The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (35 page)

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, awe-struck. “I understand your sisters are published, as well.”

“They are.”

“The whole Brontë family, a pack of authors! I wish I’d known it while they were alive. To think that all this was going on, right under my nose, and I never suspected it. At least this solves the great mystery, as to the purpose of all that writing paper you devoured.”

His eyes twinkled so gaily, that I could not help but smile; then he laughed out, and I found myself laughing along with him. “I still feel very badly about that affair,” said I, in between bursts of merriment. “It was so kind of you to go all the way to Bradford to procure paper for us in our hour of need; yet I was so pig-headed, I could not appreciate it.”

“No harm done. That was long ago. I look forward to reading your other book, by the way, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere. Would you consider loaning me a copy?”

This request filled me with new-found anxiety, and brought another blush to my cheeks. I had written many scenes in
Shirley
that came from personal experience, and I had included a trio of self-important, buffoonish curates, based on the clergymen in my neighbourhood—two of whom were Mr. Nicholls’s particular friends. I had also briefly introduced a character who was Mr. Nicholls’s mirror image at the end. As my feelings towards Mr. Nicholls had softened considerably of late, I had portrayed him in a far better light than his colleagues; still, I was concerned about his reaction.

“I would be happy to loan you the book, sir, but I should warn you: when I wrote
Shirley,
I could not conceive that anyone in my neighbourhood would ever read it. It seems that I was foolish in that regard. You may find certain characters and events in the book a bit—familiar. I hope I did not offend.”

“Duly noted. Now when can I have it?”

I gave him the book. The next day, his landlady Mrs. Brown told me she seriously thought Mr. Nicholls had gone wrong in the head, for she had heard him alone in his room, giving vent to great roars of laughter, clapping his hands, and stamping his feet on the floor. The evening after
that,
when Mr. Nicholls came to see papa, I heard him reading aloud all the scenes about the curates; he read the scene about the wayward dog and the frightened curate twice, laughing his head off.

Afterwards, he knocked at the door to the dining-room, where I sat reading. I bade him come in; he entered and said hello.

“Would you care to sit, sir?”

“Regrettably, I cannot stay. I wanted to return your novel, and thank you for the loan.” He laid the book on the dining table. “It is a delightful book, Miss Brontë.”

I thanked him. As he made no move to leave, yet seemed to wish to say more, I prompted eagerly, “Please feel free to share any thoughts you may have about the novel, sir. Not all the critics have appreciated it. I no longer have any one, save papa and my publishers, with whom to discuss such matters, and I am most interested in your opinion.”

He fell silent for a moment, then said, “Well: I am no expert in these things, but I don’t know what the critics could find to complain about. I thought it well done. I liked your descriptions of the Yorkshire country-side. I recognised Keeper in your ‘Tartar.’ You captured Mr. Grant and Mr. Bradley to perfection. I’ve never laughed so hard in all my life! I intend to order my own copy.”

“I could hardly ask for a better recommendation.”

After some further hesitation, he added, “Would it be presumptuous of me to inquire, Miss Brontë—by any chance—am I meant to be your Mr. Macarthey?”

My cheeks grew warm. “I admit I did have you in mind, sir, when I wrote that little piece about him at the end.” At his laugh, I added, “Believe me, I should never have written it, had I thought you would read it.”

“Well I am honoured,” said he triumphantly, “to find myself in your book, however small my part might be.”

A few days later, I was writing a letter when Martha rushed in from the kitchen, puffing and blowing and much excited.

“Oh ma’am, I’ve heard sich news!”

“What about?” said I, but I could guess what was coming.

“Please ma’am ye’ve been an’ written two books—th’ grandest books ’at ever was seen! My father has heard it at Halifax an’ Mr. George Taylor an’ Mr. Greenwood an’ Mr. Merrall at Bradford—they’re going t’ have a meeting at th’ Mechanics’ Institute an’ t’ settle about ordering ’em!”

I calmed Martha down and sent her off, then fell into a cold sweat.
Jane Eyre
and
Shirley
to be read by John Brown, our sexton—and no doubt every man and woman in Haworth—God help, keep, and deliver me!

The word spread like wild-fire. I no longer walked invisible. Soon the entire village was clamouring to read my books, making great fools of themselves over
Shirley
in particular. They cast lots for the three copies on loan at the Mechanics’ Institute, fining borrowers a shilling per diem if they kept the volumes longer than two days. Ellen wrote to tell me that
Shirley
was experiencing a similar interest in her own district, many of whose inhabitants recognised themselves, and were thrilled to find the Yorkshire people and country-side portrayed in print by one of their own. Even the local curates—poor fellows!—showed no resentment, each characteristically finding solace for his own wounds in crowing over his brethren.

It would be mere nonsense and vanity to repeat any more of what I heard at the time, particularly since the positive was balanced by an equal weight of negative from the press. Nevertheless, I was grateful for our neighbours’ enthusiasm, as it was a source of reviving pleasure to my aging father, whose pride in my work now knew no bounds.

One morning, an incident happened which curiously touched me. Papa put into my hands a little packet of old, yellowed letters.

“Charlotte,” said he gently and gravely, “it occurred to me that you might like to see these. They are your mother’s letters.”

“My mother’s letters?” I replied in great surprise.

“She wrote them to me before we were married. I have always treasured them. You may read them if you like.” With that, he left the room.

My mother’s letters! I had had no idea that such letters existed. I understood at once what must have inspired papa to share them with me, after all these years: in reading about my character Caroline’s longing for her mother in
Shirley
, he no doubt recognized the depth of loss I had sustained when my
own mother died at such a young age. My stomach quavered as I opened the first fragile epistle; my heart gave a little leap when I beheld the delicate, unfamiliar handwriting on the pages therein. How strange it was to peruse now, for the first time, the records of a mind whence my own sprang! How sad and sweet it was to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order! There was a rectitude, a refinement, a constancy, a modesty, and a sense of gentleness about them, that was indescribable—and a sense of humour, too—she addressed my father as “Dear saucy Pat.” Oh! I thought, as tears sprang into my eyes, how dearly I wished that she had lived, and that I could have known her!

When I returned the precious documents to papa, I thanked him for his generosity and sensitivity in sharing them with me.

“She was a dear and wonderful woman, and you are a lot like her, Charlotte,” said he, as he squeezed my hand affectionately. “You are my solace and my comfort now; I do not know how I should survive without you.”

“You will never have to, papa,” I promised.

My life over the next three years was a strange amalgam of solitude and society. I used part of my earnings to do a little interior remodelling in the parsonage, widening the dining-room and bed-chamber above, adding curtains here and there and refurbishing upholstery. Restless and unable to commit to a theme for a new book, I made several visits to London, where I was wined and dined at the home of Mr. Smith and met several prominent writers, including William Makepeace Thackeray. I visited the city’s many attractions, and I saw the celebrated actor Macready in
Othello
and
Macbeth
.

At the urging of Mr. Smith (“you are a famous author now, Miss Brontë,” said he; “it is
de rigueur
to have one’s likeness painted”) I reluctantly had my portrait done by the fashionable artist George Richmond—a subtle drawing in coloured chalk which Mr. Smith sent to our house, along with a framed portrait of my childhood hero, the Duke of Wellington, as a gift for me. I
thought my picture a flattered likeness, which more resembled my sister Anne than myself. Tabby insisted that it made me look too old; but as she, with equal tenacity, asserted that the Duke of Wellington’s picture was “a portrait o’ th’ Maister” (meaning papa), not much weight could be ascribed to her opinion.

Martha said, “Th’ eyes be very like. ’Tis like ye’re staring down at me, ma’am, forming an opinion like, an’ looking at me through an’ through, right t’ me very soul.”

Papa proudly hung my portrait over the fire-place in the dining-room, pronouncing it a correct likeness. “It captures you entirely,” said he with an uncharacteristic grin. “Such a wonderfully good and life-like expression! It succeeds, as well, as a graphic representation of both mind and matter. I fancy I see within it strong indications of the author and the genius.”

“I fancy
I see
strong indications of bias in your opinion,” said I with a laugh.

When Mr. Nicholls saw the portrait, he stood staring at it, speechless, for a very long while, with twinkling eyes and a smile that he seemed determined to hide. When papa asked his estimation of the work, Mr. Nicholls only said that he thought it very good.

In the summer of 1850, I went to Edinburgh for several days to meet with George Smith and his siblings, a trip which elicited numerous shocked remarks from Ellen about propriety and such. She soon began to entertain notions about a match between us. I laughed at the idea. While I enjoyed a regular correspondence with my handsome, intelligent, and charming young publisher, in truth I felt only friendship for Mr. Smith, and he for me. Mr. Smith would only marry a beauty—I knew this instinctively—and the disparity between our ages and our positions in society, in any case, would make any such pairing quite impossible.

From Edinburgh, I proceeded to Windermere in the Lake District, to stay with my new friends, Sir James and Lady
Kay-Shuttleworth (literary enthusiasts who had sought me out, and had deliberately taken me under their wing), in a house they had taken for the summer. There, most memorably, I met Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell
⁶²
—a woman six years my senior, and a writer of genuine talent, whose work I admired. She had written to me (through my publisher) with such praise and affection on the publication of
Shirley,
that I had felt obliged to reply to express my gratitude. In person, I found Mrs. Gaskell to be highly intelligent, wise, cheerful, and pleasing, with cordial manners and a kind and good heart. The two of us discovered we had much in common and became quite close, beginning a friendship which increased yearly in importance.

One of my greatest solaces upon returning home was reading. Great boxes of the newest books were sent like clockwork from Cornhill, and I spent long hours every day decadently devouring them. My other avid pursuit was a devotion to correspondence. I regularly exchanged newsy letters with Ellen, Mr. George Smith, Mr. Smith Williams, and my friend and former school-teacher Miss Wooler (with whom I had been corresponding ever since my years as a teacher at Roe Head School)—communications which were the bright spot in my week, and provided a welcome relief from the isolation of Haworth. The infrequent letters that came from Mary Taylor in New Zealand were equally diverting; she seemed happy and fulfilled in her new life in that distant colony, despite occasional loneliness, and the hard work involved in managing her store.

On occasion, when painful memories struck too rife, or my own loneliness seemed too difficult to bear, I would take out my letters from Monsieur Héger from their rosewood box, and read them again. I knew full well that the act was foolish; there was no longer any place in my mind or heart for my old master; I had made peace with that fact long ago. Yet, for some reason I could
not name, whenever I re-read those fragile documents in the flickering candlelight, Monsieur’s thoughts and words brought me comfort.

A warm friendship had developed through correspondence between myself and Mr. James Taylor, my publishers’ managing clerk. I had met the man in person on several occasions, and I sensed that Mr. Taylor had become enamoured of me. When Mr. Taylor wrote to inform me that he wished to visit me at Haworth in April 1851, I had a presentiment as to what the nature of his call might be, and I was predisposed to think well of him. As I anticipated, Mr. Taylor did propose to me; however, there was a catch: he intended to leave immediately for India for five years to run a branch of Smith, Elder & Co there, and requested that I promise to marry him upon his return.

An absence of five years—an expanse of three oceans between us—it was equivalent in my mind to an eternal separation! There was, additionally, a barrier even more difficult to pass: upon that visit, no matter how hard I tried, I could find in Mr. Taylor nothing of the gentleman—not one gleam of true good breeding. Moreover, his resemblance to my brother Branwell (he was small in stature and red-headed, with a determined, dreadful nose) was very marked; as he stood near me and fastened his eyes on me, my veins ran ice. Papa seemed to think that a prospective union, deferred for five years, with such a decorous, reliable personage as Mr. Taylor, would be a very proper and advisable affair; but marry him I could not, even if my refusal condemned me to spinsterhood and a life of loneliness.

In London, as a lark, George Smith and I—adopting the names of Mr. and Miss Fraser—visited a phrenologist
⁶³
in the Strand, a Dr. Browne, who provided us with written analyses of our
natures and abilities. Mr. Smith was deemed “an admirer of the fair sex, affectionate and friendly, fond of the ideal and romantic, and not prone to procrastinate”—a reading which was like as the very life itself. I was professed to be “in possession of a fine organ of language,” one who can “express her sentiments with clearness, precision, and force,” and is “endowed with an exalted sense of the beautiful and ideal.” My attachments, he maintained, were “strong and enduring,” and “If not a poet, her sentiments are poetical or are at least imbued with that enthusiastic glow which is characteristic of poetical feeling.” This reading delighted me, for its most flattering points described the woman that I aspired to be.