Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (572 page)

At this period there was plenty of cheerfulness in her life.  She was learning German.  She was giving English lessons to M. Héger and to his brother-in-law, M. Chappelle.  She went to the Carnival, and described it ‘animating to see the immense crowds and the general gaiety.’ 
 
‘Whenever I turn back,’ she writes, ‘to compare what I am with what I was, my place here with my place at Mrs. Sidgwick’s or Mrs. White’s, I am thankful.’

In a letter to her brother, however, we find the darker side of the picture.  It reveals many things apart from what is actually written down.  In this, the only letter to Branwell that I have been able to discover, apart from one written in childhood, it appears that the brother and sister are upon very confidential terms.  Up to this time, at any rate, Branwell’s conduct had not excited any apprehension as to his future, and the absence of any substantial place in his aunt’s will was clearly not due to misconduct.  Branwell was now under the same roof as his sister Anne, having obtained an appointment as tutor to young Edmund Robinson at Thorp Green, near York, where Anne was governess.  The letter is unsigned, concluding playfully with ‘yourn; and the initials follow a closing message to Anne on the same sheet of paper.

TO BRANWELL BRONTË

‘Brussels,
May
1
st
, 1843.

‘Dear Branwell, — I hear you have written a letter to me.  This letter, however, as usual, I have never received, which I am exceedingly sorry for, as I have wished very much to hear from you.  Are you sure that you put the right address and that you paid the English postage, 1s. 6d.?  Without that, letters are never forwarded.  I heard from papa a day or two since.  All appears to be going on reasonably well at home.  I grieve only that Emily is so solitary; but, however, you and Anne will soon be returning for the holidays, which will cheer the house for a time.  Are you in better health and spirits, and does Anne continue to be pretty well?  I understand papa has been to see you.  Did he seem cheerful and well?  Mind when you write to me you answer these questions, as I wish to know.  Also give me a detailed account as to how you get on with your pupil and the rest of the family.  I have received a general
 
assurance that you do well and are in good odour, but I want to know particulars.

‘As for me, I am very well and wag on as usual.  I perceive, however, that I grow exceedingly misanthropic and sour.  You will say that this is no news, and that you never knew me possessed of the contrary qualities — philanthropy and sugariness. 
Das ist wahr
(which being translated means, that is true); but the fact is, the people here are no go whatsoever.  Amongst 120 persons which compose the daily population of this house, I can discern only one or two who deserve anything like regard.  This is not owing to foolish fastidiousness on my part, but to the absence of decent qualities on theirs.  They have not intellect or politeness or good-nature or good-feeling.  They are nothing.  I don’t hate them — hatred would be too warm a feeling.  They have no sensations themselves and they excite none.  But one wearies from day to day of caring nothing, fearing nothing, liking nothing, hating nothing, being nothing, doing nothing — yes, I teach and sometimes get red in the face with impatience at their stupidity.  But don’t think I ever scold or fly into a passion.  If I spoke warmly, as warmly as I sometimes used to do at Roe-Head, they would think me mad.  Nobody ever gets into a passion here.  Such a thing is not known.  The phlegm that thickens their blood is too gluey to boil.  They are very false in their relations with each other, but they rarely quarrel, and friendship is a folly they are unacquainted with.  The black Swan, M. Héger, is the only sole veritable exception to this rule (for Madame, always cool and always reasoning, is not quite an exception).  But I rarely speak to Monsieur now, for not being a pupil I have little or nothing to do with him.  From time to time he shows his kind-heartedness by loading me with books, so that I am still indebted to him for all the pleasure or amusement I have.  Except for the total want of companionship I have nothing to complain of.  I have not too much to do, sufficient liberty, and I am rarely interfered with.  I lead an easeful, stagnant, silent life, for which, when I think of Mrs. Sidgwick, I ought to be very thankful.  Be sure you write to me soon, and beg of Anne
 
to inclose a small billet in the same letter; it will be a real charity to do me this kindness.  Tell me everything you can think of.

‘It is a curious metaphysical fact that always in the evening when I am in the great dormitory alone, having no other company than a number of beds with white curtains, I always recur as fanatically as ever to the old ideas, the old faces, and the old scenes in the world below.

‘Give my love to Anne. — And believe me, yourn

‘Dear Anne, — Write to me. — Your affectionate Schwester,

‘C. B.

‘Mr. Héger has just been in and given me a little German Testament as a present.  I was surprised, for since a good many days he has hardly spoken to me.’

A little later she writes to Emily in similar strain.

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Brussels,
May
29
th
, 1843.

‘Dear E. J., — The reason of the unconscionable demand for money is explained in my letter to papa.  Would you believe it, Mdlle. Mühl demands as much for one pupil as for two, namely, 10 francs per month.  This, with the 5 francs per month to the Blanchisseuse, makes havoc in £16 per annum.  You will perceive I have begun again to take German lessons.  Things wag on much as usual here.  Only Mdlle. Blanche and Mdlle. Haussé are at present on a system of war without quarter.  They hate each other like two cats.  Mdlle. Blanche frightens Mdlle. Haussé by her white passions (for they quarrel venomously).  Mdlle. Haussé complains that when Mdlle. Blanche is in fury, “
elle n’a pas de levres
.”  I find also that Mdlle. Sophie dislikes Mdlle. Blanche extremely.  She says she is heartless, insincere, and vindictive, which epithets, I assure you, are richly deserved.  Also I find she is the regular spy of Mme. Héger, to whom she reports everything.  Also she invents — which I should not have thought.  I have now the
 
entire charge of the English lessons.  I have given two lessons to the first class.  Hortense Jannoy was a picture on these occasions, her face was black as a “blue-piled thunder-loft,” and her two ears were red as raw beef.  To all questions asked her reply was, “
je ne sais pas
.”  It is a pity but her friends could meet with a person qualified to cast out a devil.  I am richly off for companionship in these parts.  Of late days, M. and Mde. Héger rarely speak to me, and I really don’t pretend to care a fig for any body else in the establishment.  You are not to suppose by that expression that I am under the influence of
warm
affection for Mde. Héger.  I am convinced she does not like me — why, I can’t tell, nor do I think she herself has any definite reason for the aversion; but for one thing, she cannot comprehend why I do not make intimate friends of Mesdames Blanche, Sophie, and Haussé.  M. Héger is wonderously influenced by Madame, and I should not wonder if he disapproves very much of my unamiable want of sociability.  He has already given me a brief lecture on universal
bienveillance
, and, perceiving that I don’t improve in consequence, I fancy he has taken to considering me as a person to be let alone — left to the error of her ways; and consequently he has in a great measure withdrawn the light of his countenance, and I get on from day to day in a Robinson-Crusoe-like condition — very lonely.  That does not signify.  In other respects I have nothing substantial to complain of, nor is even this a cause for complaint.  Except the loss of M. Héger’s goodwill (if I have lost it) I care for none of ’em.  I hope you are well and hearty.  Walk out often on the moors.  Sorry am I to hear that Hannah is gone, and that she has left you burdened with the charge of the little girl, her sister.  I hope Tabby will continue to stay with you — give my love to her.  Regards to the fighting gentry, and to old asthma. — Your

‘C. B.

‘I have written to Branwell, though I never got a letter from him.’

In August she is still more dissatisfied, but ‘I will
 
continue to stay some months longer, till I have acquired German, and then I hope to see all your faces again.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Brussels,
August
6
th
, 1843.

‘Dear Ellen, — You never answered my last letter; but, however, forgiveness is a part of the Christian Creed, and so having an opportunity to send a letter to England, I forgive you and write to you again.  Last Sunday afternoon, being at the Chapel Royal, in Brussels, I was surprised to hear a voice proceed from the pulpit which instantly brought all Birstall and Batley before my mind’s eye.  I could see nothing, but certainly thought that that unclerical little Welsh pony, Jenkins, was there.  I buoyed up my mind with the expectation of receiving a letter from you, but as, however, I have got none, I suppose I must have been mistaken.

‘C. B.

‘Mr. Jenkins has called.  He brought no letter from you, but said you were at Harrogate, and that they could not find the letter you had intended to send.  He informed me of the death of your sister.  Poor Sarah, when I last bid her good-bye I little thought I should never see her more.  Certainly, however, she is happy where she is gone — far happier than she was here.  When the first days of mourning are past, you will see that you have reason rather to rejoice at her removal than to grieve for it.  Your mother will have felt her death much — and you also.  I fear from the circumstance of your being at Harrogate that you are yourself ill.  Write to me soon.’

It was in September that the incident occurred which has found so dramatic a setting in
Villette
— the confession to a priest of the Roman Catholic Church of a daughter of the most militant type of Protestantism; and not the least valuable of my newly-discovered Brontë treasures is the letter which Charlotte wrote to Emily giving an unembellished account of the incident.

 
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Brussels,
September
2
nd
, 1843.

‘Dear E. J., — Another opportunity of writing to you coming to pass, I shall improve it by scribbling a few lines.  More than half the holidays are now past, and rather better than I expected.  The weather has been exceedingly fine during the last fortnight, and yet not so Asiatically hot as it was last year at this time.  Consequently I have tramped about a great deal and tried to get a clearer acquaintance with the streets of Bruxelles.  This week, as no teacher is here except Mdlle. Blanche, who is returned from Paris, I am always alone except at meal-times, for Mdlle. Blanche’s character is so false and so contemptible I can’t force myself to associate with her.  She perceives my utter dislike and never now speaks to me — a great relief.

‘However, I should inevitably fall into the gulf of low spirits if I stayed always by myself here without a human being to speak to, so I go out and traverse the Boulevards and streets of Bruxelles sometimes for hours together.  Yesterday I went on a pilgrimage to the cemetery, and far beyond it on to a hill where there was nothing but fields as far as the horizon.  When I came back it was evening; but I had such a repugnance to return to the house, which contained nothing that I cared for, I still kept threading the streets in the neighbourhood of the Rue d’Isabelle and avoiding it.  I found myself opposite to Ste. Gudule, and the bell, whose voice you know, began to toll for evening salut.  I went in, quite alone (which procedure you will say is not much like me), wandered about the aisles where a few old women were saying their prayers, till vespers begun.  I stayed till they were over.  Still I could not leave the church or force myself to go home — to school I mean.  An odd whim came into my head.  In a solitary part of the Cathedral six or seven people still remained kneeling by the confessionals.  In two confessionals I saw a priest.  I felt as if I did not care what I did, provided it was not absolutely wrong, and that it served to vary my life and yield a moment’s interest.  I took a fancy to change myself
 
into a Catholic and go and make a real confession to see what it was like.  Knowing me as you do, you will think this odd, but when people are by themselves they have singular fancies.  A penitent was occupied in confessing.  They do not go into the sort of pew or cloister which the priest occupies, but kneel down on the steps and confess through a grating.  Both the confessor and the penitent whisper very low, you can hardly hear their voices.  After I had watched two or three penitents go and return I approached at last and knelt down in a niche which was just vacated.  I had to kneel there ten minutes waiting, for on the other side was another penitent invisible to me.  At last that went away and a little wooden door inside the grating opened, and I saw the priest leaning his ear towards me.  I was obliged to begin, and yet I did not know a word of the formula with which they always commence their confessions.  It was a funny position.  I felt precisely as I did when alone on the Thames at midnight.  I commenced with saying I was a foreigner and had been brought up a Protestant.  The priest asked if I was a Protestant then.  I somehow could not tell a lie and said “yes.”  He replied that in that case I could not “
jouir du bonheur de la confesse
”; but I was determined to confess, and at last he said he would allow me because it might be the first step towards returning to the true church.  I actually did confess — a real confession.  When I had done he told me his address, and said that every morning I was to go to the rue du Parc — to his house — and he would reason with me and try to convince me of the error and enormity of being a Protestant!!!  I promised faithfully to go.  Of course, however, the adventure stops there, and I hope I shall never see the priest again.  I think you had better not tell papa of this.  He will not understand that it was only a freak, and will perhaps think I am going to turn Catholic.  Trusting that you and papa are well, and also Tabby and the Holyes, and hoping you will write to me immediately, — I am, yours,