Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (609 page)

‘I should say then — judging as well as I can from the materials for forming an opinion your letter affords, and from what I can thence conjecture of Fanny’s actual and prospective position — that you would do well and wisely to put your daughter out.  The experiment might do good and could not do harm, because even if she failed at the first trial (which is not unlikely) she would still be in some measure benefited by the effort.

‘I duly received
Mirabeau
from Mr. Smith.  I must repeat, it is really
too
kind.  When I have read the book, I will tell you what I think of it — its subject is interesting.  One thing a little annoyed me — as I glanced over the pages I fancied I detected a savour of Carlyle’s peculiarities of style.  Now Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would write plain English; and to imitate his Germanisms is, I think, to imitate his faults.  Is the author of this work a Manchester man?  I must not ask his name, I suppose. — Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Currer Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
June
22
nd
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — After reading a book which has both interested and informed you, you like to be able, on laying it down, to speak of it with unqualified approbation — to praise it cordially; you do not like to stint your panegyric, to counteract its effect with blame.

‘For this reason I feel a little difficulty in telling you what I think of
The Life of Mirabeau
.  It has interested me much, and I have derived from it additional information.  In the course of reading it, I have often felt called upon to approve the ability and tact of the writer, to admire the skill with which he conducts the narrative, enchains the reader’s attention, and keeps it fixed upon his hero; but I have also been moved frequently to disapprobation.  It is not the political principles of the writer with which I find fault, nor is it his talents I feel
 
inclined to disparage; to speak truth, it is his manner of treating Mirabeau’s errors that offends — then, I think, he is neither wise nor right — there, I think, he betrays a little of crudeness, a little of presumption, not a little of indiscretion.

‘Could you with confidence put this work into the hands of your son, secure that its perusal would not harm him, that it would not leave on his mind some vague impression that there is a grandeur in vice committed on a colossal scale?  Whereas, the fact is, that in vice there is no grandeur, that it is, on whichever side you view it, and in whatever accumulation, only a foul, sordid, and degrading thing.  The fact is, that this great Mirabeau was a mixture of divinity and dirt; that there was no divinity whatever in his errors, they were all sullying dirt; that they ruined him, brought down his genius to the kennel, deadened his fine nature and generous sentiments, made all his greatness as nothing; that they cut him off in his prime, obviated all his aims, and struck him dead in the hour when France most needed him.

‘Mirabeau’s life and fate teach, to my perception, the most depressing lesson I have read for years.  One would fain have hoped that so many noble qualities must have made a noble character and achieved noble ends.  No — the mighty genius lived a miserable and degraded life, and died a dog’s death, for want of self-control, for want of morality, for lack of religion.  One’s heart is wrung for Mirabeau after reading his life; and it is not of his greatness we think, when we close the volume, so much as of his hopeless recklessness, and of the sufferings, degradation, and untimely end in which it issued.  It appears to me that the biographer errs also in being too solicitous to present his hero always in a striking point of view — too negligent of the exact truth.  He eulogises him too much; he subdues all the other characters mentioned and keeps them in the shade that Mirabeau may stand out more conspicuously.  This, no doubt, is right in art, and admissible in fiction; but in history (and biography is the history of an individual) it tends to weaken the force of a narrative by weakening your faith in its accuracy.

 
TO W. S. WILLIAMS

Chapter Coffee-House, Ivy Lane,
‘
July
8
th
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — Your invitation is too welcome not to be at once accepted.  I should much like to see Mrs. Williams and her children, and very much like to have a quiet chat with yourself.  Would it suit you if we came to-morrow, after dinner — say about seven o’clock, and spent Sunday evening with you?

‘We shall be truly glad to see you whenever it is convenient to you to call. — I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth,
July
13
th
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — We reached home safely yesterday, and in a day or two I doubt not we shall get the better of the fatigues of our journey.

‘It was a somewhat hasty step to hurry up to town as we did, but I do not regret having taken it.  In the first place, mystery is irksome, and I was glad to shake it off with you and Mr. Smith, and to show myself to you for what I am, neither more nor less — thus removing any false expectations that may have arisen under the idea that Currer Bell had a just claim to the masculine cognomen he, perhaps somewhat presumptuously, adopted — that he was, in short, of the nobler sex.

‘I was glad also to see you and Mr. Smith, and am very happy now to have such pleasant recollections of you both, and of your respective families.  My satisfaction would have been complete could I have seen Mrs. Williams.  The appearance of your children tallied on the whole accurately with the description you had given of them.  Fanny was the one I saw least distinctly; I tried to get a clear view of her countenance, but her position in the room did not favour my efforts.

‘I had just read your article in the
John Bull
; it very clearly and fully explains the cause of the difference obvious between ancient and modern paintings.  I wish you had been with us
 
when we went over the Exhibition and the National Gallery; a little explanation from a judge of art would doubtless have enabled us to understand better what we saw; perhaps, one day, we may have this pleasure.

‘Accept my own thanks and my sister’s for your kind attention to us while in town, and — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘I trust Mrs. Williams is quite recovered from her indisposition.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth,
July
31
st
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — I have lately been reading
Modern Painters
, and I have derived from the work much genuine pleasure and, I hope, some edification; at any rate, it made me feel how ignorant I had previously been on the subject which it treats.  Hitherto I have only had instinct to guide me in judging of art; I feel more as if I had been walking blindfold — this book seems to give me eyes.  I
do
wish I had pictures within reach by which to test the new sense.  Who can read these glowing descriptions of Turner’s works without longing to see them?  However eloquent and convincing the language in which another’s opinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for yourself.  I like this author’s style much: there is both energy and beauty in it; I like himself too, because he is such a hearty admirer.  He does not give Turner half-measure of praise or veneration, he eulogises, he reverences him (or rather his genius) with his whole soul.  One can sympathise with that sort of devout, serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist) — one can respect it; and yet possibly many people would laugh at it.  I am truly obliged to Mr. Smith for giving me this book, not having often met with one that has pleased me more.

‘You will have seen some of the notices of
Wildfell Hall
.  I wish my sister felt the unfavourable ones less keenly.  She does not
say
much, for she is of a remarkably taciturn, still, thoughtful nature, reserved even with her nearest of kin, but I cannot avoid seeing that her spirits are depressed sometimes.  The fact
 
is, neither she nor any of us expected that view to be taken of the book which has been taken by some critics.  That it had faults of execution, faults of art, was obvious, but faults of intention or feeling could be suspected by none who knew the writer.  For my own part, I consider the subject unfortunately chosen — it was one the author was not qualified to handle at once vigorously and truthfully.  The simple and natural — quiet description and simple pathos are, I think, Acton Bell’s forte.  I liked
Agnes Grey
better than the present work.

‘Permit me to caution you not to speak of my sisters when you write to me.  I mean, do not use the word in the plural.  Ellis Bell will not endure to be alluded to under any other appellation than the
nom de plume
.  I committed a grand error in betraying his identity to you and Mr. Smith.  It was inadvertent — the words, “we are three sisters” escaped me before I was aware.  I regretted the avowal the moment I had made it; I regret it bitterly now, for I find it is against every feeling and intention of Ellis Bell.

‘I was greatly amused to see in the
Examiner
of this week one of Newby’s little cobwebs neatly swept away by some dexterous brush.  If Newby is not too old to profit by experience, such an exposure ought to teach him that “Honesty is indeed the best policy.”

‘Your letter has just been brought to me.  I must not pause to thank you, I should say too much.  Our life is, and always has been, one of few pleasures, as you seem in part to guess, and for that reason we feel what passages of enjoyment come in our way very keenly; and I think if you knew
how
pleased I am to get a long letter from you, you would laugh at me.

‘In return, however, I smile at you for the earnestness with which you urge on us the propriety of seeing something of London society.  There would be an advantage in it — a great advantage; yet it is one that no power on earth could induce Ellis Bell, for instance, to avail himself of.  And even for Acton and Currer, the experiment of an introduction to society would be more formidable than you, probably, can well imagine.  An existence of absolute seclusion and unvarying monotony, such
 
as we have long — I may say, indeed, ever — been habituated to, tends, I fear, to unfit the mind for lively and exciting scenes, to destroy the capacity for social enjoyment.

‘The only glimpses of society I have ever had were obtained in my vocation of governess, and some of the most miserable moments I can recall were passed in drawing-rooms full of strange faces.  At such times, my animal spirits would ebb gradually till they sank quite away, and when I could endure the sense of exhaustion and solitude no longer, I used to steal off, too glad to find any corner where I could really be alone.  Still, I know very well, that though that experiment of seeing the world might give acute pain for the time, it would do good afterwards; and as I have never, that I remember, gained any important good without incurring proportionate suffering, I mean to try to take your advice some day, in part at least — to put off, if possible, that troublesome egotism which is always judging and blaming itself, and to try, country spinster as I am, to get a view of some sphere where civilised humanity is to be contemplated.

‘I smile at you again for supposing that I could be annoyed by what you say respecting your religious and philosophical views; that I could blame you for not being able, when you look amongst sects and creeds, to discover any one which you can exclusively and implicitly adopt as yours.  I perceive myself that some light falls on earth from Heaven — that some rays from the shrine of truth pierce the darkness of this life and world; but they are few, faint, and scattered, and who without presumption can assert that he has found the
only
true path upwards?

‘Yet ignorance, weakness, or indiscretion, must have their creeds and forms; they must have their props — they cannot walk alone.  Let them hold by what is purest in doctrine and simplest in ritual;
something
, they
must
have.

‘I never read Emerson; but the book which has had so healing an effect on your mind must be a good one.  Very enviable is the writer whose words have fallen like a gentle rain on a soil that so needed and merited refreshment, whose
 
influence has come like a genial breeze to lift a spirit which circumstances seem so harshly to have trampled.  Emerson, if he has cheered you, has not written in vain.

‘May this feeling of self-reconcilement, of inward peace and strength, continue!  May you still be lenient with, be just to, yourself!  I will not praise nor flatter you, I should hate to pay those enervating compliments which tend to check the exertions of a mind that aspires after excellence; but I must permit myself to remark that if you had not something good and superior in you, something better, whether more
showy
or not, than is often met with, the assurance of your friendship would not make one so happy as it does; nor would the advantage of your correspondence be felt as such a privilege.