The reader will remember that Anne Brontë had been interred in the
churchyard of the Old Church at Scarborough. Charlotte had left
directions for a tombstone to be placed over her; but many a time during
the solitude of the past winter, her sad, anxious thoughts had revisited
the scene of that last great sorrow, and she had wondered whether all
decent services had been rendered to the memory of the dead, until at
last she came to a silent resolution to go and see for herself whether
the stone and inscription were in a satisfactory state of preservation.
"Cliffe House, Filey, June 6th, 1852.
"Dear E----, --I am at Filey utterly alone. Do not be angry, the step
is right. I considered it, and resolved on it with due deliberation.
Change of air was necessary; there were reasons why I should NOT go to
the south, and why I should come here. On Friday I went to Scarborough,
visited the churchyard and stone. It must be refaced and relettered;
there are five errors. I gave the necessary directions. THAT duty, then,
is done; long has it lain heavy on my mind; and that was a pilgrimage I
felt I could only make alone.
"I am in our old lodgings at Mrs. Smith's; not, however, in the same
rooms, but in less expensive apartments. They seemed glad to see me,
remembered you and me very well, and, seemingly, with great good will.
The daughter who used to wait on us is just married. Filey seems to me
much altered; more lodging-houses--some of them very handsome--have been
built; the sea has all its old grandeur. I walk on the sands a good
deal, and try NOT to feel desolate and melancholy. How sorely my heart
longs for you, I need not say. I have bathed once; it seemed to do me
good. I may, perhaps, stay here a fortnight. There are as yet scarcely
any visitors. A Lady Wenlock is staying at the large house of which
you used so vigilantly to observe the inmates. One day I set out with
intent to trudge to Filey Bridge, but was frightened back by two cows.
I mean to try again some morning. I left papa well. I have been a good
deal troubled with headache, and with some pain in the side since I came
here, but I feel that this has been owing to the cold wind, for very
cold has it been till lately; at present I feel better. Shall I send
the papers to you as usual. Write again directly, and tell me this, and
anything and everything else that comes into your mind.--Believe me,
yours faithfully,
"C. BRONTË."
"Filey, June 16th, 1852.
"Dear E----, --Be quite easy about me. I really think I am better for my
stay at Filey; that I have derived more benefit from it than I dared to
anticipate. I believe, could I stay here two months, and enjoy something
like social cheerfulness as well as exercise and good air, my health
would be quite renewed. This, however, cannot possibly be; but I am most
thankful for the good received. I stay here another week.
"I return ----'s letter. I am sorry for her: I believe she suffers; but
I do not much like her style of expressing herself. . . . Grief as well
as joy manifests itself in most different ways in different people;
and I doubt not she is sincere and in earnest when she talks of her
'precious, sainted father;' but I could wish she used simpler language."
Soon after her return from Filey, she was alarmed by a very serious and
sharp attack of illness with which Mr. Brontë was seized. There was
some fear, for a few days, that his sight was permanently lost, and his
spirits sank painfully under this dread.
"This prostration of spirits," writes his daughter, "which accompanies
anything like a relapse is almost the most difficult point to manage.
Dear E----, you are tenderly kind in offering your society; but
rest very tranquil where you are; be fully assured that it is not
now, nor under present circumstances, that I feel the lack either
of society or occupation; my time is pretty well filled up, and my
thoughts appropriated. . . . I cannot permit myself to comment much
on the chief contents of your last; advice is not necessary: as far
as I can judge, you seem hitherto enabled to take these trials in a
good and wise spirit. I can only pray that such combined strength and
resignation may be continued to you. Submission, courage, exertion,
when practicable--these seem to be the weapons with which we must fight
life's long battle."
I suppose that, during the very time when her thoughts were thus fully
occupied with anxiety for her father, she received some letter from her
publishers, making inquiry as to the progress of the work which they
knew she had in hand, as I find the following letter to Mr. Williams,
bearing reference to some of Messrs. Smith and Elder's proposed
arrangements.
"To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"July 28th, 1852.
"My dear Sir,--Is it in contemplation to publish the new edition
of 'Shirley' soon? Would it not be better to defer it for a time?
In reference to a part of your letter, permit me to express this
wish,--and I trust in doing so, I shall not be regarded as stepping out
of my position as an author, and encroaching on the arrangements of
business,--viz.: that no announcement of a new work by the author of
'Jane Eyre' shall be made till the MS. of such work is actually in my
publisher's hands. Perhaps we are none of us justified in speaking very
decidedly where the future is concerned; but for some too much caution
in such calculations can scarcely be observed: amongst this number I
must class myself. Nor, in doing so, can I assume an apologetic tone. He
does right who does his best.
"Last autumn I got on for a time quickly. I ventured to look forward to
spring as the period of publication: my health gave way; I passed such
a winter as, having been once experienced, will never be forgotten.
The spring proved little better than a protraction of trial. The warm
weather and a visit to the sea have done me much good physically; but as
yet I have recovered neither elasticity of animal spirits, nor flow of
the power of composition. And if it were otherwise, the difference would
be of no avail; my time and thoughts are at present taken up with close
attendance on my father, whose health is just now in a very critical
state, the heat of the weather having produced determination of blood to
the head.--I am, yours sincerely,
C. BRONTË."
Before the end of August, Mr. Brontë's convalescence became quite
established, and he was anxious to resume his duties for some time
before his careful daughter would permit him.
On September the 14th the "great duke" died. He had been, as we have
seen, her hero from childhood; but I find no further reference to him at
this time than what is given in the following extract from a letter to
her friend:--
"I do hope and believe the changes you have been having this summer will
do you permanent good, notwithstanding the pain with which they have
been too often mingled. Yet I feel glad that you are soon coming home;
and I really must not trust myself to say how much I wish the time were
come when, without let or hindrance, I could once more welcome you to
Haworth. But oh I don't get on; I feel fretted--incapable--sometimes
very low. However, at present, the subject must not be dwelt upon; it
presses me too hardly--nearly--and painfully. Less than ever can I taste
or know pleasure till this work is wound up. And yet I often sit up in
bed at night, thinking of and wishing for you. Thank you for the Times;
what it said on the mighty and mournful subject was well said. All at
once the whole nation seems to take a just view of that great character.
There was a review too of an American book, which I was glad to see.
Read 'Uncle Tom's Cabin': probably, though, you have read it.
"Papa's health continues satisfactory, thank God! As for me, my wretched
liver has been disordered again of late, but I hope it is now going to
be on better behaviour; it hinders me in working--depresses both power
and tone of feeling. I must expect this derangement from time to time."
Haworth was in an unhealthy state, as usual; and both Miss Brontë and
Tabby suffered severely from the prevailing epidemics. The former was
long in shaking off the effects of this illness. In vain she resolved
against allowing herself any society or change of scene until she had
accomplished her labour. She was too ill to write; and with illness
came on the old heaviness of heart, recollections of the past, and
anticipations of the future. At last Mr. Brontë expressed so strong a
wish that her friend should be asked to visit her, and she felt some
little refreshment so absolutely necessary, that on October the 9th she
begged her to come to Haworth, just for a single week.
"I thought I would persist in denying myself till I had done my work,
but I find it won't do; the matter refuses to progress, and this
excessive solitude presses too heavily; so let me see your dear face,
E., just for one reviving week."
But she would only accept of the company of her friend for the exact
time specified. She thus writes to Miss Wooler on October the 21st:--
"E---- has only been my companion one little week. I would not have her
any longer, for I am disgusted with myself and my delays; and consider
it was a weak yielding to temptation in me to send for her at all; but
in truth, my spirits were getting low--prostrate sometimes--and she has
done me inexpressible good. I wonder when I shall see you at Haworth
again; both my father and the servants have again and again insinuated
a distinct wish that you should be requested to come in the course of
the summer and autumn, but I have always turned rather a deaf ear;
'not yet,' was my thought, 'I want first to be free;' work first, then
pleasure."
Miss ----'s visit had done her much good. Pleasant companionship during
the day produced, for the time, the unusual blessing of calm repose at
night; and after her friend's departure she was well enough to "fall to
business," and write away, almost incessantly, at her story of Villette,
now drawing to a conclusion. The following letter to Mr. Smith, seems to
have accompanied the first part of the MS.
"Oct. 30th, 1852.
"My dear Sir,--You must notify honestly what you think of 'Villette'
when you have read it. I can hardly tell you how I hunger to hear some
opinion besides my own, and how I have sometimes desponded, and almost
despaired, because there was no one to whom to read a line, or of whom
to ask a counsel. 'Jane Eyre' was not written under such circumstances,
nor were two-thirds of 'Shirley'. I got so miserable about it, I could
bear no allusion to the book. It is not finished yet; but now I hope.
As to the anonymous publication, I have this to say: If the withholding
of the author's name should tend materially to injure the publisher's
interest, to interfere with booksellers' orders, etc., I would not press
the point; but if no such detriment is contingent, I should be most
thankful for the sheltering shadow of an incognito. I seem to dread the
advertisements--the large-lettered 'Currer Bell's New Novel,' or 'New
Work, by the Author of Jane Eyre.' These, however, I feel well enough,
are the transcendentalisms of a retired wretch; so you must speak
frankly. . . . I shall be glad to see 'Colonel Esmond.' My objection to
the second volume lay here: I thought it contained decidedly too much
history--too little story."
In another letter, referring to "Esmond," she uses the following words:--
"The third volume seemed to me to possess the most sparkle, impetus,
and interest. Of the first and second my judgment was, that parts of
them were admirable; but there was the fault of containing too much
History--too little story. I hold that a work of fiction ought to be a
work of creation: that the REAL should be sparingly introduced in pages
dedicated to the IDEAL. Plain household bread is a far more wholesome
and necessary thing than cake; yet who would like to see the brown loaf
placed on the table for dessert? In the second volume, the author gives
us an ample supply of excellent brown bread; in his third, only such a
portion as gives substance, like the crumbs of bread in a well-made, not
too rich, plum-pudding."
Her letter to Mr. Smith, containing the allusion to 'Esmond,' which
reminded me of the quotation just given continues:--
"You will see that 'Villette' touches on no matter of public interest.
I cannot write books handling the topics of the day; it is of no use
trying. Nor can I write a book for its moral. Nor can I take up a
philanthropic scheme, though I honour philanthropy; and voluntarily and
sincerely veil my face before such a mighty subject as that handled in
Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' To manage these great
matters rightly, they must be long and practically studied--their
bearings known intimately, and their evils felt genuinely; they must not
be taken up as a business matter, and a trading speculation. I doubt
not, Mrs. Stowe had felt the iron of slavery enter into her heart,
from childhood upwards, long before she ever thought of writing books.
The feeling throughout her work is sincere, and not got up. Remember
to be an honest critic of 'Villette,' and tell Mr. Williams to be
unsparing: not that I am likely to alter anything, but I want to know
his impressions and yours."
To G. SMITH, ESQ.
"Nov. 3rd.
"My dear Sir,--I feel very grateful for your letter; it relieved me
much, for I was a good deal harassed by doubts as to how 'Villette'
might appear in other eyes than my own. I feel in some degree authorised
to rely on your favourable impressions, because you are quite right
where you hint disapprobation. You have exactly hit two points at
least where I was conscious of defect;--the discrepancy, the want of
perfect harmony, between Graham's boyhood and manhood,--the angular
abruptness of his change of sentiment towards Miss Fanshawe. You must
remember, though, that in secret he had for some time appreciated that
young lady at a somewhat depressed standard--held her a LITTLE lower
than the angels. But still the reader ought to have been better made to
feel this preparation towards a change of mood. As to the publishing
arrangement, I leave them to Cornhill. There is, undoubtedly, a certain
force in what you say about the inexpediency of affecting a mystery
which cannot be sustained; so you must act as you think is for the
best. I submit, also, to the advertisements in large letters, but under
protest, and with a kind of ostrich-longing for concealment. Most of the
third volume is given to the development of the 'crabbed Professor's'
character. Lucy must not marry Dr. John; he is far too youthful,
handsome, bright-spirited, and sweet-tempered; he is a 'curled darling'
of Nature and of Fortune, and must draw a prize in life's lottery. His
wife must be young, rich, pretty; he must be made very happy indeed. If
Lucy marries anybody, it must be the Professor--a man in whom there is
much to forgive, much to 'put up with.' But I am not leniently disposed
towards Miss FROST from the beginning, I never meant to appoint her
lines in pleasant places. The conclusion of this third volume is still
a matter of some anxiety: I can but do my best, however. It would
speedily be finished, could I ward off certain obnoxious headaches,
which, whenever I get into the spirit of my work, are apt to seize and
prostrate me. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Colonel Henry Esmond is just arrived. He looks very antique and
distinguished in his Queen Anne's garb; the periwig, sword, lace, and
ruffles are very well represented by the old 'Spectator' type."
In reference to a sentence towards the close of this letter, I may
mention what she told me; that Mr. Brontë was anxious that her new
tale should end well, as he disliked novels which left a melancholy
impression upon the mind; and he requested her to make her hero and
heroine (like the heroes and heroines in fairy-tales) "marry, and live
very happily ever after." But the idea of M. Paul Emanuel's death at sea
was stamped on her imagination till it assumed the distinct force of
reality; and she could no more alter her fictitious ending than if they
had been facts which she was relating. All she could do in compliance
with her father's wish was so to veil the fate in oracular words, as to
leave it to the character and discernment of her readers to interpret
her meaning.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"Nov. 6th, 1852.
"My dear Sir,--I must not delay thanking you for your kind letter,
with its candid and able commentary on 'Villette.' With many of your
strictures I concur. The third volume may, perhaps, do away with some
of the objections; others still remain in force. I do not think the
interest culminates anywhere to the degree you would wish. What climax
there is does not come on till near the conclusion; and even then, I
doubt whether the regular novel-reader will consider the 'agony piled
sufficiently high' (as the Americans say), or the colours dashed on to
the canvas with the proper amount of daring. Still, I fear, they must be
satisfied with what is offered: my palette affords no brighter tints;
were I to attempt to deepen the reds, or burnish the yellows, I should
but botch.
"Unless I am mistaken, the emotion of the book will be found to be kept
throughout in tolerable subjection. As to the name of the heroine, I
can hardly express what subtlety of thought made me decide upon giving
her a cold name; but, at first, I called her 'Lucy Snowe' (spelt with
an 'e'); which Snowe I afterwards changed to 'Frost.' Subsequently, I
rather regretted the change, and wished it 'Snowe' again. If not too
late, I should like the alteration to be made now throughout the MS. A
COLD name she must have; partly, perhaps, on the 'lucus a non lucendo'
principle--partly on that of the 'fitness of things,' for she has about
her an external coldness.
"You say that she may be thought morbid and weak, unless the history of
her life be more fully given. I consider that she is both morbid and
weak at times; her character sets up no pretensions to unmixed strength,
and anybody living her life would necessarily become morbid. It was no
impetus of healthy feeling which urged her to the confessional, for
instance; it was the semi-delirium of solitary grief and sickness. If,
however, the book does not express all this, there must be a great fault
somewhere. I might explain away a few other points, but it would be too
much like drawing a picture and then writing underneath the name of the
object intended to be represented. We know what sort of a pencil that is
which needs an ally in the pen.
"Thanking you again for the clearness and fulness with which you have
responded to my request for a statement of impressions, I am, my dear
Sir, yours very sincerely,
"C. BRONTË."
"I trust the work will be seen in MS. by no one except Mr. Smith and
yourself."
"Nov. 10th, 1852.
"My dear Sir,--I only wished the publication of 'Shirley' to be delayed
till 'Villette' was nearly ready; so that there can now be no objection
to its being issued whenever you think fit. About putting the MS. into
type, I can only say that, should I be able to proceed with the third
volume at my average rate of composition, and with no more than the
average amount of interruptions, I should hope to have it ready in about
three weeks. I leave it to you to decide whether it would be better to
delay the printing that space of time, or to commence it immediately.
It would certainly be more satisfactory if you were to see the third
volume before printing the first and the second; yet, if delay is likely
to prove injurious, I do not think it is indispensable. I have read the
third volume of 'Esmond.' I found it both entertaining and exciting
to me; it seems to possess an impetus and excitement beyond the other
two,--that movement and brilliancy its predecessors sometimes wanted,
never fails here. In certain passages, I thought Thackeray used all his
powers; their grand, serious force yielded a profound satisfaction. 'At
last he puts forth his strength,' I could not help saying to myself. No
character in the book strikes me as more masterly than that of Beatrix;
its conception is fresh, and its delineation vivid. It is peculiar; it
has impressions of a new kind--new, at least, to me. Beatrix is not,
in herself, all bad. So much does she sometimes reveal of what is good
and great as to suggest this feeling--you would think she was urged by
a fate. You would think that some antique doom presses on her house,
and that once in so many generations its brightest ornament was to
become its greatest disgrace. At times, what is good in her struggles
against this terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot
be an honest woman and a good man's wife. She 'tries, and she CANNOT.'
Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she was born what she becomes, a king's
mistress. I know not whether you have seen the notice in the Leader;
I read it just after concluding the book. Can I be wrong in deeming
it a notice tame, cold, and insufficient? With all its professed
friendliness, it produced on me a most disheartening impression.
Surely, another sort of justice than this will be rendered to 'Esmond'
from other quarters. One acute remark of the critic is to the effect
that Blanche Amory and Beatrix are identical--sketched from the same
original! To me they are about as identical as a weazel and a royal
tigress of Bengal; both the latter are quadrupeds,--both the former,
women. But I must not take up either your time or my own with further
remarks. Believe me yours sincerely,
"C. BRONTË."
On a Saturday, a little later in this month, Miss Brontë completed
'Villette,' and sent it off to her publishers. "I said my prayers when
I had done it. Whether it is well or ill done, I don't know; D. V., I
will now try and wait the issue quietly. The book, I think, will not be
considered pretentious; nor is it of a character to excite hostility."
As her labour was ended, she felt at liberty to allow herself a little
change. There were several friends anxious to see her and welcome her
to their homes Miss Martineau, Mrs. Smith, and her own faithful E----.
With the last, in the same letter as that in which she announced the
completion of 'Villette,' she offered to spend a week. She began, also,
to consider whether it might not be well to avail herself of Mrs.
Smith's kind invitation, with a view to the convenience of being on the
spot to correct the proofs.
The following letter is given, not merely on account of her own
criticisms on 'Villette,' but because it shows how she had learned to
magnify the meaning of trifles, as all do who live a self-contained
and solitary life. Mr. Smith had been unable to write by the same post
as that which brought the money for 'Villette,' and she consequently
received it without a line. The friend with whom she was staying says,
that she immediately fancied there was some disappointment about
'Villette,' or that some word or act of hers had given offence; and had
not the Sunday intervened, and so allowed time for Mr. Smith's letter to
make its appearance, she would certainly have crossed it on her way to
London.
"Dec. 6th, 1852.
"My dear Sir,--The receipts have reached me safely. I received the first
on Saturday, enclosed in a cover without a line, and had made up my
mind to take the train on Monday, and go up to London to see what was
the matter, and what had struck my publisher mute. On Sunday morning
your letter came, and you have thus been spared the visitation of the
unannounced and unsummoned apparition of Currer Bell in Cornhill.
Inexplicable delays should be avoided when possible, for they are apt to
urge those subjected to their harassment to sudden and impulsive steps.
I must pronounce you right again, in your complaint of the transfer of
interest in the third volume, from one set of characters to another.
It is not pleasant, and it will probably be found as unwelcome to the
reader, as it was, in a sense, compulsory upon the writer. The spirit
of romance would have indicated another course, far more flowery and
inviting; it would have fashioned a paramount hero, kept faithfully with
him, and made him supremely worshipful; he should have been an idol, and
not a mute, unresponding idol either; but this would have been unlike
real LIFE--inconsistent with truth--at variance with probability. I
greatly apprehend, however, that the weakest character in the book is
the one I aimed at making the most beautiful; and, if this be the case,
the fault lies in its wanting the germ of the real--in its being purely
imaginary. I felt that this character lacked substance; I fear that the
reader will feel the same. Union with it resembles too much the fate of
Ixion, who was mated with a cloud. The childhood of Paulina is, however,
I think, pretty well imagined, but her. . ." (the remainder of this
interesting sentence is torn off the letter). "A brief visit to London
becomes thus more practicable, and if your mother will kindly write,
when she has time, and name a day after Christmas which will suit her, I
shall have pleasure, papa's health permitting, in availing myself of her
invitation. I wish I could come in time to correct some at least of the
proofs; it would save trouble."