“He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision department， before the committee was appointed； and he bored us with long lectures once a week， and with evening readings from books of his own inditing， about sudden deaths and judgments， which made us afraid to go to bed.”
“What age were you when you went to Lowood？”
“About ten.”
“And you stayed there eight years： you are now， then， eighteen？”
I assented.
“Arithmetic， you see， is useful； without its aid， I should hardly have been able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the features and countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now what did you learn at Lowood？ Can you play？”
“A little.”
“Of course： that is the established answer. Go into the library—I mean， if you please.—(Excuse my tone of command； I am used to say， ‘Do this，’ and it is done： I cannot alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go， then， into the library； take a candle with you； leave the door open； sit down to the piano， and play a tune.”
I departed， obeying his directions.
“Enough！” he called out in a few minutes. “You play a little， I see； like any other English school-girl； perhaps rather better than some， but not well.”
I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued—“Adèle showed me some sketches this morning， which she saidwere yours. I don’t know whether they were entirely of your doing；probably a master aided you？”
“No， indeed！” I interjected.
“Ah！ that pricks pride. Well， fetch me your portfolio， if you can vouch for its contents being original； but don’t pass your word unless you are certain： I can recognise patchwork.”
“Then I will say nothing， and you shall judge for yourself， sir.”
I brought the portfolio from the library.
“Approach the table，” said he； and I wheeled it to his couch. Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.
“No crowding，” said Mr. Rochester：“take the drawings from my hand as I finish with them； but don’t push your faces up to mine.”
He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside； the others， when he had examined them， he swept from him.
“Take them off to the other table， Mrs. Fairfax，” said he， and look at them with Adèle；—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat， and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand： was that hand yours？”
“Yes.”
“And when did you find time to do them？ They have taken much time， and some thought.”
“I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood， when I had no other occupation.”
“Where did you get your copies？”
“Out of my head.”
“That head I see now on your shoulders？”
“Yes， sir.”
“Has it other furniture of the same kind within？”
“I should think it may have： I should hope—better.”
He spread the pictures before him， and again surveyed them alternately.
While he is so occupied， I will tell you， reader， what they are：and first， I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had， indeed， risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye， before I attempted to embody them， they were striking； but my hand would not second my fancy， and in each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.
These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low and livid， rolling over a swollen sea： all the distance was in eclipse； so， too， was the foreground； or rather， the nearest billows， for there was no land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast， on which sat a cormorant， dark and large， with wings flecked with foam； its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems， that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield， and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking below the bird and mast， a drowned corpse glanced through the green water； a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible， whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.
The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill， with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky， dark blue as at twilight： rising into the sky was a woman’s shape to the bust， portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star； the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour； the eyes shone dark and wild；the hair streamed shadowy， like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight；the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.
