Jane Eyre (1983) - Episode 9

BBC 1983 TV Mini-Series

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

Good afternoon.

- Is this the parsonage?
- Aye.

- Is the clergyman in?
- Nay.

- Will he be home soon?
- Nay. His father's died

and he'll most likely be
away a fortnight or even more.

Is there a lady of the house?

Nay. I keep house here
and I've nowt for charity.

Thank you.

Excuse me for disturbing you...

but is a servant wanted here, please?

Please, give me that food.

Mother, there's a beggar woman here

who wants me to give her my porridge!

Well, lass, give it to
her if pigs don't want it.

What do you want?

Please, can I speak to your mistresses?

You'd better tell me
what you want to say.

I want a night's shelter.

In an outhouse. Anywhere.

And a crust of bread?

I'll give you some bread,

but we can't take in vagrants.

But where shall I go
if you turn me away?!

Oh, here's a penny. Now go!

Please, I can go no further!

Don't close the door! Please don't!

Stop pushing! The rain's coming in!

You're not where you ought to be!

Go now where you belong!

What is it, Hannah? Who is she?

Some beggar woman.

I can but die. God's will be done.

Hannah! Open quickly!

Oh, mr. St. John, your sisters
were quite uneasy about you.

That beggar woman tried
to force her way in!

Be off with you! For shame!

Hannah, I have a word
to say to the woman.

You have done your duty in
excluding, now let me do mine.

This is a strange case,
and one I must look into.

Here, sit down.

Hannah, perhaps some water.

No, some milk and a
little bread. Fetch some.

Oh, she is worn almost to nothing.

Not too much at first.
She is too unwell.

What is your name?

My name?

My name is Jane.

Jane... Elliot.

And where do you live?

Where are your friends?

Can we send for anyone you know?

No.

What account can you give of yourself?

Sir, I can tell you nothing tonight.

What then do you wish me to do for you?

Nothing.

Do you mean you want nothing more of us

and that we may dismiss you to
the moor and the rainy night?

I trust you.

You would not do that
to a stray dog tonight.

Do with me as you wish,

but please excuse me from talking.

My breath is short

and I feel a spasm when I speak.

Here... do try to eat.

Yes, try.

Mary, Diana, let us go to the parlor.

Hannah, attend her.

Come.

Come along.

I am to go?

Yes. Straight upstairs,

out of those wet clothes

and into a good warm bed.

Diana's up there now lighting a fire.

Here, let me help you.

Hannah...

bring up some hot water bottles.

There. It is needless
to send for a doctor.

It is only the effect of
excessive and prolonged fatigue.

I am, however, certain
there is no disease.

Heaven be thanked.

As soon as she can take
sufficient nourishment,

she will regain her strength.

She has rather an unusual face,

but I see no sign of
vulgarity or degradation.

The very opposite.

To speak the truth, St. John,

my heart rather warms
to the poor little soul.

I wish we could help her permanently.

Hmm, it is hardly likely.

You'll find probably she is a young lady

who has had a misunderstanding
with her friends

and injudiciously left them.

We may, perhaps, restore her to them

if she is not obstinate.

She looks sensible.

It is strange.

The grace and harmony of beauty

are quite wanting in her features.

She is not at all handsome.

She is so ill, St. John.

Let her sleep.

Come.

"Willst du die andern verstehen,

blick in dein eigenes herz."

It means, "wouldst
thou understand others,

look in thine own heart."

So true.

Drink your milk, miss.

Still on with that german?
What good does it do you?

Well, Mary and I mean to teach it.

That way we can make
more money than we do now.

Very like. But give
over, you've done enough.

Yes. And I think Jane can sleep now.

Good night, my dear.

Good night.

Oh, at least you're
eating and drinking better.

Can you sit up?

Ooh. Only just.

How long have I been here?

You've not been out
of this bed for 3 days,

and tonight makes 4 nights.

I would get up if I had the strength.

And I have nothing to
wear. My clothes are ruined.

One thing at a time.

Lie back now and sleep,
like miss Diana told you.

Good night, then.

I wish I could get to
me bed when I fancied.

Good morning, Hannah.

Oh, you got up, then.

You look a sight better, I must say.

Sit ye down in my chair.

Did you ever go begging
before you came here?

I'm no beggar,

any more than you or your young ladies.

I do not understand that.

You've got like no house
nor no brass, I guess.

It does not make me a beggar.

Are you book-learned?

Yes. I was at a boarding
school for 8 years.

Whatever cannot ye
keep yourself for, then?

I have done so

and I hope I will again in the future.

What are you going to
do with those apples?

Make them into pies.

Give them to me and
I'll peel them for you.

Very well.

Here, put this on your lap
or you'll mucky your dress.

Thank you.

You've not been used to servant's work,

I see by your hands.

Never mind what I have been.

What is the name of this house?

They call it Moor House.

And mr. St. John lives here?

Nay, he doesn't live here.

And it's mr. St. John Rivers.

He's a parson at Morton, a few miles off

with a home of his own.

Then it is his father's residence?

It was.

Old mr. Rivers died 3
weeks since of a stroke.

That's why mr. St. John, miss Diana,

and miss Mary are all here.

The young ladies do
not live here, either?

Oh, they work in London as governesses.

Their mother's been dead many a year,

and old mr. Rivers,

he'd lost a great deal of money

by a man he had trusted
turning bankrupt.

They love this old house, though,

and the moors round about.

They come whenever they can.

And you? Have you lived
with the family long?

I've been here 30 year.

I nursed them, all three.

That proves you must have been

a faithful and an honest servant.

I will say so even though you were

uncivil enough to call me a beggar.

There's so many cheats
about, you must forgive me.

You munnit be too hard on me.

You look a right down
decent little creature.

That'll do. Shake hands.

Oh, lass, I know you will not talk,

but you've got the look of a lady.

Someone must be worrying about you.

Yes.

It hurts me so I cannot
bear to think about it.

I dare not communicate. I dare not.

The more you eat, the better.

I've never eaten so much.

You are hungry.

I trust I will not eat
long at your expense, sir.

No.

When you have told us
where your friends are,

we can write to them, and
you may be restored to home.

I must be plain, sir.

That is beyond my power.

I am without home or friends.

A most singular position.

You wear no ring. You are a spinster?

Why, St. John, she cannot
be above 17 years of age.

I am near 19.

No, I'm not married.

You are too inquisitive, St. John.

I cannot help you if I
know nothing about you.

I want only to be put in the
way of some work I can do,

to earn the bare necessaries of life.

I will aid you in that to
the best of my powers. But...

Oh, don't make her
talk any more, St. John.

One can see that she's
not yet fit for excitement.

Come and sit here, miss Elliot.

You said your name was Jane Elliot?

Yes.

It is not my real name.

It is what I think it best
to be called at present.

Your real name you will not give?

No. I fear discovery above all things.

You are quite right, I am sure.

Oh, let her be at peace, St. John.

You wish to remain independent?

My sisters would love to keep you,

but in a month or so, they will

return to their duties in the south.

I shall return to my parish
and take Hannah with me.

This house will be shut up.

I shall endeavor to enable
you to keep yourself.

I'll do anything,
even the humblest task.

If such is your spirit,

I promise to aid you
in my own time and way.

Even away from his parish,

St. John will go out visiting
the sick and the poor.

He lives only for his vocation, Jane.

Ah, here he comes at last!

Excuse me.

Come in.

You have a question to ask of me?

If I may.

I'm anxious to know whether you've heard

of any service I can undertake.

I found something for you 3 weeks ago,

but you seemed so useful and happy

and my sisters are very attached to you,

I thought I would not speak

until the time came for
us to leave Moor House.

But that is in only 3 days' time.

Yes.

Well, what is the engagement
you have in view, mr. Rivers?

Morton, when I came to it
2 years ago, had no school.

The children of the poor
had no hope of progress.

I have since established a boys' school

and I now mean to open one for girls.

The teacher's salary
will be 30 pounds a year.

She will have a small cottage

and some attendance from a needy child.

The funds are provided by miss Oliver.

Will you be this teacher?

Thank you, mr. Rivers. I
accept with all my heart!

But you comprehend me?

It is a village school.

The scholars will only be poor girls.

Farm children, at most.

What will you do with your mind,

accomplishments, sentiments, tastes?

They will keep until they are needed.

You know what you undertake, then?

I do. I will open the
school next week if you like.

Very well. So be it.

And I'm to start in 3 days' time!

Oh, Jane, it is a great
sacrifice you make.

Our uncle John is dead.

And what then?

What then, Di?

Why, nothing. Read.

Amen.

We may at least live.

We shall be no worse off
we may than we were before.

It does force upon the
mind what might have been.

Too vivid a contrast with what is.

Oh, Jane...

you must wonder at us and our mysteries.

We may seem hard-hearted
over the death of an uncle,

but we've never seen him.

It was by his advice that my
father lost most of his money.

They quarreled...

and my uncle John later
prospered and became rich.

He never married and my father

always cherished the belief

that he would atone for his error

by leaving his possessions to us.

This letter informs us that every

penny has gone to another relation...

with the exception of 30 guineas

to purchase 3 mourning rings
for St. John, Mary, and me.

We would make ourselves riches

with only 1,000 pounds each.

And St. John would have done such

a lot of good with some money.

But come, my dears...

let us be cheerful before our parting.

Good day, miss Elliott.

Good day, mr. Rivers.
Please, won't you come in?

Have you found your first day's

work harder than you expected?

Oh, no, on the contrary.

May I make you some tea?

No. I have only brought you the parcel

my sisters left for you.

some color-box, pencils,
and paper, I think.

Thank you. How good of them.

But perhaps your accommodation is not...

All I see has made me thankful.

Good.

Miss Elliott...

I counsel you very firmly

to resist every temptation to look back.

Why do you say that?

I see something in your eyes.

It is a restlessness. You
will not stay long at Morton.

Why? I'm not ambitious.

No? I know I am.

What made you use the word?

I was speaking of myself.

You are... forgive the
word... impassioned.

It is hard to control the
workings of inclination.

I know from experience,
but it may be done.

A year ago, I was intensely miserable.

The dull duties wearied me to death.

I longed for excitement,

for some distinguished career.

But after much darkness and struggling,

light broke upon me.

I have resolved to be a missionary.

I have vowed, within a year,

to leave Europe for the east.

Allow me.

Good evening, mr. Rivers.

Good evening.

Papa told me that the
new mistress was come

and I ran up the valley to see her.

This is she?

Do you think you will like Morton?

Oh, I hope so. You are miss Oliver?

Indeed I am. Do you like your house?

Greatly, and I thank you

for all you've done to provide for me.

I shall come up to help you sometimes.

Mr. Rivers, I have been so gay of late.

I was dancing till 2
o'clock this morning.

You're quite a stranger at the hall.

Will you return with me and visit papa?

It is not a seasonable hour

to intrude on mr. Oliver.

Oh, I declare it is.

Why are you so very shy and somber?

Oh, I'm so thoughtless.

You are sad after
parting with your sisters.

Do come. We will be company for you.

Not tonight.

Well, if you're so
obstinate, I must leave you.

I dare not stay, for
the dew begins to fall.

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

Good evening.

Mr. Briggs, you were kind
enough to concern yourself

in the affairs of myself and
miss Eyre but a few days since.

- Sir...
- I know!

You were only doing your duty.

I was, mr. Rochester.

But why do you summon
me back here so soon

and so imperatively?

Miss Eyre has disappeared.

I am hardly surprised.

Hear me out, man!

I need help.

The kind for which a
local lawyer is not fitted.

I need a London man.

What would you wish me
to do, mr. Rochester?

You have brother lawyers in every town.

Write to them. Advertise.

There are discreet agents to
trace people, are there not?

Engage them. Spare no expenses.

If I do find her,

she may not wish her
whereabouts to be revealed.

I do not mean to hound her.

I shall leave her in peace if I can.

But I must know that she does not want,

that she is well, that
she is cared for...

that she is safe.

I cannot live fearing for her.

I must know she dwells securely

upon this same earth as myself.

Find her, mr. Briggs.

Find her.