Page 51 of John Eyre

My Dear Blanche, —

I don’t know if you will ever receive this letter. The last one I wrote is still stored away in a locked drawer of my desk, awaiting the moment Mr. Poole can again journey into Varna. As yet there has been no opportunity, and I fear there may not be one anytime soon. Relations with my husband have rapidly broken down. The cause of it: his continued insistence that I sign over my property to him, and my own stubborn refusal to do so.

Last night things came to an unfortunate head. As we were seated in the drawing room, I at the piano and Mrs. Wren at her embroidery, Mr. Rochester once again began to harangue me about signing those dratted papers. It prompted me to lose my temper in a fashion I hadn’t permitted myself to do before. I told him that, if he was that set on owning an English estate outright, he should buy one of his own. Something newer and grander, with all the modern amenities. He certainly has the means to do so.

“It isn’t so easy for a man such as I am to relocate himself to England,” Mr. Rochester replied. “Besides which, I wouldn’t like a new house. My family is an ancient one. Our bloodline stretches back, unbroken, for centuries. Your Thornfield Hall appeals to my sense of history. It is old and isolated. A place where one can have privacy. I would see my name on the deed before we take up residence. Otherwise, I cannot trust that I will be safe.”

Here, I think there was some confusion in the translation. Mr. Rochester’s English is generally very good, but he does at times say things that, I assume, mean something quite different in the original Bulgarian. This talk of “safety” and the difficulties of a man like him relocating to England made no sense to me at all.

Then again, perhaps the difficulty of understanding lies with me? Perhaps it’s my own indignation at being pushed to sign something I can’t read, and that my solicitor hasn’t yet read, that makes me unable to sympathize? It certainly provoked me to address him rather sharply. I informed him that Thornfield was safe enough, and that no signature of mine would make it more so. “If you cannot understand that,” I said, “you understand nothing.”

At that, Mrs. Wren fairly leapt out of her seat, crying, “You will not speak to him with such disrespect!”

I was stunned by her rebuke, as you can imagine. Stunned, and really quite enraged. I’m almost ashamed to think of it now, but my temper roared to life. “How dare you?” I snapped back at her (or something to that effect). “Do you think to come between a man and his wife? I am mistress of this house, not you. I shall speak to my husband however I please.”

Mrs. Wren’s nostrils flared. She cast aside her sewing and turned to Mr. Rochester, appealing to him to intervene on her behalf. He silenced her with a wave of his hand, his gaze fixed on mine with a burning intensity. He asked me again if I would sign the papers.

In truth, I had been beginning to soften on the matter. To accept that I was, perhaps, being unreasonable. But in the heat of the argument, my annoyance got the better of me. I said that I would not sign them, and that that was my final word on the subject.

“Then I will know how to act,” he replied.

That was only yesterday evening. Today he sleeps. I should be sleeping, too, but my anxiety woke me not long after sunrise. Some devil provoked me to try the door connecting our two rooms. As expected, it was locked. I shook it a little, my frustration building, as I reflected on all that I’ve had to put up with—all the sacrifices I’ve made—since first meeting Mrs. Wren and Mr. Rochester in Cairo.

In my youth, bouts of temper were easily dispelled by a bruising ride or a round of target practice with my rifle or my bow and arrows. Here, such activities are denied to me. The only outlet available is a brisk walk. And so I went to the main door of my chamber, intending to rouse Mr. Poole to escort me down to the village. However, when I tried the door, I found it bolted against me.

Rage overcame my senses. What manner of man was my husband that he would dare to lock me inside of my room like a recalcitrant child? I shook the bolt and beat on the door with my fists, calling for my maid, for Mr. Poole, for anyone who would listen. When that failed, I returned to the door that connected my room to Mr. Rochester’s. I made such a commotion then, with my pounding and shouting, that it would surely have woken the dead. But my husband made no reply to me. Indeed, my calls were met with unbroken silence.

In a tempest of anger, I paced my room, wringing my hands. I don’t mind telling you, Blanche, that as the reality of my situation sank in, I began to panic a little. For the first time, I viewed the incidents of the last several months with a dispassionate eye. My marriage. The journey to Senniskali. My husband’s nighttime existence. And the constant presence of his sister, Mrs. Wren. It was no longer romantic. No longer a grand adventure. I felt a fool to have ever believed it was.

So great was my distress that—with no food or drink to sustain me, no hot cup of sugared tea to calm my nerves—I was quite tempted to resort to the only means I had at my disposal to bring myself under some semblance of control. Stored at the back of the bottommost shelf of my wardrobe, hidden behind a collection of old lavender sachets, were the two phials of laudanum remaining from Mr. Poole’s injury. The ones given to me by the peasant woman in the village.

But if relief can only come at the expense of my alertness, then I must shun it. Better to remain on my guard than to drug myself into lassitude. If I sleep, I must be prepared to wake at the sound of a pin drop, ready to respond to the faintest whisper.

It’s broad daylight outside, just approaching noon. A weariness has settled into my bones. The natural result of an upsetting event. I recall feeling similarly fatigued after Mama’s death. I return to my bed now, wary of the sunset but resolved to hold firm against my husband and his sister. They will yet learn that my will is as strong as their own.

Your faithful friend,

Bertha

Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

Senniskali, Bulgaria

Friday, 31 March 1843

Blanche, —

I fear this may be the final letter I am able to write to you. The others are still secured in my desk drawer, this one shortly to join them. Mr. Poole will have to take them to Varna together, if he takes them at all. You may wonder why he wouldn’t do so. The answer is simple: I have not seen Mr. Poole in days.

Once, I wrote to you that I was a veritable prisoner here, owing to the secluded position of the estate. Now, I find that I have become a prisoner in fact. But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I must start at the beginning else you won’t understand. Perhaps you still won’t. Perhaps you’ll think I’ve at last gone mad. And you may be right. I shall leave you to judge based on the events I now transcribe:

After returning to my bed yesterday, I fell into a restless sleep. Hours later, as sunlight gave way to darkness, I woke to find Mr. Rochester looming over me. This was not a new occurrence. During the early days of our marriage, he often came to me in this manner, waking me with a kiss or a pleasurable embrace. But you must believe that this time was different. He had a look about him that had nothing to do with passion. Quite the reverse. I had the distinct sense that he meant to do me some violence.

I was up and out of my bed in an instant, drawing on my dressing gown. I asked what he meant by locking me in my room and demanded to know where my servants were. His reply was nothing like I’d anticipated. He claimed that he hadn’t locked me in my room at all. That he’d had no awareness of my captivity. Indeed, he blamed the whole of it on Mrs. Wren!

Appalled, and a little doubtful, I asked where Mrs. Wren was now, only to be informed that she’d finally left Nosht-Vŭlk. He said she was returning to her own home, a great distance away, and that I shouldn’t expect to see her again. At this news I must confess I felt a sense of relief. Even at her most amiable, Mrs. Wren was still a third party in my new marriage. An oft-unwelcome appendage, who didn’t scruple to exercise what she believed to be her superior claim on my husband’s affections. Since marrying him, I’d frequently wished her gone.

Yet how could I rejoice at this turn of events?