Jane finds herself in a new life, but not necessarily a better one.

We begin on the day Jane’s finally leaving Gateshead.

As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, [Bessie] said, ‘Will you go in and bid Missis good-bye?’
‘No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and 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 bed-clothes, 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.’
‘Oh, Miss Jane! don’t say so!’
‘Good-bye to Gateshead!’ cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.

While I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration to call Mrs. Reed Jane’s “foe”, that is a more apt description than calling her Jane’s “best friend”, and Jane clearly tempered her views with age, anyway, so I’ll let it slide.

‘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.’

It turns out that 50 miles in a coach is a daylong journey, and I never took a daylong trip by myself until I was an adult – and they didn’t even have cell phones!

Anyhow, Bessie is the only one to see her off, because she’s the only one who ever cared about Jane at Gateshead.

The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; 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, a voice exclaimed, ‘All right,’ and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead: thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.

Bessie had tried to make her eat in the morning, to little effect, and later in the day, the coach stops to let the occupants take a meal.

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, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles.

Of course, the main danger in a little girl travelling by herself is just her getting lost. But she finally arrives at her destination after dark.

It was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to make out a subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close behind.
The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance grave, her bearing erect.
‘The child is very young to be sent alone,’ said she, putting her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further added:
‘She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?’ she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
‘A little, ma’am.’

Naturally, this is just the sort of common courtesy that was denied Jane at Gateshead, but she’s too tired at this point to have many opinions on it. The “bedroom” is basically a dorm, with two girls to each bed, basins shared by six girls to wash in the morning, and not much else.

Study seems to begin at SIX IN THE MORNING, seeing as the girls all live at school. And having eaten very little in the excitement of her journey the day before, Jane is eager for breakfast in the morning.

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; famine itself soon sickens over it, 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. Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refractory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered: -‘Abominable stuff! How shameful!’

This seems to be due to a combination of incompetent kitchen staff and a minimal food budget (because they evidently don’t have enough porridge to just throw a batch out when it’s burned). So the girls complain about not getting a proper breakfast, but they have no recourse, so they just carry on with the school day.

[The] stout one was a little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weatherbeaten, and overworked – when, as my eye wandered from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no order given: 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, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end: she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and said aloud,- ‘Monitors of the first class, fetch the globes!

So, this woman is clearly in charge of the place.

I suppose I have a considerable organ of Veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely, brown eyes, with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine penciling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times, neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch […] shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple […].

This reverence for Miss Temple is obviously helped by the fact that she’s the first authority figure in Jane’s life who has a clear investment in her well-being.

‘You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; 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 classroom.

Jane is still hungry after this lunch (it being basically the first thing she’s eaten in a day), but it sets Miss Temple up as someone who genuinely cares for the students.

Anyhow, shortly afterward, the girls are turned outside (in a place that would be a garden if it wasn’t the middle of January).

I shuddered as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all underfoot was still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a hollow cough.

and naturally, the sickly girls gathering together will only serve to spread whatever diseases any of them might have…

Jane sees this on a plaque:

LOWOOD INSTITUTION
This portion was rebuilt A.D. –, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.
‘Let your light so shine forth before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’-St. Matt, v. 16.

She’s mainly stuck on the import of the word “institution”, when she hears a girl cough nearby, and strikes up a conversation with her.

I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I could see the title – it was ‘Rasselas;’ a name that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. 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 knew where I found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.
‘You may look at it,’ replied the girl, offering me the book.
I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title: ‘Rasselas’ looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the closely printed pages.

Rasselas, is of course, a real book by Samuel Johnson, a story about an Ethiopian prince who runs away to seek pleasure, but ultimately doesn’t find it. Some critics read it as a message that happiness can’t be found on Earth, but only with God…which, suffice it to say, is very relevant for this particular girl.

‘Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?’
‘The house where you have 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.’
‘Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?’
‘We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.’
‘Then why do they call us charity children?’
‘Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription.’
‘Who subscribes?’
‘Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighborhood and in London.’

So basically, Mrs. Reed shipped Jane off to the cheapest school she could possibly find, as expected.

‘Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?’
‘The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment.’
‘Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and 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 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.’
‘And what are the other teachers called?’
‘The one with the red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and cuts out – for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scratcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow riband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.’
‘Do you like the teachers?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Do you like the little black one, and the Madame –? I cannot pronounce her name as you do.’
‘Miss Scratcherd is hasty – you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.’
‘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.’

Naturally, the girl avoids saying what she actually thinks of the place, but considering the following scene, we can guess she finds it a hard life.

The only marked event of the afternoon was that I saw the girl with whom I had conversed in the verandah, dismissed in disgrace, by Miss Scratcherd, from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ingnominious, especially for so great a girl – she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. ‘How can she bear it so quietly – so firmly?’ I asked of myself. ‘Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond her punishment – beyond her situation: of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams – is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor but I am sure they do not see it – her sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of girl she is – whether good or naughty?’

And the other proper meal they get is only slightly more edible than breakfast (even if they do have small snacks throughout the day).

Until next time…