Thank you heartily for the two letters I owe you. You seem very

gay at present, and provided you only take care not to catch cold

with coming home at night, I am not sorry to hear it; a little

movement, cheerfulness, stimulus, is not only beneficial, but

necessary. Your last letter but one made me smile. I think you

draw great conclusions from small inferences. I think those "fixed

intentions" you fancy are imaginary. I think the "under-current"

amounts simply to this, a kind of natural liking and sense of

something congenial. Were there no vast barrier of age, fortune,

&c, there is perhaps enough personal regard to make things

possible which now are impossible. If men and women married

because they like each other's temper, look, conversation, nature,

and so on--and if, besides, years were more nearly equal--the

chance you allude to might be admitted as a chance; but other

reasons regulate matrimony--reasons of convenience, of connection,

of money. Meantime I am content to know him as a friend, and pray

God to continue to me the common sense to look on one so young, so

rising, and so hopeful in no other light. The hint about the Rhine

disturbs me; I am not made of stone and what is mere excitement to

others is fever to me. However it is a matter for the future, and

long to look forward to. As I see it now, the journey is out of

the question--for many reasons--I rather wonder he should think of

it. Good-bye. Heaven grant us both some quiet wisdom and strength,

not merely to bear the trial of pain, but to resist the lure of

pleasure when it comes in such a shape as our better judgment

disapproves.

Feb. 26th, 1851.

You ought always to conclude that when I don't write it is simply

because I have nothing particular to say. Be sure that ill news

will travel fast enough, and good news too when such commodity

comes. If I could often _be_ or _seem_ in brisk spirits, I might

write oftener, knowing that my letters would amuse. But as times

go, a glimpse of sunshine now and then is as much as one has a

right to expect. However, I get on very decently. I am now and then

tempted to break through my resolution of not having you to come

before summer, and to ask you to come to this Patmos in a week or

two. But it would be dull--very dull--for you.... What would you

say to coming here the week after next to stay only just so long as

you could comfortably bear the monotony? If the weather were dry,

and the moors fine, I should not mind it so much--we could walk for

change.

About this time it is clear that Miss Brontë was suffering from one of

her periodical attacks of nervous exhaustion. She makes repeated

references in her letters to her ailments, attributing them generally

to her liver, and she also mentions frequently an occurrence which had

given her not a little anxiety and concern. This was an offer of

marriage from a business man in a good position, whom she had already

met in London. The following letters, which are inserted here without

regard to the precise date, and of which Mrs. Gaskell has merely used

half-a-dozen lines, relate to this subject:

You are to say no more about "Jupiter" and "Venus." What do you

mean by such heathen trash? The fact is no fallacy can be wilder,

and I won't have it hinted at, even in jest because my common

sense laughs it to scorn. The idea of X---- shocks me less; it

would be a more likely match, if "matches" were at all in

question, _which they are not_. He still sends his little

newspaper, and the other day there came a letter of a bulk,

volume, pith, judgment, and knowledge, worthy to have been the

product of a giant.

X---- has been, and is gone; things are just as they were. I only

know, in addition to the slight information I possessed before,

that this Australian undertaking is necessary to the continued

prosperity of his firm, that he alone was pronounced to possess

the power and means to carry it out successfully, that mercantile

honour, combined with his own sense of duty, obliged him to accept

the post of honour and of danger to which he has been appointed,

that he goes with great personal reluctance, and that he

contemplates an absence of five years. He looked much thinner and

older. I saw him very near, and once through my glass. The

resemblance to Branwell struck me forcibly; it is marked. He is

not ugly, but very peculiar. The lines in his face show an

inflexibility, and, I must add, a hardness of character, which

does not attract. As he stood near me, as he looked at me in his

keen way, it was all I could do to stand my ground tranquilly and

steadily, and not to recoil as before. It is no use saying

anything if I am not candid. I avow then that on this occasion,

predisposed as I was to regard him very favourably, his manners

and his personal appearance scarcely pleased me more than at the

first interview. He gave me a book at parting, requesting in his

brief way that I would keep it for his sake, and adding hastily:

"I shall hope to hear from you in Australia; your letters _have_

been and _will_ be a greater refreshment than you can think or I

can tell." And so he is gone, and stern and abrupt little man as

he is, too often jarring as are his manners, his absence and the

exclusion of his idea from my mind, leave me certainly with less

support and in deeper solitude than before. You see, dear Nell, we

are still precisely on the same level. _You_ are not isolated. I

feel that there is a certain mystery about this transaction yet,

and whether it will ever be cleared up to me, I do not know.

However, my plain duty is to wean my mind from the subject, and if

possible to avoid pondering over it.... I feel that in his way he

has a regard for me; a regard which I cannot bring myself entirely

to reciprocate in kind, and yet its withdrawal leaves a painful

blank. I have just got your note. Above, you have all the account

of my visitor. I dare not aver that your kind wish that the visit

would yield me more pleasure than pain has been fulfilled.

Something at my heart aches and gnaws drearily. But I must

cultivate fortitude.

Thank you for your kind note. It was kind of you to write it,

though it _was_ your school-day. I never knew you to let a

slight impediment stand in your way when doing a friendly action.

Certainly I shall not soon forget last Friday, and never, I think,

the evening and night succeeding that morning and afternoon. Evils

seldom come singly, and soon after X---- was gone Papa grew much

worse. He went to bed early. Was sick and ill for an hour, and

when at last he began to doze and I left him, I came down to the

dining-room with a sense of weight, fear, and desolation hard to

express and harder to endure. A wish that you were with me did

cross my mind; but I repelled it as a most selfish wish. Indeed it

was only short-lived; my natural tendency in moments of this sort

is to get through the struggle alone; to think that one is

burdening others makes all worse. You speak to me in soft,

consolatory accents; but I hold far sterner language to myself,

dear Nell. An absence of five years; a dividing expanse of three

oceans; the wide difference between a man's active career and a

woman's passive existence. These things are almost equivalent to a

life-long separation. But there is another thing which forms a

barrier more difficult to pass than any of these. Would X---- and

I ever suit? Could I ever feel for him enough love to accept of

him as a husband? Friendship, gratitude, esteem, I have; but each

moment that he came near me, and that I could see his eyes

fastened upon me, my veins ran ice. Now that he is away I feel far

more gently towards him; it is only close by that I grow rigid. I

did not want to be proud nor intend to be proud, but I was forced

to be so. Most true is it that we are overruled by One above us,

that in His hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the

potter.

I trust Papa is not worse; but he varies. He has never been down

to breakfast but once since you left. The circumstance of having

him to think about just now is good for me in one way; it keeps my

thoughts off other matters which have been complete bitterness and

ashes; for I do assure you a more entire crumbling away of a

seeming foundation of support and prospect of hope than that which

I allude to can scarcely be realised.

I have heard from X---- to-day, a quiet little note. He returned

to London a week since on Saturday. He leaves England next month.

His note concludes with asking whether he has any chance of seeing

me in London before that time. I must tell him that I have already

fixed June for my visit, and, therefore, in all human probability

we shall see each other no more. There is still a want of plain

mutual understanding in this business, and there is sadness and

pain in more ways than one. My conscience, I can truly say, does

not _now_ accuse me of having treated X---- with injustice or

unkindness. What I once did wrong in this way I have endeavoured

to remedy both to himself and in speaking of him to others. I am

sure he has estimable and sterling qualities; but with every

disposition--with every wish--with every intention even to look on

him in the most favourable point of view at his last visit, it was

impossible for me in my inmost heart to think of him as one that

might one day be acceptable as a husband.... No, if X---- be the

only husband fate offers to me, single I must always remain. But

yet at times I grieve for him; and perhaps it is superfluous, for

I cannot think he will suffer much--a hard nature, occupation,

change of scene will befriend him.

I have had a long, kind letter from Miss Martineau lately. She

says she is well and happy. Also I have had a very long letter

from Mr. ----, the first for many weeks. He speaks of X---- with

much respect and regret, and says he will be greatly missed by

many friends. I discover with some surprise that Papa has taken a

decided liking to X----. The marked kindness of his manner to him

when he bade him good-bye, exhorting him to be "true to himself,

his country, and his God," and wishing him all good wishes, struck

me with some astonishment at the time; and whenever he has alluded

to him since, it has been with significant eulogy.... You say Papa

has penetration. On this subject I believe he has indeed. I have

told him nothing, yet he seems to be _au fait_ to the whole

business. I could think at some moments his guesses go further

than mine. I believe he thinks a prospective union, deferred for

five years, with such a decorous, reliable personage, would be a

very proper and advisable affair. However I ask no questions, and

he asks me none; and if he did I should have nothing to tell him.

The summer following this affair of the heart witnessed another visit

to London, where she heard Mr. Thackeray's lectures on the humourists.

How she enjoyed listening to her idol, in one of his best moods, need

not be told. Some there are still living who remember that first

lecture, when all London had assembled to listen to the author of

"Vanity Fair," and the rumour suddenly ran round the room that the

author of "Jane Eyre" was among the audience. Men and women were at

fault at first, in their efforts to distinguish "Currer Bell" in that

brilliant company of literary and social notabilities; but at last she

was discovered hiding under the motherly wing of a chaperon, timid,

blushing, but excited and pleased--_not_ at the attention she herself

attracted, but at the treat she had in prospect. One or two gentlemen

sought and obtained introductions to her--amongst them Lord Carlisle

and Mr. Monckton Milnes. They were not particularly impressed by the

appearance or the speech of the parson's daughter. Her person was

insignificant, her dress somewhat rustic, her language quaintly

precise and formal, her manner odd and constrained. Altogether this

was a woman whom even London could not lionise; somebody outwardly

altogether too plain, simple, unpretending, to admit of hero-worship.

Within there was, as we know, something entirely exceptional and

extraordinary; but, like Lucy Snowe, she still kept her real self

hidden under a veil which no casual friend or chance acquaintance was

allowed to lift. It was but a brief visit to the "Big Babylon," and

then back to Haworth, to loneliness and duty! In July, 1851, she

writes from the parsonage to one of her friends as follows:

My first feeling on receiving your note was one of disappointment,

but a little consideration sufficed to show me that "all was for

the best." In truth it was a great piece of extravagance on my

part to ask you and Ellen together; it is much better to divide

such good things. To have your visit in prospect will console me

when hers is in retrospect. Not that I mean to yield to the

weakness of clinging dependently to the society of friends,

however dear; but still as an occasional treat I must value and

even seek such society as a necessary of life. Let me know then

whenever it suits your convenience to come to Haworth, and, unless

some change I cannot now foresee occurs, a ready and warm welcome

will await you. Should there be any cause rendering it desirable

to defer the visit, I will tell you frankly. The pleasures of

society I cannot offer you; nor those of fine scenery. But I place

very much at your command--the moors, some books, a series of

quiet "curling-hair-times," and an old pupil into the bargain.

Ellen may have told you that I spent a month in London this

summer. When you come you shall ask what questions you like on

that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering

ability. Do not press me much on the subject of the Crystal

Palace. I went there five times, and certainly saw some

interesting things, and the _coup d'oeil_ is striking and

bewildering enough. But I never was able to get up any raptures on

the subject, and each renewed visit was made under coercion rather

than my own free will. It is an excessively bustling place; and

after all, its wonders appeal too exclusively to the eye, and

rarely touch the heart or head. I make an exception to the last

assertion in favour of those who possess a large range of

scientific knowledge. Once I went with Sir David Brewster, and

perceived that he looked on objects with other eyes than mine.

X.

"VILLETTE."

With the autumn of 1851 another epoch in the life of Charlotte Brontë

was ushered in. She began to write "Villette." Something has already

been said of the true character of that marvellous book, in which her

own deepest experiences and ripest wisdom are given to the world. Of

the manner in which it was written her readers know nothing. Yet this,

the best-beloved child of her genius, was brought forth with a travail

so bitter that more than once she was tempted to lay aside her pen and

hush her voice for ever. Every sentence was wrung from her as though

it had been a drop of blood, and the book was built up bit by bit,

amid paroxysms of positive anguish, occasioned in part by her own

physical weakness and suffering, but still more by the torture through

which her mind passed as she depicted scene after scene from the

darkest chapter in her own life, for the benefit of those for whom she

wrote. It is from her letters that at this time also we get the best

indications of what she was passing through. Few, perhaps, reading

these letters would suppose that their writer was at that very time

engaged in the production of a great masterpiece, destined to hold its

own among the ripest and finest fruits of English genius. But no one

can read them without seeing how true the woman's soul was, how deep

her sympathy with those she loved, how keen her criticisms of even the

dull and commonplace characters around her, how vivid and sincere her

interest in everything which was passing either in the great world

which lay afar off, or in the little world the drama of which was

being enacted under her own eyes. Even the ordinary incidents

mentioned in her letters, the chance expressions which drop from her

pen, have an interest when we remember who it is that speaks, and at

what hour in her life this speech falls from her.

September, 1851.

I have mislaid your last letter, and so cannot look it over to see

what there is in it to answer; but it is time it was answered in

some fashion, whether I have anything to say or not. Miss ----'s

note is very like her. All that talk about "friendship," "mutual

friends," "auld lang syne," &c., sounds very like palaver. Mrs.

---- wrote to me a week or a fortnight since--a well-meaning,

amiable note, dwelling a good deal, excusably perhaps, on the good

time that is coming. I mean, to speak plain English, on her

expectation of soon becoming a mother. No doubt it is very natural

in her to feel as if no woman had ever been a mother before; but I

could not help inditing an answer calculated to shake her up a

bit. A day or two since I had another note from her, quite as good

as usual, but I think a trifle nonplussed by the rather

unceremonious fashion in which her terrors and the expected

personage were handled.... It is useless to tell you how I live. I

endure life; but whether I enjoy it or not is another question.

However, I get on. The weather, I think, has not been very good

lately; or else the beneficial effects of change of air and scene

are evaporating. In spite of regular exercise the old headaches

and starting, wakeful nights are coming upon me again. But I

_do_ get on, and have neither wish nor right to complain.

October, 1851.

I am not at all intending to go from home at present. I have just

refused successively, Miss Martineau, Mrs. Gaskell, and Mrs.

Forster. I could not go if I would. One person after another in

the house has been ailing for the last month and more. First Tabby

had the influenza, then Martha took it and is ill in bed now, and

I grieve to say Papa too has taken cold. So far I keep pretty

well, and am thankful for it, for who else would nurse them all?

Some painful mental worry I have gone through this autumn; but

there is no use in dwelling on all that. At present I seem to have

some respite. I feel more disinclined than ever for

letter-writing.... Life is a struggle.

November, 1851.

Papa, Tabby, and Martha are at present all better, but yet none of

them well. Martha especially looks feeble. I wish she had a better

constitution. As it is, one is always afraid of giving her too

much to do; and yet there are many things I cannot undertake

myself; and we do not like to change when we have had her so long.

The other day I received the enclosed letter from Australia. I had

had one before from the same quarter, which is still unanswered. I

told you I did not expect to hear thence--nor did I. The letter is

long, but it will be worth your while to read it. In its way it

has merit--that cannot be denied--abundance of information, talent

of a certain kind, alloyed (I think) here and there with errors of

taste. This little man with all his long letters remains as much a

conundrum to me as ever. Your account of the H---- "domestic joys"

amused me much. The good folks seem very happy; long may they

continue so! It somewhat cheers me to know that such happiness

_does_ exist on earth.

November, 1851.

All here is pretty much as usual.... The only events of my life

consist in that little change occasional letters bring. I have had

two from Miss W---- since she left Haworth, which touched me much.

She seems to think so much of a little congenial company, a little

attention and kindness. She says she has not for many days known

such enjoyment as she experienced during the ten days she stayed

here. Yet you know what Haworth is--dull enough. Before answering

X----'s letter from Australia I got up my courage to write to ----

and beg him to give me an impartial account of X----'s character

and disposition, owning that I was very much in the dark on these

points and did not like to continue correspondence without further

information. I got the answer which I enclose. Since receiving it

I have replied to X---- in a calm, civil manner. At the earliest I

cannot hear from him again before the spring.

December, 1851.

I hope you have got on this last week well. It has been very

trying here. Papa so far has borne it unhurt; but these winds and

changes have given me a bad cold; however, I am better now than I

was. Poor old Keeper (Emily's dog) died last Monday morning, after

being ill one night. He went gently to sleep; we laid his old

faithful head in the garden. Flossy is dull, and misses him.

There was something very sad in losing the old dog; yet I am glad

he met a natural fate. People kept hinting that he ought to be put

away, which neither Papa nor I liked to think of. If I were near a

town, and could get cod-liver oil fresh and sweet, I really would

most gladly take your advice and try it; but how I could possibly

procure it at Haworth I do not see.... You ask about "The Lily and

the Bee." If you have read it, you have effected an exploit beyond

me. I glanced at a few pages, and laid it down hopeless, nor can I

now find courage to resume it. But then, I never liked Warren's

writings. "Margaret Maitland" is a good book, I doubt not.

At this point the illness of which she makes light in these letters

increased to such an extent as to alarm her father, and at last she

consented to lay aside her work and allow herself the pleasure and

comfort of a visit from her friend. The visit was a source of

happiness whilst it lasted; but when it was over the depression

returned, and there was a serious relapse. Something of her sufferings

at this time--whilst "Villette" was still upon the stocks--will be

gathered from the following letter, dated January 1852:

I wish you could have seen the coolness with which I captured your

letter on its way to Papa, and at once conjecturing its tenor,

made the contents my own. Be quiet. Be tranquil. It is, dear Nell,

my decided intention to come to B---- for a few days when I

_can_ come; but of this last I must positively judge for myself,

and I must take my time. I am better to-day--much better; but you

can have little idea of the sort of condition into which mercury

throws people to ask me to go from home anywhere in close or open

carriage. And as to talking--four days ago I could not well have

articulated three sentences. Yet I did not need nursing, and I

kept out of bed. It was enough to burden myself; it would have

been misery to me to have annoyed another.

March, 1852.

The news of E. T.'s death came to me last week in a letter from

M----, a long letter, which wrung my heart so in its simple,

strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once. It

ripped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force--the death-bed

was just the same--breath failing, &c. She fears she will now in

her dreary solitude become "a stern, harsh, selfish woman." This

fear struck home. Again and again I have felt it for myself; and

what is _my_ position to M----'s? I should break out in energetic

wishes that she would return to England, if reason would permit me

to believe that prosperity and happiness would there await her.

But I see no such prospect. May God help her as God only can help!

To another friend she writes as follows, in reply to an invitation to

leave Haworth for a short visit:

March 12th, 1852.

Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that _must

be resisted_. From home I must not go unless health or some cause

equally imperative render a change necessary. For nearly four

months now (_i.e._ since I first became ill) I have not put pen to

paper; my work has been lying untouched, and my faculties have

been rusting for want of exercise; further relaxation is out of

the question, and _I will not permit myself to think of it_. My

publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to

check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty

answers. Yet the pleasure I now deny myself I would fain regard as

only deferred. I heard something about your purposing to visit

Scarborough in the course of the summer; and could I by the close

of July or August bring my task to a certain point, how glad

should I be to join you there for a while!... However, I dare not

lay plans at this distance of time; for me so much must depend,

first, on Papa's health (which throughout the winter has been, I

am thankful to say, really excellent), and, second, on the

progress of work--a matter not wholly contingent on wish or will,

but lying in a great measure beyond the reach of effort, or out of

the pale of calculation.

As the summer advanced her sufferings were scarcely abated, and at

last, in search of some relief, she made a sudden visit by herself to

Filey, inspired in part by her desire to see the memorial-stone

erected above her sister's grave at Scarborough.

Filey Bay, June, 1852.

MY DEAR MISS ----,--Your kind and welcome note reached me at this

place, where I have been staying three weeks _quite alone_. Change

and sea-air had become necessary. Distance and other considerations

forbade my accompanying Ellen to the South, much as I should have

liked it had I felt quite free and unfettered. Ellen told me some

time ago that you were not likely to visit Scarborough till the

autumn, so I forthwith packed my trunk and betook myself here. The

first week or ten days I greatly feared the seaside would not suit

me, for I suffered almost incessantly from headache and other

harassing ailments; the weather, too, was dark, stormy, and

excessively--_bitterly_--cold. My solitude under such circumstances

partook of the character of desolation; I had some dreary evening

hours and night vigils. However, that passed. I think I am now

better and stronger for the change, and in a day or two hope to

return home. Ellen told me that Mr. W---- said people with my

tendency to congestion of the liver should walk three or four hours

every day; accordingly, I have walked as much as I could since I

came here, and look almost as sunburnt and weather-beaten as a

fisherman or a bathing-woman, with being out in the open air. As to

my work, it has stood obstinately still for a long while; certainly

a torpid liver makes a torpid brain. No spirit moves me. If this

state of things does not entirely change, my chance of a holiday in

the autumn is not worth much; yet I should be very sorry not to

meet you for a little while at Scarborough. The duty to be

discharged at Scarborough was the chief motive that drew me to the

east coast. I have been there, visited the churchyard, and seen the

stone. There were five errors; consequently I had to give

directions for its being re-faced and re-lettered.

The sea-air did her good; but she was still unable to carry her great

work forward, in spite of the urgent pressure put upon her by those

who in this respect merely expressed the impatience of the public.

Haworth, July, 1852.

I am again at home, where (thank God) I found all well. I

certainly feel much better than I did, and would fain trust that

the improvement may prove permanent.... The first fortnight I was

at Filey I had constantly recurring pain in the right side, and

sick headache into the bargain. My spirits at the same time were

cruelly depressed--prostrated sometimes. I feared the miseries and

the suffering of last winter were all returning; consequently I am

now indeed thankful to find myself so much better.... You ask

about Australia. Let us dismiss the subject in a few words, and

not recur to it. All is silent as the grave. Cornhill is silent

too; there has been bitter disappointment there at my having no

work ready for this season. Ellen, we must not rely upon our

fellow-creatures--only on ourselves, and on Him who is above both

us and them. My _labours_, as you call them, stand in abeyance,

and I cannot hurry them. I must take my own time, however long

that time may be.

August, 1852.

I am thankful to say that Papa's convalescence seems now to be

quite confirmed. There is scarcely any remainder of the

inflammation in his eyes, and his general health progresses

satisfactorily. He begins even to look forward to resuming his

duty ere long, but caution must be observed on that head. Martha

has been very willing and helpful during Papa's illness. Poor

Tabby is ill herself at present with English cholera, which

complaint, together with influenza, has lately been almost

universally prevalent in this district. Of the last I have myself

had a touch; but it went off very gently on the whole, affecting

my chest and liver less than any cold has done for the last three

years.... I write to you about yourself rather under constraint

and in the dark; for your letters, dear Nell, are most remarkably

oracular, dropping nothing but hints which tie my tongue a good

deal. What, for instance, can I say to your last postscript? It is

quite sibylline. I can hardly guess what checks you in writing to

me. Perhaps you think that as _I_ generally write with some

reserve, you ought to do the same. _My_ reserve, however, has its

origin not in design, but in necessity. I am silent because I have

literally _nothing to say_. I might, indeed, repeat over and over

again that my life is a pale blank, and often a very weary burden,

and that the future sometimes appals me; but what end could be

answered by such repetition, except to weary you and enervate

myself? The evils that now and then wring a groan from my heart

lie in my position--not that I am a _single_ woman and likely to

remain a _single_ woman, but because I am a lonely woman and

likely to be _lonely_. But it cannot be helped, and therefore

_imperatively must be borne_, and borne, too, with as few words

about it as may be. I write this just to prove to you that

whatever you would freely _say_ to me you may just as freely

write. Understand that I remain just as resolved as ever not to

allow myself the holiday of a visit from you till _I_ have done my

work. After labour, pleasure; but while work was lying at the wall

undone, I never yet could enjoy recreation.

[Illustration: SIMILE LETTER OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.]

Slowly page after page of "Villette" was now being written. The reader

sees from these letters that the book was composed in no happy mood.

Writing to her publisher a few weeks after the date of the last letter

printed above, she says: "I can hardly tell you how I hunger to hear

some opinions beside my own, and how I have sometimes desponded and

almost despaired, because there was no one to whom to read a line, or

of whom to ask a counsel. 'Jane Eyre' was not written under such

circumstances, nor were two-thirds of 'Shirley.' I got so miserable

about it that I could bear no allusion to the book. It is not finished

yet; but now I hope." But though her work pressed so incessantly upon

her, and her feverish anxiety to have it done weighed so heavily upon

her health and spirits, she could still find time to answer her

friend's letters in a way which showed that her interest in the outer

world was as keen as ever:

September, 1852.

Thank you for A----'s notes. I like to read them, they are so full

of news, but they are illegible. A great many words I really

cannot make out. It is pleasing to hear that M---- is doing so

well, and the tidings about ---- seem also good. I get a note from

---- every now and then, but I fear my last reply has not given

much satisfaction. It contained a taste of that unpalatable

commodity called _advice_--such advice, too, as might be, and I

dare say was, construed into faint reproof. I can scarcely tell

what there is about ---- that, in spite of one's conviction of her

amiability, in spite of one's sincere wish for her welfare, palls

upon one, satiates, stirs impatience. She _will_ complacently put

forth opinions and tastes as her own which are _not_ her own, nor

in any sense natural to her. My patience can really hardly sustain

the test of such a jay in borrowed plumes. She prated so much

about the fine wilful spirit of her child, whom she describes as a

hard, brown little thing, who will do nothing but what pleases

himself, that I hit out at last--not very hard, but enough to make

her think herself ill-used, I doubt not. Can't help it. She often

says she is not "absorbed in self," but the fact is, I have seldom

seen anyone more unconsciously, thoroughly, and often weakly

egotistic. Then, too, she is inconsistent. In the same breath she

boasts her matrimonial happiness and whines for sympathy. Don't

understand it. With a paragon of a husband and child, why that

whining, craving note? Either her lot is not all she professes it

to be, or she is hard to content.

In October the resolute determination to allow herself no relaxation

until "Villette" was finished broke down. She was compelled to call

for help, and to acknowledge herself beaten in her attempt to crush

out the yearning for company:

October, 1852.

Papa expresses so strong a wish that I should ask you to come, and

I feel some little refreshment so absolutely necessary myself,

that I really must beg you to come to Haworth for one single week.

I thought I would persist in denying myself till I had done my

work, but I find it won't do. The matter refuses to progress, and

this excessive solitude presses too heavily. So let me see your

dear face, Nell, just for one reviving week. Could you come on

Wednesday? Write to-morrow, and let me know by what train you

would reach Keighley, that I may send for you.

The visit was a pleasant one in spite of the weariness of body and

mind which troubled Charlotte. She laid aside her task for that "one

little week," went out upon the moors with her friend, talked as of

old, and at last, when she was left alone once more, declared that the

change had done her "inexpressible good." Writing to her friend

immediately after the latter had left her, she says:

Your note came only this morning. I had expected it yesterday, and

was beginning actually to feel weary--like you. This won't do. I

am afraid of caring for you too much. You must have come upon ----

at an unfavourable moment, seen it under a cloud. Surely they are

not always or often thus, or else married life is indeed but a

slipshod paradise. I only send _The Examiner_, not having yet read

_The Leader_. I was spared the remorse I feared. On Saturday I

fell to business, and as the welcome mood is still decently

existent, and my eyes consequently excessively tired with

scribbling, you must excuse a mere scrawl. Papa was glad to hear

you had got home well--as well as we.... I do miss my dear

bed-fellow; no more of that calm sleep.

Her pen now began to move more quickly, and the closing chapters of

"Villette" were written with comparative ease, so that at last she

writes thus, on November 22nd:

Monday morning.

Truly thankful am I to be able to tell you that I finished my long

task on Saturday, packed and sent off the parcel to Cornhill. I

said my prayers when I had done it. Whether it is well or ill done

I don't know. _D. V._, I will now try to wait the issue quietly.

The book, I think, will not be considered pretentious, nor is it

of a character to excite hostility. As Papa is pretty well, I may,

I trust, dear Nell, do as you wish me, and come for a few days to

B----. Miss Martineau has also urgently asked me to go and see

her. I promised, if all were well, to do so at the close of

November or the commencement of December, so that I could go on

from B---- to Westmoreland. Would Wednesday suit you? "Esmond"

shall come with me--_i.e._ Thackeray's novel.

Every reader knows in what fashion "Villette" ends, and most persons

also know from Mrs. Gaskell that the reason why the actual issue is

left in some uncertainty was the author's filial desire to gratify her

father. Charlotte herself was firmly resolved that she would _not_

make Lucy Snowe the happy wife of Paul Emanuel. She never meant to

"appoint her lot in pleasant places." Lucy was to bear the storm and

stress of life in the same manner as that in which her creator had

been compelled to bear it; and she was to be left in the end alone,

robbed for ever of the hope of spending the happy afternoon of her

existence in the sunshine of love and congenial society. But Mr.

Brontë, altogether unconscious of that tragedy of heart-sickness and

soul-weariness which was being enacted under his own roof, and which

furnished so striking a parallel to the story which ran through

"Villette," would not brook a gloomy ending to the tale, and by

protestations and entreaties induced his daughter at least so far to

alter her plan as to leave the issue in doubt.

So "Villette" went its way, as "Jane Eyre" and "Shirley " had done

before it, from the secluded parsonage at Haworth up to the busy

publishing-house in Cornhill, and thence out into the world. There was

some fear on Charlotte's part when the MS. had been despatched. She

herself was gradually forming that which remained the fixed conviction

of her life--the conviction that in "Villette" she had done her best,

and that, for good or for ill, by it her reputation must stand or

fall. But she was intensely anxious, as we have seen, to have the

opinions of others upon the story. Nor was it only a general verdict

on its merits for which she called. She was uneasy upon some minor

points. According to her wont, she had taken most of her characters

from life, and it was not during her stay at Brussels alone that she

had studied the models which she employed when writing the book.

Naturally, she was curious to know whether she had painted her

portraits too literally. So "Villette" was allowed to pass, whilst

still in MS., into the hands of the original of "Dr. John." When that

gentleman had read the story, and criticised all the characters with

the freedom of unconsciousness, her mind was set at rest, and she knew

that she had not transgressed the bounds which divide the story-teller

from the biographer.

In the meantime, her work done, she hurried away from Haworth to spend

a well-earned holiday at B---- with her friend. "Esmond" accompanied

her, and the quiet afternoons were spent in reading it aloud. On

December 9th she writes from Haworth, announcing her safe return to

her own home:

I got home safely at five o'clock yesterday afternoon, and, I am

most thankful to say, found Papa and all the rest quite well. I

did my business satisfactorily in Leeds, getting the head-dress

rearranged as I wished. It is now a very different matter to the

bushy, tasteless thing it was before. On my arrival I found no

proof-sheets, but a letter from Mr. S----, which I would have

enclosed, but so many words are scarce legible you would have no

pleasure in reading it. He continues to make a mystery of his

"reason"; something in the third volume sticks confoundedly in his

throat; and as to the "female character" about which I asked, he

responds that "she is an odd, fascinating little puss," but

affirms that "he is not in love with her." He tells me also that

he will answer no more questions about "Villette." This morning I

have a brief note from Mr. Williams, intimating that he has not

yet been permitted to read the third volume. Also there is a note

from Mrs. ----, very kind. I almost wish I could still look on

that kindness just as I used to do: it was very pleasant to me

once. Write _immediately_, dear Nell, and tell me how your

mother is. Give my kindest regards to her and all others at B----.

Everybody seemed very good to me this last visit. I remember it

with corresponding pleasure.

The private reception of "Villette" was not altogether that for which

its author had hoped. Her publisher had objections to urge against

certain features of the story, and those who saw the book in

manuscript were not slow to express their own disapproval. It was

evident that there was disappointment at Cornhill; and the proud

spirit of Miss Brontë was keenly troubled. The letters in which she

dwells on what was passing at that time need not be reproduced here,

for their purport is sufficiently indicated by that which has just

been given. But it is worth while to notice the scrupulous modesty

with which she listened to all that was said by those who found fault,

her careful anxiety to understand their objections, such as they were,

and her perfect readiness to discuss every point raised with them. Of

irritability under this criticism there is no trace, only a certain

sadness and sorrow at the discovery that she had not succeeded in

impressing others as she had hoped to do. Yet she is scarcely

surprised that it is so. Had she not written years before, when

"Shirley" was first produced, these words?--

No matter, whether known or unknown, misjudged or the contrary, I

am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as my powers

tend. The two human beings who understood me, and whom I

understood, are gone. I have some that love me yet, and whom I

love without expecting, or having a right to expect, that they

shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied, but I must have my

own way in the matter of writing.... I am thankful to God who gave

me the faculty; and it is for me a part of my religion to defend

this gift and to profit by its possession.

So now she is not astonished at finding herself misunderstood. Nor is

she angry. She is perfectly ready to explain her real meaning to those

who have misjudged her, but she is resolute in abiding by what she has

written. The work wrung from her during those two years of pain and

sorrow is not work which can be altered at will to please another.

Even to meet the entreaties of her father she had refused to do more

than draw a veil over the catastrophe in which the plot ends; and she

cannot introduce new incidents, or lay on new colours, because the

little circle of critics sitting in judgment on her manuscript have

pronounced it to be imperfect. "I fear they" (the readers) "must be

satisfied with what is offered. My palette affords no brighter tints;

were I to attempt to deepen the reds or burnish the yellows, I should

but blotch." Yet she admits that those who judge the book only from

the outside have some reason to complain that it is not as other

novels are:

You say that Lucy Snowe may be thought morbid and weak, unless

the history of her life be more freely given. I consider that she

_is_ both morbid and weak at times; her character sets up no

pretensions to unmixed strength, and anybody living her life

would necessarily become morbid. It was no impetus of healthy

feeling which urged her to the confessional, for instance; it was

the semi-delirium of solitary grief and sickness. If, however,

the book does not express all this, there must be a great fault

somewhere. I might explain away a few other points, but it would

be too much like drawing a picture and then writing underneath

the name of the object intended to be represented.

Happily, the heart of the great reading world is bigger and truer as a

whole than any part of it is. What those who read the manuscript of

"Villette" failed to see at the first glance was seen instantly by the

public when the book was placed in its hands. From critics of every

school and degree there came up a cry of wonder and admiration, as men

saw out of what simple characters and commonplace incidents genius had

evoked this striking work of literary art. Popular, perhaps, the book

could scarcely hope to be, in the vulgar acceptation of the word. The

author had carefully avoided the "flowery and inviting" course of

romance, and had written in silent obedience to the stern dictates of

an inspiration which, as we have seen, only came at intervals, leaving

her between its visits cruelly depressed and pained, but which when it

came held her spell-bound and docile. Yet out of the dull record of

humble woes, marked by no startling episodes, adorned by few of the

flowers of poetry, she had created such a heart-history as remains to

this day without a rival in the school of English fiction to which it

belongs.

I bring together a batch of notes, not all addressed to the same

person, which give her account of the reception and success of the

book:

February 11th, 1853.

Excuse a very brief note, for I have time only to thank you for

your last kind and welcome letter, and to say that, in obedience

to your wishes, I send you by this day's post two reviews--_The

Examiner_ and _The Morning Advertiser_--which, perhaps, you will

kindly return at your leisure. Ellen has a third--_The Literary

Gazette_--which she will likewise send. The reception of the book

has been favourable thus far--for which I am thankful--less, I

trust, on my own account than for the sake of those few real

friends who take so sincere an interest in my welfare as to be

happy in my happiness.

February 15th.

I am very glad to hear that you got home all right, and that you

managed to execute your commissions in Leeds so satisfactorily.

You do not say whether you remembered to order the Bishop's

dessert; I shall know, however, by to-morrow morning. I got a

budget of no less than seven papers yesterday and to-day. The

import of all the notices is such as to make my heart swell with

thankfulness to Him who takes note both of suffering and work and

motives. Papa is pleased too. As to friends in general, I believe

I can love them still without expecting them to take any large

share in this sort of gratification. The longer I live, the more

plainly I see that gentle must be the strain on fragile human

nature. It will not bear much.

I have heard from Mrs. Gaskell. Very kind, panegyrical, and so on.

Mr. S---- tells me he has ascertained that Miss Martineau _did_

write the notice in _The Daily News_. J. T. offers to give me a

regular blowing-up and setting down for £5, but I tell him _The

Times_ will probably let me have the same gratis.

March 10th, 1853.

I only got _The Guardian_ newspaper yesterday morning, and have

not yet seen either _The Critic_ or _Sharpe's Magazine_. _The

Guardian_ does not wound me much. I see the motive, which, indeed,

there is no attempt to disguise. Still I think it a choice little

morsel for foes (Mr. ---- was the first to bring the news of the

review to Papa), and a still choicer morsel for "friends"

who--bless them!--while they would not perhaps positively do one

an injury, still take a dear delight in dashing with bitterness

the too sweet cup of success. Is _Sharpe's_ small article like a

bit of sugar-candy, too, Ellen? or has it the proper wholesome

wormwood flavour? Of course I guess it will be like _The

Guardian_. My "dear friends" will weary of waiting for _The

Times_. "O Sisera! why tarry the wheels of thy chariot so long?"

March 22nd.

Thank you for sending ----'s notes. Though I have not attended to

them lately, they always amuse me. I like to read them; one gets

from them a clear enough idea of her sort of life. ----'s attempts

to improve his good partner's mind make me smile. I think it all

right enough, and doubt not they are happy in their way; only the

direction he gives his efforts seems of rather problematic wisdom.

Algebra and optics! Why not enlarge her views by a little

well-chosen general reading? However, they do right to amuse

themselves in their own way. The rather dark view you seem to take

of the general opinion about "Villette" surprises me the less, as

only the more unfavourable reviews seem to have come in your way.

Some reports reach me of a different tendency; but no matter; time

will show. As to the character of Lucy Snowe, my intention from

the first was that she should not occupy the pedestal to which

"Jane Eyre" was raised by some injudicious admirers. She is where

I meant her to be, and where no charge of self-laudation can touch

her.

XI.

MARRIAGE AND DEATH.

Every book, as we know, has its secret history, hidden from the world

which reads only the printed pages, but legible enough to the author,

who sees something more than the words he has set down for the public

to read. Thackeray tells us how, reading again one of his smaller

stories, written at a sad period of his own life, he brought back all

the scene amid which the little tale was composed, and woke again to a

consciousness of the pangs which tore his heart when his pen was busy

with the imaginary fortunes of the puppets he had placed upon the

mimic stage. Between the lines he read quite a different story from

that which was laid before the reader. I have tried to show how

largely this was the case with Charlotte Brontë's novels. Each was a

double romance, having one meaning for the world, and another for the

author. Yet she herself, when she wrote "Shirley" and "Villette," had

no conception of the strange blending of the secret currents of the

two books which was in store for her, or of the unexpected fate which

was to befall the real heroine of her last work--to wit, herself.

I have told how fixed was her belief that "Lucy Snowe's" fate was to

be a tragic one--a life the closing years of which were to be spent in

loneliness and anguish, and amid the bitterness of withered hopes.

Very few readers can have forgotten the closing passage of "Villette,"

in which the catastrophe, though veiled, can be readily discovered:

The sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow

sere; but--he is coming.

Frosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; the

wind takes its autumn moan; but--he is coming.

The skies hang full and dark--a rack sails from the west; the

clouds cast themselves into strange forms--arches and broad

radiations; there rise resplendent mornings--glorious, royal,

purple as a monarch in his state; the heavens are one flame; so

wild are they, they rival battle at its thickest--so bloody, they

shame Victory in her pride. I know some signs of the sky; I have

noted them ever since childhood. God, watch that sail! Oh! guard

it!

The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee--"keening" at

every window! It will rise--it will swell--it shrieks out long:

wander as I may through the house this night, I cannot lull the

blast. The advancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all

sleepless watchers hear and fear a wild south-west storm....

Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on

waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not

uttered--not uttered till, when the hush came, some could not feel

it; till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!

In darkness such as here is shadowed forth, Charlotte Brontë believed

that her own life would close; all sunshine gone, all joys swept clean

away by the bitter blast of death, all hopes withered or uprooted. But

the end which she pictured was not to be. God was more merciful than

her own imaginings; and at eventide there was light and peace upon her

troubled path.

Those who turn to the closing passage of "Shirley" will find there

reference to "a true Christian gentleman," who had taken the place of

the hypocrite Malone, one of the famous three curates of the story.

This gentleman, a Mr. McCarthy, was, like the rest, no fictitious

personage. His original was to be found in the person of Mr. Nicholls,

who for several years had lived a simple, unobtrusive life at Haworth,

as curate to Mr. Brontë, and whose name often occurs in Charlotte's

letters to her friend. In none of these references to him is there the

slightest indication that he was more than an honoured friend. Nor was

it so. Whilst Mr. Nicholls, dwelling near Miss Brontë, and observing

her far more closely than any other person could do, had formed a deep

and abiding attachment for her, she herself was wholly unconscious of

the fact. Its first revelation came upon her as something like a

shock; as something also like a reproach. Whilst she had thought

herself alone, doomed to a life of solitude and pain, a tender yet a

manly love had all the while been growing round her.

It is obvious that the letters which she addressed at this time

(December, 1852) to her friend cannot be printed here. Yet no letters

more honourable to the woman, the daughter, and the lover have ever

been penned. There is no restraint now in the outpourings of her

heart. Her friend is taken into her full confidence, and every hope

and fear and joy is spoken out as only women who are pure and truthful

and entirely noble can venture to speak out. Mrs. Gaskell has briefly

but distinctly stated the broad features of this strange love story,

giving such promise at the time, so happy and beautiful in its brief

fruition, so soon to be quenched in the great darkness. Mr. Brontë

resented the attentions of Mr. Nicholls to his daughter in a manner

which brought to light all the sternness and bitterness of his

character. There had been of late years a certain mellowing of his

disposition, which Charlotte had dwelt upon with hopeful joy, as her

one comfort in her lonely life at Haworth. How much he owed to her

none knew but himself. When he was sinking under the burden of his

son's death, she had rescued him; when, for one dark and bitter

interval, he had sought refuge from grief and remorse in the coward's

solace, her brave heart, her gentleness, her unyielding courage, had

brought him back again from evil ways, and sustained and kept him in

the path of honour; and now his own ambitions were more than satisfied

by her success; he found himself shining in the reflected glory of his

daughter's fame, and sunned himself, poor man, in the light and

warmth. But all the old jealousy, the intense acerbity of his

character, broke out when he saw another person step between himself

and her, and that other no idol of the great world of London, but

simply the honest man who had dwelt almost under his own roof-tree for

years.

When, having heard with surprise and emotion, the story of Mr.

Nicholls's attachment, Charlotte communicated his offer to her father,

"agitation and anger disproportionate to the occasion ensued. My blood

boiled with a sense of injustice. But Papa worked himself into a state

not to be trifled with. The veins on his forehead started up like

whipcord, and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot. I made haste to

promise that on the morrow Mr. Nicholls should have a distinct

refusal." It so happened that very soon after this, that is to say

when "Villette" was published, Miss Martineau caused deep pain to its

writer by condemning the manner in which "all the female characters in

all their thoughts and lives" were represented as "being full of one

thing--love." The critic not unjustly pointed out that love was not

the be-all and the end-all of a woman's life. Perhaps her pen would

not have been so sharp in touching on this subject, had she known with

what quiet self-sacrifice the author of "Villette" had but a few weeks

before set aside her own preferences and inclinations, and submitted

her lot to her father's angry will. This truly must be reckoned as

another illustration of the extent to which the _Quarterly_ reviewer

of 1848 had formed an accurate conception of the character of "Currer

Bell."

Not only was the struggle which followed sharp and painful, it was

also stubborn and prolonged. Mr. Nicholls resigned the curacy he had

held so many years, and prepared to leave Haworth. Mr. Brontë not only

showed no signs of relenting, but openly exulted in his departure, and

lost no opportunity of expressing in bitterly sarcastic language his

opinion of his colleague's conduct. How deeply Charlotte suffered at

this time is proved by the letters before me. Firmly convinced that

her first duty was to the parent whose only remaining stay she was,

she never wavered in her determination to sacrifice every wish of her

own to his comfort. But her heart was racked with pity for the man who

was suffering through his love for her, and her indignation was roused

to fever-heat by the gross injustice of her father's conduct.

Compassion or relenting is no more to be looked for from Papa than

sap from firewood. I never saw a battle more sternly fought with

the feelings than Mr. N. fights with his, and when he yields

momentarily, you are almost sickened by the sense of the strain

upon him. However, he is to go, and I cannot speak to him or look

at him or comfort him a whit--and I must submit. Providence is

over all; that is the only consolation.

In all this--she says, after speaking again of the severity of

the struggle--it is not _I_ who am to be pitied at all, and of

course nobody pities me. They all think in Haworth that I have

disdainfully refused him. If pity would do him any good he ought

to have, and I believe has, it. They may abuse me if they will.

Whether they do or not I can't tell.

I thought of you on New Year's Day, and hope you got well over

your formidable tea-making. I am busy, too, in my little way,

preparing to go to London this week--a matter which necessitates

some little application to the needle. I find it quite necessary I

should go to superintend the press, as Mr. S---- seems quite

determined not to let the printing get on till I come. I have

actually only received three proof-sheets since I was at

Brookroyd. Papa wants me to go too, to be out of the way, I

suppose; but I am sorry for one other person whom nobody pities

but me.... They don't understand the nature of his feelings, but

I see now what they are. Mr. N---- is one of those who attach

themselves to very few, whose sensations are close and deep, like

an underground stream, running strong but in a narrow channel. He

continues restless and ill. He carefully performs the occasional

duty, but does not come near the church, procuring a substitute

every Sunday. A few days since he wrote to Papa requesting

permission to withdraw his resignation. Papa answered that he

should only do so on condition of giving his written promise never

again to broach the obnoxious subject either to him or to me. This

he has evaded doing, so the matter remains unsettled. I feel

persuaded the termination will be, his departure for Australia.

Dear Nell, without loving him, I don't like to think of him

suffering in solitude, and wish him anywhere so that he were

happier. He and Papa have never met or spoken yet.

During this crisis in her life, when suffering had come to her in a

new and sharp form, but when happily the black cloud was lit up on the

other side by the rays of the sun, she went up to London to spend a

few weeks. From the letters written during her visit I make these

extracts:

January 11th, 1853.

I came here last Wednesday. I had a delightful day for my journey,

and was kindly received at the close. My time has passed

pleasantly enough since I came, yet I have not much to tell you;

nor is it likely I shall have. I do not mean to go out much or see

many people. Sir J. S---- wrote to me two or three times before I

left home, and made me promise to let him know when I should be

in town, but I reserve to myself the right of deferring the

communication till the latter part of my stay. All in this house

appear to be pretty much as usual, and yet I see some changes.

Mrs. ---- and her daughter look well enough; but on Mr. ---- hard

work is telling early. Both his complexion, his countenance, and

the very lines of his features are altered. It is rather the

remembrance of what he was than the fact of what he is which can

warrant the picture I have been accustomed to give of him. One

feels pained to see a physical alteration of this kind; yet I feel

glad and thankful that it is _merely_ physical. As far as I can

judge, mind and manners have undergone no deterioration--rather, I

think, the contrary.

January 19th, 1853.

I still continue to get on very comfortably and quietly in London,

in the way I like, seeing rather things than persons. Being

allowed to have my own choice of sights this time I selected the

_real_ rather than the _decorative_ side of life. I have been over

two prisons, ancient and modern, Newgate and Pentonville; also the

Bank, the Exchange, the Foundling Hospital; and to-day, if all be

well, I go with Dr. Forbes to see Bethlehem Hospital. Mrs. ----

and her daughters are, I believe, a little amazed at my gloomy

tastes; but I take no notice. Papa, I am glad to say, continues

well. I enclose portions of two notes of his which will show you

better than anything I can say how he treats a certain subject. My

book is to appear at the close of this month. Mrs. Gaskell wrote

to beg that it should not clash with "Ruth," and it was impossible

to refuse to defer the publication a week or two.

The visit to London did good; but it could not remove the pain which

she suffered during this period of conflict.

Haworth, May 19th, 1853.

It is almost a relief to hear that you only think of staying at

G---- a month; though of course one must not be selfish in wishing

you to come home soon.... I cannot help feeling satisfaction in

finding that the people here are getting up a subscription to

offer a testimonial of respect to Mr. N---- on his leaving the

place. Many are expressing both their commiseration and esteem for

him. The churchwardens recently put the question to him plainly:

Why was he going? Was it Mr. Brontë's fault or his own? His own,

he answered. Did he blame Mr. Brontë? No, he did not: if anybody

was wrong, it was himself. Was he willing to go? No; it gave him

great pain. Yet he is not always right. I must be just. Papa

addressed him at the school tea-drinking with _constrained_

civility, but still with _civility_. He did not reply civilly; he

cut short further words. This sort of treatment is what Papa never

will forget or forgive. It inspires him with a silent bitterness

not to be expressed.... It is a dismal state of things. The

weather is fine now, dear Nell. We will take these sunny days as a

good omen for your visit.

May 27th, 1853.

You will want to know about the leave-taking. The whole matter is

but a painful subject, but I must treat it briefly. The

testimonial was presented in a public meeting. Mr. F---- and Mr.

G---- were there. Papa was not very well, and I advised him to

stay away, which he did. As to the last Sunday, it was a cruel

struggle. Mr. N---- ought not to have had to take any duty. He

left Haworth this morning at six o'clock. Yesterday evening he

called to render into Papa's hands the deeds of the National

School, and to say good-bye. They were busy cleaning, washing the

paint, &c., so he did not find me there. I would not go into the

parlour to speak to him in Papa's presence. He went out, thinking

he was not to see me; and indeed till the very last moment I

thought it best not. But perceiving that he stayed long before

going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took

courage, and went out, trembling and miserable. I found him

leaning against the garden door.... Of course I went straight to

him. Very few words were interchanged; those few barely

articulate: several things I should have liked to ask him were

swept entirely from my memory. Poor fellow! but he wanted such

hope and such encouragement as I _could_ not give him. Still

I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and

indifferent to his constancy and grief. For a few weeks he goes to

the South of England--afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in

Yorkshire, but I don't know where. Papa has been far from strong

lately. I dare not mention Mr. N----'s name to him. He speaks of

him quietly and without opprobrium to others; but to me he is

implacable on the matter. However, he is gone--gone--and there's

an end of it! I see no chance of hearing a word about him in

future, unless some stray shred of intelligence comes through Mr.

G---- or some other second-hand source.

The remainder of the year 1853 was a chequered one. Mr. Nicholls left

Haworth; Charlotte remained with her father. Those who saw her at this

time bear testimony to the unfailing, never-flagging devotion she

displayed towards one who was wounding her cruelly. But she bore this

sorrow, like those which had preceded it, bravely and cheerfully. To

her friend she opened her heart at times, revealing something of what

she was suffering; but to all others she was silent.

Haworth, April 13th, 1853.

MY DEAR MISS ----,--Your last kind letter ought to have been

answered long since, and would have been, did I find it practicable

to proportion the promptitude of the response to the value I place

upon my correspondents and their communications. You will easily

understand, however, that the contrary rule often holds good, and

that the epistle which importunes often takes precedence of that

which interests. My publishers express entire satisfaction with the

reception which has been accorded to "Villette." And, indeed, the

majority of the reviews has been favourable enough. You will be

aware, however, that there is a minority, small in character, which

views the work with no favourable eye. "Currer Bell's" remarks on

Romanism have drawn down on him the condign displeasure of the High

Church party, which displeasure has been unequivocally expressed

through their principal organs, _The Guardian_, _The English

Churchman_, and _The Christian Remembrancer_. I can well

understand that some of the charges launched against me by these

publications will tell heavily to my prejudice in the minds of

most readers. But this must be borne; and for my part, I can

suffer no accusation to oppress me much which is not supported by

the inward evidence of Conscience and Reason. "Extremes meet,"

says the proverb; in proof whereof I would mention that Miss

Martineau finds with "Villette" nearly the same fault as the

Puseyites. She accuses me of attacking Popery "with virulence," of

going out of my way to assault it "passionately." In other

respects she has shown, with reference to the work, a spirit so

strangely and unexpectedly acrimonious, that I have gathered

courage to tell her that the gulf of mutual difference between her

and me is so wide and deep, the bridge of union so slight and

uncertain, I have come to the conclusion that frequent intercourse

would be most perilous and unadvisable, and have begged to adjourn

_sine die_ my long-projected visit to her. Of course she is now

very angry, but it cannot be helped. Two or three weeks since I

received a long and kind letter from Mr. ----, which I answered a

short time ago. I believe he thinks me a much better advocate for

_change_, and what is called "political progress," than I am.

However, in my reply I did not touch on these subjects. He

intimated a wish to publish some of his own MSS. I fear he would

hardly like the somewhat dissuasive tendency of my answer; but

really, in these days of headlong competition, it is a great risk

to publish.

April 18th, 1853.

If all be well, I think of going to Manchester about the close of

this week. I only intend staying a few days; but I can say nothing

about coming back by B----. Do not expect me; I would rather see

you at Haworth by-and-by. Two or three weeks since, Miss Martineau

wrote to ask why she did not hear from me, and to press me to go

to Ambleside. Explanations ensued; the notes on each side were

quite civil; but, having deliberately formed my resolution on

substantial grounds, I adhered to it. I have declined being her

visitor, and bid her good-bye. It is best so; the antagonism of

our natures and principles was too serious to be trifled with.

This difference with Miss Martineau is not a thing to dwell on now.

The pity is that two women so truthful, so sincere, so bold in their

utterances should ever have differed. Charlotte Brontë had known how

to stand bravely by Miss Martineau when she believed that the latter

was suffering because of her honestly-formed opinions; she had known

how to speak on her behalf with timely generosity and force. But her

sensitive nature was wounded to the quick by criticisms which she

believed to be unjust; and so these two great women parted, and met

again no more.

To the mental pain which she was now suffering from her father's

conduct there was added keen physical torture. During this summer of

1853 many of her letters contain sentences like this: "I have been

suffering most severely for ten days with continued pain in the

head--on the nerves it is said to be. Blistering at last seems to have

done it some good; but I am yet weak and bewildered." A visit from

Mrs. Gaskell, who came to see how Haworth looked in its autumn robe of

splendour, did her some good; but still more was gained by a journey

to the seaside in the company of her old friend and schoolmistress,

Miss Wooler, before which she had addressed to her the following

letter:

Haworth, August 30th, 1853.

MY DEAR MISS W.,--I was from home when your kind letter came, and,

as it was not forwarded, I did not get it till my return. All the

summer I have felt the wish and cherished the intention to join you

for a brief period at the seaside; nor do I yet entirely relinquish

the purpose, though its fulfilment must depend on my father's

health. At present he complains so much of weakness and depressed

spirits, that no thoughts of leaving him can be entertained. Should

he improve, however, I would fain come to you before autumn is

quite gone.

My late absence was but for a week, when I accompanied Mr. and

Mrs. ---- and baby on a trip to Scotland. They went with the

intention of taking up their quarters at Kirkcudbright, or some

watering-place on the Solway Firth. We hardly reached that

locality, and had stayed but one night, when the baby (that rather

despotic member of modern households) exhibited some symptoms of

indisposition. To my unskilled perception its ailments appeared

very slight, nowise interfering with its appetite or spirits; but

parental eyes saw the matter in a different light. The air of

Scotland was pronounced unpropitious to the child, and

consequently we had to retrace our steps. I own I felt some little

reluctance to leave "bonnie Scotland" so soon and so abruptly, but

of course I could not say a word, since, however strong on my own

mind the impression that the ailment in question was very trivial

and temporary (an impression confirmed by the issue), I could not

be absolutely certain that such was the case; and had any evil

consequences followed a prolonged stay, I should never have

forgiven myself.

Ilkley was the next place thought of. We went there, but I only

remained three days, for, in the hurry of changing trains at one

of the stations, my box was lost, and without clothes I could not

stay. I have heard of it twice, but have not yet regained it. In

all probability it is now lying at Kirkcudbright, where it was

directed.

Notwithstanding some minor trials, I greatly enjoyed this little

excursion. The scenery through which we travelled from Dumfries to

Kirkcudbright (a distance of thirty miles, performed outside a

stage-coach) was beautiful, though not at all of a peculiarly

Scottish character, being richly cultivated and well wooded. I

liked Ilkley, too, exceedingly, and shall long to revisit the

place. On the whole, I thought it for the best that circumstances

obliged me to return home so soon, for I found Papa far from well.

He is something better now, yet I shall not feel it right to leave

him again till I see a more thorough re-establishment of health

and strength.

With some things to regret and smile at, I saw things to admire in

the small family party with which I travelled. Mr. ---- makes a

most devoted father and husband. I admired his great kindness to

his wife; but I rather groaned (inwardly) over the unbounded

indulgence of both parents towards their only child. The world

does not revolve round the sun; that is a mistake. Certain babies,

I plainly perceive, are the important centre of all things. The

papa and mamma could only take their meals, rest, and exercise at

such times and in such manner as the despotic infant permitted.

While Mrs. ---- eat her dinner, Mr. ---- relieved guard as nurse.

A nominal nurse, indeed, accompanied the party, but her place was

a sort of anxious waiting sinecure, as the child did not fancy her

attendance. Tenderness to offspring is a virtue, yet I think I

have seen mothers who were most tender and thoughtful, yet in very

love for their children would not permit them to become tyrants

either over themselves or others.

I shall be glad and grateful, my dear Miss W., to hear from you

again whenever you have time or inclination to write--though, as I

told you before, there is no fear of my misunderstanding silence.

Should you leave Hornsea before winter sets in, I trust you will

just come straight to Haworth, and pay your long-anticipated visit

there before you go elsewhere. Papa and the servants send their

respects. I always duly deliver your kind messages of remembrance,

because they give pleasure.

December came, and she writes to this friend expressing her wonder as

to how she is spending the long winter evenings--"alone, probably,

like me." It was a dreary winter for her; but the spring was at hand.

Mr. Brontë, studying his daughter with keen eyes, could not hide from

himself the fact that her health and spirits were drooping now as they

had never drooped before. All work with the pen was laid aside; and

household cares, attendance upon her father or on the old servant, who

now also needed to be waited upon, occupied her time; but her heart

was heavy with a burden such as she had never previously known. At

last the stern nature of the man was broken down by his genuine

affection for his daughter. His opposition to her marriage was

suddenly laid aside; he asked her to recall Mr. Nicholls to Haworth,

and with characteristic waywardness he now became as anxious that the

wedding should take place as he had ever been that it should be

prevented.

There was a curious misadventure regarding the letter inviting Mr.

Nicholls to Haworth, which is explained in the first of the letters I

now quote.

Haworth, March 28th, 1854.

The enclosure in yours of yesterday puzzled me at first, for I did

not immediately recognise my own handwriting. When I did, the

sensation was one of consternation and vexation, as the letter

ought by all means to have gone on Friday. It was intended to

relieve him from great anxiety. However, I trust he will get it

to-day; and, on the whole, when I think it over, I can only be

thankful that the mistake was no worse, and did not throw the

letter into the hands of some indifferent and unscrupulous person.

I wrote it after some days of indisposition and uneasiness, and

when I felt weak and unfit to write. While writing to _him_ I

was at the same time intending to answer _your_ note; which I

suppose accounts for the confusion of ideas shown in the mixed and

blundering address.

I wish you could come about Easter rather than at another time,

for this reason. Mr. Nicholls, if not prevented, proposes coming

over then. I suppose he will be staying at Mr. ----'s, as he has

done two or three times before; but he will be frequently coming

here, which would enliven your visits a little. Perhaps, too, he

might take a walk with us occasionally. Altogether, it would be a

little change for you, such as you know I could not always offer.

If all be well, he will come under different circumstances to any

that have attended his visits before. Were it otherwise, I should

not ask you to meet him, for when aspects are gloomy and

unpropitious, the fewer there are to suffer from the cloud, the

better. He was here in January, and was then received.... I trust

it will be a little different now. Papa has breakfasted in bed

to-day, and has not yet risen. His bronchitis is still

troublesome. I had a bad week last week, but am greatly better

now, for my mind is a little relieved, though very sedate, and

rising only to expectations the most moderate. Some time, perhaps

in May, I may be in your neighbourhood, and shall then hope to

come to B.; but, as you will understand from what I have now

stated, I could not come before. Think it over, dear E., and come

to Haworth if you can.

April 11th, 1854.

The result of Mr. Nicholls's visit is that Papa's consent is

gained and his respect won, for Mr. Nicholls has in all things

proved himself disinterested and forbearing. He has shown, too,

that, while his feelings are exquisitely keen, he can freely

forgive.... In fact, dear Ellen, I am engaged. Mr. Nicholls in the

course of a few months will return to the curacy of Haworth. I

stipulated that I would not leave Papa, and to Papa himself I

proposed a plan of residence which should maintain his seclusion

and convenience uninvaded, and in a pecuniary sense bring him gain

instead of loss. What seemed at one time impossible is now

arranged, and Papa begins really to take a pleasure in the

prospect. For myself, dear E----, while thankful to One who seems

to have guided me through much difficulty, much and deep distress

and perplexity of mind, I am still very calm.... What I taste of

happiness is of the soberest order. Providence offers me this

destiny. Doubtless, then, it is the best for me; nor do I shrink

from wishing those dear to me one not less happy. It is possible

that our marriage may take place in the course of the summer. Mr.

Nicholls wishes it to be in July. He spoke of you with great

kindness, and said he hoped you would be at our wedding. I said I

thought of having no other bridesmaid. Did I say right? I mean the

marriage to be literally _as quiet as possible_. Do not mention

these things as yet. Good-bye. There is a strange, half-sad

feeling in making these announcements. The whole thing is

something other than the imagination paints it beforehand--cares,

fears, come mixed inextricably with hopes. I trust yet to talk the

matter over with you.

So at length the day had dawned, and every letter now is filled with

the hopes and cares of the expectant bride.

April 15th.

I hope to see you somewhere about the second week in May. The

Manchester visit is still hanging over my head; I have deferred it

and deferred it, but have finally promised to go about the

beginning of next month. I shall only stay about three days; then

I spend two or three days at H., then come to B. The three visits

must be compressed into the space of a fortnight, if possible. I

suppose I shall have to go to Leeds. My purchases cannot be either

expensive or extensive. You must just resolve in your head the

bonnets and dresses: something that can be turned to decent use

and worn after the wedding-day will be best, I think. I wrote

immediately to Miss W----, and received a truly kind letter from

her this morning. Papa's mind seems wholly changed about this

matter; and he has said, both to me and when I was not there, how

much happier he feels since he allowed all to be settled. It is a

wonderful relief for me to hear him treat the thing rationally,

and quietly and amicably to talk over with him themes on which

once I dared not touch. He is rather anxious that things should

get forward now, and takes quite an interest in the arrangement of

preliminaries. His health improves daily, though this east wind

still keeps up a slight irritation in the throat and chest. The

feeling which has been disappointed in Papa was _ambition_--paternal

pride--ever a restless feeling, as we all know. Now that this

unquiet spirit is exorcised, justice, which was once quite

forgotten, is once more listened to, and affection, I hope, resumes

some power. My hope is that in the end this arrangement will turn

out more truly to Papa's advantage than any other it was in my

power to achieve. Mr. N. only in his last letter refers touchingly

to his earnest desire to prove his gratitude to Papa by offering

support and consolation to his declining age. This will not be mere

_talk_ with him. He is no talker, no dealer in mere professions.

April 28th.

Papa, thank God! continues to improve much. He preached twice on

Sunday, and again on Wednesday, and was not tired. His mind and

mood are different to what they were; so much more cheerful and

quiet. I trust the illusions of ambition are quite dissipated, and

that he really sees it is better to relieve a suffering and

faithful heart, to secure in its fidelity a solid good, than

unfeelingly to abandon one who is truly attached to _his_

interests as well as mine, and pursue some vain empty shadow.

Hemsworth, May 6th.

I came here on Thursday afternoon. I shall stay over Saturday and

Sunday, and, if all be well, I hope to come to B. on Monday, after

dinner, and just in time for tea. I leave you to judge by your own

feelings whether I long to see you or not. ---- tells me you are

looking better. She tells me also that I am not--rather ugly, as

usual. But never mind that, dear Nell--as, indeed, you never did.

On the whole, I _feel_ very decently at present, and within the

last fortnight have had much respite from headache. You are kind in

being so much in earnest in wishing for Mr. N. to come to B., and I

am sorry that circumstances do not favour such a step. But, knowing

how matters stood, I did not repeat the proposal to him, for I

thought it would be like tempting him to forget duty.

In the following letters, in addition to the pleasing side-lights

which they throw upon her life in its new aspect, there is another

feature which deserves to be noticed--that is, the exceeding

tenderness with which the writer watches over her friend. The new love

entering into her heart has but made the old love stronger, and she

lavishes upon the sole remaining companion of her youth the care and

affection which can no longer be bestowed upon sisters of her own

blood.

Haworth, May 14th.

I took the time of the Leeds, Keighley, Skipton trains from the

February time-table, and when I got to Leeds found myself all

wrong. The trains on that line were changed. One had that moment

left the station--indeed, it was just steaming away; there was not

another till a quarter after five o'clock; so I had just four

hours to sit and twirl my thumbs. I got over the time somehow, but

I was vexed to think how much more pleasantly I might have spent

it at B. It was just seven o'clock when I reached home. I found

Papa well. It seems he has been particularly well during my

absence, but to-day he is a little sickly, and only preached once.

However, he is better again this evening. I could not leave you,

dear Ellen, with a very quiet mind, or take away a satisfied

feeling about you. Not that I think that bad cough lodged in a

dangerous quarter; but it shakes your system, wears you out, and

makes you look ill. _Take care of it, do, dear Ellen. Avoid the

evening air for a time_; keep in the house when the weather is

cold. Observe these precautions till the cough is quite gone, and

you regain strength, and feel better able to bear chill and

change. Believe me, it does not suit you at present to be much

exposed to variations of temperature. I send the mantle with this,

but have made up my mind not to let you have the cushion now, lest

you should sit stitching over it too closely. It will do any time,

and whenever it comes will be your present all the same.

May 22nd.

I wonder how you are, and whether that harassing cough is better;

but I am afraid the variable weather of last week will not have

been favourable to improvement. I _will_ not and _do_ not believe

the cough lies on any vital organ. Still it is a mark of weakness,

and a warning to be scrupulously careful about undue exposure. Just

now, dear Ellen, an hour's inadvertence might derange your whole

constitution for years to come--might throw you into a state of

chronic ill-health which would waste, fade, and wither you up

prematurely. So, once and again, TAKE CARE. If you go to ----,

or any other evening party, pack yourself in blankets and a

feather-bed to come home, also fold your boa twice over your mouth,

to serve as a respirator. Since I came home I have been very busy

sketching. The little new room is got into order now, and the green

and white curtains are up. They exactly suit the papering, and look

neat and clean enough. I had a letter a day or two since,

announcing that Mr. N. comes to-morrow. I feel anxious about him,

more anxious on one point than I dare quite express to myself. It

seems he has again been suffering sharply from his rheumatic

affection. I hear this not from himself, but from another quarter.

He was ill whilst I was at Manchester and B. He uttered no

complaint to me, dropped no hint on the subject. Alas! he was

hoping he had got the better of it; and I know how this

contradiction of his hopes will sadden him. For unselfish reasons

he did so earnestly wish this complaint might not become chronic. I

fear--I fear--but, however, I mean to stand by him now, whether in

weal or woe. This liability to rheumatic pain was one of the strong

arguments used against the marriage. It did not weigh, somehow. If

he is doomed to suffer, it seems that so much the more will he need

care and help. And yet the ultimate possibilities of such a case

are appalling. Well, come what may, God help and strengthen both

him and me. I look forward to to-morrow with a mixture of

impatience and anxiety. Poor fellow! I want to see with my own eyes

how he is.

Haworth, June 7th.

I am very glad and thankful to hear that you continue better,

though I am afraid your cough will have returned a little during

the late chilly change in the weather. Are you taking proper care

of yourself, and either staying in the house or going out warmly

clad, and with a boa doing duty as a respirator? On this last

point I incline particularly to insist, for you seemed careless

about it, and unconscious how much atmospheric harm the fine thick

hairs of the fur might ward off. I was very miserable about Papa

again some days ago. While the weather was so sultry and electric,

about a week since, he was suddenly attacked with deafness, and

complained of other symptoms which showed the old tendency to the

head. His spirits, too, became excessively depressed. It was all I

could do to keep him up, and I own I was sad and depressed myself.

However he took some medicine, which did him good. The change to

cooler weather, too, has suited him. The temporary deafness has

quite disappeared for the present, and his head is again clear and

cool. I can only earnestly trust he will continue better. That

unlucky ---- continues his efforts to give what trouble he can,

and I am obliged to conceal things from Papa's knowledge as well

as I can, to spare him that anxiety which hurts him so much.... I

feel compelled to throw the burden of the contest upon Mr.

Nicholls, who is younger and can bear it better. The worst of it

is, Mr. N. has not Papa's right to speak and act, or he would do

it to purpose. I should then have to mediate, not rouse; to play

the part of

Feather-bed 'twixt castle-wall

And heavy brunt of cannon-ball.

June 16th.

MY DEAR MISS W----,--Owing to certain untoward proceedings, matters

have hitherto been kept in such a state of uncertainty that I could

not make any approach towards fixing the day; and now, if I would

avoid inconveniencing Papa, I must hurry. I believe the

commencement of July is the furthest date upon which I can

calculate; possibly I may be obliged to accept one still

nearer--the close of June. I cannot quite decide till next week.

Meantime, will you, my dear Miss W----, come as soon as you

possibly can, and let me know at your earliest convenience the

day of your arrival. I have written to Ellen, begging her to

communicate with you.... Your absence would be a real and grievous

disappointment. Papa also seems much to wish your presence. Mr.

Nicholls enters with true kindness into my wish to have all done

quietly; and he has made such arrangements as will, I trust, secure

literal privacy. Yourself, Ellen, and Mr. S. will be the only

persons present at the ceremony. Mr. and Mrs. G. are asked to the

breakfast afterwards. I know you will kindly excuse this brief

note, for I am and have been _very_ busy, and must still be busy up

to the very day. Give my sincere love to all Mr. C----'s family. I

hope Mr. C. and Mr. Nicholls may meet some day. I believe mutual

acquaintance would in time bring mutual respect; but one of them,

at least, requires _knowing_ to be _appreciated_. And I must say

that I have not yet found him to lose with closer knowledge. I make

no grand discoveries, but I occasionally come upon a quiet little

nook of character which excites esteem. He is always reliable,

truthful, faithful, affectionate; a little unbending, perhaps, but

still persuadable and open to kind influence--a man never, indeed,

to be driven, but who may be led.

[Illustration: HAWORTH CHURCH.]