第一章
那天，出去散步是不可能了。其实上午我们还在光秃秃的矮树丛中转了个把钟头，但午饭后（里德太太没客时午饭吃得早），冬日的寒风卷来厚厚的乌云，冷雨铺天盖地，再去户外活动压根儿办不到。
这倒更好。从不喜欢长长的散步，尤其在冷冰冰的下午。阴湿的暮色中归来，手指脚趾冻得生疼，保姆贝茜的数落令人灰心，而自觉身体不如伊丽莎、约翰和乔治亚娜又令人丧气，那情那景，委实可怕。
伊丽莎、约翰和乔治亚娜此刻正在客厅围着他们的妈妈。她躺在炉火边的沙发上，身边簇拥着自己的小宝贝（眼下既不哭又不吵），模样好快活。而我，她恩准不必加入这一群，说是打发我到一边去，她十分遗憾，但要待保姆贝茜报告或她亲自发现，我在认真努力养成更合群更活泼更讨人喜欢的举止——也就是更快活更坦白更自然的性情——她才能让我也享受只有快乐知足的孩子才能得到的特权。
“贝茜说我干了啥？”我问。
“简，我讨厌吹毛求疵刨根问底，再说小孩子跟大人顶嘴最可恶。去找个地方待着，不会乖乖地说话就别开口。”
客厅隔壁有间小餐室，我溜了进去。这儿有只书架，很快就仔细挑了一本带插图的。爬上窗台，两脚收拢，双腿交叉，和土耳其人一样盘坐，再把红色的波纹窗帘差不多拉严，有了一个双料的隐蔽处。
右侧猩红的窗帘褶子挡住视线。左侧，清澈的窗玻璃将阴沉沉的冬日阻挡在外，但又不曾将我与11月的冬景分开。一面翻书，一面不时瞧瞧外面。远方，一片暗淡的云雾。近处，一块湿淋淋的草坪，还有风吹雨打的灌木丛。狂风哀号持久不停，将如注的大雨横空扫过。
再低头看书——比维克的《不列颠鸟类史》。一般说，对文字部分我不感兴趣。不过，虽说是小孩子，对几页导言可没当空白放过。它们描写海鸟们唯一的栖身处——“孤寂的礁石与海岬，”描写挪威海岸从南端到北角星罗棋布的小岛，林纳斯尼斯或纳斯等等——
那儿，北冰洋的巨大旋涡
沸腾着极地赤裸凄凉的小岛
北大西洋的狂风巨浪
倾注着赫布里底群岛
对拉普兰、西伯利亚、斯匹次卑尔根群岛、新地岛、冰岛与格陵兰荒凉海岸的描述也不能轻易放过。那里“北极圈广袤无垠，大片凄凉的不毛之地——储存着千百年的积雪坚冰，似阿尔卑斯山一般晶莹耀眼，层层高耸，包围着地极，日复一日堆积着严寒”。对这些一片死白的地带，我已形成一定看法，但还朦朦胧胧，正像小孩子脑海中浮现的那些概念，似懂非懂，然而却奇怪地印象深刻。导言中的几页文字与后面的插图相关，使惊涛骇浪中兀立的礁石，荒凉沙滩上搁浅的破船，穿透云层扫视沉船的怪诞月光含义深远。
说不清什么情调萦绕着僻静的墓地，刻着铭文的墓碑，一座大门，两棵树，低矮的地平线，断壁残垣，行将升起的一弯新月，告诉我时值黄昏。
两只船停泊在平静的海面，想必是海上的鬼怪。
魔鬼从背后按住盗贼的背包，赶快翻过去，怕人的东西。
高踞岩石之巅的那个长角的黑东西同样怕人，它正眺望着远处围着绞刑架的人群。
每张图都讲着一个故事，对我稚嫩的理解力，未成熟的心灵显得神秘莫测，却饶有趣味，就像有时候贝茜碰巧心情愉快，在冬夜所讲的那些故事。这时候，她就把熨衣台搬到育儿室的壁炉边，让我们围着它坐好，一面熨烫里德太太的网眼花边，把睡帽的边缘烫出褶子来，一面满足我们急切的期盼，讲着一段段爱情与冒险故事，全都来自古老的神话与更古老的民谣，或者（后来我发现）来自《帕米拉》与《莫兰伯爵亨利》
。
膝上摊着这本比维克的书，我当时美滋滋的，至少自得其乐，生怕别人来打搅。可打搅说到就到，餐室门开了。
“喂，烦恼小姐！”约翰?里德叫了一声又停下，以为屋里没人。
“死到哪儿去啦？”他接着喊“莉茜 ！乔琪 ！（叫他姐妹）简不在这儿。告诉妈咪她窜到雨地里去了——该死的畜生！”
“幸亏拉上了窗帘。”我满心指望他不会发现我的藏身地，约翰自己也发现不了，因为他眼睛不尖，反应不快。可伊丽莎把脑袋伸进来了，立刻叫道：
“她在窗台上哪。错不了，杰克 。”
我赶紧走出来。一想到给这个杰克生拽出去，我就怕得发抖。
“什么事？”我既尴尬又害怕。
“说‘里德少爷，什么事？’”约翰往扶手椅里一坐，“我要你过来。”他打个手势要我到他跟前去。
约翰?里德是14岁的小学生，比我大4岁，我才10岁。论年龄，他生得太粗大，皮肤发暗，气色不佳。宽脸膛，粗线条，胖四肢。吃起饭来狼吞虎咽，结果脾气暴躁，目光迟钝，双颊松弛。他现在本该待在学校里，可他妈把他接回家一两个月了，“因为身体不适”。老师迈尔斯先生坚信只要家里少给他送些蛋糕糖果，他身体自会好得多。可当妈的听不进这种刻薄话，宁可优雅地认为约翰面带菜色是因为太用功或者太想家之故。
Jane Eyre
THERE was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had
beenwandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in
themorning; but since dinner Mrs. Reed, when there was no
company,dined early the cold winter wind had brought with it
clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor
exercise was now out ofthe question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on
chillyafternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw
twilight,with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the
chidings ofBessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of
my physicalinferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clusteredround their
mama in the drawing room: she lay reclined on asofa by the
fireside, and with her darlings about her for the timeneither
quarrelling nor crying looked perfectly happy. Me, she
haddispensed from joining the group; saying, ‘She regretted to be
underthe necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she
heardfrom Bessie, and could discover by her own observation that I
was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and
childlikedisposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner —
somethinglighter, franker, more natural as it were — she really
must exclude mefrom privileges intended only for contented, happy,
little children.’
‘What does Bessie say I have done?’ I asked.
‘Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there
issomething truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in
thatmanner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak
pleasantly,remain silent.’
A small breakfast room adjoined the drawing room, I slipped
inthere. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a
volume,taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I
mounted intothe window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat
cross-legged, like a Turk;and, having drawn the red moreen curtain
nearly close, I was shrinedin double retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; tothe
left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not
separatingme from the drear November day. At intervals, while
turning over theleaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that
winter afternoon. Afar,it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud;
near a scene of wet lawn andstorm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain
sweeping away wildly before along and lamentable blast.
I returned to my book — Bewick’s History of British Birds:
theletter-press thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and
yet therewere certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I
could not passquite as a blank. They were those which treat of the
haunts of seafowl;of ‘the solitary rocks and promontories’ by them
only inhabited;of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its
southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape
—
Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls
Boils round the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.
Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of
Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland,with
‘the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions
ofdreary space, — that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm
fields ofice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in
Alpine heightsabove heights, surround the pole and concentre the
multiplied rigours of extreme cold.’ Of these death-white realms I
formed an idea of myown: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended
notions that float dimthrough children’s brains, but strangely
impressive. The words inthese introductory pages connected
themselves with the succeedingvignettes, and gave significance to
the rock standing up alone in a seaof billow and spray; to the
broken boat stranded on a desolate coast;to the cold and ghastly
moon glancing through bars of cloud at awreck just sinking.
I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary
churchyard,with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees,
its low horizon,girdled by a broken wall, and its newly risen
crescent, attesting thehour of eventide.
The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be
marinephantoms.
The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I passedover
quickly: it was an object of terror.
So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveyinga
distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my
undevelopedunderstanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever
profoundly interesting:as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes
narrated on winterevenings, when she chanced to be in good humour;
and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth,
she allowed us tosit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s
lace frills, and crimpedher night-cap borders, fed our eager
attention with passages of loveand adventure taken from old fairy
tales and other ballads; or as at alater period I discovered from
the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl ofMoreland.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in myway.
I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon.
Thebreakfast room door opened.
‘Boh! Madam Mope!’ cried the voice of John Reed; then hepaused: he
found the room apparently empty.
‘Where the dickens is she?’ he continued. ‘Lizzy! Georgy!’
callingto his sisters ‘Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out
into the rain —bad animal!’
‘It is well I drew the curtain,’ thought I; and I wished fervently
hemight not discover my hiding-place; nor would John Reed have
foundit out himself; he was not quick either of vision or
conception; butEliza 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 trembled at the idea of
beingdragged forth by the said Jack.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, with awkward diffidence.
‘Say, “What do you want, Master Reed,” ’ was the answer. ‘I wantyou
to come here;’ and seating himself in an armchair, he intimatedby a
gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.
John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years
olderthan I, for I was but ten; large and stout for his age, with a
dingy andunwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage,
heavy limbsand large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at
table, whichmade him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye
and flabbycheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama
had takenhim home for a month or two, ‘on account of his delicate
health.’ Mr.Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well
if he had fewercakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the
mother’s heartturned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather
to the morerefined idea that John’s sallowness was owing to
over-application and,perhaps, to pining after home.
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