03-02-03-勃朗特一家的故事 [11]
， and Charlotte sat in the next room writing．She wrote very fast，for many hours， and never put her pen down once．She seemed quiet，but strangely happy．
I was happy too．The doctor had helped；I could see again．It was wonderful-the colours，the shapes of everything were beautiful．When we came back to Haworth，I could see every-thing clearly at last-our home，the church，the graveyard，the moors， the faces of my Emily and Anne！
And Branwell．
Branwell's face looked terrible．White， thin，with big dark eyes and untidy hair．His clothes were dirty，he smelt， his hands shook．All the time he was either shouting or crying．And always， every day，he asked me for money．
I let him sleep in my room at night，and he kept me awake for hours talking about Mrs Robinson．I remembered his paint－ings，his stories，his happy childish laughter．My fine， clever son had become a drunken animal．
The winter of 1846 was terribly cold．The wind blew snow around the house and over the gravestones．A lot of children died in the village．Anne was ill，Branwell was worse．We lit fires in all the rooms，but there was ice inside the windows in the mornings．I spent most of my time with Branwell，so I didn't think very much about the girls．
And then，one afternoon，Charlotte came into my room．I was sitting here，in this same chair，beside the fire．She had a book in her hand， and that strange，happy look on her face．
'Papa，'she said．'I've been writing a book．'
I smiled．'Have you，my dear？'I thought she had written another little book about Angria．
'Yes， and I want you to read it．'
'Oh，I'm afraid it will hurt my eyes too much．'My eyes were much better，but the tiny writing in the Angria books was too small for me．
'Oh no，'she said．'It's not in my handwriting；it is printed．'She held out the book in her hand．
'My dear！Think how much it will cost！You will almost certainly lose money，because no one will buy it！No one knows your name ！'
'I don't think so，father．I didn't pay to get it printed，you know．The publishers paid me．Listen to what people say about it in these magazines．'
She sat down， and read to me from some of the most famous magazines in England．There were long articles in them，about a book called Jane Eyre， by Currer Bell．They were kind arti－cles；most of the magazine writers liked the book．
'This Currer Bell， then，'I ashed．'Is it you？'
Charlotte laughed．'Yes，papa．It's a man's name， with the same first letters：CB—Charlotte Bront， Currer Bell．'
She gave me the book，and went out．I began to read．
I think I read for two hours， but it seemed like ten minutes．It was a wonderful，beautiful book—the story of a little girl called Jane Eyre．Her parents are dead，so she lives with an un－kind aunt and her children．Then Jane goes away to a school called Lowood．This school is a terrible place，and it is very like the school at Cowan Bridge．Jane Eyre's best friend， Helen Burns，falls ill at the school， and dies． This Helen is just like my own little Maria．When I read about her death，my eyes fillled with tears．But it was a beautiful book， too；I did not want to put it down．
At five o'clock I got up and went into the sitting－room． My three daughters sat there waiting for me．Their eyes were very bright．I still had tears in my eyes，but I had a big smile on my face too．I held up Jane Eyre in my hand，and said：'Girls，do you know Charlotte has written a book？ And it is more than good， you know—it is very， very fine indeed！'
■ 7 柯勒、埃利斯和阿克顿·贝尔
大约是在1845年，我几乎全瞎了。我请了一个新的副牧师替我工作，他就是亚瑟·尼可斯，一个28岁的年轻人。和我一样他来自北爱尔兰。他人很好，工作也勤奋。我只在星期天讲道，其余的活儿都是亚瑟·尼可斯干。
布兰韦尔越来越糟了，罗宾逊先生死于1846年，可罗宾逊太太并没有嫁给他。——噢，没有！她是个冷血的、邪恶的女人，她把我儿子打发掉，自己后来嫁给了一个老富翁。这样布兰韦尔花越来越多的时间喝酒和鸦片酊，或者一个人在荒野上踱步。
当人眼睛瞎后，听东西就会格外仔细。我常常一个人坐在自己的房间里，听着屋外风的声音。风儿说着、低语着、唱着——它有很多种声调。我也听着楼梯上大钟的嘀哒嘀哒的响声，炉火中木柴的噼叭声以及女儿们在房子里的踱步声。她们经常谈论许多事，有时我还能听见她们谈话的内容，即使她们是在另一个房间。
安妮有一首诗在杂志上发表了。一天我听到了夏洛蒂和爱米丽之间的谈话，夏洛蒂读到了爱米丽写的东西，正和她谈论着。
“可它们很棒啊，爱米丽。”夏洛蒂说，“它们比我和安妮的强多了。”
“那不是写给外人看的，”爱米丽说，“它们是哥恩达尔故事的一部分，除了我和安妮，没有谁能懂。”
我听出来她们在谈论爱米丽的诗。我知道她和安妮写了很多关于哥恩达尔的故事。但我了解的不多。爱米丽把她所有的诗稿都锁在自己的书桌里。
夏洛蒂和她争论道：“爱米丽，听我的！这些都是好诗，我觉得我们应该把它同我和安妮的诗一起编
I was happy too．The doctor had helped；I could see again．It was wonderful-the colours，the shapes of everything were beautiful．When we came back to Haworth，I could see every-thing clearly at last-our home，the church，the graveyard，the moors， the faces of my Emily and Anne！
And Branwell．
Branwell's face looked terrible．White， thin，with big dark eyes and untidy hair．His clothes were dirty，he smelt， his hands shook．All the time he was either shouting or crying．And always， every day，he asked me for money．
I let him sleep in my room at night，and he kept me awake for hours talking about Mrs Robinson．I remembered his paint－ings，his stories，his happy childish laughter．My fine， clever son had become a drunken animal．
The winter of 1846 was terribly cold．The wind blew snow around the house and over the gravestones．A lot of children died in the village．Anne was ill，Branwell was worse．We lit fires in all the rooms，but there was ice inside the windows in the mornings．I spent most of my time with Branwell，so I didn't think very much about the girls．
And then，one afternoon，Charlotte came into my room．I was sitting here，in this same chair，beside the fire．She had a book in her hand， and that strange，happy look on her face．
'Papa，'she said．'I've been writing a book．'
I smiled．'Have you，my dear？'I thought she had written another little book about Angria．
'Yes， and I want you to read it．'
'Oh，I'm afraid it will hurt my eyes too much．'My eyes were much better，but the tiny writing in the Angria books was too small for me．
'Oh no，'she said．'It's not in my handwriting；it is printed．'She held out the book in her hand．
'My dear！Think how much it will cost！You will almost certainly lose money，because no one will buy it！No one knows your name ！'
'I don't think so，father．I didn't pay to get it printed，you know．The publishers paid me．Listen to what people say about it in these magazines．'
She sat down， and read to me from some of the most famous magazines in England．There were long articles in them，about a book called Jane Eyre， by Currer Bell．They were kind arti－cles；most of the magazine writers liked the book．
'This Currer Bell， then，'I ashed．'Is it you？'
Charlotte laughed．'Yes，papa．It's a man's name， with the same first letters：CB—Charlotte Bront， Currer Bell．'
She gave me the book，and went out．I began to read．
I think I read for two hours， but it seemed like ten minutes．It was a wonderful，beautiful book—the story of a little girl called Jane Eyre．Her parents are dead，so she lives with an un－kind aunt and her children．Then Jane goes away to a school called Lowood．This school is a terrible place，and it is very like the school at Cowan Bridge．Jane Eyre's best friend， Helen Burns，falls ill at the school， and dies． This Helen is just like my own little Maria．When I read about her death，my eyes fillled with tears．But it was a beautiful book， too；I did not want to put it down．
At five o'clock I got up and went into the sitting－room． My three daughters sat there waiting for me．Their eyes were very bright．I still had tears in my eyes，but I had a big smile on my face too．I held up Jane Eyre in my hand，and said：'Girls，do you know Charlotte has written a book？ And it is more than good， you know—it is very， very fine indeed！'
■ 7 柯勒、埃利斯和阿克顿·贝尔
大约是在1845年，我几乎全瞎了。我请了一个新的副牧师替我工作，他就是亚瑟·尼可斯，一个28岁的年轻人。和我一样他来自北爱尔兰。他人很好，工作也勤奋。我只在星期天讲道，其余的活儿都是亚瑟·尼可斯干。
布兰韦尔越来越糟了，罗宾逊先生死于1846年，可罗宾逊太太并没有嫁给他。——噢，没有！她是个冷血的、邪恶的女人，她把我儿子打发掉，自己后来嫁给了一个老富翁。这样布兰韦尔花越来越多的时间喝酒和鸦片酊，或者一个人在荒野上踱步。
当人眼睛瞎后，听东西就会格外仔细。我常常一个人坐在自己的房间里，听着屋外风的声音。风儿说着、低语着、唱着——它有很多种声调。我也听着楼梯上大钟的嘀哒嘀哒的响声，炉火中木柴的噼叭声以及女儿们在房子里的踱步声。她们经常谈论许多事，有时我还能听见她们谈话的内容，即使她们是在另一个房间。
安妮有一首诗在杂志上发表了。一天我听到了夏洛蒂和爱米丽之间的谈话，夏洛蒂读到了爱米丽写的东西，正和她谈论着。
“可它们很棒啊，爱米丽。”夏洛蒂说，“它们比我和安妮的强多了。”
“那不是写给外人看的，”爱米丽说，“它们是哥恩达尔故事的一部分，除了我和安妮，没有谁能懂。”
我听出来她们在谈论爱米丽的诗。我知道她和安妮写了很多关于哥恩达尔的故事。但我了解的不多。爱米丽把她所有的诗稿都锁在自己的书桌里。
夏洛蒂和她争论道：“爱米丽，听我的！这些都是好诗，我觉得我们应该把它同我和安妮的诗一起编