Brontës (116 page)

The fact that two publishers were now aware that the brothers Bell were actually three sisters made little or no immediate difference to the Brontës; apart from their father, Mary Taylor and possibly Branwell no one else knew. Ellen's informed suspicions about Charlotte, however, had received unexpected confirmation. Less than a month before the ‘pop visit', Ellen herself had gone to London to stay in Cleveland Row with her brother John, the court physician. She had found ‘quite a
fureur
about the authorship of
Jane Eyre
on her arrival and, having obtained a copy, read the first half page aloud. ‘It was as though Charlotte Brontë herself was present in every word, her voice and spirit thrilling through and through', Ellen later declared.
⁶⁴
Persistent as ever, she wrote to her friend, only to receive yet another put-down: ‘Your naïveté in gravely inquiring my opinion of the “last new novel” amuses me: we do not subscribe to a circulating library at Haworth and consequently “new novels” rarely indeed come in our way, and consequently \again/ we are not qualified to give opinions thereon.'
⁶⁵

Ellen was clearly not the only one to suspect her friend's authorship – indeed, anyone who knew the fate of Maria and Elizabeth Brontë could hardly fail to recognize the portrait of the Clergy Daughters' School. It was not surprising, then, that a man as intelligent and well read as Joe Taylor, Mary's brother, was one of the first to put two and two together. Early in June he had taken the unusual step of making an expedition to Haworth with his cousin, Henry Taylor, and Henry's cousin, Jane Mossman, despite a ‘pouring wet and windy day'. The ostensible purpose of the visit was to make enquiries about Madame Heger's school on behalf of Henry's sister, Ellen Taylor, but Charlotte clearly suspected an ulterior motive. ‘Nothing of importance in any way was said the whole time – it was all rattle – rattle of which I should have great difficulty now in recalling the substance … The visit strikes me as an odd whim: I consider it quite a caprice, prompted probably by curiosity.'
⁶⁶
Charlotte clearly knew that the astute Joe Taylor had guessed her secret though she did not – could not, because of her promise to Emily – gratify him by confessing it.

The intense alarm with which Emily herself viewed any divulgence of
the sisters' authorship was graphically illustrated after the visit to London. In one of his letters, Williams alluded to Charlotte's sisters, bringing down an explosion of wrath upon Charlotte's head. She wrote back hastily and apologetically:

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.'
⁶⁷

Perhaps surprisingly, given the concerns about the confusion of the identity of the ‘Bells', the first reviews of
The Tenant of'Wildfell Hall
'were clear that Acton Bell was different from Currer, though obviously related to him. These reviews appeared on 8 July, the very day that Charlotte and Anne confronted George Smith at 65, Cornhill. Despite the fact that the
Athenaeum
gave ‘our honest recommendation of
Wildfell Hall
'as the most interesting novel which we have read for a month past', the general tone of the reviews reflected the increasingly critical view of the Bells. Even the
Athenaeum
warned ‘The Bells must be warned against their fancy for dwelling upon what is disagreeable'.
⁶⁸
The
Spectator
was more explicit.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
, like its predecessor, suggests the idea of considerable abilities ill applied. There is power, effect, and even nature, though of an extreme kind, in its pages; but there seems in the writer a morbid love for the coarse, not to say the brutal; so that his level subjects are not very attractive, and the more forcible are displeasing or repulsive, from their gross, physical, or profligate substratum … There is a coarseness of tone throughout the writing of all these Bells, that puts an offensive subject in its worst point of view, and which generally contrives to dash indifferent things.
⁶⁹

‘I wish my Sister felt the unfavourable [notices] less keenly', Charlotte confessed to Williams. ‘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'.
⁷⁰
Despite – or possibly because of – the reviews,
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
sold
extremely well; a second edition was in preparation before the end of July and published during the second week in August, just six weeks after the first. Stung by the remarks in the
Spectator
, Anne was goaded out of her usual reserve. She took the unprecedented step of adding a preface which castigated her critics for being ‘more bitter than just' and stoutly defended her decision to depict vice so graphically. She also took issue with the continuing speculation about her sex.

I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are or should be written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.
⁷¹

The immense popularity of the Bells and the number of column inches devoted to discussion of their works in the press reminded Aylott & Jones that they still had virtually an entire print run of
Poems by
Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell sitting unsold on their shelves. They wrote to ask what should now be done with them, prompting Charlotte to get in touch with George Smith. ‘I wished much to ask your advice about the disposal of the remaining copies, when in London', she told him, ‘but was withheld by the consciousness that “the Trade” are not very fond of hearing about Poetry'. Blaming the ‘limited sale' on the fact that
Poems
had not been widely advertised, Charlotte hinted that Smith, Elder & Co. might like to take the book over and remedy the deficiency. It was with some delight she learnt that her suggestion had been acted upon and that
Poems
was likely to be reissued by her own publishers.
⁷²

Happily looking forward to this, enjoying her literary discussions with Williams and gratified by an invitation from the directors of the Manchester Athenaeum to their annual
soireé
which, naturally, she turned down,
⁷³
Charlotte was completely oblivious to the impending tragedy which was about to engulf her family.

Branwell's health had worsened so imperceptibly over the last eighteen months that no one had noticed how ill he had become. So often drunk or hung over, it could only be expected that his constitution would be affected. Since at least the beginning of the year he had been suffering from fainting fits and
delirium tremens;
presumably, too, he had not escaped the bouts of influenza which had afflicted the entire household in the spring and
summer. What no one yet realized was that these illnesses masked the symptoms of the tuberculosis which now had Branwell in its grip.

In the middle of June he had written to J.B. Leyland in the hope of fending off his creditors. Thomas Nicholson, landlord of the Old Cock Inn at Halifax, was threatening a court summons and had written to Patrick demanding settlement of Branwell's bills. Sending ten shillings with John Brown and promising to pay the rest as soon as he obtained an advance from Dr Crosby, Branwell wrote in panic: ‘If he refuses my offer and presses me with law I am RUINED. I have had five months of such utter sleeplessness violent cough and frightful agony of mind that jail would destroy me for ever –'. Pathetically he added that he had long intended to write a letter of five or six pages ‘but intolerable mental wretchedness and corporeal weakness have utterly prevented me'.
⁷⁴
No doubt Leyland, like the Brontë family, simply thought Branwell was crying wolf once more. ‘Branwell is the same in conduct as ever –', Charlotte complained to Ellen at the end of July, ‘his constitution seems much shattered – Papa – and sometimes all of us have sad nights with him – he sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night –'
⁷⁵
Any sympathy Charlotte might have felt for her brother had long evaporated; now he simply irritated her.

Certainly Branwell did little to court his family's approval. Not only was he hopelessly entangled in debt but also he was driven to the abuser's extremes of duplicity in his desperation to feed his habit. Mrs Gaskell describes how he would steal out of the house while all the family were at church to cajole the village druggist out of a lump of opium.
⁷⁶
His last extant letter provides sad confirmation of this. Dated only ‘Sunday. Noon', when the household would indeed be at church, it was addressed to his old friend and drinking companion, John Brown.

Sunday. Noon.

Dear John,

I shall feel very much obliged to you if [you] can contrive to get me Five pence worth of Gin in a proper measure

Should it be speedily got I could perhaps take it from you or Billy at the lane top or what would be quite as well, sent out for, to you.

I anxiously ask the favour because I know the good it will do me.

Punctualy
at Half-past Nine in the morning you Will/ be paid the 5d out of a shilling given me then. Yours,

P.B.B.
⁷⁷

Nothing could have illuminated Branwell's decline so clearly as this pitifully ill-written, ill-spelt, confused begging letter with its pathetic disclosures that he was dependent on his father's charity for the gift of a shilling and reduced to drinking gin.

During the third week in September, Branwell had an unexpected visitor, Francis Grundy, his friend from happier days on the railway at Luddenden Foot. Grundy ordered dinner for two in a private room at the Black Bull and then sent up to the parsonage for Branwell. While he waited, he was surprised to receive a visitor himself: touched by the kindness Grundy was showing to his son, Patrick Brontë had come down to see him and warn him to be prepared for a dramatic change in Branwell's appearance. ‘Much of the Rector's old stiffness of manner was gone', Grundy noted:

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.
⁷⁸

Despite Patrick's warning, Grundy was deeply shocked when his friend at last made his appearance.

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.
⁷⁹

Grundy hid his surprise, greeted his guest ‘in my gayest manner, as I knew he best liked' and forced a stiff glass of hot brandy upon him. ‘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 of leaving a warm bed to come out into the cold night.' Gradually, however, with another glass of brandy inside him, ‘something like the Brontë of old' returned, though he remained grave throughout the evening. ‘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' and declared that his death would be solely due to his disastrous relationship with Mrs Robinson. As Grundy reluctantly took his leave, Branwell pulled a carving knife from his sleeve and confessed that, having given up hope of ever seeing Grundy again, he had imagined his message was a call from Satan. He had armed himself with the knife, which he had long kept hidden, and come to the inn determined to rush into the room and stab its occupant. Only the sound of Grundy's voice and his manner had ‘brought him home to himself' as Branwell described it. ‘I left him standing bare-headed in the road', Grundy remembered, ‘with bowed form and dropping tears. A few days afterwards he died.'
⁸⁰

Though Branwell had long been obsessed with death and had increasingly shown a preoccupation with epitaphs and images of mortality, his conversation with Grundy revealed that he knew he had not long to live. The end came so suddenly, however, after all the months of slow decline, that it caught everyone, including the doctor who had attended him all summer, by surprise. Charlotte was later to be comforted by the fact that a ‘most propitious change marked the last few days of poor Branwell's life', a change which, with hindsight, she recognized as being a portent of death: ‘his demeanour, his language, his sentiments were all singularly altered and softened', she wrote, ‘the calm of better feelings' filled his mind and ‘a return of natural affection marked his last moments'.
⁸¹

Two days before his death, Branwell was well enough to walk down the lane into the village. As he returned to the parsonage, he was overcome by faintness and shortness of breath and had to be helped home by William Brown, the sexton's brother. Their faltering progress was observed by Tabitha, William's thirteen-year-old niece. Sixty years later, she still vividly recalled the incident. ‘There was a low step to mount and I can always remember seeing him catch hold to the door side – it seemed such hard work for him. I believe that was the last time he was ever out.'
⁸²