The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (24 page)

The dream had lasted scarcely a minute or two, but it sufficed to wring my whole frame with mortification upon awakening. I had worked so hard to convince myself that I did not think of my master in a romantic way—that my love for him was innocent and entirely respectable. Oh, hopeless, hopeless Charlotte! What was I to do with such unwelcome thoughts and images?

The cook brought me tea in bed next morning. On beholding my ravaged countenance, she said, in concern, “Vous avez besoin d’un docteur, mademoiselle. J’appelle un.”
⁴⁵

“Non, Merci,” I replied; for I knew that no doctor could cure me.

The storm at last abated; the weather turned fair; I dressed myself and ventured out to clear my mind. For long hours, I traversed the boulevards and streets of Brussels. I wandered as far as the cemetery, and to the hills and fields beyond. As I walked, my thoughts turned towards home. I tried to picture what Emily might be doing at that moment: she was no doubt in the kitchen, cutting up the hash, while Tabby blew on the fire, in order to boil the potatoes to a sort of vegetable glue. Papa would be in his study, writing a letter of complaint to the
Leeds Intelligencer
on some matter of regional import. Anne was at Thorp Green, playing with the Robinson children, while Branwell recited some classic poem for his pupil. How divine were these imaginings to me! How dearly I missed them all!

When I looked up, I found myself back in the heart of the city, outside Saint Gudule. It was a church of the Catholic faith, a religion spurned by my father and alien to my nature, but which, living among its followers at the Pensionnat, had become increasingly familiar to me.

The bells began to toll for evening
salut;
they seemed to call me in. Against all precedent, I entered. Within, a few old women
were saying their prayers. I hovered at the back of the cathedral until vespers were over. I saw six or seven people kneeling on the stone steps, in the open niches which served as confessionals. I approached, drawn by a force I could not name. The confessors whispered through a grating to a priest on the other side. A lady kneeling nearby urged me, in a kind voice, to go ahead, for she was not ready.

I hesitated; but at that moment, any opening for a sincere appeal to God was as welcome to me as a drink of water to the parched and dying. I went to a niche and knelt. After some moments, a little wooden door inside the grating opened, and I saw the priest lean his ear towards me. Suddenly, I realised that I was ignorant of the formula of confession. What should I say? How did one begin?

I fell back on the truth. “Mon père, je suis Protestante.”
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The priest turned towards me in surprise. Although his face was obscured, I saw that he was an older man. “Une Protestante? En ce cas, pourquoi avez-vouz approché moi?”
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I replied that I had been perishing alone for quite some time, and that I needed comfort. He said, in a gentle voice, that as a Protestant, I could not enjoy the true blessings of a confession; but that he would be glad to hear me, and offer advice if he could.

I began to speak. At first, the words came haltingly; then they increased with speed and passion, until they became a flood. I told him everything—a vital outpouring of the long-pent-up pain that wrenched my heart—and I finished my oration with the question which preyed most deeply on my mind: “My father, if our thoughts and intentions are noble and unpolluted, are we held accountable to God for the sinful dreams that invade our sleep?”

The priest’s visage, or what I could glimpse of it beyond the grate, appeared perplexed. At length he said compassionately,
My daughter, if you were of our faith, I would know better how to guide you; but I believe, in your heart, that you already know what course you must follow. I believe, too, that these feelings and afflictions under which you are suffering, are messengers from God to bring you back to the true Church. I would like to help you; but I need more time than I am able to give you here. You must come to my house, and we will talk again.” He gave me his address, and instructed me to go there the next morning at ten.

I thanked the priest; I rose; I glided away, indebted to him for his kindness, but knowing that I had no intention of visiting him again. He seemed a worthy man; but in my weakened state of mind, I feared that, had I gone to him, his powers of persuasion would be so great, that I would soon end up counting my beads in the cell of a Carmelite convent.

I returned to the Pensionnat and faithfully reported this incident (which, dear diary, I later gave to Lucy Snowe in
Villette
) in a letter to Emily; although I carefully omitted the content of my confession. The act of communicating my suffering to my sister, however, as well as to the priest—a human being so intelligent, so worthy and consecrated—had done me good. Already I felt some measure of solace and relief.

“I believe, in your heart, that you already know what course you must follow.” Those were the priest’s words; the one and only true piece of advice he had given me. As I lay in bed that night, eddying darkness swam around me, and reflection came in just as black and confused a flow. Aloud, to the blank emptiness, I cried, “What am I to do?”

The answer came promptly from my mind, and the words it spoke—“You must leave Belgium!”—were so dreadful, that I stopped my ears. I hated to go home, to nothing—for no occupation awaited me there—and I hated more the idea of leaving Monsieur Héger decidedly, entirely, knowing that I would, in all probability, never see him again. And yet, the thought of staying was equally tormenting. How could I remain in that house, liv
ing on nothing but the hope of a mere glimpse of him day after day? How could I continue, knowing that my regard for him could never be openly expressed?

“If I must go, then let me be torn away!” I cried aloud. “Let another make the decision for me!”

“No!” cried Conscience tyrannically. “None shall help you, Charlotte. You must tear yourself away. You must cut out your own heart.”

“No!” cried Passion. “Think of the long, lonely days at home, starved for a letter or a word, all contact with him reduced to memory and thought!”

For weeks, I was wrapped in an agony of tortured indecision. To stay, I had no will; to flee, I had no strength. At length, a voice within me averred that I must take action: I must abandon Feeling and follow Conscience. The secret love that kindled within me, unreturned and unknown, could only devour the life that fed it. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty—“Depart!”

Not long after school resumed, I gathered my courage. I waited for a moment when Madame Héger was alone in her salon, and—with apologies—I gave my notice. For an instant, surprise and relief flooded Madame’s normally passive face; then the mask fell back in place. “Have no worries on our account, Mademoiselle,” said she in the coolest of tones. “We shall get on. You may leave at once, if you wish.”

The next day, Monsieur Héger sent for me. When I appeared in his library and took the seat he offered, I took great pains to repress my tears, and braced myself for what I believed was coming: his calm, measured words of farewell. Instead, to my surprise, he gazed at me with raised eyebrows and lifted hands, his eyes smarting with hurt and confusion.

“What is this madness? You are leaving? Whatever has possessed you? Are you not happy here?”

“Monsieur, I
have
been happy; it grieves me to leave this place, and to leave you. But I must.”

“Why? Have you been offered another post?”

“I have not.”

“Then to what do you return?”

“Nothing of consequence, Monsieur; but return I must.”

“I repeat: why?”

How could I tell him? Even his own wife had, apparently, not dared to broach the truth. “I—I have been away too long, Monsieur. I miss my home and family.”

“I understand if you are homesick, Mademoiselle. You should have gone home for the long vacation—I told you so. But to leave now, like this—the school year has only just begun! It is not so easy to find a good teacher of English. What shall we do?”

“You will find another teacher, Monsieur. You will forget me long before I forget you.”

“How can you say that, Mademoiselle? After all this time, after all the dialogue that has been exchanged between us, I could never forget you. You are one of the brightest students I have ever had.” The gentleness in his voice broke me down with grief, and at the same time turned me cold with dread, for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising. “Are we not good friends, Mademoiselle?”

I stifled a sob. His language was torture to me. “We are good friends, Monsieur.”

“When you first came, you were afraid of me, I think. Look how far we have progressed. I believe you understand me now—you are able to read my moods—and I believe I understand you.” (Diary: he did not.)

“Monsieur,” said I, struggling to steady my voice as I dashed away tears, “I have achieved the attainments I sought in coming here. It is time for me to go.”

“No! You have made great progress, but there is still much to be done. I tell you, it is too soon. You must not leave. I will not hear of it!”

The pain in his eyes and voice cut me to the quick. Oh! Why must he make this so much harder than it already was? It was clear that he still cared for me, in his way; that our parting would grieve him; that he saw me as a friend who was letting
him down. Conscience and Reason turned traitors against me. I could not, at that moment, have persevered in my intention, any more than I could have leapt off a high cliff; but giving in, I knew, could only lead to equal doom.

I stayed through the end of December. Each day was a misery. When at last I announced my final determination, I was touched by the degree of regret expressed by my pupils. Monsieur Héger acquiesced with sad grace. The morning I left, I was called into the Hégers’ sitting-room, where Monsieur placed a parting gift—an anthology of French poetry—into my hands, along with a diploma, testifying to my qualifications to run a school.

“You will let us know when your school is established, yes?” said Monsieur Héger, with great emotion, as he bade me good-bye, promising faithfully to correspond. “We will send one of our daughters to study with you.”

Madame insisted on accompanying me to the boat at Ostend on that 1st of January, 1844, as if to ensure that I would have no opportunity to change my mind. Shedding bitter tears, I said good-bye to Belgium, believing in my heart, even then, that some day I would return.

I never did.

T
wo years later, as I lay alone in the darkness of my chamber at the parsonage, the pain and heartache which seared my breast was still as fresh and agonising as it had been upon my return from Belgium. Two years later, I was still secretly in love with a man who resided on the other side of the sea; a man I had always known was unattainable; a man who had proved, by the cessation of his letters a year since (whether of his own accord, or at the insistence of his wife) that there was no possibility of pursuing even a distant friendship. How long, I wondered, did it take to stop loving another person? Was it possible to purposefully and permanently cut him out of one’s heart? If so, how did one manage it?

My bedroom door opened and Emily came in, carrying a candle. I sat up, dried my eyes, and struggled to regain control over my emotions, as my sister sat down beside me on the edge of the bed.

“Charlotte, I am sorry for what I said to Branwell about Monsieur Héger. I meant well; but I now see that my attempt to give him comfort was a grave betrayal of your privacy. And I am so very, very sorry for everything I said to you. I spoke without
thinking. I love you so much; you are my dearest sister; you are everything to me. I am deeply grieved to see how much my words hurt you. I never meant to cause you pain.”

“I know you did not.” I reached out to take Emily’s proffered hand in the flickering darkness. Her cheeks, I saw, were streaked with tears. Emily wrapped her arms around me, and we clung to each other tightly for some moments, drawing comfort from each other’s embrace.

When the hug ended, Emily said softly, “Charlotte, will you tell me now? Will you tell me what happened between you and Monsieur Héger?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Some day, perhaps, I shall.”

It was not until the following morning, when papa joined my sisters and me at breakfast, that I remembered, with sudden mortification, that he and Mr. Nicholls had been present during Branwell and Emily’s verbal onslaught the night before.

After papa consumed his oatmeal and hastened off to his study with barely a word, I asked: “Did papa or Mr. Nicholls say anything about—about what they heard last night?”

“They were almost too shocked to speak,” said Anne, with a sympathetic glance at me.

“Oh!” I cried, with fresh embarrassment.

“Do not worry,” said Emily. “I told them it was all a great misunderstanding, that Branwell had twisted my words around, and none of it could be further from the truth. I am sure they will forget all about it.”

Her explanation seemed very optimistic to me. People, in my experience, did not soon forget accusations of the type that Branwell had made, even if they were proved to be untrue. With burning cheeks, I wondered what Mr. Nicholls must think of me. For several days, I was too humiliated to look him in the eye. Then one day, my attitude changed. I had just finished teaching my Sunday school class, and had sent my young pupils on their way with a smile, when I nearly collided with Mr. Nicholls and John Brown in the doorway.

“Are ye going t’ th’ oratio a’ th’ church to-morrow night?”
John Brown was asking him. “We are t’ hear th’ celebrated tenor, Thomas Parker, sing wi’ Mrs. Sunderland from Halifax, an’ a great variety of instrumental and choral performers besides.”

“I would never go to hear a
Baptist
sing,” sneered Mr. Nicholls brusquely, as he stepped aside to let me pass.

I could only shake my head at this. Indeed, all the Puseyite curates refused to attend that concert, an event which filled the house of worship to suffocation, and proved to be one of the leading events of the year. As I listened to the glorious music ringing through the church that night, I reminded myself that Mr. Nicholls was a narrow-minded bigot. Why on earth did I care what he thought of me? I was guiltless of any real wrong-doing; he was not. Remember Bridget Malone, I told myself. Mr. Nicholls is the one who should be ashamed to hold his head up, not you!

I contented myself with this notion. If Mr. Nicholls no longer respected me, it was not my fault, nor my concern; for I had never really liked or respected him. I would simply go on avoiding him.

Avoiding Mr. Nicholls, however, was easier said than done. He lived next door; he met with papa every day; he conducted all three Sunday services and supervised the schools; he was everywhere. In fact, Mr. Nicholls’s frequent visits to the parsonage gave rise to a dismaying rumour, which I first heard about in a letter from Ellen. She informed me that some one had inquired of her, with great solemnity and interest, if it was true that Mr. Nicholls and I were secretly engaged! I immediately replied in the negative, but her letter left me out of sorts for weeks.

My determination to think ill of Mr. Nicholls was sorely tested one afternoon in mid-March. It was a crisp, cold day: no longer winter, but not quite spring. Anne and I were making a round of visits to the poor to deliver the children’s clothing we had sewn over the preceding months for those in need.

Our first stops were to the crowded little houses which clustered along Main Street in the village, a task we did not relish, for although the tenants were gracious enough, their houses
were cramped and often very dirty, and so redolent of bad air that we could not bring ourselves to stay longer than a minute. More pleasant were our visits to the parishioners who lived farther afield—the mill-workers in the valleys, and the poor farmers who scratched out a meager living from the soil.

As Anne and I headed out in that direction beneath a glorious canopy of bright blue sky, the wind sounded through the leafless branches of the few scattered trees, and snow-drifts, still lingering in the hollows of the hills and dales, were fast melting beneath the sun. We soon came to the Ainleys’ cottage, a tiny thatched and white-washed dwelling set just back from the road.

Three of the eight Ainley children, who were too young for school, were playing outside, attired in an assortment of old and ill-fitting, raggedy clothing. As Anne and I strode to the front door, the little ones surrounded us, making a clamour and fuss, tugging at our skirts and baskets and asking what we had brought them. Gently tousling their curly heads, I explained that they must be patient, for our deliveries must go into their mother’s hands first.

“Ah! Aren’t ye ladies angels t’ bring me clothes for me childer,” said Mrs. Ainley as she greeted us at the door and ushered us inside, carrying a one-year-old infant on her hip. A tall, kindly but tired-looking woman in a shabby brown dress, she was forty years old, but looked a decade older. “Th’ Lord only knows, I’ve nought but two hands, an’ wi’ eight children, it’s all I can do t’ put food i’ their mouths, mich less keep up wi’ all th’ sewing that be required t’ clothe ’em, particular hard i’ this cold weather, an’ me so bad wi’ th’ rheumatiz i’ me fingers an’ all.”

The children tried to follow us in, but their mother shooed them out. “Go an’ play outside, th’ lot o’ ye! There’s nought room for so mony bodies i’ this wee house, and I crave a bit o’ grown-up conversation wi’ our visitors.”

I shivered as we entered the little cottage; it was dark, close, and chilly, and smelled of smoke, but it was as tidy and clean as Mrs. Ainley could make it. She offered us ale, which we de
clined, aware that she could ill afford to share the beverage. Still holding the baby (a bonny, smiling lass with a head full of blonde curls), Mrs. Ainley quickly dusted off the two best chairs for us by the hearth; knowing that one of them was her favourite, I expressed a preference for sitting on a hard little stool in a corner near the window.

“I’m sorry it be so cold i’ here,” apologised Mrs. Ainley as she stirred the meager contents of the fire-place, which was no more than a few red cinders and a little bit of stick. “Our stock o’ coals an’ peat is finished, an’ we’re ill set t’ get more. Sin’ they lowered th’ wages at th’ mill, we’ve been i’ desperate straits. Wi’ th’ prices o’ bread an’ potaters so high, me husband barely earns enought for us t’ live on, for all he works from dawn till dark. Me oldest girl is a maid o’ all work, an’ she sends summat home every now an’ again, but it’s nought but a pittance.”

Anne and I expressed our sincere dismay at the dismal working conditions in the township, which we knew were a source of misery and privation for many.

“Ah well, there’s nought can be done about it, it’s all th’ poor state o’ trade what’s caused it, or so I’m told.” Mrs. Ainley placed the good-natured infant on a blanket on the floor at her feet, where it lay quietly sucking its thumb. The woman then took a seat before us and exclaimed with enthusiasm over each new garment we presented her, thanking us profusely.

“Sich fine workmanship as ye ladies do is not often seen. Oh! How I wish I could sew like ye. I can still knit, praise God, when I find th’ time, but me fingers can barely hold a sewing needle these days. There’s a Sunday shirt I’ve been trying t’ mak’ these past four month for me son John; he needs it sadly, but God knows how I’ll ever finish it.”

“I would be happy to finish it for you,” I offered.

“I can help,” added Anne. “We can start working on it while we are here, if you like.”

“Oh! Ye both are too good; I can never repay sich kindness.”

“There is nothing to repay, Mrs. Ainley,” said I. “If we can do something to ease your burden, it will give us great plea
sure.”

Mrs. Ainley gratefully brought the pieces of the unfinished garment to us, along with her sewing box. I found two brass thimbles within, which Anne and I fitted to our tiny fingers by means of a roll of paper. Anne and I were soon at work sewing the shirt, while Mrs. Ainley knitted a pair of stockings. Moments later, a large, brindled cat sauntered in from the next room and lay down before the hearth, lazily licking its velvet paws with half-closed eyes, as it gazed at the decaying embers in the crooked fender.

“That cat’s nearly twelve year owd,” commented Mrs. Ainley, looking down on the animal with affection. “Like one o’ th’ family, he is. I dunnut what we’d do wi’out him. He’s a lucky one, too. Why, just th’ other day, Mr. Nicholls saved his life.”

“Mr. Nicholls?” said I in surprise.

“Indeed. T’wor about a week past, th’ cat went missing. For four day we saw neither hide nor hair of him. Th’ bairn were all beside ’emselfs with worry, crying like there wor no to-morrow. I shed a few tears, too, certain sure we’d never see th’ likes o’ ’at creature again. Then up th’ walk comes Mr. Nicholls, wi’ th’ cat in his arms. It’d got trapped i’ a storage closet at th’ Sunday school, he says. He just happened by an’ heard it mewing. Lord knows it would’ve died, otherwise. We’re i’ Mr. Nicholls’s debt. An’ not just about th’ cat, neither. I bless th’ day ’at gentleman arrived i’ these parts, I can tell ye.”

“Oh?” said Anne. “Why is that, Mrs. Ainley?”

“Mr. Nicholls has been so good t’ us. He be so different from ’at last curate, Mr. Smith, who ye hardly ever saw except at church, an’ who dinnut care nought for any one but hisself. Why, Mr. Nicholls stops by regular-like, t’ read me my favourite passages from th’ Bible, for ye know I can’t read so well meself, an’ we always have sich a nice chat abaat God an’ life an’ ’at. He talks t’ me as kind as owt,
⁴⁸
an’ sits beside me jist like a son or brother. I get sich comfort from his visits.”

As I listened to this discourse, I attacked the seam I was sewing with barely restrained annoyance. Could I not go anywhere, I wondered, without hearing Mr. Nicholls’s praises sung? My irritation turned to alarm when, a few minutes later, I heard a rattling cart pull up outside the cottage, followed by a knock at the front door. Mrs. Ainley answered it to find the aforementioned gentleman himself, standing with hat in hand.

“Good-afternoon to you, Mrs. Ainley,” said Mr. Nicholls, patting the heads of the giggling Ainley children beside him, as they tried to poke their heads inside the door. “I couldn’t help noticing the other day that your stock of coal was very low. I thought it might be a while before you could get more. So I took up a little collection from our parishioners and I’ve arranged to bring you some coal, which I hope will last until summer comes.”

This sudden appearance by Mr. Nicholls so startled me that I inadvertently stabbed my finger with my needle. Stifling a cry, I shrank back into the corner, cursing the ill-timing of our visit, and hoping he would not see me.

“Mr. Nicholls, ye are goodness itself!” cried Mrs. Ainley, looking as if she might weep for joy. “What a great blessing this is!”

“Do you have a wheelbarrow about, so we can put it in the coal bin?” asked he; then, glancing in and catching sight of Anne and me, he froze in surprise.

“The wheelbarrow’s out back, sir,” replied Mrs. Ainley. “Let me show ye.”

Some bustle followed in which Mr. Nicholls helped the carter transfer the coal to the bin, after which the horse and cart departed. As Mrs. Ainley and Mr. Nicholls returned to the front door I heard him say, “May I fill your coal scuttle, ma’am, before I go? It’s a cold day, and your fire looked wanting.”

“God bless ye, sir,” cried the grateful woman, as Mr. Nicholls followed her into the house. As he passed me and Anne, he acknowledged our presence by an aloof, unsmiling nod, which I returned with a nod equally as cool. He then fetched the coal
scuttle, filled it, and brought it back inside. Carefully stepping around the sleeping child and cat, he added a few pieces of fuel to the fire. I bent my head over my work. After a small pause, in which I felt Mr. Nicholls’s eyes on me, he said, “Have you ladies formed a sewing circle?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Ainley. “Th’ Brontës jist come t’ bring me them sweet new clothes they made for me bairn. They stayed t’ keep me company, and t’ sew a shirt for me son John.”

“Did they?” said he, in a tone more gracious than before. Bending down to stroke the cat, who emitted a contented purr, Mr. Nicholls added, “Well, I won’t interrupt your visit, ladies. Good day to you, Miss Brontë, Miss Anne.”

My sister and I both responded in kind.

“I will see you in church on Sunday, Mrs. Ainley.”

“Ye will for certain, Mr. Nicholls. Ye know we never miss a Sunday service.”