No More Learning

"

"My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach,
gave a box I had into the ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for
it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening
day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters, "The
Rochester Arms. " My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very
lands. It fell again: the thought struck it:--

"Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you
know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten,
who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do
with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost
your labour--you had better go no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask
information of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek:
they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if
Mr. Rochester be at home. "

The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on
it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong
doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the
ray of her star. There was the stile before me--the very fields through
which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury
tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I
well knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them.
How fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch
the first view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed
single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between
them!

At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke
the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened.
Another field crossed--a lane threaded--and there were the courtyard
walls--the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. "My
first view of it shall be in front," I determined, "where its bold
battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out
my master's very window: perhaps he will be standing at it--he rises
early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in
front. Could I but see him! --but a moment! Surely, in that case, I
should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell--I am not certain.
And if I did--what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt
by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps
at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the
tideless sea of the south. "

I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard--turned its angle:
there was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone
pillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep
round quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with
precaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet
drawn up: battlements, windows, long front--all from this sheltered
station were at my command.

The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. I
wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful
and timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A
peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a
straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the
great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. "What
affectation of diffidence was this at first? " they might have demanded;
"what stupid regardlessness now? "

Hear an illustration, reader.

A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a
glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the
grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses--fancying she has stirred: he
withdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again
advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he
lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty--warm,
and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance!
But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps
in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his
finger! How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes on it
wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears
to waken by any sound he can utter--by any movement he can make. He
thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead.

I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened
ruin.

No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed! --to peep up at chamber
lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for
doors opening--to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The
lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The
front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall, very
high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof,
no battlements, no chimneys--all had crashed in.

And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome
wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received
an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The
grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen--by
conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster?
What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed upon it?
Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful
question: there was no one here to answer it--not even dumb sign, mute
token.

In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated
interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late
occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch,
winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the
drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and
weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh!
where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under
what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower
near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the
shelter of his narrow marble house? "

Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but
at the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought
my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit
down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely
knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet
the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for
a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man.

"You know Thornfield Hall, of course? " I managed to say at last.

"Yes, ma'am; I lived there once. "

"Did you? " Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.

"I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added.

The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been
trying to evade.

"The late! " I gasped. "Is he dead? "

"I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward's father," he explained. I
breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words
that Mr. Edward--_my_ Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was! )--was
at least alive: was, in short, "the present gentleman. " Gladdening
words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come--whatever the
disclosures might be--with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in
the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the
Antipodes.

"Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now? " I asked, knowing, of
course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the
direct question as to where he really was.

"No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a
stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last
autumn,--Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about
harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable
property destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire
broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote,
the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I
witnessed it myself. "

"At dead of night! " I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality
at Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated? " I demanded.

"They guessed, ma'am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was
ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued,
edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there
was a lady--a--a lunatic, kept in the house? "

"I have heard something of it. "

"She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am: people even for some
years was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they
only knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what
she was it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought
her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a
queer thing happened a year since--a very queer thing. "

I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the
main fact.

"And this lady? "

"This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife!
The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young
lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in--"

"But the fire," I suggested.

"I'm coming to that, ma'am--that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The
servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was
after her continually. They used to watch him--servants will, you know,
ma'am--and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him
thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say,
almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the
house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was
about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen
of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were
bewitched. Well, he would marry her. "

"You shall tell me this part of the story another time," I said; "but now
I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was
it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it? "

"You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but
her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs.
Poole--an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one
fault--a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons--she _kept a
private bottle of gin by her_, and now and then took a drop over-much. It
is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous;
for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water, the mad
lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her
pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house,
doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly
burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However,
on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her
own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the
chamber that had been the governess's--(she was like as if she knew
somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)--and she kindled
the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The
governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester
sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the
world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage--quite
savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got
dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs.
Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did
it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she
deserved it--she was a very good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was
put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut
himself up like a hermit at the Hall. "

"What! did he not leave England? "

"Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of
the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the
grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses--which it is my
opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was
before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He
was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was
not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever
man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often
wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to
Thornfield Hall. "

"Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out? "

"Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning
above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them
down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And
then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was
standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till
they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own eyes.
She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streaming
against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more
witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the roof; we
heard him call 'Bertha! ' We saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she
yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the
pavement. "

{The next minute she lay smashed on the pavement: p413. jpg}

"Dead? "

"Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were
scattered. "

"Good God! "

"You may well say so, ma'am: it was frightful! "

He shuddered.

"And afterwards? " I urged.

"Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are
only some bits of walls standing now. "

"Were any other lives lost? "

"No--perhaps it would have been better if there had. "

"What do you mean? "

"Poor Mr. Edward! " he ejaculated, "I little thought ever to have seen it!
Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage
secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I
pity him, for my part. "

"You said he was alive? " I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead. "

"Why? How? " My blood was again running cold. "Where is he? " I
demanded.
"Is he in England? "

"Ay--ay--he's in England; he can't get out of England, I fancy--he's a
fixture now. "

What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it.

"He is stone-blind," he said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr.
Edward. "

I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to
ask what had caused this calamity.

"It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way,
ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house till every one else was out before
him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester
had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great crash--all
fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a
beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was
knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to
amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that
also. He is now helpless, indeed--blind and a cripple. "

"Where is he? Where does he now live? "

"At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off:
quite a desolate spot. "

"Who is with him? "

"Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken
down, they say. "

"Have you any sort of conveyance? "

"We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise. "

"Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to
Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire
you usually demand. "




CHAPTER XXXVII


The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity,
moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I
had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes
went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game
covers. He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in
consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then
remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or
three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went
there in the season to shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the
characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating
rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and
driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a
very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so
thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates
between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through
them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There
was a grass-grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar and
knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon
to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it wound far and
farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of
natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in
search of another road. There was none: all was interwoven stem,
columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no opening anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently
I beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by this dim light,
distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying
walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a
space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle.
There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling
a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house
presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and
narrow: the front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole
looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate
spot. " It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on
the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

"Can there be life here? " I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement--that narrow
front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the
grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the
step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel
whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had recognised him--it was my
master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.

I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him--to examine
him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting,
and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no
difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty
advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port
was still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features
altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow, could his
athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his
countenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding--that
reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to
approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes
cruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.

And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? --if you do,
you little know me. A soft hope blest with my sorrow that soon I should
dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly
sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him yet.

He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the
grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he
knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids;
gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the
amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void darkness. He
stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden
in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay
around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off
where he stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and
stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head.
At this moment John approached him from some quarter.

"Will you take my arm, sir? " he said; "there is a heavy shower coming on:
had you not better go in? "

"Let me alone," was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to
walk about: vainly,--all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to
the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. "Mary," I said,
"how are you? "

She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried "Is
it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place? " I
answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen,
where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in few words,
that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that
I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turn-
pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I
had left there: and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I
questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House
for the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect, though
difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Just
at this moment the parlour-bell rang.

"When you go in," said I, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak
to him, but do not give my name. "

"I don't think he will see you," she answered; "he refuses everybody. "

When she returned, I inquired what he had said. "You are to send in your
name and your business," she replied. She then proceeded to fill a glass
with water, and place it on a tray, together with candles.

"Is that what he rang for? " I asked.

"Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind. "

"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in. "

I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray
shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my
ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.

This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the
grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high,
old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His
old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as
if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears
when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded
towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the
table; then patted him, and said softly, "Lie down! " Mr. Rochester
turned mechanically to _see_ what the commotion was: but as he _saw_
nothing, he returned and sighed.

"Give me the water, Mary," he said.

I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me,
still excited.

"What is the matter? " he inquired.

"Down, Pilot! " I again said. He checked the water on its way to his
lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is
you, Mary, is it not? "

"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood,
he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this? " he demanded, trying,
as it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes--unavailing and
distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again! " he ordered, imperiously
and aloud.

"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the
glass," I said.

"_Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks? "

"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this
evening," I answered.

"Great God! --what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has
seized me? "

"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion,
your health too sound for frenzy. "

"And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but
I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever--whoever
you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live! "

He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.

"Her very fingers! " he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If so there
must be more of her. "

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my
shoulder--neck--waist--I was entwined and gathered to him.

"Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape--this is her size--"

"And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too. God
bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again. "

"Jane Eyre! --Jane Eyre," was all he said.

"My dear master," I answered, "I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out--I am
come back to you. "

"In truth? --in the flesh? My living Jane? "

"You touch me, sir,--you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a
corpse, nor vacant like air, am I? "

"My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her
features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream;
such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to
my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus--and felt that she loved
me, and trusted that she would not leave me. "

"Which I never will, sir, from this day. "

"Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty
mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned--my life dark, lonely,
hopeless--my soul athirst and forbidden to drink--my heart famished and
never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will
fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before
you go--embrace me, Jane. "

"There, sir--and there! "'

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes--I swept his
hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to arouse
himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

"It is you--is it, Jane? You are come back to me then? "

"I am. "

"And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are
not a pining outcast amongst strangers? "

"No, sir! I am an independent woman now. "

"Independent! What do you mean, Jane? "

"My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds. "

"Ah! this is practical--this is real! " he cried: "I should never dream
that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and
piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into
it. --What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman? "

"If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close
up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want
company of an evening. "

"But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look
after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like
me? "

"I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own
mistress. "

"And you will stay with me? "

"Certainly--unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse,
your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion--to read
to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and
hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not
be left desolate, so long as I live. "

He replied not: he seemed serious--abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened
his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little
embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities; and
he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed
made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his
wife: an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had
buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to
that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I
suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps
playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from
his arms--but he eagerly snatched me closer.

"No--no--Jane; you must not go. No--I have touched you, heard you, felt
the comfort of your presence--the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot
give up these joys. I have little left in myself--I must have you. The
world may laugh--may call me absurd, selfish--but it does not signify. My
very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly
vengeance on its frame.