8 The best days， and the worst days

Emily and Anne did know，of course．They had known¹ about Charlotte's book for a long time．Jane Eyre was not the first book that Charlotte had sent to a publisher．Over a year ago she had written another book，The Professor， and sent it to one publisher after another．Each publisher had sent it back，in a packet³ addressed to Currer Bell．And then Charlotte had sent it， in the same old packet，to another publisher， and then another，and got it back again．

'Why didn't you change the paper on the packet， my dear？'I asked．

Charlotte smiled．'I didn't think of it， papa．The worst day was when we were in Manchester，going to the eye doctor．Do you remember？The packet came back then．That was the day before I started writing Jane Eyre．'

'Do you mean that you started writing Jane Eyre while I was lying in that dark room in Manchester？'

'That's right，papa．'

'But that's only six months ago， and here is the book in my hand！'

'Yes，papa．The book was printed a month after I sent it to the publisher．'

'My dear！They decided⁴ very quickly that they liked it，then！'

' I think they did，papa．After all，it is a good book，isn't it？'

She smiled at me． I don't think I have ever seen her so hap－py．She is a very small person，Charlotte，and not a beautiful woman；but when she smiles like that，her face shines like a fine painting．My wife，Maria，used⁵ to look like that sometimes when I first met her．

I took her hand in mine．'It is a very good book，my dear．I cannot tell you how proud I am．'

She touched my hand．'Thank you，papa．But you must not be proud of me alone，you know．Anne and Emily-'

'Oh no，Charlotte，please！'Emily said．

But Charlotte did not stop．'…．Anne and Emily have writ－ten books too-books just as good as mine—and their books will soon be published⁶ as well！Let me introduce you，papa．These young ladies are not your daughters— they are Acton Bell and Ellis Bell，brothers of the famous writer Currer Bell！'

Emily's face was bright red， but Anne and Charlotte started laughing．I was very surprised．

'All three of you！'I said．'But…but why do you use these strange names？'

'Because people are stupid，papa，'Anne said．'No one thinks women can write good books，so we have used men's names instead．And now they say that Currer Bell is a writer who understands women very well！'She laughed again．

'My dears，my dears！' I held out my hands to them， and kissed each of them in turn．'I don't know what to say．I am so pleased for you all．You have made your old papa happy to－day．'Something in Emily's face stopped me．'Emily？You will let me read your book，won't you？'

She thought for a moment．'Yes，papa．Of course．But… it's very different from Charlotte's．I'm not sure you'll like it．'

'You yourself are very different from Charlotte，my dear，but I love you both．You must show me the book as soon as it comes-and you too，Anne．'

I read both their books that winter．They were very differ－ent．Anne's book-Agnes Grey-was the story of an un－happy governess．As I read it，I was sad to think how miserable⁷ Anne had been，in a big house away from home，where no one understood her．It was a good book，but it was harder to read than Jane Eyre．

Emily's book was called Wuthering Heights．It was a terri－ble，frightening，wonderful story．There is love in it，and hate，and fear，and a man called Heathcliff，who is strong and cruel⁸ like the devill himself．I read it late one night when the wind was screaming⁹ round the house， blowing snow against all the windows，and sometimes I was afraid． When I got up to go to bed，I saw Emily sitting quietly by the fire．She was stroking¹⁰ her big dog，Keeper，with one hand，and drawing¹¹ a picture with the other．

She looked like a quiet，gentle young woman，I thought．Tall，pretty，and also… There was something different about her．Something very strange and very strong．There was some－thing in her that was stronger than any of her sisters，even Charlotte．Something stronger than even me，or her brother Branwell．

Much stronger than Branwell．

All that year Branwell was very ill．He spent more and more time drinking．He slept most of the day，and was awake half of then night．His face was white，his hands shook when he tried to write．His sisters didn't tell him about their books，or show him the new ones that they were writing．They were afraid that he would be unhappy about their success，because he had wanted to be a writer himself．He made life hard for all of us．

Is September 1848 he became very ill．He coughed all day and all night．He began to talk of death，and asked us to pray¹² with him．While we stood together，praying，he began to cough again．He fell to the ground．Emily and I put our arms round him，but he couldn't get up． There was blood on his mouth，and on Emily's dress．

When he stopped coughing，it was because he had stopped breathing．My only son was dead．

We buried¹⁴ him in the church beside his mother and little sis－ters．It was a cold，rainy afternoon．There were dead wet leaves in the graveyard，and the wind blew rain into our faces．I came back into the house soon afterwards，but Emily walked for an hour or two in the rain with her dog，Keeper．When she came back into the house，her dress was wet through．

Several days later Emily became ill．Her face was hot，she couldn't eat，she kept moving round the house．It was difficult for her to breathe，and it took her a long time to climb the stairs．Charlotte felt her heart—it was beating a hundred and fifteen times a minute．

'Let me call a doctor，Emily，' Charlotte said．

But Emily refused．'If he comes，I won't talk to him．'

'Then go to bed and rest，please．I can light a fire in your room，and bring you milk and read to you if you like．You need rest，sister！'

'I…do…not！'said Emily slowly．She had to breathe¹⁵ hard between each word，and her face was as white as Branwell's had been．'My body…doesn't… matter now．I don't…care…about it．I'll live…as I always…have．'

And so，every day，she got up at seven o'clock，dressed her－self，and stayed downstairs until ten at night．She ate little or nothing，and coughed for hours．Sometimes she coughed blood．She never went out of the house，but one day Charlotte brought some heather from the moors¹⁶ for her to look at． Emily was lying on the black sofa in the sitting－room．Her dog，Keep－er，lay on the floor in front of her．

'Look，Emily，'Charlotte said．'I've found some purple heather for you．There are still one or two flowers left on the moor．

'Where？'Emily asked．

'Here．Look．'Charlotte held out the small，bright purple flower．

Emily turned and looked at Charlotte， but I don't think she could see the heather．Her eyes were too bad． Charlotte put it in Emily's hands，but after a moment Emily dropped it on the floor．

At last she said：'Charlotte，I…will see…the doctor now． If he…comes．'Then she closed her eyes．

Emily was so thin，and her white skin looked like paper． I knew it was too late，but I said to Anne：'Quick！Put on your coat and fetch¹⁸ him，now！'

We did not have long to wait．The doctor came，half an hour later，to tell us what we already knew． Emily，my daughter，was dead．

1848 was a year of funerals．I buried many children from the village that year．There was a lot of sadness²⁰ in Haworth．As I came out of the church with the dead flowers from Emily's grave，I saw three other families walk past me．They had come to visit the graves²¹ of their own dead children．

The people understood that their children were with God，but no one could explain that to Emily's dog，Keeper．He fol－lowed us to her funeral，and for weeks afterwards，he lay out－side her bedroom and howled．

8 最好的和最坏的日子

爱米丽和安妮当然知道，她们知道夏洛蒂写了这本书已经很长时间了。《简•爱》并不是夏洛蒂寄给出版商的第一部书。一年多以前她写过另一本书，名叫《教授》，寄给了一个又一个出版商。可是每次都被退了回来，包裹上写着柯勒•贝尔的名字。夏洛蒂又把包裹按原样寄出，结果还是一样。

“可你为什么不把包裹上的纸换一下呢？我亲爱的？”我问。

夏洛蒂笑了。“我没有想过这个，爸爸，最坏的一天是我们在曼彻斯特，要去看眼科医生之前，您还记得吗？就在那时包裹被退回来了，那是我开始写《简•爱》的前一天。”

“你是说就是与我躺在曼彻斯特的黑屋子里的时候，你开始写《简•爱》的？”

“对啊，爸爸。”

“可那只是6个月以前的事啊，现在这本书就已经在我手里了！”

“是的，爸爸。我把稿子寄给出版商一个月后，这本书就开始印刷了。”

“亲爱的，也就是说他们很快就决定了他们喜欢你的书！”

“我想是这样，爸爸。毕竟，这的确是一本好书，对吗？”

她朝我微笑着，我觉得还从未见过她这么快活过。夏洛蒂个子矮小，也并不美丽；但当她那样微笑时，脸上就焕发出光彩，宛如一幅精美的画。当我刚碰到我妻子玛丽亚时，她有时看上去也是这个样子。

我把她的手握在我手中。“这是一本非常好的书，亲爱的，我说不出有多自豪。”

她抚摸着我的手。“谢谢您，爸爸。可您不能只为我一个人自豪呀，您知道吗，还有安妮和爱米丽——”

“噢，不，夏洛蒂，请你别说！”爱米丽说。

但是夏洛蒂并没有停下来。“安妮和爱米丽也写了和我一样好的书——她们的书很快也要出版了。让我来介绍一下，爸爸。这些年轻的女士不是您的女儿——她们是阿克顿•贝尔和埃利斯•贝尔，作家柯勒•贝尔的兄弟！”

爱米丽的脸通红放光，而安妮和夏洛蒂开始放声大笑。我非常惊讶。

“你们三个都出书了！”我说，“不过……不过你们为什么用这些古怪的名字呢？”

“因为人们愚蠢，爸爸。”安妮说，“谁也不相信女人能写出好书，所以我们就用男人的名字代替。现在他们说柯勒•贝尔是一个非常了解女人的作家。”她又笑了起来。

“亲爱的，亲爱的孩子们！”我伸出手搂住她们，挨个亲了亲。“我简直不知道说什么好了。我真为你们高兴。你们今天可让你们的老爸爸开心了！”爱米丽脸上的表情让我停了下来。“爱米丽，你也会让我读你的书，是吗？”

她想了一会儿说：“是的，爸爸。当然。但是它和夏洛蒂的书非常不一样。我不敢保证您会喜欢它。”

“你自己就和夏洛蒂非常不同啊，亲爱的，可你们两个我都喜欢。等你的书一出来，你一定要马上给我看。还有你，安妮。”

那年冬天我读了她们俩的书。它们的确大不一样。安妮的书——《艾格尼丝•格雷》——是写一个不快乐的女家庭教师。我一边读，一边难过地想：在安妮离开家，去那所大房子的日子里，她的处境曾多么悲惨；在那儿没有人理解她。这是本好书，但比《简•爱》晦涩些。

爱米丽的书叫做《呼啸山庄》，那是一个骇人而奇异的故事。它描述了爱情、仇恨、恐惧和一个叫希斯克利夫的男人，他强壮、冷酷，像一个魔鬼。我读它的那天夜里，风在屋子周围呼啸着，把雪吹到每一扇窗户上，有几次我简直被吓坏了。当我起身去卧室时，看见爱米丽静静地坐在炉火旁，一只手抚摸着他的“管家”，另一只手在画画。

她看上去是个安静而温柔的年轻姑娘，我想，个子高挑、漂亮、而且……有些与众不同。她有一种非常奇特、非常坚强的东西。她身上有种比她任何姐妹都要坚强的东西，甚至超过了夏洛蒂，超过了我和她的哥哥布兰韦尔。

她强过布兰韦尔许多许多。

那一年布兰韦尔病得非常厉害。他花更多的时间在喝酒上。白天差不多整天睡觉，半夜里才醒来。他脸色苍白，手一写字就哆嗦。他的姐妹们没有和他讲过她们的书，也没有给他看过她们正在写的新书。她们害怕他会因为她们的成功而难过，因为他自己本来想当作家。他让我们大家的日子都不好过。

1848年9月，他病得更重了，整日整夜地咳嗽。他开始谈到死亡，并让我们和他一起祷告。当我们站在一起祷告时，他又咳嗽起来。他摔倒在地板上。爱米丽和我用胳膊抱住他，可他站不起来了。他嘴里流出了血，流到爱米丽的衣服上。

他不再咳嗽了，因为他停止了呼吸。我唯一的儿子死了。

我们把他埋在教堂，挨着他妈妈和他的小姐姐们。那是个寒冷的、阴雨连绵的下午。墓地上铺着枯叶，风把冷雨吹到我们脸上。后来我很快回到屋里，可爱米丽带着“管家”在雨中走了一两个小时。等她回家时，衣服全湿透了。

几天后，爱米丽病倒了。她的脸在发烧，吃不下东西，可她仍然在房子周围走来走去。她呼吸困难，上楼梯要花很长时间。夏洛蒂试了试她的心跳——1分钟跳到了115次。

“我去叫医生吧，爱米丽。”夏洛蒂说。

可爱米丽拒绝了。“如果他来，我就不理他。”

“那么上床休息吧，求你了。我给你在房间生上火，再给你端杯牛奶。如果你愿意，我念书给你听。你需要休息，妹妹。”

“我……不……需要！”爱米丽慢慢地说。每说一个字她都要艰难地喘半天气，脸色像布兰韦尔的一样苍白。“我的身体……没有……关系。我不……在乎。我要……和往常……一样。”

这样，每天她7点钟起床，穿好衣服，在楼下呆到晚上10点。她吃得很少，或者干脆不吃，几个小时地咳嗽。有时咳出了血。她再也没出过门。但有一天夏洛蒂从荒野摘了些石楠来给她看。爱米丽躺在客厅的黑沙发上，她的“管家”趴在她前面的地板上。

“看，爱米丽。”夏洛蒂说，“我给你采了些紫石楠花，野地里有一两朵还没凋谢。”

“在哪儿？”爱米丽问。

“这儿，看。”夏洛蒂递过紫色的小花。

爱米丽转过头来看着夏洛蒂，可我觉得她看不见石楠了。她的视力太糟了。夏洛蒂把花放到爱米丽手中，可过了一会儿，爱米丽把花掉到了地板上。

终于她说：“夏洛蒂，我……要看……医生了，如果他……能来的话。”说完她闭上眼睛。

爱米丽已经非常消瘦，苍白的皮肤看上去像纸一般。我知道已经太迟了，可还是对安妮说：“快，穿上外套去叫医生，马上！”

没等多久——半小时以后医生就来了。他告诉了我们已知道的消息。爱米丽，我的女儿，她死了。

1848年是个葬礼之年，那年我主持了村中许多孩子的葬礼。霍沃斯充满悲哀的气氛。当我拿着爱米丽墓前枯萎的花从教堂里出来时，还看见另外3家人从我身旁走过，他们也是来给自己死去的孩子扫墓的。

人们知道他们的孩子是和上帝在一起了，但没有人能给爱米丽的“管家”解释这个。它跟着我们参加了她的葬礼，以后好几个星期，它躺在她的卧室门外，叫着。