Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (584 page)

‘Should Mr. Thackeray again ask after Currer Bell, say the secret is and will be well kept because it is not worth disclosure.  This fact his own sagacity will have already led him to divine.  In the hope that it may not be long ere I hear from you again, — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth,
May
16
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Miss Wooler, — I will lose no time in thanking you for your letter and kind offer of assistance.  We have, however, already engaged lodgings.  I am not myself acquainted with Scarbro’, but Anne knows it well, having been there three or four times.  She had a particular preference for the situation of some lodgings (No. 2 Cliff).  We wrote about them, and finding them disengaged, took them. 
 
Your information is, notwithstanding, valuable, should we find this place in any way ineligible.  It is a satisfaction to be provided with directions for future use.

‘Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure.  Ellen Nussey accompanies us (by Anne’s expressed wish).  I could not refuse her society, but I dared not urge her to go, for I have little hope that the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit to those engaged in it.  Anne is extremely weak.  She herself has a fixed impression that the sea air will give her a chance of regaining strength; that chance, therefore, we must have.  Having resolved to try the experiment, misgivings are useless; and yet, when I look at her, misgivings will rise.  She is more emaciated than Emily was at the very last; her breath scarcely serves her to mount the stairs, however slowly.  She sleeps very little at night, and often passes most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state.  Still, she is up all day, and even goes out a little when it is fine.  Fresh air usually acts as a stimulus, but its reviving power diminishes.

‘With best wishes for your own health and welfare, — Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘No. 2 Cliff, Scarboro’,
May
27
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — The date above will inform you why I have not answered your last letter more promptly.  I have been busy with preparations for departure and with the journey.  I am thankful to say we reached our destination safely, having rested one night at York.  We found assistance wherever we needed it; there was always an arm ready to do for my sister what I was not quite strong enough to do: lift her in and out of the carriages, carry her across the line, etc.

‘It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro’ and its bay once more.  There is yet no revival of bodily strength — I fear indeed the slow ebb continues.  People who see her tell me I must not expect her to last long — but it is something to cheer her mind.

 
‘Our lodgings are pleasant.  As Anne sits at the window she can look down on the sea, which this morning is calm as glass.  She says if she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this moment — but she cannot breathe freely.

‘My friend Ellen is with us.  I find her presence a solace.  She is a calm, steady girl — not brilliant, but good and true.  She suits and has always suited me well.  I like her, with her phlegm, repose, sense, and sincerity, better than I should like the most talented without these qualifications.

‘If ever I see you again I should have pleasure in talking over with you the topics you allude to in your last — or rather, in hearing
you
talk them over.  We see these things through a glass darkly — or at least I see them thus.  So far from objecting to speculation on, or discussion of, the subject, I should wish to hear what others have to say.  By
others
, I mean only the serious and reflective — levity in such matters shocks as much as hypocrisy.

‘Write to me.  In this strange place your letters will come like the visits of a friend.  Fearing to lose the post, I will add no more at present. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
May
30
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — My poor sister is taken quietly home at last.  She died on Monday.  With almost her last breath she said she was happy, and thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.  I did not think it would be so soon.

‘You will not expect me to add more at present. — Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
June
25
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — I am now again at home, where I returned last Thursday.  I call it
home
still — much as London would be called London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins.  But let me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and not quite a ruined or desolate home either.  Papa is there, and two most affectionate and faithful
 
servants, and two old dogs, in their way as faithful and affectionate — Emily’s large house-dog which lay at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault, lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was being read — and Anne’s little spaniel.  The ecstasy of these poor animals when I came in was something singular.  At former returns from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly — but not in that strange, heart-touching way.  I am certain they thought that, as I was returned, my sisters were not far behind.  But here my sisters will come no more.  Keeper may visit Emily’s little bed-room — as he still does day by day — and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne, they will never see them again — nor shall I — at least the human part of me.  I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly?  In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of solitude — the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me.  I am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views.  As to the night — could I do without bed, I would never seek it.  Waking, I think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering.  Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell’s death — they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on waking were at that time such as we do not put into language.  Worse seemed at hand than was yet endured — in truth, worse awaited us.

‘All this bitterness must be tasted.  Perhaps the palate will grow used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid.  This pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one day.  Ellen would have come back with me but I would not let her.  I knew it would be better to face the desolation at once — later or sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.

 
‘Labour must be the cure, not sympathy.  Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow.  The society of a calm, serenely cheerful companion — such as Ellen — soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are necessary to make a remedy.  Total change might do much; where that cannot be obtained, work is the best substitute.

‘I by no means ask Miss Kavanagh to write to me.  Why should she trouble herself to do it?  What claim have I on her?  She does not know me — she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay.  I have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me.  I have tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean upon it.  The natural affection of my father and the attachment and solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me, but I do not look round for general pity; conventional condolence I do not want, either from man or woman.

‘The letter you inclosed in your last bore the signature H. S. Mayers — the address, Sheepscombe, Stroud, Gloucestershire; can you give me any information respecting the writer?  It is my intention to acknowledge it one day.  I am truly glad to hear that your little invalid is restored to health, and that the rest of your family continue well.  Mrs. Williams should spare herself for her husband’s and children’s sake.  Her life and health are too valuable to those round her to be lavished — she should be careful of them. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

It is not necessary to tell over again the story of Anne’s death.  Miss Ellen Nussey, who was an eye witness, has related it once for all in Mrs. Gaskell’s Memoir.  The tomb at Scarborough hears the following inscription: —

here lie the remains of
ANNE BRONTË
DAUGHTER OF THE REV. P. BRONTË
incumbent of haworth, yorkshire
She Died
,
Aged
28,
May
28
th
, 1849

CHAPTER VIII: ELLEN NUSSEY

If to be known by one’s friends is the index to character that it is frequently assumed to be, Charlotte Brontë comes well out of that ordeal.  She was discriminating in friendship and leal to the heart’s core.  With what gratitude she thought of the publisher who gave her the ‘first chance’ we know by recognising that the manly Dr. John of
Villette
was Mr. George Smith of Smith & Elder.  Mr. W. S. Williams, again, would seem to have been a singularly gifted and amiable man.  To her three girl friends, Ellen Nussey, Mary Taylor, and Lætitia Wheelwright, she was loyal to her dying day, and pencilled letters to the two of them who were in England were written in her last illness.  Of all her friends, Ellen Nussey must always have the foremost place in our esteem.  Like Mary Taylor, she made Charlotte’s acquaintance when, at fifteen years of age, she first went to Roe Head School.  Mrs. Gaskell has sufficiently described the beginnings of that friendship which death was not to break.  Ellen Nussey and Charlotte Brontë corresponded with a regularity which one imagines would be impossible had they both been born half a century later.  The two girls loved one another profoundly.  They wrote at times almost daily.  They quarrelled occasionally over trifles, as friends will, but Charlotte was always full of contrition when a few hours had passed.  Towards the end of her life she wrote to Mr. Williams a letter concerning Miss Nussey which may well be printed here.

 
TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
January
3
rd
, 1850.

‘My dear Sir, — I have to acknowledge the receipt of the
Morning Chronicle
with a good review, and of the
Church of England Quarterly
and the
Westminster
with bad ones.  I have also to thank you for your letter, which would have been answered sooner had I been alone; but just now I am enjoying the treat of my friend Ellen’s society, and she makes me indolent and negligent — I am too busy talking to her all day to do anything else.  You allude to the subject of female friendships, and express wonder at the infrequency of sincere attachments amongst women.  As to married women, I can well understand that they should be absorbed in their husbands and children — but single women often like each other much, and derive great solace from their mutual regard.  Friendship, however, is a plant which cannot be forced.  True friendship is no gourd, springing in a night and withering in a day.  When I first saw Ellen I did not care for her; we were school-fellows.  In course of time we learnt each other’s faults and good points.  We were contrasts — still, we suited.  Affection was first a germ, then a sapling, then a strong tree — now, no new friend, however lofty or profound in intellect — not even Miss Martineau herself — could be to me what Ellen is; yet she is no more than a conscientious, observant, calm, well-bred Yorkshire girl.  She is without romance.  If she attempts to read poetry, or poetic prose, aloud, I am irritated and deprive her of the book — if she talks of it, I stop my ears; but she is good; she is true; she is faithful, and I love her.

‘Since I came home, Miss Martineau has written me a long and truly kindly letter.  She invites me to visit her at Ambleside.  I like the idea.  Whether I can realise it or not, it is pleasant to have in prospect.

‘You ask me to write to Mrs. Williams.  I would rather she wrote to me first; and let her send any kind of letter she likes, without studying mood or manner. — Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

 
Good, True, Faithful — friendship has no sweeter words than these; and it was this loyalty in Miss Nussey which has marked her out in our day as a fine type of sweet womanliness, and will secure to her a lasting name as the friend of Charlotte Brontë.

Miss Ellen Nussey was one of a large family of children, all of whom she survives.  Her home during the years of her first friendship with Charlotte Brontë was at the Rydings, at that time the property of an uncle, Reuben Walker, a distinguished court physician.  The family in that generation and in this has given many of its members to high public service in various professions.  Two Nusseys, indeed, and two Walkers, were court physicians in their day.  When Earl Fitzwilliam was canvassing for the county in 1809, he was a guest at the Rydings for two weeks, and on his election was chaired by the tenantry.  Reuben Walker, this uncle of Miss Nussey’s, was the only Justice of the Peace for the district which included Leeds, Bradford, Huddersfield, and Halifax, during the Luddite riots — a significant reminder of the growth of population since that day.  Ellen Nussey’s home was at the Rydings, then tenanted by her brother John, until 1837, and she then removed to Brookroyd, where she lived until long after Charlotte Brontë died.

The first letter to Ellen Nussey is dated May 31, 1831, Charlotte having become her school-fellow in the previous January.  It would seem to have been a mere play exercise across the school-room, as the girls were then together at Roe Head.

 
‘Dear Miss Nussey, — I take advantage of the earliest opportunity to thank you for the letter you favoured me with last week, and to apologise for having so long neglected to write to you; indeed, I believe this will be the first letter or note I have ever addressed to you.  I am extremely obliged to Mary for her kind invitation, and I assure you that I should very much have liked to hear the Lectures on Galvanism, as they would doubtless have been amusing and instructive.  But we are often compelled to bend our inclination to our duty (as Miss Wooler observed the other day), and since there are so many holidays this half-year, it would have appeared almost unreasonable to ask for an extra holiday; besides, we should perhaps have got behindhand with our lessons, so that, everything considered, it is perhaps as well that circumstances have deprived us of this pleasure. — Believe me to remain, your affectionate friend,

‘C. Brontë.’

But by the Christmas holidays, ‘Dear Miss Nussey’ has become ‘Dear Ellen,’ and the friendship has already well commenced.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
January
13
th
, 1832.

‘Dear Ellen, — The receipt of your letter gave me an agreeable surprise, for notwithstanding your faithful promises, you must excuse me if I say that I had little confidence in their fulfilment, knowing that when school girls once get home they willingly abandon every recollection which tends to remind them of school, and indeed they find such an infinite variety of circumstances to engage their attention and employ their leisure hours, that they are easily persuaded that they have no time to fulfil promises made at school.  It gave me great pleasure, however, to find that you and Miss Taylor are exceptions to the general rule.  The cholera still seems slowly advancing, but let us yet hope, knowing that all things are under the guidance of a merciful Providence.  England has hitherto been highly favoured, for the disease has neither raged with the astounding violence, nor extended itself with the frightful rapidity which marked its progress in many of the continental countries. — From your affectionate friend,

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
January
1
st
, 1833.

‘Dear Ellen, — I believe we agreed to correspond once a
 
month.  That space of time has now elapsed since I received your last interesting letter, and I now therefore hasten to reply.  Accept my congratulations on the arrival of the New Year, every succeeding day of which will, I trust, find you
wiser
and
better
in the true sense of those much-used words.  The first day of January always presents to my mind a train of very solemn and important reflections, and a question more easily asked than answered frequently occurs, viz. — How have I improved the past year, and with what good intentions do I view the dawn of its successor?  These, my dearest Ellen, are weighty considerations which (young as we are) neither you nor I can too deeply or too seriously ponder.  I am sorry your too great diffidence, arising, I think, from the want of sufficient confidence in your own capabilities, prevented you from writing to me in French, as I think the attempt would have materially contributed to your improvement in that language.  You very kindly caution me against being tempted by the fondness of my sisters to consider myself of too much importance, and then in a parenthesis you beg me not to be offended.  O Ellen, do you think I could be offended by any good advice you may give me?  No, I thank you heartily, and love you, if possible, better for it.  I am glad you like
Kenilworth
.  It is certainly a splendid production, more resembling a romance than a novel, and, in my opinion, one of the most interesting works that ever emanated from the great Sir Walter’s pen.  I was exceedingly amused at the characteristic and naive manner in which you expressed your detestation of Varney’s character — so much so, indeed, that I could not forbear laughing aloud when I perused that part of your letter.  He is certainly the personification of consummate villainy; and in the delineation of his dark and profoundly artful mind, Scott exhibits a wonderful knowledge of human nature as well as surprising skill in embodying his perceptions so as to enable others to become participators in that knowledge.  Excuse the want of news in this very barren epistle, for I really have none to communicate.  Emily and Anne beg to be kindly remembered to you.  Give my best love to your mother and sisters, and as it is very late permit me to conclude with the
 
assurance of my unchanged, unchanging, and unchangeable affection for you. — Adieu, my sweetest Ellen, I am ever yours,

‘Charlotte.’

Here is a pleasant testimony to Miss Nussey’s attractions from Emily and Anne.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
September
11
th
, 1833.

‘Dear Ellen, — I have hitherto delayed answering your last letter because from what you said I imagined you might be from home.  Since you were here Emily has been very ill.  Her ailment was erysipelas in the arm, accompanied by severe bilious attacks, and great general debility.  Her arm was obliged to be cut in order to relieve it.  It is now, I am happy to say, nearly healed — her health is, in fact, almost perfectly re-established.  The sickness still continues to recur at intervals.  Were I to tell you of the impression you have made on every one here you would accuse me of flattery.  Papa and aunt are continually adducing you as an example for me to shape my actions and behaviour by.  Emily and Anne say “they never saw any one they liked so well as Miss Nussey,” and Tabby talks a great deal more nonsense about you than I choose to report.  You must read this letter, dear Ellen, without thinking of the writing, for I have indited it almost all in the twilight.  It is now so dark that, notwithstanding the singular property of “seeing in the night-time” which the young ladies at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can scribble no longer.  All the family unite with me in wishes for your welfare.  Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and supply all those expressions of warm and genuine regard which the increasing darkness will not permit me to insert.

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
February
11
th
, 1834.

‘Dear Ellen, — 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 my pen in reply lest your anger should be roused by my apparent negligence.  It grieved me extremely to hear of your precarious state of health.  I trust sincerely that your medical adviser is mistaken in supposing you have any tendency to a pulmonary affection.  Dear Ellen, that would indeed be a calamity.  I have seen enough of consumption to dread it as one of the most insidious and fatal diseases incident to humanity.  But I repeat it, I
hope
, nay
pray
, that your alarm is groundless.  If you remember, I used frequently to tell you at school that you were constitutionally nervous — guard against the gloomy impressions which such a state of mind naturally produces.  Take constant and regular exercise, and all, I doubt not, will yet be well.  What a remarkable winter we have had!  Rain and wind continually, but an almost total absence of frost and snow.  Has
general
ill health been the consequence of wet weather at Birstall or not?  With us an unusual number of deaths have lately taken place.  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 unrelated friend, my dear ci-devant school companion daily — nay, almost hourly.  Now Ellen, don’t you think I have very cleverly contrived to make up a letter out of nothing?  Goodbye, dearest.  That God may bless you is the earnest prayer of your ever faithful friend,