Page 16 of Fragile Wicked Things
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In color though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?—
Tis the clime of the East—'tis the land of the Sun?—
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell."
The story of Giaffir proved not so difficult to follow, about a father who rebuked his son, but then the story of vengeance took an unexpected turn when the brother swore love for his sister, and she returned it, mourning a life without him. My reading slowed, and I stammered even when I hesitated. Incest. Now I understood why Rochester had picked this poem; he had meant to embarrass me. My audience remained silent while I struggled, and then I feigned the light was insufficient for me to carry on, but Rochester turned on another lamp.
In the Second Canto, the two lovers meet again. Another turn was happy for Selim, who revealed he wasn't Zoleika's brother. Subconsciously, I let out a sigh, my anxiety subsiding with the turn of events, but my comfort just wouldn't do for Rochester, and he stopped me from reading further.
"Shall I pick up from here tomorrow night?" I asked.
"Jane, you love poetry?" Catherine said.
"I never thought so before tonight, but yes, I suppose I do."
"Seems you've found a companion to share in your love of poetry, Edward."
Rochester fidgeted in his seat, picking at a loose thread on the fabric of the sofa. "Catherine, would you like a drink?" he said.
"Sherry."
"Jane?"
His offer surprised me. "I don't drink."
"Of course, you don't," he said.
Rochester acted as though I had rebuffed him. At the liquor cabinet, he slammed bottles and glasses down on the top tray, poured sherry into a small glass then poured a golden liquid from another bottle into two glasses. He slid the bottle into his jacket pocket and carried the glasses over, smiling as he handed Catherine her sherry, but by the time he approached me, his smile disappeared. I hesitated before taking the drink he held out to me, our fingers brushing, and I brought the glass up to my nose.
"Scotch," he said before he put the bottle down on the table, sat down and took a big swig from his drink. I sipped mine; the strength of it kicked at the back of my throat, making me cough and choke. Rochester smiled into his drink, sloshing it about. Outside, lightning flashed.
"Are you all right, dear? You don't need to drink that," Catherine said.
"I'm fine." The squeakiness in my voice said otherwise. I cradled the glass in my hand as if I meant to drink it later as if Icoulddrink from it again.
"You love poetry," Rochester said with a hint of doubt in his voice. "Is it all poetry or just love poems?" He gave me no time to respond before continuing. "Let me tell you of a love story. At the turn of the century, there were these Belgian twins, Maarten and Antoine, identical in every way, their looks, their mannerisms, all the way to their very thoughts and core. Born deaf, they were inseparable, never married, no children and they spent their adult life as they had their childhood—with an unbreakable link between them. They lived together and made a home in their tiny apartment.
"Then a doctor broke the news to them—within months, they'd be blind. They knew that would leave them dependent, living out the rest of their lives in an institution and the thought of never seeing each other again left them so distraught. The morning began as many others had: they drank coffee at their table in their bare kitchen, put jam on their dry bread, washed the dishes and tidied up. They laid out their Sunday best on their beds, and helped each other slip on the clothes, each tying the necktie of the other, straightening their jackets and they went out into the village, past their cobbling business, past the baker where they'd purchase their day-old bread, past the market. They crossed the bridge halfway, stepped over the railing and, hand in hand, jumped to their deaths into the raging water below."
My fingers wiped at a tear before it had a chance to run down my cheek, but I could feel my lips quivering. The story left me heavy-hearted, which I supposed had been Rochester's intention. By then, the rain pounded at the windows and the rooftop.
"Ah, so you don't care for all love stories—only those with happy endings. Tell me about Lowood."
His request shook my melancholic state. "There's not much to tell."
"Were you not raised there? How did you end up there?" His questions came at me in rapid succession.
