Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (581 page)

‘So I will not now ask why Emily was torn from us in the fulness of our attachment, rooted up in the prime of her own days, in the promise of her powers; why her existence now lies like a field of green corn trodden down, like a tree in full bearing struck at the root.  I will only say, sweet is rest after labour and calm after tempest, and repeat again and again that Emily knows that now. — Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

 
And then there are these last pathetic references to the beloved sister.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
January
2
nd
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — Untoward circumstances come to me, I think, less painfully than pleasant ones would just now.  The lash of the
Quarterly
, however severely applied, cannot sting — as its praise probably would not elate me.  Currer Bell feels a sorrowful independence of reviews and reviewers; their approbation might indeed fall like an additional weight on his heart, but their censure has no bitterness for him.

‘My sister Anne sends the accompanying answer to the letter received through you the other day; will you be kind enough to post it?  She is not well yet, nor is papa, both are suffering under severe influenza colds.  My letters had better be brief at present — they cannot be cheerful.  I am, however, still sustained.  While looking with dismay on the desolation sickness and death have wrought in our home, I can combine with awe of God’s judgments a sense of gratitude for his mercies.  Yet life has become very void, and hope has proved a strange traitor; when I shall again be able to put confidence in her suggestions, I know not: she kept whispering that Emily would not,
could
not die, and where is she now?  Out of my reach, out of my world — torn from me. — Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘
March
3
rd
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — Hitherto, I have always forgotten to acknowledge the receipt of the parcel from Cornhill.  It came at a time when I could not open it nor think of it; its contents are still a mystery.  I will not taste, till I can enjoy them.  I looked at it the other day.  It reminded me too sharply of the time when the first parcel arrived last October: Emily was then beginning to be ill — the opening of the parcel and examination of the books cheered her; their perusal occupied her for many a weary day.  The very evening before her last morning dawned I read to her one of Emerson’s essays.  I read on, till I found
 
she was not listening — I thought to recommence next day.  Next day, the first glance at her face told me what would happen before night-fall.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘
November
19
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — I am very sorry to hear that Mr. Taylor’s illness has proved so much more serious than was anticipated, but I do hope he is now better.  That he should be quite well cannot be as yet expected, for I believe rheumatic fever is a complaint slow to leave the system it has invaded.

‘Now that I have almost formed the resolution of coming to London, the thought begins to present itself to me under a pleasant aspect.  At first it was sad; it recalled the last time I went and with whom, and to whom I came home, and in what dear companionship I again and again narrated all that had been seen, heard, and uttered in that visit.  Emily would never go into any sort of society herself, and whenever I went I could on my return communicate to her a pleasure that suited her, by giving the distinct faithful impression of each scene I had witnessed.  When pressed to go, she would sometimes say, “What is the use?  Charlotte will bring it all home to me.”  And indeed I delighted to please her thus.  My occupation is gone now.

‘I shall come to be lectured.  I perceive you are ready with animadversion; you are not at all well satisfied on some points, so I will open my ears to hear, nor will I close my heart against conviction; but I forewarn you, I have my own doctrines, not acquired, but innate, some that I fear cannot be rooted up without tearing away all the soil from which they spring, and leaving only unproductive rock for new seed.

‘I have read the
Caxtons
, I have looked at
Fanny Hervey
.  I think I will not write what I think of either — should I see you I will speak it.

‘Take a hundred, take a thousand of such works and weigh them in the balance against a page of Thackeray.  I hope Mr. Thackeray is recovered.

‘The
Sun
, the
Morning Herald
, and the
Critic
came this
 
morning.  None of them express disappointment from
Shirley
, or on the whole compare her disadvantageously with
Jane
.  It strikes me that those worthies — the
Athenæum
,
Spectator
,
Economist
, made haste to be first with their notices that they might give the tone; if so, their manœuvre has not yet quite succeeded.

‘The
Critic
, our old friend, is a friend still.  Why does the pulse of pain beat in every pleasure?  Ellis and Acton Bell are referred to, and where are they?  I will not repine.  Faith whispers they are not in those graves to which imagination turns — the feeling, thinking, the inspired natures are beyond earth, in a region more glorious.  I believe them blessed.  I think, I
will
think, my loss has been
their
gain.  Does it weary you that I refer to them?  If so, forgive me. — Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.

‘Before closing this I glanced over the letter inclosed under your cover.  Did you read it?  It is from a lady, not quite an old maid, but nearly one, she says; no signature or date; a queer, but good-natured production, it made me half cry, half laugh.  I am sure
Shirley
has been exciting enough for her, and too exciting.  I cannot well reply to the letter since it bears no address, and I am glad — I should not know what to say.  She is not sure whether I am a gentleman or not, but I fancy she thinks so.  Have you any idea who she is?  If I were a gentleman and like my heroes, she suspects she should fall in love with me.  She had better not.  It would be a pity to cause such a waste of sensibility.  You and Mr. Smith would not let me announce myself as a single gentleman of mature age in my preface, but if you had permitted it, a great many elderly spinsters would have been pleased.’

The last words that I have to say concerning Emily are contained in a letter to me from Miss Ellen Nussey.

‘So very little is known of Emily Brontë,’ she writes, ‘that every little detail awakens an interest.  Her extreme reserve seemed impenetrable, yet she was intensely lovable; she invited
 
confidence in her moral power.  Few people have the gift of looking and smiling as she could look and smile.  One of her rare expressive looks was something to remember through life, there was such a depth of soul and feeling, and yet a shyness of revealing herself — a strength of self-containment seen in no other.  She was in the strictest sense a law unto herself, and a heroine in keeping to her law.  She and gentle Anne were to be seen twined together as united statues of power and humility.  They were to be seen with their arms lacing each other in their younger days whenever their occupations permitted their union.  On the top of a moor or in a deep glen Emily was a child in spirit for glee and enjoyment; or when thrown entirely on her own resources to do a kindness, she could be vivacious in conversation and enjoy giving pleasure.  A spell of mischief also lurked in her on occasions when out on the moors.  She enjoyed leading Charlotte where she would not dare to go of her own free-will.  Charlotte had a mortal dread of unknown animals, and it was Emily’s pleasure to lead her into close vicinity, and then to tell her of how and of what she had done, laughing at her horror with great amusement.  If Emily wanted a book she might have left in the sitting-room she would dart in again without looking at any one, especially if any guest were present.  Among the curates, Mr. Weightman was her only exception for any conventional courtesy.  The ability with which she took up music was amazing; the style, the touch, and the expression was that of a professor absorbed heart and soul in his theme.  The two dogs, Keeper and Flossy, were always in quiet waiting by the side of Emily and Anne during their breakfast of Scotch oatmeal and milk, and always had a share handed down to them at the close of the meal.  Poor old Keeper, Emily’s faithful friend and worshipper, seemed to understand her like a human being.  One evening, when the four friends were sitting closely round the fire in the sitting-room, Keeper forced himself in between Charlotte and Emily and mounted himself on Emily’s lap; finding the space too limited for his comfort he pressed himself forward on to the guest’s knees, making himself quite comfortable.  Emily’s
 
heart was won by the unresisting endurance of the visitor, little guessing that she herself, being in close contact, was the inspiring cause of submission to Keeper’s preference.  Sometimes Emily would delight in showing off Keeper — make him frantic in action, and roar with the voice of a lion.  It was a terrifying exhibition within the walls of an ordinary sitting-room.  Keeper was a solemn mourner at Emily’s funeral and never recovered his cheerfulness.’

CHAPTER VII: ANNE BRONTË

It can scarcely be doubted that Anne Brontë’s two novels,
Agnes Grey
and
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, would have long since fallen into oblivion but for the inevitable association with the romances of her two greater sisters.  While this may he taken for granted, it is impossible not to feel, even at the distance of half a century, a sense of Anne’s personal charm.  Gentleness is a word always associated with her by those who knew her.  When Mr. Nicholls saw what professed to be a portrait of Anne in a magazine article, he wrote: ‘What an awful caricature of the dear, gentle Anne Brontë!’  Mr. Nicholls has a portrait of Anne in his possession, drawn by Charlotte, which he pronounces to be an admirable likeness, and this does convey the impression of a sweet and gentle nature.

Anne, as we have seen, was taken in long clothes from Thornton to Haworth.  Her godmother was a Miss Outhwaite, a fact I learn from an inscription in Anne’s
Book of Common Prayer
.  ‘
Miss Outhwaite to her goddaughter
,
Anne Brontë
,
July
13
th
, 1827.’  Miss Outhwaite was not forgetful of her goddaughter, for by her will she left Anne £200.

There is a sampler worked by Anne, bearing date January 23rd, 1830, and there is a later book than the Prayer Book, with Anne’s name in it, and, as might be expected, it is a good-conduct prize. 
Prize for good conduct presented to Miss A. Brontë with Miss Wooler’s kind love
,
 
Roe Head
,
Dec.
14
th
, 1836, is the inscription in a copy of Watt
On the Improvement of the Mind
.

Apart from the correspondence we know little more than this — that Anne was the least assertive of the three sisters, and that she was more distinctly a general favourite.  We have Charlotte’s own word for it that even the curates ventured upon ‘sheep’s eyes’ at Anne.  We know all too little of her two experiences as governess, first at Blake Hall with Mrs. Ingham, and later at Thorp Green with Mrs. Robinson.  The painful episode of Branwell’s madness came to disturb her sojourn at the latter place, but long afterwards her old pupils, the Misses Robinson, called to see her at Haworth; and one of them, who became a Mrs. Clapham of Keighley, always retained the most kindly memories of her gentle governess.

With the exception of these two uncomfortable episodes as governess, Anne would seem to have had no experience of the larger world.  Even before Anne’s death, Charlotte had visited Brussels, London, and Hathersage (in Derbyshire).  Anne never, I think, set foot out of her native county, although she was the only one of her family to die away from home.  Of her correspondence I have only the two following letters: —

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
October
4
th
, 1847.

‘My dear Miss Nussey, — Many thanks to you for your unexpected and welcome epistle.  Charlotte is well, and meditates writing to you.  Happily for all parties the east wind no longer prevails.  During its continuance she complained of its influence as usual.  I too suffered from it in some degree, as I always do, more or less; but this time, it brought me no reinforcement of colds and coughs, which is what I dread the most.  Emily considers it a very uninteresting wind, but it does not affect her nervous system.  Charlotte
 
agrees with me in thinking the — -
  
a very provoking affair.  You are quite mistaken about her parasol; she affirms she brought it back, and I can bear witness to the fact, having seen it yesterday in her possession.  As for my book, I have no wish to see it again till I see you along with it, and then it will be welcome enough for the sake of the bearer.  We are all here much as you left us.  I have no news to tell you, except that Mr. Nicholls begged a holiday and went to Ireland three or four weeks ago, and is not expected back till Saturday; but that, I dare say, is no news at all.  We were all and severally pleased and gratified for your kind and judiciously selected presents, from papa down to Tabby, or down to myself, perhaps I ought rather to say.  The crab-cheese is excellent, and likely to be very useful, but I don’t intend to need it.  It is not choice but necessity has induced me to choose such a tiny sheet of paper for my letter, having none more suitable at hand; but perhaps it will contain as much as you need wish to read, and I to write, for I find I have nothing more to say, except that your little Tabby must be a charming little creature.  That is all, for as Charlotte is writing, or about to write to you herself, I need not send any messages from her.  Therefore accept my best love.  I must not omit the Major’s
  
compliments.  And — Believe me to be your affectionate friend,

‘Anne Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
January
4
th
, 1848.

‘My dear Miss Nussey, — I am not going to give you a “nice
long
letter” — on the contrary, I mean to content myself with a shabby little note, to be ingulfed in a letter of Charlotte’s, which will, of course, be infinitely more acceptable to you than any production of mine, though I do not question your friendly regard for me, or the indulgent welcome you would accord to a missive of mine, even without a more agreeable companion to
 
back it; but you must know there is a lamentable deficiency in my organ of language, which makes me almost as bad a hand at writing as talking, unless I have something particular to say.  I have now, however, to thank you and your friend for your kind letter and her pretty watch-guards, which I am sure we shall all of us value the more for being the work of her own hands.  You do not tell us how
you
bear the present unfavourable weather.  We are all cut up by this cruel east wind.  Most of us, i.e. Charlotte, Emily, and I have had the influenza, or a bad cold instead, twice over within the space of a few weeks.  Papa has had it once.  Tabby has escaped it altogether.  I have no news to tell you, for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to speak of) since you were here — and yet we contrive to be busy from morning till night.  Flossy is fatter than ever, but still active enough to relish a sheep-hunt.  I hope you and your circle have been more fortunate in the matter of colds than we have.

‘With kind regards to all, — I remain, dear Miss Nussey, yours ever affectionately,

‘Anne Brontë.’

Agnes Grey
, as we have noted, was published by Newby, in one volume, in 1847. 
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
was issued by the same publisher, in three volumes, in 1848.  It is not generally known that
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
went into a second edition the same year; and I should have pronounced it incredible, were not a copy of the later issue in my possession, that Anne Brontë had actually written a preface to this edition.  The fact is entirely ignored in the correspondence.  The preface in question makes it quite clear, if any evidence of that were necessary, that Anne had her brother in mind in writing the book.  ‘I could not be understood to suppose,’ she says, ‘that the proceedings of the unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society: the case is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive; but I
 
knew that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from falling into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not been written in vain.’  ‘One word more and I have done,’ she continues.  ‘Respecting the author’s identity, I would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and, therefore, let not his faults be attributed to them.  As to whether the name is real or fictitious, it cannot greatly signify to those who know him only by his works.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
January
18
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — In sitting down to write to you I feel as if I were doing a wrong and a selfish thing.  I believe I ought to discontinue my correspondence with you till times change, and the tide of calamity which of late days has set so strongly in against us takes a turn.  But the fact is, sometimes I feel it absolutely necessary to unburden my mind.  To papa I must only speak cheeringly, to Anne only encouragingly — to you I may give some hint of the dreary truth.

‘Anne and I sit alone and in seclusion as you fancy us, but we do not study.  Anne cannot study now, she can scarcely read; she occupies Emily’s chair; she does not get well.  A week ago we sent for a medical man of skill and experience from Leeds to see her.  He examined her with the stethoscope.  His report I forbear to dwell on for the present — even skilful physicians have often been mistaken in their conjectures.

‘My first impulse was to hasten her away to a warmer climate, but this was forbidden: she must not travel; she is not to stir from the house this winter; the temperature of her room is to be kept constantly equal.

‘Had leave been given to try change of air and scene, I should hardly have known how to act.  I could not possibly leave papa; and when I mentioned his accompanying us, the bare thought distressed him too much to be dwelt upon.  Papa
 
is now upwards of seventy years of age; his habits for nearly thirty years have been those of absolute retirement; any change in them is most repugnant to him, and probably could not, at this time especially when the hand of God is so heavy upon his old age, be ventured upon without danger.

‘When we lost Emily I thought we had drained the very dregs of our cup of trial, but now when I hear Anne cough as Emily coughed, I tremble lest there should be exquisite bitterness yet to taste.  However, I must not look forwards, nor must I look backwards.  Too often I feel like one crossing an abyss on a narrow plank — a glance round might quite unnerve.

‘So circumstanced, my dear sir, what claim have I on your friendship, what right to the comfort of your letters?  My literary character is effaced for the time, and it is by that only you know me.  Care of papa and Anne is necessarily my chief present object in life, to the exclusion of all that could give me interest with my publishers or their connections.  Should Anne get better, I think I could rally and become Currer Bell once more, but if otherwise, I look no farther: sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

‘Anne is very patient in her illness, as patient as Emily was unflinching.  I recall one sister and look at the other with a sort of reverence as well as affection — under the test of suffering neither has faltered.

‘All the days of this winter have gone by darkly and heavily like a funeral train.  Since September, sickness has not quitted the house.  It is strange it did not use to be so, but I suspect now all this has been coming on for years.  Unused, any of us, to the possession of robust health, we have not noticed the gradual approaches of decay; we did not know its symptoms: the little cough, the small appetite, the tendency to take cold at every variation of atmosphere have been regarded as things of course.  I see them in another light now.

‘If you answer this, write to me as you would to a person in an average state of tranquillity and happiness.  I want to keep myself as firm and calm as I can.  While papa and Anne want me, I hope, I pray, never to fail them.  Were I to see you I should
 
endeavour to converse on ordinary topics, and I should wish to write on the same — besides, it will be less harassing to yourself to address me as usual.

‘May God long preserve to you the domestic treasures you value; and when bereavement at last comes, may He give you strength to bear it. — Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS