The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte (8 page)

In addition to all that, there is very convincing literary evidence which indicates that Branwell was involved in the writing of the book.

I have been struck very forcibly – and much as Grundy was with his friend's
spoken
words – by similarities of phraseology between certain passages in the novel and some in letters written by Branwell.

There is also the mute testimony of the book itself. The first three chapters are related by the character Lockwood and tell of his personal experiences, but then there is an awkward change of literary style. One is introduced to Nellie Dean, Lockwood's housekeeper, and the rest of the story is
her
tale to Lockwood – who then recounts it to the reader. I can think of no more likely reason for the change than that a female writer took up where a male left off.

Most writers about the Brontës will
hint
at the possibility of Branwell's having had a hand in
Wuthering Heights
, but none, as far as I am aware, have stated categorically that they themselves believe in his involvement. Well Martha did, and so do I. I think that he had roughed out the novel, had actually written the first three chapters, and had then abandoned it. I further believe that it was finished by Emily with some help from Branwell, but far more from her lover, the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls.

I find it most significant that the original manuscript of
Wuthering Heights
has never been traced. It is common knowledge that Charlotte destroyed some of Emily's manuscripts after her death. Why, however – if in fact she did – should she have done away with that particular one? The book had been published, so there was nothing, on the face of it, which should have been withheld from the public. One explanation could be that, if Emily had retained Branwell's originals, Charlotte did not want it to be seen in whose handwriting the first three chapters were. An alternative, or additional, reason may have been that Nicholls' notes and suggestions were written in the margins.

Who knows, the manuscript may very well turn up one day. Stranger things have happened. If Charlotte simply concealed it, instead of destroying it along with the others, it could very well have fallen into other hands when the Parsonage was vacated after Mr Brontë died. Perhaps, at this very moment, and just as with Martha Brown's statement, it is lying in some dusty Yorkshire attic unknown for what it is.

There are conflicting statements and opinions about whether or not Branwell knew of his sisters' writings, and of their eventual publication. Charlotte said that he did not, but I feel that that was not so – and that she had a very good motive for lying. Had people known that he suspected what they were all doing, but had been excluded, some blame for his misconduct might have been apportioned to the sisters, and to Charlotte in particular – and that would not have done at all.

Commonsense tells us that Branwell could not
not
have known of their writings. There they were, in that small house, all scribbling away night after night; even in his worst moments he was not as obtuse as that. Also, apart from any discussions which he may have had with Emily, we know that he advised Charlotte on the everyday practicalities of dealing with publishers.

Emily was the only one who stood by him. That was due partly to her natural compassion, but mainly because she felt badly about appropriating his story. It was always she who tried to conceal his worst excesses from their father, and on occasion she had been known to run to the Black Bull and tap on the window to warn him when the old man was on the warpath. At other times she carried him upstairs when he was drunk. Then there was the notable time when he was discovered unconscious on his blazing bed, which he had accidentally set afire whilst under the influence. It was Emily, alone, who got him out and extinguished the flames.

In actuality, though, it is probably true to say that nobody at the Parsonage
really
had much time for him, literally or metaphorically; he just drifted along in his solitary world. Emily would probably have responded to his questions about what had become ‘our' book by consulting him on certain aspects of it, but only to keep him quiet and compliant. She had no wish to upset him for not only did he know that ‘her' book was basically his but, as Martha tells us, he was privy to her other secret which she considered far more important.

‘There is death in the pot.'

2 Kings 4:40

T
here was great excitement at the Parsonage at the end of that year of 1847.

Miss Charlotte's book, called
Jane Eyre
, was printed in October and, by what she went about saying, it went well straightaway. Then, 2 months later, Miss Emily's book,
Wuthering Heights
, and Miss Anne's,
Agnes Gray
, came out bound together in one volume. I heard Miss Charlotte say, with great pleasure in her voice, that the other 2 books were not going as well as hers, but Miss Emily told me that they were selling nonetheless, and that was the main thing.

The whole business was marred, though, because some folk said that all 3 tales had been penned by the same person, and Mr Nicholls has told me that that was probably because
he
had had a hand in all of them and it showed.

Apart from being cross about what was being said, Miss Charlotte was cock-a-hoop at having her story in print. Straightaway she wrote to some well-known writers telling them about her book, and when she gave me the letters to take to the post she went to great pains to tell me how important the people were. I cannot remember all the names, but Thackeray and Lewes have stuck in my mind. She then began another book, which I now know was called
Shirley
.

On the other hand, Miss Anne, as usual, said very little about
her
book, but stuck grimly to writing another that I had seen her busy on for some months. I had not dared to ask Miss Charlotte what
her
new book was about, but I felt able to do so with Miss Anne. She did not answer me directly, and now I know why. It was called
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, and it would seem that she got her ideas for it from Master Branwell's conduct.

As for Miss Emily, well, her manner was very odd once the early excitement was over, and I was at a loss to understand it. It was evident that she had been contented enough to send her book to be looked at by the publisher, and I remember her saying that she was going to write to him about a second book that she had in mind. Then, though, shortly after
Wuthering Heights
was printed, she withdrew into herself completely and nobody, not even me, could get a word out of her. That both puzzled and bothered me greatly, for I thought I had become something of a favourite with her, and it seemed to worry Miss Charlotte as well because she remarked upon it several times. The trouble was that neither of us knew what Miss Emily did, and only later did we find out that the fact of the matter was that she felt very guilty about Master Branwell.

She had watched him sinking deeper and deeper into misery because he felt such a failure, and because he was lonely and his family wanted naught to do with him. Yet there
she
was, now a known writer because of a book which was, at the very least, founded upon a story that was his.

As I know from having seen some of her earlier poems, Miss Emily had always had great pity for outcasts, so I know full well how much stronger must her feelings have been for her own brother – with all his faults. It is true that she was kinder to him than were his other sisters, but now she knew that that had not been enough. She had not realized what awful feelings she would have of letting him down once the book was published, and now she wished with all her heart that she had had nothing to do with it.

Her deep feeling of guilt was not made less when Master Branwell learned that his sisters' works had been printed. He had always thought of
Wuthering Heights
as being his path to money and respect, and had never dreamed that not only would it be stolen from him, but that his part in it would not be told. It all hurt him very much, and Miss Emily told Mr Nicholls, who later told me, that Master Branwell spoke to her about it, but only gently and seemed more sad than angry that she, of all people, could have done that to him. What he did not know, and Miss Emily could not tell him, was that she would have been very happy to have told everyone of his part in it – in fact she had wanted very much to do so – but Mr Nicholls would not have it, and by that time she could gainsay him nothing.

Mr Nicholls has told me that he had a slight hope that some of the cash from the book might come his way, but he knew full well that if Master Branwell's name had been put to it in any way he would never cease demanding a share of the money. So, very much against her nature, Miss Emily gained a pledge of secrecy from him by way of half-promises and a few shillings from Mr Nicholls.

Of course, it did not work, and Miss Emily, with all that she knew of her brother, should not have expected that it would. Everything was well whilst Master Branwell was sober, but when he was not – which was most of the time – he could not help dropping a word or two to his friends about his part in the book.

It did not take Miss Emily very long to realize that the promise of secrecy that he had made to her was almost as worthless as all his other promises, because he really was in a bad way for most of the time. He had fits of the drunken shakes in the Talbot and the Old Cock taverns in Halifax, and went weeks without proper sleep or food. Then he became even more desperate for money when Mr Nicholson, the landlord of the Old Cock, told him that he would have him arrested for debt, and Mrs Sugden at the Talbot began to complain about the great amount that he owed to her.

Father seemed very put out by Master Branwell's troubles at that time, but I never knew the full story until Mr Nicholls told me. All I knew then was that I had overheard Father saying that Master Branwell was telling all his friends that he felt wretched and weak, and was nearly worn out.

I got some idea of what this meant when Master Branwell gave me a note one day and begged me to take it posthaste and secretly to my Father. It was only a folded piece of paper, and I never could stop myself from sticking my nose into where it should not be, and so I read it as I made my way to Father's barn. The writing was very bad, and there were many blots of ink. At this distance of time I can no longer recall all the words, but what
does
stick in my mind is that he asked Father to get him ‘Fivepenceworth of Gin', and promised to pay him back out of a shilling which Mr Brontë was due to give him on the morrow.

Father was pleased to see me, but his manner changed when he read the note, and he pursed his lips in the way he had when he was cross. I knew that he was far too busy to be bothered in such a fashion because he was not even going home for his midday meal. Instead, he contented himself with taking bread and some cheese or meat with him when he went off in the morning. Sometimes my Mother or one of my sisters carried some hot broth down to him at noon, but usually he made do for the whole day with what he had.

Anyway, knowing me better than I knew myself, he looked at me straight and asked whether I had read the note and, as I could hardly ever lie to Father, I told him I had. He nodded, and then, pledging me to silence, he placed a sixpenny piece in my hand and told me to go to the back door of the house part of the Black Bull and get the Gin, saying that it was for him.

I scurried off and did as I was bid, and then took the Gin to Master Branwell, who was shaking so much he was like to have dropped it, but was very thankful for it.

I have gone on at some length about this because the happenings of that day are so printed on my mind for 2 reasons in particular.

The first is that, whilst I had kept the bottle hidden, and had managed to get it up to Master Branwell without being seen, I was stopped by Miss Charlotte when I came back down the stairs. She gave me a right telling off, saying that she had been looking for me for nigh on a half-hour, and asked where I had been and what I had been doing upstairs at that time of day.

I was so taken aback by the way she spoke to me that all I could do was stutter that I had been on an errand for Master Branwell, and I was thankful that she did not ask what the errand was. Instead, she gave me another good scolding and told me that going errands for Master Branwell was not one of my duties, and that if he asked me to do anything else for him I should seek leave from her or one of her sisters first. Of course, I bit my tongue whilst she was ranting on, but my mind was going pell-mell. I thought how ugly she looked, with her little red face all twisted up, and how much I disliked her voice. Above all, I hated even more the airs and graces which she had always taken upon herself. In that very instance, I wondered who she thought she was. She and her sisters did not pay my wages, yet I was expected to seek leave of them before I did anything for their poor brother, who was only a year younger than her and older than the other two.

It was then that my real hatred of her was born, and I vowed to myself that one day I would get my own back.

My other memory is about the penny change that I had after getting the Gin. The next time I saw Father he asked me if all had gone well with the Gin, and then for the penny. I told him of what had befallen me with Miss Charlotte – which did not please him one whit – but try as I would I could not remember what I had done with the penny, and I could not find it. I looked everywhere, but it never did come to light and I do not know to this day whether or not Father believed that I really had lost it and not spent it, although I have always hoped that he did. On my next pay-day, I offered him a penny out of the little that by then I was allowed to keep, but he would not take it.

As it happened, Master Branwell never did ask me to run any more errands, which was probably just as well for I had made up my mind that if he did I would, and to the Devil with Miss Do-As-I-Say. In fact, he hardly seemed to speak to anyone in the Parsonage, but just got worse. One day I peeped at a half-finished letter which Miss Charlotte was writing to her friend Miss Nussey. She had written that Master Branwell was ‘the same in conduct as ever; his constitution seems shattered', and that just about summed it up. All he seemed to do was drink whatever came to hand, and Father told Mother that he placed no limit upon who he would try to beg money from – but usually without much luck.