7 Currer， Ellis，and Acton Bell 
　  
　　At about this time，in 1845，I was almost blind．I had a new curate to do my work-Arthur Nicholls，a young man of twenty－eight．He came from Northern Ireland like my－self．He was a good，hard worker．I spoke in the church on Sundays，but Arthur Nicholls did the rest of my work． 
　　Branwell became worse and worse．Mr Robinson died in 1846，but Mrs Robinson didn't marry Branwell—oh no！She was a cold wicked woman．She sent my son Branwell away，and later married a rich old man．And so Branwell spent more and more time drinking，and taking laudanum，and walking alone on the moors． 
　　When you are blind， you listen to things very carefully．I used to sit alone in my room and listen to the sounds of the wind outside the house．The wind talks and whispers and sings -it has many voices．I listened to the sounds of the clock on the stairs，and the wood in the fire，and the footsteps and voices of the girls walking round the house．They talked a lot to each other，and sometimes I could hear what they said，even when they were in another room． 
　　Anne had had a poem published in a magazine，and one day I heard a conversation between Charlotte and Emily．Charlotte had found something that Emily had written， and was talking to her about it． 
　　'But they're wonderful，Emily，'Charlotte said．'They're much better than mine or Anne's．' 
　　'They're not for people to read，'Emily said．'They're part of the Gondal story．Nobody would understand them，except me and Anne．' 
　　I realized that they were talking about some poems of Emily's．I knew that Emily and Anne wrote a lot about the country of Gondal，but I didn't know much about it．Emily kept all her papers locked in her desk． 
　　Charlotte was arguing with her．'Emily，listen to me！ These are fine poems．I think we should put some of them in a book，togetner with mine and Anne's，and try to publish it．People should read them！' 
　　'No！'Emily shouted．Then her dog Keeper began to bark，and I didn't hear any more．But I think they talked about this again several times．I often heard voices arguing，and usually they never argued about their writing． 
　　I wanted to tell them not to do it．I had published several small books myself，but I always lost money．I had to pay the publisher to print the books，and not many people bought them．It's an easy way to lose money．But I was too ill，so I said nothing． 
　　I learnt，many years later，that they paid over￡30 to have a book of poems printed，and that it sold two copies．I am not surprised that they didn't tell me about it； we had very little 
　　I began to feel that there was something wrong with my head，as well as my eyes．Several times the postman brought an old packet to our house，which was addressed to a man called Currer Bell．I told him that no Currer Bell lived in Haworth，and sent him away．But then，a month or two later，he came back again，with the same old packet． 
　　In the summer of 1846 Charlotte took me to see an eye doc－tor in Manchester．We stayed in rooms in the town．The doctor decided to operate on my eyes， and the next morning we got up early．I was afraid．Could I hold my head still while the doctor cut into my eyes with a knife？ Perhaps the pain would be too terrible．Perhaps I would move，or stand up， or… 
　　Charlotte held my hand．As we left our rooms，we met a postman． 
　　'Good morning，Miss，'he said．'There's packet here for Currer Bell．' 
　　'Oh…thank you．'Charlotte sounded sad，but she took the packet，and put it in her room．She did not open it．Then we walked to the eye doctor's． 
　　The pain was terrible，but it was over in fifteen minutes， and I didn't move．Afterwards，I had to lie on a bed in a dark room．We couldn't go home for a month．A nurse came some－times，but Charlotte stayed with me all day． 
　　I asked her once about the packet．She said：' Oh，it's for a friend of mine，papa．It had a letter for me in it．I have posted it away again now．' 
　　I didn't understand，but I didn't ask again．I lay quietly on my bed most of the day， 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成一本书，试着出版。人们应该读到它们！” 
　　“不！”爱米丽喊道。她的“管家”也跟着叫了起来，我就听不清后面的谈话了。但我想她们就这个话题又谈了好几次。我经常听到争论的声音，一般来说，她们从不会为写作而争论的。 
　　我想劝她们不要出书。我曾出过几本自己的书，但总是赔钱。我得付钱给出版商印书，而并没有多少人买这些书。这真是一桩太容易亏本的事。但我病得很厉害，就什么也没说。 
　　很多年以后，我了解到她们付了30英镑印这本诗集，只卖了两本。她们瞒着我，我倒不觉得奇怪；家里的钱太少了。 
　　我觉得我的脑子开始出毛病了，眼睛也不对劲。有几次邮差给我们送一个旧包裹来，上面写着柯勒·贝尔先生收。我告诉他霍沃斯没有叫这个名字的人，可两个月后，他又把同一个包裹送了过来。 
　　1846年的夏天，夏洛蒂带我去曼彻斯特看眼科大夫。我们住在镇上的房子里，大夫决定给我的眼睛做手术，第二天我们起得很早。我有点害怕。当医生用刀切到我的眼睛时，我的头能保持不动吗？也许会疼得很厉害。也许我会动，会站起来，或是…… 
　　夏洛蒂握着我的手，我们离开家时，碰上了一个邮差。 
　　“早上好，小姐，”他说，“这儿有个给柯勒·贝尔的包裹。” 
　　“哦，谢谢。”夏洛蒂听上去有些难过，但她接过包裹，把它放回房间。她并没有打开。然后我们去了眼科大夫那儿。 
　　手术非常痛苦，好在15分钟就结束了。我坚持着没有动。之后我躺在一间黑屋子里的床上。在医院里我们呆了1个月，不能回家。有个护士不时来一下，夏洛蒂则一天到晚地陪着我。 
　　我曾问起她包裹的事。她说：“哦，那包裹是寄给我一个朋友的，爸爸。里面有一封给我的信，我现在已经把它寄走了。” 
　　我听不太明白，但没有再问。我整天差不多都静静地躺在床上，夏洛蒂则在隔壁的屋子里写作。她写得很快，一连写好几个钟头，一次也不停笔。她看上去很安静，却又莫名其妙地有些高兴。 
　　我也挺高兴。医生做的手术挺成功，我又能看见东西了。这真是太好了——所有东西的色彩和形状都是那么美丽。当我们回到霍沃斯时，我终于能清楚地看见每一样东西了——家、教堂、墓地、荒野、我的爱米丽和安妮的脸庞。 
　　还有布兰韦尔。 
　　布兰韦尔的脸看上去有些吓人。他的脸又苍白又消瘦，眼睛又大又黑，头发蓬乱。他的衣服肮脏，气味难闻，双手抖个不停。他不住地叫喊、哭泣，而且每天都向我要钱。 
　　夜里我让他睡在我的房里，他就一连几个小时地给我讲罗宾逊太太，让我没法睡觉。我还记得他的那些画和故事，他那快活、孩子般的笑声。我聪明的好儿子现在成了一个酒鬼。 
　　1846年的冬天非常寒冷，风把雪花吹起来，在屋子四周和墓地上空盘旋。村子里大批的孩子死去了。安妮也生病了，布兰韦尔更糟糕。我们在每间屋于里都生起了火，可是早上窗户内层还是结了冰。我把大部分时间都花在陪布兰韦尔上，没有太注意女儿们。 
　　后来，一天下午，夏洛蒂来到我的房间。我坐在现在的这把椅子上，就在炉火旁。她手里拿着本书，脸上带着一种奇怪的快乐表情。 
　　“爸爸，”她说，“我在写本书。” 
　　我微笑着说：“是吗，亲爱的？”我以为她又写了本关于安哥利亚的小书。 
　　“是啊，我还想让您读读呢。” 
　　“噢，恐怕会太伤我的眼睛的。”我的眼睛虽然好了，但是安哥利亚故事里纤细的笔迹对我来说还是太小了些。 
　　“哦，不！”她说，“不是我手写的，而是印刷的。”然后她把手里的书递了过来。 
　　“亲爱的，想想这得花很多钱！你几乎肯定要赔钱的，因为没有人会买！没有人知道你的名字！” 
　　“我倒不这么看；爸爸，要知道我没有付印刷费。出版商付给我钱。听听，这些杂志上人们是怎么说这本书的。” 
　　她坐下来，给我念英国最有名的一些杂志上的文章。那上面有几篇长长的文章，都是谈论一本叫做《简·爱》的书，作者是柯勒·贝尔。那些评论都很善意，大多数作者都很喜欢这本书。 
　　“这个柯勒·贝尔，那么说就是你啰？”我问。 
　　夏洛蒂大笑起来。“是呵，爸爸。这是个男人的名字，但和我的名字有同样的字母开头。” 
　　她把书给我，就出去了。我开始读它。 
　　我想我读了两个钟头，却好像只有10分钟，这是本奇妙而美丽的书——关于一个叫简·爱的女孩的故事。她父母死了，所以和一个坏舅妈及她的孩子们住在一起，后来简去了一个叫劳渥德的学校，那是个可怕的地方，非常像考恩桥的那所学校。简·爱最好的朋友，海伦·彭斯，在学校染上了病，死了。这个海伦就像是我的小玛丽亚。当我读到她的死时，双眼噙满泪水。但这确是一本优美的书。我简直不想把它放下来。 
　　5点钟我起身走进客厅，我的3个女儿都在那儿等着我。她们的眼睛都闪着亮。我的眼里还含着眼泪，可脸上带着舒心的笑容。我举起《简·爱》，说：“孩子们，你们知道夏洛蒂写了本书吗？它简直棒极了，你们知道吗——确实非常、非常好！” 
　　　    


 