Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (462 page)

“July 26th, 1839.

“Your proposal has almost driven me ‘clean daft’ — if you don’t understand that ladylike expression, you must ask me what it means when I see you.  The fact is, an excursion with you anywhere, — whether to Cleathorpe or Canada, — just by ourselves, would be to me most delightful.  I should, indeed, like to go; but I can’t get leave of absence for longer than a week, and I’m afraid that would not suit you — must I then give it up entirely?  I feel as if I
could not
; I never had such a chance of enjoyment before; I do want to see you and talk to you, and be with you.  When do you wish to go?  Could I meet you at Leeds?  To take a gig from Haworth to B., would be to me a very serious increase of expense, and I happen to be very low in cash.  Oh! rich people seem to have many pleasures at their command which we are debarred from!  However, no repining.

“Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to say decidedly whether I can accompany you or not.  I must — I will — I’m set upon it — I’ll be obstinate and bear down all opposition.

“P.S. — Since writing the above, I find that aunt and papa have determined to go to Liverpool for a fortnight, and take us all with them.  It is stipulated, however, that I should give up the Cleathorpe scheme.  I yield reluctantly.”

I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Brontë found it necessary, either from failing health or the increased populousness of the parish, to engage the assistance of a curate.  At least, it is in a letter written this summer that I find mention of the first of a succession of curates, who henceforward revolved round Haworth Parsonage, and made an impression on the mind of one of its inmates which she has conveyed pretty distinctly to the world.  The Haworth curate brought his clerical friends and neighbours about the place, and for a time the incursions of these, near the parsonage tea-time, formed occurrences by which the quietness of the life there was varied, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes disagreeably.  The little adventure recorded at the end of the following letter is uncommon in the lot of most women, and is a testimony in this case to the unusual power of attraction — though so plain in feature — which Charlotte possessed, when she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home.

“August 4th, 1839.

“The Liverpool journey is yet a matter of talk, a sort of castle in the air; but, between you and me, I fancy it is very doubtful whether it will ever assume a more solid shape.  Aunt — like many other elderly people — likes to talk of such things; but when it comes to putting them into actual execution, she rather falls off.  Such being the case, I think you and I had better adhere to our first plan of going somewhere together independently of other people.  I have got leave to accompany you for a week — at the utmost a fortnight — but no more.  Where do you wish to go?  Burlington, I should think, from what M. says, would be as eligible a place as any.  When do you set off?  Arrange all these things according to your convenience; I shall start no objections.  The idea of seeing the sea — of being near it — watching its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and noon-day — in calm, perhaps in storm — fills and satisfies my mind.  I shall be discontented at nothing.  And then I am not to be with a set of people with whom I have nothing in common — who would be nuisances and bores: but with you, whom I like and know, and who knows me.

“I have an odd circumstance to relate to you: prepare for a hearty laugh!  The other day, Mr. — -, a vicar, came to spend the day with us, bringing with him his own curate.  The latter gentleman, by name Mr. B., is a young Irish clergyman, fresh from Dublin University.  It was the first time we had any of us seen him, but, however, after the manner of his countrymen, he soon made himself at home.  His character quickly appeared in his conversation; witty, lively, ardent, clever too; but deficient in the dignity and discretion of an Englishman.  At home, you know, I talk with ease, and am never shy — never weighed down and oppressed by that miserable
mauvaise honte
which torments and constrains me elsewhere.  So I conversed with this Irishman, and laughed at his jests; and, though I saw faults in his character, excused them because of the amusement his originality afforded.  I cooled a little, indeed, and drew in towards the latter part of the evening, because he began to season his conversation with something of Hibernian flattery, which I did not quite relish.  However, they went away, and no more was thought about them.  A few days after, I got a letter, the direction of which puzzled me, it being in a hand I was not accustomed to see.  Evidently, it was neither from you nor Mary, my only correspondents.  Having opened and read it, it proved to be a declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony, expressed in the ardent language of the sapient young Irishman!  I hope you are laughing heartily.  This is not like one of my adventures, is it?  It more nearly resembles Martha’s.  I am certainly doomed to be an old maid.  Never mind.  I made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve years old.

“Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all!  I leave you to guess what my answer would be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of guessing wrong.”

On the 14th of August she still writes from Haworth: —

“I have in vain packed my box, and prepared everything for our anticipated journey.  It so happens that I can get no conveyance this week or the next.  The only gig let out to hire in Haworth, is at Harrowgate, and likely to remain there, for aught I can hear.  Papa decidedly objects to my going by the coach, and walking to B., though I am sure I could manage it.  Aunt exclaims against the weather, and the roads, and the four winds of heaven, so I am in a fix, and, what is worse, so are you.  On reading over, for the second or third time, your last letter (which, by the by, was written in such hieroglyphics that, at the first hasty perusal, I could hardly make out two consecutive words), I find you intimate that if I leave this journey till Thursday I shall be too late.  I grieve that I should have so inconvenienced you; but I need not talk of either Friday or Saturday now, for I rather imagine there is small chance of my ever going at all.  The elders of the house have never cordially acquiesced in the measure; and now that impediments seem to start up at every step, opposition grows more open.  Papa, indeed, would willingly indulge me, but this very kindness of his makes me doubt whether I ought to draw upon it; so, though I could battle out aunt’s discontent, I yield to papa’s indulgence.  He does not say so, but I know he would rather I stayed at home; and aunt meant well too, I dare say, but I am provoked that she reserved the expression of her decided disapproval till all was settled between you and myself.  Reckon on me no more; leave me out in your calculations: perhaps I ought, in the beginning, to have had prudence sufficient to shut my eyes against such a prospect of pleasure, so as to deny myself the hope of it.  Be as angry as you please with me for disappointing you.  I did not intend it, and have only one thing more to say — if you do not go immediately to the sea, will you come to see us at Haworth?  This invitation is not mine only, but papa’s and aunt’s.”

However, a little more patience, a little more delay, and she enjoyed the pleasure she had wished for so much.  She and her friend went to Easton for a fortnight in the latter part of September.  It was here she received her first impressions of the sea.

“Oct. 24th.

“Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E.?  Is it grown dim in your mind?  Or can you still see it, dark, blue, and green, and foam-white, and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is high, or rushing softly when it is calm? . . . I am as well as need be, and very fat.  I think of Easton very often, and of worthy Mr. H., and his kind-hearted helpmate, and of our pleasant walks to H — - Wood, and to Boynton, our merry evenings, our romps with little Hancheon, &c., &c.  If we both live, this period of our lives will long be a theme for pleasant recollection.  Did you chance, in your letter to Mr. H., to mention my spectacles?  I am sadly inconvenienced by the want of them.  I can neither read, write, nor draw with comfort in their absence.  I hope Madame won’t refuse to give them up . . . Excuse the brevity of this letter, for I have been drawing all day, and my eyes are so tired it is quite a labour to write.”

But, as the vivid remembrance of this pleasure died away, an accident occurred to make the actual duties of life press somewhat heavily for a time.

“December 21st, 1839

“We are at present, and have been during the last month, rather busy, as, for that space of time, we have been without a servant, except a little girl to run errands.  Poor Tabby became so lame that she was at length obliged to leave us.  She is residing with her sister, in a little house of her own, which she bought with her savings a year or two since.  She is very comfortable, and wants nothing; as she is near, we see her very often.  In the meantime, Emily and I are sufficiently busy, as you may suppose: I manage the ironing, and keep the rooms clean; Emily does the baking, and attends to the kitchen.  We are such odd animals, that we prefer this mode of contrivance to having a new face amongst us.  Besides, we do not despair of Tabby’s return, and she shall not be supplanted by a stranger in her absence.  I excited aunt’s wrath very much by burning the clothes, the first time I attempted to iron; but I do better now.  Human feelings are queer things; I am much happier black-leading the stoves, making the beds, and sweeping the floors at home, than I should be living like a fine lady anywhere else.  I must indeed drop my subscription to the Jews, because I have no money to keep it up.  I ought to have announced this intention to you before, but I quite forgot I was a subscriber.  I intend to force myself to take another situation when I can get one, though I
hate
and
abhor
the very thoughts of governess-ship.  But I must do it; and, therefore, I heartily wish I could hear of a family where they need such a commodity as a governess.”

CHAPTER IX

The year 1840 found all the Brontës living at home, except Anne.  As I have already intimated, for some reason with which I am unacquainted, the plan of sending Branwell to study at the Royal Academy had been relinquished; probably it was found, on inquiry, that the expenses of such a life, were greater than his father’s slender finances could afford, even with the help which Charlotte’s labours at Miss W — -’s gave, by providing for Anne’s board and education.  I gather from what I have heard, that Branwell must have been severely disappointed when the plan fell through.  His talents were certainly very brilliant, and of this he was fully conscious, and fervently desired, by their use, either in writing or drawing, to make himself a name.  At the same time, he would probably have found his strong love of pleasure and irregular habits a great impediment in his path to fame; but these blemishes in his character were only additional reasons why he yearned after a London life, in which he imagined he could obtain every stimulant to his already vigorous intellect, while at the same time he would have a license of action to be found only in crowded cities.  Thus his whole nature was attracted towards the metropolis; and many an hour must he have spent poring over the map of London, to judge from an anecdote which has been told me.  Some traveller for a London house of business came to Haworth for a night; and according to the unfortunate habit of the place, the brilliant “Patrick” was sent for to the inn, to beguile the evening by his intellectual conversation and his flashes of wit.  They began to talk of London; of the habits and ways of life there; of the places of amusement; and Branwell informed the Londoner of one or two short cuts from point to point, up narrow lanes or back streets; and it was only towards the end of the evening that the traveller discovered, from his companion’s voluntary confession, that he had never set foot in London at all.

At this time the young man seemed to have his fate in his own hands.  He was full of noble impulses, as well as of extraordinary gifts; not accustomed to resist temptation, it is true, from any higher motive than strong family affection, but showing so much power of attachment to all about him that they took pleasure in believing that, after a time, he would “right himself,” and that they should have pride and delight in the use he would then make of his splendid talents.  His aunt especially made him her great favourite.  There are always peculiar trials in the life of an only boy in a family of girls.  He is expected to act a part in life; to
do
, while they are only to
be
; and the necessity of their giving way to him in some things, is too often exaggerated into their giving way to him in all, and thus rendering him utterly selfish.  In the family about whom I am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic in their habits, Branwell was allowed to grow up self-indulgent; but, in early youth, his power of attracting and attaching people was so great, that few came in contact with him who were not so much dazzled by him as to be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed.  Of course, he was careful enough not to reveal anything before his father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in; but his tone of thought and conversation became gradually coarser, and, for a time, his sisters tried to persuade themselves that such coarseness was a part of manliness, and to blind themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse than other young men.  At present, though he had, they were aware, fallen into some errors, the exact nature of which they avoided knowing, still he was their hope and their darling; their pride, who should some time bring great glory to the name of Brontë.

He and his sister Charlotte were both slight and small of stature, while the other two were of taller and larger make.  I have seen Branwell’s profile; it is what would be generally esteemed very handsome; the forehead is massive, the eye well set, and the expression of it fine and intellectual; the nose too is good; but there are coarse lines about the mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an idea of weakness of will.  His hair and complexion were sandy.  He had enough of Irish blood in him to make his manners frank and genial, with a kind of natural gallantry about them.  In a fragment of one of his manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and felicity of expression which is very striking.  It is the beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are drawn with much of the grace of characteristic portrait-painting, in perfectly pure and simple language which distinguishes so many of Addison’s papers in the “Spectator.”  The fragment is too short to afford the means of judging whether he had much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are not thrown into conversation.  But altogether the elegance and composure of style are such as one would not have expected from this vehement and ill-fated young man.  He had a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his heart, than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters’.  He tried various outlets for his talents.  He wrote and sent poems to Wordsworth and Coleridge, who both expressed kind and laudatory opinions, and he frequently contributed verses to the
Leeds Mercury
.  In 1840, he was living at home, employing himself in occasional composition of various kinds, and waiting till some occupation, for which he might be fitted without any expensive course of preliminary training, should turn up; waiting, not impatiently; for he saw society of one kind (probably what he called “life”) at the Black Bull; and at home he was as yet the cherished favourite.

Miss Branwell was unaware of the fermentation of unoccupied talent going on around her.  She was not her nieces’ confidante — perhaps no one so much older could have been; but their father, from whom they derived not a little of their adventurous spirit, was silently cognisant of much of which she took no note.  Next to her nephew, the docile, pensive Anne was her favourite.  Of her she had taken charge from her infancy; she was always patient and tractable, and would submit quietly to occasional oppression, even when she felt it keenly.  Not so her two elder sisters; they made their opinions known, when roused by any injustice.  At such times, Emily would express herself as strongly as Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently.  But, in general, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally unreasonable, she and her nieces went on smoothly enough; and though they might now and then be annoyed by petty tyranny, she still inspired them with sincere respect, and not a little affection.  They were, moreover, grateful to her for many habits she had enforced upon them, and which in time had become second nature: order, method, neatness in everything; a perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work; an exact punctuality, and obedience to the laws of time and place, of which no one but themselves, I have heard Charlotte say, could tell the value in after-life; with their impulsive natures, it was positive repose to have learnt implicit obedience to external laws.  People in Haworth have assured me that, according to the hour of day — nay, the very minute — could they have told what the inhabitants of the parsonage were about.  At certain times the girls would be sewing in their aunt’s bedroom — the chamber which, in former days, before they had outstripped her in their learning, had served them as a schoolroom; at certain (early) hours they had their meals; from six to eight, Miss Branwell read aloud to Mr. Brontë; at punctual eight, the household assembled to evening prayers in his study; and by nine he, the aunt, and Tabby, were all in bed, — the girls free to pace up and down (like restless wild animals) in the parlour, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future life.

At the time of which I write, the favourite idea was that of keeping a school.  They thought that, by a little contrivance, and a very little additional building, a small number of pupils, four or six, might be accommodated in the parsonage.  As teaching seemed the only profession open to them, and as it appeared that Emily at least could not live away from home, while the others also suffered much from the same cause, this plan of school-keeping presented itself as most desirable.  But it involved some outlay; and to this their aunt was averse.  Yet there was no one to whom they could apply for a loan of the requisite means, except Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out of her savings, which she intended for her nephew and nieces eventually, but which she did not like to risk.  Still, this plan of school-keeping remained uppermost; and in the evenings of this winter of 1839-40, the alterations that would be necessary in the house, and the best way of convincing their aunt of the wisdom of their project, formed the principal subject of their conversation.

This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily, during the months of dark and dreary weather.  Nor were external events, among the circle of their friends, of a cheerful character.  In January, 1840, Charlotte heard of the death of a young girl who had been a pupil of hers, and a schoolfellow of Anne’s, at the time when the sisters were together at Roe Head; and had attached herself very strongly to the latter, who, in return, bestowed upon her much quiet affection.  It was a sad day when the intelligence of this young creature’s death arrived.  Charlotte wrote thus on January 12th, 1840: —

“Your letter, which I received this morning, was one of painful interest.  Anne C., it seems, is
dead
; when I saw her last, she was a young, beautiful, and happy girl; and now ‘life’s fitful fever’ is over with her, and she ‘sleeps well.’  I shall never see her again.  It is a sorrowful thought; for she was a warm-hearted, affectionate being, and I cared for her.  Wherever I seek for her now in this world, she cannot be found, no more than a flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago.  A bereavement of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have who have seen all drop round them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.  But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine.”

During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing a story.  Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but it is in too small a hand to be read without great fatigue to the eyes; and one cares the less to read it, as she herself condemned it, in the preface to the “Professor,” by saying that in this story she had got over such taste as she might once have had for the “ornamental and redundant in composition.”  The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson’s novels, of seven or eight volumes.  I gather some of these particulars from a copy of a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to whom she had sent the commencement of the story, sometime in the summer of 1840.

“Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much distress.  No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it . . . I had materials in my head for half-a-dozen volumes . . . Of course, it is with considerable regret I relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched.  It is very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchisedecs, and have no father nor mother but your own imagination . . . I am sorry I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the ‘Ladies’ Magazine’ was flourishing like a green bay-tree.  In that case, I make no doubt, my aspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and West into the very best society, and recording all their sayings and doings in double-columned close-printed pages . . . I recollect, when I was a child, getting hold of some antiquated volumes, and reading them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure.  You give a correct description of the patient Grisels of those days.  My aunt was one of them; and to this day she thinks the tales of the ‘Ladies’ Magazine’ infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature.  So do I; for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of criticism . . . I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney’s clerk or a novel-reading dress-maker.  I will not help you at all in the discovery; and as to my handwriting, or the ladylike touches in my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that — I may employ an amanuensis.  Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for your kind and candid letter.  I almost wonder you took the trouble to read and notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe, who had not even the manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or whether his ‘C. T.’ meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tomkins.”

There are two or three things noticeable in the letter from which these extracts are taken.  The first is the initials with which she had evidently signed the former one to which she alludes.  About this time, to her more familiar correspondents, she occasionally calls herself “Charles Thunder,” making a kind of pseudonym for herself out of her Christian name, and the meaning of her Greek surname.  In the next place, there is a touch of assumed smartness, very different from the simple, womanly, dignified letter which she had written to Southey, under nearly similar circumstances, three years before.  I imagine the cause of this difference to be twofold.  Southey, in his reply to her first letter, had appealed to the higher parts of her nature, in calling her to consider whether literature was, or was not, the best course for a woman to pursue.  But the person to whom she addressed this one had evidently confined himself to purely literary criticisms, besides which, her sense of humour was tickled by the perplexity which her correspondent felt as to whether he was addressing a man or a woman.  She rather wished to encourage the former idea; and, in consequence, possibly, assumed something of the flippancy which very probably existed in her brother’s style of conversation, from whom she would derive her notions of young manhood, not likely, as far as refinement was concerned, to be improved by the other specimens she had seen, such as the curates whom she afterwards represented in “Shirley.”