A new servitude! There is something in that.

This chapter is largely about connecting this first part of the story to the narrative proper (that is, Jane grows up and finally enters the wider world).

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life, I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography: I am only bound to invoke memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection.

The epidemic that ravaged Lowood naturally drew attention to the school, so there was FINALLY an investigation into the living conditions of the students (seemingly prompted by some wealthier residents in the area, because CPS didn’t exist yet).

Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as a pupil, and two as a teacher; and in both capacities I bear testimony to its value and importance.

Her life went on much the same for nearly a decade, up until Miss Temple got married (and subsequently left her post as superintendent). Jane had been content with life at the school, but once Miss Temple left, she grew restless.

It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone; it was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for the tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst peril.
[…] I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies: such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough: I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, for stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: “Then,” I cried, half desperate, “grant me at least a new servitude!”

She can’t imagine what “freedom” even looks like at this point in her life – Jane’s been pushed down all her life, and while she’s been able to grow into a respectable young woman at Lowood, that doesn’t make the path before her any clearer.

“A new servitude! There is something in that,” I soliloquized (mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud). “I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is a mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes – yes – the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it.

[…]

“What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything better. How do people do to get a new place? They must apply to friends, I suppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about themselves and be their own helpers; and what is their resource?”

She ponders this for a while, to no avail.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down it came quietly and naturally to my mind: – “Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the —shire Herald.”

Because before we had LinkedIn, we had the classified ads!

So she comes up with an advertisement and has it published in the local paper (the blanks for certain locations or companies was evidently intended to evoke a sense of realism, as that sort of thing was common in contemporary autobiographies for legal/privacy reasons).

“A young lady accustomed to tuition” (had I not been a teacher two years?) is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen” (I thought that as I was barely eighteen it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). “She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music” (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments would have been held tolerably comprehensive).

She puts out the ad, and then a week later, she gets a response.

I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it: the contents were brief.
“If J.E., who advertised in the —shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the accomplishments mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency; a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil – a little girl, under ten years of age – and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction, ‘Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, –shire.'”
I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me that, in thus acting for myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape! and above all things, I wished the result of my endeavors to be respectable, proper, en règle. I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap, – frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house – a neat, orderly spot, I was sure, though I failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises.

Jane proceeds to announce her new opportunity to the rest of the faculty at Lowood and begin the process of clearing her move with all involved. They’re required to inform Mrs. Reed, and she (unsurprisingly) doesn’t care. But finally, the day of Jane’s departure arrives, and she’s got her luggage all packed for the trip.

“Miss,” said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, “a person below wishes to see you.”
“The carrier, no doubt,” I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I was passing the back parlour, or teachers’ sitting-room, the door of which was half-open, to go to the kitchen, when someone ran out.
“It’s her, I am sure! – I could have told her anywhere!” cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.
I looked. I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and a lively complexion.
“Well, who is it?” she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognized; “You’ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?”
In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously. “Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!” that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour.

Bessie got married (and had a couple children) since last they saw each other, but she still works at Gateshead, hence how she found out about Jane’s exciting new prospects.

“You’re not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout,” continued Mrs. Leaven. “I dare say they’ve not kept you too well at school: Miss Reed is head and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth.”
“Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?”
“Very. She went up to London last winter with her mamma, and there everyone admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his relations were against the match; and – what do you think? – he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away: but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always quarrelling.”

So Eliza snitched on Georgiana when she was preparing to elope. In a book by a different author, that sort of thing might very well constitute the main plot!

“Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she’s not quite easy in her mind: Mr. John’s conduct does not please her – he spends a deal of money.”
“Did she send you here, Bessie?”
“No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I’d just set off, and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach.”
“I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.” I said this laughing: I perceived that Bessie’s glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration.
“No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a lady, and it is as much as I ever expected of you: you were no beauty as a child.”
I smiled at Bessie’s frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification.
“I dare say you are clever, though,” continued Bessie by way of solace.

So then Bessie turns to the more flattering subject of Jane’s accomplishments.

“The Miss Reeds could not play as well!” said she exultingly. “I always said you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?”
“That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece.” It was a landscape of water colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed.
“Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed’s drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it: and have you learnt French?”
“Yes, Bessie, I can both read and speak it.”
“And you can work on both muslin and canvas?”
“I can.”
“Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Eyres?”
“Never in my life.”
“Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you. Missis said you were at school fifty miles off. He seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreign country in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”
[…]
“So he went?”
“Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him; she called him afterwards a ‘sneaking tradesman.’ My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant.”
“Very likely,” I returned; “or perhaps a clerk or agent to a wine-merchant.”

Even a clerk for a wine-merchant is a far cry from Mrs. Reed’s characterization of the Eyres as beggars on the streets – it’s a respectable job, with potential for upward mobility. But Jane’s done dwelling on the past, what with such an exciting road ahead of her.

We parted finally at the door of the “Brocklehurst Arms” there. Each went our separate way: she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead; I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.

Thus ends the prologue. The story begins in earnest…

…next time!