Kitabı oku: «Jane Eyre. An Autobiography / Джейн Эйр. Автобиография», sayfa 2
Chapter IV
Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: John once attempted an attack on me, but I instantly turned against him and planted a hard blow on his nose. He immediately ran to his mama. I heard him begin the story of how “that nasty Jane Eyre” had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly —
“Don’t talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of notice; neither you nor your sisters should associate with her.”
Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly – “They are not fit to associate with me.”
Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this declaration, she ran up the stair, dragged me into the nursery, pushed me down on the bed and told me to stay in that place or never say a word during the remainder of the day.
“What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?” It seemed as if something spoke out of me over which I had no control.
“What?” said Mrs. Reed under her breath: she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it12.
“My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.”
Mrs. Reed soon came to herself: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears13, and then left me without a word.
November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given.
From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had been kind, I should have spent the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the eye of Mrs. Reed. In my room, I undressed hastily, and got into bed.
The hours seemed long while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie’s step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up to bring me something by way of supper – a bun or a cheese-cake – then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, “Good night, Miss Jane.” When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.
It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the morning: Bessie went down to breakfast; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond.
Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass. I was making my bed.
From the window I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. Carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. I was finishing my breakfast of bread and milk when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.
“Miss Jane, take off your pinafore. Have you washed your hands and face this morning?”
Bessie took me to the washstand, scrubbed my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; brushed my head, took off my pinafore, and then hurried me to the top of the stairs, told me to go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room.
“Who could want me?” I asked myself, as I turned the door-handle. “What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the room? – a man or a woman?” The handle turned, the door opened, I looked up at – a black pillar! – such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow shape whose face was like a carved mask.
Mrs. Reed took her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stranger with the words: “This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you.”
He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and said in a bass voice, “Her size is small: what is her age?”
“Ten years.”
“So much?” was the doubtful answer. Presently he addressed me – “Your name, little girl?”
“Jane Eyre, sir.”
“Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?”
Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me, “Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst.”
“Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk. Come here,” he said.
He placed me straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!
“A naughty child makes a sad sight,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”
“They go to hell,” was my ready answer.
“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”
“A pit full of fire.”
“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”
“No, sir.”
“What must you do to avoid it?”
I hesitated for a moment: “I must keep in good health, and not die.”
“How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two ago, – a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven.”
“I hope that you repent of your bad behaviour to your excellent benefactress. Do you say your prayers night and morning?” continued my interrogator.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you read your Bible?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the Psalms? I hope you like them?”
“No, sir.”
“No? oh, shocking!”
“Psalms are not interesting,” I remarked.
“That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it.”
“Mr. Brocklehurst, if you admit her into Lowood school, I will be glad if the superintendent and the teachers kept a strict eye on her, and, above all, control her tendency to deceit.”
This accusation cut me to the heart; I hastily wiped away some tears.
“Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,” said Mr. Brocklehurst; “she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers.”
“Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood?”
“Madam, you may: and I hope she will show herself grateful for the privilege of her election.”
“I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst.”
“Now I wish you good morning, madam. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst.”
“I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book called the ’Child’s Guide,’ read it with prayer.”
With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet, and left.
Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her.
Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine.
“Go out of the room; return to the nursery,” was her order. My look or something else seemed offensive to her, for she spoke with extreme irritation. I got up, went to the door; then I came back again, close up to her.
“I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book, which is about the liar, you may give to Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I.”
Mrs. Reed’s hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell on mine.
“What more have you to say?” she asked.
I continued —
“I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick14.”
“How dare you say that, Jane Eyre?”
“How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony and cried, ’Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!’ And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me – knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. You are deceitful!”
Before I had finished this reply I felt the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph. Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.
“Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?”
“No, Mrs. Reed.”
“Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend.”
“Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, was a liar; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.”
“Jane, you don’t understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults.”
“Deceit is not my fault!” I cried out in a savage, high voice.
“But you are passionate, Jane: and now return to the nursery – there’s a dear15 – and lie down a little.”
“I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.”
“I will indeed send her to school soon,” murmured Mrs. Reed; and gathering up her work, she abruptly left the room.
I was left there alone – winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained.
Outside the house I looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped. It was a very grey day; I stood, a wretched child, whispering to myself over and over again, “What shall I do? – what shall I do?”
All at once I heard a clear voice call, “Miss Jane! Where are you? Come to lunch!”
It was Bessie, I knew; but I did not stir.
“You naughty little thing!” she said walking up the path. “Why don’t you come when you are called?”
Bessie’s presence seemed cheerful; I put my two arms round her and said, “Come, Bessie! Don’t scold.”
“You are a strange child, Miss Jane,” she said, as she looked down at me; “and you are going to school, I suppose?”
I nodded.
“And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?”
“What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me.”
“Because you’re such a frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder.”
“What! To get more knocks?”
“Nonsense! Now, come in, and I’ve some good news for you.”
“I don’t think you have, Bessie.”
“Child! What do you mean? Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I’ll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis wants you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you.”
“Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go.”
“I promise, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others.”
“You don’t show it.”
“You little sharp thing16! And so you’re glad to leave me?”
“Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.”
“Just now! And rather! I think if I asked you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say you’d rather not.”
“I’ll kiss you: bend your head down.” Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon passed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her best stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
Chapter V
Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, when Bessie brought a candle into my room and found me already up and nearly dressed. I was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach at six a.m. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she made my breakfast, which I couldn’t eat. When Bessie helped me on with my coat and bonnet, she and I left the nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in and bid Missis good-bye?”
“No, Bessie. Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.
There was a light in the porter’s lodge: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood at the door. Shortly after the hour had struck six, we heard the coming coach.
There it was at the gates with its four horses and its top filled with passengers; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.
“Be sure and take good care of her17,” cried she to the guard, as he lifted me into the inside.
We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace.
The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees. Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; but I had not long slept when the coach stopped; the coach-door was open, and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps.
“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I answered “Yes,” and was then lifted out and my trunk was handed down.
I was stiff with long sitting, and I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I saw a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide. There was now visible a house or houses – with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad path, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze when the door opened, and two women entered. The first was a tall lady with dark hair and dark eyes.
“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her candle down on the table. She looked at me attentively for a minute or two, then added —
“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?” she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
“A little, ma’am.”
“And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?”
I explained to her that I had no parents. She asked how long they had been dead: then how old I was, what my name was, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then she dismissed me along with Miss Miller.
The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from passage to passage of a large building; till we entered a wide, long room, with great tables, and seated all round on benches, girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. They were uniformly dressed in brown frocks, and long pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were busy doing their to-morrow’s task.
Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then she cried out —
“Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!”
Four tall girls arose from different tables, and gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command —
“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”
The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with portions of something, and a pitcher of water and mug in the middle of each tray.
The portions were handed round; those who liked took a sip of the water, the mug being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.
The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes went off, two and two, upstairs. Tired, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she helped me to undress. I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the light was extinguished, and I fell asleep.
The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was one basin to six girls. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out —
“Form classes!”
A great tumult lasted for some minutes. When it ceased, I saw the girls all in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss Miller took the fourth vacant chair, around which the smallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior class I was called.
Business now began, certain texts of Scripture18 were said, and reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour, was done. By the time that exercise was done, day had fully dawned. The bell now sounded for the fourth time: the classes marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I was to get something to eat! The refectory was a great, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which, however, gave an odour far from inviting19. The tall girls of the first class whispered —
“Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”
Hungry, I ate a spoonful or two of my portion without thinking of its taste; but burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes. I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted.
A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the schoolroom was in a tumult. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with serious gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly.
A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried —
“Silence! To your seats!”
Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the crowd was brought to order. The upper teachers now punctually took their posts: but still, all seemed to wait. What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. The classes were again seated: but all eyes were now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and met the personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long room. Miss Miller said aloud —
“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”
The lady moved slowly up the room. Miss Temple – Maria Temple, as I learned afterwards, the superintendent of Lowood, having taken her seat before a pair of globes, began giving a lesson on geography. The duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose —
“I have a word to address to the pupils,” said she.
She went on —
“You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be hungry: – I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served to all.”
The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.
“It is to be done on my responsibility,” she added, and immediately afterwards left the room.
The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the delight of the whole school.
After morning classes I went into the yard for a short walk, when the sound of a cough made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a book. In turning a leaf she looked up, and I said to her directly —
“Is your book interesting?”
“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.
“What is it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the courage to open a conversation with a stranger.
“You may look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.
I did so; but I saw nothing of interest to me. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and was about to start reading: again I dared to disturb her —
“Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?”
“It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan?”
“Both my parents died before I can remember.
I wonder if they keep us for nothing?”
“We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”
“Does this house belong to that tall lady who said we were to have some bread and cheese?”
“To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes. He lives two miles off, at a large house. He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”
“Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”
“Yes.”
“And what are the other teachers called?”
“The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she teaches us to sew; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar; and the one who wears a shawl, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from France, and teaches French.”
“Do you like the teachers?”
“Well enough.”
“But Miss Temple is the best – isn’t she?”
“Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she knows far more than they do.”
“Have you been long here?”
“Two years.”
“Are you an orphan?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Are you happy here?”
“You ask too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want to read.”
But at that moment the bell sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than at breakfast: I ate what I could, and wondered whether every day’s food would be like this.
After dinner, we immediately went back to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and continued till five o’clock.
We had another meal, consisting of a small mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I ate my bread and drank my coffee with pleasure; but I was still hungry. Half-an-hour’s recreation followed, then study; then the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood.
