Kitabı oku: «Jane Eyre. An Autobiography / Джейн Эйр. Автобиография», sayfa 3

Chapter VI

The next day began as before, but this morning we couldn’t wash up; the water in the pitchers was frozen. Before the long hour of prayers and Bible-reading was over, I felt ready to die with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt; the quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.

At first, the lessons seemed to me both long and difficult; and I was glad when, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin, together with needle, thimble, etc., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom. One class still stood round Miss Scatcherd’s chair reading. It was English history: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah: at the beginning of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant criticism: —

“Burns” (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by their surnames), “Burns, you poke your chin²⁰ most unpleasantly; draw it in.” “Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude,” etc., etc.

Finally, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson was about the rule of Charles I²¹, and there were many difficult questions, and Burns was ready with answers on every point. I expected that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention; but, instead, she suddenly cried out —

“You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails this morning!”

Burns made no answer: I wondered at her silence. “Why,” thought I, “does she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen?”

For some time I couldn’t observe Miss Scatcherd’s movements and words. When I returned to my seat, that lady was just giving an order to Burns who immediately left the class, and returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This awful tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtsy; then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher did on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns’ eye.

“Hardened girl!” exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; “nothing can correct you of your bad habits.”

The play-hour in the evening I thought the most pleasant part of the day at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at five o’clock had revived us, though it had not satisfied hunger; the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning – all that gave one a pleasant sense of liberty.

On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the tables and laughing groups without a companion.

I made my way to one of the fire-places; there I found Burns, reading silently.

“Is it still that book?” I asked, coming behind her.

“Yes,” she said, “and I have just finished it.”

And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this. “Now,” thought I, “I can perhaps get her to talk.” I sat down by her on the floor.

“What is your name besides Burns?”

“Helen.”

“Do you come a long way from here?”

“I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland.”

“Will you ever go back?”

“I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future.”

“You must wish to leave Lowood?”

“No! Why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it would be of no use going away until I have done that.”

“But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you?”

“Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults.”

“And if I were in your place I should resist her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should break it under her nose.”

“But if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school. It is far better to endure patiently a pain which nobody feels but yourself, and besides, the Bible bids us return good for evil.”²²

“But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and you are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could not bear it.”

“Yet it would be your duty to bear it: it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate.”

I heard her with wonder: I could not understand this doctrine of patience.

“You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very good.”

“I am careless; I seldom put, and never keep, things, in order; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular.”

“And cross and cruel,” I added; but Helen Burns kept silence.

Helen’s head sank a little lower as I finished this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but rather to think her own thoughts. She was not allowed much time for that: a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up —

“Helen Burns, if you don’t go and put your drawer in order, and fold up your work this minute, I’ll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at it!”

Helen sighed, and getting up, obeyed the monitor without reply.

Chapter VII

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age.

During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, made us stay within the garden walls, except to go to church; but still we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing didn’t protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the snow got into our shoes and melted there: our ungloved hands became numbed; my feet inflamed. Then the supply of food was hardly enough to keep us alive. This deficiency pressed hard on the younger pupils: whenever the hungry great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion.

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning service we became almost paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and some cold meat and bread was served between the services.

At the close of the afternoon service we returned by a hilly road, where the bitter winter wind almost flayed the skin from our faces.

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly along our drooping line, and encouraging us.

I have not yet told you about the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst. One afternoon, as I was sitting with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum, my eyes, raised to the window, caught sight of a passing figure: I recognized him; and two minutes after, all the school, teachers included, greeted him at the entrance. Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer than ever.

He stood at Miss Temple’s side; he was speaking low in her ear: I listened too; and as I happened to be seated at the top of the room, I caught most of what he said.

“I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do. I forgot to tell Miss Smith about the darning needles: she is not, on any account²³, to give out more than one at a time to each pupil: if they have more, they may be careless and lose them. And, O ma’am! I went into the kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the line; there was a quantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in them I was sure they had not been well mended.”

He paused.

“Your directions shall be attended to, sir²⁴,” said Miss Temple.

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.

“And there is another thing which surprised me; I find that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by what authority?”

“I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,” replied Miss Temple: “the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner-time.”

“Madam, you are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom them to luxury, but to make them hardy, patient, self-denying. When you put bread and cheese, instead of burnt porridge, into these children’s mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think how you starve their souls!”

Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink; turning, he said —

“Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what – what is that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma’am, curled – curled all over?” And extending his cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so.

“It is Julia Severn,” replied Miss Temple, very quietly.

“Julia Severn, ma’am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why, in violation of every principle of this house, does she dare to wear her hair one mass of curls – here in an evangelical, charitable establishment?”

“Julia’s hair curls naturally,” returned Miss Temple, still more quietly.

“Naturally! I wish these girls to be the children of Grace. I have again and again said that I desire the hair to be arranged modestly and plainly. Miss Temple, that girl’s hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber to-morrow.”

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to wipe away the smile.

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and seventeen) had beaver hats, then in fashion, decorated with ostrich plumes; the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls.

These ladies were received by Miss Temple with respect, as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the top of the room. They had come in the carriage with their relative, and had been inspecting the room upstairs, and they now addressed their remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith.

So far, I had carefully secured my personal safety. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face; but my slate somehow slipped from my hand, and directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, I was ready for the worst. It came.

“A careless girl!” said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after – “It is the new pupil, I believe.” And added, “I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her.” Then aloud: “Let the child who broke her slate come forward!”

I was paralysed: but the two great girls set me on my legs and pushed me towards the judge, and then Miss Temple gently whispered —

“Don’t be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be punished.”

“Fetch that stool,” said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one: it was brought.

“Place the child upon it.”

And I was placed there, by whom I don’t know: I was only aware that they had lifted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst’s nose.

“Ladies,” said he, turning to his family, “Miss Temple, teachers, and children, you all see this girl?”

Of course they did.

“You see she is yet young; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given to all of us. Who would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet such is the case.”

“My dear children,” continued the clergyman, with pathos, “this is a sad occasion: You must be on your guard against her; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from your sports, and shut her out from your conversation. Teachers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, punish her body to save her soul: for this girl is – a liar!”

“This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged to separate her from her own young ones: she has sent her here to be healed.”

Turning at the door, my judge said —

“Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak to her during the remainder of the day.”

There was I, who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my feet in the middle of the room, was now exposed to general view on a pedestal of shame. Helen Burns came up and passed me: in passing, she lifted her eyes and smiled at me. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. What a smile! I remember it now: it was like a reflection of an angel.

Chapter VIII

Before the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was finished, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now dared to descend: I went into a corner and sat down on the floor. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here. I had wanted to be so good at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress; but now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise?

“Never,” I thought; and I wished to die. Some one approached: I started up – again Helen Burns was near me; she brought my coffee and bread.

“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me. I continued to weep aloud. Helen sat down on the ground near me, and remained silent. I was the first who spoke —

“Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?”

“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”

“But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me.”

“Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much.”

“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?”

“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: he is little liked here. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, all around you.”

I was silent; Helen had calmed me.

Resting my head on her shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, and we stayed silent. In the moonlight we saw the approaching figure, which we at once recognized as Miss Temple.

“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she; “I want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”

We mounted a staircase before we reached Miss Temple’s room; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful.

“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried your grief away?”

“I am afraid I never shall do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am, and everybody else, will now think me wicked.”

“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us.”

“Shall I, Miss Temple?”

“You will,” said she, passing her arm round me. “And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”

“Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.”

“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”

“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep me.”

I told her all the story of my sad childhood. In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd who came to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the frightful episode of the red-room.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said —

“I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply supports your statement, you shall be publicly cleared; to me, Jane, you are clear now.”

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side, she addressed Helen Burns.

“How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?”

“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”

“And the pain in your chest?”

“It is a little better.”

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse. She looked sad a few minutes, then she said cheerfully —

“But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.” She rang her bell.

“Barbara,” she said to the servant who answered it, “I have not yet had tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies.”

And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire. “Barbara,” said she, “can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three.”

Barbara went out: she returned soon —

“Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.”

“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do²⁵, Barbara, I suppose.”

She got up, unlocked a drawer, and took from it a good-sized seed-cake.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again called us to the fire; we sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to listen to.

They discussed things I had never heard of; nations and times past; countries far away; secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed!

The bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart —

“God bless you, my children!”

Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly; her eye followed Helen to the door; for her she breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

About a week after, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: what he said supported my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to declare her completely cleared from every blame. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a pleasant murmur ran through my companions.

From that hour I set to work again: I worked hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was allowed to take up French and drawing.

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with its hardships for Gateshead with its luxuries.

Chapter IX

Spring came: the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows had melted. The play-hour passed in the garden began even to be pleasant. Flowers grew amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, and golden-eyed pansies.

Nature looked beautiful but whether it was healthy or not is another question.

That foggy forest-dell, where Lowood lay, caused fog-bred epidemics, which got into the Orphan Asylum, spreading typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, before May arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had contributed to the spread of infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were given almost unlimited freedom, because the doctor insisted on frequent exercise to keep them in health. Miss Temple’s whole attention was taken by the patients: she lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours’ rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to take them. Many, already sick, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the season; they let us walk in the wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, they would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each dined with pleasure.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her?

Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed to some room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house; for her illness was consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to heal.

I only saw her once or twice from the schoolroom window; she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah; on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her.

One evening, at the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late in the wood. When I got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which I knew to be the surgeon’s, was standing at the garden door. I thought that some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. I stayed out a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest. This done, I stayed there a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; I was noting these things and enjoying them, when it entered my mind as it had never done before: —

“How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant – it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?”

I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. He mounted his horse and departed, and the nurse was about to close the door when I ran up to her.

“How is Helen Burns?”

“Very poorly,” was the answer.

“Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he say about her?”

“He says she’ll not be here long.”

This phrase, if heard yesterday, would have only meant that she would be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now!

I experienced a shock of horror, then a desire – a necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay.

“She is in Miss Temple’s room,” said the nurse.

“May I go up and speak to her?”

“Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in.”

The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o’clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later, when I – not having been able to fall asleep – rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the dormitory, looking for Miss Temple’s room. It was quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light of the unclouded moon helped me to find it without difficulty. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I must see Helen, – I must embrace her before she died, – I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word.

Opposite to me was Miss Temple’s room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; I looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple’s bed, there stood a little bed; I saw the outline of a form under the clothes. Miss Temple was not to be seen:

“Helen!” I whispered softly, “are you awake?”

She stirred herself, and I saw her face, pale: she looked so little changed that my fear instantly disappeared.

“Can it be you, Jane?” she asked, in her own gentle voice.

“Oh!” I thought, “she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could not speak and look so calmly if she were.”

I kissed her: her forehead was cold, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old²⁶.

“Why have you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock: I heard it strike some minutes ago.”

“I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you.”

“You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably.”

“Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?”

“Yes; to my long home – my last home.”

“No, no, Helen!” I stopped, distressed. A fit of coughing seized Helen; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she whispered —

“Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my quilt.”

I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering —

“I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world.”

“But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?”

“I believe; I have faith: I am going to God.”

“Where is God? What is God?”

“My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created.”

“You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?”

“I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good. God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me.”

“And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?”

“You will come to the same region of happiness; no doubt, dear Jane.”

I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest tone —

“How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don’t leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me.”

“I’ll stay with you, dear Helen: no one shall take me away.”

“Are you warm, darling?”

“Yes.”

“Good-night, Jane.”

“Good-night, Helen.”

She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon fell asleep.

When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was in somebody’s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me back to the dormitory. I was not scolded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was given then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little bed; my face against Helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was – dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word “Resurgam²⁷.”