BRANWELL'S LETTERS AND LAST INTERVIEW WITH MR. GRUNDY.
Branwell's Sardonic Humour--Mr. Grundy's Visit to him at Haworth--
Errors regarding the Period of it--Tragic Description--Probable
Ruse of Branwell--Correspondence between him and Mr. Grundy ceases
--Writes to Leyland--A Plaintive Verse--Another Letter.
Branwell, having shared the family anxiety, as the time drew near for
the operation which restored his father's sight, experienced a sense
of deep relief when all went well; moreover, the keenness of his
disappointment had had time to soften, and now a grim and sardonic
humour began to characterize his proceedings and his correspondence.
In this frame of mind he wrote to Leyland, early in October, 1846, a
letter illustrated by some of his most spirited pen-and-ink sketches,
in black and outline. It was headed by a drawing of John Brown, who
had been engaged in lettering a monument, and who was represented
under two different aspects. These are in one sketch, divided in
the middle by a pole, on which is placed a skull. In the first
compartment, the sexton is exhibited in a state of glorious
exultation, kicking over the table and stools, while the chair he
occupies is falling backwards. He holds a tumbler in his right hand,
and swears, in his Yorkshire dialect, that he is 'King and a hauf!'
under this, the word 'PARADISE' is inscribed. The second tableau
represents John Brown commencing his work. On a table-tomb, the
sexton's maul and chisels are placed. Being in uncertainty as to how,
or where, to begin, he exclaims, 'Whativver mun I do?' In the corner,
is a drawing of the western elevation of Haworth Church, and, near to
Brown, a head-stone, with skull and crossbones, inscribed, 'Here lieth
the Poor.' Underneath the subject is the word 'PURGATORY.' The
following is the letter:
'MY DEAR SIR,
'Mr. John Brown wishes me to tell you that, if, by return of post,
you can tell him the nature of his intended work, and the time it
will probably occupy in execution, either himself or his brother,
or both, will wait on you _early_ next week.
'He has only delayed answering your communication from his
unavoidable absence in a pilgrimage from Rochdale-on-the-Rhine to
the Land of Ham, and from thence to Gehenna, Tophet, Golgotha,
Erebus, the Styx, and to the place he now occupies, called
Tartarus, where he, along with Sisyphus, Tantalus, Theseus, and
Ixion, lodge and board together.
'However, I hope that, when he meets you, he will join the company
of Moses, Elias, and the prophets, "singing psalms, sitting on a
wet cloud," as an acquaintance of mine described the occupation of
the Blest.
'"Morley Hall" is in the eighth month of her pregnancy, and
expects ere long to be delivered of a fine thumping boy, whom his
father means to christen _Homer_, at least, though the mother
suggests that "Poetaster" would be more suitable; but that sounds
too aristocratic.
'Is the medallion cracked that Thorwaldsen executed of AUGUSTUS
CAESAR?' To this question is appended a drawing of a coin, about
the size of an ordinary penny, with the head of Branwell--an
excellent likeness--around which the name of the emperor is
placed. He continues:
'I wish I could see you; and, as Haworth fair is held on Monday
after the ensuing one, your presence there would gratify one of
the FALLEN.' Here he represents himself as plunging head foremost
into a gulf.
'In my own register of transactions during my nights and days, I
find no matter worthy of extraction for your perusal. All is yet
with me clouds and darkness. I hope you have, at least, blue sky
and sunshine.
'Constant and unavoidable depression of mind and body sadly
shackle me in even trying to go on with any mental effort, which
might rescue me from the fate of a dry toast, soaked six hours in
a glass of cold water, and intended to be given to an old maid's
squeamish cat.'
Here is a sketch of the cat, distracted between a tumbler on each
side held by an attenuated hand.
'Is there really such a thing as the _Risus Sardonicus_--the
sardonic laugh? Did a man ever laugh the morning he was to be
hanged?'
The tail-piece to this letter is a drawing of a gallows, a hand
holding forth the halter to the culprit, who is John Brown, and an
excellent portrait, grinning at the rope that is to terminate his
existence!
Mr. Grundy--'very soon'--visited Haworth again. But I must premise,
to the account of his visit which Mr. Grundy has published, some
observations respecting the period at which it occurred. Mr. Grundy,
having attributed the later letters, which Branwell Bronte addressed
to him, to the year 1848--though they really belong to 1846--has, with
some appearance of consistency, produced the following picture of his
friend, under the impression that 'a few days afterwards he died.' But
the circumstances that Mr. Grundy's journey to Haworth arose out of
the wish to see him, which Branwell had expressed in a letter written
at the time when his father was 'quite blind,' and that, as Mr. Grundy
says his visits followed shortly after Branwell had failed to go to
Skipton, are themselves sufficient evidence as to the question of
date.
Mr. Grundy says of his final interview: 'Very soon I went to Haworth
again to see him, for the last time. From the little inn I sent for
him to the great, square, cold-looking Rectory. I had ordered a dinner
for two, and the room looked cosy and warm, the bright glass and
silver pleasantly reflecting the sparkling fire-light, deeply toned by
the red curtains. Whilst I waited his appearance, his father was shown
in. Much of the Rector's old stiffness of manner was gone. He spoke of
Branwell with more affection than I had ever heretofore heard him
express, but he also spoke almost hopelessly. He said that when my
message came, Branwell was in bed, and had been almost too weak for
the last few days to leave it; nevertheless, he had insisted upon
coming, and would be there immediately. We parted, and I never saw him
again.
'Presently the door opened cautiously, and a head appeared. It was a
mass of red, unkempt, uncut hair, wildly floating round a great, gaunt
forehead; the cheeks yellow and hollow, the mouth fallen, the thin
white lips not trembling but shaking, the sunken eyes, once small, now
glaring with the light of madness--all told the sad tale but too
surely. I hastened to my friend, greeted him in the gayest manner, as
I knew he best liked, drew him quickly into the room, and forced upon
him a stiff glass of hot brandy. Under its influence, and that of the
bright, cheerful surroundings, he looked frightened--frightened of
himself. He glanced at me a moment, and muttered something about
leaving a warm bed to come out into the cold night. Another glass of
brandy, and returning warmth, gradually brought him back to something
like the Bronte of old. He even ate some dinner, a thing which he said
he had not done for long; so our last interview was pleasant, though
grave. I never knew his intellect clearer. He described himself as
waiting anxiously for death--indeed, longing for it, and happy, in
these his sane moments, to think that it was so near. He once again
declared that that death would be due to the story I knew, and to
nothing else.
'When at last I was compelled to leave, he quietly drew from his coat
sleeve a carving-knife, placed it on the table, and holding me by
both hands, said that, having given up all thoughts of ever seeing
me again, he imagined when my message came that it was a call from
Satan. Dressing himself, he took the knife, which he had long had
secreted, and came to the inn, with a full determination to rush into
the room and stab the occupant. In the excited state of his mind he
did not recognise me when he opened the door, but my voice and manner
conquered him, and "brought him home to himself," as he expressed it.
I left him standing bareheaded in the road, with bowed form and
dropping tears. A few days afterwards he died.... His age was
twenty-eight.'[35]
[35] 'Pictures of the Past,' pp. 90-92.
Mr. Grundy's account of this interview is inconsistent in itself. Of
course, if his friend had really been so far gone as he represents,
it is incredible that Mr. Bronte would have been privy to his son's
visit to the inn. It is quite clear that Mr. Grundy's recollection
of the interview, and of Branwell's appearance, at this distance of
time, with Mrs. Gaskell's account before him, has received a new
significance. I incline to the belief that the truth of the matter is
this: that, in the spirit of his letters to Leyland, Branwell acted a
part, and imposed this ruse upon his friend to gratify the peculiar
humour that was then upon him, an episode which the latter, with his
erroneous impression as to the date, has been led to depict in
somewhat lurid colours. It is most probable, indeed, that, like
Hamlet, he 'put an antic disposition on.' Something confirmatory of
this view will appear in the next chapter. Among his friends, as I
know, Branwell would now and then assume an indignant, and sometimes
a furious mood, and put on airs of wild abstraction from which he
suddenly recovered, and was again calm and natural, smiling, indeed,
at his successful impersonation of passions he scarcely felt at the
time. The absence of further correspondence between Branwell and Mr.
Grundy, and the fact that the Skipton and Bradford railway, for
hich that gentleman was resident engineer, was fully opened more
than a year before Branwell's death, seem to indicate that further
intercourse ceased between the two at this date. It would not,
perhaps, have been necessary to trouble the reader with these
explanations, had not Mr. Grundy's narrative of his last evening with
Branwell appeared to receive some sort of confirmation through its
republication by Miss Robinson, in her picture of the brother of Emily
Bronte shortly before his end.
Again Branwell wrote to Leyland:
'DEAR SIR,
'I had a letter written, and intended to have been forwarded to
you a few days after I last left the ensnaring town of Halifax.
'That letter, from being kept so long in my pocket-book, has gone
out of date, so I have burnt it, and now send a short note as a
precursor to an awfully lengthy one.
'I have much to say to you with which you would probably be sadly
bored; but, as it will be only asking for advice, I hope you will
feel as a cat does when her hair is stroked down towards her tail.
She _purrs_ then; but she _spits_ when it is stroked upwards.
'I wish Mr. ---- of ---- would send me my bill of what I owe him,
and the moment that I receive my outlaid cash, or any sum that may
fall into my hands, I shall settle it.
'That settlement, I have some reason to hope, will be shortly.
'But can a few pounds make a fellow's soul like a calm bowl of
creamed milk?
'If it can, I should like to drink that bowl dry.
'I shall write more at length (Deo Volente) on matters of much
importance to me, but of little to yourself.
'Yours in the bonds,
'SANCTUS PATRICIUS BRANWELLIUS BRONTEIO.'
With the foregoing letter, Branwell enclosed a page containing three
spirited sketches. The first is a scene in which the sculptor and
Branwell are the principal actors. They are seated on stools, facing
one another, each holding a wine glass, and, between them on the
ground, is a decanter. Behind the sculptor is placed the mutilated
statue of Theseus. A copy of Cowper's 'Anatomy' is open at the
title-page; and, leaning over it, is a figure of Admodeus, Setebos, or
some other winged imp, taking sight at the two. The second sketch is
of Branwell himself, represented as a recumbent statue, resting on a
slab, under which are the following mournful lines:--
'Thy soul is flown,
And clay alone
Has nought to do with joy or care;
So if the light of light be gone,
There come no sorrows crowding on,
And powerless lies DESPAIR.'
The third drawing is a landscape, having in the foreground a
head-stone, with a skull and crossbones in the semi-circular head. On
the stone are carved the words, HIC JACET. Distant peaked hills bound
the view. Two pines are to the right of the picture, and the crescent
moon, which represents a human profile, is accommodated with a pipe.
Underneath it is inscribed the sentence:
'MARTINI LUIGI IMPLORA ETERNA QUIETE!'
The following letter, written to Leyland a little later, shows again
the stormy perturbations of Branwell's mind. He still clings to the
fond imagination that he is the object of the lady's unwavering
devotion; and, with the incoherency of the monomania with which he
continues to be afflicted, he solemnly declares to the sculptor that
he had said to no one what he is then saying to him; while, in truth,
he was telling the story of his disappointed hopes to all who would
hear the recital. The theme is that of a wild, eager, and unavailing
love--whose joys and sorrows he tells in vivid words--which he
believes to be returned with equal energy and passion.
'MY DEAR SIR,
'I am going to write a scrawl, for the querulous egotism of which
I must entreat your mercy; but, when I look _upon_ my past,
present, and future, and then _into_ my own self, I find much,
however unpleasant, that yearns for utterance.
'This last week an honest and kindly friend has warned me that
concealed hopes about one lady should be given up, let the effort
to do so cost what it may. He is the ----, and was commanded by
----, M.P. for ----, to return me, unopened, a letter which I
addressed to ----, and which the Lady was not permitted to see.
She too, surrounded by powerful persons who hate me like Hell, has
sunk into religious melancholy, believes that her weight of sorrow
is God's punishment, and hopelessly resigns herself to her doom.
God only knows what it does cost, and will, hereafter, cost me, to
tear from my heart and remembrance the thousand recollections that
rush upon me at the thought of four years gone by. Like ideas of
sunlight to a man who has lost his sight, they must be bright
phantoms not to be realized again.
'I had reason to hope that ere very long I should be the husband
of a Lady whom I loved best in the world, and with whom, in more
than competence, I might live at leisure to try to make myself a
name in the world of posterity, without being pestered by the
small but countless botherments, which, like mosquitoes, sting
us in the world of work-day toil. That hope and herself are
_gone_--_she_ to wither into patiently pining decline,--_it_ to
make room for drudgery, falling on one now ill-fitted to bear it.
That ill-fittedness rises from causes which I should find myself
able partially to overcome, had I bodily strength; but, with the
want of that, and with the presence of daily lacerated nerves,
the task is not easy. I have been, in truth, too much petted
through life, and, in my last situation, I was so much master,
and gave myself so much up to enjoyment, that now, when the cloud
of ill-health and adversity has come upon me, it will be a
disheartening job to work myself up again, through a new life's
battle, from the position of five years ago, to that from which I
have been compelled to retreat with heavy loss and no gain. My
army stands now where it did then, but mourning the slaughter of
Youth, Health, Hope, and both mental and physical elasticity.
'The last two losses are, indeed, important to one who once built
his hopes of rising in the world on the possession of them. Noble
writings, works of art, music, or poetry, now, instead of rousing
my imagination, cause a whirlwind of blighting sorrow that sweeps
over my mind with unspeakable dreariness; and, if I sit down and
try to write, all ideas that used to come, clothed in sunlight,
now press round me in funereal black; for really every pleasurable
excitement that I used to know has changed to insipidity or pain.
'I shall never be able to realize the too sanguine hopes of my
friends, for at twenty-nine I am a thoroughly _old man_, mentally
and bodily--far more, indeed, than I am willing to express. God
knows I do not scribble like a poetaster when I quote Byron's
terribly truthful words--
'"No more--no more--oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew,
Which, out of all the lovely things we see,
Extracts emotions beautiful and new!"
'I used to think that if I could have, for a week, the free range
of the British Museum--the library included--I could feel as
though I were placed for seven days in Paradise; but now, really,
dear sir, my eyes would rest upon the Elgin marbles, the Egyptian
saloon, and the most treasured columns, like the eyes of a dead
cod-fish.
'My rude, rough acquaintances here ascribe my unhappiness solely
to causes produced by my sometimes irregular life, because they
have known no other pains than those resulting from excess or want
of ready cash. They do not know that I would rather want a shirt
than want a springy mind, and that my total want of happiness,
were I to step into York Minster now, would be far, far worse than
their want of a hundred pounds when they might happen to need it;
and that, if a dozen glasses, or a bottle of wine, drives off
their cares, such cures only make me outwardly passable in
company, but _never_ drive off mine.
'I know only that it is time for me to be something, when I am
nothing, that my father cannot have long to live, and that, when
he dies, my evening, which is already twilight, will become night;
that I shall then have a constitution still so strong that it will
keep me years in torture and despair, when I should every hour
pray that I might die.
'I know that I am avoiding, while I write, one greatest cause of
my utter despair; but, by G----, sir, it is nearly too bitter for
me to allude to it!' Here follow a number of references to the
subject, with which the reader is already familiar, and therefore
it is unnecessary to repeat them here. Then Branwell continues:
'To no one living have I said what I now say to you, and I should
not bother yourself with my incoherent account, did I not believe
that you would be able to understand somewhat of what I
meant--though _not all_, sir; for he who is without hope, and
knows that his clock is at twelve at night, cannot communicate his
feelings to one who finds _his_ at twelve at noon.'