Сборник лучших произведений английской классической литературы. Уровень 3. Эмили Бронте

my chair so close to him, I could do nothing but sit and look at him. Mr. Rochester looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern- much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled. He had great, dark eyes, not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling.

      Suddenly he turned and caught me looking at him.

      “You examine me, Miss Eyre,” he said. “Do you think I am handsome?”

      I should have replied to this question by something polite and vague but instead I answered with 'No, sir'.

      “Ah! There is something special about you! You are so quiet, grave, and simple, but when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you are blunt and straight-forward.”

      Yet he seemed to like this honesty in me; he was intrigued by it. He told me that I was unlike anyone else he had met, especially of so young an age, and that since I was so honest with him, he could not help but be honest with me.

      “It would please me now to draw you out-to learn more of you-therefore speak.”

      Instead of speaking, I smiled. “What about, sir?”

      “Whatever you like.”

      I said nothing.

      “Stubborn?” he said, “and annoyed. Ah! I put my request in an absurd form. I am sorry. I did not mean to make you feel inferior to me, I just wanted you to talk to me a little and divert my thoughts.”

      “I would love to help, but I cannot introduce a topic. How do I know what will interest you?”

      “Do you agree I have a right to be a little masterful with you?”

      “I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me.”

      We talked more. Once he said something strange-that he had many regrets, but that he now intended to become a good person. I did not understand, though I wanted to. As if he felt that I was not indifferent to his sorrows, he promised:

      “I'll explain all this some day. Good-night.”

      Chapter 16

      Mr. Rochester explained later everything. At least, he told me a little about his past. It was one afternoon when he met me and Adèle in the grounds. While the girl played with Pilot, he asked me to walk within sight of her.

      He said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, whom he had loved passionately once. She called him her Apollo Belvidere and he thought he was her idol, though he was ugly. “I gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, diamonds,” he continued. “I was blind with love. But one night, when I came unexpectedly, I found her out. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door. I recognised her at once and was about to call her by name when I saw another figure jump from the carriage after her.”

      Some time later, Celine ran away to Italy with her new lover. But she left her daughter behind in Paris, claiming that Rochester should look after her.

      “I am not her father,” Mr. Rochester explained. “And I don't know who is. But she had no one, and I could not leave her like that.”

      “How strange that I am telling you all this,” he added, “and how odd that you listen so calmly-you are not shocked for a moment. But there is something about you-something that makes me want to confide in you.” I did not reply. “And so here she is, a little French flower, transplanted to an English country garden here at Thornfield,” he continued. “And because she is here, you are here too. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train her; but now you know that it is an illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and pupil. Some day you will tell me that you have found another place and beg me to look out for a new governess.”

      “No: Adèle is not to blame for her mother's faults or yours. Now that I know that she is, in a sense, parentless-abandoned by her mother and disowned by you, sir-I'll cling closer to her than before. How should I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess, to a lonely little orphan, who treats her as a friend?”

      “Oh, that is the light in which you view it!”

      He looked up at the house. “I like this house,” he said, thoughtfully. “I like its worn stone, and the old thorn trees. And yet, how I've struggled to stay away, how I've hated the thought of…” He fell silent, staring up at Thornfield's windows. As I watched, I saw a range of feelings pass across his face: first a kind of impatience, then disgust and hatred, followed by guilt and pain. Finally, he hardened his features into stony determination, and said, “It's time to go in.”

      After a while Mr. Rochester, who had previously been nothing but an employer to me, became my friend. As time went on, he became less moody, and was always pleased to see me. He often wanted to talk, he trusted me and treated me as his equal, even though I was still a governess paid thirty pounds a year.

      I had called him plain and even ugly, but his was the face I now most wanted to see. Thanks to him I forgot about my loneliness. Now I had all the intelligent conversation I had longed for, and I enjoyed it as much as I could. I laughed more, and my complexion looked brighter and healthier. I guess, I could say I was really happy then.

      As all other people in the world Mr. Rochester had his faults. He could be rude and harsh, moody and sarcastic. But he was good at heart. And whatever sorrows and troubles tormented him, I wanted desperately to help him.

      Late that night, I lay in bed wide awake thinking about Mr. Rochester. I thought about the way he had looked up at the house, seeming to suffer such agony. Eight weeks had passed since he arrived; but Mrs. Fairfax had told me he hardly ever came to Thornfield for more than a fortnight. Was he leaving soon? Spring was nearly here, and summer and autumn lay ahead. How lonely they would be for me if he went away! What was it, I wondered, that made it so hard for him to be here?

      I blew out my candle, but just as I was drifting off, I heard something that made me start awake again-a low, murmuring noise, very close by. I sat up suddenly, alert and listening. After a while, I heard the clock in the hallway strike two. Just then, it seemed that someone, or something, walked past the door of my room.

      “Who is there?” I asked. Then I remembered Pilot. Perhaps the kitchen door had been left open, and he had come upstairs to look for his master. This calmed me down, and I turned over again to sleep.

      And there it was again! The dreadful low laugh I had heard so many times in the attic passageway! Now it seemed to be right outside my door, almost as if it came in through the keyhole. In a panic I got up, ran up to the door and drew the bolt across. Trembling, I repeated: “Who is there?”

      There was a murmur followed by footsteps moving along the hall and up the attic stairs. “Was that Grace Poole? Is she possessed with a devil?” Had she started wandering the house by night? I decided to wake Mrs. Fairfax, to tell her about the laugh and steps.

      Still shaking all over with fear[24], I put on a dress and a shawl, and unbolted my door. There was a candle burning just outside. I was also amazed to find the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke. Then I was more aware of the strong smell of burning.

      As I soon saw, the smoke was coming from Mr. Rochester's room. The door was ajar, and I ran in. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax. I thought no more of Grace Poole.

      Through the smoke I saw flames on the curtains of the bed, and Mr. Rochester lying motionless, in deep sleep.

      “Wake up!” I shook him, but he only murmured and turned- the smoke had dulled his senses. I rushed to his basin, where I found a water jug as well. Both were full of water and I lifted them up in turn, carried them over to the bed and drenched the curtains and blankets. I flew back to my own room, brought my own water jug and extinguished the fire.

      The hiss of the dying fire and the splash of water woke Mr. Rochester at last.

      “Is there a flood?” he cried.

      “No, sir,' I answered, 'but there has been a fire.

24

 still shaking all over with fear – все еще дрожа от страха