Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (471 page)

It is probable, that even her sisters and most intimate friends did not know of this dread of ultimate blindness which beset her at this period.  What eyesight she had to spare she reserved for the use of her father.  She did but little plain-sewing; not more writing than could be avoided, and employed herself principally in knitting.

“April 2nd, 1845.

“I see plainly it is proved to us that there is scarcely a draught of unmingled happiness to be had in this world.  — -’s illness comes with — -’s marriage.  Mary T. finds herself free, and on that path to adventure and exertion to which she has so long been seeking admission.  Sickness, hardship, danger are her fellow travellers — her inseparable companions.  She may have been out of the reach of these S. W. N. W. gales, before they began to blow, or they may have spent their fury on land, and not ruffled the sea much.  If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed, while we have been sleeping in our beds, or lying awake thinking about her.  Yet these real, material dangers, when once past, leave in the mind the satisfaction of having struggled with difficulty, and overcome it.  Strength, courage, and experience are their invariable results; whereas, I doubt whether suffering purely mental has any good result, unless it be to make us by comparison less sensitive to physical suffering . . . Ten years ago, I should have laughed at your account of the blunder you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married man.  I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over-much, and wondered how you could possibly regret being civil to a decent individual, merely because he happened to be single, instead of double.  Now, however, I can perceive that your scruples are founded on common sense.  I know that if women wish to escape the stigma of husband-seeking, they must act and look like marble or clay — cold, expressionless, bloodless; for every appearance of feeling, of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike construed by the world into the attempt to hook a husband.  Never mind! well-meaning women have their own consciences to comfort them after all.  Do not, therefore, be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are, affectionate and good-hearted; do not too harshly repress sentiments and feelings excellent in themselves, because you fear that some puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out to fascinate him; do not condemn yourself to live only by halves, because if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to his inanity.  Still, a composed, decent, equable deportment is a capital treasure to a woman, and that you possess.  Write again soon, for I feel rather fierce, and want stroking down.”

“June 13th, 1845.

“As to the Mrs. — -, who, you say, is like me, I somehow feel no leaning to her at all.  I never do to people who are said to be like me, because I have always a notion that they are only like me in the disagreeable, outside, first-acquaintance part of my character; in those points which are obvious to the ordinary run of people, and which I know are not pleasing.  You say she is ‘clever’ — ‘a clever person.’  How I dislike the term!  It means rather a shrewd, very ugly, meddling, talking woman . . . I feel reluctant to leave papa for a single day.  His sight diminishes weekly; and can it be wondered at that, as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving him, his spirits sometimes sink?  It is so hard to feel that his few and scanty pleasures must all soon go.  He has now the greatest difficulty in either reading or writing; and then he dreads the state of dependence to which blindness will inevitably reduce him.  He fears that he will be nothing in his parish.  I try to cheer him; sometimes I succeed temporarily, but no consolation can restore his sight, or atone for the want of it.  Still he is never peevish; never impatient; only anxious and dejected.”

For the reason just given, Charlotte declined an invitation to the only house to which she was now ever asked to come.  In answer to her correspondent’s reply to this letter, she says: —

“You thought I refused you coldly, did you?  It was a queer sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to say Yes, and was obliged to say No.  Matters, however, are now a little changed.  Anne is come home, and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty.  Then, if all be well, I will come and see you.  Tell me only when I must come.  Mention the week and the day.  Have the kindness also to answer the following queries, if you can.  How far is it from Leeds to Sheffield?  Can you give me a notion of the cost?  Of course, when I come, you will let me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag me out a visiting.  I have no desire at all to see your curate.  I think he must be like all the other curates I have seen; and they seem to me a self-seeking, vain, empty race.  At this blessed moment, we have no less than three of them in Haworth parish — and there is not one to mend another.  The other day, they all three, accompanied by Mr. S., dropped, or rather rushed, in unexpectedly to tea.  It was Monday (baking day), and I was hot and tired; still, if they had behaved quietly and decently, I would have served them out their tea in peace; but they began glorifying themselves, and abusing Dissenters in such a manner, that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few sentences sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb.  Papa was greatly horrified also, but I don’t regret it.”

On her return from this short visit to her friend, she travelled with a gentleman in the railway carriage, whose features and bearing betrayed him, in a moment, to be a Frenchman.  She ventured to ask him if such was not the case; and, on his admitting it, she further inquired if he had not passed a considerable time in Germany, and was answered that he had; her quick ear detected something of the thick guttural pronunciation, which, Frenchmen say, they are able to discover even in the grandchildren of their countrymen who have lived any time beyond the Rhine.  Charlotte had retained her skill in the language by the habit of which she thus speaks to M. Héger: —

“Je crains beaucoup d’oublier le français — j’apprends tous les jours une demie page de français par coeur, et j’ai grand plaisir à apprendre cette leçon, Veuillez presenter à Madame l’assurance de mon estime; je crains que Maria-Louise et Claire ne m’aient déjà oubliées; mais je vous reverrai un jour; aussitôt que j’aurais gagné assez d’argent pour alter à Bruxelles, j’y irai.”

And so her journey back to Haworth, after the rare pleasure of this visit to her friend, was pleasantly beguiled by conversation with the French gentleman; and she arrived at home refreshed and happy.  What to find there?

It was ten o’clock when she reached the parsonage.  Branwell was there, unexpectedly, very ill.  He had come home a day or two before, apparently for a holiday; in reality, I imagine, because some discovery had been made which rendered his absence imperatively desirable.  The day of Charlotte’s return, he had received a letter from Mr. — -, sternly dismissing him, intimating that his proceedings were discovered, characterising them as bad beyond expression, and charging him, on pain of exposure, to break off immediately, and for ever, all communication with every member of the family.

Whatever may have been the nature and depth of Branwell’s sins, — whatever may have been his temptation, whatever his guilt, — there is no doubt of the suffering which his conduct entailed upon his poor father and his innocent sisters.  The hopes and plans they had cherished long, and laboured hard to fulfil, were cruelly frustrated; henceforward their days were embittered and the natural rest of their nights destroyed by his paroxysms of remorse.  Let us read of the misery caused to his poor sisters in Charlotte’s own affecting words: —

“We have had sad work with Branwell.  He thought of nothing but stunning or drowning his agony of mind.  No one in this house could have rest; and, at last, we have been obliged to send him from home for a week, with some one to look after him.  He has written to me this morning, expressing some sense of contrition . . . but as long as he remains at home, I scarce dare hope for peace in the house.  We must all, I fear, prepare for a season of distress and disquietude.  When I left you, I was strongly impressed with the feeling that I was going back to sorrow.”

“August, 1845.

“Things here at home are much as usual; not very bright as it regards Branwell, though his health, and consequently his temper, have been somewhat better this last day or two, because he is now
forced to
abstain.”

“August 18th, 1845.

“I have delayed writing, because I have no good news to communicate.  My hopes ebb low indeed about Branwell.  I sometimes fear he will never be fit for much.  The late blow to his prospects and feelings has quite made him reckless.  It is only absolute want of means that acts as any check to him.  One ought, indeed, to hope to the very last; and I try to do so, but occasionally hope in his case seems so fallacious.”

“Nov. 4th, 1845.

“I hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth.  It almost seemed as if Branwell had a chance of getting employment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, dear — -, come and see us.  But the place (a secretaryship to a railway committee) is given to another person.  Branwell still remains at home; and while
he
is here,
you
shall not come.  I am more confirmed in that resolution the more I see of him.  I wish I could say one word to you in his favour, but I cannot.  I will hold my tongue.  We are all obliged to you for your kind suggestion about Leeds; but I think our school schemes are, for the present, at rest.”

“Dec. 31st, 1845.

“You say well, in speaking of — -, that no sufferings are so awful as those brought on by dissipation; alas! I see the truth of this observation daily proved. — and — must have as weary and burdensome a life of it in waiting upon their unhappy brother.  It seems grievous, indeed, that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely.”

In fact, all their latter days blighted with the presence of cruel, shameful suffering, — the premature deaths of two at least of the sisters, — all the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short, — may be dated from Midsummer 1845.

For the last three years of Branwell’s life, he took opium habitually, by way of stunning conscience; he drank moreover, whenever he could get the opportunity.  The reader may say that I have mentioned his tendency to intemperance long before.  It is true; but it did not become habitual, as far as I can learn, until after he was dismissed from his tutorship.  He took opium, because it made him forget for a time more effectually than drink; and, besides, it was more portable.  In procuring it he showed all the cunning of the opium-eater.  He would steal out while the family were at church — to which he had professed himself too ill to go — and manage to cajole the village druggist out of a lump; or, it might be, the carrier had unsuspiciously brought him some in a packet from a distance.  For some time before his death he had attacks of delirium tremens of the most frightful character; he slept in his father’s room, and he would sometimes declare that either he or his father should be dead before the morning.  The trembling sisters, sick with fright, would implore their father not to expose himself to this danger; but Mr. Brontë is no timid man, and perhaps he felt that he could possibly influence his son to some self-restraint, more by showing trust in him than by showing fear.  The sisters often listened for the report of a pistol in the dead of the night, till watchful eye and hearkening ear grew heavy and dull with the perpetual strain upon their nerves.  In the mornings young Brontë would saunter out, saying, with a drunkard’s incontinence of speech, “The poor old man and I have had a terrible night of it; he does his best — the poor old man! but it’s all over with me.”

CHAPTER XIV

In the course of this sad autumn of 1845, a new interest came up; faint, indeed, and often lost sight of in the vivid pain and constant pressure of anxiety respecting their brother.  In the biographical notice of her sisters, which Charlotte prefixed to the edition of “Wuthering Heights” and “Agnes Grey,” published in 1850 — a piece of writing unique, as far as I know, in its pathos and its power — she says: —

“One day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse, in my sister Emily’s handwriting.  Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me — a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write.  I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine.  To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy, and elevating.  My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed: it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication . . . Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that since Emily’s had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers.  I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a sweet sincere pathos of their own.  We had very early cherished the dream of one day being authors.  We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, get them printed.  Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names, positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because — without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called ‘feminine,’ we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise.  The bringing out of our little book was hard work.  As was to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted; but for this we had been prepared at the outset; though inexperienced ourselves, we had read the experience of others.  The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of getting answers of any kind from the publishers to whom we applied.  Being greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured to apply to the Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, for a word of advice;
they
may have forgotten the circumstance, but
I
have not, for from them I received a brief and business-like, but civil and sensible reply, on which we acted, and at last made way.”

I inquired from Mr. Robert Chambers, and found, as Miss Brontë conjectured, that he had entirely forgotten the application which had been made to him and his brother for advice; nor had they any copy or memorandum of the correspondence.

There is an intelligent man living in Haworth, who has given me some interesting particulars relating to the sisters about this period.  He says: —

“I have known Miss Brontë, as Miss Brontë, a long time; indeed, ever since they came to Haworth in 1819.  But I had not much acquaintance with the family till about 1843, when I began to do a little in the stationery line.  Nothing of that kind could be had nearer than Keighley before I began.  They used to buy a great deal of writing paper, and I used to wonder whatever they did with so much.  I sometimes thought they contributed to the Magazines.  When I was out of stock, I was always afraid of their coming; they seemed so distressed about it, if I had none.  I have walked to Halifax (a distance of ten miles) many a time, for half a ream of paper, for fear of being without it when they came.  I could not buy more at a time for want of capital.  I was always short of that.  I did so like them to come when I had anything for them; they were so much different to anybody else; so gentle and kind, and so very quiet.  They never talked much.  Charlotte sometimes would sit and inquire about our circumstances so kindly and feelingly! . . . Though I am a poor working man (which I have never felt to be any degradation), I could talk with her with the greatest freedom.  I always felt quite at home with her.  Though I never had any school education, I never felt the want of it in her company.”

The publishers to whom she finally made a successful application for the production of “Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell’s poems,” were Messrs. Aylott and Jones, Paternoster Row.  Mr. Aylott has kindly placed the letters which she wrote to them on the subject at my disposal.  The first is dated January 28th, 1846, and in it she inquires if they will publish one volume octavo of poems; if not at their own risk, on the author’s account.  It is signed “C. Brontë.”  They must have replied pretty speedily, for on January 31st she writes again: —

“GENTLEMEN,

“Since you agree to undertake the publication of the work respecting which I applied to you, I should wish now to know, as soon as possible, the cost of paper and printing.  I will then send the necessary remittance, together with the manuscript.  I should like it to be printed in one octavo volume, of the same quality of paper and size of type as Moxon’s last edition of Wordsworth.  The poems will occupy, I should think, from 200 to 250 pages.  They are not the production of a clergyman, nor are they exclusively of a religious character; but I presume these circumstances will be immaterial.  It will, perhaps, be necessary that you should see the manuscript, in order to calculate accurately the expense of publication; in that case I will send it immediately.  I should like, however, previously, to have some idea of the probable cost; and if, from what I have said, you can make a rough calculation on the subject, I should be greatly obliged to you.”

In her next letter, February 6th, she says: —

“You will perceive that the poems are the work of three persons, relatives — their separate pieces are distinguished by their respective signatures.”

She writes again on February 15th; and on the 16th she says: —

“The MS. will certainly form a thinner volume than I had anticipated.  I cannot name another model which I should like it precisely to resemble, yet, I think, a duodecimo form, and a somewhat reduced, though still
clear
type, would be preferable.  I only stipulate for
clear
type, not too small, and good paper.”

On February 21st she selects the “long primer type” for the poems, and will remit 31
l
. 10
s
. in a few days.

Minute as the details conveyed in these notes are, they are not trivial, because they afford such strong indications of character.  If the volume was to be published at their own risk, it was necessary that the sister conducting the negotiation should make herself acquainted with the different kinds of type, and the various sizes of books.  Accordingly she bought a small volume, from which to learn all she could on the subject of preparation for the press.  No half-knowledge — no trusting to other people for decisions which she could make for herself; and yet a generous and full confidence, not misplaced, in the thorough probity of Messrs. Aylott and Jones.  The caution in ascertaining the risk before embarking in the enterprise, and the prompt payment of the money required, even before it could be said to have assumed the shape of a debt, were both parts of a self-reliant and independent character.  Self-contained also was she.  During the whole time that the volume of poems was in the course of preparation and publication, no word was written telling anyone, out of the household circle, what was in progress.

I have had some of the letters placed in my hands, which she addressed to her old schoolmistress, Miss W-.  They begin a little before this time.  Acting on the conviction, which I have all along entertained, that where Charlotte Brontë’s own words could be used, no others ought to take their place, I shall make extracts from this series, according to their dates.

“Jan. 30th, 1846.

“MY DEAR MISS W — -,

“I have not yet paid my visit to — -; it is, indeed, more than a year since I was there, but I frequently hear from E., and she did not fail to tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire; she was unable, however, to give me your exact address.  Had I known it, I should have written to you long since.  I thought you would wonder how we were getting on, when you heard of the railway panic; and you may be sure that I am very glad to be able to answer your kind inquiries by the assurance that our small capital is as yet undiminished.  The York and Midland is, as you say, a very good line, yet, I confess to you, I should wish, for my own part, to be wise in time.  I cannot think that even the very best lines will continue for many years at their present premiums; and I have been most anxious for us to sell our shares ere it be too late, and to secure the proceeds in some safer, if, for the present, less profitable investment.  I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to regard the affair precisely from my point of view; and I feel as if I would rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily’s feelings by acting in direct opposition to her opinion.  She managed in a most handsome and able manner for me, when I was in Brussels, and prevented by distance from looking after my own interests; therefore, I will let her manage still, and take the consequences.  Disinterested and energetic she certainly is; and if she be not quite so tractable or open to conviction as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not the lot of humanity; and as long as we can regard those we love, and to whom we are closely allied, with profound and never-shaken esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex us occasionally by what appear to us unreasonable and headstrong notions.

“You, my dear Miss W — -, know, full as well as I do, the value of sisters’ affection to each other; there is nothing like it in this world, I believe, when they are nearly equal in age, and similar in education, tastes, and sentiments.  You ask about Branwell; he never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear that he has rendered himself incapable of filling any respectable station in life; besides, if money were at his disposal, he would use it only to his own injury; the faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him.  You ask me if I do not think that men are strange beings?  I do, indeed.  I have often thought so; and I think, too, that the mode of bringing them up is strange: they are not sufficiently guarded from temptation.  Girls are protected as if they were something very frail or silly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world, as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and least liable to be led astray.  I am glad you like Broomsgrove, though, I dare say, there are few places you would
not
like, with Mrs. M. for a companion.  I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves that there really is such a thing as retributive justice even in this world.  You worked hard; you denied yourself all pleasure, almost all relaxation, in your youth, and in the prime of life; now you are free, and that while you have still, I hope, many years of vigour and health in which you can enjoy freedom.  Besides, I have another and very egotistical motive for being pleased; it seems that even ‘a lone woman’ can be happy, as well as cherished wives and proud mothers.  I am glad of that.  I speculate much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be-married women now-a-days; and I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman, who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or brother; and who, having attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, and fortitude to support inevitably pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend.”

During the time that the negotiation with Messrs. Aylott and Co. was going on, Charlotte went to visit her old school-friend, with whom she was in such habits of confidential intimacy; but neither then nor afterwards, did she ever speak to her of the publication of the poems; nevertheless, this young lady suspected that the sisters wrote for Magazines; and in this idea she was confirmed when, on one of her visits to Haworth, she saw Anne with a number of “Chambers’s Journal,” and a gentle smile of pleasure stealing over her placid face as she read.

“What is the matter?” asked the friend.  “Why do you smile?”

“Only because I see they have inserted one of my poems,” was the quiet reply; and not a word more was said on the subject.

To this friend Charlotte addressed the following letters: —

“March 3rd, 1846.

“I reached home a little after two o’clock, all safe and right yesterday; I found papa very well; his sight much the same.  Emily and Anne were going to Keighley to meet me; unfortunately, I had returned by the old road, while they were gone by the new, and we missed each other.  They did not get home till half-past four, and were caught in the heavy shower of rain which fell in the afternoon.  I am sorry to say Anne has taken a little cold in consequence, but I hope she will soon be well.  Papa was much cheered by my report of Mr. C.’s opinion, and of old Mrs. E.’s experience; but I could perceive he caught gladly at the idea of deferring the operation a few months longer.  I went into the room where Branwell was, to speak to him, about an hour after I got home: it was very forced work to address him.  I might have spared myself the trouble, as he took no notice, and made no reply; he was stupified.  My fears were not in vain.  I hear that he got a sovereign while I have been away, under pretence of paying a pressing debt; he went immediately and changed it at a public-house, and has employed it as was to be expected.  — - concluded her account by saying he was a ‘hopeless being;’ it is too true.  In his present state it is scarcely possible to stay in the room where he is.  What the future has in store I do not know.”