Her life at Haworth was so unvaried that the postman's call was the
event of her day. Yet she dreaded the great temptation of centring all
her thoughts upon this one time, and losing her interest in the smaller
hopes and employments of the remaining hours. Thus she conscientiously
denied herself the pleasure of writing letters too frequently, because
the answers (when she received them) took the flavour out of the rest
of her life; or the disappointment, when the replies did not arrive,
lessened her energy for her home duties.
The winter of this year in the north was hard and cold; it affected
Miss Brontë's health less than usual, however, probably because the
change and the medical advice she had taken in London had done her good;
probably, also, because her friend had come to pay her a visit, and
enforced that attention to bodily symptoms which Miss Brontë was too apt
to neglect, from a fear of becoming nervous herself about her own state
and thus infecting her father. But she could scarcely help feeling much
depressed in spirits as the anniversary of her sister Emily's death came
round; all the recollections connected with it were painful, yet there
were no outward events to call off her attention, and prevent them from
pressing hard upon her. At this time, as at many others, I find her
alluding in her letters to the solace which she found in the books sent
her from Cornhill.
"What, I sometimes ask, could I do without them? I have recourse to
them as to friends; they shorten and cheer many an hour that would be
too long and too desolate otherwise; even when my tired sight will
not permit me to continue reading, it is pleasant to see them on the
shelf, or on the table. I am still very rich, for my stock is far from
exhausted. Some other friends have sent me books lately. The perusal
of Harriet Martineau's 'Eastern Life' has afforded me great pleasure;
and I have found a deep and interesting subject of study in Newman's
work on the Soul. Have you read this work? It is daring,--it may be
mistaken,--but it is pure and elevated. Froude's 'Nemesis of Faith' I
did not like; I thought it morbid; yet in its pages, too, are found
sprinklings of truth."
By this time, "Airedale, Wharfedale, Calderdale, and Ribblesdale"
all knew the place of residence of Currer Bell. She compared herself
to the ostrich hiding its head in the sand; and says that she still
buries hers in the heath of Haworth moors; but "the concealment is but
self-delusion." Indeed it was. Far and wide in the West Riding had
spread the intelligence that Currer Bell was no other than a daughter
of the venerable clergyman of Haworth; the village itself caught up the
excitement.
"Mr. ----, having finished 'Jane Eyre,' is now crying out for the
'other book;' he is to have it next week. . . . Mr. R ---- has finished
'Shirley;' he is delighted with it. John ----'s wife seriously thought
him gone wrong in the head, as she heard him giving vent to roars of
laughter as he sat alone, clapping and stamping on the floor. He would
read all the scenes about the curates aloud to papa." . . . "Martha came
in yesterday, puffing and blowing, and much excited. 'I've heard sich
news!' she began. 'What about?' 'Please, ma'am, you've been and written
two books--the grandest books that ever was seen. My father has heard it
at Halifax, and Mr. G---- T---- and Mr. G---- and Mr. M---- at Bradford;
and they are going to have a meeting at the Mechanics' Institute, and to
settle about ordering them.' 'Hold your tongue, Martha, and be off.' I
fell into a cold sweat. "Jane Eyre" will be read by J---- B----, by Mrs.
T----, and B----. Heaven help, keep, and deliver me!" . . . "The Haworth
people have been making great fools of themselves about Shirley; they
have taken it in an enthusiastic light. When they got the volumes at the
Mechanics' Institute, all the members wanted them. They cast lots for
the whole three, and whoever got a volume was only allowed to keep it
two days, and was to be fined a shilling per diem for longer detention.
It would be mere nonsense and vanity to tell you what they say."
The tone of these extracts is thoroughly consonant with the spirit of
Yorkshire and Lancashire people, who try as long as they can to conceal
their emotions of pleasure under a bantering exterior, almost as if
making fun of themselves. Miss Brontë was extremely touched in the
secret places of her warm heart by the way in which those who had known
her from her childhood were proud and glad of her success. All round
about the news had spread; strangers came "from beyond Burnley" to see
her, as she went quietly and unconsciously into church and the sexton
"gained many a half-crown" for pointing her out.
But there were drawbacks to this hearty and kindly appreciation which
was so much more valuable than fame. The January number of the Edinburgh
Review had contained the article on Shirley, of which her correspondent,
Mr. Lewes, was the writer. I have said that Miss Brontë was especially
anxious to be criticised as a writer, without relation to her sex as a
woman. Whether right or wrong, her feeling was strong on this point. Now
in this review of Shirley, the heading of the first two pages ran thus:
"Mental Equality of the Sexes?" "Female Literature," and through the
whole article the fact of the author's sex is never forgotten.
A few days after the review appeared, Mr. Lewes received the following
note,--rather in the style of Anne Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and
Montgomery.
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"I can be on my guard against my enemies, but God deliver me from my
friends!
CURRER BELL."
In some explanatory notes on her letters to him, with which Mr. Lewes
has favoured me, he says:--
"Seeing that she was unreasonable because angry, I wrote to remonstrate
with her on quarrelling with the severity or frankness of a review,
which certainly was dictated by real admiration and real friendship;
even under its objections the friend's voice could be heard."
The following letter is her reply:--
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Jan. 19th, 1850.
"My dear Sir,--I will tell you why I was so hurt by that review in the
Edinburgh; not because its criticism was keen or its blame sometimes
severe; not because its praise was stinted (for, indeed, I think you
give me quite as much praise as I deserve), but because after I had said
earnestly that I wished critics would judge me as an AUTHOR, not as a
woman, you so roughly--I even thought so cruelly--handled the question
of sex. I dare say you meant no harm, and perhaps you will not now be
able to understand why I was so grieved at what you will probably deem
such a trifle; but grieved I was, and indignant too.
"There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong to write.
"However, I will not bear malice against you for it; I know what your
nature is: it is not a bad or unkind one, though you would often jar
terribly on some feelings with whose recoil and quiver you could not
possibly sympathise. I imagine you are both enthusiastic and implacable,
as you are at once sagacious and careless; you know much and discover
much, but you are in such a hurry to tell it all you never give yourself
time to think how your reckless eloquence may affect others; and, what
is more, if you knew how it did affect them, you would not much care.
"However, I shake hands with you: you have excellent points; you can be
generous. I still feel angry, and think I do well to be angry; but it is
the anger one experiences for rough play rather than for foul play.--I
am yours, with a certain respect, and more chagrin,
CURRER BELL."
As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I thank
him for having allowed me to publish what is so characteristic of
one phase of Miss Brontë's mind. Her health, too, was suffering at
this time. "I don't know what heaviness of spirit has beset me of
late" (she writes, in pathetic words, wrung out of the sadness of her
heart), "made my faculties dull, made rest weariness, and occupation
burdensome. Now and then, the silence of the house, the solitude of the
room, has pressed on me with a weight I found it difficult to bear, and
recollection has not failed to be as alert, poignant, obtrusive, as
other feelings were languid. I attribute this state of things partly
to the weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high
winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance in
the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness, and deep, heavy mental
sadness, such as some would call PRESENTIMENT,--presentiment indeed it
is, but not at all super-natural. . . . I cannot help feeling something
of the excitement of expectation till the post hour comes, and when, day
after day, it brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid, disgraceful,
unmeaning state of things. I feel bitterly vexed at my own dependence
and folly; but it is so bad for the mind to be quite alone, and to have
none with whom to talk over little crosses and disappointments, and to
laugh them away. If I could write, I dare say I should be better, but
I cannot write a line. However (by God's help), I will contend against
this folly.
"I had rather a foolish letter the other day from ----. Some things in
it nettled me, especially an unnecessarily earnest assurance that, in
spite of all I had done in the writing line, I still retained a place in
her esteem. My answer took strong and high ground at once. I said I had
been troubled by no doubts on the subject; that I neither did her nor
myself the injustice to suppose there was anything in what I had written
to incur the just forfeiture of esteem. . . .
"A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously
touched me. Papa put into my hands a little packet of letters and
papers,--telling me that they were mamma's, and that I might read them.
I did read them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe. The papers were
yellow with time, all having been written before I was born it was
strange now to peruse, for the first time, the records of a mind whence
my own sprang; and most strange, and at once sad and sweet, to find
that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order. They were written
to papa before they were married. There is a rectitude, a refinement a
constancy, a modesty, a sense, a gentleness about them indescribable. I
wished that she had lived, and that I had known her. . . . All through
this month of February, I have had a crushing time of it. I could not
escape from or rise above certain most mournful recollections,--the
last days, the sufferings, the remembered words--most sorrowful to me,
of those who, Faith assures me, are now happy. At evening and bed-time,
such thoughts would haunt me, bringing a weary heartache."
The reader may remember the strange prophetic vision, which dictated a
few words, written on the occasion of the death of a pupil of hers in
January, 1840:
"Wherever I seek for her now in this world, she cannot be found; no more
than a flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago. A bereavement
of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have, who
have seen all drop round them--friend after friend, and are left to end
their pilgrimage alone."
Even in persons of naturally robust health, and with no
"Ricordarsi di tempo felice Nella miseria--"
to wear, with slow dropping but perpetual pain, upon their spirits,
the nerves and appetite will give way in solitude. How much more must
it have been so with Miss Brontë, delicate and frail in constitution,
tried by much anxiety and sorrow in early life, and now left to face
her life alone. Owing to Mr. Brontë's great age, and long-formed habits
of solitary occupation when in the house, his daughter was left to
herself for the greater part of the day. Ever since his serious attacks
of illness, he had dined alone; a portion of her dinner, regulated by
strict attention to the diet most suitable for him, being taken into
his room by herself. After dinner she read to him for an hour or so,
as his sight was too weak to allow of his reading long to himself. He
was out of doors among his parishioners for a good part of each day;
often for a longer time than his strength would permit. Yet he always
liked to go alone, and consequently her affectionate care could be no
check upon the length of his walks to the more distant hamlets which
were in his cure. He would come back occasionally utterly fatigued;
and be obliged to go to bed, questioning himself sadly as to where all
his former strength of body had gone to. His strength of will was the
same as ever. That which he resolved to do he did, at whatever cost of
weariness; but his daughter was all the more anxious from seeing him
so regardless of himself and his health. The hours of retiring for the
night had always been early in the Parsonage; now family prayers were
at eight o'clock; directly after which Mr. Brontë and old Tabby went to
bed, and Martha was not long in following. But Charlotte could not have
slept if she had gone,--could not have rested on her desolate couch. She
stopped up,--it was very tempting,--late and later, striving to beguile
the lonely night with some employment, till her weak eyes failed to read
or to sew, and could only weep in solitude over the dead that were not.
No one on earth can even imagine what those hours were to her. All the
grim superstitions of the North had been implanted in her during her
childhood by the servants, who believed in them. They recurred to her
now,--with no shrinking from the spirits of the Dead, but with such an
intense longing once more to stand face to face with the souls of her
sisters, as no one but she could have felt. It seemed as if the very
strength of her yearning should have compelled them to appear. On windy
nights, cries, and sobs, and wailings seemed to go round the house,
as of the dearly-beloved striving to force their way to her. Some one
conversing with her once objected, in my presence, to that part of "Jane
Eyre" in which she hears Rochester's voice crying out to her in a great
crisis of her life, he being many, many miles distant at the time. I
do not know what incident was in Miss Brontë's recollection when she
replied, in a low voice, drawing in her breath, "But it is a true thing;
it really happened."
The reader, who has even faintly pictured to himself her life at this
time,--the solitary days,--the waking, watching nights,--may imagine to
what a sensitive pitch her nerves were strung, and how such a state was
sure to affect her health.
It was no bad thing for her that about this time various people began to
go over to Haworth, curious to see the scenery described in "Shirley,"
if a sympathy with the writer, of a more generous kind than to be called
mere curiosity, did not make them wish to know whether they could not in
some way serve or cheer one who had suffered so deeply.
Among this number were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. Their house
lies over the crest of the moors which rise above Haworth, at about a
dozen miles' distance as the crow flies, though much further by the
road. But, according to the acceptation of the word in that uninhabited
district, they were neighbours, if they so willed it. Accordingly, Sir
James and his wife drove over one morning, at the beginning of March, to
call upon Miss Brontë and her father. Before taking leave, they pressed
her to visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders
of East Lancashire. After some hesitation, and at the urgency of her
father, who was extremely anxious to procure for her any change of scene
and society that was offered, she consented to go. On the whole, she
enjoyed her visit very much, in spite of her shyness, and the difficulty
she always experienced in meeting the advances of those strangers whose
kindness she did not feel herself in a position to repay.
She took great pleasure in the "quiet drives to old ruins and old
halls, situated among older hills and woods; the dialogues by the old
fireside in the antique oak-panneled drawing-room, while they suited
him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me. The house, too, is much
to my taste; near three centuries old, grey, stately, and picturesque.
On the whole, now that the visit is over, I do not regret having paid
it. The worst of it is, that there is now some menace hanging over my
head of an invitation to go to them in London during the season. This,
which would be a great enjoyment to some people, is a perfect terror to
me. I should highly prize the advantages to be gained in an extended
range of observation; but I tremble at the thought of the price I must
necessarily pay in mental distress and physical wear and tear."
On the same day on which she wrote the above, she sent the following
letter to Mr. Smith.
"March 16th, 1850.
"I return Mr. H----'s note, after reading it carefully. I tried very
hard to understand all he says about art; but, to speak truth, my
efforts were crowned with incomplete success. There is a certain jargon
in use amongst critics on this point through which it is physically
and morally impossible to me to see daylight. One thing however, I
see plainly enough, and that is, Mr. Currer Bell needs improvement,
and ought to strive after it; and this (D. V.) he honestly intends to
do--taking his time, however, and following as his guides Nature and
Truth. If these lead to what the critics call art, it is all very well;
but if not, that grand desideratum has no chance of being run after or
caught. The puzzle is, that while the people of the South object to
my delineation of Northern life and manners, the people of Yorkshire
and Lancashire approve. They say it is precisely the contrast of rough
nature with highly artificial cultivation which forms one of their
main characteristics. Such, or something very similar, has been the
observation made to me lately, whilst I have been from home, by members
of some of the ancient East Lancashire families, whose mansions lie on
the hilly border-land between the two counties. The question arises,
whether do the London critics, or the old Northern squires, understand
the matter best?
"Any promise you require respecting the books shall be willingly
given, provided only I am allowed the Jesuit's principle of a mental
reservation, giving licence to forget and promise whenever oblivion
shall appear expedient. The last two or three numbers of Pendennis will
not, I dare say, be generally thought sufficiently exciting, yet I like
them. Though the story lingers, (for me) the interest does not flag.
Here and there we feel that the pen has been guided by a tired hand,
that the mind of the writer has been somewhat chafed and depressed by
his recent illness, or by some other cause; but Thackeray still proves
himself greater when he is weary than other writers are when they are
fresh. The public, of course, will have no compassion for his fatigue,
and make no allowance for the ebb of inspiration; but some true-hearted
readers here and there, while grieving that such a man should be
obliged to write when he is not in the mood, will wonder that, under
such circumstances, he should write so well. The parcel of books will
come, I doubt not, at such time as it shall suit the good pleasure of
the railway officials to send it on,--or rather to yield it up to the
repeated and humble solicitations of Haworth carriers;--till when I wait
in all reasonable patience and resignation, looking with docility to
that model of active self-helpfulness Punch friendly offers the 'Women
of England,' in his 'Unprotected Female.'"
The books lent her by her publishers were, as I have before said, a
great solace and pleasure to her. There was much interest in opening
the Cornhill parcel. But there was pain too; for, as she untied the
cords, and took out the volumes one by one, she could scarcely fail
to be reminded of those who once, on similar occasions, looked on so
eagerly. "I miss familiar voices, commenting mirthfully and pleasantly;
the room seems very still--very empty; but yet there is consolation in
remembering that Papa will take pleasure in some of the books. Happiness
quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste." She
goes on to make remarks upon the kind of books sent.
"I wonder how you can choose so well; on no account would I forestall
the choice. I am sure any selection I might make for myself would be
less satisfactory than the selection others so kindly and judiciously
make for me; besides, if I knew all that was coming, it would be
comparatively flat. I would much rather not know.
"Amongst the especially welcome works are 'Southey's Life', the 'Women
of France,' Hazlitt's 'Essays,' Emerson's 'Representative Men;' but it
seems invidious to particularise when all are good. . . . I took up a
second small book, Scott's 'Suggestions on Female Education;' that,
too, I read, and with unalloyed pleasure. It is very good; justly
thought, and clearly and felicitously expressed. The girls of this
generation have great advantages; it seems to me that they receive much
encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge, and the cultivation of
their minds; in these days, women may be thoughtful and well read,
without being universally stigmatised as 'Blues' and 'Pedants.' Men
begin to approve and aid, instead of ridiculing or checking them in
their efforts to be wise. I must say that, for my own part, whenever I
have been so happy as to share the conversation of a really intellectual
man, my feeling has been, not that the little I knew was accounted a
superfluity and impertinence, but that I did not know enough to satisfy
just expectation. I have always to explain, 'In me you must not look for
great attainments: what seems to you the result of reading and study
is chiefly spontaneous and intuitive.' . . . Against the teaching of
some (even clever) men, one instinctively revolts. They may possess
attainments, they may boast varied knowledge of life and of the world;
but if of the finer perceptions, of the more delicate phases of feeling,
they be destitute and incapable, of what avail is the rest? Believe me,
while hints well worth consideration may come from unpretending sources,
from minds not highly cultured, but naturally fine and delicate, from
hearts kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned dictums delivered with
pomp and sound may be perfectly empty, stupid, and contemptible. No
man ever yet 'by aid of Greek climbed Parnassus,' or taught others to
climb it. . . . I enclose for your perusal a scrap of paper which came
into my hands without the knowledge of the writer. He is a poor working
man of this village--a thoughtful, reading, feeling being, whose mind
is too keen for his frame, and wears it out. I have not spoken to him
above thrice in my life, for he is a Dissenter, and has rarely come in
my way. The document is a sort of record of his feelings, after the
perusal of "Jane Eyre;" it is artless and earnest; genuine and generous.
You must return it to me, for I value it more than testimonies from
higher sources. He said, 'Miss Brontë, if she knew he had written it,
would scorn him;' but, indeed, Miss Brontë does not scorn him; she
only grieves that a mind of which this is the emanation, should be
kept crushed by the leaden hand of poverty--by the trials of uncertain
health, and the claims of a large family.
"As to the Times, as you say, the acrimony of its critique has proved,
in some measure, its own antidote; to have been more effective, it
should have been juster. I think it has had little weight up here in
the North it may be that annoying remarks, if made, are not suffered
to reach my ear; but certainly, while I have heard little condemnatory
of Shirley, more than once have I been deeply moved by manifestations
of even enthusiastic approbation. I deem it unwise to dwell much on
these matters; but for once I must permit myself to remark, that
the generous pride many of the Yorkshire people have taken in the
matter, has been such as to awake and claim my gratitude--especially
since it has afforded a source of reviving pleasure to my father in
his old age. The very curates, poor fellows! show no resentment each
characteristically finds solace for his own wounds in crowing over his
brethren. Mr. Donne was at first a little disturbed; for a week or two
he was in disquietude, but he is now soothed down; only yesterday I had
the pleasure of making him a comfortable cup of tea, and seeing him
sip it with revived complacency. It is a curious fact that, since he
read 'Shirley,' he has come to the house oftener than ever, and been
remarkably meek and assiduous to please. Some people's natures are
veritable enigmas I quite expected to have had one good scene at least
with him; but as yet nothing of the sort has occurred."