Charlotte Bronte and Sansa Stark

[Manderly's Rat Cook]

Sansa's problems stem from more than the fact that she's female though. Mostly because of her father being a traitor, herself being a hostage, and her brother being a rebel. Her marriages on the other hand, even the proposed ones, we already know she has a problem with. She already knows the world isn't fair.

A male hostage could just have easily been treated as badly as she was in her position. Tyrion wasn't really given much choice in marrying her either to be fair. She knows the world isn't fair, but she doesn't blame that on being a woman. She is reaching the point where she doesn't accept it, but she isn't there yet.

Sansa doesn't understand Arya. She doesn't "despise" her for being feminist. And Arya thinks girly things are stupid. Just because Arya shows the world she can do "boyish" things doesn't make her more feminist. Sansa certainly shows the world she can do "girly" things. How is one more feminist than the other? They're both just trying to do the things they want to do.

I said almost. She soed look down on it, and sees being un-ladylike as "wrong" (she is changing that opinion now I'm sure). Arya thinks of girly things as stupid, mainly for herself. She doesn't look down on Sansa for doing them, but she doesn't understands why Sansa likes them either. She does however accept Sansa the way she is, she even is very jealous of Sansa. It upsets Arya that she can't do the things she want to, because she's a girl, Sansa hasn't made the connection yet between freedom and her gender. That doesn't mean I think any less of Sansa.

I have been trying to get the discussion back ontopic: I really don't want to change the discussion to who is more feminist, I expressed myself wrongly in saying Sansa wasn't feminist, but that wasn't the point of my post at all. I would really love to go back to comparing Jane Eyre to ASOIAF :)

[RedBean]

A male hostage could just have easily been treated as badly as she was in her position. Tyrion wasn't really given much choice in marrying her either to be fair. She knows the world isn't fair, but she doesn't blame that on being a woman. She is reaching the point where she doesn't accept it, but she isn't there yet.

I said almost. She soed look down on it, and sees being un-ladylike as "wrong" (she is changing that opinion now I'm sure). Arya thinks of girly things as stupid, mainly for herself. She doesn't look down on Sansa for doing them, but she doesn't understands why Sansa likes them either. She does however accept Sansa the way she is, she even is very jealous of Sansa. It upsets Arya that she can't do the things she want to, because she's a girl, Sansa hasn't made the connection yet between freedom and her gender. That doesn't mean I think any less of Sansa.

I have been trying to get the discussion back ontopic: I really don't want to change the discussion to who is more feminist, I expressed myself wrongly in saying Sansa wasn't feminist, but that wasn't the point of my post at all. I would really love to go back to comparing Jane Eyre to ASOIAF :)

Lol, I think we just disagree on that. I don't think Sansa should go around blaming all her problems on being a woman (that's too much like what Cersei does). And I think both Sansa and Arya are too young to have really figured out the politics behind the patriarchy.

Other than that, hmm I read Jane Eyre a long time ago, so I can only vaguely remember the plot. I think that Sansa doesn't quite fit as Jane though. Their circumstances were kind of different. Sansa was born a lady and she was respected for most of her young life, and even as a hostage she knows she has worth. Jane was always looked-down on by her cousins, and she didn't develop her sense of worth until later. I know Sansa was also treated as a traitor's daughter for a period of time in King's Landing, but she was always seen as a high-born girl, and everyone seemed to want her married into their family. Even their personalities are different. Jane is also somewhat more down-to-earth (I guess she has to be), while Sansa holds on to her idealism even after all the horrible things that have happened to her.

[Manderly's Rat Cook]

Lol, I think we just disagree on that. I don't think Sansa should go around blaming all her problems on being a woman (that's too much like what Cersei does). And I think both Sansa and Arya are too young to have really figured out the politics behind the patriarchy.

Other than that, hmm I read Jane Eyre a long time ago, so I can only vaguely remember the plot. I think that Sansa doesn't quite fit as Jane though. Their circumstances were kind of different. Sansa was born a lady and she was respected for most of her young life, and even as a hostage she knows she has worth. Jane was always looked-down on by her cousins, and she didn't develop her sense of worth until later. I know Sansa was also treated as a traitor's daughter for a period of time in King's Landing, but she was always seen as a high-born girl, and everyone seemed to want her married into their family. Even their personalities are different. Jane is also somewhat more down-to-earth (I guess she has to be), while Sansa holds on to her idealism even after all the horrible things that have happened to her.

:) yes let's agree to disagree a little (cause I don't disagree completely, I think Sansa is a very strong girl, who will accomplish great things).

I just did a reread, it's a nice book, and there definitely are some interesting parallels. I made some posts about it earlier, in which I compared Arya to Jane, cause I think they resemble more than Jane/Sansa (which caused the feminist discussion, my fault). There are some nice points about the parallels between Sansa + Hound and Jane + Rochester.

I like the 'traitor's daughter' idea. Jane's mother married a man far below her birth, which made the rest of the family look down on them. Marrying against your family's wishes could be seen as a form of treason too.

[voodooqueen126]

It was my pleasure :) It's a lot of fun trying to find parallels and possible inspiration in other novels. I'm now starting to re-read Wuthering Hights to see the parallels there. I think the Bronte sisters might very well have influenced GRRM, especially because they had their own fantasy world. The Bronte sisters apparently had difficulties separating their fantasy world from reality (especially Emily and Anne). At the end of the book Jane also hears Mr. Rochester calling out to her, through miles and miles of distance, and hears her answer. This was reached through the power of God and prayer, but it also reminds me of the communication through trees and ravens. I haven't read any other Bronte work, but apparently their early work was very magical. Charlotte's early work was also much more erotic than Jane Eyre, which is funny cause the latter caused a great scandal for being a naughty book.

I realised in bed last night that Rochester is sort of Jaime, the Hound and Arya united in the end, with his facial burns, (temporary) blindness and missing hand. lol

• Another parallel between Arya an Jane: Jane clearly states to Mr. Rochester that she sees herself as his equal. Arya obviously wants to do everything that boys do as well, and believes she's just as good, or even better at it. Sansa has no feminist ideas whatsoever.
  

I noticed that too. Since Jane is often compared with a bird, the name Eyre might be influenced by the word eyrie.

Oh fun! I think I have that book, but haven't read it yet (up until a year ago I mainly read Dutch literature). I'm now starting on a re-read of Wuthering Heights, but this sounds like a nice next mission. :D

I think that Arya belongs to the Cersei school of feminism. Perhaps this is the same school of feminism that Lyanna belonged to.

This is the school of feminism that holds all women but oneself to be boring, frivolous and mincing, and that men are much more interesting and fun to hang around with.

Personally, whilst there are some similarities between SanSan and Jane/Rochester, I think Sandor is far less reptilian than Mr Rochester.

[ArabellaVidal]

I don't think Arya is down-to-earth and sensible.

Like Sansa, she is a high-born girl but with tomboyish tendencies. She does feel that being a female restricts her freedom to indulge completely in these tendencies but the fact that she can indulge in them at all is because she has a loving family so secure in their status and authority that this will not be seen as a big flaw in her character. What she forgets in her confrontation with the beastly Joffrey is that his family's status and authority trumps her own.

Her defence of Mycah is admirable, her instincts are just, but her actions are devoid of a sense of understanding regarding status-quo. I will argue that this is mostly due to the fact that she is too young and inexperienced but also because, like Sansa, she has been spoilt. There are no consequences beyond a parent's pride or disappointment. The resultant damage is by no means her fault. It is just that the education of both sisters has been lacking in terms of the realities of the outside world. Arya is just as much a child of consequence as Sansa and that is why both sisters are changing. Arya in ADWD is nothing like the Arya of AGOT, just as Sansa in AFFC is nothing like in AGOT.

Feminist leanings are only one concern amongst many. They are learning to define themselves not as women but as individuals whose home and family has been forcefully taken from them and learning how to reclaim both. They are wolves.

[Manderly's Rat Cook]

I don't think Arya is down-to-earth and sensible.

Like Sansa, she is a high-born girl but with tomboyish tendencies. She does feel that being a female restricts her freedom to indulge completely in these tendencies but the fact that she can indulge in them at all is because she has a loving family so secure in their status and authority that this will not be seen as a big flaw in her character. What she forgets in her confrontation with the beastly Joffrey is that his family's status and authority trumps her own.

Her defence of Mycah is admirable, her instincts are just, but her actions are devoid of a sense of understanding regarding status-quo. I will argue that this is mostly due to the fact that she is too young and inexperienced but also because, like Sansa, she has been spoilt. There are no consequences beyond a parent's pride or disappointment. The resultant damage is by no means her fault. It is just that the education of both sisters has been lacking in terms of the realities of the outside world. Arya is just as much a child of consequence as Sansa and that is why both sisters are changing. Arya in ADWD is nothing like the Arya of AGOT, just as Sansa in AFFC is nothing like in AGOT.

Feminist leanings are only one concern amongst many. They are learning to define themselves not as women but as individuals whose home and family has been forcefully taken from them and learning how to reclaim both. They are wolves.

Arya is more like child - Jane, than grown up Jane. You're right that she's not very down to earth, but that might change. However, although I think Arya's character and perhaps part of her story might be influenced by Jane Eyre, it's not truly based on it. GRR< is definitely not a copycat.

[ArabellaVidal]

Arya is more like child - Jane, than grown up Jane. You're right that she's not very down to earth, but that might change. However, although I think Arya's character and perhaps part of her story might be influenced by Jane Eyre, it's not truly based on it. GRR< is definitely not a copycat.

I never meant to imply that you thought this. I was just responding to the claim that she's down-to-earth. And of course that is already changing.

Agree that he's not a copycat but it's so interesting that you've come up with so many parallels for Arya and Sansa with Jane. It just highlights the fact that no writer escapes influence. No one creates in a complete vacuum.

Off-topic: I watched the TV series before I read the novels (because I couldn't find the books). When I first saw the scene in which Joffrey interrupts Arya's mock-fight with Mycah, I initially blamed the enitire disaster on Sansa and Arya. When Robert paases the sentence to execute Lady, I realized that Arya, Sansa and Joffrey are all just children. They are behaving like children and normally the consequences of such a scene would not end in such a dire tragedy. The problem here was not the kids theselves but their positions and status and the political dynamics of these actions in this regard. When I read the novels I realized that this was exactly the point GRRM wanted to make as well. And yet many fall into the error of blaming either Arya or Sansa for being who they should have the freedom to be without such consequences: kids.

[Manderly's Rat Cook]

I never meant to imply that you thought this. I was just responding to the claim that she's down-to-earth. And of course that is already changing.

Agree that he's not a copycat but it's so interesting that you've come up with so many parallels for Arya and Sansa with Jane. It just highlights the fact that no writer escapes influence. No one creates in a complete vacuum.

Off-topic: I watched the TV series before I read the novels (because I couldn't find the books). When I first saw the scene in which Joffrey interrupts Arya's mock-fight with Mycah, I initially blamed the enitire disaster on Sansa and Arya. When Robert paases the sentence to execute Lady, I realized that Arya, Sansa and Joffrey are all just children. They are behaving like children and normally the consequences of such a scene would not end in such a dire tragedy. The problem here was not the kids theselves but their positions and status and the political dynamics of these actions in this regard. When I read the novels I realized that this was exactly the point GRRM wanted to make as well. And yet many fall into the error of blaming either Arya or Sansa for being who they should have the freedom to be without such consequences: kids.

Ah good, then we agree on that completely :) I really enjoyed comparing the characters, and I think it's a good thing for an artist to allow him-/herself to be influenced by other work. Being a visual artist myself I believe you get the best, and most convincing results by picking interesting ideas from other artists and combine them with your own ideas, shaping them into an original piece of art. You have to learn and lend to be truly original I think.

I think GRRM has been influenced by Shakespeare as well, especially in his madness related to power plotlines. And, well.. Caligula, royal histories, and mythology, but in the end his works are very unique and truly his own :)

Offtopic: Really? I saw the TV show first as well, and although I realised that Arya and Sansa were very much being kids, I thought Joffrey was truly acting like a little shit. I agree that he's just being a child as well, but a pretty badly raised, horrible kind of kid :P

[Little Red Riding Hood]

Is curious, even without the reference of the name, the kind of relationship that was established between Sansa and Sandor Clegane in KL, always remains me the relationship of Edward Rochester and Jane.

Their encounters -alone- in the night or in the sunset, he given her his vision of the world, she confront him, the interaction, and their mutual learning about the feelings and thoughts. They learned from each other.

Even Rochester

he suffers burns in his face, affecting his sight, with the arrival of Jane, he begin to "LOOK" better.

Even,in the novel he is retired in a remote and hidden and "humid" place until Jane escapes of her betrothal with her cousin, the heir . Is not reminded somebody?

Some little ...( ;

[Little Red Riding Hood]

Even , I remember, Jane meets Rochester in the road.

It is the first time they see each other, like Sandor and Sansa (Kingsroad: Sandor (night of the feast´s Tournament of the Hand (of the hand of Sansa...? :idea: I seem to remember that Sandor was the champion :cool4:):

"There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad.")

And Jane- first- sees a "DOG", and later sees Rochester.

He mocks-later- of her and play with the idea of becoming in a dog ...

Remember?

I almost forgot it.

[Little Red Riding Hood]

Jane meets a maid named "Grace"Poole (who keeps a horrible secret and crucial in the life of our Jane San..)-as the Jeyne of Sansa-

Jane wants to make a travel and meet new things.

Read carefully this fragment -a resume of the

first encounter of Jane and Rochester:

...“The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was …..

..From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the gray and battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward…

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp; a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon and blended clouds, where tint melts into tint.

….As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie’s tales wherein figured a North-of-England spirit, called a “Gytrash”; which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon me.

It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one mask of Bessie’s Gytrash,—a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the common-place human form. No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of “What the deuce is to do now?” and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse were down..... The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound; which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do,—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question:—

“Are you injured, sir?”

I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.

“Can I do anything?” I asked again.

“You must just stand on one side,” (GRRM/Sandor: Spare me)"he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some yards distance; but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.

I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near him again.

“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one, either from Thornfield-Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you; I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared, and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height, and considerable breadth of chest (in the night of the Tournament feast, GRRM describes him with "massive shoulders").

He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced:—

“I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse.”

He looked at me when I said this: he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.

“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?”

“From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it indeed—I am going there to post a letter.”

“You live just below—do you mean at that house with the battlements?” pointing to Thornfield-Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose house is it?”

… In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.

“I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”

“Yes, sir.”….

“Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?”

I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.

“I see,” he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to come here.”

I came—“Excuse me,” he continued; “necessity compels me to make you useful.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly, and sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.

“Now,” said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge.”

I sought it and found it.

“Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as you can.”

The new face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern”

..…

The hall was not dark, ….I hastened to Mrs Fairfax’s room: there was a fire, there, too; but no candle, and no Mrs Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said,—

“Pilot,” and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail: but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.

“What dog is this?”

“He came with master.”

“With whom?”

“With master—Mr Rochester—he is just arrived.”

[Daenerys is my queen]

Good point. Reminds me of the pivotal scene when Jane rejects Rochester (clearly Sandor is the Rochester stand-in, not LF - Lf is more of a Heathcliff) after she learns of his still very much alive wife. Lots of people were quite frustrated with Sansa when she did not go with the Hound, especially considering the later turn of event with regard to Littlefinger. But in fact joining the Hound at that time would have been a disastrous choice. We saw that he couldn't keep Arya safe and surely he would have failed as well with Sansa.

But just as Jane eventually returned to Rochester, when the distribution of power was reversed (she, the now wealthy heiress, and he, the cripple who had lost most of his fortune in the fire), Sansa might return to Sandor as well - not to be saved, but to save him.

Good points! I think it would be great if Sansa returned to Sandor to save him just like Jane did with Rochester. Sadly, I doubt GRRM would make anyone that happy.

Another parallel that occured to me just now:

after rejecting Rochester, Jane is rescued by St. John - a man who wants to make her his wife in spite of being hopelessly in love with another woman he can't have, because he thinks Jane would make a good partner in crime (in his case: missionary work). He takes on a mentor role to mold her into an even better helpmate. Jane is for a moment tempted to consider his offer (out of sheer despair, because she has no other prospects), but she just can't forget Rochester. Memories of him give her the strenght to reject St. John.

If Sansa is Jane, Littlefinger would be her St. John. Like St. John, he is not really over his one true love Catelyn and intends to use Sansa as a replacement goldfish. But like St. John he sees Sansa's potential to become a useful helpmate and starts to mentor her, leading her on a path that might well make good use of her talents but would ultimately only make her miserable.

Just like Jane in her darkest moments might be desperate enough to consider St. John's offer, Sansa might be tempted as well. In Jane Eyre, it's the thought of Rochester that saves Jane from this sorry fate. Maybe the Hound could fulfil a similar function for Sansa?

:agree:

I think Sandor will definitely stop Sansa from agreeing to help LF. He (Sandor) is always in her thoughts anyway. :)

[Little Red Riding Hood]

Look at that: the scene of BLACKWATER SANDOR /SANSA in this scene of "Jane Eyre":

I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judge haunted ….“Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes,”(“Lady”) I murmured,….as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: an out-stretched arm caught me; I looked up—I was supported by Mr Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.

“You come out at last,” (Sandor said:” "Little bird. I knew you'd come.") he said. “Well, I have been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that deathlike hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So, you shun me?—you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate: I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?

“Well, Jane; not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter—nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look.

“Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?”

…..“You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?” ere long he inquired wistfully—wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness: the result rather of weakness than of will.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me so roundly and sharply—don’t spare me.”

“I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water.” He heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me down stairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was, I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered me, and was soon myself. I was in the library—sitting in his chair—he was quite near. “If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,” I thought; “then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending them from among Mr Rochester’s. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him.I cannot leave him.”

“How are you now, Jane?”

“Much better, sir: I shall be well soon.”

“Taste the wine again, Jane.”

I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast through the room and came back: he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away, and put his aside.

“What!—How is this?” he exclaimed hastily. “Oh, I know! you won’t kiss …..

…. you must have a strange opinion of me: you must regard me as a plotting profligate—a base and low rake who has been simulating disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of honour, and rob you of self-respect. What do you say to that? (..)you are thinking how to act—talking, you consider, is of no use. I know you—I am on my guard.”

“Sir, I do not wish to act against you,” I said; and my unsteady voice warned me to curtail my sentence.

“Not in your sense of the word but in mine, you are scheming to destroy me.(..) Just now you have refused to kiss me ^(Unkiss). You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me; to live under this roof only as Adèle’s governess: if ever I say a friendly word to you; if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will say,—’That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must be ice and rock (Wow!) to him;’ and ice and rock you will accordingly become.”

I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: “All is changed about me, sir; I must change too—there is no doubt of that: and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats with recollections and associations, there is only one way—

(…)(Rochester speak about his personal demon) but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate.

.., when my wife is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on”—

“Sir,” I interrupted him, “you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady: you speak of her with hate—with vindictive antipathy. It is cruel—she cannot help being mad.”

“Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?”

“I do indeed, sir.”

“Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat—your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.—But why do I follow that train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you know, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion—even from falsehood and slander.”….

… “You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull: too dull for you.”

“Solitude! solitude!” he reiterated, with irritation. (..). You are to share my solitude. Do you understand?”

I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been walking fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on the fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.

“Now for the hitch in Jane’s character,” he said at last, speaking more calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak. “The reel of silk has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew there would come a knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation, and endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Samson’s strength, and break the entanglement like tow!”

He recommenced his walk: but soon again stopped, and this time just before me.

“Jane! will you hear reason?” (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear) “because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.”(^{Sandor:"But one day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no."}) His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild licence. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present—the passing second of time—was all I had in which to control and restrain him: a movement of repulsion, flight, fear, would have sealed my doom,—and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand; loosened the contorted fingers; and said to him, soothingly—

“Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.”

….Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I could not while he was in such a passion.

“But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had steeled your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes.”

His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn, became calm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder: but I would not permit it. Then he would draw me to him: no.

“Jane! Jane!” he said—in such an accent of bitter sadness, it thrilled along every nerve I had; “you don’t love me, then? It was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were some toad or ape.”

These words cut me: yet what could I do or say? I ought probably to have done or said nothing: but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm where I had wounded.

“I do love you,” I said, “more than ever: but I must not show or indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it.”

“The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?”

“No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but one way: but you will be furious if I mention it.”

“Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping.”

“Mr Rochester, I must leave you.”

“For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair—which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face—which looks feverish?”

“I must leave Adèle and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: I must begin a new existence amongst strange faces and strange scenes.”

“Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about parting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs Rochester—both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France: a white-washed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error—to make you my mistress. Why do you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable; or in truth I shall again become frantic.”

His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: still I dared to speak:—

“Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical—is false.”

“Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man—you forget that: I am not long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and—beware!”

He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity—looked for aid to one higher than man: the words “God help me!” burst involuntarily from my lips.

… Just put your hand in mine, Janet—that

I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove you are near me

—and I will in a few words show you the real state of the case. Can you listen to me?”

(……).“I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear, or know, that I was not the eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I?”

(…..) “My brother in the interval was dead; and at the end of the four years my father died too(….)

“No, sir, finish it now: I pity you—I do earnestly pity you.”

“Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute(..). But that is not your pity, Jane: it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this moment—with which your eyes are now almost overflowing—with which your heart is heaving—with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent—my arms wait to receive her.”

“Now, sir, proceed: what did you do when you found she was mad?”

(…)At the age of twenty-six (Wow! 26!THE AGE OF Sandor in the beginning! Coincidence? I don´t think so..), I was hopeless.“One night I had been awakened by her yells (..)her wolfish cries.

(..)“ ‘This life,’ said I at last, ‘is hell! Of the fanatic’s burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a future state worse than this present one—let me break away.

I meant to shoot myself. ^{(-for Sandor “He drunk to drawn his pain in a sea of wine”)}

.(…)“A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples

The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves …From a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea—bluer than the sky: the old world ^{(the North?)}was beyond; clear prospects opened thus (..)

“ ‘Go,’ said Hope, ‘and live again in Europe: there it is not known what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. “

(….)On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that ghastly visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched over you, that she then spent her fury on your wedding apparel; which perhaps brought back vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might have happened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet visage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles…”

“Well, sir?”

“When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement; as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one’s heart. But before I go on, tell me what you mean by your ‘Well, sir?’ It is a small phrase very frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on and on through interminable talk: I don’t very well know why.”

(...)Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation—never debauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian Messalina’s attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.(Gregor)

(….) “Now, Jane, why don’t you say ‘Well, sir?’ I have not done. You are looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses—in a harsh, bitter, frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life—corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back to England.

“On a frosty winter afternoon (a mix of 2 encounters- 1-on the kingsroad and 2-the Nigth of the Tournament), I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace—no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay-lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life—my genius for good or evil—waited there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour’s accident, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed to bear (the word has another meaning but is there) me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.

“When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new—a fresh sap and sense—stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf must return to me—that it belonged to my house down below—or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home that night, Jane: though probably you were not aware that I thought of you, or watched for you. The next day I observed you—myself unseen(very typical in Sandor and

also They are prowling around their little.. )

—for half an hour, while you played with Adèle (Joffrey) in the gallery(banquet of tournament). It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar: I could both listen and watch. (…)my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day-visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth, when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope, up and on to an ideal heaven.

…I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight….

“Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. An unusual—to me—a perfectly new character I suspected was yours: I desired to search it deeper, and know it better. You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independent; you were quaintly dressed—much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor’s face: there was penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. ^{(“Some septa trained you well.")}Very soon, you seemed to get used to me—I believe you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillized your manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely.(..) I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade—the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom; but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. (…); if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look: not despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me—or if you ever thought of me; to find this out, I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent school-room—it was the tedium of your life that made you mournful.

I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you;

kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful, happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble—a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be—whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart.”

“Don’t talk any more of those days, sir,” ….

“No, Jane,” he returned: “what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer—the Future so much brighter?”

I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

“You see now how the case stands—do you not?” he continued. “After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel—I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you—and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.

.. I feared early instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This was cowardly….: I should have appealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at first, —opened to you plainly my life of agony—described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier existence—shown to you, not my resolution (that word is weak) but my resistless bent to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I should have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity, and to give me yours: Jane—give it me now.”

A pause.

“Why are you silent, Jane?”

I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! …

“Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise—‘I will be yours, Mr Rochester.’…

“Mr Rochester, I will not be yours.”

Another long silence.

“Jane!” recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising—“Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?”

“I do.”

“Jane” (bending towards and embracing me), “do you mean it now?”

“I do.”

“And now?” softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

“I do—” extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

“Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.”

“It would to obey you.”

A wild look raised his brows—crossed his features: he rose; but he forbore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I shook, I feared—but I resolved.

“One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. Where turn for a companion, and for some hope?”

“Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there.”^{(interesting! Quiet Isle for Sandor and Sansa, perhaps? )}

“Then you will not yield?”

“No.”

“Then you condemn me to live wretched, and to die accursed?” His voice rose.

“I advise you to live sinless; and I wish you to die tranquil.”

“Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion—vice for an occupation?”…

“-. You will forget me before I forget you.”

“You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law—no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me.”

(...)

I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.”

(….)

Mr Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so. His fury was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment, whatever followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm, and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I felt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and glow of a furnace—mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter—often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter—in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face, I gave an involuntary sigh: his gripe was painful, and my over-tasked strength almost exhausted.

“Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!” And he shook me with the force of his hold. “I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage—with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it—the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit—with will and energy, and virtue and purity—that I want: not alone your brittle frame. Of yourself, you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will you will elude the grasp like an essence—you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!”

As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me. The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.

“You are going, Jane?”

“I am going, sir.”

“You are leaving me?”

“Yes.”

“You will not come?—You will not be my comforter, my rescuer?—My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?”

“Withdraw, then—I consent—but remember, you leave me here in anguish. Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings—think of me.”

He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. “Oh, Jane! my hope—my love—my life!” broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob.

I turned his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my hand.

“God bless you, my dear master!” ^(Song) I said. “God keep you from harm and wrong—direct you, solace you—reward you well

-“Little Jane’s love would have been my best reward,” he answered: “without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love: yes—nobly, generously.”

Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at once quitted the room.

“Farewell!”

(….)That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as I lay down in bed. I was transported in thought to the scenes of childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mind impressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look: the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as the moon imparts to vapours, she is about to sever. I watched her come—watched with the strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom were to be written on her disk.

[Little Red Riding Hood]

“The flame illuminated her hand (…) I at once noticed that hand. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me _ on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

-Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice.

-Only take off the red cloak ^(Wow!), sir, and then…”

-But the string is in a knot …help me."

-Break it, sir."

-There, then ..Off, ye lendings!'" And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise.”(“Jane Eyre” Chapter XIX)

_{(In the case of Sandor ,his disguise of (scarlet) lannister and of gravedigger)}

[Little Red Riding Hood]

"-You did not act the character of a gipsy with me."

-What character did I act? My own?"

(“Jane Eyre”, Chapter XIX)

[Little Red Riding Hood]

-“ you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now."

-"Yes, sir, yes; and my arm."

(…)

Holding my hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled and dreary look.

-My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me." ^{( Just Amazing!)}

( “Jane Eyre”,Chapter XIX)

[Little Red Riding Hood]

^{(Rochester tells Jane)}“-Kneel again on the rug."

^{(Jane replies)}-Don't keep me long; the fire scorches me."

(“Jane Eyre”, ídem.)

[Little Red Riding Hood]

^{(Rochester tells Jane:)}“-Destiny is not written there."

-"I believe you," said I.

-"No- (He) continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up your head."

(..) I obeyed (him).

I knelt within half a yard of (him. He) stirred the fire, so that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as he sat, only threw (his) face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined.”

-I wonder with what feelings you came to me tonight"

(“Jane Eyre”, Chapter XIX)

^{(In the night of the Tournament of the Hand, it is Sandor who}

^{bows to Sansa for her can look into him :"take a long stare")}

[Little Red Riding Hood]

“-You don't know the gentlemen here?^{(Rochester in disguise- speaks with Jane.) (…)}Will you say that of the master of the house!”^{(referring to himself:Rochester)}

-"He is not at home." (Jane replies)

"A profound remark! does that circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance -- blot him, as it were, out of existence?"

"-No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you had introduced."

(Rochester tells her:) "I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen”;

^{(same chapter of "Jane Eyre". That reminds me, in a way, the conversation between Sandor and Sansa on the}

Serpentine ). (Click here)

[Dimadick]

in the first chapter she's reading a book called Bewick's History of British Birds

"History of British Birds" (1797, 1804) by Thomas Bewick (1753-1828). An illustrated ornithological guide with an enduring reputation as one of the finest works in its field. For an online edition of the first volume see: http://ia700307.us.archive.org//load_djvu_applet.php?file=3/items/britishbirds01bewiuoft/britishbirds01bewiuoft.djvu