Brontës (45 page)

Alexander Percy's own atheism is curiously combined with an increasing identification of him with the devil. Like Robert Wringhim's satanic incarnation in Hogg's novel, Percy is always dressed in black rather than the brilliant dress of the other Verdopolitan and Angrian nobles. Like Milton's Satan, he possesses great physical beauty but his lack of moral principle is evident in the scornful sneer which is always on his lips and his broad expanse of forehead; like him, too, Percy is driven by overweening ambition. ‘Augusta', Percy tells his wife, ‘if there be a Satan I am He!'
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Percy's wife, whom he marries in defiancé of his father's wishes, is Lady Augusta Romana di Segovia. A passionate, beautiful, ambitious and unprincipled woman, she is also a ‘determined and unthinking Atheist', committed to the vanities and dissipations of the world, though she despises its customs and conventions. Augusta, as Sdeath recognized, is Percy's female counterpart and ideal mate. Their love for each other, which inspired some of Branwell's best poetry, commits both to a life of crime. Percy's creed, which determines all his future conduct, is neatly summarized in the initiation oaths of the secret society he founds on the Philosopher's Isle: its members are sworn to achieve the extermination of all religious creeds and modes of belief, the overthrow of the whole religion and theocracy of the Verdopolitan Union, the utter extermination of all kingly government and the overthrow of the present constitution and twelveship of Africa.
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Having begun this process of destruction of the established order of things by securing the creation of the kingdom of Angria for Zamorna, Northangerland then set about undermining Zamorna's power. In his books written in the second half of 1834, Branwell symbolically has Northangerland perform the coronation of Zamorna and then, in a dramatic volte-face, raise the standard of democratic revolt against the tyranny of the new king.
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In one of the few instances where brother and sister appear to have worked side by side on a single story, Charlotte contributed Zamorna's addresses to the Angrians and at the opening of Parliament.

Charlotte's main work of the autumn was ‘My Angria and the Angrians', which she finished on 14 October. For the first time, she seems to have realized that the provincial setting of Angria, which she had originally resisted
as being too mundane, provided her with the possibility of caricaturing her family and home. The lengthiest of these is her portrait of her brother as Benjamin Patrick Wiggins,

a low, slightly built man attired in a black coat and raven grey trowsers, his hat placed nearly at the back of his head, revealing a bush of carroty hair so arranged that at the sides it projected almost like two spread hands, a pair of spectacles placed across a prominent Roman nose, black neckerchief adjusted with no great attention to precision, and, to complete the picture, a little black ratan flourished in the hand.
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Wiggins is a garrulous braggart, boasting that he has consumed two bottles of Glasstown ale and a double quart of porter when he has really had only two or three cups of tea. In this character, Charlotte thoroughly mocks Branwell's ambition and pretensions to greatness. Wiggins' mind ‘was always looking above my station. I wasn't satisfied with being a sign-painter at Howard, as Charlotte and them things were with being sempstresses.' His own epitaph, Wiggins declared, would be

As a musician he was greater than Bach; as a poet he surpassed Byron; as a painter, Claude Lorrain yielded to him; as a rebel he snatched the palm from Alexander Rogue; as a merchant Edward Percy was his inferior; as a mill-owner, Grenville came not near him; as a traveller De Humbolt, Ledyard, Mungo Park, etc., etc., never braved half his dangers or overcame half his difficulties …

In sharp contrast to Wiggins' inflated opinion of himself and his talents was his dismissive attitude towards his sisters.

‘I've some people who call themselves akin to me in the shape of three girls. They are honoured by possessing me as a brother, but I deny that they're my sisters …'

‘What are your sisters' names?'

‘Charlotte Wiggins, Jane Wiggins and Anne Wiggins.'

‘Are they as queer as you?'

‘Oh, they are miserable silly creatures not worth talking about. Charlotte's eighteen years old, a broad dumpy thing, whose head does not come higher than my elbow. Emily's sixteen, lean and scant, with a face about the size of a penny, and Anne is nothing, absolutely nothing.'

‘What! Is she an idiot?'

‘Next door to it.'

Equally scathing is Charlotte's depiction of Haworth. When asked where he was born Wiggins replies, in typically exaggerated fashion:

‘I was born partly at Thorncliffe, that is, after a fashion, but then I always account myself a native of Howard, a great city among the Warner Hills, under the dominion of that wonderful and superhuman gentleman Warner Howard Warner, Esqr' (here he took off his hat and bowed low). ‘It has four churches and above twenty grand hotels, and a street called the Taan Gate, far wider than Bridgenorth in Free Town.' ‘None of your humbug, Wiggins!' said I. ‘I know well enough Howard is only a miserable little village, buried in dreary moors and moss-hags and marshes. I question whether it has one church or anything nearer an hotel than that wayside ale-house you are now eyeing so longingly'.
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Charlotte's jaundiced view of Haworth at this time was also reflected in the letters she wrote to her friends. On 11 February 1834, for example, she wrote to Ellen Nussey:

My letters are scarcely worth the postage and therefore I have till now, delayed answering your last communication; but upwards of two months having elapsed since I received it, I have at length determined to take up the pen in reply lest your anger should be roused by my apparent negligence … According to custom I have no news to communicate indeed I do not write either to retail gossip or to impart solid information; my motives for maintaining our mutual correspondence are in the first place to get intelligence from you, and in the second that we may remind each other of our separate existences; without some such medium of reciprocal converse; according to the nature of things you, who are surrounded by society and friends, would soon forget that such an insignificant being as myself, ever lived; I however in the solitude of our wild little hill village, think of my only
un-related
friend, my dear ci-devant school companion daily, nay almost hourly. Now Ellen, don't you think I have very cleverly contrived to make a letter out of nothing?
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Within a week, she had a letter from Ellen herself, reporting that she was in London where she was to stay for six months with her older brother, John, a physician. Judging Ellen by what would have been her own response
to ‘that great city, which has been called the mercantile metropolis of Europe', Charlotte was astonished that in the midst of the excitements of London, Ellen had remembered to write to her old school-friend. Ellen, however, was not as impressed as Charlotte herself would have been.

I was greatly amused at the tone of nonchalance which you assumed while treating of London, and its wonders, which seem to have excited anything rather than surprise in your mind: did you not feel awed while gazing at St Paul's and Westminster Abbey? had you no feeling of intense, and ardent interest, when in St James' you saw the Palace, where so many of England's Kings, had held their courts … Have you yet seen any of the Great Personages whom the sitting of Parliament now detains in London? The Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, Earl Grey, Mr Stanley, Mr O'Connel &c.?

Charlotte, eaten up with longing to visit the city which had provided the model for the Great Glasstown, was unable to comprehend that the stolid Ellen's indifference could be anything other than assumed. ‘You should not be too much afraid of appearing
country-bred
', she advised Ellen, ‘the magnificence of London has drawn exclamations of astonishment from travelled-men, experienced in the World, its wonders, and beauties.'
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Compared with all the imagined glories of London, it is not surprising that Haworth and its neighbourhood seemed dull and unexciting to Charlotte. Her constant complaints to Ellen of lack of news and ‘the solitude of our wild little hill village' have done much to create the impression that the Brontës were cut off from all society and culture at Haworth. It has to be remembered, however, that Ellen was able to gossip to Charlotte about her friends, neighbours and relations because they were nearly all known to Charlotte from her schooldays. Gossip about Haworth, on the other hand, would have meant little or nothing to Ellen, since she had only had a single brief visit there. Discussion about politics, art or literature, which was more to Charlotte's taste, was wasted on Ellen and shared with Mary Taylor – of whom Ellen was clearly jealous.
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As Charlotte's letters to Mary are not extant, this side of her life at Haworth has been almost completely overlooked. There were many opportunities to indulge in the very things the Brontës loved best, not only in the nearby towns such as Keighley, Halifax and Bradford, but also in Haworth itself. The local newspapers at this time are full of accounts of music, art and politics.

As Benjamin Binns, the son of the Haworth tailor, later noted,
‘Haworth in those days was remarkable for its cultivation of music, and the goddess was wooed for herself rather than for any pecuniary gain.'
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The Haworth Philharmonic Society, which had been founded in or about 1780, held regular concerts, including an annual combined vocal and instrumental concert in the large room of the Black Bull Inn on 5 November. The concerts catered for a wide variety of tastes: the annual performance of 1834, for example, included a selection from Haydn's
Seasons
as well as songs, glees and catches. The presence in the village of Thomas Parker, one of the leading Yorkshire tenors of the day, gave added stimulus to local concerts, at which he regularly performed ‘in that style of excellence for which he is so remarkable'.
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Haworth had the usual church orchestra to accompany the hymns and psalms but it also had its own band, apparently associated with Merralls' mill, which travelled throughout the local area fulfilling engagements. An added dimension was given to musical performance by the installation of an organ in Haworth Church. The money to build it was raised by public subscription and supported by sermons on behalf of the fund. The organ was finally unveiled to the public at a performance of Handel's
Messiah
on 23 March 1834. The church thus became an alternative and much larger venue for concerts, though the Haworth Philharmonic held a successful concert in the Black Bull a few days later and continued to play the leading role in music in the village.
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There is no doubt that the Brontës attended concerts in the village. Patrick was ‘passionately fond of oratorio' and, according to the son of the Haworth tailor, often took his family to concerts ‘and other meetings of an elevating tendency'. It was his invariable practice to leave for home at nine o'clock, though presumably Aunt Branwell and the children were allowed to remain to the end.
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The concert to celebrate the installation of the organ was such a high point in the Brontës' lives that it actually found its way into the juvenilia. Abraham Sunderland, who arranged the concert, was caricatured as ‘one Mr Sudbury Figgs, who resided within four miles of Howard, and who, being a pianist by profession, was accustomed to give music lessons to various families in the neighbourhood'. John Greenwood, the former Keighley organist who had gone to live in London and returned to the district to christen the organ, appeared as himself, returning from Stumpsland, and as the object of Branwell's hero-worship. In a vicious satire on her brother, Charlotte depicted his response as Benjamin Patrick Wiggins to Greenwood's arrival in Haworth.

yes, I remember the moment when he entered the church, walked up to the organ gallery where I was, kicked Sudbury Figgs, who happened to be performing Handel's ‘And the Glory of the Lord', from the stool, and assuming it himself, placed his fingers on the keys, his feet on the pedals, and proceeded to electrify us with ‘I Know that My Redeemer Liveth'.

‘Then', said I, ‘this is a god and not a man!' As long as the music sounded in my ears, I dared neither speak, breathe, nor even look up. When it ceased, I glanced furtively at the performer. My heart had previously been ravished by the mere knowledge of his fame and skill, but how resistlessly was it captivated, when I saw in Mr Greenwood a tall man dressed in black, with a pair of shoulders, light complexion and hair inclining to red – my very beau ideal of personal beauty, carrying even some slight and dim resemblance to the notion I had formed of Rogue. Instantly I assumed that inverted position which with me is always a mark of highest astonishment, delight and admiration. In other words I clapt my pate to the ground and let my heels fly up with a spring. They happened to hit Mr Sudbury Figgs's chin, as he stood in his usual way, picking his teeth and projecting his under jaw a yard beyond the rest of his countenance. He exclaimed so loud as to attract Mr Greenwood's attention. He turned round and saw me. ‘What's that fellow playing his mountebank tricks here for?' I heard him say. Before anybody could answer I was at his feet licking the dust under them and crying aloud, ‘O Greenwood! The greatest, the mightiest, the most famous of men! Doubtless you are ignorant of a nit, the foal of a louse, like me, but I have learnt to know you through the medium of your wonderful works. Suffer the basest of creatures to devote himself utterly to your service, as a shoeblack, a rosiner of fiddlesticks, a greatcoat-carrier, a portmusic, in short as a thorough-going toadie.'
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