Jane Eyre (1983) - Episode 8

BBC 1983 TV Mini-Series

Timothy Dalton ... Edward Rochester
Zelah Clarke ... Jane Eyre

The marriage cannot go on.

Proceed.

I cannot proceed without some enquiry

as to what has been said.

I am in a condition
to prove my allegation.

An insuperable impediment
to this marriage exists.

Please explain yourself, sir.

It consists in the existence
of a previous marriage.

Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.

Who are you?

My name is Briggs.

I am a solicitor of Gray's Inn, London.

And you would thrust on me a wife.

"I affirm and can prove

"that on the 20th of october, 1820,

"Edward Fairfax Rochester
of Thornfield Hall

"was married to my sister
Bertha Antoinetta Mason,

"daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant,

"and of Antoinetta
Mason, his wife, a creole,

"at St. Michael's church,
Spanish Town, Jamaica.

"The record of the marriage

"will be found in the
register of the church.

"A copy is appended to this statement.

Signed, Richard Mason."

That, if a genuine document,

may prove I have been married.

It does not prove the woman

therein mentioned as my wife

is still living.

She was living 3 months ago.

How do you know?

I have a witness to the fact

whose testimony even you,

sir, will scarcely controvert.

Produce him or go to hell.

Have the goodness to step forward, sir.

What have you to say?

Edward, please understand.

I again demand...

what in the devil's
name have you to say?

Mr. Rochester, do not forget
you are in a sacred place.

Sir...

mr. Rochester may have been married,

but are you quite sure that
his wife is still living?

She is in Thornfield Hall.

Impossible.

I've served this parish for many years.

I've never heard of a mrs. Rochester

at Thornfield Hall.

No, by God.

I took care none should hear of it...

or of her under that name.

Wood, close your book.
Take off your surplice.

John Green, leave the church.

There will be no wedding today.

Come, all of you.

Follow me.

Good morning, mrs. Poole.

And how is your charge today?

Oh, we're tolerable today, sir.

Right, gentlemen.

There you see my lawful wedded wife.

Look at her.

Look at her!

And this is what I wished to have,

this young girl

who stands so grave and quiet

at the mouth of hell.

Bigamist is an awful word.

I meant to be a bigamist,

but fate has outmaneuvered me,

or Providence checked me.

Amen.

Aye, amen!

Bertha Mason is mad.

She comes of a mad family...

idiots and maniacs
through 3 generations,

her own mother among them,

as I found out after
I had wed the daughter,

for the whole family

were silent upon the secret before,

including her brother,

my friend Richard Mason.

Eh, Richard?

Never fear.

I'd as soon strike a woman as you.

Now judge whether I had a right

to break the compact

and seek sympathy with a human being.

This girl knew no more than you.

She thought all was fair and legal.

She never dreamt she
was going to be trapped

into a feigned union
with a defrauded wretch.

Now judge me...

and remember with
what judgment ye judge,

ye shall be judged.

Off with you now.

I must attend to my wife.

Madam.

Madam...

you are of course
cleared from all blame.

Your uncle,

if indeed he should still be living,

will be glad to hear of it.

My uncle?

What do you know of my uncle?

Mr. John Eyre,

with whom you lately
and for the first time

entered into communication.

You wrote to him of your
intended union with mr. Rochester.

What of it?

How do you know mr. Eyre?

Mr. Mason is acquainted with mr. Eyre

and happened to stop off at
Madeira to recruit his health.

He called on him, and
mr. Eyre spoke of you

and your forthcoming marriage

with mr. Rochester of Thornfield.

revealed the true state of matters.

You know your uncle is
confined to his sick bed?

No. He never wrote of it.

Ah. Alas, he is unlikely
ever to rise from it.

He was much alarmed

and implored to mr. Mason
to hasten back to England

to save you from the snare
into which you had fallen,

referring him to me for assistance.

I am thankful that I was not too late,

as doubtlessl that you must be also.

If that is all, sir...

I'm certain your uncle will be dead

before you could go to him at Madeira.

I think you had better remain in England

until you hear from mr. Eyre...

or from me.

Thank you.

So, you've come out at last.

I've been waiting for you long enough.

You shun me.

You shut yourself up and grieve alone.

I'd rather you'd upbraided
me with vehemence.

You are vehement, I
had expected a scene.

I was prepared for
the hot rain of tears,

and I wanted them on my breast.

I was wrong.

You've not wept at all.

Well, Jane?

Not a word of reproach?

Nothing bitter?

Nothing poignant?

Oh, Jane...

I never meant to wound you thus.

Do you forgive me?

You know I'm a scoundrel, Jane.

Yes, sir.

Then tell me so, roundly and sharply.

I am tired and sick. I need some water.

How are you now, Jane?

Much better.

Well, taste the wine again.

You won't kiss the
husband of Bertha Mason?

No.

You say nothing.

I know you. I'm on my guard.

I do not wish to act against you.

You will say, "this man
nearly made me his mistress.

I must be ice and rock to him."

All is changed. I must change, too.

There's only one way.

Adele must have a new governess.

Oh, Adele will go to school.

I've arranged that already.

And you, Jane,

you shall not stay in
this accursed place,

this stone hell with
its imprisoned fiend.

How can you speak so of her?

She cannot help being mad.

Oh, Jane, my little darling.

So I will call you, for so you are.

You misjudge me.

It's not because she's
mad that I hate her.

Look, I have a place to retire to,

a secure retreat.

Tomorrow we shall go.

We?

We.

Together.

You are to accompany me, Jane.

Ah, now for the hitch
in Jane's chaacter.

Now for vexation,
exasperation, endless trouble.

Jane, will you hear reason?

Sit down. I will listen.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I'm... I'm not angry, my darling.

I only love you too well.

Your little face was so
steely it drove me mad.

I couldn't endure it.

Hush, now. Hush.

Oh, my dear.

Oh, Jane.

Jane.

You don't love me, then?

It was only my rank, my
station that you valued.

Now that you think me
disqualified to be your husband

you shrink back like
I was some toad or ape.

I do love you...

more than ever...

but this must be the last time I say it.

The last time?

Mr. Rochester, I must leave you.

Leave?

Now and for the rest of my life!

Jane, you shall be my wife!

Do not call me married!

You shall be mrs. Rochester!

Oh, I will keep to you only,

so long as you and I live.

Oh, Jane, why do you shake your head?

Sir, your wife is still living!

Do not call me married!

Oh, Jane, let me explain, please.

Please, Jane, Jane, Jane.

Come, come. Let me explain.

Trust me. Trust me.

Come, come.

Come sit down.

You know I broke with my
father and elder brother.

Mrs. Fairfax told me
something of the matter.

Well, they are both dead.
I have the estate now.

But they begrudged me a
farthing when I was young.

They sent out to Jamaica

and, unknown to me,

arranged my marriage to this woman.

She was handsome then.

I was young, raw,

inexperienced.

I seldom saw her

and had little private
conversation with her.

She flattered me. I was dazzled.

I thought I loved her.

A marriage was achieved

almost before I knew where I was.

Then she revealed herself...

drunken, foul-mouthed,

unchaste...

disgusting.

Disgusting.

I never loved.

I never esteemed.

I didn't even know her.

That was my marriage.

I could not rid myself
of it by any legal means,

for the doctors by now had
discovered that my wife was mad.

I've looked after her

as well as I can, God help me.

I pity you.

I was wrong to deceive you,

but I feared the
stubbornness in your nature.

I wanted to have you safe
before hazarding the truth.

This was cowardly.

I should have appealed to
your noble and generous heart

from the first,

pledged my fidelity,

sked for yours, as I do now.

Jane...

give it me now.

Why are you silent, Jane?

You understand what I want of you...

just this promise to be mine.

I cannot be yours.

Jane, do you mean to go one way

in the world and leave me to go another?

I do.

Do you mean it now?

I do.

And now?

I do.

Oh, Jane, this is bitter. It is wicked.

It would be wicked to obey you!

But think of my life when you are gone.

All happiness would
be torn away with me.

What shall I do, Jane?

Where turn for a companion?

Where turn for hope?

Do what I do, look for God in yourself!

Is it better to drive
a fellow creature...

a fellow human being to despair

than to transgress a mere human law,

no man being injured in the breach?

Oh, never was anything at once

so frail and yet so indomitable.

A mere reed she feels in my hand.

Oh, come to me, Jane.

Come to me.

You're going?

Yes.

You will not be my
comforter, my rescuer?

I am going.

Oh, Jane...

my hope,

my love...

my life.

God bless you.

God keep you from harm

and wrong and reward you
for your kindness to me.

Your love would have
been my best reward.

Without it, my heart is broken.

Please...

please, do not follow me.

But you will give me your love.

You will.

You will!

Where are you going?

Glossop.

Where is that?

It's a fair long way.

How much must I pay to go there?

30 shillings.

I have only 20.

That'll take you to Whitcross.

Thank you.

Get in.

Go on.

Whitcross.

I had left my parcel on the coach,

and I had no money.

I was destitute.

And what may you be wanting, miss?

I am very tired.

May I please sit down for a moment?

Can you tell me, please,

is there any dressmaker or plain

needleworker in the village?

Quite as many as there's work for.

Do you know of any place
where a servant is wanted?

Nay. I couldn't say.

Is there any other work?

Only for men on the farms

and in mr. Oliver's foundry.

What do the women do?

I know not.

Some does one thing, some another.

Poor folk must get on as best they can.

Good morning, mrs. Drake.

Ah, miss Welling.

I know what it is you want, don't I?

2 nice fresh rolls as usual.

We love them for our tea.

Fresh from the oven.

They do smell delicious.

Good morning, mrs. Drake.

Thank you, ma'am.

Please...

would you give me a roll
for this handkerchief?

Nay. I don't sell stuff in that way.

Half a roll or a stale bun?

How do I know where you
got that handkerchief?

Will you take my gloves?

What could I do with 'em?

And I doubt if they're
honestly come by, either.

They are mine.

You take yourself off, young woman.

I can't afford to feed vagrants.