Джейн Эйр

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ-93
 
Б 88

ISBN 978-5-9925-0306-7

Бронте Ш.
Б 88 Джен Эйр: Книга для чтения на английском 
языке. — СПб.: КАРО, 2010. — 512 с. — (Серия 
«Classical Literature»).

ISBN 978-5-9925-0306-7

История страданий и обретения счастья бедной сиротки 
Джен Эйр, описанная замечательной английской писательницей Шарлоттой Бронте (1816–1855), известна всем. С невзгодами и лишениями героине романа помогли справиться 
сила духа, цельность характера, бескомпромиссность, смирение и бесконечное терпение. Добродетельность, чистая 
душа, верность и вера творят настоящие чудеса.
В книге приводится неадаптированный текст на языке 
оригинала с незначительными сокращениями, снабженный 
комментариями и словарем.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2009

А

нглийская писательница Шарлотта Бронте родилась 
22 июня 1816 года в семье сельского священника в 
Йоркшире. Ее мать умерла, оставив своему бедному 
мужу семью из пяти дочерей и сына. Шарлотте в ту пору 
было всего пять лет. Две ее старшие сестры в 1824 году поступили в школу в Ковен-Бридже, но год спустя вернулись 
больными и умерли одна за другой. Девятилетняя Шарлотта вынуждена была взять на себя обязанности хозяйки дома 
и заботу о младших сестрах и брате и продолжала образование дома, отдаваясь своей склонности к писательству.
Весной 1846 года Шарлотта и ее младшие сестры Эмилия и Энн решились выступить с первыми плодами своей 
литературной деятельности. Вышел в свет небольшой томик их стихов под мужскими псевдонимами Коррер (Шарлотта), Эллис (Эмилия) и Актон (Энн) Бель. К сожалению, 
книга осталась незамеченной публикой.
В 1849 году появился роман «Джен Эйр», завоевавший 
огромный успех и переведенный на многие европейские 
языки. Не много найдется книг с неизвестным именем автора на обложке, которые были бы встречены с таким бесспорным одобрением. К автору возник всеобщий интерес, 
но скромная писательница не открывала своего настоящего 
имени.
На фоне трагических обстоятельств жизни писательницы (в сентябре 1848 года умер ее младший брат, в декабре 
того же года — Эмилия, в мае следующего — Энн) вышел в 
свет второй роман Шарлотты Бронте «Шерли» (1849), вызвавший к себе огромный интерес мастерски нарисованной 
картиной жизни рабочих в провинции. Перед Шарлоттой 
открылись двери лучших литературных кружков Лондона, 

CHARLOTTE BRONTЁ. JANE EYRE

но привыкшая к уединению писательница тяготилась общественным вниманием, и почти все время Бронте проводила 
в своем старом доме. В 1853 году вышел в свет ее последний 
роман «Городок».
В следующем году Шарлотта вышла замуж за Артура 
Николлса Бейлля, священника в приходе своего отца, но уже 
31 марта 1855 года она скончалась, сильно простудившись 
во время одной из прогулок по своим любимым вересковым 
лугам. Простуда вызвала обострение туберкулеза, от которого умерли все ее сестры и мать.
Шарлотта Бронте считается одной из талантливейших 
представительниц школы Теккерея, ее любимого писателя. 
Обладая нервным и впечатлительным темпераментом, она 
владела тем, что Гёте называл секретом гения — способностью проникнуться индивидуальностью и субъективным настроением постороннего лица. Она с поразительной яркостью изображала все, что ей приходилось видеть 
и чувствовать. Если иногда чрезмерная яркость образов 
переходит в некоторую грубость красок, а излишний мелодраматизм в положениях и сентиментальный финал 
ослабляют художественное впечатление, то реализм, с которым изображены события, разворачивающиеся в ее романах, делает незаметными эти недостатки.

CHAPTER I

Chapter I

T

here was no possibility of taking a walk that day. 
We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafl ess 
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 sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.
Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered 
round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fi reside, and with her darlings 
about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) 
looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from 
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 in good earnest1 
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.

1 in good earnest — (разг.) совершенно серьезно

CHARLOTTE BRONTЁ. JANE EYRE

“Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, 
there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up 
her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and 
until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.”
A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I 
slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a 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 moreen curtain nearly close, 
I was shrined in double retirement.
At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my 
book, I studied the aspect of that winter aft ernoon. 
Afar, it off ered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a 
scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless 
rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lament able 
blast.
I returned to my book — Bewick’s History of British 
Birds: the letterpress thereof 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. 
Th ey were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; 
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.
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 of dreary 
space, — that reservoir of frost and snow, where fi rm 
fi elds of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, 
glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the 

CHAPTER I

pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme 
cold.” Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my 
own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions 
that fl oat dim through children’s brains, but strangely 
impressive. Th e words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and 
gave signifi cance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of 
billow 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.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy 
at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, 
and that came too soon. Th e breakfast-room door 
opened.
“Boh! Madam Mope1!” cried the voice of John Reed; 
then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.
“Where the dickens is she!” he continued. “Lizzy! 
Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Jane 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 he might not discover my hiding-place: nor 
would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not 
quick either of 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 trembled at the 
idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.
“What do you want?” I asked, with awkward diffi  dence.
“Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’” was the answer. “I want you to come here;” and seating himself in 

1 Madam Mope — (уничижит.) мадам Плакса

CHARLOTTE BRONTЁ. JANE EYRE

an arm-chair, he intimated by 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 but ten: large and stout 
for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick 
lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large 
extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which 
made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye 
and fl abby 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, affi  rmed that he would do very well if he had fewer 
cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the 
mother’s heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and 
inclined rather to the more refi ned idea that John’s sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to 
pining aft er home.
Habitually 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 without damaging the roots: 
I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the 
blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance 
of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read 
that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on 
regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two 
from his chair.
“Th at is 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 since, you rat! Now, I’ll teach 
you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all 
the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go 

CHAPTER I

and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and 
the windows.”
I did so, not at fi rst aware what was his intention; but 
when I saw him lift  and poise the book and stand in act 
to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: 
not soon enough, however; the volume was fl ung, it hit 
me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. Th e 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 are like a slave-driver — you are like the 
Roman emperors!”
 “What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? 
Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell 
mama? but fi rst — ”
He 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 suff ering: 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. Reed, who was gone 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 fl y at Master John!”
“Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!”
Th en Mrs. Reed subjoined: “Take her away to the 
red-room, and lock her in there.” Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

CHARLOTTE BRONTЁ. JANE EYRE

Chapter II

“F

or shame!1 for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid. 
“What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike 
a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! 
Your young master.”
Th ey had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: 
my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two 
pair of hands arrested 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.”
Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. Th is preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.
“Don’t take them off ,” I cried; “I will not stir.”
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat 
by my hands.
Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she 
said, “You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under 
obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to 
turn you off , you would have to go to the poorhouse.”

1 For shame! — (разг.) Как не стыдно!