The next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, which told
severely on a constitution already tried by anxiety and care. Miss
Brontë describes herself as having utterly lost her appetite, and as
looking "grey, old, worn and sunk," from her sufferings during the
inclement season. The cold brought on severe toothache; toothache
was the cause of a succession of restless miserable nights; and long
wakefulness told acutely upon her nerves, making them feel with
redoubled sensitiveness all the harass of her oppressive life. Yet she
would not allow herself to lay her bad health to the charge of an uneasy
mind; "for after all," said she at this time, "I have many, many things
to be thankful for." But the real state of things may be gathered from
the following extracts from her letters.
"March 1st.
"Even at the risk of appearing very exacting, I can't help saying that I
should like a letter as long as your last, every time you write. Short
notes give one the feeling of a very small piece of a very good thing
to eat,--they set the appetite on edge, and don't satisfy it,--a letter
leaves you more contented; and yet, after all, I am very glad to get
notes; so don't think, when you are pinched for time and materials, that
it is useless to write a few lines; be assured, a few lines are very
acceptable as far as they go; and though I like long letters, I would
by no means have you to make a task of writing them. . . . I really
should like you to come to Haworth, before I again go to B----. And it
is natural and right that I should have this wish. To keep friendship in
proper order, the balance of good offices must be preserved, otherwise a
disquieting and anxious feeling creeps in, and destroys mutual comfort.
In summer and in fine weather, your visit here might be much better
managed than in winter. We could go out more, be more independent of
the house and of our room. Branwell has been conducting himself very
badly lately. I expect, from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from
mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we
shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. My health
is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather, more
than on an uneasy mind."
"March 24th, 1847.
"It is at Haworth, if all be well, that we must next see each other
again. I owe you a grudge for giving Miss M---- some very exaggerated
account about my not being well, and setting her on to urge my leaving
home as quite a duty. I'll take care not to tell you next time, when I
think I am looking specially old and ugly; as if people could not have
that privilege, without being supposed to be at the last gasp! I shall
be thirty-one next birthday. My youth is gone like a dream; and very
little use have I ever made of it. What have I done these last thirty
years? Precious little."
The quiet, sad year stole on. The sisters were contemplating near at
hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused and
faculties abused in the person of that brother, once their fond darling
and dearest pride. They had to cheer the poor old father, into whose
heart all trials sank the deeper, because of the silent stoicism of
his endurance. They had to watch over his health, of which, whatever
was its state, he seldom complained. They had to save, as much as they
could, the precious remnants of his sight. They had to order the frugal
household with increased care, so as to supply wants and expenditure
utterly foreign to their self-denying natures. Though they shrank from
overmuch contact with their fellow-beings, for all whom they met they
had kind words, if few; and when kind actions were needed, they were not
spared, if the sisters at the parsonage could render them. They visited
the parish-schools duly; and often were Charlotte's rare and brief
holidays of a visit from home shortened by her sense of the necessity of
being in her place at the Sunday-school.
In the intervals of such a life as this, "Jane Eyre" was making
progress. "The Professor" was passing slowly and heavily from publisher
to publisher. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" had been accepted by
another publisher, "on terms somewhat impoverishing to the two authors;"
a bargain to be alluded to more fully hereafter. It was lying in his
hands, awaiting his pleasure for its passage through the press, during
all the months of early summer.
The piece of external brightness to which the sisters looked during
these same summer months, was the hope that the friend to whom so many
of Charlotte's letters are addressed, and who was her chosen companion,
whenever circumstances permitted them to be together, as well as a
favourite with Emily and Anne, would be able to pay them a visit at
Haworth. Fine weather had come in May, Charlotte writes, and they hoped
to make their visitor decently comfortable. Their brother was tolerably
well, having got to the end of a considerable sum of money which he
became possessed of in the spring, and therefore under the wholesome
restriction of poverty. But Charlotte warns her friend that she must
expect to find a change in his appearance, and that he is broken in
mind; and ends her note of entreating invitation by saying, "I pray for
fine weather, that we may get out while you stay."
At length the day was fixed.
"Friday will suit us very well. I DO trust nothing will now arise to
prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about the weather on that day;
if it rains, I shall cry. Don't expect me to meet you; where would be
the good of it? I neither like to meet, nor to be met. Unless, indeed,
you had a box or a basket for me to carry; then there would be some
sense in it. Come in black, blue, pink, white, or scarlet, as you like.
Come shabby or smart, neither the colour nor the condition signifies;
provided only the dress contain E----, all will be right."
But there came the first of a series of disappointments to be borne. One
feels how sharp it must have been to have wrung out the following words.
"May 20th.
"Your letter of yesterday did indeed give me a cruel chill of
disappointment. I cannot blame you, for I know it was not your fault. I
do not altogether exempt ---- from reproach. . . . This is bitter, but I
feel bitter. As to going to B----, I will not go near the place till you
have been to Haworth. My respects to all and sundry, accompanied with a
large amount of wormwood and gall, from the effusion of which you and
your mother are alone excepted.--C. B.
"You are quite at liberty to tell what I think, if you judge proper.
Though it is true I may be somewhat unjust, for I am deeply annoyed. I
thought I had arranged your visit tolerably comfortable for you this
time. I may find it more difficult on another occasion."
I must give one sentence from a letter written about this time, as it
shows distinctly the clear strong sense of the writer.
"I was amused by what she says respecting her wish that, when she
marries, her husband will, at least, have a will of his own, even should
he be a tyrant. Tell her, when she forms that aspiration again, she
must make it conditional if her husband has a strong will, he must also
have strong sense, a kind heart, and a thoroughly correct notion of
justice; because a man with a WEAK BRAIN and a STRONG WILL, is merely an
intractable brute; you can have no hold of him; you can never lead him
right. A TYRANT under any circumstances is a curse."
Meanwhile, "The Professor" had met with many refusals from different
publishers; some, I have reason to believe, not over-courteously worded
in writing to an unknown author, and none alleging any distinct reasons
for its rejection. Courtesy is always due; but it is, perhaps, hardly to
be expected that, in the press of business in a great publishing house,
they should find time to explain why they decline particular works. Yet,
though one course of action is not to be wondered at, the opposite may
fall upon a grieved and disappointed mind with all the graciousness of
dew; and I can well sympathise with the published account which "Currer
Bell" gives, of the feelings experienced on reading Messrs. Smith and
Elder's letter containing the rejection of "The Professor".
"As a forlorn hope, we tried one publishing house more. Ere long, in
a much shorter space than that on which experience had taught him
to calculate, there came a letter, which he opened in the dreary
anticipation of finding two hard hopeless lines, intimating that
'Messrs. Smith and Elder were not disposed to publish the MS.,' and,
instead, he took out of the envelope a letter of two pages. He read
it trembling. It declined, indeed, to publish that tale, for business
reasons, but it discussed its merits and demerits, so courteously,
so considerately, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so
enlightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better than a
vulgarly-expressed acceptance would have done. It was added, that a work
in three volumes would meet with careful attention."
Mr. Smith has told me a little circumstance connected with the reception
of this manuscript, which seems to me indicative of no ordinary
character. It came (accompanied by the note given below) in a brown
paper parcel, to 65 Cornhill. Besides the address to Messrs. Smith and
Co., there were on it those of other publishers to whom the tale had
been sent, not obliterated, but simply scored through, so that Messrs.
Smith at once perceived the names of some of the houses in the trade to
which the unlucky parcel had gone, without success.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"July 15th, 1847.
"Gentlemen--I beg to submit to your consideration the accompanying
manuscript. I should be glad to learn whether it be such as you approve,
and would undertake to publish at as early a period as possible.
Address, Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë, Haworth, Bradford,
Yorkshire."
Some time elapsed before an answer was returned.
A little circumstance may be mentioned here, though it belongs to a
somewhat earlier period, as showing Miss Brontë's inexperience of the
ways of the world, and willing deference to the opinion of others. She
had written to a publisher about one of her manuscripts, which she had
sent him, and, not receiving any reply, she consulted her brother as
to what could be the reason for the prolonged silence. He at once set
it down to her not having enclosed a postage-stamp in her letter. She
accordingly wrote again, to repair her former omission, and apologise
for it.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"August 2nd, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--About three weeks since, I sent for your consideration a
MS. entitled "The Professor", a tale by Currer Bell. I should be glad
to know whether it reached your hands safely, and likewise to learn, at
your earliest convenience, whether it be such as you can undertake to
publish.--I am, gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"CURRER BELL.
"I enclose a directed cover for your reply."
This time her note met with a prompt answer; for, four days later, she
writes (in reply to the letter which she afterwards characterised in the
Preface to the second edition of "Wuthering Heights", as containing a
refusal so delicate, reasonable, and courteous, as to be more cheering
than some acceptances):
"Your objection to the want of varied interest in the tale is, I am
aware, not without grounds; yet it appears to me that it might be
published without serious risk, if its appearance were speedily followed
up by another work from the same pen, of a more striking and exciting
character. The first work might serve as an introduction, and accustom
the public to the author's the success of the second might thereby be
rendered more probable. I have a second narrative in three volumes,
now in progress, and nearly completed, to which I have endeavoured
to impart a more vivid interest than belongs to "The Professor". In
about a month I hope to finish it, so that if a publisher were found
for "The Professor", the second narrative might follow as soon as was
deemed advisable; and thus the interest of the public (if any interest
was aroused) might not be suffered to cool. Will you be kind enough to
favour me with your judgment on this plan?"
While the minds of the three sisters were in this state of suspense,
their long-expected friend came to pay her promised visit. She was with
them at the beginning of the glowing August of that year. They were
out on the moors for the greater part of the day basking in the golden
sunshine, which was bringing on an unusual plenteousness of harvest,
for which, somewhat later, Charlotte expressed her earnest desire that
there should be a thanksgiving service in all the churches. August was
the season of glory for the neighbourhood of Haworth. Even the smoke,
lying in the valley between that village and Keighley, took beauty from
the radiant colours on the moors above, the rich purple of the heather
bloom calling out an harmonious contrast in the tawny golden light that,
in the full heat of summer evenings, comes stealing everywhere through
the dun atmosphere of the hollows. And up, on the moors, turning away
from all habitations of men, the royal ground on which they stood would
expand into long swells of amethyst-tinted hills, melting away into
aerial tints; and the fresh and fragrant scent of the heather, and the
"murmur of innumerable bees," would lend a poignancy to the relish with
which they welcomed their friend to their own true home on the wild and
open hills.
There, too, they could escape from the Shadow in the house below.
Throughout this time--during all these confidences--not a word was
uttered to their friend of the three tales in London; two accepted and
in the press--one trembling in the balance of a publisher's judgment;
nor did she hear of that other story "nearly completed," lying in
manuscript in the grey old parsonage down below. She might have her
suspicions that they all wrote with an intention of publication some
time; but she knew the bounds which they set to themselves in their
communications; nor could she, nor can any one else, wonder at their
reticence, when remembering how scheme after scheme had failed, just as
it seemed close upon accomplishment.
Mr. Brontë, too, had his suspicions of something going on; but, never
being spoken to, he did not speak on the subject, and consequently his
ideas were vague and uncertain, only just prophetic enough to keep him
from being actually stunned when, later on, he heard of the success of
"Jane Eyre"; to the progress of which we must now return.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"August 24th.
"I now send you per rail a MS. entitled 'Jane Eyre,' a novel in three
volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot prepay the carriage of
the parcel, as money for that purpose is not received at the small
station-house where it is left. If, when you acknowledge the receipt
of the MS., you would have the goodness to mention the amount charged
on delivery, I will immediately transmit it in postage stamps. It is
better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë,
Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters otherwise
directed not reaching me at present. To save trouble, I enclose an
envelope."
"Jane Eyre" was accepted, and printed and published by October 16th.
While it was in the press, Miss Brontë went to pay a short visit to
her friend at B----. The proofs were forwarded to her there, and she
occasionally sat at the same table with her friend, correcting them; but
they did not exchange a word on the subject.
Immediately on her return to the Parsonage, she wrote:
"September.
"I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley; but my fatigue quite
disappeared when I reached home, and found all well. Thank God for it.
"My boxes came safe this morning. I have distributed the presents.
Papa says I am to remember him most kindly to you. The screen will be
very useful, and he thanks you for it. Tabby was charmed with her cap.
She said, 'she never thought o' naught o' t' sort as Miss sending her
aught, and, she is sure, she can never thank her enough for it.' I was
infuriated on finding a jar in my trunk. At first, I hoped it was empty,
but when I found it heavy and replete, I could have hurled it all the
way back to B----. However, the inscription A. B. softened me much. It
was at once kind and villainous in you to send it. You ought first to
be tenderly kissed, and then afterwards as tenderly whipped. Emily is
just now on the floor of the bed-room where I am writing, looking at
her apples. She smiled when I gave the collar to her as your present,
with an expression at once well-pleased and slightly surprised. All send
their love.--Yours, in a mixture of anger and love."
When the manuscript of "Jane Eyre" had been received by the future
publishers of that remarkable novel, it fell to the share of a gentleman
connected with the firm to read it first. He was so powerfully struck
by the character of the tale, that he reported his impression in very
strong terms to Mr. Smith, who appears to have been much amused by the
admiration excited. "You seem to have been so enchanted, that I do not
know how to believe you," he laughingly said. But when a second reader,
in the person of a clear-headed Scotchman, not given to enthusiasm, had
taken the MS. home in the evening, and became so deeply interested in
it, as to sit up half the night to finish it, Mr. Smith's curiosity was
sufficiently excited to prompt him to read it for himself; and great as
were the praises which had been bestowed upon it, he found that they had
not exceeded the truth.
On its publication, copies were presented to a few private literary
friends. Their discernment had been rightly reckoned upon. They were of
considerable standing in the world of letters; and one and all returned
expressions of high praise along with their thanks for the book. Among
them was the great writer of fiction for whom Miss Brontë felt so strong
an admiration; he immediately appreciated, and, in a characteristic note
to the publishers, acknowledged its extraordinary merits.
The Reviews were more tardy, or more cautious. The Athenaeum and the
Spectator gave short notices, containing qualified admissions of the
power of the author. The Literary Gazette was uncertain as to whether it
was safe to praise an unknown author. The Daily News declined accepting
the copy which had been sent, on the score of a rule "never to review
novels;" but a little later on, there appeared a notice of the Bachelor
of the Albany in that paper; and Messrs. Smith and Elder again forwarded
a copy of "Jane Eyre" to the Editor, with a request for a notice. This
time the work was accepted; but I am not aware what was the character of
the article upon it.
The Examiner came forward to the rescue, as far as the opinions of
professional critics were concerned. The literary articles in that paper
were always remarkable for their genial and generous appreciation of
merit nor was the notice of "Jane Eyre" an exception; it was full of
hearty, yet delicate and discriminating praise. Otherwise, the press in
general did little to promote the sale of the novel; the demand for it
among librarians had begun before the appearance of the review in the
Examiner; the power of fascination of the tale itself made its merits
known to the public, without the kindly finger-posts of professional
criticism; and, early in December, the rush began for copies.
I will insert two or three of Miss Brontë's letters to her publishers,
in order to show how timidly the idea of success was received by one so
unaccustomed to adopt a sanguine view of any subject in which she was
individually concerned. The occasions on which these notes were written,
will explain themselves.
"Oct. 19th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--The six copies of "Jane Eyre" reached me this morning. You
have given the work every advantage which good paper, clear type, and
a seemly outside can supply;--if it fails, the fault will lie with the
author,--you are exempt.
"I now await the judgment of the press and the public.--I am, Gentlemen,
yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Oct. 26th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--I have received the newspapers. They speak quite as
favourably of "Jane Eyre" as I expected them to do. The notice in the
Literary Gazette seems certainly to have been indited in rather a flat
mood, and the Athenaeum has a style of its own, which I respect, but
cannot exactly relish; still when one considers that journals of that
standing have a dignity to maintain which would be deranged by a too
cordial recognition of the claims of an obscure author, I suppose there
is every reason to be satisfied.
"Meantime a brisk sale would be effectual support under the hauteur of
lofty critics.--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Nov. 13th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of yours of the 11th
inst., and to thank you for the information it communicates. The notice
from the People's Journal also duly reached me, and this morning I
received the Spectator. The critique in the Spectator gives that view of
the book which will naturally be taken by a certain class of minds; I
shall expect it to be followed by other notices of a similar nature. The
way to detraction has been pointed out, and will probably be pursued.
Most future notices will in all likelihood have a reflection of the
Spectator in them. I fear this turn of opinion will not improve the
demand for the book--but time will show. If "Jane Eyre" has any solid
worth in it, it ought to weather a gust of unfavourable wind.--I am,
Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Nov. 30th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--I have received the Economist, but not the Examiner; from
some cause that paper has missed, as the Spectator did on a former
occasion; I am glad, however, to learn through your letter, that its
notice of "Jane Eyre" was favourable, and also that the prospects of the
work appear to improve.
"I am obliged to you for the information respecting "Wuthering
Heights".--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
To MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Dec. 1st, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--The Examiner reached me to-day; it had been missent on
account of the direction, which was to Currer Bell, care of Miss Brontë.
Allow me to intimate that it would be better in future not to put the
name of Currer Bell on the outside of communications; if directed simply
to Miss Brontë they will be more likely to reach their destination
safely. Currer Bell is not known in the district, and I have no wish
that he should become known. The notice in the Examiner gratified
me very much; it appears to be from the pen of an able man who has
understood what he undertakes to criticise; of course, approbation from
such a quarter is encouraging to an author, and I trust it will prove
beneficial to the work.--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
C. BELL.
"I received likewise seven other notices from provincial papers enclosed
in an envelope. I thank you very sincerely for so punctually sending me
all the various criticisms on "Jane Eyre"."
TO MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Dec. 10th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,--I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter inclosing
a bank post bill, for which I thank you. Having already expressed my
sense of your kind and upright conduct, I can now only say that I trust
you will always have reason to be as well content with me as I am with
you. If the result of any future exertions I may be able to make should
prove agreeable and advantageous to you, I shall be well satisfied; and
it would be a serious source of regret to me if I thought you ever had
reason to repent being my publishers.
"You need not apologise, Gentlemen, for having written to me so seldom;
of course I am always glad to hear from you, but I am truly glad to
hear from Mr. Williams likewise; he was my first favourable critic; he
first gave me encouragement to persevere as an author, consequently I
naturally respect him and feel grateful to him.
"Excuse the informality of my letter, and believe me, Gentlemen, yours
respectfully,
CURRER BELL."
There is little record remaining of the manner in which the first news
of its wonderful success reached and affected the one heart of the three
sisters. I once asked Charlotte--we were talking about the description
of Lowood school, and she was saying that she was not sure whether she
should have written it, if she had been aware how instantaneously it
would have been identified with Cowan Bridge--whether the popularity
to which the novel attained had taken her by surprise. She hesitated
a little, and then said: "I believed that what had impressed me so
forcibly when I wrote it, must make a strong impression on any one who
read it. I was not surprised at those who read "Jane Eyre" being deeply
interested in it; but I hardly expected that a book by an unknown author
could find readers."
The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures from their
father, fearing to increase their own anxieties and disappointment by
witnessing his; for he took an acute interest in all that befell his
children, and his own tendency had been towards literature in the days
when he was young and hopeful. It was true he did not much manifest
his feelings in words; he would have thought that he was prepared for
disappointment as the lot of man, and that he could have met it with
stoicism; but words are poor and tardy interpreters of feelings to those
who love one another, and his daughters knew how he would have borne
ill-success worse for them than for himself. So they did not tell him
what they were undertaking. He says now that he suspected it all along,
but his suspicions could take no exact form, as all he was certain
of was, that his children were perpetually writing--and not writing
letters. We have seen how the communications from their publishers were
received "under cover to Miss Brontë." Once, Charlotte told me, they
overheard the postman meeting Mr. Brontë, as the latter was leaving the
house, and inquiring from the parson where one Currer Bell could be
living, to which Mr. Brontë replied that there was no such person in
the parish. This must have been the misadventure to which Miss Brontë
alludes in the beginning of her correspondence with Mr. Aylott.
Now, however, when the demand for the work had assured success to
"Jane Eyre," her sisters urged Charlotte to tell their father of its
publication. She accordingly went into his study one afternoon after
his early dinner, carrying with her a copy of the book, and one or two
reviews, taking care to include a notice adverse to it.
She informed me that something like the following conversation took
place between her and him. (I wrote down her words the day after I heard
them; and I am pretty sure they are quite accurate.)
"Papa, I've been writing a book."
"Have you, my dear?"
"Yes, and I want you to read it."
"I am afraid it will try my eyes too much."
"But it is not in manuscript: it is printed."
"My dear! you've never thought of the expense it will be! It will be
almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get a book sold? No one knows
you or your name."
"But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss; no more will you, if you
will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more about it."
So she sate down and read some of the reviews to her father; and then,
giving him the copy of "Jane Eyre" that she intended for him, she left
him to read it. When he came in to tea, he said, "Girls, do you know
Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better than likely?"
But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was like a piece of
a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth Parsonage, who went on with
their uniform household life,--their cares for their brother being its
only variety,--the whole reading-world of England was in a ferment to
discover the unknown author. Even the publishers of "Jane Eyre" were
ignorant whether Currer Bell was a real or an assumed name,--whether it
belonged to a man or a woman. In every town people sought out the list
of their friends and acquaintances, and turned away in disappointment.
No one they knew had genius enough to be the author. Every little
incident mentioned in the book was turned this way and that to answer,
if possible, the much-vexed question of sex. All in vain. People were
content to relax their exertions to satisfy their curiosity, and simply
to sit down and greatly admire.
I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which every one who
reads this biography is sure to be acquainted; much less a criticism
upon a work, which the great flood of public opinion has lifted up from
the obscurity in which it first appeared, and laid high and safe on the
everlasting hills of fame.
Before me lies a packet of extracts from newspapers and periodicals,
which Mr. Brontë has sent me. It is touching to look them over, and see
how there is hardly any notice, however short and clumsily-worded, in
any obscure provincial paper, but what has been cut out and carefully
ticketed with its date by the poor, bereaved father,--so proud when he
first read them--so desolate now. For one and all are full of praise
of this great, unknown genius, which suddenly appeared amongst us.
Conjecture as to the authorship ran about like wild-fire. People in
London, smooth and polished as the Athenians of old, and like them
"spending their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear
some new thing," were astonished and delighted to find that a fresh
sensation, a new pleasure, was in reserve for them in the uprising of an
author, capable of depicting with accurate and Titanic power the strong,
self-reliant, racy, and individual characters which were not, after all,
extinct species, but lingered still in existence in the North. They
thought that there was some exaggeration mixed with the peculiar force
of delineation. Those nearer to the spot, where the scene of the story
was apparently laid, were sure, from the very truth and accuracy of the
writing, that the writer was no Southeron; for though "dark, and cold,
and rugged is the North," the old strength of the Scandinavian races yet
abides there, and glowed out in every character depicted in "Jane Eyre."
Farther than this, curiosity, both honourable and dishonourable, was at
fault.
When the second edition appeared, in the January of the following
year, with the dedication to Mr. Thackeray, people looked at each
other and wondered afresh. But Currer Bell knew no more of William
Makepeace Thackeray as an individual man--of his life, age, fortunes, or
circumstances--than she did of those of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The
one had placed his name as author upon the title-page of Vanity Fair,
the other had not. She was thankful for the opportunity of expressing
her high admiration of a writer, whom, as she says, she regarded "as the
social regenerator of his day--as the very master of that working corps
who would restore to rectitude the warped state of things. . . . His wit
is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same relation to his
serious genius, that the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the
edge of the summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its
womb."
Anne Brontë had been more than usually delicate all the summer, and
her sensitive spirit had been deeply affected by the great anxiety of
her home. But now that "Jane Eyre" gave such indications of success,
Charlotte began to plan schemes of future pleasure,--perhaps relaxation
from care, would be the more correct expression,--for their darling
younger sister, the "little one" of the household. But, although Anne
was cheered for a time by Charlotte's success, the fact was, that
neither her spirits nor her bodily strength were such as to incline
her to much active exertion, and she led far too sedentary a life,
continually stooping either over her book, or work, or at her desk. "It
is with difficulty," writes her sister, "that we can prevail upon her to
take a walk, or induce her to converse. I look forward to next summer
with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, make at least
a brief sojourn at the sea-side." In this same letter, is a sentence,
telling how dearly home, even with its present terrible drawback, lay at
the roots of her heart; but it is too much blended with reference to the
affairs of others to bear quotation.
Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters
from unknown readers, containing commendation--sometimes of so
fulsome and indiscriminating a character as to remind the recipient
of Dr. Johnson's famous speech to one who offered presumptuous and
injudicious praise--sometimes saying merely a few words, which have
power to stir the heart "as with the sound of a trumpet," and in the
high humility they excite, to call forth strong resolutions to make
all future efforts worthy of such praise; and occasionally containing
that true appreciation of both merits and demerits, together with the
sources of each, which forms the very criticism and help for which an
inexperienced writer thirsts. Of each of these kinds of communication
Currer Bell received her full share; and her warm heart, and true
sense and high standard of what she aimed at, affixed to each its true
value. Among other letters of hers, some to Mr. G. H. Lewes have been
kindly placed by him at my service; and as I know Miss Brontë highly
prized his letters of encouragement and advice, I shall give extracts
from her replies, as their dates occur, because they will indicate the
kind of criticism she valued, and also because throughout, in anger,
as in agreement and harmony, they show her character unblinded by any
self-flattery, full of clear-sighted modesty as to what she really did
well, and what she failed in, grateful for friendly interest, and only
sore and irritable when the question of sex in authorship was, as she
thought, roughly or unfairly treated. As to the rest, the letters speak
for themselves, to those who know how to listen, far better than I can
interpret their meaning into my poorer and weaker words. Mr. Lewes has
politely sent me the following explanation of that letter of his, to
which the succeeding one of Miss Brontë is a reply.
"When 'Jane Eyre' first appeared, the publishers courteously sent me
a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read it, made me go down to Mr.
Parker, and propose to write a review of it for Frazer's Magazine.
He would not consent to an unknown novel--for the papers had not yet
declared themselves--receiving such importance, but thought it might
make one on 'Recent Novels: English and French'--which appeared in
Frazer, December, 1847. Meanwhile I had written to Miss Brontë to
tell her the delight with which her book filled me; and seem to have
sermonised her, to judge from her reply."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 6th, 1847.
"Dear Sir,--Your letter reached me yesterday; I beg to assure you, that
I appreciate fully the intention with which it was written, and I thank
you sincerely both for its cheering commendation and valuable advice.
"You warn me to beware of melodrama, and you exhort me to adhere to the
real. When I first began to write, so impressed was I with the truth of
the principles you advocate, that I determined to take Nature and Truth
as my sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints; I restrained
imagination, eschewed romance, repressed excitement; over-bright
colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to produce something which should
be soft, grave, and true.
"My work (a tale in one volume) being completed, I offered it to a
publisher. He said it was original, faithful to nature, but he did not
feel warranted in accepting it; such a work would not sell. I tried
six publishers in succession; they all told me it was deficient in
'startling incident' and 'thrilling excitement,' that it would never
suit the circulating libraries, and, as it was on those libraries the
success of works of fiction mainly depended, they could not undertake to
publish what would be overlooked there.
"'Jane Eyre' was rather objected to at first, on the same grounds, but
finally found acceptance.
"I mention this to you, not with a view of pleading exemption from
censure, but in order to direct your attention to the root of certain
literary evils. If, in your forthcoming article in Frazer, you would
bestow a few words of enlightenment on the public who support the
circulating libraries, you might, with your powers, do some good.
"You advise me, too, not to stray far from the ground of experience, as
I become weak when I enter the region of fiction; and you say, 'real
experience is perennially interesting, and to all men.'
"I feel that this also is true; but, dear Sir, is not the real
experience of each individual very limited? And, if a writer dwells upon
that solely or principally, is he not in danger of repeating himself,
and also of becoming an egotist? Then, too, imagination is a strong,
restless faculty, which claims to be heard and exercised: are we to be
quite deaf to her cry, and insensate to her struggles? When she shows
us bright pictures, are we never to look at them, and try to reproduce
them? And when she is eloquent, and speaks rapidly and urgently in our
ear, are we not to write to her dictation?
"I shall anxiously search the next number of Fraser for your opinions on
these points.--Believe me, dear Sir, yours gratefully,
"C. BELL."
But while gratified by appreciation as an author, she was cautious as
to the person from whom she received it; for much of the value of the
praise depended on the sincerity and capability of the person rendering
it. Accordingly, she applied to Mr. Williams (a gentleman connected
with her publishers' firm) for information as to who and what Mr. Lewes
was. Her reply, after she had learnt something of the character of her
future critic, and while awaiting his criticism, must not be omitted.
Besides the reference to him, it contains some amusing allusions to the
perplexity which began to be excited respecting the "identity of the
brothers Bell," and some notice of the conduct of another publisher
towards her sister, which I refrain from characterising, because I
understand that truth is considered a libel in speaking of such people.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"Nov. 10th, 1847.
"Dear Sir,--I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not the
Spectator which I rather regret, as censure, though not pleasant, is
often wholesome.
"Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. I am glad to hear
that he is a clever and sincere man: such being the case, I can await
his critical sentence with fortitude; even if it goes against me, I
shall not murmur; ability and honesty have a right to condemn, where
they think condemnation is deserved. From what you say, however, I trust
rather to obtain at least a modified approval.
"Your account of the various surmises respecting the identity of the
brothers Bell, amused me much: were the enigma solved, it would probably
be found not worth the trouble of solution; but I will let it alone; it
suits ourselves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no one else.
"The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin
Magazine, conjectured that the soi-disant three personages were in
reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly prominent organ of
self-esteem, and consequently impressed with a somewhat weighty notion
of his own merits, thought them too vast to be concentrated in a
single individual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of
consideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astounded
public! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer,--very original
and striking, but not accurate. We are three.
"A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it should have
been out, indeed, long since; for the first proof-sheets were already
in the press at the commencement of last August, before Currer Bell
had placed the MS. of "Jane Eyre" in your hands. Mr.----, however,
does not do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder; a different spirit
seems to preside at ---- Street, to that which guides the helm at
65, Cornhill. . . . My relations have suffered from exhausting delay
and procrastination, while I have to acknowledge the benefits of a
management at once business-like and gentleman-like, energetic and
considerate.
"I should like to know if Mr. ---- often acts as he has done to my
relations, or whether this is an exceptional instance of his method. Do
you know, and can you tell me anything about him? You must excuse me
for going to the point at once, when I want to learn anything: if my
questions are importunate, you are, of course, at liberty to decline
answering them.--I am, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 22nd, 1847.
"Dear Sir,--I have now read 'Ranthorpe.' I could not get it till a
day or two ago; but I have got it and read it at last; and in reading
'Ranthorpe,' I have read a new book,--not a reprint--not a reflection of
any other book, but a NEW BOOK.
"I did not know such books were written now. It is very different to any
of the popular works of fiction: it fills the mind with fresh knowledge.
Your experience and your convictions are made the reader's; and to an
author, at least, they have a value and an interest quite unusual. I
await your criticism on 'Jane Eyre' now with other sentiments than I
entertained before the perusal of 'Ranthorpe.'
"You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly respect you. I did
not feel that your praise or blame would have any special weight. I knew
little of your right to condemn or approve. NOW I am informed on these
points.
"You will be severe; your last letter taught me as much. Well! I shall
try to extract good out of your severity: and besides, though I am now
sure you are a just, discriminating man, yet, being mortal, you must be
fallible; and if any part of your censure galls me too keenly to the
quick--gives me deadly pain--I shall for the present disbelieve it, and
put it quite aside, till such time as I feel able to receive it without
torture.--I am, dear Sir, yours very respectfully,
C. BELL."
In December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" appeared. The
first-named of these stories has revolted many readers by the power with
which wicked and exceptional characters are depicted. Others, again,
have felt the attraction of remarkable genius, even when displayed on
grim and terrible criminals. Miss Brontë herself says, with regard to
this tale, "Where delineation of human character is concerned, the case
is different. I am bound to avow that she had scarcely more practical
knowledge of the peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun has of
the country-people that pass her convent gates. My sister's disposition
was not naturally gregarious: circumstances favoured and fostered her
tendency to seclusion; except to go to church, or take a walk on the
hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though the feeling for
the people around her was benevolent, intercourse with them she never
sought, nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced and yet she knew
them, knew their ways, their language, and their family histories; she
could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail minute,
graphic, and accurate; but WITH them she rarely exchanged a word. Hence
it ensued, that what her mind has gathered of the real concerning them,
was too exclusively confined to those tragic and terrible traits, of
which, in listening to the secret annals of every rude vicinage, the
memory is sometimes compelled to receive the impress. Her imagination,
which was a spirit more sombre than sunny--more powerful than
sportive--found in such traits material whence it wrought creations like
Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine. Having formed these beings,
she did not know what she had done. If the auditor of her work, when
read in manuscript, shuddered under the grinding influence of natures
so relentless and implacable--of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was
complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes
banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell
would wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of affectation.
Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have grown like a strong
tree--loftier, straighter, wider-spreading--and its matured fruits
would have attained a mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that
mind time and experience alone could work; to the influence of other
intellects she was not amenable."
Whether justly or unjustly, the productions of the two younger Miss
Brontës were not received with much favour at the time of their
publication. "Critics failed to do them justice. The immature, but very
real, powers revealed in 'Wuthering Heights,' were scarcely recognised;
its import and nature were misunderstood; the identity of its author was
misrepresented: it was said that this was an earlier and ruder attempt
of the same pen which had produced 'Jane Eyre.'" . . . "Unjust and
grievous error! We laughed at it at first, but I deeply lament it now."
Henceforward Charlotte Brontë's existence becomes divided into two
parallel currents--her life as Currer Bell, the author; her life as
Charlotte Brontë, the woman. There were separate duties belonging to
each character--not opposing each other; not impossible, but difficult
to be reconciled. When a man becomes an author, it is probably merely
a change of employment to him. He takes a portion of that time which
has hitherto been devoted to some other study or pursuit; he gives up
something of the legal or medical profession, in which he has hitherto
endeavoured to serve others, or relinquishes part of the trade or
business by which he has been striving to gain a livelihood; and another
merchant or lawyer, or doctor, steps into his vacant place, and probably
does as well as he. But no other can take up the quiet, regular duties
of the daughter, the wife, or the mother, as well as she whom God has
appointed to fill that particular place: a woman's principal work in
life is hardly left to her own choice; nor can she drop the domestic
charges devolving on her as an individual, for the exercise of the most
splendid talents that were ever bestowed. And yet she must not shrink
from the extra responsibility implied by the very fact of her possessing
such talents. She must not hide her gift in a napkin; it was meant for
the use and service of others. In an humble and faithful spirit must she
labour to do what is not impossible, or God would not have set her to do
it.
I put into words what Charlotte Brontë put into actions.
The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It is necessary,
however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was always
present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time. It is well
that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views
of life presented by the Brontës in their tales, should know how such
words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long
agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the
representation of coarseness and shrank from it with repugnance, as if
such conceptions arose out of the writers, should learn, that, not from
the imagination--not from internal conception--but from the hard cruel
facts, pressed down, by external life, upon their very senses, for long
months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the
stern dictates of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might
err in writing at all, when their affections were so great that they
could not write otherwise than they did of life. It is possible that it
would have been better to have described only good and pleasant people,
doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly
have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did
women, possessed of such wonderful gifts, exercise them with a fuller
feeling of responsibility for their use. As to mistakes, stand now--as
authors as well as women--before the judgment-seat of God.
"Jan. 11th, 1848.
"We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell has,
by some means, contrived to get more money from the old quarter, and
has led us a sad life. . . . Papa is harassed day and night; we have
little peace, he is always sick; has two or three times fallen down in
fits; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. But who is without their
drawback, their scourge, their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains
only to do one's best, and endure with patience what God sends."
I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes' review on "Recent Novels," when
it appeared in the December of the last year, but I find no allusion to
it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,--I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it
is with the sense of double content I express my gratitude, because I
am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not
severe on 'Jane Eyre;' you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my
faults plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them
so lightly, I should perhaps have passed them over thus indicated, with
too little reflection.
"I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake
new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender;
and, besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers,
are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer.
I tell you this, because your article in Frazer left in me an uneasy
impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of
'Jane Eyre' than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had a
correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see
you.
"If I ever DO write another book, I think I will have nothing of what
you call 'melodrama;' I think so, but I am not sure. I THINK, too, I
will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Austen's
'mild eyes,' 'to finish more and be more subdued;' but neither am I
sure of that. When authors write best, or, at least, when they write
most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, which becomes their
master--which will have its own way--putting out of view all behests but
its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on their being used,
whether vehement or measured in their nature; new-moulding characters,
giving unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully-elaborated
old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new ones.
"Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can we
indeed counteract it?
"I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most curious
shall I be to see whether you will write up to your own principles,
and work out your own theories. You did not do it altogether in
'Ranthorpe'--at least not in the latter part; but the first portion was,
I think, nearly without fault; then it had a pith, truth, significance
in it, which gave the book sterling value; but to write so, one must
have seen and known a great deal, and I have seen and known very little.
"Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point.
What induced you to say that you would have rather written "Pride and
Prejudice,' or 'Tom Jones,' than any of the 'Waverley Novels'?
"I had not seen 'Pride and Prejudice' till I read that sentence of
yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate,
daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced,
highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no
glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no
blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies
and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations
will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.
"Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw
any of her works which I admired throughout (even 'Consuelo,' which is
the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange
extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind,
which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is
sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant.
"Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time, I
should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you think
the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply.--I am, yours
respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Jan. 18th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,--I must write one more note, though I had not intended to
trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from
you.
"You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence'; well, I
accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should be;
I recognise the wisdom of your rules for its regulation. . . .
"What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must
familiarise my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess,
has no "sentiment" (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted commas),
no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry,'--and then you
add, I MUST 'learn to acknowledge her as ONE OF THE GREATEST ARTISTS, OF
THE GREATEST PAINTERS OF HUMAN CHARACTER, and one of the writers with
the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived.'
"The last point only will I ever acknowledge.
"Can there be a great artist without poetry?
"What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot be
destitute of the divine gift. But by POETRY, I am sure, you understand
something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment.' It is
POETRY, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George
Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something Godlike. It is
'sentiment,' in my sense of the term--sentiment jealously hidden, but
genuine, which extracts the venom from that formidable Thackeray, and
converts what might be corrosive poison into purifying elixir.
"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his
kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes
only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 'sentiment,'
without Poetry, maybe IS sensible, real (more REAL than TRUE), but she
cannot be great.
"I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not
questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over
me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be,
as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all
Miss Austen's works, as you recommend. . . . You must forgive me for
not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, yours
gratefully,
C. BELL."
I have hesitated a little, before inserting the following extract from
a letter to Mr. Williams, but it is strikingly characteristic; and the
criticism contained in it is, from that circumstance, so interesting
(whether we agree with it or not), that I have determined to do so,
though I thereby displace the chronological order of the letters,
in order to complete this portion of a correspondence which is very
valuable, as showing the purely intellectual side of her character.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, BSQ.
"April 26th, 1848.
"My dear Sir,--I have now read 'Rose, Blanche, and Violet,' and I
will tell you, as well as I can, what I think of it. Whether it is an
improvement on 'Ranthorpe' I do not know, for I liked 'Ranthorpe' much;
but, at any rate, it contains more of a good thing. I find in it the
same power, but more fully developed.
"The author's character is seen in every page, which makes the book
interesting--far more interesting than any story could do; but it is
what the writer himself says that attracts far more than what he puts
into the mouths of his characters. G. H. Lewes is, to my perception,
decidedly the most original character in the book. . . . The didactic
passages seem to me the best--far the best--in the work; very acute,
very profound, are some of the views there given, and very clearly they
are offered to the reader. He is a just thinker; he is a sagacious
observer; there is wisdom in his theory, and, I doubt not, energy in his
practice. But why, then, are you often provoked with him while you read?
How does he manage, while teaching, to make his hearer feel as if his
business was, not quietly to receive the doctrines propounded, but to
combat them? You acknowledge that he offers you gems of pure truth; why
do you keep perpetually scrutinising them for flaws?
"Mr. Lewes, I divine, with all his talents and honesty, must have some
faults of manner; there must be a touch too much of dogmatism; a dash
extra of confidence in him, sometimes. This you think while you are
reading the book; but when you have closed it and laid it down, and sat
a few minutes collecting your thoughts, and settling your impressions,
you find the idea or feeling predominant in your mind to be pleasure at
the fuller acquaintance you have made with a fine mind and a true heart,
with high abilities and manly principles. I hope he will not be long
ere he publishes another book. His emotional scenes are somewhat too
uniformly vehement: would not a more subdued style of treatment often
have produced a more masterly effect? Now and then Mr. Lewes takes a
French pen into his hand, wherein he differs from Mr. Thackeray, who
always uses an English quill. However, the French pen does not far
mislead Mr. Lewes; he wields it with British muscles. All honour to him
for the excellent general tendency of his book!
"He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and especially
the female part of it; but all coteries, whether they be literary,
scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems to me, have a
tendency to change truth into affectation. When people belong to a
clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and
live for that clique; a harassing and narrowing necessity. I trust,
the press and the public show themselves disposed to give the book the
reception it merits, and that is a very cordial one, far beyond anything
due to a Bulwer or D'Israeli production."
Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Brontë. The winter in
Haworth had been a sickly season. Influenza had prevailed amongst the
villagers, and where there was a real need for the presence of the
clergyman's daughters, they were never found wanting, although they
were shy of bestowing mere social visits on the parishioners. They had
themselves suffered from the epidemic; Anne severely, as in her case it
had been attended with cough and fever enough to make her elder sisters
very anxious about her.
There is no doubt that the proximity of the crowded church-yard rendered
the Parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to its inmates.
Mr. Brontë represented the unsanitary state at Haworth pretty forcibly
to the Board of Health; and, after the requisite visits from their
officers, obtained a recommendation that all future interments in the
churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard opened on the hill-side,
and means set on foot for obtaining a water-supply to each house,
instead of the weary, hard-worked housewives having to carry every
bucketful, from a distance of several hundred yards, up a steep street.
But he was baffled by the rate-payers; as, in many a similar instance,
quantity carried it against quality, numbers against intelligence. And
thus we find that illness often assumed a low typhoid form in Haworth,
and fevers of various kinds visited the place with sad frequency.
In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick succession
of events at that time called forth the following expression of Miss
Brontë's thoughts on the subject, in a letter addressed to Miss Wooler,
and dated March 31st.
"I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled times of
the late war, and seeing in its exciting incidents a kind of stimulating
charm, which it made my pulses beat fast to think of I remember even,
I think; being a little impatient, that you would not fully sympathise
with my feelings on those subjects; that you heard my aspirations and
speculations very tranquilly, and by no means seemed to think the
flaming swords could be any pleasant addition to Paradise. I have now
out-lived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its
illusions--that the romance is quite gone from life--the veil fallen
from truth, and that I see both in naked reality--yet, certainly, many
things are not what they were ten years ago: and, amongst the rest, the
pomp and circumstance of war have quite lost in my eyes their fictitious
glitter. I have still no doubt that the shock of moral earthquakes
wakens a vivid sense of life, both in nations and individuals; that
the fear of dangers on a broad national scale, diverts men's minds
momentarily from brooding over small private perils, and for the time
gives them something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have
I, that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good,
check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its surface; in short,
it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases
of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust, by their violence,
the vital energies of the countries where they occur. That England
may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the
Continent, and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French
and Irish I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think the
case is different; as different as the love of freedom is from the lust
for license."
Her birthday came round. She wrote to the friend whose birthday was
within a week of hers; wrote the accustomed letter; but, reading it with
our knowledge of what she had done, we perceive the difference between
her thoughts and what they were a year or two ago, when she said "I have
done nothing." There must have been a modest consciousness of having
"done something" present in her mind, as she wrote this year:--
"I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone--gone,--and will never come back:
can't help it. . . . It seems to me, that sorrow must come some time to
everybody, and those who scarcely taste it in their youth, often have
a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in after life; whereas, those
who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the wine, may
reasonably hope for more palatable draughts to succeed."
The authorship of "Jane Eyre" was as yet a close secret in the Brontë
family; not even this friend, who was all but a sister knew more about
it than the rest of the world. She might conjecture, it is true, both
from her knowledge of previous habits, and from the suspicious fact of
the proofs having been corrected at B----, that some literary project
was afoot; but she knew nothing, and wisely said nothing, until she
heard a report from others, that Charlotte Brontë was an author--had
published a novel! Then she wrote to her; and received the two following
letters; confirmatory enough, as it seems to me now, in their very
vehemence and agitation of intended denial, of the truth of the report.
"April 28th, 1848.
"Write another letter, and explain that last note of yours distinctly.
If your allusions are to myself, which I suppose they are, understand
this,--I have given no one a right to gossip about me, and am not to be
judged by frivolous conjectures, emanating from any quarter whatever.
Let me know what you heard, and from whom you heard it."
"May 3rd, 1848.
"All I can say to you about a certain matter is this: the report--if
report there be--and if the lady, who seems to have been rather
mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been told to her--must
have had its origin in some absurd misunderstanding. I have given NO
ONE a right either to affirm, or to hint, in the most distant manner,
that I was 'publishing'--(humbug!) Whoever has said it--if any one has,
which I doubt--is no friend of mine. Though twenty books were ascribed
to me, I should own none. I scout the idea utterly. Whoever, after
I have distinctly rejected the charge, urges it upon me, will do an
unkind and an ill-bred thing. The most profound obscurity is infinitely
preferable to vulgar notoriety; and that notoriety I neither seek nor
will have. If then any B--an, or G--an, should presume to bore you on
the subject,--to ask you what 'novel' Miss Brontë has been 'publishing,'
you can just say, with the distinct firmness of which you are perfect
mistress when you choose, that you are authorised by Miss Brontë to
say, that she repels and disowns every accusation of the kind. You may
add, if you please, that if any one has her confidence, you believe you
have, and she has made no drivelling confessions to you on the subject.
I am at a loss to conjecture from what source this rumour has come; and,
I fear, it has far from a friendly origin. I am not certain, however,
and I should be very glad if I could gain certainty. Should you hear
anything more, please let me know. Your offer of 'Simeon's Life' is a
very kind one, and I thank you for it. I dare say Papa would like to see
the work very much, as he knew Mr. Simeon. Laugh or scold A---- out of
the publishing notion; and believe me, through all chances and changes,
whether calumniated or let alone,--Yours faithfully,
C. BRONTË."
The reason why Miss Brontë was so anxious to preserve her secret, was, I
am told, that she had pledged her word to her sisters that it should not
be revealed through her.
The dilemmas attendant on the publication of the sisters' novels, under
assumed names, were increasing upon them. Many critics insisted on
believing, that all the fictions published as by three Bells were the
works of one author, but written at different periods of his development
and maturity. No doubt, this suspicion affected the reception of the
books. Ever since the completion of Anne Brontë's tale of "Agnes Grey",
she had been labouring at a second, "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." It
is little known; the subject--the deterioration of a character, whose
profligacy and ruin took their rise in habits of intemperance, so slight
as to be only considered "good fellowship"--was painfully discordant
to one who would fain have sheltered herself from all but peaceful and
religious ideas. "She had" (says her sister of that gentle "little
one"), "in the course of her life, been called on to contemplate near
at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused
and faculties abused; hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and
dejected nature; what she saw sunk very deeply into her mind; it did her
harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce
every detail (of course, with fictitious characters, incidents, and
situations), as a warning to others. She hated her work, but would
pursue it. When reasoned with on the subject, she regarded such
reasonings as a temptation to self-indulgence. She must be honest; she
must not varnish, soften, or conceal. This well-meant resolution brought
on her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her
custom to bear whatever was unpleasant with mild steady patience. She
was a very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious
melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief blameless life."
In the June of this year, 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' was sufficiently
near its completion to be submitted to the person who had previously
published for Ellis and Acton Bell.
In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable annoyance
was occasioned both to Miss Brontë and to them. The circumstances,
as detailed in a letter of hers to a friend in New Zealand, were
these:--One morning, at the beginning of July, a communication was
received at the Parsonage from Messrs. Smith and Elder, which disturbed
its quiet inmates not a little, as, though the matter brought under
their notice was merely referred to as one which affected their literary
reputation, they conceived it to have a bearing likewise upon their
character. "Jane Eyre" had had a great run in America, and a publisher
there had consequently bid high for early sheets of the next work by
"Currer Bell." These Messrs. Smith and Elder had promised to let him
have. He was therefore greatly astonished, and not well pleased, to
learn that a similar agreement had been entered into with another
American house, and that the new tale was very shortly to appear. It
turned out, upon inquiry, that the mistake had originated in Acton and
Ellis Bell's publisher having assured this American house that, to the
best of his belief, "Jane Eyre", "Wuthering Heights", and "The Tenant of
Wildfell Hall" (which he pronounced superior to either of the other two)
were all written by the same author.
Though Messrs. Smith and Elder distinctly stated in their letter that
they did not share in such "belief," the sisters were impatient till
they had shown its utter groundlessness, and set themselves perfectly
straight. With rapid decision, they resolved that Charlotte and Anne
should start, for London, that very day, in order to prove their
separate identity to Messrs. Smith and Elder, and demand from the
credulous publisher his reasons for a "belief" so directly at variance
with an assurance which had several times been given to him. Having
arrived at this determination, they made their preparations with
resolute promptness. There were many household duties to be performed
that day; but they were all got through. The two sisters each packed up
a change of dress in a small box, which they sent down to Keighley by
an opportune cart; and after early tea they set off to walk thither--no
doubt in some excitement; for, independently of the cause of their
going to London, it was Anne's first visit there. A great thunderstorm
overtook them on their way that summer evening to the station; but
they had no time to seek shelter. They only just caught the train at
Keighley, arrived at Leeds, and were whirled up by the night train to
London.
About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the Chapter
Coffee-house, Paternoster Row--a strange place, but they did not well
know where else to go. They refreshed themselves by washing, and had
some breakfast. Then they sat still for a few minutes, to consider what
next should be done.
When they had been discussing their project in the quiet of Haworth
Parsonage the day before, and planning the mode of setting about the
business on which they were going to London, they had resolved to take
a cab, if they should find it desirable, from their inn to Cornhill;
but that, amidst the bustle and "queer state of inward excitement" in
which they found themselves, as they sat and considered their position
on the Saturday morning, they quite forgot even the possibility of
hiring a conveyance; and when they set forth, they became so dismayed by
the crowded streets, and the impeded crossings, that they stood still
repeatedly, in complete despair of making progress, and were nearly an
hour in walking the half-mile they had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr.
Williams knew that they were coming; they were entirely unknown to the
publishers of "Jane Eyre", who were not, in fact, aware whether the
"Bells" were men or women, but had always written to them as to men.
On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his hands;
the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at Haworth
Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. "Where did you get this?"
said he,--as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed
in black, of slight figures and diminutive stature, looking pleased
yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and Acton Bell, for whom
curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain. An explanation ensued,
and Mr. Smith at once began to form plans for their amusement and
pleasure during their stay in London. He urged them to meet a few
literary friends at his house; and this was a strong temptation to
Charlotte, as amongst them were one or two of the writers whom she
particularly wished to see; but her resolution to remain unknown induced
her firmly to put it aside.
The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. Smith's
invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their quarters,
saying they were not prepared for a long stay.
When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte paid for the
excitement of the interview, which had wound up the agitation and hurry
of the last twenty-four hours, by a racking headache and harassing
sickness. Towards evening, as she rather expected some of the ladies
of Mr. Smith's family to call, she prepared herself for the chance,
by taking a strong dose of sal-volatile, which roused her a little,
but still, as she says, she was "in grievous bodily case," when their
visitors were announced, in full evening costume. The sisters had not
understood that it had been settled that they were to go to the Opera,
and therefore were not ready. Moreover, they had no fine elegant dresses
either with them, or in the world. But Miss Brontë resolved to raise no
objections in the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of headache and
weariness, they made haste to dress themselves in their plain high-made
country garments.
Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of this
visit to London, describing the entrance of her party into the
Opera-house:--
"Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood by the box-door,
which was not yet opened, with a slight, graceful superciliousness,
quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I felt pleasurably excited
in spite of headache, sickness, and conscious clownishness; and I saw
Anne was calm and gentle, which she always is. The performance was
Rossini's 'Barber of Seville,'--very brilliant, though I fancy there
are things I should like better. We got home after one o'clock. We had
never been in bed the night before; had been in constant excitement for
twenty-four hours; you may imagine we were tired. The next day, Sunday,
Mr. Williams came early to take us to church; and in the afternoon Mr.
Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage, and took us to his house
to dine.
"On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the National
Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's, and then went home to tea with Mr.
Williams at his house.
"On Tuesday morning, we left London, laden with books Mr. Smith had
given us, and got safely home. A more jaded wretch than I looked, it
would be difficult to conceive. I was thin when I went, but I was meagre
indeed when I returned, my face looking grey and very old, with strange
deep lines ploughed in it--my eyes stared unnaturally. I was weak and
yet restless. In a while, however, these bad effects of excitement went
off, and I regained my normal condition."
The impression Miss Brontë made upon those with whom she first became
acquainted during this visit to London, was of a person with clear
judgment and fine sense; and though reserved, possessing unconsciously
the power of drawing out others in conversation. She never expressed
an opinion without assigning a reason for it; she never put a question
without a definite purpose; and yet people felt at their ease in talking
with her. All conversation with her was genuine and stimulating; and
when she launched forth in praise or reprobation of books, or deeds, or
works of art, her eloquence was indeed burning. She was thorough in all
that she said or did; yet so open and fair in dealing with a subject,
or contending with an opponent, that instead of rousing resentment, she
merely convinced her hearers of her earnest zeal for the truth and right.
Not the least singular part of their proceedings was the place at which
the sisters had chosen to stay.
Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a narrow
flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's; at each end there
are posts placed, so as to prevent the passage of carriages, and thus
preserve a solemn silence for the deliberations of the "Fathers of the
Row." The dull warehouses on each side are mostly occupied at present
by wholesale stationers; if they be publishers' shops, they show no
attractive front to the dark and narrow street. Half-way up, on the
left-hand side, is the Chapter Coffee-house. I visited it last June.
It was then unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house,
two hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient
country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had heavy
beams running across them; the walls were wainscotted breast high; the
staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the
centre of the house. This then was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a
century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers; and
where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used to go in
search of ideas or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton
wrote, in those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol,
while he was starving in London. "I am quite familiar at the Chapter
Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of chances
of employment; here his letters were to be left.
Years later, it became the tavern frequented by university men and
country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and, having
no private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what was
going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which they were
sure to hear in the Coffee-room. In Mr. Brontë's few and brief visits to
town, during his residence at Cambridge, and the period of his curacy in
Essex, he had stayed at this house; hither he had brought his daughters,
when he was convoying them to Brussels; and here they came now, from
very ignorance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented by
men; I believe there was but one female servant in the house. Few people
slept there; some of the stated meetings of the Trade were held in it,
as they had been for more than a century; and, occasionally country
booksellers, with now and then a clergyman, resorted to it; but it was
a strange desolate place for the Miss Brontës to have gone to, from its
purely business and masculine aspect. The old "grey-haired elderly man,"
who officiated as waiter seems to have been touched from the very first
with the quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and he tried to make them
feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy room up-stairs,
where the meetings of the Trade were held. The high narrow windows
looked into the gloomy Row; the sisters, clinging together on the most
remote window-seat, (as Mr. Smith tells me he found them, when he came,
that Saturday evening, to take them to the Opera,) could see nothing of
motion, or of change, in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and
close, although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The mighty
roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet
every footfall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly, in that
unfrequented street. Such as it was, they preferred remaining at the
Chapter Coffee-house, to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and
his mother urged upon them, and, in after years, Charlotte says:--
"Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine
squares; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much more
in earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things,
sights, sounds. The City is getting its living--the West End but
enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused; but in the
City you are deeply excited." (Villette, vol. i. p. 89.)
Their wish had been to hear Dr. Croly on the Sunday morning, and Mr.
Williams escorted them to St. Stephen's, Walbrook; but they were
disappointed, as Dr. Croly did not preach. Mr. Williams also took them
(as Miss Brontë has mentioned) to drink tea at his house. On the way
thither, they had to pass through Kensington Gardens, and Miss Brontë
was much "struck with the beauty of the scene, the fresh verdure of
the turf, and the soft rich masses of foliage." From remarks on the
different character of the landscape in the South to what it was in the
North, she was led to speak of the softness and varied intonation of the
voices of those with whom she conversed in London, which seem to have
made a strong impression on both sisters. All this time those who came
in contact with the "Miss Browns" (another pseudonym, also beginning
with B), seem only to have regarded them as shy and reserved little
country-women, with not much to say. Mr. Williams tells me that on the
night when he accompanied the party to the Opera, as Charlotte ascended
the flight of stairs leading from the grand entrance up to the lobby of
the first tier of boxes, she was so much struck with the architectural
effect of the splendid decorations of that vestibule and saloon, that
involuntarily she slightly pressed his arm, and whispered, "You know I
am not accustomed to this sort of thing." Indeed, it must have formed a
vivid contrast to what they were doing and seeing an hour or two earlier
the night before, when they were trudging along, with beating hearts and
high-strung courage, on the road between Haworth and Keighley, hardly
thinking of the thunder-storm that beat about their heads, for the
thoughts which filled them of how they would go straight away to London,
and prove that they were really two people, and not one imposter. It was
no wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and worn out,
after the fatigue and excitement of this visit.
The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at this time is of a
different character to anything telling of enjoyment.
"July 28th.
"Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much
shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights with him. He
sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night. But
has not every house its trial?"
While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact of
her authorship of "Jane Eyre," she received a letter from one of them,
making inquiries about Casterton School. It is but right to give her
answer, written on August 28th, 1848.
"Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write
without further delay. It often happens that when we linger at first
in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to retard us to an
inexcusably late period. In my last, I forgot to answer a question which
you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission. I will begin,
therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what information I can
give will come a little late. You said Mrs. ---- had some thoughts of
sending ---- to school, and wished to know whether the Clergy Daughters'
School at Casterton was an eligible place. My personal knowledge of that
institution is very much out of date, being derived from the experience
of twenty years ago. The establishment was at that time in its infancy,
and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus fever decimated the school
periodically; and consumption and scrofula, in every variety of form
bad air and water, bad and insufficient diet can generate, preyed on
the ill-fated pupils. It would not THEN have been a fit place for any
of Mrs. ----'s children; but I understand it is very much altered for
the better since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge
(a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque--low, damp, beautiful
with wood and water) to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the
discipline, the system of tuition--all are, I believe, entirely altered
and greatly improved. I was told that such pupils as behaved well, and
remained at the school till their education was finished, were provided
with situations as governesses, if they wished to adopt the vocation and
much care was exercised in the selection, it was added, that they were
also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. . . .
The oldest family in Haworth failed lately, and have quitted the
neighbourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is said,
thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues
in very good health, considering his age; his sight, too, rather, I
think, improves than deteriorates. My sisters likewise are pretty well."
But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household, and gathering
blackness every hour.
On October the 9th, she thus writes:--
"The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble home.
Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer; but still,
neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end as he was.
He was entirely confined to his bed but for one single day, and was in
the village two days before his death. He died, after twenty minutes'
struggle, on Sunday morning, September 24th. He was perfectly conscious
till the last agony came on. His mind had undergone the peculiar change
which frequently precedes death, two days previously; the calm of better
feelings filled it; a return of natural affection marked his last
moments. He is in God's hands now; and the All-Powerful is likewise
the All-Merciful. A deep conviction that he rests at last--rests well,
after his brief, erring, suffering, feverish life--fills and quiets
my mind now. The final separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse,
gave me more acute bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the
last hour comes, we never how know much we can forgive, pity, regret a
near relative. All his vices were and are nothing now. We remember only
his woes. Papa was acutely distressed at first, but, on the whole, has
borne the event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne is
always delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It was my
fate to sink at the crisis, when I should have collected my strength.
Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday; I could not regain
my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I became at once much
reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel. At last, bilious fever
declared itself. I was confined to bed a week,--a dreary week. But,
thank God! health seems now returning. I can sit up all day, and take
moderate nourishment. The doctor said at first, I should be very slow in
recovering, but I seem to get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly
MUCH BETTER."
I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his last illness, that
he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said, that as long
as there was life there was strength of will to do what it chose; and
when the last agony came on, he insisted on assuming the position just
mentioned. I have previously stated, that when his fatal attack came on,
his pockets were found filled with old letters from the woman to whom
he was attached. He died! she lives still,--in May Fair. The Eumenides,
I suppose, went out of existence at the time when the wail was heard,
"Great Pan is dead." I think we could better have spared him than those
awful Sisters who sting dead conscience into life.
I turn from her for ever. Let us look once more into the Parsonage at
Haworth.
"Oct. 29th, 1848.
"I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late illness,
and am almost restored to my normal condition of health. I sometimes
wish that it was a little higher, but we ought to be content with such
blessings as we have, and not pine after those that are out of our
reach. I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just now.
Emily's cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has pain in her
chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has
moved at all quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her reserved nature
occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless to question her;
you get no answers. It is still more useless to recommend remedies; they
are never adopted. Nor can I shut my eyes to Anne's great delicacy of
constitution. The late sad event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive
than common. I cannot help feeling much depressed sometimes. I try
to leave all in God's hands; to trust in His goodness; but faith and
resignation are difficult to practise under some circumstances. The
weather has been most unfavourable for invalids of late; sudden changes
of temperature, and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here.
Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favourable effect
might be produced on the general health, and these harassing colds and
coughs be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he has so far stood
it better than any of us. You must not mention my going to ---- this
winter. I could not, and would not, leave home on any account. Miss ----
has been for some years out of health now. These things make one FEEL,
as well as KNOW, that this world is not our abiding-place. We should not
knit human ties too close, or clasp human affections too fondly. They
must leave us, or we must leave them, one day. God restore health and
strength to all who need it!"
I go on now with her own affecting words in the biographical notice of
her sisters.
"But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape which to
anticipate is dread; to look back on grief. In the very heat and burden
of the day, the labourers failed over their work. My sister Emily first
declined. . . . Never in all her life had she lingered over any task
that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly.
She made haste to leave us. . . . Day by day, when I, saw with what a
front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and
love: I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her
parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her
nature stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of ruth for
others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to the
flesh; from the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes,
the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by
and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can
render."
In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding
Branwell's death. She made no complaint; she would not endure
questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time did Charlotte
and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their writing, to listen with
wrung hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent
pauses, with which their sister climbed the short staircase; yet they
dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper
than hers. They dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing
assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat, still and silent.
"Nov. 23rd, 1848.
"I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet.
She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression
would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I
have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the
least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by
pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it be
to felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she resolutely
refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings,
she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is,
and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how
all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced boldly to
regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable.
But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest
thing to my heart in the world."
When a doctor had been sent for, and was in the very house, Emily
refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him what symptoms
they had observed; and the medicines which he sent she would not take,
denying that she was ill.
"Dec. 10th, 1848.
"I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests
me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly
know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in
her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the
extreme emaciation continue. I have endured, however, such tortures
of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure it
no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues
immutable,--as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near
her,--I have written unknown to her, to an eminent physician in London,
giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw
up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or two. I am
thankful to say, that my own health at present is very tolerable. It is
well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will in the world to be
useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much. She, too, at present,
has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's
state renders him very anxious.
"The ----s (Anne Brontë's former pupils) were here about a week ago.
They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They seemed overjoyed to
see Anne: when I went into the room, they were clinging round her like
two children--she, meantime, looking perfectly quiet and passive. . . .
I. and H. took it into their heads to come here. I think it probable
offence was taken on that occasion,--from what cause, I know not; and
as, if such be the case, the grudge must rest upon purely imaginary
grounds,--and since, besides, I have other things to think about, my
mind rarely dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel
as if I should not care who neglected, misunderstood, or abused me. I
would rather you were not of the number either. The crab-cheese arrived
safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it: it looks very
nice. I wish she were well enough to eat it."
But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Brontë's shiver at
recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in the little
hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering spray of
heather--just one spray, however withered--to take in to Emily, she saw
that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet,
to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously to her habits of independence.
She would suffer no one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the
old stern spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and
dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for
herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of sewing: the
servants looked on, and knew what the catching, rattling breath, and
the glazing of the eye too surely foretold; but she kept at her work;
and Charlotte and Anne, though full of unspeakable dread, had still the
faintest spark of hope. On that morning Charlotte wrote thus--probably
in the very presence of her dying sister:--
"Tuesday.
"I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to
say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion was
expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she
would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for
God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it."
The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only whisper in
gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to Charlotte, "If you will
send for a doctor, I will see him now." About two o'clock she died.
"Dec. 21st, 1848.
"Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer
more in this world. She is gone, after a hard short conflict. She died
on TUESDAY, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very possible she
might be with us still for weeks; and a few hours afterwards, she was in
eternity. Yes; there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we
put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly under the church pavement.
We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of
seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone
by; the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to
tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them.
She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime.
But it is God's will, and the place where she is gone is better than
that she has left.
"God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such agony
as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well and
strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for
a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you
could come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig for
you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I
never so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure,
of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your
kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others."
As the old, bereaved father and his two surviving children followed
the coffin to the grave, they were joined by Keeper, Emily's fierce,
faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside of the mourners, and into the
church, and stayed quietly there all the time that the burial service
was being read. When he came home, he lay down at Emily's chamber door,
and howled pitifully for many days. Anne Brontë drooped and sickened
more rapidly from that time; and so ended the year 1848.