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be recorded in the book of Fate. For ten long years I roved
about, living first in one capital, then another: sometimes in
St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, Na-
ples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of money and the
passport of an old name, I could choose my own society: no
circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman
amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras,
and German grafinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes,
for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard
a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realisation of
my dream: but I was presently undeserved. You are not to
suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person.
I longed only for what suited me—for the antipodes of the
Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not
one whom, had I been ever so free, I—warned as I was of the
risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions—
would have asked to marry me. 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.
‘Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship
of mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varens—anoth-
er of those steps which make a man spurn himself when
he recalls them. You already know what she was, and how
my liaison with her terminated. She had two successors: an
Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered
singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few

Jane Eyre