Jane Eyre. An Autobiography / Джейн Эйр. Автобиография. Шарлотта Бронте

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 sick[14].”

      “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

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