The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (4 page)

“Have you written anything new, Charlotte?”

My brother’s voice broke into my thoughts; I blinked and refocused my gaze, aware that I must have missed part of the conversation. We had progressed beyond the factories now, and were passing the treeless open fields, divided like a draught-board
⁸
into parcels by endless stone fences. Funny, I thought with a smile, that Branwell should ask about writing, when I had been musing about art; but the two endeavours did, in a way, go hand in hand.

Before I could reply, Emily said: “Charlotte has written not a word, as far as I can tell, in more than a year.”

“Is that true?” asked Branwell in surprise.

I considered my response. In fact, ever since my return from Belgium eighteen months before, I had written both poetry and prose in secret, late at night, in an attempt to unburden the misery which continued to weigh down my heart. This practice, I realised, could no longer go on undetected, now that Anne had come home and would share my bed. “I have written nothing of late to speak of,” said I, which was as close to the truth as I wished to go.

“Why not?” asked Branwell. “Writing is as deeply entrenched in your blood as it is in mine, Charlotte. You once told me that to live a single day without putting pen to paper in some capacity or another was pure torture to your soul. Admit it: you must at least be
thinking
about Angria and your Duke of Zamorna.”

Angria was the imaginary kingdom that Branwell and I had invented as children: a balmy African landscape, first called the “Confederacy of Glass Town,” which we had peopled with a roster of brilliant, wealthy characters who loved obsessively, waged wars, had great adventures, and were as real to us as life itself. My childhood hero had been the famous Duke of Wellington; when I outgrew him, I created an imaginary son for him, the Duke of Zamorna (alternately known as Arthur Augustus Adrian Wellesley, Marquis of Douro, and King of Angria). Zamorna was a poet, soldier, statesman, and passionate womanizer, who had captured my mind and heart over the course of countless stories—stories I was still writing with great pleasure in my mid-twenties, when I left for Belgium. I had not written a word about him or Angria since.

“I think our professor in Brussels said something to discourage her,” said Emily.

A heat rose to my face. “That is not true. Monsieur Héger was very supportive of my writing. He said I had talent, and helped me to hone and perfect my craft. I learned more from him than any other teacher; but he also forced me to re-evaluate
the type of writing I was doing and its place in the future course of my life.”

“What future course is that?” asked Branwell.

“I am twenty-nine years old. There is no point in scribbling any more of those silly, romantic stories that we penned in our youth. At my age, the imagination should be pruned and trimmed, the judgment cultivated, and the countless illusions of youth should be cleared away.”

Branwell laughed. “Good God, Charlotte! You sound like you are a hundred and twenty-nine, not twenty-nine.”

“It is nothing to joke about. I must be serious now. I must focus on what is practical and prudent.”

“We can be practical and prudent,” interjected Anne, “without giving up writing.”

“We?” I looked at her. “Have you been writing, Anne?”

Anne and Emily exchanged a glance. After some hesitation, Anne said, “Not really—at least nothing of consequence.”

My curiosity was piqued; evidently, Anne
had
been writing, but was no more willing to talk about it than I. As to the subject matter of her work, I could venture a guess. In childhood, Emily and Anne had created an imaginary world of their own, which they called Gondal—a dark, dramatic, passionate Northern world ruled by females—and they had recorded the adventures of their beloved characters in verse and prose. Although it had been years since my sisters had shared the fruits of their labours with us, I knew they still drew great enjoyment from play-acting scenes about Gondal in private, whispered conversations to that day.

“I suppose writing is in our blood,” said I, “and I will always love it; but I feel that I must find something more useful and worthwhile to do with my time. One day, we all may have to support ourselves, and writing does not bring in an income.”

“But it
can
,” said Branwell, with a sudden, mysterious smile, as he removed his cap and tilted his head back, allowing the hot sun to shine fully upon his face.

“What is that smile?” asked Emily. “Have you sold something, Branwell?”

“I have. I just had four sonnets published in the
Yorkshire Gazette.
”

“Four sonnets!” I exclaimed, surprised and thrilled. “When was this?”

“Last month. They printed
Blackcomb
and
The Shepherd’s Chief Mourner
, which I wrote years ago, and a new pair as well, called
The Emigrant.
” Branwell immediately launched into a passionate recitation, delivering his new verses to the fields and sky. As I listened to his clear, strong voice, I could not help but feel a rush of pleasure and affection. Branwell’s animated delivery style was a gift he had possessed since childhood; he could make even the most ordinary poem sound like a masterpiece. At the conclusion of the performance, my sisters and I applauded; Branwell thanked us with a bow.

We had reached the bottom of Haworth’s one steep, narrow, winding street now. We plunged uphill with renewed vigour, our feet attacking the flagstones as we passed the closely-packed, slate-roofed, grey stone houses and shops on either side, deftly circumventing two horses and carts taking up the better part of the road. We soon reached the Haworth graveyard, on the hill before the church. It was wash day: a bevy of wives and washerwomen were gathered in the churchyard, chattering happily as they spread their wet sheets and laundry over the tombstones to dry. Since the majority of the tombstones were great stone slabs lying horizontally atop low pedestals like a table, they made a most convenient drying space.

“It is highly disrespectful,” intoned a deep Irish voice, as we turned left into Church Lane. I saw Mr. Nicholls exiting the sexton’s house with Mr. Grant, the curate of Oxenhope, a young man well-known to us, as he had assisted papa in the parish on many occasions over the preceding year. “A churchyard is a sacred place,” Mr. Nicholls went on. “To see the headstones covered over in damp sheets, shirts, and chemises is a travesty.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” replied Mr. Grant, a thin man with a red complexion and a high-pitched, nasal voice, “but a custom is a custom, and you don’t want to go up against all the women of Haworth, I assure you.”

Catching sight of us, the youthful Levites broke off their conversation. Mr. Nicholls and I had not spoken in the three weeks since I delivered his welcome basket, and he stiffened at the sight of me. Both men turned down the lane in our direction. Mr. Nicholls glanced curiously at Anne and Branwell, as the curates simultaneously tipped their clerical hats, and said, “Good-afternoon.”

“Good-afternoon,” I replied. “Mr. Nicholls: may I present my brother Branwell and my sister, Miss Anne Brontë. Branwell, Anne: this is the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls, the new curate of Haworth.”

Mr. Nicholls shook hands with Branwell and bowed formally to Anne. “I thought I detected a family resemblance. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir”—“And you, sir”—were Branwell’s and Anne’s replies. Emily, in typical fashion, said nothing.

“It is good to see you both again,” said the livelier Mr. Grant, amidst more hand-shaking and bowing. I thought Mr. Grant a self-complacent and snobbish man, from his turned-up nose and elevated chin to his clerical black gaiters and square-toed shoes, but he did seem to be an active and devoted parish priest. “Are you home for the summer?”

“Sadly, I must return in short order,” answered Branwell breezily, “but Anne is back for good. Had her fill of governessing, apparently.”

“Well,” said Mr. Grant, “that is totally understandable. To be locked away on a remote country estate, miles from anywhere, with no access to high society—it would indeed be deadly dull.”

“I thought so myself, at first,” remarked Branwell. “The first three months I was so bored, I thought I would tear my hair out; but the place grew on me.”

Anne frowned and said suddenly, “If you will excuse me, I am most anxious to see papa.”

“I will go with you,” said Emily.

My sisters darted off. I was eager to join them, and was about to say good-bye, when Branwell said, “Would you gentlemen like to join us for tea? If I am not mistaken, Tabby and Martha will have a feast of some sort awaiting us.”

Mr. Grant smiled heartily. “Thank you, we’d be delighted.”

My heart sank. I had looked forward to an intimate family gathering, just the five of us, to celebrate Anne and Branwell’s homecoming; I believed that papa had, too. Every time we had shared our table with the local curates, I had found them to be a self-seeking, vain, and empty race—and I did not wish to dine with Mr. Nicholls, in particular. My brother, however, had always been a gregarious, sociable being—and now the die was cast.

“I will see you gentlemen inside,” said I, forcing a smile. I then hastened down the lane towards the parsonage, after my sisters.

As I entered the house through the yard door, the delectable aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings assailed my nostrils. My sisters were both crouched down in the kitchen, happily receiving enthusiastic canine kisses from their respective animals. Our mastiff belonged to Emily; Flossy had been a gift from Anne’s pupils, the Robinsons; to her distress, they had so mistreated the lovely spaniel that she had been obliged to bring him home, where he stayed under Emily’s excellent care.

Tabby (bent over the stove, boiling potatoes) and Martha (removing puddings from the oven) both squealed with delight at the sight of Anne, and they were soon in each other’s arms.

“How we’ve missed ye, lass!” said Tabby, wiping happy tears from her eyes with a corner of her apron.

“How good it is t’ see ye, Miss Anne!” cried Martha. Just seventeen years old, Martha Brown was a cheerful, slender woman
with soft, dark hair and a pleasant face. The second eldest daughter of Mary and John Brown of Sexton House, just a few doors away, Martha had come to live with us at the tender age of thirteen, taking over the heavier share of the housework. “Roast beef an’ puddings bein’ a favourite o’ your’n an’ good Maister Branwell’s,” Martha told Anne, “we’ve took care t’ mak’ a proper Sunday dinner for your homecoming, although it be only a Tuesday.”

“Thank you both,” said Anne with a smile.

“I hope you have made enough for two more,” said I, “because your ‘good Master Branwell’ has just invited Mr. Nicholls and Mr. Grant to dine with us.”

“There be food aplenty,” said Tabby with a frown, “even if your guests do be sich lowly specimens as ’em young curates.”

“Curates?” repeated Emily in dismay, as she broke from Keeper’s hug. “What—are they coming now?” She leapt up like a spring and started for the kitchen door, as if to close it; but at that moment, I heard the sound of the men’s arriving chatter as they entered through the front door. Both dogs’ ears perked up and they instantly bolted past Emily into the passage.

“No!” cried Emily, dashing after them.

I heard some bustle; then the dogs erupted wildly in the hall, amidst whose hollow space their deep barks resounded formidably.

“Down, sir! Down!” exclaimed a high-toned, imperious voice, which I recognised as Mr. Grant’s.

I raced into the entrance-hall with Anne at my heels. Keeper was bellowing ferociously and leaping on poor Mr. Grant. “Down, Keeper!” Emily and Branwell cried in unison. The dog paid no heed.

Mr. Grant, under attack, held up his arms to protect his face and wildly eyed the front door; but Branwell, Mr. Nicholls and papa (who had just joined the party from his study) stood behind him in the passage, blocking that avenue of escape. Instead, Mr. Grant turned and fled up the staircase two steps at a time. Keeper flung himself after the escaping gentleman. Emily threw
herself bodily in front of the tawny beast, barring his access to the stairs as she struggled to grab hold of his large brass collar. The hound bayed and howled and hurled himself against her; Emily resolutely stood her ground, but she could not last long under such an onslaught.

I was about to rush to Emily’s aid, when all at once there came an entreating whistle, of the dog-calling variety. Keeper froze; with curious eyes and twitching ears, he looked round. The whistle had issued forth from the lips of Mr. Nicholls, who stood calmly in the centre of the hall.

“Here, boy,” said Mr. Nicholls, eyeing Keeper with close attention as he patted his thigh. “Come on, boy. Come here, now. There’s a good dog.”

D
iary, it was well-known to all the inhabitants of the village, that the mastiff at the parsonage was a singular animal. For the most part, Keeper was sullen, aloof, and indifferent to the rest of the world, shunning all attempts at affection except those of his mistress, whom he adored. On occasion, the beast took a fierce dislike to a particular individual; but I had never seen him tamed by any one other than Emily.

To my astonishment, the fire now instantly dissipated from Keeper’s bull-dog eyes; he descended onto all fours; and, as if a child responding to the Piper of Hamelin’s call, he trotted obediently back to the curate’s feet and calmly settled on his haunches. Mr. Nicholls crouched down and affectionately caressed the animal behind both ears, under his muzzle, and atop his head, speaking soft words of encouragement, as all assembled looked on in wonder and amazement.

“Thank you, Mr. Nicholls,” said I, as Emily, stunned and speechless, recovered and straightened her skirts.

“You are a genie, sir,” observed Branwell. “That dog has never let me so much as pat his head before.”

“Yet he is generally harmless,” I added. “I do not know what set him off.”

“Perhaps it was when Mr. Grant started kicking him,” said Mr. Nicholls.

“Ah!” I replied. “
That
he will not take.” Moving to the balustrade, I called upstairs, “Mr. Grant! You may come down now. The coast is clear!”

I heard the sound of a chamber door opening from above, followed by timid footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Grant’s face appeared at the bend in the staircase as he peered cautiously over the rail. “Is the dog gone?”

Keeper, detecting the visitor’s re-emergence, cocked his head in that direction and emitted a low growl, even more terrible and menacing than his bark.

“
No,”
said Mr. Nicholls quietly but firmly.

The growl stopped as quickly as it had begun; the dog held up his huge, blunt, stupid head to be patted, and soon was again panting and slobbering contentedly. I was beginning to wonder if I had misjudged Mr. Nicholls; a man who was so good and gentle with animals might have other hidden qualities, might he not?

“There is no reason to be frightened,” said Emily, stifling a laugh as she glanced up at Mr. Grant. “Keeper will not hurt you. His uproars are all sound and fury, signifying nothing—and he is quite calm now.”

“I will not come down until that dog is locked up, or put outside!” was Mr. Grant’s reply.

“Emily, put him out,” said papa, who had been standing silently beside Flossy through the hubbub.

“Yes, sir.” Emily obediently retrieved the animal from Mr. Nicholls with a silent nod, and removed him to the yard.

Papa took advantage of the reprieve to embrace Branwell and Anne and heartily welcome them home. Mr. Nicholls, meanwhile, turned his attention to Flossy, who now basked in the same affectionate treatment Keeper had received. “What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Flossy,” I replied.

“Aren’t you a beauty?” said Mr. Nicholls. “One of the finest King Charles spaniels I have ever seen.”

“That
other
dog is a menace!” cried Mr. Grant, as he descended the stairs and rejoined the party. “Did you see how he sprang at me? Why, he very nearly bit my head off! I was afraid for my life!”

“Next time,” said Branwell, “you ought to let Mr. Nicholls go in the door before you. He clearly has the magic touch.”

“There will be no next time,” asserted Mr. Grant, as we all filtered into the dining-room, where Martha was adding two more place settings to the table. “I will not set foot in this house again, without an assurance that that animal is locked up and out of sight. I wonder, Reverend Brontë”—(with a stern glance at me and Emily, as she returned)—“that you allow your daughters to keep such a dangerous creature at the parsonage.”

“Dangerous?” replied papa with a smile. “Why, Keeper wouldn’t hurt a cat. He eats like a horse, and he costs me eight shillings a year for the dog tax, but I think he’s worth every penny.”

“We
keep
him, sir,” added Emily, “because we are fond of him. It is how he earned his name.”

“You cannot be serious,” said Mr. Grant. He and Mr. Nicholls sat down across the table from my sisters and myself, while papa and Branwell took their customary positions at the head and foot. “I can’t fancy a lady fond of an ugly brute like that. ’Tis a mere carter’s
⁹
dog.”

“A carter’s dog?” I repeated in amusement. “I hardly think so.” Martha began serving out the meal. Wine was conspicuously absent from the table; we never risked serving an alcoholic beverage when Branwell was home, and every one in the room knew why, except perhaps the newcomer, Mr. Nicholls—but either he did not notice, or he was too polite to mention it.

I felt Mr. Nicholls’s eyes on me across the dining-table, and
returned the gaze. He immediately looked away. “Mr. Nicholls: you got on well with our
ugly brute.
Pray sir, defend our choice.”

“A mastiff is a fine animal, and one of the noblest of his race,” said Mr. Nicholls, glancing at me briefly. “However, they are bred as guard dogs and attack dogs. In truth, Miss Brontë, I think you’d be better off giving him to one of the farmers in the parish to protect his livestock, and purchasing in his stead a breed more appropriate to the fairer sex.”

Emily gave a little gasp of annoyance at this statement; I found it only amusing. “Indeed?” said I. “What breed of dog might you consider more
appropriate
to a person of our gender, Mr. Nicholls?”

“Ladies as a rule typically prefer lap-dogs,” replied Mr. Nicholls.

“Something small and sweet,” agreed Mr. Grant with a nod, “like a pug or poodle.”

I laughed out loud. “Well then, please consider my sisters and me as exceptions to the rule.”

“My sisters are an exception to
every
rule,” said Branwell with a chuckle.

Although Emily rarely spoke when we had visitors, she now said heatedly, “I am at a loss. Why do you gentlemen consider men and women to be so vastly different, that you would assign them a particular breed of dog?”

“I meant no offence,” answered Mr. Nicholls. “I was only expressing an opinion, based on my own observations of dogs—and women.”

“Your observations?” retorted Emily. “Yes; Charlotte has shared some of your
observations
with regard to women, Mr. Nicholls. As I recall, she said that you approve of only two occupations for womankind: cooking and needlework—both of which you claim to be assigned by God himself.”

Mr. Nicholls seemed taken aback by this declaration. Branwell laughed again; but the other men all grew quite serious, as they busied themselves attacking their roast beef and puddings. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were those of
vigorous chewing, the tinkling of silverware against the plates, and the chirping of our canary, Little Dick, in his cage by the window. At length, Mr. Nicholls replied, “I only meant, Miss Emily, that women are at their finest when carrying out all those feminine duties which they were born to do, and at which they excel: when managing the home, and as supportive wife, dutiful daughter, and caring mother.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Grant.

“A truer word was never spoken,” said papa.

“You must be joking,” said Emily.

I felt the sudden heat of indignation rise within my chest. (What brief, misguided notion had compelled me to think that Mr. Nicholls might be worthy of my better opinion?) “Do you mean to imply, sir,” said I, “that women can only excel at these
feminine duties, which they were born to do?
That, in short, females should never aspire to anything more lofty than baking pies, washing dishes, knitting stockings, playing on the piano, and embroidering bags? Do you seriously believe that anything more is above a woman’s comprehension—that women do not have the same mental capacity to learn as men?”

“Answer that at your peril!” warned Branwell.

“I did not say that,” began Mr. Nicholls.

He was cut off by Mr. Grant, who said: “It is really not a question open for discussion, is it? It is a simple matter of science: of the physiological differences between the sexes. Alexander Walker said it best, I think, when he pointed out that man, possessing reasoning faculties, muscular power, and the courage to employ it, is qualified for being a protector; while the woman, being little capable of reasoning, feeble, and timid, requires protecting. Under such circumstances, the man naturally governs: the woman naturally obeys.”
¹⁰

“Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Emily and Anne together, appalled.

“I agree that man is naturally the protector,” interjected Mr.
Nicholls, “and that a woman’s forte is softness, tenderness, and grace. But the question of men and women that so preoccupies our society to-day, has all been laid out for us quite clearly in the Bible—and nowhere better than the doctrines delivered in the second chapter of St. Paul’s first Epistle to Timothy.”

“What doctrines are those?” asked Branwell (who, to papa’s regret and mortification, had not cracked open a Bible or attended church in years.)

“Let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection,” quoted Mr. Nicholls. “I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man; but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.”

Emily groaned aloud, and threw her napkin down upon the table. “Sir: where the Bible is concerned, do you allow the right of private judgment for both men and women?”

“I do,” replied Mr. Nicholls.

“I disagree,” said Mr. Grant. “Women should take their husband’s opinions, both in politics and religion.”

“Shame on you, sir, for such a stupid observation!” cried Emily.

“You might as well say that men should accept the opinions of their
priests
without examination!” said I.

“So they should,” replied Mr. Nicholls.

“Of what value would a religion so adopted be?” I cried, aghast. “
Reason
must be allowed to inform theological interpretation and judgment; otherwise, it is mere blind, besotted superstition! Are you by any chance a Puseyite, Mr. Nicholls?”

“Yes, I am a strong advocate of the principles of the Reverend Dr. Edward Pusey and the founders of the Oxford Movement,” answered Mr. Nicholls proudly.

“Well, I am a proponent of latitudinarianism,”
¹¹
said I, struggling to contain my annoyance, “and I strongly object to
Puseyism, and every word of the
Tracts for the Times.
I find its rigid principles dangerously close to Romanism, and most of its followers intolerant and abusive towards the dissenting Protestant sects. But, that aside: I have read the biblical passage you quoted, sir, in the original Greek, and I found that many of the words were wrongly translated.”

“Wrongly translated?”

“Yes. With the tiniest alterations, the passage could be interpreted to mean something quite different: that a woman should and
must
speak out whenever she sees fit to make an objection; that she be freely permitted to teach and to exercise authority over man, and that man should hold his peace.”

A guffaw erupted from all the men at the table. “You see, gentlemen,” declared papa, “what I am obliged to deal with in my own household? Since childhood, Charlotte and Emily have challenged me over every similar point in the Bible. Only Anne, my good sweet Anne, accepts its precepts gracefully and without question. My daughters all cajoled me, however, into allowing them to study subjects that are better left to men. And here they sat, at this very table, all the years that they were growing up, pouring over the musty pages of Grecian and Roman literature, translating entire works from the Latin, plodding through the windings of difficult mathematical problems, until they educated themselves above the level of any man from here to York.”

“I cannot for the life of me imagine what they think to do with all that knowledge,” said Mr. Grant, “while they are baking bread or making up the beds.”

The men all laughed again. Inwardly, I fumed. Martha now entered with a berry tart.

Emily stood and said: “I have no appetite for this conversation, or for dessert.”

“If you will excuse us,” added Anne, also rising. They both quickly left the room. I had half a mind to join them, but from the prevailing tone of the evening, I feared that womankind might suffer without a higher, feminine voice to defend her; and so I stayed. After Martha served out coffee and dessert and de
parted, Branwell thankfully changed the subject by proudly announcing the recent publication of his two poems. A debate ensued regarding the value of poetry, which Branwell, papa and I championed, and Mr. Nicholls and Mr. Grant opposed.

“Poetry is a rather useless affectation,” asserted Mr. Nicholls, “just a lot of flowery words that are meant to impress, yet only serve to confuse and exasperate.”

“How can you say so!” cried I, with rising passion. “There is enough of hard practicality and
useful
knowledge in this world forced on us by necessity. We require something beautiful and artistic to soften and refine our minds. Poetry is a means to that end. Poetry is more than
useful,
sir: it is a delight. It lifts us; it elevates us; it can take something coarse and make it godlike!”

Mr. Nicholls looked at me, as if surprised by my force of feeling; he then lowered his eyes and said, “I am glad you find it so, Miss Brontë. Perhaps I never really understood it. When I studied poetry, I always found it difficult.”

“Speaking of poetry,” interjected Mr. Grant through a mouthful of berry tart, “I received a note yesterday, Nicholls, filled with great gobs of rhyming nonsense, from one of the young ladies in my parish—a Miss Stokes.”

“Do you like her?” asked Mr. Nicholls.

“I could not say.” Mr. Grant held out his now-empty plate to me across the table, with a silent uplifting of eyebrows that implored a refill; I performed the duty and resumed my seat. “She is the
handsomest
of the girls in her family,” continued Mr. Grant, “of which there are
five,
all unmarried—and all of whom have trained their eyes on me. I declare, since the first day I came to Oxenhope, every lady in the district has been after me. Rumours are constantly circulating that I am to be married to Miss So-and-so, or Miss Such-and-such. On what grounds this gossip rests, God knows. I seek female society about as assiduously as does Mr. Nicholls, here.”