DESPONDENCY.--BRANWELL'S LETTERS.
Death of Branwell's late Employer--Branwell's Disappointment--His
Letters--His Delusion--Leyland's Medallion of Him--Mr. Bronte's
Blindness--Branwell's Statement to Mr. Grundy in Reference to
'Wuthering Heights'--The Sisters Relinquish the Intention of Opening
a School.
An event occurred, in the early summer of 1846, which plunged
Branwell into a despair, wilder, and more distracting than the one
from which he had partially recovered. This resulted from the death
of his late employer. No doubt, during the interval which had elapsed
between his dismissal from his tutorship, and the event last named,
he had encouraged himself, it might be unconsciously for the most
part, with the hope that, on the death of her husband, the lady on
whom he doted would marry him. In this frame of mind, when his
illusion was intensified by the clearance of the path before him, and
his self-control unbridled, it may not be a subject of wonder, if he
became troublesome to the inmates of the dwelling afflicted by death.
The following story, with variations, has been told as having
reference to some actual or intended act of indiscretion of Branwell's
at the time. It has been said that, at this juncture, a messenger was
sent over to Haworth by Mrs. ----, forbidding Branwell 'ever to see
her again, as, if he did, she would forfeit her fortune.'[26] It will
be seen shortly that no such provision was made in her husband's will,
and that the fortune she had secured to her could not be forfeited by
any such act of Branwell's. The whole story, therefore, to which Mrs.
Gaskell and Miss Robinson have devoted so much space may well be
discredited. But Mrs. Gaskell says absolutely that Mrs. ----
'despatched _a_ servant in hot haste to Haworth. He stopped at the
"Black Bull," and a messenger was sent up to the parsonage for
Branwell. He came down, &c.'[27] Miss Robinson, twenty-five years
later, amplifies the story. She says: '_two_ men came riding to the
village post haste. They sent for Branwell, and when he arrived, in a
great state of excitement, one of the riders dismounted and went with
him into the "Black Bull."'[28] Without inquiring into Branwell's
excitement, or into the variations in the two accounts--for there is
but one point in the story on which the two authors are perfectly
agreed, _viz._, that Branwell, on the occasion, 'bleated like a
calf!'--there can be little doubt that this case, on such evidence,
could not get upon its legs before any country jury impanelled to try
petty causes. But Branwell himself, in his letter to Mr. Grundy, given
below, says the coachman _came_ to _see_ him, not that the lady _sent_
him; and we may justly infer--if ever he came at all--that he come on
his own account, having been personally acquainted with Branwell when
he was tutor at ----. But, can it be believed that, supposing Mrs.
---- to have been enamoured of Branwell, as asserted, she could find
no other confidant than her 'coachman,' as a means of communicating
her sorrows and lamentations to the distracted object of her devotion?
There is, in this story, the inconsistency of madness. And it must be
borne in mind that the other stories, relating to Branwell at the time
of his tutorship at ----, which appear to have so much interested the
biographers of Charlotte and Emily, have their paternity at Haworth,
and are not the more trustworthy on that account.
[26] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap, xiii., 1st.
edit.
[27] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap, xiii., 1st.
edit.
[28] Robinson's 'Emily Bronte,' p. 145.
I regret to trouble the reader still further with the errors of fact,
and the exaggerated statements into which Mrs. Gaskell has fallen
respecting this event. She says of Mrs. ----: '_Her husband had made
a will, in which what property he left her was bequeathed solely on
the condition that she should never see Branwell Bronte again_.'[29]
(The Italics are my own.) Mrs. Gaskell's postulations concerning this
will are quite as erroneous as that she made in reference to Miss
Branwell's, so far as it related to her nephew. Indeed, like her other
allegations respecting this most painful epoch of Branwell's life, she
derived the information on which they were based, more from hearsay
than from respectable or documentary evidence. It is clear she never
saw the wills about which she speaks with so much assurance.
[29] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap, xiii., 1st
edit.
Mrs. ----, by virtue of an indenture and a certain marriage
settlement, was put into possession of an income that would, after her
husband's death, have enabled her to live for the term of her life
with Branwell in comparative plenty. To his wife, Mr. ----, in
addition to this, left the interest arising from his real and personal
estate. She was also principal trustee, executor, and guardian of his
children. Moreover, he enjoined upon her co-trustees always to regard
the wishes and interests of his wife, and to do nothing without
consulting her about the administering of his affairs. But all
this--and it is quite usual--was to continue only during her
widowhood; and this common arrangement, let it be borne in mind, was
no more directed against Branwell than anyone else. What then, it may
well be asked, becomes of Mrs. Gaskell's assertion that the property
left to Mrs. ---- was bequeathed solely on the condition that 'she
should never see Branwell Bronte again'? Whatever Mrs. Gaskell and her
followers may have asserted respecting Mr. ----'s will, it was made
without the slightest reference to Branwell, who himself misconceived
its character, and whose very existence is unknown to it, its
provisions being made without the most distant allusion to the affair
that worried the unfortunate tutor day and night.
If the widow's love for Branwell had not been a mere figment of his
wounded humanity, but the real affection which he fervently believed it
to be, she had now the opportunity, with a sufficient income for the
residue of her days, of enjoying with him an honourable and peaceful
life. But the affection that makes sacrifices light, where they present
themselves, was not there to call for them on behalf of Branwell, even
had they now been needed. Moreover, there is no evidence worth the name
that Mrs. ---- ever committed the acts in relation to him attributed to
her; on the contrary, the sincere affection and touching reliance on
his wife, manifested throughout his will, is proof enough that her
husband had had no cause to call her fidelity in question. It is,
indeed, true that, while the lady's reputation was unblemished in the
wide circle of her friends in the neighbourhood of her residence, she
was being traduced, misrepresented, and belied at Haworth and its
vicinity alone. This was all known to Charlotte Bronte when she wrote
her poem of 'Preference.'
The state of Branwell's mind, and the extent of his hallucinations
under their last phase, may be observed in the following letters,
written in the month of June, 1846, the first being to Mr. Grundy.[30]
[30] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 89.
'Haworth, Bradford,
'York.
'DEAR SIR,
'I must again trouble you with--' (Here comes another prayer for
employment, with, at the same time, a confession that his health
alone renders the wish all but hopeless.) Subsequently he says,
'The gentleman with whom I have been is dead. His property is left
in trust for the family, provided I do not see the widow; and if I
do, it reverts to the executing trustees, with ruin to her. She is
now distracted with sorrows and agonies; and the statement of her
case, as given by her coachman, who has come to see me at Haworth,
fills me with inexpressible grief. Her mind is distracted to the
verge of insanity, and mine is so wearied that I wish I were in my
grave.
'Yours very sincerely,
'P. B. BRONTE.'
He also wrote to Leyland in great distraction.
'I should have sent you "Morley Hall" ere now, but I am unable to
finish it at present, from agony to which the grave would be far
preferable. Mr. ---- is _dead_, and he has left his widow in a
dreadful state of health.... Through the will, she is left quite
powerless. The executing trustees' (the principal one of whom, as
we have seen, was the very lady whose hopeless love for him he was
deploring) 'detest me, and one declares that, if he sees me, he
will shoot me.
'These things I do not care about, but I do care for the life of
the one who suffers even more than I do....
'You, though not much older than myself, have known life. I now
know it, with a vengeance--for four nights I have not slept--for
three days I have not tasted food--and, when I think of the state
of her I love best on earth, I could wish that my head was as cold
and stupid as the medallion which lies in your studio.
'I write very egotistically, but it is because my mind is crowded
with one set of thoughts, and I long for one sentence from a
friend.
'What shall I _do_? I know not--I am too hard to die, and too
wretched to live. My wretchedness is not about castles in the air,
but about stern realities; my hardihood lies in bodily vigour;
but, dear sir, my mind sees only a dreary future, which I as
little wish to enter on as could a martyr to be bound to a stake.
'I sincerely trust that you are quite well, and hope that this
wretched scrawl will not make me appear to you a worthless fool,
or a thorough bore.
'Believe me, yours most sincerely,
'P. B. BRONTE.'
With this letter was enclosed a pen-and-ink sketch of Branwell bound
to the stake, his wrists chained together, and surrounded by flames
and smoke. The rigidity of the muscles, the fixed expression of the
face, and the manifest beginning of pain are well portrayed.
Underneath the drawing, in a constrained hand, is written, 'Myself.'
Again he writes to Leyland a letter in which he dwells on his
unavailing grief, and vividly points out its effects upon him. He
says, alluding to the lady of his distracted thoughts, 'Well, my dear
sir, I have got my finishing stroke at last, and I feel stunned into
marble by the blow.
'I have this morning received a long, kind, and faithful letter from
the medical gentleman who attended ---- in his last illness, and who
has since had an interview with one whom I can never forget.
'He knows me _well_, and pities my case most sincerely.... It's hard
work for me, dear sir; I would bear it, but my health is so bad that
the body seems as if it could not bear the mental shock.... My
appetite is lost, my nights are dreadful, and having nothing to do
makes me dwell on past scenes,--on her own self--her own voice--her
person--her thoughts--till I could be glad if God would take me. In
the next world I could not be worse than I am in this.'
On June the 17th, Charlotte writes:
'Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for
himself; good situations have been offered him, for which, by a
fortnight's work, he might have qualified himself, but he will do
nothing except drink and make us all wretched.'[31]
[31] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. xiv.
It would seem that the sisters were unaware of the depth of his
present misery, and in part misunderstood the disturbed condition of
their brother's mind at this juncture. But Branwell, although
suffering great mental prostration under the infliction of any sudden
and unexpected disappointment, was possessed of considerable
recuperative power; and, after a period of brooding melancholy over
his woes, he appeared to take renewed interest in the events that were
passing around him. This seems to have been the case even under his
late circumstances; there was, in the depth of his own heart, a woe
from which he endeavoured to escape by engaging in the pursuits and
pleasures of his friends.
On the 3rd of July, having, to all appearance, somewhat recovered from
this disappointment, Branwell wrote to his friend the sculptor:
'DEAR SIR,
'John Brown told me that you had a relievo of my very wretched
self, framed in your studio.
'If it be a _duplicate_, I should like the carrier to bring it to
Haworth; not that I care a fig for it, save from regard for its
maker,--but my sisters ask me to try to obtain it; and I write in
obedience to them.
'I earnestly trust that you are heartier than I am, and I promise
to send you "Morley Hall" as soon as dreary days and nights will
give me leave to do so.
'Believe me,
'Yours most sincerely,
'P. B. BRONTE.'
This was a life-size medallion of him, head and shoulders, which
Leyland had modelled. The work was in very high relief, and the
likeness was perfect. It was inserted in a deep oval recess, lined
with crimson velvet, and this was fixed in a massive oak frame,
glazed. It projected, when hung up in the drawing-room of the
parsonage at Haworth, some eight inches from the wall; this was the
one Mrs. Gaskell saw, of which she says:--'I have seen Branwell's
profile; it is what would be generally esteemed very handsome; the
forehead is massive, the eye well set, and the expression of it fine
and intellectual; the nose, too, is good; but there are coarse lines
about the mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and
thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin
conveys an idea of weakness of will.'[32] Mrs. Gaskell had only an
imperfect view of the work she describes, for it was hung on the wall
directly _opposite_ to the windows, so that it was destitute of any
side-light.
[32] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. ix.
Again Branwell writes to Leyland, on the 16th of July, now more
himself, and anxious to see his friends:
'I enclose the accompanying bill to tempt you to Haworth next
Monday....
'For myself, after a fit of horror inexpressible, and violent
palpitation of the heart, I have taken care of myself bodily, but to
what good? The best health will not kill _acute_, and _not ideal_,
mental agony.
'Cheerful company does me good till some bitter truth blazes through
my brain, and then the present of a bullet would be received with
thanks.
'I wish I could flee to writing as a refuge, but I cannot; and, as to
_slumber_, my mind, whether awake or asleep, has been in incessant
action for seven weeks.'
Branwell wrote also to Mr. Grundy.[33]
[33] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 89.
'Since I saw Mr. George Gooch, I have suffered much from the accounts
of the declining health of her whom I must love most in the world, and
who, for my fault, suffers sorrows which surely were never her due. My
father, too, is now quite blind, and from such causes literary
pursuits have become matters I have no heart to wield. If I could see
you it would be a sincere pleasure, but.... Perhaps your memory of me
may be dimmed, for you have known little in me worth remembering; but
I still think often with pleasure of yourself, though so different
from me in head and mind.'
'I invited him,' says Mr. Grundy, 'to come to me at the Devonshire
Hotel, Skipton, a distance of some seventeen miles, and in reply
received the last letter he ever wrote.' Branwell says,
'If I have strength enough for the journey, and the weather be
tolerable, I shall feel happy in visiting you at the Devonshire on
Friday, the 31st of this month. The sight of a face I have been
accustomed to see and like when I was happier and stronger, now
proves my best medicine.'
Mr. Grundy, supposing these letters to have been written in the year
1848, is in error in stating this to have been the last Branwell ever
wrote. The Friday Branwell mentions must have been the one that fell
on the 31st of July, 1846. About the close of that month, Charlotte
and Emily went to Manchester to consult Mr. Wilson, the oculist, who,
later, removed the cataract from Mr. Bronte's eyes. Under these
circumstances, Branwell failed in his intended journey to Skipton.
The cataract had slowly increased as the summer advanced, till at last
Mr. Bronte was quite blind. This gradual disappearance from his vision
of the things he knew had necessarily a very depressing effect upon
him. The thought would sometimes come to him that, if his sight were
permanently lost, he would be nothing in his parish; but he supported
himself, for the most part, under his affliction with his accustomed
stoicism of endurance. His great trouble was that, when his sight
became so dim that he could barely recognize his children's faces, and
when he was debarred from using his eyes in reading, he was shut off
from the solace of his books, and from the sources--the periodical
press--of his knowledge of the current affairs of the outside world,
wherein he took such intense interest. He was, then, left dependent on
the information of others, or on his children, who read to him in such
time as they could spare from literary and household occupations. Yet
there was hope--hope of an ultimate restoration of sight, and Mr.
Bronte was still able to preach, even when he could not see those to
whom he spoke. It was remarked that even then his sermons occupied
exactly half-an-hour in delivery. This was the length of time he, with
his ready use of words, had always found sufficient, and he did not
exceed it now.
Every inquiry had been made from private friends that might throw
light upon the chances of success in any possible operation, and it
was in view of this object that the sisters visited Manchester. There
they met with Mr. Wilson, who was, however, unable to say positively
from description whether the eyes were ready for an operation or not.
He proposed to extract the cataract, and it was accordingly arranged
that Mr. Bronte should meet him.
Charlotte took her father to Manchester on the 16th of August, and,
writing a few days later, she says to her friend, 'I just scribble a
line to you to let you know where I am, in order that you may write to
me here, for it seems to me that a letter from you would relieve me
from the feeling of strangeness I have in this big town. Papa and I
came here on Wednesday; we saw Mr. Wilson, the oculist, the same day;
he pronounced papa's eyes quite ready for an operation, and has fixed
next Monday for the performance of it. Think of us on that day! We got
into our lodgings yesterday. I think we shall be comfortable; at
least, our rooms are very good.... Mr. Wilson says we shall have to
stay here for a month at least. I wonder how Emily and Anne will get
on at home with Branwell. They, too, will have their troubles. What
would I not give to have you here! One is forced, step by step, to get
experience in the world; but the learning is so disagreeable. One
cheerful feature in the business is that Mr. Wilson thinks most
favourably of the case.'
Charlotte's fears respecting her brother happily proved to be
unfounded; he was himself anxious about his father's recovery; and, on
her return, Charlotte, says Mrs. Gaskell, expressed herself thankful
for the good ensured, and the evil spared during her absence.
From Charlotte's next letter we learn that the operation was over.
'Mr. Wilson performed it; two other surgeons assisted. Mr. Wilson says
he considers it quite successful; but papa cannot yet see anything.
The affair lasted precisely a quarter-of-an-hour; it was not the
simple operation of couching, Mr. C. described, but the more
complicated one of extracting the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely
disapproves of couching. Papa displayed extraordinary patience and
firmness; the surgeons seemed surprised. I was in the room all the
time, as it was his wish that I should be there; of course, I neither
spoke nor moved till the thing was done, and then I felt that the less
I said, either to papa or the surgeons, the better. Papa is now
confined to his bed in a dark room, and is not to be stirred for four
days; he is to speak and be spoken to as little as possible.' No
inflammation ensued, yet the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter
privation of light were still necessary to complete the success of the
operation; and Mr. Bronte remained in his darkened room with his eyes
bandaged. Charlotte thus speaks of her father under these trying
circumstances. 'He is very patient, but, of course, depressed and
weary. He was allowed to try his sight for the first time yesterday.
He could see dimly. Mr. Wilson seemed perfectly satisfied, and said
all was right. I have had bad nights from the toothache since I came
to Manchester.' But, when the danger was over, daily progress was
made, and Mr. Bronte and his helpful daughter were able to return to
Haworth at the end of September, when he was fast regaining his sight.
It was probably during the six weeks when Mr. Bronte and Charlotte
were absent in Manchester that Mr. Grundy resolved to visit Branwell.
He says: 'As he never came to see me, I shortly made up my mind to
visit him at Haworth, and was shocked at the wrecked and wretched
appearance he presented. Yet he still craved for an appointment of any
kind, in order that he might try the excitement of change; of course
uselessly.'[34]
[34] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 90.
It must, it seems, have been on this occasion, in the course of
conversation at the parsonage, that Branwell made a statement,
respecting his novel, to Mr. Grundy, which has acquired considerable
interest. I give it in the words in which Mr. Grundy recalls the
incident. 'Patrick Bronte declared to me, and what his sister said
bore out the assertion, that he wrote a great portion of "Wuthering
Heights" himself.' It should be remembered, in connection with this
occurrence, that, when Mr. Grundy talked with Branwell and Emily at
Haworth, the three novels which the sisters had completed a few months
before, had met only with repeated rejection, and, perhaps, they felt
little confidence in the ultimate publication of them. 'The Professor,'
indeed, had come back to Charlotte's hands, curtly rejected, on the
very day of the operation. Doubtful of ever finding a publisher willing
to take this tale, or, at any rate, undaunted, she had commenced, while
her father was confined to his darkened room at Manchester, the
three-volume story which was afterwards to become famous as 'Jane
Eyre;' Anne, too, since she had finished 'Agnes Grey,' had been busily
writing 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' also meant to be a three-volume
story. So absorbed had the sisters become in novel writing, that a
suggestion made by a friend, at this period, of a suitable place for
opening a school, met only with an evasive answer.
'Leave home!' exclaims Charlotte, in her reply. 'I shall neither be
able to find place nor employment; perhaps, too, I shall be quite
past the prime of life, my faculties will be rusted, and my few
acquirements in a great measure forgotten. These ideas sting me keenly
sometimes; but, whenever I consult my conscience, it affirms that I am
doing right in staying at home, and bitter are its upbraidings when I
yield to an eager desire for release. I could hardly expect success if
I were to err against such warnings. I should like to hear from you
again soon. Bring ---- to the point, and make him give you a clear,
not a vague, account of what pupils he really could promise; people
often think they can do great things in that way till they have tried;
but getting pupils is unlike getting any other sort of goods.'