and venerable man, with a gray head, and the most notable Milesian
features, opened it, and smiling kindly upon me as I told my name,
invited me in; and asking pardon for leaving me alone, vanished into a
room on the right hand of the door, telling me he would ring for his
daughter. The bell had hardly sounded before the door opened, and Miss
Brontë stood before me. I was agreeably disappointed at her appearance.
I had always heard that she was very plain and unprepossessing, with
bashful manners. Instead of this, I found her exceedingly agreeable,
from the first moment of her entrance to the last of the interview,
and, instead of being plain, I thought her uncommonly attractive. She
had the slightest, fairy-like figure, and very small hands and feet.
Her head was superb, and her forehead broad and deep and square,
appearing so more especially in her profile. Her eyes had, for me, a
strange fascination, so weird, mystical, unfathomable they seemed; and
this expression was deepened by a slight obliquity in them. She had
over-worked herself, she said, and was tired, and her eyes were very
weary and painful; all which was evident in her appearance; and I saw
that the light was painful to her, although the room was darkened by
the drawn blinds. She was dressed very simply, but neatly, and with
taste.
GEORGE S. PHILLIPS: ‘Visit to Charlotte Brontë.’ ‘_The Ladies’
Repository_,’ September, 1872.
* * * * *
A parcel arrived for me, enclosing a book, and a note which was
examined as few notes ever are. The book was ‘Shirley’; and the note
was from ‘Currer Bell.’ Here it is:
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s first meeting with Harriet Martineau.]
“Currer Bell offers a copy of ‘Shirley’ to Miss Martineau’s acceptance,
in acknowledgment of the pleasure and profit he [she] has derived from
her work. When C. B. first read ‘Deerbrook,’ he tasted a new and keen
pleasure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In his mind, ‘Deerbrook’
ranks with the writings that have really done him good, added to his
stock of ideas, and rectified his views of life.”
“November 7th, 1849.”
* * * * *
We examined this note to make out whether it was written by a man or a
woman. The hand was a cramped and nervous one, which might belong to
anybody who had written too much, or was in bad health, or who had been
badly taught. The erased “she” seemed at first to settle the matter;
but somebody suggested that the “she” might refer to me under a form
of sentence which might easily have been changed in the penning. I had
made up my mind, as I had repeatedly said, that a certain passage in
‘Jane Eyre,’ about sewing on brass rings, could have been written only
by a woman or an upholsterer. I now addressed my reply externally to
‘Currer Bell, Esq.’ and began it “Madam.” [A second note from Currer
Bell, expressing a wish to meet Miss Martineau, was answered by an
invitation to tea.]
The footman would certainly announce this mysterious personage by
his or her right name; and, as I could not hear the announcement,
I charged my cousins to take care that I was duly informed of it.
Precisely as the time-piece struck six, a carriage stopped at the door;
and after a minute of suspense, the footman announced “Miss Brogden”;
whereupon my cousin informed me that it was Miss Brontë; for we had
heard the name before, among others, in the way of conjecture. I
thought her the smallest creature I had ever seen (except at a fair)
and her eyes blazed, as it seemed to me. She glanced quickly round;
and my trumpet pointing me out, she held out her hand frankly and
pleasantly. I introduced her, of course, to the family, and then came
a moment which I had not anticipated. When she was seated by me on the
sofa, she cast up at me such a look,--so loving, so appealing,--that,
in connection with her deep mourning dress, and the knowledge that she
was the sole survivor of her family, I could with utmost difficulty
return her smile, or keep my composure. I should have been heartily
glad to cry. We soon got on very well; and she appeared more at ease
that evening than I ever saw her afterwards, except when we were alone.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
1877.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Mr. Lewes’ account of Charlotte.]
Lewes was describing Currer Bell to me yesterday as a little, plain,
provincial, sickly-looking old maid. Yet what passion, what fire
in her! Quite as much as in George Sand, only the clothing is less
voluptuous.
GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Sara Hennell, 1853. ‘George Eliot’s Life as
related in her Letters and Journals,’ arranged and edited by J. W.
Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Thackeray’s recollection.]
I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great
honest eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the
woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be
errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She
spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions.... She
formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories
of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it
with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of
contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation with
extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if
their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she seemed to
me to be judging the London folk prematurely; but perhaps the city is
rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc
marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She
gave me the impression of being a very pure and lofty and high-minded
person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with
her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me....
WM. M. THACKERAY: ‘Roundabout Papers.’ London: Smith & Elder, 1863.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s elaborate description.]
She was ... very small in figure--“stunted” was the word she applied
to herself--but as her limbs and head were in just proportion to the
slight, fragile body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive
of deformity could properly be applied to her. With soft, thick,
brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to give a
description as they appeared to me in her later life. They were large
and well shaped; their color a reddish-brown; but if the iris was
closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety of
tints. The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence; but
now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome
indignation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had
been kindled which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I never saw
the like in any human creature. As for the rest of her features, they
were plain, large, and ill set; but, unless you began to catalogue
them, you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and power of
the countenance overbalanced every physical defect; the crooked mouth
and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the
attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself would
have cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever
saw; when one of the former was placed in mine, it was like the soft
touch of a bird in the middle of my palm. The delicate long fingers
had a peculiar fineness of sensation, which was one reason why all her
handiwork of whatever kind--writing, sewing, knitting--was so clear in
its minuteness. She was remarkably neat in her whole personal attire;
but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes and gloves.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: A caricature.]
[Sidenote: Redeeming features.]
There is a little caricature sketched by herself lying before me
as I write. In it all the more awkward of her physical points are
ingeniously exaggerated. The prominent forehead bulges out in an
aggressive manner, suggestive of hydrocephalus, the nose, “tip-tilted
like the petal of a flower,” and the mouth are made unnecessarily
large, while the little figure is clumsy and ungainly. But though she
could never pretend to beauty, she had redeeming features, her eyes,
hair, and massive forehead all being attractive points.
T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s well-known portrait.]
[Sidenote: The engraving.]
Mr. Nicholls asked me to step into the parlor and look at Charlotte’s
portrait. It is the one from which the engraving in the ‘Life’ (Mrs.
Gaskell’s) is made; but the latter does no justice to the picture,
which Mr. Nicholls said was a perfect likeness of the original. I
remarked that the engraving gives to the face, and especially to the
eyes, a weird, sinister and unpleasant expression which did not appear
in the portrait. He said he had observed it, and that nothing could
be more unjust, for Charlotte’s eyes were as soft and affectionate in
their expression as could possibly be conceived.
_Account of an Interview with Mr. Brontë and Mr. Nicholls_, quoted by
T. W. REID.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Personal traits: Miss Martineau’s notes.]
[Sidenote: Slightly morbid.]
Between the appearance of ‘Shirley’ and that of ‘Villette’ she came
to me;--in December, 1850. Our intercourse then confirmed my deep
impression of her integrity, her noble conscientiousness about her
vocation, and her consequent self-reliance in the moral conduct of her
life. I saw at the same time tokens of a morbid condition of mind, in
one or two directions;--much less than might have been expected, or
than would have been seen in almost any one else under circumstances so
unfavorable to health of body and mind as those in which she lived.
[Sidenote: Unspoilable.]
She was not only unspoiled by her sudden and prodigious fame, but
obviously unspoilable. She was somewhat amazed by her fame, but oftener
annoyed; at least when obliged to come out into the world to meet
it, instead of its reaching her in her secluded home in the wilds of
Yorkshire.
[Sidenote: Passionate love of truth.]
“I know,” she wrote, “that you will give me your thoughts upon my book,
[‘Villette’] as frankly as if you spoke to some near relative whose
good you preferred to her gratification. I wince under the pain of
condemnation--like any other weak structure of flesh and blood; but I
love, I honor, I kneel to Truth. Let her smite me on one cheek--good!
the tears may spring to the eyes; but courage! There is the other
side--hit again--hit sharply!” This was the genuine spirit of the
woman. She might be weak for once; but her permanent temper was one of
humility, candor, integrity and conscientiousness.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s record: Charlotte’s dread of a strange face.]
I had several opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was
ingrained in her constitution, and how acutely she suffered in striving
to overcome it. One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters
who sang Scottish ballads exquisitely. Miss Brontë had been sitting
quiet and constrained till they began “The Bonnie House of Airlie,”
but the effect of that and “Carlisle Yetts,” which followed, was as
irresistible as the playing of the Piper of Hamelin. The beautiful
clear light came into her eyes; her lips quivered with emotion; she
forgot herself, rose, and crossed the room to the piano, where she
asked eagerly for song after song. The sisters begged her to come and
see them the next morning, when they would sing as long as ever she
liked; and she promised gladly and thankfully. But on reaching the
house her courage failed. We walked some time up and down the street;
she upbraiding herself all the while for folly, and trying to dwell on
the sweet echoes in her memory, rather than on the thoughts of a third
sister who would have to be faced if we went in. But it was of no use;
and dreading lest this struggle with herself might bring on one of her
trying headaches, I entered at last and made the best apology I could
for her non-appearance.
[Sidenote: Superstitiousness.]
There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at this period
which told secrets about the finely-strung frame. One night I was on
the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just before bed-time.
She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she was superstitious,
and prone at all times to the involuntary recurrence of any thoughts of
ominous gloom which might have been suggested to her. She said that on
first coming to us she had found a letter on her dressing-table from a
friend in Yorkshire, containing a story which had impressed her vividly
ever since;--that it mingled with her dreams at night, and made her
sleep restless and unrefreshing.
[Sidenote: The Brontës not fond of children.]
Neither Charlotte nor her sisters were naturally fond of children.
The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for
they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am
inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting
information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of
acquiring it.... The little Brontës had been brought up motherless; and
from knowing nothing of the gaiety and sportiveness of childhood--from
never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves--they
were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to call out its
engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities
of humanity; they had never been drawn into contact with them in any
other way. Years afterward, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she
watched our little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her
that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She
was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of
kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part; and constantly
maintained that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we
differed on the point of their unusual excellence.
My youngest little girl ... would steal her little hand into Miss
Brontë’s scarcely larger one, and each took pleasure in this apparently
unobserved caress. Yet once when I told Julia to take and show her the
way to some room in the house, Miss Brontë shrank back: “Do not _bid_
her do anything for me,” she said; “it has been so sweet hitherto to
have her rendering her little attentions _spontaneously_.”
As illustrating her feelings with regard to children, I may give what
she says in [one] of her letters to me:
“Whenever I see Florence and Julia again, I shall feel like a fond but
bashful suitor, who views at a distance the fair personage to whom,
in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the
clearest idea I can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but
to whom I am a stranger--and to what children am I not a stranger? They
seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways, are all matter of
half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation.”
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Manner of composing.]
I remember many little particulars which Miss Brontë gave me, in answer
to my inquiries respecting her mode of composition. She said, that it
was not every day that she could write. Sometimes weeks or even months
elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion
of her story which was already written. Then, some morning, she would
waken up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before
her, in distinct vision. When this was the case, all her care was to
discharge her household and filial duties, so as to obtain leisure to
sit down and write out the incidents and consequent thoughts, which
were, in fact, more present to her mind at such times than her actual
life itself. Notwithstanding this “possession,” ... those who survive,
of her daily and household companions, are clear in their testimony,
that never was the claim of any duty, never was the call of another
for help, neglected for an instant. It had been necessary to give
Tabby--now nearly eighty years of age--the assistance of a girl. Tabby
relinquished any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not
bear to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness
of her senses was dulled by age. Among other things, she reserved
to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she
was growing blind, she often left in those black specks, which we in
the North call the “eyes” of the potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty
a housekeeper to put up with this; yet she could not bear to hurt
the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden go over the
potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was less effectual
than formerly. Accordingly, she would steal into the kitchen, and
quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby’s being aware,
and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspiration, in her
writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and noiselessly
carry them back to their place. This little proceeding may show how
orderly and fully she accomplished her duties, even at those times when
the possession was upon her.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Handwriting, etc.]
Miss Brontë’s handwriting was exceedingly small, nervous, and poor,
but quite legible. Her first manuscript was a very small square book,
or folding of paper, from which she copied, with extreme care. She was
as much surprised to find that I never copy at all, as I was at her
imposing on herself so much toil which seems to me unnecessary.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s pen-portrait of herself.]
Those who would understand Charlotte, even more than those who would
understand Emily, should study the difference of tenderness between the
touch that drew Shirley Keeldar and the touch that drew Lucy Snowe.
This latter figure, as Mr. Wemyss Reid has observed with indisputable
accuracy of insight, was, doubtless, if never meant to win liking or
made to find favor in the general reader’s eyes, yet none the less
evidently on that account the faithful likeness of Charlotte Brontë,
studied from the life, and painted by her own hand with the sharp
austere precision of a photograph rather than a portrait. But it is
herself with the consolation and support of her genius withdrawn, with
the strength of her spiritual arm immeasurably shortened, the cunning
of her right hand comparatively cancelled; and this it is that makes
the main undertone and ultimate result of the book somewhat mournfuller
even than the literal record of her mournful and glorious life.
A. C. SWINBURNE: ‘A Note on Charlotte Brontë.’ London: Chatto & Windus,
1877.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: A chat with Mrs. Gaskell.]
[Sidenote: The parlor at Haworth in Charlotte’s last days.]
We talked over the clear, bright fire; it is a cold country, and the
fires were a pretty warm dancing light all over the house. The parlor
has been evidently refurnished within the last few years, since Miss
Brontë’s success has enabled her to have a little more money to spend.
Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea of a country
parsonage, possessed by people of very moderate means. The prevailing
color of the room is crimson, to make a warm setting for the cold, gray
landscape without. There is her likeness by Richmond, and an engraving
from Laurence’s picture of Thackeray; and two recesses on each side of
the high, narrow, old-fashioned mantel-piece, filled with books--books
given to her, books she has bought, and which tell of her individual
pursuits and tastes; not standard books.
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s weak sight.]
She cannot see well, and does little beside knitting. The way she
weakened her eyesight was this: When she was sixteen or seventeen,
she wanted much to draw, and she copied nimini-pimini copper-plate
engravings out of annuals (“stippling,” don’t the artists call it?);
... till at the end of six months she had produced an exquisitely
faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted to learn to express her
ideas by drawing. After she had tried to draw stories, and not
succeeded, she took the better mode of writing, but in so small a hand
that it is almost impossible to decipher what she wrote at this time.
[Sidenote: Habits of order.]
[Sidenote: Emily “a Titan.”]
[Sidenote: A picture by Branwell.]
I soon observed that her habits of order were such that she could
not go on with the conversation if a chair was out of its place;
everything was arranged with delicate regularity.... I told her of
----’s admiration of ‘Shirley,’ which pleased her, for the character
of ‘Shirley’ was meant for her sister Emily, about whom she is never
tired of talking, nor I of listening. Emily must have been a remnant
of the Titans--great-grand-daughter of the giants who used to inhabit
the earth. One day Miss Brontë brought down a rough, common-looking
oil painting, done by her brother, of herself--a little, rather
prim-looking girl of eighteen--and the two other sisters, girls of
sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair, and sad, dreamy-looking eyes.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s life-long friendship with Ellen Nussey.]
In the sombre web of Charlotte’s existence there shone one thread
of silver, all the brighter and more blessed for the contrast--it
was the warm, steady, unfailing friendship of her school-fellow “E.”
(Ellen Nussey). “Ma bien aimée, ma précieuse E., mon amie chère et
chérie,” she calls her in one of her earlier letters. “If we had but
a cottage and a competency of our own, I do think we might live and
love on till death, without being dependent on any third person for
happiness.” “What am I compared to you?” she exclaims; “I feel my own
utter worthlessness when I make the comparison. I am a very coarse,
commonplace wretch.” But the affection that overflowed in such loving
extravagance was no passing sentiment. As life deepened and grew more
and more intense--and fuller of pain--for each, the closer became
their attachment, the more constantly Charlotte turned for sympathy
and support to her faithful companion. In her, indeed, she found all
the greater rest and refreshment because of the difference in their
natures. Her individuality colors the Caroline Helstone of ‘Shirley.’
R. W. GILDER, in ‘The Old Cabinet,’ in _Scribner’s Monthly_, now _The
Century_, May, 1871.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s marriage.]
It was fixed that the marriage was to take place on the 29th of June
(1854). Her two friends (Ellen Nussey and Miss Wooler) arrived at
Haworth Parsonage the day before; and the long summer afternoon and
evening were spent by Charlotte in thoughtful arrangements for the
morrow, and for her father’s comfort during her absence from home. When
all was finished--the trunk packed, the morning’s breakfast arranged,
the wedding-dress laid out--just at bed-time, Mr. Brontë announced his
intention of stopping at home while the others went to church. What was
to be done? Who was to give the bride away? There were only to be the
officiating clergyman, the bride and bridegroom, the bridesmaid, and
Miss Wooler present. The prayer-book was referred to; and there it was
seen that the rubric enjoins that the minister shall receive “the woman
from her father’s or friend’s hands,” and that nothing is specified as
to the sex of the “friend.” So Miss Wooler, ever kind in emergency,
volunteered to give her old pupil away.... The news of the wedding had
slipped abroad before the little party came out of church, and many
old humble friends were there, seeing her look “like a snow-drop,” as
they say. Her dress was white embroidered muslin, with a lace mantle,
and white bonnet trimmed with green leaves, which might suggest the
resemblance of the pale wintry flower.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her brief married life.]