The tale of "Shirley" had been begun soon after the publication of
"Jane Eyre." If the reader will refer to the account I have given of
Miss Brontë's schooldays at Roe Head, he will there see how every
place surrounding that house was connected with the Luddite riots, and
will learn how stories and anecdotes of that time were rife among the
inhabitants of the neighbouring villages; how Miss Wooler herself,
and the elder relations of most of her schoolfellows, must have known
the actors in those grim disturbances. What Charlotte had heard there
as a girl came up in her mind when, as a woman, she sought a subject
for her next work; and she sent to Leeds for a file of the Mercuries
of 1812, '13, and '14; in order to understand the spirit of those
eventful times. She was anxious to write of things she had known and
seen; and among the number was the West Yorkshire character, for which
any tale laid among the Luddites would afford full scope. In "Shirley"
she took the idea of most of her characters from life, although the
incidents and situations were, of course, fictitious. She thought that
if these last were purely imaginary, she might draw from the real
without detection, but in this she was mistaken; her studies were too
closely accurate. This occasionally led her into difficulties. People
recognised themselves, or were recognised by others, in her graphic
descriptions of their personal appearance, and modes of action and
turns of thought; though they were placed in new positions, and figured
away in scenes far different to those in which their actual life had
been passed. Miss Brontë was struck by the force or peculiarity of the
character of some one whom she knew; she studied it, and analysed it
with subtle power; and having traced it to its germ, she took that germ
as the nucleus of an imaginary character, and worked outwards;--thus
reversing the process of analysation, and unconsciously reproducing
the same external development. The "three curates" were real living
men, haunting Haworth and the neighbouring district; and so obtuse in
perception that, after the first burst of anger at having their ways
and habits chronicled was over, they rather enjoyed the joke of calling
each other by the names she had given them. "Mrs. Pryor" was well known
to many who loved the original dearly. The whole family of the Yorkes
were, I have been assured, almost daguerreotypes. Indeed Miss Brontë
told me that, before publication, she had sent those parts of the novel
in which these remarkable persons are introduced, to one of the sons;
and his reply, after reading it, was simply that "she had not drawn
them strong enough." From those many-sided sons, I suspect, she drew
all that there was of truth in the characters of the heroes in her
first two works. They, indeed, were almost the only young men she knew
intimately, besides her brother. There was much friendship, and still
more confidence between the Brontë family and them,--although their
intercourse was often broken and irregular. There was never any warmer
feeling on either side.
The character of Shirley herself, is Charlotte's representation of
Emily. I mention this, because all that I, a stranger, have been able
to learn about her has not tended to give either me, or my readers,
a pleasant impression of her. But we must remember how little we are
acquainted with her, compared to that sister, who, out of her more
intimate knowledge, says that she "was genuinely good, and truly great,"
and who tried to depict her character in Shirley Keeldar, as what Emily
Brontë would have been, had she been placed in health and prosperity.
Miss Brontë took extreme pains with "Shirley." She felt that the fame
she had acquired imposed upon her a double responsibility. She tried
to make her novel like a piece of actual life,--feeling sure that, if
she but represented the product of personal experience and observation
truly, good would come out of it in the long run. She carefully studied
the different reviews and criticisms that had appeared on "Jane Eyre,"
in hopes of extracting precepts and advice from which to profit.
Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death. She had
nearly finished the second volume of her tale when Branwell died,--after
him Emily,--after her Anne;--the pen, laid down when there were three
sisters living and loving, was taken up when one alone remained. Well
might she call the first chapter that she wrote after this, "The Valley
of the Shadow of Death."
I knew in part what the unknown author of "Shirley" must have suffered,
when I read those pathetic words which occur at the end of this and the
beginning of the succeeding chapter:--
"Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.
"Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night after
night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicant
may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its
appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my beloved,' it may implore. 'Heal my
life's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my whole
nature. God of Heaven--bend--hear--be clement!' And after this cry and
strife, the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which
used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks,
may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and
heat have quitted,--'Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I
am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have
troubled me.'
"Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and
strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the
insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol
should be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the
sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear. . . .
"No piteous, unconscious moaning sound--which so wastes our strength
that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears
sweeps away the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy
followed. The first words spoken were not those of one becoming
estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into
realms foreign to the living."
She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write without
any one to listen to the progress of her tale,--to find fault or to
sympathise,--while pacing the length of the parlour in the evenings,
as in the days that were no more. Three sisters had done this,--then
two, the other sister dropping off from the walk,--and now one was left
desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came,--and to hear the
wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost articulate sound.
But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness;
"continually recurring feelings of slight cold; slight soreness in the
throat and chest, of which, do what I will," she writes, "I cannot get
rid."
In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but temporary.
"Aug. 23rd, 1849.
"Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack of
bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days--more wretched
indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened, one trembles
at any appearance of sickness; and when anything ails Papa, I feel too
keenly that he is the LAST--the only near and dear relative I have in
the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I
am truly thankful. . . .
"From what you say of Mr. ----, I think I should like him very much.
---- wants shaking to be put out about his appearance. What does it
matter whether her husband dines in a dress-coat, or a market-coat,
provided there be worth, and honesty, and a clean shirt underneath?"
"Sept. 10th, 1849.
"My piece of work is at last finished, and despatched to its
destination. You must now tell me when there is a chance of your being
able to come here. I fear it will now be difficult to arrange, as it is
so near the marriage-day. Note well, it would spoil all my pleasure, if
you put yourself or any one else to inconvenience to come to Haworth.
But when it is CONVENIENT, I shall be truly glad to see you. . . . Papa,
I am thankful to say, is better, though not strong. He is often troubled
with a sensation of nausea. My cold is very much less troublesome, I am
sometimes quite free from it. A few days since, I had a severe bilious
attack, the consequence of sitting too closely to my writing; but it is
gone now. It is the first from which I have suffered since my return
from the sea-side. I had them every month before."
"Sept. 13th, 1849.
"If duty and the well-being of others require that you should stay at
home, I cannot permit myself to complain, still, I am very, VERY sorry
that circumstances will not permit us to meet just now. I would without
hesitation come to ----, if Papa were stronger; but uncertain as are
both his health and spirits, I could not possibly prevail on myself to
leave him now. Let us hope that when we do see each other our meeting
will be all the more pleasurable for being delayed. Dear E----, you
certainly have a heavy burden laid on your shoulders, but such burdens,
if well borne, benefit the character; only we must take the GREATEST,
CLOSEST, MOST WATCHFUL care not to grow proud of our strength, in case
we should be enabled to bear up under the trial. That pride, indeed,
would be sign of radical weakness. The strength, if strength we have, is
certainly never in our own selves; it is given us."
To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"Sept. 21st, 1849.
"My dear Sir,--I am obliged to you for preserving my secret, being at
least as anxious as ever (MORE anxious I cannot well be) to keep quiet.
You asked me in one of your letters lately, whether I thought I should
escape identification in Yorkshire. I am so little known, that I think I
shall. Besides, the book is far less founded on the Real, than perhaps
appears. It would be difficult to explain to you how little actual
experience I have had of life, how few persons I have known, and how
very few have known me.
"As an instance how the characters have been managed, take that of Mr.
Helstone. If this character had an original, it was in the person of
a clergyman who died some years since at the advanced age of eighty.
I never saw him except once--at the consecration of a church--when I
was a child of ten years old. I was then struck with his appearance,
and stern, martial air. At a subsequent period, I heard him talked
about in the neighbourhood where he had resided: some mention him with
enthusiasm--others with detestation. I listened to various anecdotes,
balanced evidence against evidence, and drew an inference. The original
of Mr. Hall I have seen; he knows me slightly; but he would as soon
think I had closely observed him or taken him for a character--he would
as soon, indeed, suspect me of writing a hook--a novel--as he would his
dog, Prince. Margaret Hall called "Jane Eyre" a 'wicked book,' on the
authority of the Quarterly; an expression which, coming from her, I will
here confess, struck somewhat deep. It opened my eyes to the harm the
Quarterly had done. Margaret would not have called it 'wicked,' if she
had not been told so.
"No matter,--whether known or unknown--misjudged, or the contrary,--I
am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as my powers tend. The
two human beings who understood me, and whom I understood, are gone:
I have some that love me yet, and whom I love, without expecting, or
having a right to expect, that they shall perfectly understand me. I am
satisfied; but I must have my own way in the matter of writing. The loss
of what we possess nearest and dearest to us in this world, produces
an effect upon the character we search out what we have yet left that
can support, and, when found, we cling to it with a hold of new-strung
tenacity. The faculty of imagination lifted me when I was sinking, three
months ago; its active exercise has kept my head above water since; its
results cheer me now, for I feel they have enabled me to give pleasure
to others. I am thankful to God, who gave me the faculty; and it is
for me a part of my religion to defend this gift, and to profit by its
possession.--Yours sincerely,
"CHARLOTTE BRONTË."
At the time when this letter was written, both Tabby and the young
servant whom they had to assist her were ill in bed; and, with the
exception of occasional aid, Miss Brontë had all the household work to
perform, as well as to nurse the two invalids.
The serious illness of the younger servant was at its height, when a
cry from Tabby called Miss Brontë into the kitchen, and she found the
poor old woman of eighty laid on the floor, with her head under the
kitchen-grate; she had fallen from her chair in attempting to rise. When
I saw her, two years later, she described to me the tender care which
Charlotte had taken of her at this time; and wound up her account of
"how her own mother could not have had more thought for her nor Miss
Brontë had," by saying, "Eh! she's a good one--she IS!"
But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way--when, as she
says, "I fairly broke down for ten minutes; sat and cried like a fool.
Tabby could neither stand nor walk. Papa had just been declaring that
Martha was in imminent danger. I was myself depressed with headache
and sickness. That day I hardly knew what to do, or where to turn.
Thank God! Martha is now convalescent: Tabby, I trust, will be better
soon. Papa is pretty well. I have the satisfaction of knowing that my
publishers are delighted with what I sent them. This supports me. But
life is a battle. May we all be enabled to fight it well!"
The kind friend, to whom she thus wrote, saw how the poor over-taxed
system needed bracing, and accordingly sent her a shower-bath--a thing
for which she had long been wishing. The receipt of it was acknowledged
as follows:--
"Sept. 28th, 1849. ". . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much
better. A huge monster-package, from 'Nelson, Leeds,' came yesterday.
You want chastising roundly and soundly. Such are the thanks you get
for all your trouble. . . . Whenever you come to Haworth, you shall
certainly have a thorough drenching in your own shower-bath. I have not
yet unpacked the wretch.--"Yours, as you deserve,
C. B."
There was misfortune of another kind impending over her. There were
some railway shares, which, so early as 1846, she had told Miss Wooler
she wished to sell, but had kept because she could not persuade her
sisters to look upon the affair as she did, and so preferred running
the risk of loss, to hurting Emily's feelings by acting in opposition
to her opinion. The depreciation of these same shares was now
verifying Charlotte's soundness of judgment. They were in the York and
North-Midland Company, which was one of Mr. Hudson's pet lines, and had
the full benefit of his peculiar system of management. She applied to
her friend and publisher, Mr. Smith, for information on the subject; and
the following letter is in answer to his reply:--
"Oct. 4th, 1849.
"My dear Sir,--I must not THANK you for, but acknowledge the receipt of
your letter. The business is certainly very bad; worse than I thought,
and much worse than my father has any idea of. In fact, the little
railway property I possessed, according to original prices, formed
already a small competency for me, with my views and habits. Now,
scarcely any portion of it can, with security, be calculated upon. I
must open this view of the case to my father by degrees; and, meanwhile,
wait patiently till I see how affairs are likely to turn. . . . However
the matter may terminate, I ought perhaps to be rather thankful than
dissatisfied. When I look at my own case, and compare it with that of
thousands besides, I scarcely see room for a murmur. Many, very many,
are by the late strange railway system deprived almost of their daily
bread. Such then as have only lost provision laid up for the future,
should take care how they complain. The thought that 'Shirley' has given
pleasure at Cornhill, yields me much quiet comfort. No doubt, however,
you are, as I am, prepared for critical severity; but I have good hopes
that the vessel is sufficiently sound of construction to weather a gale
or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for you in the end."
Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay a visit
to her friend; but her enjoyment in the holiday, which she had so
long promised herself when her work was completed, was deadened by a
continual feeling of ill-health; either the change of air or the foggy
weather produced constant irritation at the chest. Moreover, she was
anxious about the impression which her second work would produce on
the public mind. For obvious reasons an author is more susceptible to
opinions pronounced on the book which follows a great success, than he
has ever been before. Whatever be the value of fame, he has it in his
possession, and is not willing to have it dimmed or lost.
"Shirley" was published on October 26th.
When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote to tell her of
his intention of reviewing it in the Edinburgh. Her correspondence with
him had ceased for some time: much had occurred since.
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 1st, 1849.
"My dear Sir,--It is about a year and a half since you wrote to me; but
it seems a longer period, because since then it has been my lot to pass
some black milestones in the journey of life. Since then there have been
intervals when I have ceased to care about literature and critics and
fame; when I have lost sight of whatever was prominent in my thoughts
at the first publication of 'Jane Eyre;' but now I want these things
to come back vividly, if possible: consequently, it was a pleasure to
receive your note. I wish you did not think me a woman. I wish all
reviewers believed 'Currer Bell' to be a man; they would be more just to
him. You will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what you
deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what you consider graceful, you
will condemn me. All mouths will be open against that first chapter; and
that first chapter is true as the Bible, nor is it exceptionable. Come
what will, I cannot, when I write, think always of myself and of what is
elegant and charming in femininity; it is not on those terms, or with
such ideas, I ever took pen in hand: and if it is only on such terms my
writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble
it no more. Out of obscurity I came, to obscurity I can easily return.
Standing afar off, I now watch to see what will become of 'Shirley.' My
expectations are very low, and my anticipations somewhat sad and bitter;
still, I earnestly conjure you to say honestly what you think; flattery
would be worse than vain; there is no consolation in flattery. As for
condemnation I cannot, on reflection, see why I should much fear it;
there is no one but myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and
suffering in this life soon pass away. Wishing you all success in your
Scottish expedition,--I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,
C. BELL."
Miss Brontë, as we have seen, had been as anxious as ever to preserve
her incognito in "Shirley." She even fancied that there were fewer
traces of a female pen in it than in "Jane Eyre"; and thus, when the
earliest reviews were published, and asserted that the mysterious writer
must be a woman, she was much disappointed. She especially disliked the
lowering of the standard by which to judge a work of fiction, if it
proceeded from a feminine pen; and praise mingled with pseudo-gallant
allusions to her sex, mortified her far more than actual blame.
But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at last. The
publication of "Shirley" seemed to fix the conviction that the writer
was an inhabitant of the district where the story was laid. And a clever
Haworth man, who had somewhat risen in the world, and gone to settle
in Liverpool, read the novel, and was struck with some of the names
of places mentioned, and knew the dialect in which parts of it were
written. He became convinced that it was the production of some one in
Haworth. But he could not imagine who in that village could have written
such a work except Miss Brontë. Proud of his conjecture, he divulged the
suspicion (which was almost certainty) in the columns of a Liverpool
paper; thus the heart of the mystery came slowly creeping out; and a
visit to London, which Miss Brontë paid towards the end of the year
1849, made it distinctly known. She had been all along on most happy
terms with her publishers; and their kindness had beguiled some of those
weary, solitary hours which had so often occurred of late, by sending
for her perusal boxes of books more suited to her tastes than any she
could procure from the circulating library at Keighley. She often writes
such sentences as the following, in her letters to Cornhill:--
"I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent 'Eckermann's
Conversations with Goethe,' 'Guesses as Truth,' 'Friends in Council,'
and the little work on English social life, pleased me particularly,
and the last not least. We sometimes take a partiality to books as
to characters, not on account of any brilliant intellect or striking
peculiarity they boast, but for the sake of something good, delicate,
and genuine. I thought that small book the production of a lady, and an
amiable, sensible woman, and I liked it. You must not think of selecting
any more works for me yet; my stock is still far from exhausted.
"I accept your offer respecting the 'Athenaeum;' it is a paper I should
like much to see, providing that you can send it without trouble. It
shall be punctually returned."
In a letter to her friend she complains of the feelings of illness from
which she was seldom or never free.
"Nov. 16th, 1849.
You are not to suppose any of the characters in 'Shirley' intended as
literal portraits. It would not suit the rules of art, nor of my own
feelings; to write in that style. We only suffer reality to SUGGEST,
never to DICTATE. The heroines are abstractions and the heroes also.
Qualities I have seen, loved, and admired, are here and there put in
as decorative gems, to be preserved in that sitting. Since you say you
could recognise the originals of all except the heroines, pray whom did
you suppose the two Moores to represent? I send you a couple of reviews;
the one is in the Examiner, written by Albany Fonblanque, who is called
the most brilliant political writer of the day, a man whose dictum is
much thought of in London. The other, in the Standard of Freedom, is
written by William Howitt, a Quaker! . . . I should be pretty well, if
it were not for headaches and indigestion. My chest has been better
lately."
In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor, headache, and
sickness, to which the slightest exposure to cold added sensations of
hoarseness and soreness at the chest, she determined to take the evil
in time, as much for her father's sake as for her own, and to go up to
London and consult some physician there. It was not her first intention
to visit anywhere; but the friendly urgency of her publishers prevailed,
and it was decided that she was to become the guest of Mr. Smith. Before
she went, she wrote two characteristic letters about "Shirley," from
which I shall take a few extracts.
"'Shirley' makes her way. The reviews shower in fast. . . . The best
critique which has yet appeared is in the Revue des deux Mondes, a
sort of European Cosmopolitan periodical, whose head-quarters are at
Paris. Comparatively few reviewers, even in their praise, evince a just
comprehension of the author's meaning. Eugene Forcarde, the reviewer
in question, follows Currer Bell through every winding, discerns every
point, discriminates every shade, proves himself master of the subject,
and lord of the aim. With that man I would shake hands, if I saw him.
I would say, 'You know me, Monsieur; I shall deem it an honour to
know you.' I could not say so much of the mass of the London critics.
Perhaps I could not say so much to five hundred men and women in all
the millions of Great Britain. That matters little. My own conscience I
satisfy first; and having done that, if I further content and delight a
Forsarde, a Fonblanque, and a Thackeray, my ambition has had its ration,
it is fed; it lies down for the present satisfied; my faculties have
wrought a day's task, and earned a day's wages. I am no teacher; to look
on me in that light is to mistake me. To teach is not my vocation. What
I AM, it is useless to say. Those whom it concerns feel and find it
out. To all others I wish only to be an obscure, steady-going, private
character. To you, dear E ----, I wish to be a sincere friend. Give me
your faithful regard; I willingly dispense with admiration."
"Nov. 26th.
"It is like you to pronounce the reviews not good enough, and belongs
to that part of your character which will not permit you to bestow
unqualified approbation on any dress, decoration, etc., belonging to
you. Know that the reviews are superb; and were I dissatisfied with
them, I should be a conceited ape. Nothing higher is ever said, FROM
PERFECTLY DISINTERESTED MOTIVES, of any living authors. If all be well,
I go to London this week; Wednesday, I think. The dress-maker has done
my small matters pretty well, but I wish you could have looked them
over, and given a dictum. I insisted on the dresses being made quite
plainly."
At the end of November she went up to the "big Babylon," and was
immediately plunged into what appeared to her a whirl; for changes, and
scenes, and stimulus which would have been a trifle to others, were
much to her. As was always the case with strangers, she was a little
afraid at first of the family into which she was now received, fancying
that the ladies looked on her with a mixture of respect and alarm; but
in a few days, if this state of feeling ever existed, her simple, shy,
quiet manners, her dainty personal and household ways, had quite done
away with it, and she says that she thinks they begin to like her, and
that she likes them much, for "kindness is a potent heart-winner." She
had stipulated that she should not be expected to see many people. The
recluse life she had led, was the cause of a nervous shrinking from
meeting any fresh face, which lasted all her life long. Still, she
longed to have an idea of the personal appearance and manners of some of
those whose writings or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was
accordingly invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had been
out for the greater part of the morning, and, in consequence, missed
the luncheon hour at her friend's house. This brought on a severe and
depressing headache in one accustomed to the early, regular hours of a
Yorkshire Parsonage; besides, the excitement of meeting, hearing, and
sitting next a man to whom she looked up with such admiration as she did
to the author of "Vanity Fair," was of itself overpowering to her frail
nerves. She writes about this dinner as follows:--
"Dec. 10th, 1849.
"As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of excitement;
but I suffer acute pain sometimes,--mental pain, I mean. At the moment
Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was thoroughly faint from inanition,
having eaten nothing since a very slight breakfast, and it was then
seven o'clock in the evening. Excitement and exhaustion made savage work
of me that evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell."
She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of meeting Mr.
Thackeray, to decide whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest, and
that she had (she believed) completely misunderstood an inquiry of his,
made on the gentlemen's coming into the drawing-room. He asked her "if
she had perceived the secret of their cigars;" to which she replied
literally, discovering in a minute afterwards, by the smile on several
faces, that he was alluding to a passage in "Jane Eyre". Her hosts took
pleasure in showing her the sights of London. On one of the days which
had been set apart for some of these pleasant excursions, a severe
review of "Shirley" was published in the Times. She had heard that her
book would be noticed by it, and guessed that there was some particular
reason for the care with which her hosts mislaid it on that particular
morning. She told them that she was aware why she might not see the
paper. Mrs. Smith at once admitted that her conjecture was right, and
said that they had wished her to go to the day's engagement before
reading it. But she quietly persisted in her request to be allowed to
have the paper. Mrs. Smith took her work, and tried not to observe the
countenance, which the other tried to hide between the large sheets; but
she could not help becoming aware of tears stealing down the face and
dropping on the lap. The first remark Miss Brontë made was to express
her fear lest so severe a notice should check the sale of the book,
and injuriously affect her publishers. Wounded as she was, her first
thought was for others. Later on (I think that very afternoon) Mr.
Thackeray called; she suspected (she said) that he came to see how she
bore the attack on "Shirley;" but she had recovered her composure, and
conversed very quietly with him: he only learnt from the answer to his
direct inquiry that she had read the Times' article. She acquiesced in
the recognition of herself as the authoress of "Jane Eyre," because she
perceived that there were some advantages to be derived from dropping
her pseudonym. One result was an acquaintance with Miss Martineau.
She had sent her the novel just published, with a curious note, in
which Currer Bell offered a copy of "Shirley" to Miss Martineau, as an
acknowledgment of the gratification he had received from her works. From
"Deerbrook" he had derived a new and keen pleasure, and experienced a
genuine benefit. In HIS mind "Deerbrook," etc.
Miss Martineau, in acknowledging this note and the copy of "Shirley,"
dated her letter from a friend's house in the neighbourhood of Mr.
Smith's residence; and when, a week or two afterwards, Miss Brontë
found how near she was to her correspondent, she wrote, in the name
of Currer Bell, to propose a visit to her. Six o'clock, on a certain
Sunday afternoon (Dec. 10th), was the time appointed. Miss Martineau's
friends had invited the unknown Currer Bell to their early tea; they
were ignorant whether the name was that of a man or a woman; and had
had various conjectures as to sex, age, and appearance. Miss Martineau
had, indeed, expressed her private opinion pretty distinctly by
beginning her reply, to the professedly masculine note referred to
above, with "Dear Madam;" but she had addressed it to "Currer Bell,
Esq." At every ring the eyes of the party turned towards the door. Some
stranger (a gentleman, I think) came in; for an instant they fancied he
was Currer Bell, and indeed an Esq.; he stayed some time--went away.
Another ring; "Miss Brontë was announced; and in came a young-looking
lady, almost child-like in stature, in a deep mourning dress, neat
as a Quaker's, with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine
eyes blazing with meaning and her sensible face indicating a habit
of self-control." She came,--hesitated one moment at finding four or
five people assembled,--then went straight to Miss Martineau with
intuitive recognition, and, with the free-masonry of good feeling and
gentle breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated round the
tea-table; and, before she left, she told them, in a simple, touching
manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation was laid for her
intimacy with Miss Martineau.
After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation that she should
not be specially introduced to any one, some gentlemen were invited by
Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner the evening before she left town. Her
natural place would have been at the bottom of the table by her host;
and the places of those who were to be her neighbours were arranged
accordingly; but, on entering the dining-room, she quickly passed up
so as to sit next to the lady of the house, anxious to shelter herself
near some one of her own sex. This slight action arose out of the same
womanly seeking after protection on every occasion, when there was no
moral duty involved in asserting her independence, that made her about
this time write as follows: "Mrs. ---- watches me very narrowly when
surrounded by strangers. She never takes her eye from me. I like the
surveillance; it seems to keep guard over me."
Respecting this particular dinner-party she thus wrote to the Brussels
schoolfellow of former days, whose friendship had been renewed during
her present visit to London:--
"The evening after I left you passed better than I expected. Thanks to
my substantial lunch and cheering cup of coffee, I was able to wait the
eight o'clock dinner with complete resignation, and to endure its length
quite courageously, nor was I too much exhausted to converse; and of
this I was glad, for otherwise I know my kind host and hostess would
have been much disappointed. There were only seven gentlemen at dinner
besides Mr. Smith, but of these five were critics--men more dreaded in
the world of letters than you can conceive. I did not know how much
their presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone,
and the reaction commenced. When I had retired for the night, I wished
to sleep--the effort to do so was vain. I could not close my eyes.
Night passed; morning came, and I rose without having known a moment's
slumber. So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was again
obliged to stay there all night."
"Dec. 17th.
"Here I am at Haworth once more. I feel as if I had come out of an
exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and stimulus would have seemed much
to one accustomed to society and change, but to me they were very
marked. My strength and spirits too often proved quite insufficient to
the demand on their exertions. I used to bear up as long as I possibly
could, for, when I flagged, I could see Mr. Smith became disturbed; he
always thought that something had been said or done to annoy me--which
never once happened, for I met with perfect good breeding even from
antagonists--men who had done their best or worst to write me down. I
explained to him over and over again, that my occasional silence was
only failure of the power to talk, never of the will. . . .
"Thackeray is a Titan of mind. His presence and powers impress one
deeply in an intellectual sense; I do not see him or know him as a man.
All the others are subordinate. I have esteem for some, and, I trust,
courtesy for all. I do not, of course, know what they thought of me,
but I believe most of them expected me to come out in a more marked,
eccentric, striking light. I believe they desired more to admire and
more to blame. I felt sufficiently at my ease with all but Thackeray;
with him I was fearfully stupid."
She returned to her quiet home, and her noiseless daily duties. Her
father had quite enough of the spirit of hero-worship in him to make him
take a vivid pleasure in the accounts of what she had heard and whom she
had seen. It was on the occasion of one of her visits to London that
he had desired her to obtain a sight of Prince Albert's armoury, if
possible. I am not aware whether she managed to do this; but she went
to one or two of the great national armouries in order that she might
describe the stern steel harness and glittering swords to her father,
whose imagination was forcibly struck by the idea of such things; and
often afterwards, when his spirits flagged and the languor of old age
for a time got the better of his indomitable nature, she would again
strike on the measure wild, and speak about the armies of strange
weapons she had seen in London, till he resumed his interest in the old
subject, and was his own keen, warlike, intelligent self again.