简.爱 英文版 Jane Eyre
夏洛蒂.勃朗特 Charlotte Bronte
CHAPTER XXVIII Page 1
Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has setme down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no fartherfor the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shillingin the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone.At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out ofthe pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; thereit remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillarset up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be moreobvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from itssummit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to theinscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. Fromthe well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I havelighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged withmountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on eachhand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deepvalley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I seeno passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north,and south -- white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor,and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet achance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now:strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at thesign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned:I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excitesuspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment --not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are -- nonethat saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. Ihave no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seekher breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I sawdeeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its darkgrowth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackenedgranite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks ofmoor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was overthat.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vaguedread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman orpoacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, Ilooked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled,I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however,and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as evening declinedat nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I hadonly listened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty ofreflection.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, whenI could do nothing and go nowhere! -- when a long way must yet bemeasured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach humanhabitation -- when cold charity must be entreated before I could geta lodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulseincurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wantsrelieved!
I touched the heath, it was dry, and yet warm with the beat of thesummer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star twinkledjust above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitioussoftness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign andgood; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who fromman could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to herwith filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest,as I was her child: my mother would lodge me without money andwithout price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of aroll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a straypenny -- my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here andthere, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and atethem with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied,appeased by this hermit's meal. I said my evening prayers at itsconclusion, and then chose my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feetwere buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrowspace for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, andspread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow.Thus lodged, I was not, at least -- at the commencement of thenight, cold.
My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its rivenchords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoanedhim with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and,impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered itsshattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Nightwas come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: tooserene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere;but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on thegrandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky,where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearestHis infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen tomy knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmedeyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was -- whatcountless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light --I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiencyto save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth shouldperish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer tothanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits.Mr. Rochester was safe; he was God's, and by God would he beguarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere longin sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the littlebirds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweetprime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried --when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filledearth and sky -- I got up, and I looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreadingmoor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and onit. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among thesweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee orlizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelterhere. But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: Imust not linger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; Ilooked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wishedbut this -- that my Maker had that night thought good to requiremy soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolvedby death from further conflict with fate, had now but to decayquietly, and mingle in peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life,however, was yet in my possession, with all its requirements, andpains, and responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the wantprovided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled.I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, nowfervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decidemy choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearlydone enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue thatalmost overpowered me -- might relax this forced action, and, sittingdown on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy thatclogged heart and limb -- I heard a bell chime -- a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst theromantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note anhour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my righthand was full of pasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and aglittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green,the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea.Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I sawa heavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyondwere two cows and their drover. Human life and human labour werenear. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil likethe rest.
About two o'clock p. m. I entered the village. At the bottom ofits one street there was a little shop with some cakes of breadin the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshmentI could perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it wouldbe difficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and somevigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings.I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causewayof a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange forone of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchieftied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell howmen and women in extremities of destitution proceeded. I did notknow whether either of these articles would be accepted: probablythey would not; but I must try.
I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressedperson, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility.How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue wouldnot utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her thehalf-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, I felt itwould be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down a moment,as I was tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, shecoolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat; I sank intoit. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unseasonablesuch a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her"if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?"
"Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for. "
I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought faceto face with Necessity. I stood in the position of one without aresource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something.What? I must apply somewhere. Where?
"Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servantwas wanted?"
"Nay; she couldn't say. "
"What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of thepeople do?"
"Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver'sneedle-factory, and at the foundry. "
"Did Mr. Oliver employ women?"
"Nay; it was men's work. "
"And what do the women do?"
"I knawn't, " was the answer. "Some does one thing, and some another.Poor folk mun get on as they can. "
She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claimhad I to importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair wasevidently wanted. I took leave.
I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to theright hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, norsee an inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, goingsometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour ormore. Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food,I turned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere manyminutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and againsearching something -- a resource, or at least an informant. Apretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a gardenbefore it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stoppedat it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch theglittering knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interestof the inhabitants of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew nearand knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman openedthe door. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopelessheart and fainting frame -- a voice wretchedly low and faltering-- I asked if a servant was wanted here?
"No, " said she; "we do not keep a servant. "
must apply somewhere. Where?rising high on each side, it left only a narrowspace for the night-air.
"Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?" Icontinued. "I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place.I want some work: no matter what. "
But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a placefor me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared mycharacter, position, tale. She shook her head, she "was sorry shecould give me no information, " and the white door closed, quitegently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it opena little longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread;for I was now brought low.
I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides,no prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather todeviate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thickshade to offer inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, sognawed with nature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodeswhere there was a chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude-- rest no rest -- while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak andtalons in my side.
I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again Iwandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having noclaim to ask -- no right to expect interest in my isolated lot.Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about likea lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the churchspire before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, andin the middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house,which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangerswho arrive at a place where they have no friends, and who wantemployment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introductionand aid. It is the clergyman's function to help -- at least withadvice -- those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to havesomething like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then mycourage, and gathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on.I reached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old womanopened: I asked was this the parsonage?
"Yes. "
"Was the clergyman in?"
"No. "
"Would he be in soon?"
"No, he was gone from home. "
"To a distance?"
"Not so far -- happen three mile. He had been called away by thesudden death of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and wouldvery likely stay there a fortnight longer. "
"Was there any lady of the house?"
"Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;" and ofher, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of whichI was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away.
Once more I took off my handkerchief -- once more I thought of thecakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for butone mouthful to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turnedmy face again to the village; I found the shop again, and I wentin; and though others were there besides the woman I ventured therequest -- "Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?"
She looked at me with evident suspicion: "Nay, she never soldstuff i' that way. "
Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. "Howcould she tell where I had got the handkerchief?" she said.
"Would she take my gloves?"
"No! what could she do with them?"
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some saythere is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past;but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which Iallude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering,form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on.I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was tobe expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar isfrequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitablyso. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose businesswas it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that ofpersons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothingabout my character. And as to the woman who would not take myhandkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if theoffer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Letme condense now. I am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open doorof which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of breadand cheese. I stopped and said -
"Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry. " He caston me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thickslice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not thinkI was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had takena fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of hishouse, I sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it inthe wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, myrest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruderspassed near me more than once, and I had again and again to changemy quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me.Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day waswet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day;as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, Istarved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottageI saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into apig trough. "Will you give me that?" I asked.
She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a womanwants me to give her these porridge. "
"Well lass, " replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar.T' pig doesn't want it. "
The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devouredit ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path,which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
"My strength is quite failing me, " I said in a soliloquy. "I feelI cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night?While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenchedground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? Butit will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness,chill, and this sense of desolation -- this total prostration ofhope. In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. Andwhy cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do Istruggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe,Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold isa fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence!sustain me a little longer! Aid! -- direct me!"
My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I sawI had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight.The very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, bycross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland;and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as theheath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me andthe dusky hill.
"Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequentedroad, " I reflected. "And far better that crows and ravens -- ifany ravens there be in these regions -- should pick my flesh frommy bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffinand moulder in a pauper's grave. "
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now onlyto find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden,if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level.It showed no variation but of tint: green, where rush and mossovergrew the marshes; black, where the dry soil bore only heath.Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, thoughbut as mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had fadedwith the daylight.