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Jane Eyre. An Autobiography / Джейн Эйр. Автобиография

© Шитова Л. Ф., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2023

© ООО «ИД «Антология», 2023

Chapter I

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering in the shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner, the cold winter wind had brought clouds and a rain, and further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons. Mrs. Reed’s children – Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her looked perfectly happy. She excluded me from the group and told me to be seated somewhere; and until I could speak pleasantly, remain silent.

I slipped in the breakfast-room. It contained a bookcase: I soon chose a volume with pictures. I got into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red curtain, I felt safe.

I returned to my book – Bewick[1]’s History of British Birds.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding, yet deeply interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie, the nurse, sometimes told on winter evenings, when she was in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery, she allowed us to sit about it and listen to passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.

“Madam Mope[2]!” cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

“Where the dickens is she[3]!” he continued. “Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan[4] is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain – bad animal[5]!”

“It is well I drew the curtain,” thought I; and I wished he might not discover my hiding-place; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once —

“She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.”

And I came out immediately, for I feared my being dragged forth by Jack.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Say, ’What do you want, Master Reed?’” was the answer. “I want you to come here;” and seating himself in an arm-chair, he made a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was ten: large and stout for his age, with thick lineaments in his face. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, “on account of his delicate health.” Mr. Miles, the master, believed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes sent him from home.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually. The servants couldn’t take my part against him for they did not like to offend their young master. Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject[6]: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.

Obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could. I knew he would soon strike, and fearing the blow, I thought how disgusting and ugly he looked. Then all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I almost lost balance and made a step or two back from his chair.

“That is for your impudence in answering mama,” said he, “and for your hiding behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes ago, you rat!

“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked then.

“I was reading.”

“Show the book.”

I returned to the window and got it there.

“You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’ll teach you to use my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door.”

But before I did, he lifted the book and flung it. The volume hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp.

“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a murderer – you are like a slave-driver!”

“What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but first —”

He ran at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me “Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words —

“Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!”[7]

Then Mrs. Reed ordered —

“Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.” Four hands were immediately upon me, and I was carried upstairs.

Chapter II

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and I decided, in my desperation, to go all lengths[8].

“Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.”

“For shame[9]! for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid. “What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! Your young master.”

“Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?”

“No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness.”

They had got me by this time into the room indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had put me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands stopped me instantly.

“If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,” said Bessie. “Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly.”

“Don’t take them off,” I cried; “I will not stir.”

“Mind you don’t,”[10] said Bessie; and when she saw that I wasn’t really moving, she loosened her hold of me.

“She never did so before,” at last said Bessie, turning to Miss Abbot. “But it was always in her,” was the reply. “She’s an underhand little thing.”

Bessie answered not; but before long, addressing me, she said – “You ought to be aware, Miss, that Mrs. Reed keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.”

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me. Miss Abbot joined in —

“And you ought not to think that the Misses Reed and Master Reed are your equals. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble.”

“What we tell you is for your good,” added Bessie, “you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure.”

“Besides,” said Miss Abbot, “God will punish her. Come, Bessie, we will leave her. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, for if you don’t repent, something bad might happen.”

They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.

The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in. It was chill and rarely entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week’s dust: and Mrs. Reed herself at times visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored some papers, her jewels, and a miniature of her dead husband.

Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last.

I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. I returned to my stool.

Why was I always suffering, always accused? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana had a spoiled temper, but her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and her every fault was forgiven. John was never punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, set the dogs at the sheep, he called his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes tore and spoiled her silk dresses; and he was still “her own darling.” I tried to commit no fault: I fulfilled every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.

My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had blamed John for striking me.

“Unjust! – unjust!” said my reason.

I was like nobody in Gateshead Hall; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them.

Daylight began to leave the red-room; it was past four o’clock, and the afternoon was turning into twilight. I heard the rain still beating on the window and the wind howling in the grove; I grew cold as a stone, and then my courage left me. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so. I could not remember Mr. Reed; but I knew that he was my own uncle – my mother’s brother – that he had taken me as a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise. Then a strange idea occurred to me. I never doubted – that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes; and I thought Mr. Reed’s spirit might rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs. This idea would be terrible if realized. I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling over my head. I can now assume that this light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then I thought the beam was a herald of some vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; something seemed near me; I rushed to the door and shook the lock. Steps came running along the passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered.

“Miss Eyre, are you ill?” said Bessie.

“What a dreadful noise!” exclaimed Abbot.

“Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!” was my cry.

“What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?” again demanded Bessie.

“Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.” I had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not snatch it from me.

“She has screamed out on purpose,” declared Abbot, in some disgust. “If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.”

“What is all this?” demanded another voice; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor.

“Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself.”

“Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,” pleaded Bessie.

“Let her go,” was the only answer. “Loose Bessie’s hand, child: it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer.”

“O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it – let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if —”

“Silence!” I was an actress in her eyes.

When Bessie and Abbot had left, Mrs. Reed thrust me back and locked me in, without farther words. Soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a fit and lost consciousness.

Chapter III

The next thing I remember, is waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare. Before long, I became aware that some one was lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting position.

In five minutes more I knew quite well that I was in my own bed. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

I felt a great relief, a feeling of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she called a physician.

“Well, who am I?” he asked.

I said his name and gave him my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, “We shall do very well by-and-by.” Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie asked her to be careful and not to disturb me during the night. Soon he left; to my grief: I felt so protected while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened.

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?” asked Bessie, rather softly.

“No, thank you, Bessie.”

“Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’clock; but you may call me if you want anything in the night.”

I dared to ask a question.

“Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?”

“You fell sick in the red-room with crying; you’ll be better soon, no doubt.”

Bessie went into the housemaid’s room, which was near. I heard her say —

“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I don’t want to be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it’s such a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard.”

Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep.

For me, the watches of that long night went very slowly.

No severe illness followed this incident of the redroom; it only gave my nerves a shock which I feel to this day.

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat by the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down. Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Sarah Abbot was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither[11], putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that nothing could calm them.

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a brightly painted china plate, which was my favourite. This precious plate was now placed on my knee, and I was invited to eat the delicate pastry upon it. But this favour came, like most other favours often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book acted as a stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from the library. This book I had again and again read with delight. Yet, when this volume was now placed in my hand, all was eerie and dreary. I closed the book and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll. Meantime she sang: her song was —

“In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.”

I had often heard the song before, and always with delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice, – at least, I thought so. But now, I found in its melody a great sadness.

In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

“What, already up!” said he, as he entered the nursery. “Well, nurse, how is she?”

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

“Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.”

“Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you any pain?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in the carriage,” said Bessie.

“Surely not! I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.”

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily. Finally, he said —

“What made you ill yesterday?”

“She had a fall,” said Bessie, again putting in her word.

“Fall! why, that is like a baby! Can’t she manage to walk at her age? She must be eight or nine years old.”

“I was knocked down,” was the blunt explanation, “but that did not make me ill,” I added.

A loud bell rang for the servants’ dinner; he knew what it was. “That’s for you, nurse,” said he; “you can go down; I’ll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back.”

Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was strictly observed at Gateshead Hall.

“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” continued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.

“I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark.”

I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.

“Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?”

“Of Mr. Reed’s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle, – so cruel that I think I shall never forget it.”

“Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?”

“No: but night will come again before long: and besides, – I am unhappy, – very unhappy, for other things.”

“What other things? Can you tell me some of them?”

How much I wished to reply fully to this question but how difficult it was!

“For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters.”

“You have a kind aunt and cousins.”

Again I paused; then said —

“But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.”

“Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?” asked he. “Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?”

“It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than a servant.”

“Pooh! you can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?”

“If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman.”

“Perhaps you may – who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?”

“I think not, sir.”

“None belonging to your father?”

“I don’t know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them.”

“If you had such, would you like to go to them?”

I reflected. Poverty looks awful to grown people; so poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.

“No; I should not like to belong to poor people,” was my reply.

“Not even if they were kind to you?”

I shook my head: I could not see how poor people could be kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated: no, I was not heroic enough to buy liberty at such a price.

“Would you like to go to school?”

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed’s tastes were no rule for mine; and if Bessie’s memories of school-discipline were somewhat awful, the young ladies’ accomplishments were, I thought, attractive. Bessie showed me beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers painted by them; told me of songs they could sing, of French books they could translate. Besides, school would be a complete change: it meant a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

“I should indeed like to go to school,” was my conclusion.

“Well, well! who knows what may happen?” said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. “The child ought to have change of air and scene,” he added, speaking to himself; “nerves not in a good state.”

Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard.

“Is that your mistress, nurse?” asked Mr. Lloyd.

“I should like to speak to her before I go.”

In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, the apothecary recommended my being sent to school; and it was no doubt readily adopted.

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her family, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, my father caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where he worked, and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other.

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 it[12].

“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 ears[13], 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 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 a dear[15] – 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 thing[16]! 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 her[17],” 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 Scripture[18] 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 inviting[19]. 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.

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 chin[20] 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 I[21], 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 account[23], 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, sir[24],” 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 do[25], 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 old[26].

“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 “Resurgam[27].”

Chapter X

So far, I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence.

When the typhus fever had gradually disappeared from Lowood, it generated public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the epidemic, and various facts came out which caused public indignation. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the children’s food; the bad water used in its preparation; the pupils’ poor clothing and accommodations – all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result bad to Mr. Brocklehurst, but good to the institution.

Several wealthy individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better place; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the funds of the school were given to the management of a committee. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained there, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher.

During these eight years my life was uniform. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class; then I was made a teacher; I eagerly did that job for two years: but at the end of that time I changed.

Miss Temple’s friendship and society had been my continual solace; she was for me mother, governess, and, finally, companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband to a distant county, and was lost to me.

From the day she left I was no longer the same. I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined character.

But when I saw Miss Temple in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony; watched the chaise disappear in the distance, I retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the day.

I walked about the room most of the time. I was regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when the evening came, another discovery came to me, namely, that the real world was wide, full of hopes and fears, awaiting those who had courage to seek real knowledge of life.

I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. I recalled the time when I had arrived at Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead. And now I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I uttered a prayer: I cried, half desperate, “if not total liberty, grant me at least a new servitude!”

Servitude! Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. I sat up in bed: it was a chilly night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I began to think again with all my might.

“What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances. What do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, and they should be their own helpers; and what is their resource?”

I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find a response, and quickly. I got up, undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind. – “Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the **shire Herald.”

“How? I know nothing about advertising.”

Responses came fast: —

“You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it directed to the editor of the Herald; answers must be addressed to J.E., at the Lowton post-office; you can go and inquire in about a week, if any letter has come, and act accordingly.”

I was up early: I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to wake the school; it ran thus: —

“A young lady accustomed to tuition” (had I not been a teacher two years?) “is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen. She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music” (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of skills, would have been held sufficient). “Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton, **shire.”

This document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton; permission was readily given; I went. It was a walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back through heavy rain, with wet clothes, but with a happy heart.

The following week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, and I found myself on the road to Lowton.

The post-office was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.

“Are there any letters for J.E.?” I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long time. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, – it was for J.E.

“Is there only one?” I demanded.

“There are no more,” said she; and I put it in my pocket: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven.

Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers. When I finally retired for the night, I took out my letter; the contents were brief.

“If J.E., who advertised in the **shire Herald of last Thursday, has the skills mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per year. J.E. is asked to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: —

“Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, **shire.”

I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory: I now felt that an elderly lady was a good ingredient in the business. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure. I longed to go where there was life and movement: Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A**; a busy place enough, it would be a complete change at least. Not that I liked the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke – “but,” I argued, “Thornfield will, probably, be a good way from the town.”

Next day new steps were to be taken; I told the superintendent I had a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what I now received; I asked her to break the news[28] to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and ask if they permitted to mention them as references. She kindly agreed to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my guardian. As Mrs. Reed didn’t mind, a formal leave was eventually given me to better my condition, together with their consent to issue the necessary references. On receiving the papers, Mrs. Fairfax stated that she was satisfied, and fixed the two-week period for my taking the post of governess in her house.

I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. In half-an-hour the carrier was to call for my luggage to take it to Lowton, while I myself was to meet the coach at an early hour the next morning. I sat down and tried to rest. I could not; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow.

“Miss,” said a servant who met me in the lobby, “a person below wishes to see you.”

“The carrier, no doubt,” I thought, and ran downstairs.

“It’s her, I am sure!” cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.

I looked: I saw a woman, very good-looking, with black hair and eyes.

“Well, who is it?” she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognized; “you’ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?”

In another second I was embracing and kissing her: “Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!” that was all I said; she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old. “That is my little boy,” said Bessie.

“Then you are married, Bessie?”

“Yes; nearly five years ago to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I’ve a little girl besides Bobby there, that I’ve christened Jane.”

“Well, and how do they all get on[29]? Tell me everything about them, Bessie.”

“Georgiana went up to London last winter with her mama, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his relations were against the match; and – what do you think? – he and Miss Georgiana decided to run away; but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always quarrelling —”

“Well, and what of John Reed?”

“Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to college, and he got – plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law.”

“And Mrs. Reed?”

“I think she’s not quite easy in her mind: Mr. John’s conduct does not please her – he spends a deal of money.”

“Did she send you here, Bessie?”

“No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I’d just go, and get a look at you before you went away.

“Oh, there was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Eyres?”

“Never in my life.”

“Well, one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre[30] came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”

“What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?”

“An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine —”

“Madeira?” I suggested.

“Yes, that is it – that is the very word.”

“So he went?”

“Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him. My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant.”

Bessie and I talked about old times an hour longer. We parted finally and each went her separate way; she went back to Gateshead, I took the coach which was to carry me to new duties and a new life in Millcote.

Chapter XI

I thought when the coach stopped here, there would be some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round expecting to hear my name, and to see a carriage waiting to take me to Thornfield. Finally, I found a man waiting for me.

“This will be your luggage, I suppose?” said the man when he saw me, pointing to my trunk. I asked him how far it was to Thornfield.

“A matter of six miles.”

He closed the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set off. Our progress was slow, and gave me time to reflect; I was happy to be at last so near the end of my journey.

“I suppose,” thought I, “Mrs. Fairfax is not a very rich person. I wonder if she lives alone except this little girl; and if she is amiable, I shall surely get on with her; I will do my best. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come to the worst[31], I can advertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?”

I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging by the number of its lights, it was much larger than Lowton. There were houses scattered all over the district; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less picturesque and romantic.

About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed through. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened by a maidservant; I alighted and went in.

“Will you walk this way, ma’am?” said the girl; and I followed her to a small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, where sat the little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat at her feet. As I entered, the old lady got up and came forward to meet me.

“How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tiring ride; John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire.”

“Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, you are right: do sit down.

“Now, then,[32] draw nearer to the fire,” she continued. “You’ve brought your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She treats me like a visitor,” thought I. “I didn’t expect such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness.”

“Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?” I asked.

“Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your future pupil.”

“Then she is not your daughter?”

“No, – I have no family.”

“I am so glad,” she continued, as she took the cat on her knee; “I am so glad you have come; it will be pleasant living here now with a companion. Thornfield is a fine old house, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is a respectable place. I really felt lonely before little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay.”

My heart really warmed to the lady as I heard her talk.

“But I’ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,” said she; “and you have been travelling all day: you must feel tired. I’ll show you your bedroom.”

When Mrs. Fairfax had wished me a kind goodnight, I felt at last in safe haven. At once tired and happy, I slept soon and soundly[33]: when I awoke it was broad day.

The room looked such a bright little place to me that my spirits rose[34] at the view. I rose; I dressed myself with care: I sometimes regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had irregular features. However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black frock with a clean white tucker, I thought I should produce a favourable impression on both Mrs. Fairfax and the pupil.

It was a fine autumn morning; crossing the lawn, I looked up at the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high. Farther off were hills; a little hamlet was on the side of one of them; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield.

I was enjoying the pleasant fresh air, thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax, when that lady appeared at the door.

“What! out already?” said she. “I see you are an early riser.” I went up to her, and she gave me an affable kiss and shake of the hand.

“How do you like Thornfield?” she asked. I told her I liked it very much.

“Yes,” she said, “it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should decide to come and live here permanently: great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”

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Примечания

1

Томас Бьюик (1753–1828) – английский художник, историк естествознания.

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2

Госпожа Нюня!

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3

Где она, чёрт побери!

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4

Джейн и Джоун, Джон и Джек, Элайза и Лиззи, Джорджина и Джорджи – стилистические варианты одного имени.

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5

паршивка; дрянь такая

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6

Миссис Рид как бы не замечала происходящего

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7

Так яростно набросилась на мастера Джона!

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8

идти на всё, ни перед чем не останавливаться

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9

Как не стыдно!

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10

Ну, смотри у меня

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11

туда-сюда

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12

Я знала, что мне это даром не пройдёт.

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13

надавала мне оплеух

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14

мне тошно от одной мысли о вас

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15

будь умницей, дорогуша

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16

Ты та ещё колючка!

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17

Обещайте присмотреть за ней

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18

Священное Писание, Библия

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19

источало малоприятный запах

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20

ты выпячиваешь подбородок

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21

Карл I, король Англии, Шотландии и Ирландии; казнён в Лондоне в 1649 г.

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22

Библия учит нас отвечать добром на зло

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23

ни в коем случае

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24

Ваши распоряжения будут исполнены, сэр

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25

придётся обойтись тем, что есть

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26

как раньше

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27

Я воскресну

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28

сообщить новость

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29

Ну, и как они там все поживают?

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30

некий мистер Эйр

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31

в крайнем случае

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32

Итак; Так вот

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33

я быстро уснула и крепко спала

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34

у меня поднялось настроение

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