简.爱 英文版 Jane Eyre
夏洛蒂.勃朗特 Charlotte Bronte
CHAPTER III
The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if Ihad had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible redglare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speakingwith a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water:agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terrorconfused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one washandling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture,and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before.I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knewquite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was thenursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessiestood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentlemansat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protectionand security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room,an individual not belonging to Gateshead. , and not related toMrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far lessobnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been),I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr.Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when theservants were ailing: for herself and the children she employeda physician.
"Well, who am I?" he asked.
I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: hetook it, smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by. "Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be verycareful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having givensome further directions, and intimates that he should call againthe next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered andbefriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as heclosed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart againsank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.
"Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rathersoftly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence mightbe rough. "I will try. "
"Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?"
"No, thank you, Bessie. "
"Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock;but you may call me if you want anything in the night. "
Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.
"Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"
"You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll bebetter soon, no doubt. "
Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. Iheard her say -
"Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for mylife be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it'ssuch a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if shesaw anything. Missis was rather too hard. "
Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whisperingtogether for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scrapsof their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctlyto infer the main subject discussed.
"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished" --"A great black dog behind him" -- "Three loud raps on the chamberdoor" -- "A light in the churchyard just over his grave, " &c. &c.
At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, thewatches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strainedby dread: such dread as children only can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incidentof the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feelthe reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe somefearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, foryou knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, youthought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawlby the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down:but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: awretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner hadI wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet,I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds werethere, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama.Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she movedhither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressedto me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This stateof things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomedas I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging;but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that nocalm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up withher a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose birdof paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, hadbeen wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration;and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in myhand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hithertobeen deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vesselwas now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat thecirclet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, likemost other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late!I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tintsof the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tartaway. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word BOOK acted asa transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travelsfrom the library. This book I had again and again perused withdelight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered init a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: foras to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leavesand bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling oldwall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, thatthey were all gone out of England to some savage country wherethe woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant;whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts ofthe earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by takinga long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, andtrees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds ofthe one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs,the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other.Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand -- whenI turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous picturesthe charm I had, till now, never failed to find -- all was eerieand dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolentand fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dreadand dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longerperuse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and havingwashed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, fullof splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a newbonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was -
"In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago. "
I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight;for Bessie had a sweet voice, -- at least, I thought so. Butnow, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody anindescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, shesang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" cameout like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed intoanother ballad, this time a really doleful one.
"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way,and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonlessand dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child.
"Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moorsspread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kindangels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
"Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there arenone, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection isshowing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
"Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, Or stray inthe marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, withpromise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
"There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though bothof shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest willnot fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child. "
"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry, " said Bessie as she finished. Shemight as well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how couldshe divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In thecourse of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.
"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well,nurse, how is she?"
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
"Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: yourname is Jane, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre. "
"Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me whatabout? Have you any pain?"
"No, sir. "
"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out withMissis in the carriage, " interposed Bessie.
"Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness. "
I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the falsecharge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing inmy life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I ammiserable. "
"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standingbefore him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes weresmall and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think themshrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured lookingface. Having considered me at leisure, he said -
"What made you ill yesterday?"
"She had a fall, " said Bessie, again putting in her word.
"Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walkat her age? She must be eight or nine years old. "
"I was knocked down, " was the blunt explanation, jerked out of meby another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill, "I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rangfor the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you,nurse, " said he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecturetill you come back. "
"The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloydwhen Bessie was gone.
"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark. "
I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.
"Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"
"Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid outthere. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night,if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone withouta candle, -- so cruel that I think I shall never forget it. "
"Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraidnow in daylight?"
"No: but night will come again before long: and besides, -- I amunhappy, -- very unhappy, for other things. "
"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"
How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficultit was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannotanalyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effectedin thought, they know not how to express the result of the processin words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunityof relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, trueresponse.
"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters. "
"You have a kind aunt and cousins. "
Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced -
"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room. "
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
"Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" askedhe. "Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to liveat?"
"It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to behere than a servant. "
"Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendidplace?"
"If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; butI can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman. "
"Perhaps you may -- who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.Reed?"
"I think not, sir. "
"None belonging to your father?"
"I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possiblyI might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knewnothing about them. "
"If you had such, would you like to go to them?"
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still moreso to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working,respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected withragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, anddebasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.
"No; I should not like to belong to poor people, " was my reply.
Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.
"Not even if they were kind to you?"
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means ofbeing kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt theirmanners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women Isaw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes atthe cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroicenough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.
"But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"
"I cannot tell; Aunt. Reed says if I have any, they must be abeggarly set: I should not like to go a begging. "
"Would you like to go to school?"
Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessiesometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks,wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel andprecise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; butJohn Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accountsof school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a familywhere she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhatappalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained bythese same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. Sheboasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by themexecuted; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, ofpurses they could net, of French books they could translate; tillmy spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, schoolwould be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entireseparation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.
sir. "to go a begging. .
"I should indeed like to go to school, " was the audible conclusionof my musings.
"Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he gotup. "The child ought to have change of air and scene, " he added,speaking to himself; "nerves not in a good state. "
the carriage was heardrolling .
Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heardrolling up the gravel-walk.
"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should liketo speak to her before I go. "
Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the wayout. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed,I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured torecommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was nodoubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing thesubject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night,after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was, shedared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill- conditionedchild, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, andscheming plots underhand. " Abbot, I think, gave me credit forbeing a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from MissAbbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poorclergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of herfriends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfatherReed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off withouta shilling; that after my mother and father had been married ayear, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among thepoor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated,and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother tookthe infection from him, and both died within a month of each other.
Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor MissJane is to be pitied, too, Abbot. "
"Yes, " responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one mightcompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for sucha little toad as that. "
"Not a great deal, to be sure, " agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beautylike Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition. "
"Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Littledarling! -- with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweetcolour as she has; just as if she were painted! -- Bessie, I couldfancy a Welsh rabbit for supper. "
"So could I -- with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down. " Theywent.