Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (623 page)

‘Dear Nell, I consider that on the whole it is a mercy you have been at home and not at Norfolk during the late cold weather.  Love to all at Brookroyd. — Yours faithfully,

‘c. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
March
9
th
, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen, — I am sure Miss Wooler would enjoy her visit to you, as much as you her company.  Dear Nell, I thank you sincerely for your discreet and friendly silence on the point alluded to.  I had feared it would be discussed between you two, and had an inexpressible shrinking at the thought; now less than ever does it seem a matter open to discussion.  I hear nothing, and you must quite understand that if I feel any uneasiness it is not that of confirmed and fixed regard, but that anxiety which is inseparable from a state of absolute uncertainty about a somewhat momentous matter.  I do not know, I am not sure myself, that any other termination would be better than lasting estrangement and unbroken silence.  Yet a good deal of pain has been and must be gone through in that case.  However, to each his burden.

 
‘I have not yet read the papers; D.V. I will send them to-morrow. — Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘Understand that in whatever I have said above, it was not for pity or sympathy.  I hardly pity myself.  Only I wish that in all matters in this world there was fair and open dealing, and no underhand work.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
April
6
th
, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen, — My visit to Manchester is for the present put off by Mr. Morgan having written to say that since papa will not go to Buckingham to see him he will come to Yorkshire to see papa; when, I don’t yet know, and I trust in goodness he will not stay long, as papa really cannot bear putting out of his way.  I must wait, however, till the infliction is over.

‘You ask about Mr. Nicholls.  I hear he has got a curacy, but do not yet know where.  I trust the news is true.  He and papa never speak.  He seems to pass a desolate life.  He has allowed late circumstances so to act on him as to freeze up his manner and overcast his countenance not only to those immediately concerned but to every one.  He sits drearily in his rooms.  If Mr. Grant or any other clergyman calls to see, and as they think, to cheer him, he scarcely speaks.  I find he tells them nothing, seeks no confidant, rebuffs all attempts to penetrate his mind.  I own I respect him for this.  He still lets Flossy go to his rooms, and takes him to walk.  He still goes over to see Mr. Sowden sometimes, and, poor fellow, that is all.  He looks ill and miserable.  I think and trust in Heaven that he will be better as soon as he fairly gets away from Haworth.  I pity him inexpressibly.  We never meet nor speak, nor dare I look at him; silent pity is just all that I can give him, and as he knows nothing about that, it does not comfort.  He is now grown so gloomy and reserved that nobody seems to like him.  His fellow-curates shun trouble in that shape; the lower orders dislike it.  Papa has a perfect antipathy to him, and he, I fear, to papa.  Martha hates him.  I think he might almost be
dying
and they would not speak a friendly word to or of him.  How much of all
 
this he deserves I can’t tell; certainly he never was agreeable or amiable, and is less so now than ever, and alas! I do not know him well enough to be sure that there is truth and true affection, or only rancour and corroding disappointment at the bottom of his chagrin.  In this state of things I must be, and I am,
entirely passive
.  I may be losing the purest gem, and to me far the most precious, life can give — genuine attachment — or I may be escaping the yoke of a morose temper.  In this doubt conscience will not suffer me to take one step in opposition to papa’s will, blended as that will is with the most bitter and unreasonable prejudices.  So I just leave the matter where we must leave all important matters.

‘Remember me kindly to all at Brookroyd, and — Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
May
16th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen, — The east winds about which you inquire have spared me wonderfully till to-day, when I feel somewhat sick physically, and not very blithe mentally.  I am not sure that the east winds are entirely to blame for this ailment.  Yesterday was a strange sort of a day at church.  It seems as if I were to be punished for my doubts about the nature and truth of poor Mr. Nicholls’s regard.  Having ventured on Whit Sunday to stop the sacrament, I got a lesson not to be repeated.  He struggled, faltered, then lost command over himself — stood before my eyes and in the sight of all the communicants white, shaking, voiceless.  Papa was not there, thank God!  Joseph Redman spoke some words to him.  He made a great effort, but could only with difficulty whisper and falter through the service.  I suppose he thought this would be the last time; he goes either this week or the next.  I heard the women sobbing round, and I could not quite check my own tears.  What had happened was reported to papa either by Joseph Redman or John Brown; it excited only anger, and such expressions as “unmanly driveller.”  Compassion or relenting is no more to be looked for than sap from firewood.

 
‘I never saw a battle more sternly fought with the feelings than Mr. Nicholls fights with his, and when he yields momentarily, you are almost sickened by the sense of the strain upon him.  However, he is to go, and I cannot speak to him or look at him or comfort him a whit, and I must submit.  Providence is over all, that is the only consolation. — Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
May
19
th
, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen, — I cannot help feeling a certain satisfaction in finding that the people here are getting up a subscription to offer a testimonial of respect to Mr. Nicholls on his leaving the place.  Many are expressing both their commiseration and esteem for him.  The Churchwardens recently put the question to him plainly: Why was he going?  Was it Mr. Brontë’s fault or his own?  “His own,” he answered.  Did he blame Mr. Brontë?  “No! he did not: if anybody was wrong it was himself.”  Was he willing to go?  “No! it gave him great pain.”  Yet he is not always right.  I must be just.  He shows a curious mixture of honour and obstinacy — feeling and sullenness.  Papa addressed him at the school tea-drinking, with
constrained
civility, but still with
civility
.  He did not reply civilly; he cut short further words.  This sort of treatment offered in public is what papa never will forget or forgive, it inspires him with a silent bitterness not to be expressed.  I am afraid both are unchristian in their mutual feelings.  Nor do I know which of them is least accessible to reason or least likely to forgive.  It is a dismal state of things.

‘The weather is fine now, dear Nell.  We will take these sunny days as a good omen for your visit to Yarmouth.  With kind regards to all at Brookroyd, and best wishes to yourself, — I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
May
27
th
, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen, — You will want to know about the leave-taking?  The whole matter is but a painful subject, but I must treat it
 
briefly.  The testimonial was presented in a public meeting.  Mr. Taylor and Mr. Grant were there.  Papa was not very well and I advised him to stay away, which he did.  As to the last Sunday, it was a cruel struggle.  Mr. Nicholls ought not to have had to take any duty.

‘He left Haworth this morning at six o’clock.  Yesterday evening he called to render into papa’s hands the deeds of the National School, and to say good-bye.  They were busy cleaning — washing the paint, etc., in the dining-room, so he did not find me there.  I would not go into the parlour to speak to him in papa’s presence.  He went out, thinking he was not to see me; and indeed, till the very last moment, I thought it best not.  But perceiving that he stayed long before going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took courage and went out, trembling and miserable.  I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob.  Of course I went straight to him.  Very few words were interchanged, those few barely articulate.  Several things I should have liked to ask him were swept entirely from my memory.  Poor fellow!  But he wanted such hope and such encouragement as I could not give him.  Still, I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and indifferent to his constancy and grief.  For a few weeks he goes to the south of England, afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in Yorkshire, but I don’t know where.

‘Papa has been far from strong lately.  I dare not mention Mr. Nicholls’s name to him.  He speaks of him quietly and without opprobrium to others, but to me he is implacable on the matter.  However, he is gone — gone, and there’s an end of it.  I see no chance of hearing a word about him in future, unless some stray shred of intelligence comes through Mr. Sowden or some other second-hand source.  In all this it is not I who am to be pitied at all, and of course nobody pities me.  They all think in Haworth that I have disdainfully refused him.  If pity would do Mr. Nicholls any good, he ought to have, and I believe has it.  They may abuse me if they will; whether they do or not I can’t tell.

 
‘Write soon and say how your prospects proceed.  I trust they will daily brighten. — Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth,
March
18
th
, 1854.

‘My dear Lætitia, — I was very glad to see your handwriting again; it is, I believe, a year since I heard from you.  Again and again you have recurred to my thoughts lately, and I was beginning to have some sad presages as to the cause of your silence.  Your letter happily does away with all these; it brings, on the whole, good tidings both of your papa, mamma, your sister, and, last but not least, your dear respected English self.

‘My dear father has borne the severe winter very well, a circumstance for which I feel the more thankful, as he had many weeks of very precarious health last summer, following an attack from which he suffered last June, and which for a few hours deprived him totally of sight, though neither his mind, speech, nor even his powers of motion were in the least affected.  I can hardly tell you how thankful I was, dear Lætitia, when, after that dreary and almost despairing interval of utter darkness, some gleam of daylight became visible to him once more.  I had feared that paralysis had seized the optic nerve.  A sort of mist remained for a long time, and indeed his vision is not yet perfectly clear, but he can read, write, and walk about, and he preaches
twice
every Sunday, the curate only reading the prayers. 
You
can well understand how earnestly I pray that sight may be spared him to the end; he so dreads the privation of blindness.  His mind is just as strong and active as ever, and politics interest him as they do
your
papa.  The Czar, the war, the alliance between France and England — into all these things he throws himself heart and soul.  They seem to carry him back to his comparatively young days, and to renew the excitement of the last great European struggle.  Of course, my father’s sympathies, and mine too, are all with justice and Europe against tyranny and Russia.

‘Circumstanced as I have been, you will comprehend that I
 
had neither the leisure nor inclination to go from home much during the past year.  I spent a week with Mrs. Gaskell in the spring, and a fortnight with some other friends more recently, and that includes the whole of my visiting since I saw you last.  My life is indeed very uniform and retired, more so than is quite healthful either for mind or body; yet I feel reason for often renewed feelings of gratitude in the sort of support which still comes and cheers me from time to time.  My health, though not unbroken, is, I sometimes fancy, rather stronger on the whole than it was three years ago; headache and dyspepsia are my worst ailments.  Whether I shall come up to town this season for a few days I do not yet know; but if I do I shall hope to call in Phillimore Place.  With kindest remembrances to your papa, mamma, and sisters, — I am, dear Lætitia, affectionately yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

Mr. Nicholls’s successor did not prove acceptable to Mr. Brontë.  He complained again and again, and one day Charlotte turned upon her father and told him pretty frankly that he was alone to blame — that he had only to let her marry Mr. Nicholls, with whom she corresponded and whom she really loved, and all would be well.  A little arrangement, the transfer of Mr. Nicholls’s successor, Mr. De Renzi, to a Bradford church, and Mr. Nicholls left his curacy at Kirk-Smeaton and returned once more to Haworth as an accepted lover.