Original subtitles

(Přepsáno pomocí TurboScribe.ai. Upgradovat na Neomezený pro odstranění této zprávy.) Is there any immediate danger?

It's a mere scratch.

Bear up now.

Salts.

I'm going to fetch the surgeon myself, Dick.

You'll be removed from here before morning.

Jane?

Sir?

I must leave you alone with this gentleman.

For an hour, maybe two.

Sponge the blood as it returns.

If he faints, use your salts.

And don't speak to him.

Dick.

It will be on peril of your life

if you attempt to speak.

Open your mouth, say one word, and I

shall not answer for the consequences.

Remember, no conversation.

What crime is this that lived incarnate in

this sequestered mansion and could neither be expelled

nor subdued by its owner?

What creature was it that, masked in an

ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered the voice

now of a mocking demon, then of a

carrion seeking bird of prey, and hardly separated

from me but by a single door?

And this quiet stranger, so commonplace, how was

he involved in the web of horror?

Not only cut by a knife, but teeth

marks.

She...

She bit me.

She worried me like a...

like a tigress.

You should have grappled with her at once.

Jane, fetch his cloak.

Hurry, Carter, hurry!

I must have him away from here before

the house stirs.

She seemed so...

so quiet at first.

I warned you it was folly to attempt

the interview tonight and alone.

She sucked the blood.

She said she drained my heart.

Courage, man.

Never mind her gibberish.

Carter, ready.

I shall ride over in a day or

two to see how he gets on.

Right.

Rochester, let her be taken care of.

Even if she...

I do my best.

I have done and I will do.

Away with you!

I thought to God there was an end

of all this.

Jane.

Sir.

Come with me.

Will you have a flower?

Thank you, sir.

Were you frightened when I left you alone

with Mason?

Very.

I feared lest some...

someone come from the inner room.

But I'd locked the door.

I should have been a careless shepherd if

I'd left a lamb, my pet lamb, so

near a wolf's den unguarded.

Will Grace Poole continue to live here, sir?

Yes.

And the danger you feared last night for

Mr. Mason, is that now gone?

Not till he's out of England.

To live for me is to stand upon

a crater crust, Jane.

But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led.

He would not defy you, surely?

No.

Not knowingly hurt me.

But unintentionally he might.

One careless word, Jane, could deprive me, if

not of life, yet forever of happiness.

But tell him so, sir.

If I could do that simpleton, where would

the danger be?

You look puzzled.

I will puzzle you further.

You...

You're my friend, are you not?

I'd like to serve you, sir, and obey

you, in all that is right.

Yes, in all that is right, yes.

You're implacable, Jane.

Properly so.

But suppose you're no longer a girl, well

-reared and disciplined, but a wild boy, as

I was, indulged from childhood upwards.

Imagine yourself in a remote foreign land.

Conceive that you commit there a capital error.

Mind, I do not say crime.

My word is error.

The results of which dog you all your

life.

Suppose, 20 world-weary years after, you discover

a stranger, whose goodness and true qualities revive

you, regenerate you.

What then, sir?

Yes.

What then?

Is the wandering and sinful but repentant man

justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom, a

mere conventional impediment, in order to attach to

him this gentle, gracious stranger, who can work

his reformation?

I think not, sir.

Salvation should never depend on a fellow creature,

but on God.

But God ordains the instrument.

And I believe I have found the instrument

for my cure in...

in Miss Ingram.

Jane, don't you think if I married her,

she'd regenerate me with a vengeance?

She's a rare one.

Is she not, Jane?

You say nothing?

Yes, sir.

Hmm, a deliberate silence, I see.

Bless me, there's Ingram and Lynn up already.

Go in by the shrubbery, through the wicket.

Mason got the start of you all this

morning.

He was gone before sunrise.

Yes?

I dare say you hardly remember me, miss.

Name is Leaven.

I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed at Gateshead

Hall.

Oh, Robert, I remember you well.

How are you?

I live there still.

I remember you used to give me rides

sometimes on Miss Georgiana's pony.

Oh, and how is Bessie?

You are married to Bessie?

Yes, miss, she's very hearty, thank you.

And Mrs. Reed?

I hope no one is dead.

Mr. John died.

Yesterday was a week.

In London.

And how does his mother bear it?

Well, that's why I've come, miss.

Terrible news gave her a stroke.

She was three days without speaking.

But last Tuesday she asked for you, miss.

For me?

Kept calling your name.

Mr. John's death was a suicide, miss, you

see.

It ruined his health and the estate.

Mrs. Reed had been ill for some time

before he...

...with the worry of it.

She insists you come, miss.

Bring Jane Eyre.

I must speak with her.

Keep saying it.

Go?

Where to go?

Gateshead Hall in Derbyshire, sir.

Why?

To see a sick lady who has sent

for me.

Her name is Reed.

Reed of Gateshead?

There was a magistrate called...

It is his widow, sir.

Mr. Reed was my uncle, my mother's brother.

The deuce he was.

You always said you had no relations.

None that would own me.

Mr. Reed died and his wife cast me

off.

Why?

Because I was poor and burdensome.

She disliked me.

Then leave her where she is.

It's nonsense, Jane, to go to such a

person who casts you off.

But that was long ago, sir, and she

is dying, they think.

Her son, John Reed, committed suicide a week

ago.

John Reed, yes.

Ingram was saying only yesterday.

One of the various rascals in town.

Sir, I could not be easy to neglect

what may be Mrs. Reed's last wishes.

How long will you stay?

Promise me not more than a week.

I better not pass my word, sir.

I might be obliged to break it.

You'll come back.

You'll not be induced under any pretext to

take up residence with her.

No, sir.

I should think not.

Who goes with you?

You cannot travel so far alone.

Mrs. Reed has sent her coachman.

Is he to be trusted?

He's been with the family ten years, sir.

Well...

when do you want to go?

Early tomorrow.

You'll need money.

I've given you no salary yet.

How much have you in the world, Jane?

Five shillings, sir.

Ha ha ha!

Ah, there you are, Signor Edoardo.

I insist you play.

Uno momento, Donna Bianca.

Surely you can deal with that person later,

Mr. Rochester.

I am engaged, Miss Ingram.

I shall come to you when I'm at

liberty.

His manner scarcely seemed that of a loving,

prospective bridegroom.

Ha ha ha!

Here.

Take your wages.

But that is fifty pounds, sir.

You owe me but fifteen.

I have no change.

I don't want any change.

You know that.

I will not take it, sir.

Obstinate.

Yes.

Right.

I better not give you all at once.

You may stay away three months.

There is ten.

Is that enough?

Plenty, sir.

Oh, but now you owe me five.

Come back for it, then.

I will be your banker.

Sir, there is another matter of business.

There is?

What?

You have as good as informed me that

you're shortly to be married.

Yes.

In that case, I think Adele ought to

go to school.

To keep her out of my bride's way?

Yes, there's sense in the suggestion.

Yes, Adele must go to school.

And you, of course, must march straight to

the devil.

I hope not, sir.

But I must seek another situation.

Somewhere.

Of course.

Perhaps I should advertise, sir.

You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt

at your peril, you advertise.

I wish I'd only given you a sovereign.

Give me back nine pounds, Jane.

I've a use for it.

And so have I, sir.

You little nigger.

Just let me look at the money again.

No.

You are not to be trusted.

Hmm.

Jane.

Promise me not to advertise...

and I will seek a situation for you.

Is that a bargain?

Yes, sir.

If you in your turn will promise that...

both Adele and I shall be safe out

of this house...

before your bride enters it.

Very well.

Shall you come down after dinner tonight?

No, sir.

I must prepare for the journey.

Then we must say goodbye now, for a

little while.

Yes, I suppose so.

And how do people perform that ceremony?

Teach me.

I'm not quite up to it.

They say farewell, or any other form they

prefer.

Then say it.

Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.

And what must I say?

The same.

Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present.

Is that all?

Yes.

It seems stingy to my notions...

and dry and unfriendly.

If one shook hands?

No, that will not content me either.

Farewell, Jane.

Your back is to the door, sir.

So it is.

Jane Eyre?

Jane Eyre?

Are you Jane Eyre?

I am.

Oh, fiend of a child.

Deceitful.

I was glad to get her out of

the house.

What did they do with her at Lowood?

The fever broke out there.

Many pupils died.

She did not die.

Oh, no.

I wish she had.

I wish she had.

Strange wish, Aunt Reed.

Aunt?

Who calls me aunt?

I do.

Jane Eyre.

You sent for me.

Sent?

Why did I send?

She's dead.

I sent she was dead.

Those eyes.

That forehead.

You're like Jane Eyre.

I wanted to see her.

I cannot move a limb.

I wronged Jane Eyre.

Are you she?

You're like her.

Yes, Aunt, I am.

An unnatural child.

Go to my dressing-case.

There's a letter.

Read it.

Read it to me.

Madam, will you have the goodness to send

me the address of my niece?

Jane Eyre.

It is my intention to write shortly and

desire her to come to Madeira.

Providence has blessed my labours to secure a

competency, and as I am unmarried and childless,

I wish to adopt Jane Eyre during my

life and bequeath her at my death whatever

I have to leave.

I am, Madam, most sincerely yours, John Eyre,

Madeira.

But why did I not hear of this?

It is dated three years back.

I disliked you too fixedly.

The fury you turned on me when you

declared you abhorred me, the worst of anyone

in the world.

But I was a child.

So that I wrote that you were dead,

dead of the fever at Lowood School.

Now, act as you please.

Expose my falsehood, if you will.

You were born, I think, to be my

torment.

Many a time as a child I would

have been happy to love you.

Now I long to be reconciled.

Kiss me, Aunt Rita.

Never!

I hate Jane Eyre, a fiend of a

child.

You should be dead!

And then...

my falsehood...

would come...

true.

Poor, suffering woman.

It was too late for her to change

her habitual frame of mind.

Living, she hated me.

And she died hating me.

A strange and solemn object was that corpse

to me.

Her brow and lineaments wore yet the impress

of her inexorable soul.

I gazed on it with gloom and pain.

A sombre, tearless dismay at the fearfulness of

death in such a form.

And to think how desperately I had longed

for love from her.