Chapter One

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. The cold winter wind had brought somber clouds and penetrating rain. I was glad. I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons. It was dreadful coming home to Gateshead Hall in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, to be humiliated by my cousins--Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

They were now gathered round their Mama, my aunt Mrs. Reed, in the drawing room. She relaxed on a sofa by the fireside and, with her darlings about her, looked perfectly happy. She had forbidden me from joining the group, saying, “Until you are more sociable and energetic, I really must exclude you from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children.”

“But what have I done?” I asked.

“Jane, I don't like questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child speaking to her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere else; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.”

I slipped into a breakfast room adjoining the drawing room. From the bookcase, I chose a volume full of pictures and, sitting cross-legged in the window seat, drew the red curtain closed. Occasionally I would look out the window at the dreary November day--a pale blank of mist and clouds, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly.

I returned to my book--Bewick’s History of British Birds. There were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass up. They pictured the haunts of sea fowl--the solitary rocks of the coast of Norway. Nor could I pass up the bleak shores of Siberia and Iceland, with the vast sweep of Arctic ice and snow, and those lonely regions of dreary space. From these death-white scenes I formed ideas of my own--shadowy, like the dreams that float dimly through children’s brains.

Each picture told a story, mysterious to my childish understanding, yet deeply interesting--as interesting as the tales that Bessie, the maid, sometimes told on winter evenings, when she happened to be in good humour, and fed us with stories of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads.

With the book 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.

“Madam Miserable!” cried the voice of cousin John. Then he paused, finding the room apparently empty.

“Where the dickens is she?” he continued. “Lizzy! Georgy!” he called to his sisters. “Jane is not here. Tell Mama she has run out into the rain--bad animal!”

It is well that I drew the curtain, I thought, and eagerly wished he might not discover my hiding place. Nor would he have--he was not quick of mind--but Eliza put her head in the door and said at once:

“She is in the window seat, to be sure, Jack.”

I came out immediately, trembling at the idea of being dragged out by Jack.

“What do you want?” I asked, with awkward shyness.

“Say ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’” cried John. “I want you to come here.” Seating himself in an arm chair, he motioned that I should approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old. I was only ten. He was large and stout for his age, with dirty and unhealthy skin, heavy arms and legs, and large hands and feet. He gorged on food at the table, which made him nauseous and irritable, and gave him bleary eyes and flabby cheeks.

He should now be in boarding school, but his Mama had kept him home for a month or two, “on account of his delicate health.” Mr. Miles, the headmaster, suggested that he should have fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent to him from home; but his mother rather thought that John's paleness was due to overwork and longing for home.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and hatred toward me. He bullied and punished me--not two or three times a week, nor once or twice a day, but continually. Every nerve I had was fearful of him, and every bit of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. I stood no chance against his hatred--the servants did not like to offend their young master by defending me, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject. She chose to never see him hitting or abusing me, though he did both in her very presence, but more frequently behind her back.

As usual, I obeyed John’s command and came up to his chair. He spent three minutes thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could. I knew he would soon strike me and, while awaiting the blow, I pondered his disgusting and ugly appearance. All at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I staggered and, after regaining my balance, stepped back from his chair.

“That is for your rudeness in answering Mama before,” said he, “and for sneaking away behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes ago, you rat!”

Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had any thought of striking back; I now prepared for the next blow which would certainly follow the insult.

“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked.

“I was reading.”

“Show me the book.”

I returned to the window and fetched it.

“You have no business to take our books. You are an orphan, Mama says. You have no money--your father left you none. You ought to beg on the street, not live here with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our Mama’s expense. Now I'll teach you to rummage through my bookshelves, for they are mine. The whole house belongs to me, or will in a few years. Go and stand by the door, away from the mirror and the windows.”

I did so, not aware at first what his intention was. But when I saw him lift the book and start to hurl it, I quickly moved 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 pain was sharp and the cut bled. My terror had passed, and now other feelings replaced them.

“Wicked, cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a murderer--you are like a slave driver--you are like the Roman emperors!” I had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome and had formed my own opinion of Nero and Caligula.

“What! What!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? I’ll tell Mama. But first--”

He ran headlong at me. I felt him grab my hair and my shoulder. I truly saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I don’t know what I did to him with my hands, but he called me “Rat! Rat!” and screamed out loud.

Help was near--Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was upstairs. She now came into the room, followed by Bessie and Miss Abbot, the lady’s maid.

We were separated. I heard the words, “Dear! Dear! What fury to fly at Master John!” and “Did ever anybody see such a picture of anger!”

Then Mrs. Reed commanded, “Take her away to the red-room and lock her in there.” Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was carried upstairs.

  Jane Eyre, a novel of stunning power, romance and suspense, follows the spellbinding journey of a poor orphan girl who overcomes cruelty, loneliness, star- vation and heartbreak on her quest for independence as a woman. Jane Eyre is the story of every woman who struggles for equality and dignity in a society that would deny her those rights—as true in Victorian England as it is today.

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Readable Classics gently edits the works of great literature, retaining their original voices, to make them more enjoyable and less frustrating for modern readers.

Readable Classics gently edits great works of literature to provide study aids

for students and make the classics less frustrating for modern readers.