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never recovered the right course since: but I might have been very
different; I might have been as good as you- wiser- almost as
stainless. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience,
your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory without blot or
contamination must be an exquisite treasure- an inexhaustible source
of pure refreshment: is it not?'
'How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?'
'All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had
turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen- quite your
equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one
of the better kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don't
see it; at least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye
(beware, by the bye, what you express with that organ; I am quick at
interpreting its language). Then take my word for it,- I am not a
villain: you are not to suppose that- not to attribute to me any
such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to
circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace
sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the
rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow
this to you? Know, that in the course of your future life you will
often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of your
acquaintances' secrets: people will instinctively find out, as I
have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to
listen while others talk of themselves; they will feel, too, that
you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but with
a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and encouraging
because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.'
'How do you know?- how can you guess all this, sir?'
'I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I
were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been
superior to circumstances; so I should- so I should; but you see I was
not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I
turned desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious
simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot
flatter myself that I am better than he: I am forced to confess that
he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm- God knows I do!
Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the
poison of life.'
'Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.'
'It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could
reform- I have strength yet for that- if- but where is the use of
thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since
happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out
of life: and I will get it, cost what it may.'
'Then you will degenerate still more, sir.'
'Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure?
And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee