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Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, CHAPTER III

CHAPTER III

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars.

I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire.

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 an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction 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.

Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: 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 employed a physician.

“Well, who am I?” he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, “We shall do very well by-and-by.” Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night.

Having given some further directions, and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

“Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?” asked Bessie, rather softly.

Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough.

“I will try.”

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”

“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.”

Wonderful civility this!

It emboldened me to ask a question.

“Bessie, what is the matter with me?

Am I ill?”

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

Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near.

I heard her say—

“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life 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.

I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed.

“Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished”—“A great black dog behind him”—“Three loud raps on the chamber door”—“A light in the churchyard just over his grave,” &c. &c. At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out.

For me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day.

Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth.

I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. 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. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege.

This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, 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 lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought so.

But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; “A long time ago” came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one.

“My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child.”

“Come, Miss Jane, don't cry,” said Bessie as she finished.

She might as well have said to the fire, “don't burn!” but how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? 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,” interposed Bessie.

“Surely not!

why, she is too old for such pettishness.”

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly, “I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage.

I cry because I am miserable.”

“Oh fie, Miss!” said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled.

I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, 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 again! 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, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; “but that did not make me ill,” I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, 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 rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” pursued 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!

How difficult it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.

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

“You have a kind aunt and cousins.”

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—

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

Mr.

Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

“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 grim to grown people; still more so to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: 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 had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

“But are your relatives so very poor?

Are they working people?”

“I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging.”

“Would you like to go to school?”

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive.

She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of my musings.

“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 rolling up the gravel-walk.

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

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

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out.

In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, “Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand.” Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.

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

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, “Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot.”

“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that.”

“Not a great deal, to be sure,” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition.”

“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!” cried the fervent Abbot.

“Little darling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper.”

“So could I—with a roast onion.

Come, we'll go down.” They went.

CHAPTER III KAPITEL III CAPÍTULO III CAPÍTULO III ГЛАВА III BÖLÜM III РОЗДІЛ ІІІ

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. La prochaine chose dont je me souviens, c'est de me réveiller avec le sentiment d'avoir fait un terrible cauchemar, et de voir devant moi un terrible éclat rouge, traversé d'épaisses barres noires. Hatırladığım bir sonraki şey, korkunç bir kabus görmüşüm gibi bir hisle uyandığım ve önümde kalın siyah çubuklarla kesişen korkunç kırmızı bir parıltı gördüğüm.

I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. J'entendais aussi des voix qui parlaient avec un son creux et comme étouffé par une vague de vent ou d'eau: l'agitation, l'incertitude et un sentiment de terreur prédominant confondaient mes facultés. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. Bientôt, j'ai pris conscience que quelqu'un me manipulait; me soulevant et me soutenant dans une posture assise, et cela plus tendrement que je n'avais jamais été élevé ou soutenu auparavant. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy. Je reposais ma tête contre un oreiller ou un bras, et je me sentais à l'aise.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. En cinq minutes de plus, le nuage de perplexité se dissipa: je savais très bien que j'étais dans mon lit et que la lueur rouge était le feu de la nurserie.

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. C'était la nuit : une bougie brûlait sur la table ; Bessie se tenait au pied du lit, une cuvette à la main, et un monsieur était assis sur une chaise près de mon oreiller, penché sur moi.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction 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. J'ai ressenti un soulagement inexprimable, une conviction apaisante de protection et de sécurité, quand j'ai su qu'il y avait un inconnu dans la pièce, un individu n'appartenant pas à Gateshead, et sans lien avec Mme Reed.

Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: 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 employed a physician. Me détournant de Bessie (bien que sa présence m'ait été beaucoup moins odieuse que ne l'aurait été celle d'Abbot, par exemple), j'ai scruté le visage du gentleman : je le connaissais, c'était M. Lloyd, un apothicaire, auquel Mme Reed faisait parfois appel lorsque les domestiques étaient malades ; pour elle-même et les enfants, elle employait un médecin.

“Well, who am I?” he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, “We shall do very well by-and-by.”  Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Je prononçai son nom, lui tendant en même temps la main : il la prit en souriant et en disant : "Nous ferons très bien les choses d'ici peu." Puis il me coucha et, s'adressant à Bessie, lui demanda de veiller à ce que je ne sois pas dérangé pendant la nuit.

Having given some further directions, and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down. Après avoir donné quelques instructions supplémentaires et indiqué qu'il reviendrait le lendemain, il est parti, à mon grand chagrin : Je me sentais tellement à l'abri et en amitié pendant qu'il s'asseyait dans le fauteuil près de mon oreiller ; et lorsqu'il ferma la porte après lui, toute la pièce s'assombrit et mon cœur sombra à nouveau : une tristesse inexprimable l'accablait.

“Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?” asked Bessie, rather softly. «Avez-vous l'impression de devoir dormir, mademoiselle? demanda Bessie plutôt doucement.

Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough.

“I will try.”

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”

“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.” "Alors je crois que je vais aller me coucher, car il est plus de douze heures ; mais vous pouvez m'appeler si vous avez besoin de quelque chose pendant la nuit."

Wonderful civility this! Merveilleuse civilité !

It emboldened me to ask a question.

“Bessie, what is the matter with me?

Am I ill?”

“You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you’ll be better soon, no doubt.” "Vous êtes tombée malade, je suppose, dans la chambre rouge en pleurant ; vous irez mieux bientôt, sans doute."

Bessie went into the housemaid’s apartment, which was near.

I heard her say—

“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren’t for my life 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. "Sarah, viens dormir avec moi dans la chambre d'enfant ; je ne veux pas rester seule avec cette pauvre enfant cette nuit : elle pourrait mourir ; c'est une chose si étrange qu'elle ait cette crise : Je me demande si elle a vu quelque chose.

Missis was rather too hard.” Missis était un peu trop dure".

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

I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed. J'ai recueilli des bribes de leur conversation, dont je n'ai pu déduire que trop distinctement le principal sujet abordé.

“Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished”—“A great black dog behind him”—“Three loud raps on the chamber door”—“A light in the churchyard just over his grave,” &c. «Quelque chose lui passa, tout habillé de blanc, et disparut» - «Un grand chien noir derrière lui» - «Trois coups bruyants sur la porte de la chambre» - «Une lumière dans le cimetière juste au-dessus de sa tombe», etc. &c. At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out.

For me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel. Für mich vergingen die Wachen dieser langen Nacht in schrecklicher Wachsamkeit; von Angst belastet: solche Angst, die nur Kinder fühlen können. Pour moi, les veilles de cette longue nuit se passaient dans un état de veille épouvantable; tendu par la terreur: une telle peur que seuls les enfants peuvent ressentir.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Auf diesen Vorfall im Roten Raum folgte keine schwere oder anhaltende Körperkrankheit; es gab meinen Nerven nur einen Schock, von dem ich den Nachhall bis heute spüre. Aucune maladie corporelle grave ou prolongée n'a suivi cet incident de la chambre rouge; cela n'a donné à mes nerfs qu'un choc dont je ressens encore aujourd'hui la réverbération.

Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities. Oui, Mme Reed, je vous dois de terribles souffrances mentales, mais je dois vous pardonner, car vous ne saviez pas ce que vous faisiez: en me déchirant les cordes du cœur, vous pensiez que vous ne faisiez que déraciner mes mauvaises tendances.

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth.

I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Ich fühlte mich körperlich schwach und zusammengebrochen. Aber meine schlimmste Krankheit war ein unaussprechliches Elend des Geistes: ein Elend, das immer wieder stille Tränen aus mir zog. Kaum hatte ich mir einen Salztropfen von der Wange gewischt, folgte ein anderer. Je me sentais physiquement faible et abattu: mais mon pire mal était une indescriptible misère d'esprit: une misère qui n'arrêtait pas de me tirer des larmes silencieuses; à peine ai-je essuyé une goutte de sel de ma joue qu'une autre a suivi. 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. Pourtant, je me disais que j'aurais dû être heureuse, car aucun des Reed n'était là, ils étaient tous partis en calèche avec leur maman. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. Auch Abbot nähte in einem anderen Raum, und Bessie, die sich hin und her bewegte, Spielzeug weglegte und Schubladen arrangierte, richtete ab und zu ein Wort ungewohnter Freundlichkeit an mich. Abbot, lui aussi, cousait dans une autre pièce, et Bessie, tout en allant et venant, rangeant les jouets et arrangeant les tiroirs, m'adressait de temps à autre un mot d'une gentillesse inouïe. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably. Dieser Zustand hätte für mich ein Paradies des Friedens sein sollen, das ich an ein Leben mit unaufhörlichem Verweis und undankbarem Schwindeln gewöhnt war; Tatsächlich waren meine Nerven jetzt in einem solchen Zustand, dass keine Ruhe sie beruhigen konnte und kein Vergnügen sie angenehm erregte.

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. Bessie war in die Küche gegangen, und sie brachte eine Torte auf einem bestimmten hell gestrichenen Porzellanteller mit, dessen Paradiesvogel, eingebettet in einen Kranz aus Konvolvuli und Rosenknospen, mich gewöhnlich mit einem höchst enthusiastischen Gefühl erregt hatte Bewunderung; und welchen Teller ich oft beantragt hatte, in meine Hand nehmen zu dürfen, um ihn genauer zu untersuchen, aber bisher immer als eines solchen Privilegs unwürdig angesehen worden war. Bessie était descendue dans la cuisine, et elle avait apporté avec elle une tarte sur une certaine assiette en porcelaine peinte de couleurs vives, dont l'oiseau de paradis, niché dans une couronne de convolvuli et de boutons de rose, avait eu l'habitude de susciter en moi un sentiment très enthousiaste de admiration; et quelle plaque j'avais souvent demandé de pouvoir prendre dans ma main pour l'examiner de plus près, mais j'avais toujours été jusqu'ici jugée indigne d'un tel privilège.

This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! Comme la plupart des autres faveurs longtemps différées et souvent souhaitées, il arrive trop tard ! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. Dieses Buch hatte ich immer wieder mit Freude durchgesehen. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Ich betrachtete es als eine Erzählung von Tatsachen und entdeckte darin eine Ader von Interesse, die tiefer lag als das, was ich in Märchen fand: denn was die Elfen betrifft, die sie vergeblich zwischen Fingerhutblättern und Glocken, unter Pilzen und unter dem Efeu gesucht hatten Als ich alte Mauerecken ummantelte, hatte ich mich endlich für die traurige Wahrheit entschieden, dass sie alle aus England in ein wildes Land gegangen waren, in dem die Wälder wilder und dichter und die Bevölkerung spärlicher waren. Während Lilliput und Brobdignag in meinem Glaubensbekenntnis feste Teile der Erdoberfläche waren, bezweifelte ich nicht, dass ich eines Tages auf einer langen Reise die kleinen Felder, Häuser und Bäume, die winzigen Menschen, mit eigenen Augen sehen könnte die winzigen Kühe, Schafe und Vögel des einen Reiches; und die waldhohen Maisfelder, die mächtigen Mastiffs, die Monsterkatzen, die turmartigen Männer und Frauen des anderen. Je le considérais comme un récit de faits, et y découvris une veine d'intérêt plus profonde que ce que je trouvais dans les contes de fées: car quant aux elfes, les ayant vainement recherchés parmi les feuilles et les cloches de digitale, sous les champignons et sous le lierre terrestre enrobant de vieux recoins de mur, je m'étais enfin décidé à la triste vérité, qu'ils étaient tous partis d'Angleterre dans quelque pays sauvage où les bois étaient plus sauvages et plus épais, et la population plus rare; tandis que Lilliput et Brobdignag étant, dans mon credo, des parties solides de la surface de la terre, je ne doutais pas de pouvoir un jour, en faisant un long voyage, voir de mes propres yeux les petits champs, les maisons et les arbres, les petits peuples , les minuscules vaches, moutons et oiseaux d'un seul royaume; et les champs de maïs haut de la forêt, les puissants mastiffs, les chats monstres, les hommes et les femmes en forme de tour, de l'autre. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. Doch als dieses geschätzte Buch jetzt in meine Hand gelegt wurde - als ich seine Blätter umdrehte und in seinen wunderbaren Bildern den Charme suchte, den ich bis jetzt nie versäumt hatte zu finden -, war alles unheimlich und trostlos; Die Riesen waren hagere Kobolde, die Schweinchen böswillige und ängstliche Kobolde, Gulliver ein äußerst trostloser Wanderer in den schrecklichsten und gefährlichsten Regionen. Pourtant, lorsque ce volume chéri fut placé entre mes mains, lorsque je tournai ses feuilles et que je cherchai dans ses merveilleuses images le charme que je n'avais, jusqu'à présent, jamais manqué de trouver, tout était sinistre et lugubre ; les géants étaient des gobelins efflanqués, les porcs malveillants et des diablotins effrayants, Gulliver était un vagabond des plus désolés dans les régions les plus terribles et les plus dangereuses. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart. Je refermai le livre, que je n'osais plus feuilleter, et le posai sur la table, à côté de la tarte non dégustée.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, 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 lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought so.

But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; “A long time ago” came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one. Elle passe à une autre ballade, cette fois-ci très triste.

“My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child. "Mes pieds sont endoloris et mes membres sont fatigués ; le chemin est long et les montagnes sont sauvages ; bientôt le crépuscule se refermera sans lune et lugubre sur le sentier du pauvre orphelin.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? Pourquoi m'ont-ils envoyé si loin et si solitaire, là où les landes s'étalent et les rochers gris s'entassent? Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child. Les hommes ont le cœur dur et de bons anges ne font que surveiller les pas d'un pauvre enfant orphelin.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child. Pourtant, lointaine et douce souffle la brise nocturne, il n'y en a pas de nuages, et les étoiles claires rayonnent doucement, Dieu, dans sa miséricorde, la protection se manifeste, réconfort et espoir au pauvre enfant orphelin.

Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child. Ev'n devrais-je tomber sur le pont cassé qui passe, Ou m'égarer dans les marais, par de fausses lumières séduites, Mon Père encore, avec promesse et bénédiction, Prendra dans son sein le pauvre enfant orphelin.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child.” Il y a une pensée qui pour la force devrait me servir, Bien que tous les deux d'abri et de parenté dépouillés; Le ciel est une maison, et le repos ne me manquera pas; Dieu est l'ami du pauvre enfant orphelin.

“Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,” said Bessie as she finished.

She might as well have said to the fire, “don’t burn!” but how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? Elle aurait tout aussi bien pu dire au feu : "Ne brûle pas !", mais comment aurait-elle pu deviner la souffrance morbide à laquelle j'étais en proie ? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

“What, already up!” said he, as he entered the nursery. «Quoi, déjà en place!» dit-il en entrant dans la crèche.

“Well, nurse, how is she?”

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

“Then she ought to look more cheerful. "Alors elle devrait avoir l'air plus gaie.

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,” interposed Bessie.

“Surely not!

why, she is too old for such pettishness.” elle est trop âgée pour de telles mesquineries."

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly, “I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage. Je le pensais aussi; et mon estime de moi étant blessée par la fausse accusation, je répondis promptement: «Je n'ai jamais pleuré pour une telle chose de ma vie: je déteste sortir en voiture.

I cry because I am miserable.”

“Oh fie, Miss!” said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled.

I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. J'étais debout devant lui ; il me regarda fixement : ses yeux étaient petits et gris ; ils n'étaient pas très brillants, mais j'oserais dire que je les trouverais perspicaces maintenant : il avait un visage aux traits durs, mais d'un bon naturel. Having considered me at leisure, he said— M'ayant considéré à loisir, il a dit:

“What made you ill yesterday?”

“She had a fall,” said Bessie, again putting in her word. «Elle a fait une chute», a déclaré Bessie, mettant à nouveau sa parole.

“Fall!

why, that is like a baby again! 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, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; “but that did not make me ill,” I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff. «J'ai été renversé», fut l'explication brutale, jaillie de moi par une autre pointe d'orgueil mortifié; «Mais cela ne m'a pas rendu malade», ai-je ajouté; tandis que M. Lloyd se servait d'une pincée de tabac à priser.

As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, 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 rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” pursued 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!

How difficult it was to frame any answer! Comme il était difficile de formuler une réponse! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response. Craignant, cependant, de perdre cette première et unique occasion de soulager mon chagrin en le communiquant, je m'arrangeais, après une pause troublée, à formuler une maigre, quoique, dans la mesure où elle allait, une vraie réponse.

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

“You have a kind aunt and cousins.” "Tu as une tante et des cousins très gentils."

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—

“But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.” "Mais John Reed m'a fait tomber et ma tante m'a enfermée dans la chambre rouge."

Mr.

Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

“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?” vous ne pouvez pas être assez stupide pour vouloir quitter un endroit aussi splendide ?"

“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 grim to grown people; still more so to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation. La pauvreté paraît sinistre aux adultes, et encore plus aux enfants : ils n'ont pas une grande idée de la pauvreté laborieuse, travailleuse, respectable ; ils n'associent ce mot qu'à des vêtements en loques, à une nourriture insuffisante, à des grilles sans feu, à des manières grossières et à des vices avilissants : pour moi, la pauvreté était synonyme d'avilissement.

“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 had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste. Je secouai la tête : Je ne voyais pas comment les pauvres avaient les moyens d'être gentils ; et puis apprendre à parler comme eux, adopter leurs manières, être sans éducation, grandir comme l'une des pauvres femmes que je voyais parfois allaiter leurs enfants ou laver leur linge aux portes des chaumières du village de Gateshead : non, je n'étais pas assez héroïque pour acheter la liberté au prix de la caste.

“But are your relatives so very poor?

Are they working people?”

“I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging.” "Je ne peux pas le dire ; tante Reed dit que si j'en ai, c'est qu'ils doivent être mendiants : Je n'aimerais pas aller mendier".

“Would you like to go to school?”

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed’s tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie’s accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. Je réfléchis à nouveau : Je savais à peine ce qu'était l'école : Bessie en parlait parfois comme d'un endroit où les jeunes filles s'asseyaient dans le carcan, portaient des planches dorsales et devaient être extrêmement gentilles et précises : John Reed détestait son école et maltraitait son maître ; mais les goûts de John Reed n'avaient rien à voir avec les miens, et si les récits de Bessie sur la discipline scolaire (recueillis auprès des jeunes filles d'une famille où elle avait vécu avant de venir à Gateshead) étaient quelque peu effrayants, les détails qu'elle donnait sur certaines réalisations de ces mêmes jeunes filles étaient, à mon avis, tout aussi séduisants.

She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Sie prahlte mit wunderschönen Gemälden von Landschaften und Blumen, die von ihnen ausgeführt wurden; von Liedern, die sie singen und Stücke spielen konnten, von Geldbörsen, die sie fangen konnten, von französischen Büchern, die sie übersetzen konnten; bis mein Geist zur Nachahmung bewegt wurde, als ich zuhörte. Elle se vantait de belles peintures de paysages et de fleurs exécutées par eux; de chansons qu'ils pouvaient chanter et de morceaux qu'ils pouvaient jouer, de bourses qu'ils pouvaient trouver, de livres français qu'ils pouvaient traduire; jusqu'à ce que mon esprit ait été ému pendant que j'écoutais. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of my musings. «Je voudrais vraiment aller à l'école», fut la conclusion audible de mes réflexions.

“Well, well!

who knows what may happen?” said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. qui sait ce qui peut arriver ?" dit M. Lloyd en se levant. “The child ought to have change of air and scene,” he added, speaking to himself; “nerves not in a good state.” "L'enfant devrait changer d'air et de scène, ajouta-t-il en se parlant à lui-même ; les nerfs ne sont pas en bon état.

Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel-walk. Bessie kehrte jetzt zurück; Im selben Moment hörte man, wie die Kutsche den Schotterweg hinaufrollte. Bessie revint ; au même moment, on entendit la voiture rouler sur le chemin de ronde.

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

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

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. Bessie l'invita à entrer dans la salle du petit déjeuner et le conduisit vers la sortie.

In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, “Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand.”  Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes. In dem Interview, das zwischen ihm und Mrs. Reed folgte, gehe ich davon aus, dass der Apotheker es gewagt hat, mir zu empfehlen, zur Schule geschickt zu werden. und die Empfehlung wurde zweifellos ohne weiteres angenommen; Denn wie Abbot sagte, als sie eines Nachts mit Bessie über das Thema diskutierten, als beide eines Nachts im Kinderzimmer saßen und schliefen, und wie sie dachten, schliefen sie: „Missis war, wie sie zu sagen wagte, froh genug, solche loszuwerden ein lästiges, schlecht konditioniertes Kind, das immer so aussah, als würde es alle beobachten und Pläne schmieden. “ Ich glaube, Abbot hat mir die Ehre gegeben, eine Art kindlicher Guy Fawkes zu sein. Dans l'entrevue qui a suivi entre lui et Mme Reed, je présume, d'après les événements ultérieurs, que l'apothicaire se risqua à recommander mon envoi à l'école; et la recommandation fut sans doute assez facilement adoptée; car, comme le disait Abbot, en discutant du sujet avec Bessie alors que tous deux étaient assis à coudre dans la chambre d'enfant une nuit, après que j'étais au lit, et, comme ils le pensaient, endormie, une enfant fatigante et mal conditionnée, qui avait toujours l'air de regarder tout le monde et de comploter par en dessous. Abbot, je pense, m'a donné le crédit d'être une sorte de Guy Fawkes infantile.

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot’s communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other. A cette même occasion, j'appris pour la première fois, par les communications de Miss Abbot à Bessie, que mon père avait été un ecclésiastique pauvre ; que ma mère l'avait épousé contre la volonté de ses amis, qui considéraient ce mariage comme indigne d'elle ; que mon grand-père Reed avait été si irrité par sa désobéissance qu'il l'avait quittée sans un shilling ; qu'après que ma mère et mon père eurent été mariés un an, ce dernier avait attrapé la fièvre typhoïde alors qu'il visitait les pauvres d'une grande ville manufacturière où se trouvait sa cure, et où cette maladie était alors répandue : que ma mère a contracté l'infection de lui, et que tous deux sont morts à un mois d'intervalle.

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, “Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot.” Bessie, en entendant ce récit, soupira et dit : "La pauvre Miss Jane est à plaindre, elle aussi, Monsieur l'Abbé."

“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that.” "Oui, répondit l'abbé, si c'était une jolie enfant, on pourrait compatir à sa fadeur, mais on ne peut vraiment pas s'occuper d'un petit crapaud comme celui-là.

“Not a great deal, to be sure,” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition.” "En tout cas, une beauté comme Miss Georgiana serait plus émouvante dans les mêmes conditions.

“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!” cried the fervent Abbot. "Ja, ich mache Miss Georgiana fertig!" rief der glühende Abt.

“Little darling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper.” "La petite chérie, avec ses longues boucles et ses yeux bleus, et sa couleur si douce, comme si elle était peinte, Bessie, j'aurais envie d'un lapin gallois pour le souper.

“So could I—with a roast onion. "Moi aussi, avec un oignon rôti.

Come, we’ll go down.”  They went.