The difficulty that presented itself most strongly to me, when I first
had the honour of being requested to write this biography, was how I
could show what a noble, true, and tender woman Charlotte Brontë really
was, without mingling up with her life too much of the personal history
of her nearest and most intimate friends. After much consideration of
this point, I came to the resolution of writing truly, if I wrote at
all; of withholding nothing, though some things, from their very nature,
could not be spoken of so fully as others.
One of the deepest interests of her life centres naturally round
her marriage, and the preceding circumstances; but more than all
other events (because of more recent date, and concerning another as
intimately as herself), it requires delicate handling on my part, lest
I intrude too roughly on what is most sacred to memory. Yet I have
two reasons, which seem to me good and valid ones, for giving some
particulars of the course of events which led to her few months of
wedded life--that short spell of exceeding happiness. The first is my
desire to call attention to the fact that Mr. Nicholls was one who had
seen her almost daily for years; seen her as a daughter, a sister, a
mistress and a friend. He was not a man to be attracted by any kind of
literary fame. I imagine that this, by itself, would rather repel him
when he saw it in the possession of a woman. He was a grave, reserved,
conscientious man, with a deep sense of religion, and of his duties as
one of its ministers.
In silence he had watched her, and loved her long. The love of such
a man--a daily spectator of her manner of life for years--is a great
testimony to her character as a woman.
How deep his affection was I scarcely dare to tell, even if I could
in words. She did not know--she had hardly begun to suspect--that she
was the object of any peculiar regard on his part, when, in this very
December, he came one evening to tea. After tea, she returned from the
study to her own sitting-room, as was her custom, leaving her father
and his curate together. Presently she heard the study-door open, and
expected to hear the succeeding clash of the front door. Instead, came
a tap; and, "like lightning, it flashed upon me what was coming. He
entered. He stood before me. What his words were you can imagine; his
manner you can hardly realise, nor can I forget it. He made me, for the
first time, feel what it costs a man to declare affection when he doubts
response. . . . The spectacle of one, ordinarily so statue-like, thus
trembling, stirred, and overcome, gave me a strange shock. I could only
entreat him to leave me then, and promise a reply on the morrow. I asked
if he had spoken to Papa. He said he dared not. I think I half led, half
put him out of the room."
So deep, so fervent, and so enduring was the affection Miss Brontë had
inspired in the heart of this good man! It is an honour to her; and,
as such, I have thought it my duty to speak thus much, and quote thus
fully from her letter about it. And now I pass to my second reason for
dwelling on a subject which may possibly be considered by some, at
first sight, of too private a nature for publication. When Mr. Nicholls
had left her, Charlotte went immediately to her father and told him
all. He always disapproved of marriages, and constantly talked against
them. But he more than disapproved at this time; he could not bear the
idea of this attachment of Mr. Nicholls to his daughter. Fearing the
consequences of agitation to one so recently an invalid, she made haste
to give her father a promise that, on the morrow, Mr. Nicholls should
have a distinct refusal. Thus quietly and modestly did she, on whom
such hard judgments had been passed by ignorant reviewers, receive this
vehement, passionate declaration of love,--thus thoughtfully for her
father, and unselfishly for herself, put aside all consideration of how
she should reply, excepting as he wished!
The immediate result of Mr. Nicholls' declaration of attachment was,
that he sent in his resignation of the curacy of Haworth; and that
Miss Brontë held herself simply passive, as far as words and actions
went, while she suffered acute pain from the strong expressions which
her father used in speaking of Mr. Nicholls, and from the too evident
distress and failure of health on the part of the latter. Under these
circumstances she, more gladly than ever, availed herself of Mrs.
Smith's proposal, that she should again visit them in London; and
thither she accordingly went in the first week of the year 1853.
From thence I received the following letter. It is with a sad, proud
pleasure I copy her words of friendship now.
"January 12th, 1853.
"It is with YOU the ball rests. I have not heard from you since I wrote
last; but I thought I knew the reason of your silence, viz. application
to work,--and therefore I accept it, not merely with resignation, but
with satisfaction.
"I am now in London, as the date above will show; staying very quietly
at my publisher's, and correcting proofs, etc. Before receiving yours,
I had felt, and expressed to Mr. Smith, reluctance to come in the
way of 'Ruth;' not that I think SHE would suffer from contact with
'Villette'--we know not but that the damage might be the other way; but
I have ever held comparisons to be odious, and would fain that neither I
nor my friends should be made subjects for the same. Mr. Smith proposes,
accordingly, to defer the publication of my book till the 24th inst.;
he says that will give 'Ruth' the start in the papers daily and weekly,
and also will leave free to her all the February magazines. Should this
delay appear to you insufficient, speak! and it shall be protracted.
"I dare say, arrange as we may, we shall not be able wholly to prevent
comparisons; it is the nature of some critics to be invidious; but we
need not care we can set them at defiance; they SHALL not make us foes,
they SHALL not mingle with our mutual feelings one taint of jealousy
there is my hand on that; I know you will give clasp for clasp.
"'Villette' has indeed no right to push itself before 'Ruth.' There is a
goodness, a philanthropic purpose, a social use in the latter to which
the former cannot for an instant pretend; nor can it claim precedence on
the ground of surpassing power I think it much quieter than 'Jane Eyre.'
* * * * *
"I wish to see YOU, probably at least as much as you can wish to see ME,
and therefore shall consider your invitation for March as an engagement;
about the close of that month, then, I hope to pay you a brief visit.
With kindest remembrances to Mr. Gaskell and all your precious circle, I
am," etc.
This visit at Mrs. Smith's was passed more quietly than any previous
one, and was consequently more in accordance with her own tastes. She
saw things rather than persons; and being allowed to have her own choice
of sights, she selected the "REAL in preference to the DECORATIVE
side of life." She went over two prisons,--one ancient, the other
modern,--Newgate and Pentonville; over two hospitals, the Foundling and
Bethlehem. She was also taken, at her own request, to see several of the
great City sights; the Bank, the Exchange, Rothschild's, etc.
The power of vast yet minute organisation, always called out her respect
and admiration. She appreciated it more fully than most women are able
to do. All that she saw during this last visit to London impressed
her deeply--so much so as to render her incapable of the immediate
expression of her feelings, or of reasoning upon her impressions while
they were so vivid. If she had lived, her deep heart would sooner or
later have spoken out on these things.
What she saw dwelt in her thoughts, and lay heavy on her spirits. She
received the utmost kindness from her hosts, and had the old, warm, and
grateful regard for them. But looking back, with the knowledge of what
was then the future, which Time has given, one cannot but imagine that
there was a toning-down in preparation for the final farewell to these
kind friends, whom she saw for the last time on a Wednesday morning in
February. She met her friend E---- at Keighley, on her return, and the
two proceeded to Haworth together.
"Villette"--which, if less interesting as a mere story than "Jane
Eyre," displays yet more of the extraordinary genius of the author--was
received with one burst of acclamation. Out of so small a circle of
characters, dwelling in so dull and monotonous an area as a "pension,"
this wonderful tale was evolved!
See how she receives the good tidings of her success!
"Feb. 15th, 1853.
"I got a budget of no less than seven papers yesterday and to-day.
The import of all the notices is such as to make my heart swell with
thankfulness to Him, who takes note both of suffering, and work, and
motives. Papa is pleased too. As to friends in general, I believe I can
love them still, without expecting them to take any large share in this
sort of gratification. The longer I live, the more plainly I see that
gentle must be the strain on fragile human nature; it will not bear
much."
I suspect that the touch of slight disappointment, perceptible in the
last few lines, arose from her great susceptibility to an opinion
she valued much,--that of Miss Martineau, who, both in an article on
'Villette' in the Daily News, and in a private letter to Miss Brontë,
wounded her to the quick by expressions of censure which she believed
to be unjust and unfounded, but which, if correct and true, went deeper
than any merely artistic fault. An author may bring himself to believe
that he can bear blame with equanimity, from whatever quarter it comes;
but its force is derived altogether from the character of this. To
the public, one reviewer may be the same impersonal being as another;
but an author has frequently a far deeper significance to attach to
opinions. They are the verdicts of those whom he respects and admires,
or the mere words of those for whose judgment he cares not a jot. It is
this knowledge of the individual worth of the reviewer's opinion, which
makes the censures of some sink so deep, and prey so heavily upon an
author's heart. And thus, in proportion to her true, firm regard for
Miss Martineau, did Miss Brontë suffer under what she considered her
misjudgment not merely of writing, but of character.
She had long before asked Miss Martineau to tell her whether she
considered that any want of womanly delicacy or propriety was betrayed
in "Jane Eyre". And on receiving Miss Martineau's assurance that she
did not, Miss Brontë entreated her to declare it frankly if she thought
there was any failure of this description in any future work of "Currer
Bell's." The promise then given of faithful truth-speaking, Miss
Martineau fulfilled when "Villette" appeared. Miss Brontë writhed under
what she felt to be injustice.
This seems a fitting place to state how utterly unconscious she was of
what was, by some, esteemed coarse in her writings. One day, during
that visit at the Briery when I first met her, the conversation turned
upon the subject of women's writing fiction; and some one remarked on
the fact that, in certain instances, authoresses had much outstepped
the line which men felt to be proper in works of this kind. Miss Brontë
said she wondered how far this was a natural consequence of allowing the
imagination to work too constantly; Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth
and I expressed our belief that such violations of propriety were
altogether unconscious on the part of those to whom reference had been
made. I remember her grave, earnest way of saying, "I trust God will
take from me whatever power of invention or expression I may have,
before He lets me become blind to the sense of what is fitting or
unfitting to be said!"
Again, she was invariably shocked and distressed when she heard of any
disapproval of "Jane Eyre" on the ground above-mentioned. Some one said
to her in London, "You know, you and I, Miss Brontë, have both written
naughty books!" She dwelt much on this; and, as if it weighed on her
mind, took an opportunity to ask Mrs. Smith, as she would have asked a
mother--if she had not been motherless from earliest childhood--whether,
indeed, there was anything so wrong in "Jane Eyre."
I do not deny for myself the existence of coarseness here and there
in her works, otherwise so entirely noble. I only ask those who read
them to consider her life,--which has been openly laid bare before
them,--and to say how it could be otherwise. She saw few men; and among
these few were one or two with whom she had been acquainted since early
girlhood,--who had shown her much friendliness and kindness,--through
whose family she had received many pleasures,--for whose intellect she
had a great respect,--but who talked before her, if not to her with
as little reticence as Rochester talked to Jane Eyre. Take this in
connection with her poor brother's sad life, and the out-spoken people
among whom she lived,--remember her strong feeling of the duty of
representing life as it really is, not as it ought to be,--and then do
her justice for all that she was, and all that she would have been (had
God spared her), rather than censure her because circumstances forced
her to touch pitch, as it were, and by it her hand was for a moment
defiled. It was but skin-deep. Every change in her life was purifying
her; it hardly could raise her. Again I cry, "If she had but lived!"
The misunderstanding with Miss Martineau on account of "Villette," was
the cause of bitter regret to Miss Brontë. Her woman's nature had been
touched, as she thought, with insulting misconception; and she had
dearly loved the person who had thus unconsciously wounded her. It was
but in the January just past that she had written as follows, in reply
to a friend, the tenor of whose letter we may guess from this answer:--
"I read attentively all you say about Miss Martineau; the sincerity
and constancy of your solicitude touch me very much; I should grieve
to neglect or oppose your advice, and yet I do not feel it would be
right to give Miss Martineau up entirely. There is in her nature much
that is very noble; hundreds have forsaken her, more, I fear, in the
apprehension that their fair names may suffer, if seen in connection
with hers, than from any pure convictions, such as you suggest, of harm
consequent on her fatal tenets. With these fair-weather friends I cannot
bear to rank; and for her sin, is it not one of those of which God and
not man must judge?
"To speak the truth, my dear Miss ----, I believe, if you were in my
place, and knew Miss Martineau as I do,--if you had shared with me
the proofs of her genuine kindliness, and had seen how she secretly
suffers from abandonment,--you would be the last to give her up; you
would separate the sinner from the sin, and feel as if the right lay
rather in quietly adhering to her in her strait, while that adherence is
unfashionable and unpopular, than in turning on her your back when the
world sets the example. I believe she is one of those whom opposition
and desertion make obstinate in error; while patience and tolerance
touch her deeply and keenly, and incline her to ask of her own heart
whether the course she has been pursuing may not possibly be a faulty
course."
Kindly and faithful words! which Miss Martineau never knew of; to be
repaid in words more grand and tender, when Charlotte lay deaf and cold
by her dead sisters. In spite of their short sorrowful misunderstanding,
they were a pair of noble women and faithful friends.
I turn to a pleasanter subject. While she was in London, Miss Brontë had
seen Lawrence's portrait of Mr. Thackeray, and admired it extremely. Her
first words, after she had stood before it some time in silence, were,
"And there came up a Lion out of Judah!" The likeness was by this time
engraved, and Mr. Smith sent her a copy of it.
To G. SMITH, ESQ.
"Haworth, Feb. 26th, 1853.
"My dear Sir,--At a late hour yesterday evening, I had the honour of
receiving, at Haworth Parsonage, a distinguished guest, none other than
W. M. Thackeray, Esq. Mindful of the rites of hospitality, I hung him up
in state this morning. He looks superb in his beautiful, tasteful gilded
gibbet. For companion he has the Duke of Wellington, (do you remember
giving me that picture?) and for contrast and foil Richmond's portrait
of an unworthy individual, who, in such society, must be name-less.
Thackeray looks away from the latter character with a grand scorn,
edifying to witness. I wonder if the giver of these gifts will ever
see them on the walls where they now hang; it pleases me to fancy that
one day he may. My father stood for a quarter of an hour this morning
examining the great man's picture. The conclusion of his survey was,
that he thought it a puzzling head; if he had known nothing previously
of the original's character; he could not have read it in his features.
I wonder at this. To me the broad brow seems to express intellect.
Certain lines about the nose and cheek, betray the satirist and cynic;
the mouth indicates a child-like simplicity--perhaps even a degree
of irresoluteness, inconsistency--weakness in short, but a weakness
not unamiable. The engraving seems to me very good. A certain not
quite Christian expression--'not to put too fine a point upon it'--an
expression of spite, most vividly marked in the original, is here
softened, and perhaps a little--a very little--of the power has escaped
in this ameliorating process. Did it strike you thus?"
Miss Brontë was in much better health during this winter of 1852-3, than
she had been the year before.
"For my part," (she wrote to me in February) "I have thus far borne the
cold weather well. I have taken long walks on the crackling snow, and
felt the frosty air bracing. This winter has, for me, not been like last
winter. December, January, February, '51-2, passed like a long stormy
night, conscious of one painful dream) all solitary grief and sickness.
The corresponding l in '52-3 have gone over my head quietly and not
uncheerfully. Thank God for the change and the repose! How welcome it
has been He only knows! My father too has borne the season well; and my
book, and its reception thus far, have pleased and cheered him."
In March the quiet Parsonage had the honour of receiving a visit from
the then Bishop of Ripon. He remained one night with Mr. Brontë. In the
evening, some of the neighbouring clergy were invited to meet him at
tea and supper; and during the latter meal, some of the "curates" began
merrily to upbraid Miss Brontë with "putting them into a book;" and she,
shrinking from thus having her character as authoress thrust upon her at
her own table, and in the presence of a stranger, pleasantly appealed
to the bishop as to whether it was quite fair thus to drive her, into a
corner. His Lordship, I have been told, was agreeably impressed with the
gentle unassuming manners of his hostess, and with the perfect propriety
and consistency of the arrangements in the modest household. So much for
the Bishop's recollection of his visit. Now we will turn to hers.
"March 4th.
"The Bishop has been, and is gone. He is certainly a most charming
Bishop; the most benignant gentleman that ever put on lawn sleeves;
yet stately too, and quite competent to check encroachments. His
visit passed capitally well; and at its close, as he was going away,
he expressed himself thoroughly gratified with all he had seen. The
Inspector has been also in the course of the past week; so that I have
had a somewhat busy time of it. If you could have been at Haworth to
share the pleasures of the company, without having been inconvenienced
by the little bustle of the preparation, I should have been VERY glad.
But the house was a good deal put out of its way, as you may suppose;
all passed, however, orderly, quietly, and well. Martha waited very
nicely, and I had a person to help her in the kitchen. Papa kept up,
too, fully as well as I expected, though I doubt whether he could have
borne another day of it. My penalty came on in a strong headache as soon
as the Bishop was gone: how thankful I was that it had patiently waited
his departure. I continue stupid to-day: of course, it is the reaction
consequent on several days of extra exertion and excitement. It is very
well to talk of receiving a Bishop without trouble, but you MUST prepare
for him."
By this time some of the Reviews had began to find fault with
"Villette." Miss Brontë made her old request.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"My dear Sir,--Were a review to appear, inspired with treble their
animus, PRAY do not withhold it from me. I like to see the satisfactory
notices,--especially I like to carry them to my father; but I MUST see
such as are UNsatisfactory and hostile; these are for my own especial
edification;--it is in these I best read public feeling and opinion.
To shun examination into the dangerous and disagreeable seems to me
cowardly. I long always to know what really IS, and am only unnerved
when kept in the dark. . . . . . .
"As to the character of 'Lucy Snowe,' my intention from the first was
that she should not occupy the pedestal to which 'Jane Eyre' was raised
by some injudicious admirers. She is where I meant her to be, and where
no charge of self-laudation can touch her.
"The note you sent this morning from Lady Harriette St. Clair, is
precisely to the same purport as Miss Muloch's request,--an application
for exact and authentic information respecting the fate of M. Paul
Emanuel! You see how much the ladies think of this little man, whom you
none of you like. I had a letter the other day; announcing that a lady
of some note, who had always determined that whenever she married, her
husband should be the counterpart of 'Mr. Knightly' in Miss Austen's
'Emma,' had now changed her mind, and vowed that she would either find
the duplicate of Professor Emanuel, or remain for ever single! I have
sent Lady Harriette an answer so worded as to leave the matter pretty
much where it was. Since the little puzzle amuses the ladies, it would
be a pity to spoil their sport by giving them the key."
When Easter, with its duties arising out of sermons to be preached
by strange clergymen who had afterwards to be entertained at
the Parsonage,--with Mechanics' Institute Meetings, and school
tea-drinkings, was over and gone; she came, at the close of April, to
visit us in Manchester. We had a friend, a young lady, staying with us.
Miss Brontë had expected to find us alone; and although our friend was
gentle and sensible after Miss Brontë's own heart, yet her presence was
enough to create a nervous tremour. I was aware that both of our guests
were unusually silent; and I saw a little shiver run from time to time
over Miss Brontë's frame. I could account for the modest reserve of the
young lady; and the next day Miss Brontë told me how the unexpected
sight of a strange face had affected her.
It was now two or three years since I had witnessed a similar effect
produced on her; in anticipation of a quiet evening at Fox-How; and
since then she had seen many and various people in London: but the
physical sensations produced by shyness were still the same; and on
the following day she laboured under severe headache. I had several
opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was ingrained in her
constitution, and how acutely she suffered in striving to overcome it.
One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters who sang Scottish
ballads exquisitely. Miss Brontë had been sitting quiet and constrained
till they began "The Bonnie House of Airlie," but the effect of that and
"Carlisle Yetts," which followed, was as irresistible as the playing
of the Piper of Hamelin. The beautiful clear light came into her eyes;
her lips quivered with emotion; she forgot herself, rose, and crossed
the room to the piano, where she asked eagerly for song after song.
The sisters begged her to come and see them the next morning, when
they would sing as long as ever she liked; and she promised gladly and
thankfully. But on reaching the house her courage failed. We walked some
time up and down the street; she upbraiding herself all the while for
folly, and trying to dwell on the sweet echoes in her memory rather than
on the thought of a third sister who would have to be faced if we went
in. But it was of no use; and dreading lest this struggle with herself
might bring on one of her trying headaches, I entered at last and made
the best apology I could for her non-appearance. Much of this nervous
dread of encountering strangers I ascribed to the idea of her personal
ugliness, which had been strongly impressed upon her imagination early
in life, and which she exaggerated to herself in a remarkable manner. "I
notice," said she, "that after a stranger has once looked at my face, he
is careful not to let his eyes wander to that part of the room again!"
A more untrue idea never entered into any one's head. Two gentlemen
who saw her during this visit, without knowing at the time who she
was, were singularly attracted by her appearance; and this feeling of
attraction towards a pleasant countenance, sweet voice, and gentle timid
manners, was so strong in one as to conquer a dislike he had previously
entertained to her works.
There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at this period
which told secrets about the finely-strung frame. One night I was on
the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just before bed-time.
She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she was superstitious,
and, prone at all times to the involuntary recurrence of any thoughts of
ominous gloom which might have been suggested to her. She said that on
first coming to us, she had found a letter on her dressing-table from a
friend in Yorkshire, containing a story which had impressed her vividly
ever since;--that it mingled with her dreams at night, and made her
sleep restless and unrefreshing.
One day we asked two gentlemen to meet her at dinner; expecting that
she and they would have a mutual pleasure in making each other's
acquaintance. To our disappointment she drew back with timid reserve
from all their advances, replying to their questions and remarks in the
briefest manner possible; till at last they gave up their efforts to
draw her into conversation in despair, and talked to each other and my
husband on subjects of recent local interest. Among these Thackeray's
Lectures (which had lately been delivered in Manchester) were spoken of
and that on Fielding especially dwelt upon. One gentleman objected to
it strongly, as calculated to do moral harm, and regretted that a man
having so great an influence over the tone of thought of the day, as
Thackeray, should not more carefully weigh his words. The other took the
opposite view. He said that Thackeray described men from the inside, as
it were; through his strong power of dramatic sympathy, he identified
himself with certain characters, felt their temptations, entered into
their pleasures, etc. This roused Miss Brontë, who threw herself warmly
into the discussion; the ice of her reserve was broken, and from that
time she showed her interest in all that was said, and contributed her
share to any conversation that was going on in the course of the evening.
What she said, and which part she took, in the dispute about Thackeray's
lecture, may be gathered from the following letter, referring to the
same subject:--
"The Lectures arrived safely; I have read them through twice. They
must be studied to be appreciated. I thought well of them when I heard
them delivered, but now I see their real power; and it is great. The
lecture on Swift was new to me; I thought it almost matchless. Not
that by any means I always agree with Mr. Thackeray's opinions, but
his force, his penetration, his pithy simplicity, his eloquence--his
manly sonorous eloquence,--command entire admiration. . . . Against
his errors I protest, were it treason to do so. I was present at the
Fielding lecture: the hour spent in listening to it was a painful hour.
That Thackeray was wrong in his way of treating Fielding's character
and vices, my conscience told me. After reading that lecture, I trebly
felt that he was wrong--dangerously wrong. Had Thackeray owned a son,
grown, or growing up, and a son, brilliant but reckless--would he have
spoken in that light way of courses that lead to disgrace and the grave?
He speaks of it all as if he theorised; as if he had never been called
on, in the course of his life, to witness the actual consequences of
such failings; as if he had never stood by and seen the issue, the final
result of it all. I believe, if only once the prospect of a promising
life blasted on the outset by wild ways had passed close under his eyes,
he never COULD have spoken with such levity of what led to its piteous
destruction. Had I a brother yet living, I should tremble to let him
read Thackeray's lecture on Fielding. I should hide it away from him.
If, in spite of precaution, it should fall into his hands, I should
earnestly pray him not to be misled by the voice of the charmer, let him
charm never so wisely. Not that for a moment I would have had Thackeray
to ABUSE Fielding, or even Pharisaically to condemn his life; but I do
most deeply grieve that it never entered into his heart sadly and nearly
to feel the peril of such a career, that he might have dedicated some of
his great strength to a potent warning against its adoption by any young
man. I believe temptation often assails the finest manly natures; as the
pecking sparrow or destructive wasp attacks the sweetest and mellowest
fruit, eschewing what is sour and crude. The true lover of his race
ought to devote his vigour to guard and protect; he should sweep away
every lure with a kind of rage at its treachery. You will think this far
too serious, I dare say; but the subject is serious, and one cannot help
feeling upon it earnestly."