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Jane Eyre [Anglais] [Broché]

Charlotte Brontë
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Description de l'ouvrage

5 mai 1992 Wordsworth Classics
"Jane Eyre," Charlotte Brontë's most beloved novel, describes the passionate love between the courageous orphan Jane Eyre and the brilliant, brooding, and domineering Rochester. The loneliness and cruelty of Jane Eyre's childhood strengthens her natural independence and spirit, which prove invaluable when she takes a position as a governess at Thornfield Hall. But after she falls in love with her sardonic employer, her discovery of his terrible secret forces her to make a heart-wrenching choice. Ever since its publication in 1847, "Jane Eyre" has enthralled every kind of reader, from the most critical and cultivated to the youngest and most unabashedly romantic. "Jane Eyre" lives as one of the great triumphs of storytelling and as a moving and unforgettable portrayal of a woman's quest for self-respect. "At the end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence, the indignation of Charlotte Brontë." -Virginia Woolf
--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

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Extrait

Chapter One


There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless 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.

I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, 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 earnest 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.

"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 small 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 crosslegged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered 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 lamentable 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. They 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--



Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles

Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge

Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.

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 firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the 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 float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance 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.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.

The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.

So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery-hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and older ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.

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. The breakfast-room door was opened.

"Boh! Madam Mope!" 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 mamma 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 diffidence.

"Say, 'what do you want, Master Reed,' " was the answer. "I want you to come here"; and seating himself in 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 with flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mamma had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed 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 refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application, and, perhaps, to pining after home.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in a day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh on my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence; more frequently, however, behind her back.

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.

"That is for your impudence in answering mamma a while 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!"

Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it: my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business to take our books; you are a dependant, mamma says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mamma's expense. 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 and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows."

I did so, not at first 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 flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The 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!"

I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

"At the end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence, the indignation of Charlotte Brontë."—Virginia Woolf --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 404 pages
  • Editeur : Wordsworth Editions Ltd; Édition : Reprint (5 mai 1992)
  • Collection : Wordsworth Classics
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 1853260207
  • ISBN-13: 978-1853260209
  • Dimensions du produit: 19,6 x 12,7 x 2,3 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 41.304 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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13 internautes sur 15 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 le meilleur de la littérature anglaise 9 décembre 2001
Format:Broché
Ce livre illustre la plus belle histoire d'amour qu'il m'ait été donnée de lire. C'est un livre empreint d'un tel lyrisme, d'une telle justesse dans les sentiments...
Ce livre, je l'ai lu il y a déjà quelques années, mais il est resté mon préféré.
Charlotte Brontë a réussi là son plus beau roman. Je conseille à tous de le lire, mais surtout aux femmes. Car c'est avant tout une histoire de femme.
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Amazon.com: 4.0 étoiles sur 5  4 commentaires
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Don't watch the movie and expect to know a thing about Jane! 16 mai 2002
Par Marcus Jones - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
This is an absolutely wonderful and captivating book. Once you start it you just gotta finish it!
The best part of Jane Eyre (pronounced "air") is the love story between Jane and Edward, her employer. Edward keeps a dark secret , the nature of which isn't telegraphed but instead thrust upon the reader all at once (very well done!!!), that makes him both penurious and tragic. This makes him a somewhat odd match for Jane who is the epitome of virtue and is self denying. The cat and mouse play in the begining of their relationship, the way they individually struggle after the secret is revealed, and the ultimate resolution of their love story makes this one of the greatest novels in Engish literature.
This brings me to the movie. It isn't a very good adaptation of the book. Major parts of the plot are missing or altered beyond recognition and signifigance. I watched the movie AFTER I read the book and was glad I did it in that order. Their are some stories that just have to be read in order for you to enjoy them;Jane Eyre is one of them (David Copperfield is another). But that's o.k., Charlotte Bronte has provided us with a tale that mesmerizes and impacts its reader like few others can. If it comes down to the movie or the book...read the book.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Jane Eyre Hardback Beauty 11 février 2014
Par Honey Mom "BC" - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat authentifié par Amazon
I always remove the jacket from hardback books as I begin to read! What a surprise to find the 'book' had the same beautiful picture as the jacket had! I always try to order hardback books when the price is almost the same. I am so impressed with Wordsworth Hardback Library!
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 The best classic book of all time! 4 février 2014
Par Deborah H Robinson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Jane Eyre is the story of an unwanted orphan girl, not pretty or talented, but a girl who realizes that she is worthy of happiness and will find it. If you haven't read this book yet, you have to read it!
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1.0 étoiles sur 5 The cover of the book that was sent to me does match the one I chose. 22 mars 2014
Par Ammarah Gaber - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché|Achat authentifié par Amazon
When I pay for a certain order I expect to receive the order that I paid for. I did not receive the book that I paid for. The cover was completely different.

I'm very disappointed.
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