简 介
然而勃朗特一家的情形表明，天资被赋予了一个家庭。因为天资，这个家庭的成员远离尘世；离开了家他们就得不到快乐。而在家中，作为一个家庭，他们的天资却得以成长。是谁教会他们写作的？是他们自己！而且几乎没有人比他们写得更出。
这本书不是他们写的，而是关于他们的故事。这是他们的父亲未曾写却应该写下的：一个关于他们家庭的故事，虽然他只拥有了那么短时间的家庭。
这本书的作者蒂姆·维克瑞从事英语教学工作多年，现在约克郡生活和工作。
1 Haworth
There was a cold wind this afternoon，but the sun shone for an hour or two．I walked out on the moors behind the house．The sheep were hiding from the wind under the stone walls，and there were grey clouds over the hills to the west．It is only November，but I could smell snow in the air．
It will be a cold winter，this year of 1855．
the rector of the village of Haworth．Haworth is a village of small，grey stone houses on the side of a hill in the north of England，and I live in a house at the top of the hill，next to the church and the graveyard．
I walked through the graveyard to the church this afternoon．All my family except Anne are buried there．The wind had blown some dead leaves through the door into the church，and I watched them dancing in the sunlight near the grave．Soon I shall be in that grave with my wife and children，under the cold grey stone and dancing leaves．
It is dark outside now，and it is very quiet in this house．Charlotte's husband，Mr Nicholls，is reading in his room，and our servant is cooking in the kitchen．Only the three of us live here now．It is very quiet．I can hear the sounds of the wood burning in the fire，and the big clock on the stairs．
There is another sound too—the sound of the wind outside．The wind has many voices．It sings and laughs and shouts to itself all night long．Last night it cried like a little child，and I got out of bed and went to the window to listen．
There was no child，of course．Only the wind and the grave-stones，cold in the pale moonlight．But I decided then that Iwould write the story of my children，today，before it is too late．Charlotte's friend，Mrs Gaskell，is writing a book about her，and perhaps she will want to read my story．
It is a fine story．It began in April 1820，when we came to Haworth for the
There was a strong wind blowing that day too，out of a dark，cloudy sky．We could see
snow on the moors．The road to Haworth goes up a hill，and there was ice on the stones of the road Maria，my wife，was afraid to ride up the hill in the carts．
'We'll walk，children，'she said．'If one of those horses falls down，there'll be a terrible accident．Come on，let's go and see our new house．'
She was a small woman，my wife，and not very strong． But she carried the baby，Anne，up the hill in her arms．I carried Emily—she was one and a half years old then．The others walked．My two－year－old son，Patrick Branwell，walked with me，and Charlotte，who was nearly four，walked with her mother．The two oldest children—Elizabeth and Maria—ran on in front．They were very excited，and laughed and talked all the way．
The people of Haworth came out to watch us．Some of them helped，but most of them just stood in their doorways and watched．They are very poor people，in this village．I was their new rector．
We had seven carts to carry our furniture up that icy hill，but it was hard work for the horses．When we reached our house，the wind was blowing had in our faces．My wife hur－ried inside，and began to light fires．
'Do you like it，my dear？'I asked her that night，when the children were in bed．She looked pale and tired．I thought it was because of the long journey，and the children．Perhaps it was．
She held out her hands to the fire，and said：'Of course，Patrick．It's a fine house．I do hope it will be a good home for you，and the children．'
I was a little surprised by that．'And for you，Maria，'I said．'Don't forget yourself．You are the most important per－son in the world，to me．'
She smiled then—a lovely smile．'Thank you，Patrick，'she said．She was a very small woman，and she was often tired because of the children．But when she smiled at me like that，I thought she was the most beautiful woman in England．
A year and a half later，she was dead．
She did not die quickly．She was in bed for seven long months，in awful pain．The doctor came often，and her sister Elizabeth came too，to help．The children were ill，as well．It was a terrible time．
My wife Maria died in September，1821．She was thirty-eight．It was my job to bury her in the church．Our six young children stood and watched quietly．
Afterwards，we went back to the house．I called them into this room and spoke to them．
I said：'You must not cry too much，my dears．Your mother is with God now．She is happy．One day you will all die，and if you are good，you will go to God too．'
可怜的孩子
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