August 26, 2025 • 11 mins
20 - Chapter 20. Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë.
Agnes Grey is the daughter of a minister, whose family comes to financial ruin. Desperate to earn money to care for herself, she takes one of the few jobs allowed to respectable women in the early Victorian era, as a governess to the children of the wealthy. In working with two different families, the Bloomfields and the Murrays, she comes to learn about the troubles that face a young woman who must try to rein in unruly, spoiled children for a living, and about the ability of wealth and status to destroy social values. After her father's death, Agnes opens a small school with her mother and finds happiness with a man who loves her for herself.
Agnes Grey is the daughter of a minister, whose family comes to financial ruin. Desperate to earn money to care for herself, she takes one of the few jobs allowed to respectable women in the early Victorian era, as a governess to the children of the wealthy. In working with two different families, the Bloomfields and the Murrays, she comes to learn about the troubles that face a young woman who must try to rein in unruly, spoiled children for a living, and about the ability of wealth and status to destroy social values. After her father's death, Agnes opens a small school with her mother and finds happiness with a man who loves her for herself.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter twenty of Agnes Gray by Anne Bronte. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain. Chapter twenty the Farewell.
Speaker 2 (00:12):
A house in a the fashionable watering place was hired
for our seminary, and a promise of two or three
pupils was obtained to commence with. I returned to Haut
and Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my mother
to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils,
to sell off the furniture of our old abode, and
to fit out the new one. We often pity the
(00:33):
poor because they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives,
and necessity obliges them to labor through their severest afflictions,
but is not active employment, the best remedy for overwhelming sorrow,
the surest antidote for despair. It may be a rough comforter.
It may seem hard to be harassed with the cares
of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments,
(00:54):
to be goaded to labor when the heart is ready
to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest on
to weep in silence, but does not labor better than
the rest we cove it, and are not these petty
tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over the
great affliction that oppresses us. Besides, we cannot have cares
(01:14):
and anxieties and toil without hope, And if it be
but the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some
needful project, or escaping some further annoyance, at any rate,
I was glad my mother had so much employment for
every faculty of her action loving frame. Our kind neighbors
lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth and station,
(01:35):
should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow.
But I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice
as much had she been left in affluence with liberty
to remain in that house, the scene of her early
happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent
her from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her bereavement. I
will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left
(01:57):
the old house, the well known garden, the village church,
then doubly dear to me, because my father, who for
thirty years had taught and prayed within its walls, lay
slumbering now beneath its flags, and the old bare hills
delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales between
smiling in greenwood and sparkling water. The house where I
(02:19):
was born, the scene of all my early associations, the
place where throughout life my earthly affections had been centered,
and left them to return no more true. I was
going back to Haughton Lodge, where, amid many evils, one
source of pleasure yet remained. But it was pleasure mingled
with excessive pain. And my stay alas was limited to
(02:42):
six weeks, and even of that precious time, day after
day slid by, and I did not see him except
at church. I never saw him for a fortnight after
my return. It seemed a long time to me, and
as I was often out with my rambling pupil, of course,
hopes would keep rising and disappointments would ensue, and then
I would say, to my own heart, here is a
(03:03):
convincing proof, if you would but have the sense to
see it, or the candor to acknowledge it, that he
does not care for you, if he only thought half
as much about you as you do about him, he
would have contrived to meet you many times. Ere this
you must know that by consulting your own feelings, therefore
have done with this nonsense. You have no ground for hope.
(03:25):
Dismiss at once these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from
your mind, and turn to your own duty and the dull,
blank life that lies before you. You might have known
such happiness was not for you. But I saw him
at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was
crossing a field and returning from a visit to Nancy Brown,
which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda
(03:46):
Murray was riding her matchless mare. He must have heard
of the heavy loss I had sustained. He expressed no sympathy,
offered no condolence, but almost the first words.
Speaker 3 (03:55):
He uttered were how is your mother?
Speaker 2 (03:58):
And this was no matter of question, for I never
told him that I had a mother. He must have
learned the fact from others if he knew it at all.
And besides, there was sincere good will and even deep, touching,
unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry.
I thanked him with do civility and told him she
was as well as could be expected.
Speaker 3 (04:18):
What will she do was the next question.
Speaker 2 (04:21):
Many would have deemed it an impertinent one and given
an evasive reply, But such an idea never entered my head,
and I gave a brief but plain statement of my
mother's plans and prospects.
Speaker 3 (04:32):
Then you will leave this place, shortly.
Speaker 2 (04:35):
Said he. Yes, in a month. He paused a minute,
as if in thought. When he spoke again. I hoped
it would be to express his concern at my departure,
but it was only to say, I.
Speaker 3 (04:46):
Should think you will be willing enough to go.
Speaker 2 (04:49):
Yes, for some things, I replied, for.
Speaker 3 (04:53):
Some things, only I wonder what should make you regret it.
Speaker 2 (04:57):
I was annoyed at this in some degree, because, as
that embarrassed me, I had only one reason for regretting it,
and that was a profound secret which he had no
business to trouble me about. Why, said I, Why should
you suppose that I disliked the place? You told me
so yourself was the decisive reply.
Speaker 3 (05:16):
You said at least that you could not live contentedly
without a friend, and that you had no friend here
and no possibility of making one. And besides, I know
you must dislike it.
Speaker 2 (05:28):
But if you remember rightly I said, or meant to say,
I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world.
I was not so unreasonable as to require one always
near me. I think I could be happy in a
house full of enemies if but no, that sentence must
not be continued, I paused, and hastily added. And besides,
(05:49):
we cannot well leave a place where we have lived
for two or three years without some feeling of regret.
Speaker 3 (05:54):
Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your soul
remaining pupil and companion.
Speaker 2 (06:00):
I dare say I shall in some degree. It was
not without sorrow I parted with her sister.
Speaker 3 (06:05):
I can imagine that.
Speaker 2 (06:06):
Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good better in one respect,
what is that?
Speaker 3 (06:11):
She's honest and the other is not.
Speaker 2 (06:14):
I should not call her dishonest, but it must be confessed.
She's a little artful.
Speaker 3 (06:19):
Artful? Is she? I saw? She was giddy and vain.
Speaker 2 (06:24):
And now he added, after a pause, I.
Speaker 3 (06:27):
Can well believe he was artful too, but so excessively
so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and
unguarded openness.
Speaker 2 (06:36):
Yes, continued he musingly.
Speaker 3 (06:39):
That accounts for some little things that puzzled me a
trifle before.
Speaker 2 (06:43):
After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects.
He did not leave me till we had nearly reached
the park gates. He had certainly stepped a little out
of his way to accompany me so far, for he
now went back and disappeared down Mass Lane, the entrance
of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly I
did not regret this circumstance. If sorrow had any place
(07:03):
in my heart, it was that he was gone at last,
that he was no longer walking by my side, and
that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end.
He had not breathed a word of love or dropped
one hint of tenderness or affection. And yet I had
been supremely happy to be near him, to hear him
talk as he did talk, and to feel that he
thought me worthy to be so spoken to, capable of
(07:26):
understanding and duly appreciating such discourse, was enough. Yes, Edward Weston,
I could indeed be happy in a house full of
enemies if I had but one friend who truly, deeply
and faithfully loved me, And if that friend were you,
though we might be far apart, seldom to hear from
each other, still more seldom to meet. Though toil and
(07:48):
trouble and vexation might surround me. Still it would be
too much happiness for me to dream of. Yet, who
can tell? Said I within myself, as I proceeded up
the park. Who can tell this one month may bring forth?
I have lived nearly three and twenty years, and I
have suffered much and tasted little pleasure. Yet is it
likely my life all through will be so clouded? Is
(08:10):
it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse
these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of heaven sunshine?
Yet will He entirely deny to me those blessings which
are so freely given to others, who neither ask them
nor acknowledge them when received? May I not still hope
and trust? I did hope and trust for a while,
(08:31):
But alas alas the time ebbed away. One week followed another,
and accepting one distant glimpse in two transient meetings during
which scarcely anything was said, while I was walking with
Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him, except of course
at church. And now the last Sunday was come, and
the last service. I was often on the point of
(08:52):
melting into tears during the sermon. The last I was
to hear from him, the best I should hear from
any one. I was well assured it was over. The
congregation were departing, and I must follow. I had then
seen him and heard his voice, too, probably for the
last time. In the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by
the two missus Green. They had many inquiries to make
(09:13):
about her sister, and I knew not what. Besides, I
only wish they would have done, that we might hasten
back to haut A lodge. I longed to seek the
retirement of my own room, or some sequestered nook in
the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings,
to weep my last farewell and lament my false hopes
and vain delusions. Only this once, and then adieu to
(09:34):
fruitless dreaming. Thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy
my mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice
close beside me said.
Speaker 3 (09:44):
I suppose you are going this week, Miss Gray.
Speaker 2 (09:47):
Yes, I replied, I was very much startled, and had
I been at all hysterically inclined, I certainly should have
committed myself in some way. Then. Thank god I was
not well, said mister Weston.
Speaker 3 (10:00):
I want to bid you good bye. It is not
likely I shall see you again. Before you go.
Speaker 2 (10:05):
Good bye, mister Weston, I said, oh, how I struggled
to say it calmly. I gave him my hand. He
retained it a few seconds in his.
Speaker 3 (10:14):
It is possible we may meet again, said he. Will
it be of any consequence to you whether we do
or not?
Speaker 2 (10:22):
Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.
I could say no less. He kindly pressed my hand
and went Now. I was happy again, though more inclined
to burst into tears than ever. If I had been
forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs
would have inevitably ensued, and as it was, I could
not keep the water out of my eyes. I walked
(10:44):
along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face and neglecting
to notice several successive remarks till she bawled out that
I was either deaf or stupid, And then, having recovered
my self possession as one awakened from a fit of abstraction.
I suddenly looked up and asked what she had been saying.
Speaker 1 (11:02):
End of Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty of Agnes Gray by Anne Bronte. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain. Chapter twenty the Farewell.
Speaker 2 (00:12):
A house in a the fashionable watering place was hired
for our seminary, and a promise of two or three
pupils was obtained to commence with. I returned to Haut
and Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my mother
to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils,
to sell off the furniture of our old abode, and
to fit out the new one. We often pity the
(00:33):
poor because they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives,
and necessity obliges them to labor through their severest afflictions,
but is not active employment, the best remedy for overwhelming sorrow,
the surest antidote for despair. It may be a rough comforter.
It may seem hard to be harassed with the cares
of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments,
(00:54):
to be goaded to labor when the heart is ready
to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest on
to weep in silence, but does not labor better than
the rest we cove it, and are not these petty
tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over the
great affliction that oppresses us. Besides, we cannot have cares
(01:14):
and anxieties and toil without hope, And if it be
but the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some
needful project, or escaping some further annoyance, at any rate,
I was glad my mother had so much employment for
every faculty of her action loving frame. Our kind neighbors
lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth and station,
(01:35):
should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow.
But I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice
as much had she been left in affluence with liberty
to remain in that house, the scene of her early
happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent
her from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her bereavement. I
will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left
(01:57):
the old house, the well known garden, the village church,
then doubly dear to me, because my father, who for
thirty years had taught and prayed within its walls, lay
slumbering now beneath its flags, and the old bare hills
delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales between
smiling in greenwood and sparkling water. The house where I
(02:19):
was born, the scene of all my early associations, the
place where throughout life my earthly affections had been centered,
and left them to return no more true. I was
going back to Haughton Lodge, where, amid many evils, one
source of pleasure yet remained. But it was pleasure mingled
with excessive pain. And my stay alas was limited to
(02:42):
six weeks, and even of that precious time, day after
day slid by, and I did not see him except
at church. I never saw him for a fortnight after
my return. It seemed a long time to me, and
as I was often out with my rambling pupil, of course,
hopes would keep rising and disappointments would ensue, and then
I would say, to my own heart, here is a
(03:03):
convincing proof, if you would but have the sense to
see it, or the candor to acknowledge it, that he
does not care for you, if he only thought half
as much about you as you do about him, he
would have contrived to meet you many times. Ere this
you must know that by consulting your own feelings, therefore
have done with this nonsense. You have no ground for hope.
(03:25):
Dismiss at once these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from
your mind, and turn to your own duty and the dull,
blank life that lies before you. You might have known
such happiness was not for you. But I saw him
at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was
crossing a field and returning from a visit to Nancy Brown,
which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda
(03:46):
Murray was riding her matchless mare. He must have heard
of the heavy loss I had sustained. He expressed no sympathy,
offered no condolence, but almost the first words.
Speaker 3 (03:55):
He uttered were how is your mother?
Speaker 2 (03:58):
And this was no matter of question, for I never
told him that I had a mother. He must have
learned the fact from others if he knew it at all.
And besides, there was sincere good will and even deep, touching,
unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry.
I thanked him with do civility and told him she
was as well as could be expected.
Speaker 3 (04:18):
What will she do was the next question.
Speaker 2 (04:21):
Many would have deemed it an impertinent one and given
an evasive reply, But such an idea never entered my head,
and I gave a brief but plain statement of my
mother's plans and prospects.
Speaker 3 (04:32):
Then you will leave this place, shortly.
Speaker 2 (04:35):
Said he. Yes, in a month. He paused a minute,
as if in thought. When he spoke again. I hoped
it would be to express his concern at my departure,
but it was only to say, I.
Speaker 3 (04:46):
Should think you will be willing enough to go.
Speaker 2 (04:49):
Yes, for some things, I replied, for.
Speaker 3 (04:53):
Some things, only I wonder what should make you regret it.
Speaker 2 (04:57):
I was annoyed at this in some degree, because, as
that embarrassed me, I had only one reason for regretting it,
and that was a profound secret which he had no
business to trouble me about. Why, said I, Why should
you suppose that I disliked the place? You told me
so yourself was the decisive reply.
Speaker 3 (05:16):
You said at least that you could not live contentedly
without a friend, and that you had no friend here
and no possibility of making one. And besides, I know
you must dislike it.
Speaker 2 (05:28):
But if you remember rightly I said, or meant to say,
I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world.
I was not so unreasonable as to require one always
near me. I think I could be happy in a
house full of enemies if but no, that sentence must
not be continued, I paused, and hastily added. And besides,
(05:49):
we cannot well leave a place where we have lived
for two or three years without some feeling of regret.
Speaker 3 (05:54):
Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your soul
remaining pupil and companion.
Speaker 2 (06:00):
I dare say I shall in some degree. It was
not without sorrow I parted with her sister.
Speaker 3 (06:05):
I can imagine that.
Speaker 2 (06:06):
Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good better in one respect,
what is that?
Speaker 3 (06:11):
She's honest and the other is not.
Speaker 2 (06:14):
I should not call her dishonest, but it must be confessed.
She's a little artful.
Speaker 3 (06:19):
Artful? Is she? I saw? She was giddy and vain.
Speaker 2 (06:24):
And now he added, after a pause, I.
Speaker 3 (06:27):
Can well believe he was artful too, but so excessively
so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and
unguarded openness.
Speaker 2 (06:36):
Yes, continued he musingly.
Speaker 3 (06:39):
That accounts for some little things that puzzled me a
trifle before.
Speaker 2 (06:43):
After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects.
He did not leave me till we had nearly reached
the park gates. He had certainly stepped a little out
of his way to accompany me so far, for he
now went back and disappeared down Mass Lane, the entrance
of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly I
did not regret this circumstance. If sorrow had any place
(07:03):
in my heart, it was that he was gone at last,
that he was no longer walking by my side, and
that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end.
He had not breathed a word of love or dropped
one hint of tenderness or affection. And yet I had
been supremely happy to be near him, to hear him
talk as he did talk, and to feel that he
thought me worthy to be so spoken to, capable of
(07:26):
understanding and duly appreciating such discourse, was enough. Yes, Edward Weston,
I could indeed be happy in a house full of
enemies if I had but one friend who truly, deeply
and faithfully loved me, And if that friend were you,
though we might be far apart, seldom to hear from
each other, still more seldom to meet. Though toil and
(07:48):
trouble and vexation might surround me. Still it would be
too much happiness for me to dream of. Yet, who
can tell? Said I within myself, as I proceeded up
the park. Who can tell this one month may bring forth?
I have lived nearly three and twenty years, and I
have suffered much and tasted little pleasure. Yet is it
likely my life all through will be so clouded? Is
(08:10):
it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse
these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of heaven sunshine?
Yet will He entirely deny to me those blessings which
are so freely given to others, who neither ask them
nor acknowledge them when received? May I not still hope
and trust? I did hope and trust for a while,
(08:31):
But alas alas the time ebbed away. One week followed another,
and accepting one distant glimpse in two transient meetings during
which scarcely anything was said, while I was walking with
Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him, except of course
at church. And now the last Sunday was come, and
the last service. I was often on the point of
(08:52):
melting into tears during the sermon. The last I was
to hear from him, the best I should hear from
any one. I was well assured it was over. The
congregation were departing, and I must follow. I had then
seen him and heard his voice, too, probably for the
last time. In the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by
the two missus Green. They had many inquiries to make
(09:13):
about her sister, and I knew not what. Besides, I
only wish they would have done, that we might hasten
back to haut A lodge. I longed to seek the
retirement of my own room, or some sequestered nook in
the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings,
to weep my last farewell and lament my false hopes
and vain delusions. Only this once, and then adieu to
(09:34):
fruitless dreaming. Thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy
my mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice
close beside me said.
Speaker 3 (09:44):
I suppose you are going this week, Miss Gray.
Speaker 2 (09:47):
Yes, I replied, I was very much startled, and had
I been at all hysterically inclined, I certainly should have
committed myself in some way. Then. Thank god I was
not well, said mister Weston.
Speaker 3 (10:00):
I want to bid you good bye. It is not
likely I shall see you again. Before you go.
Speaker 2 (10:05):
Good bye, mister Weston, I said, oh, how I struggled
to say it calmly. I gave him my hand. He
retained it a few seconds in his.
Speaker 3 (10:14):
It is possible we may meet again, said he. Will
it be of any consequence to you whether we do
or not?
Speaker 2 (10:22):
Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.
I could say no less. He kindly pressed my hand
and went Now. I was happy again, though more inclined
to burst into tears than ever. If I had been
forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs
would have inevitably ensued, and as it was, I could
not keep the water out of my eyes. I walked
(10:44):
along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face and neglecting
to notice several successive remarks till she bawled out that
I was either deaf or stupid, And then, having recovered
my self possession as one awakened from a fit of abstraction.
I suddenly looked up and asked what she had been saying.
Speaker 1 (11:02):
End of Chapter twenty
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