I, Jane, your own Jane; to avow that love and glory in that avowal; to say that my life, hitherto dark and hopeless, is once more bathed in the brilliancy of an enduring joy; that my heart which famished for your presence, is sated from the very fulness of its banquet.
Roch. Is it you, Jane—my living, breathing, loving, constant Jane. Come near me, and let me fancy that I see you with these rayless orbs. I cannot! I cannot! but I feel your presence like a shower of sunlight on my heart; and you’ve come back to me again, and will you stay with me?
Jane. Unless you object! I will be your neighbor, your nurse, your housekeeper, your companion; to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to be eyes and hands to you,--that is, if you wish it, not otherwise [Disengaging herself a little.
Roch. No, no, Jane. You must not go. I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence, the sweetness of your consolation, and I cannot give up these joys; my very soul demands you, Jane. There are other thoughts within my brain which I dare not utter. What right has such a ruin as I to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?
Jane. You are not a ruin, sir. Friends, troops of friends will cluster around you.
Roch. Friend! I want a nearer tie, Jane, my Jane, do you not comprehend me? you do, and I may speak the wish of my soul. Jane, will you be my wife?
Jane. I will.
Roch. What! wife to the poor blind man whom you will have to lead by the hand?
Jane. Yes!
Roch. Truly, Jane?
Jane. Most truly, sir!
Roch. Oh, my darling! Heaven will bless and reward you for the sacrifice.
Jane. Sacrifice? if ever I did a good deed in my life, if ever thought a good thought, if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer, if ever I wished a sacred wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is to be as happy as I can be on earth. [Shout outside.
Roch. What is that! John?
Enter JOHN.
Roch. What means that shout?
John. Have you forgotten, sir, that this is your birth-day?
Roch. Truly, I had, John. But now I accept the omen as a good one, for my life is again renewed through the heaven-gift of thy pure and true love, my earth-angel.
John. Your tenants who love and respect you, sir, have brought their poor but honest gifts; it would make them and all of us so happy sir, if you would accept them.
Roch. Let them approach. My wife, John, that is to be shortly, will accept them for me.
John. Hurrah! there will be another shout for that. Come friends!
Roch. I cannot see their merriment, my love; but what will the sum of all their joy be, compared with mine?
Enter Peasants; JANE and ROCHESTER advance.
John. Don’t spare your lungs. A cheer for our kind master and his intended bride. [Hurrah all. Present boquets to Jane.
Roch. My good fellows—I—speak to them for me, Jane, the fullness of my joy chokes my very utterence.
Jane. I am myself too happy for many words. My friends, he whose ambition is to be the kind landlord, and the good adviser, cannot, alas! behold your kindly glances, but he thanks you for your generous sympathy, as I do from my heart.
[JANE leads ROCHESTER to seat, a device is fixed by the peasants having printed thereon in flowers “The Farmer’s Friend.” Garlands depend from the center, which are held up by Peasants forming a canopy for JANE and ROCHESTER: Music.
CURTAIN.
Page last modified 10/2/2000.
These pages are best viewed/printed with Internet Explorer, the browser that you're not using right now....
Like this page? Let me know. Hate it? Let me know that too. Click here to offer feedback.
©1999-2002 The edited materials, images, and photographs on this site should not be reproduced without the written permission of Peter Friesen. Contact peter.friesen@plattsburgh.edu for information.
