BRANWELL'S PROJECTED NOVEL.
Review of Branwell's past Experiences of Life--He seeks Relief in
Literary Occupation--He Proposes to Write a Three-volume Novel--His
Letter on the Subject--One Volume Completed--His Capability of
Writing a Novel--His Letter to Mr. Grundy on his Disappointment.
Branwell had now attained his twenty-eighth year. The reader has seen
in the early part of this work the intellectual promise of his opening
career, the evidences of his genius, his versatility, and his mental
power, and has marked the paths by which he, who was expected to be the
crowning light of that remarkable family, had been brought, step by
step, to the very depths of misery.
During the few short years of his life, Branwell Bronte, having tasted
the sweets of a noble ambition, and surrendered himself to the
influences of love, had suffered the agonies of his disappointment and
disgrace, and was now feeling the very bitterness of despair. Such
influences as these, shaking the soul with their tempestuous breath,
cast their sad glamour on the imagination; and he who has felt the
spell is impressed thenceforth more deeply with the wondrous story of
life, with the struggle of being, and with the fulness of emotion, and
has a far deeper insight into the mysteries of human nature. It was in
this way that Byron, when he had passed through his greatest
misfortunes, and had abandoned for ever the shores of England, was
fired with the gloomy glory of 'Manfred' and of 'Cain.' This storm and
stress of the feelings, when the imagination receives a higher
consciousness, is as the Eddaic struggle of Sigurd with Fafnir, the
drinking of the monster's blood, that taught to the dragon-slayer the
mystic language of the birds. The reader will see how these influences
told on Branwell Bronte, and how sad the voices of the birds were for
him; how his muse was inspired with the note of misery, and his longing
was for peace alone. There seemed, indeed, to be no hope in those days.
However, there came at times to Branwell Bronte, as there must come to
all men in his circumstances, a reaction from the consuming sorrow of
despair, a longing for action, for mental stimulus, to divert his mind
from the woe he should never be able to forget. And, with this change
in his methods of thought, there grew upon him another feeling,
engendered of his broken sympathy with the actions of his kind: he
learned to look upon human affairs as a spectator, rather than as one
who felt any personal interest in them. It was in this way that his
experience seemed to him to have unveiled the hidden springs of the
actions of men; and, in recognizing the selfishness of them, he became
himself something of a cynic.
Branwell was in this frame of mind when he resolved, soon after a visit
to his friend Leyland,--whom he found engaged upon a tomb and recumbent
statue of the late Doctor Stephen Beckwith, a benefactor to several
public institutions in York, to be erected in the Minster there,--to
make an effort to arouse himself. With the desire, then, of finding an
absorbing occupation for his mind, by which he might be able to lay the
tempest of the heart, the whirlwind of wounded vanity, of injured
self-esteem, and of blighted hope, which swept through his mind in
hours of reflection, and drove him to distraction or desperation, he
turned, with the resolution of a new-born energy, engendered of
despair, to literary composition. He proposed to himself to depict, as
best he could, in a fictitious form, and as an ordinary novel, which
should extend to three volumes, the different feelings that work in the
human soul. The necessary labour which this undertaking involved, gave
a stimulus to his ambition, which for a time was sustained; and he
evidently hoped that he might yet be able to make a place for himself
in the busy world of letters. At this time the novels of his sisters
were not in existence, and probably had scarcely been dreamed of.
Charlotte had not yet lighted on the volume of verse in the handwriting
of Emily, and the literary future of the sisters had still to dawn upon
them. Yet Branwell, whose behaviour had given them cause enough for
disquietude, and whose sorrows were embittering his mind, had now
braced himself up for an object which they had not attempted, and to
the accomplishment of which he looked forward with something like
confidence. In the following letter to his friend Leyland, he discloses
his design; and it is probable that in this we have almost all the
direct light upon it which can be found:--
'Haworth, Sept. 10th, 1845.
'MY DEAR SIR,
'I was certainly sadly disappointed at not having seen you on the
Friday you named for your visit, but the cause you allege for not
arriving was justifiable with a vengeance. I should have been as
cracked as my cast had I entered a room and seen the labour of
weeks or months destroyed (apparently--not, I trust, really) in a
moment.[18]
[18] Branwell here speaks of an accident which had happened
to one part of the monument referred to above.
'That vexation is, I hope, over; and I build upon your renewed
promise of a visit; for nothing cheers me so much as the company
of one whom I believe to be a _man_, and who has known care well
enough to be able to appreciate the discomfort of another who
knows it _too_ well.
'Never mind the lines I put into your hands, but come hither with
them, and, if they should have been lost out of your pocket on the
way, I won't grumble, provided you are present to apologize for the
accident.
'I have, since I saw you at Halifax, devoted my hours of time,
snatched from downright illness, to the composition of a
three-volume _novel_, one volume of which is completed, and,
along with the two forthcoming ones, has been really the result of
half-a-dozen by-past years of thoughts about, and experience in,
this crooked path of life.
'I felt that I must rouse myself to attempt something while
roasting daily and nightly over a slow fire, to while away my
torments; and I knew that, in the present state of the publishing
and reading world, a novel is the most saleable article, so
that--where ten pounds would be offered for a work, the production
of which would require the utmost stretch of a man's intellect--two
hundred pounds would be a refused offer for three volumes, whose
composition would require the smoking of a cigar and the humming of
a tune.
'My novel is the result of years of thought; and, if it gives a
vivid picture of human feelings for good and evil, veiled by the
cloak of deceit which must enwrap man and woman; if it records, as
faithfully as the pages that unveil man's heart in "Hamlet" or
"Lear," the conflicting feelings and clashing pursuits in our
uncertain path through life, I shall be as much gratified (and as
much astonished) as I should be if, in betting that I could jump
over the Mersey, I jumped over the Irish Sea. It would not be more
pleasant to light on Dublin instead of Birkenhead, than to leap
from the present bathos of fictitious literature to the
firmly-fixed rock honoured by the foot of a Smollett or a Fielding.
'That jump I expect to take when I can model a rival to your noble
Theseus, who haunted my dreams when I slept after seeing him. But,
meanwhile, I can try my utmost to rouse myself from almost killing
cares, and that alone will be its own reward.
'Tell me when I may hope to see you, and believe me, dear sir,
'Yours,
'P. B. BRONTE.'
A spirited sketch in pen-and-ink concludes this letter; it represents a
bust of himself thrown down, and the lady of his admiration holding
forth her hands towards it with an air of pity, while underneath it is
the sentence: 'A cast, cast down, but not cast away!'[19]
[19] Charlotte Bronte told her friend 'Mary,' that Branwell
had appropriated Cowper's poem, 'The Castaway.'
We have in this letter an instance of Branwell's general coherency
under his disappointment, in which the elegance and freedom of his
style of composition are combined with a consequent and logical
arrangement of the various parts of his subject; but he cannot help
concluding his letter with a direct allusion to the lady, whom he
believes,--all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding,--to love him
with undiminished devotion. Under this fascination he still hopes for
the prosperity and happiness of which he had before spoken to his
friends.
Moreover it will be seen, from Branwell's letter, that he had seriously
undertaken, in the midst of sorrow, suffering, and ill-health,--though,
I have reason to believe, that he had sketched some part of it during
his tutorship--the production of a novel, one volume of which he had
completed. He does not seem to have looked upon it as a great mental
effort, but rather as the natural outcome of a painful experience, and
the proper alleviation of a present misery. Yet he designed to give a
vivid picture of human nature; and, with the strength of experience and
the consciousness of power, he evidently hoped that it would be a
better work than those productions of the day, of whose composition he
speaks so lightly. His experience had, indeed, been such as would well
enable one of his quick perception to grasp the character, feelings,
and motives of those around him. His knowledge of the country people of
the West-Riding was very great; for, sitting, the admired of all
observers, in the 'Black Bull,' at Haworth, he had met representatives
of all classes of them. By the parlour fire, in the long winter
evenings, he had had opportunities enough of entering into the spirit
of the people; indeed, his letter to John Brown has shown us how he
reviewed some of them. It was not merely for the enjoyment of an hour
that he came to their company: he had longed for a glimpse of other
life than that lived at the parsonage. And the Yorkshire peasants--whom
he nevertheless held at their true value--to those who know their
dialect, and can enter into their pursuits, as Branwell did and could,
disclose a fund of shrewd observation, a sharp understanding, and a
free and natural wit; and they delight in telling the stories of all
the country side. But they must be understood before they can be
appreciated. Branwell, too, had been a guest at the homesteads of the
farmers, in the neighbourhood where he had latterly resided, who were
always pleased to see him, when he visited them. But he had had
experience of more fiery emotions than those of peasants; he had longed
to know something of the deeper life of London, and had found it, at
last, in the company of pugilists and their patrons.
When the mood was upon him, all these varied experiences flowed with
voluble eloquence from his lips; and the brightness of his wit and the
brilliance of his imagination made him, at such times, a most enjoyable
companion. But he delighted above all things, as has been seen, to
spend his evenings, when possible, with the little band of literati
which, in those times, characterized that district; and, in the society
of Storey the poet of Wharfe, James the historian of Bradford, George
Searle Phillips, Leyland the sculptor, and others, he found emulation
and stimulus to better things. But the uses to which, under such
influences, he put his experiences of life, and the colour that was
given to them through his maddening misfortunes--so far as his novel is
concerned--can probably never be told. His experience in 'this crooked
path of life,' during his last half-dozen years, had been sufficiently
varied; and an instructive story he could doubtless have based upon it.
But, what became of the volume he wrote, possibly no one can tell; and
his intention of writing two more was probably not carried out.
From the following letter which Branwell wrote to Mr. Grundy in the
October of 1845, we learn something of the condition of mind under
which he must have written; and, from an allusion which it contains, we
may, probably, infer that he had abandoned his intention of writing the
two other volumes of his novel.[20] He says:
[20] Mr. Grundy has assigned the date of this letter to within
a few months of January, 1818; but, from internal evidence, it
is clear that it belongs really to the period I have named.
'I fear you will burn my present letter on recognising the
handwriting; but if you will read it through, you will perhaps
rather pity than spurn the distress of mind which could prompt my
communication, after a silence of nearly three (to me) eventful
years. While very ill and confined to my room, I wrote to you two
months ago, hearing you were resident engineer of the Skipton
Railway, to the inn at Skipton. I never received any reply, and
as my letter asked only for one day of your society, to ease a
very weary mind in the company of a friend who _always_ had what
I always wanted, but most want now, _cheerfulness_, I am sure you
never received my letter, or your heart would have prompted an
answer.
'Since I last shook hands with you in Halifax, two summers ago,
my life, till lately, has been one of apparent happiness and
indulgence. You will ask, "Why does he complain, then?" I can
only reply by showing the under-current of distress which bore my
bark to a whirlpool, despite the surface waves of life that
seemed floating me to peace. In a letter begun in the spring of
1845 and never finished, owing to incessant attacks of illness, I
tried to tell you that I was tutor to the son of ----, a wealthy
gentleman whose wife is sister to the wife of ----, M.P. for the
county of ----, and the cousin of Lord ----. This lady (though
her husband detested me) showed me a degree of kindness which,
when I was deeply grieved one day at her husband's conduct,
ripened into declarations of more than ordinary feeling. My
admiration of her mental and personal attractions, my knowledge
of her unselfish sincerity, her sweet temper, and unwearied care
for others, with but unrequited return where most should have
been given ... although she is seventeen years my senior, all
combined to an attachment on my part, and led to reciprocations
which I had little looked for. During nearly three years I had
daily "troubled pleasure, soon chastised by fear." Three months
since I received a furious letter from my employer, threatening
to shoot me if I returned from my vacation, which I was passing
at home; and letters from her lady's-maid and physician informed
me of the outbreak, only checked by her firm courage and
resolution that whatever harm came to her, none should come to
me.... I have lain during nine long weeks, utterly shattered in
body and broken down in mind. The probability of her becoming
free to give me herself and estate never rose to drive away the
prospect of her decline under her present grief. I dreaded, too,
the wreck of my mind and body, which, God knows! during a short
life have been severely tried. Eleven continuous nights of
sleepless horror reduced me to almost blindness; and, being taken
into Wales to recover, the sweet scenery, the sea, the sound of
music caused me fits of unspeakable distress. You will say, "What
a fool!" but if you knew the many causes I have for sorrow, which
I cannot even hint at here, you would perhaps pity as well as
blame. At the kind request of Mr. Macaulay and Mr. Baines, I have
striven to arouse my mind by writing something worthy of being
read, but I really cannot do so. Of course you will despise the
writer of all this. I can only answer that the writer does the
same, and would not wish to live if he did not hope that work and
change may yet restore him.
'Apologizing sincerely for what seems like whining egotism, and
hardly daring to hint about the days when, in your company, I
could sometimes sink the thoughts which "remind me of departed
days," I fear departed never to return,--I remain, etc.'
In this letter we see that Branwell details to Mr. Grundy the story
about Mrs. ----, which he was publishing whenever he could obtain a
hearing. He speaks, too, of his ill-health, the shattering of body and
the breaking down of mind, which at the time prostrated him. Charlotte
seems scarcely to have credited Branwell's representations of the
bodily condition into which he had fallen; for she says, in one of her
letters, a little later, 'Branwell offers no prospect of hope: he
professes to be too ill to think of seeking employment.'[21] There are
passages of a like tendency in others of Charlotte's letters about this
time; but we shall see presently that, whatever might be his condition
of health, he was by no means so unsolicitous for employment, or so
heedless of the future, as she supposed.
[21] 'Unpublished Letters of Charlotte Bronte,' _Hours at
Home_, xi.