Jane Eyre Ch. 1
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Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
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jane Eyre and autobiography by charlotte bronte. Writing as Kerbel Chapter One there was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning, but since dinner, mrs reed, when there was no company dined early, the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and arraigned, so penetrating that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it. I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons. Dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the Children's of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, john and georgiana. Read the set Eliza, john and Georgina. We're now clustered around their mama in the drawing room. She lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her for the time, either quarreling or crying, looked perfectly happy. Me. She had dispensed for joining the group, saying she regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance, but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation that I was endeavouring and good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner. Something lighter, franker, more natural as it were. She really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy little Children. What does Bessie say I have done? I asked, jane. I don't like cavaliers or questioners. Besides, there's something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that matter, be seated somewhere, and until you can speak pleasantly remain silent A breakfast room, I joined the drawing room. I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase. I soon possessed myself of volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window seat, gathering up my feet. I sat cross legged like a turk, and having drawn the red Maureen curtain nearly close, I was shrines in double retirement folds of scarlet drapery shut, in my view, to the right hand, to the left, with a clear panes of glass protecting, but not separating me from the drear november day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. A far it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud, near scene of wet lawn and storm beach shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book, betwixt history of british birds, The letter press there, of I cared little for generally speaking, and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea fowl of the solitary rocks, and prevent tories by them only inhabited off the coast of Norway, studied with aisles from its southern extremity that linda nous or nays, to the North Cape, where the northern ocean and vast worlds boils around the naked, melancholy aisles of far the stool and the atlantic surge pours in among the stormy Hebrides. Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of lapland Siberia, Spitsbergen Nova's MBA. Iceland Greenland, with the vast sweep of the arctic zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space, that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters glazed in Alpine heights above heights surround the pole and con center the multiplied rigors of extreme cold of these death white realms. I formed an idea of my own shadowy like all the half comprehended notions that float dim through Children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words of these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes and gave significance to the rock, standing up alone in a sea of Bill O, and spray to the broken boat, stranded on a desolate coast, to the cold and ghastly moon, glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck. Just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone. It's gate! It's two trees. It's low horizon girdled by a broken wall and its newly risen crescent, attesting the hours of even tied The two ships becalmed on a torpid. See, I believe, to be marine phantoms, the fiend pinning down the thief's packed behind him. I passed over quickly. It was an object of terror. So was the black horn thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding the gallows. Each picture told the story mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting. As interesting as the tales, Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings when she chanced to be in good humor, and when having brought her ironing table to the nursery earth, she allowed us to sit about it. And while she got up, Mrs, read's lace frills and crimped her nightcap borders that are eager attention, with passages of love and adventure, taken from old fairy tales, and all other balance, or as that later period I discovered, from pages of Pamela and Henry, Earl of Moreland, with the weak on my knee. I was then happy! Happy, at least, in my way I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon the breakfast room door opened. Bull! Not a mope! Cried the voice of john reed. Then he paused. He found the room apparently empty. Where the dickens is she? He continued, lizzie georgie, calling to his sisters, joan is not here. Tell mama she has run out into the rain, bad animal! It is! Well, I drew the curtain, thought I, and I wished for reverently. He might not discover my hiding place. Norwood, john Reed, have found it out himself. He was not quick, either a vision or conception, 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 tremble that the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. What do you want? I asked, with awkward diffidence. Say, what do you want, Master read was the answer. I want you to come here and sitting himself in an armchair. He intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reid was a school boy of 14 years old, four years older than I, for I was but 10 large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin, thick liniment, in a spacious visage, heavy limbs, and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a demand, beard, I and flabby cheeks. 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 affirm that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats set him from home. But the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh and inclined rather to the more refined idea that john Salinas was going to over application and perhaps to pining after home john had not much affection for his mother and sisters. In an antipathy to me he bullied and punished me not two or three times in a week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually, every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh on my bones shrank. When he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflections. The servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him. And Mrs Reid was blind and deaf on the subject. She never saw him strike or hurt him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence. More frequently, however behind her back habitually obedient to john, I came up to his chair. He spent some three minutes and thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots. I knew he would soon strike, and, while dreading the blow, amused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read the notion in my face for all at once without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and I'm regaining my equilibrium, retired back a step or two from this chair, just for your impudence in answering mama awhile since, said he. And for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes sets! You rat accustomed to john Reed's abuse! I never had an idea of replying to it. My care was how to endure the blow, which would certainly follow the insult. What were you doing behind the curtain? He asked. I was reading. Show the book. I returned to the window and fetched at tents. You have no business. Take our books, you are dependent, Mama says. You have no money. Your father left you, done. 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 that are mama's expense. Now I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves, for they are mine! All the house belongs to me, or we'll do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows. I did so, not at first aware what was his intention, but when I saw him lift and poised the book and stand an act to hurl it. I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm. Not soon enough, however, the volume was flung. It hit me, and I fell striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled. The pain was sharp, my terror had passed its climax. Other feelings succeeded. Wicked and cruel boy! I said, you are like a murderer. You were like a slave driver. You're like the roman emperors. I had read goldsmiths, history of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero caligula etcetera. Also. I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. What! What he cried! Did she say that to me? Did you hear her Eliza and Georgina? Won't I tell mama? But first ran headlong at me. I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder. He had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him. A tyrant! A murderer! I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me Rat rat! And bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him. Eliza, and Georgiana had run for Mrs Reid, who was gone upstairs. She now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbott. We were parted. I heard the words, Dear, dear! What a fury to fly at! Master john! Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion? Then? Mrs Read's have joined. Take her away to the red room and lock her in there. Forehands were immediately laid upon me, and I was born upstairs.