The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (7 page)

“We are not nearly so poor as others in our parish. We have enough to eat, and fuel for the fire, and plenty of good books to read.”

“Books!” Amelia scoffed. “Who cares how many books you have? You cannot
wear
books!” Presently, she climbed beneath her quilt, and said: “You may blow out the light.”

Although the candles were much closer to her bed than mine, I dutifully extinguished them and felt my way through the inky
darkness back to my own bed. In spite of my exhaustion, however, I found no great refuge there. It was the first time I had ever occupied a bed all by myself; Emily had been my bed-fellow as far back as I could remember, and the empty expanse between the frigid sheets felt strange and frightening. In consequence, I lay wide awake into the wee hours, trying not to think about how many long months it would be before I saw my beloved family again, and pondering what the next day would bring.

To my surprise, the Roe Head School regime turned out to be very agreeable. The teaching methods catered to the individual talents and abilities of each pupil. When we were ready with our lessons, we came to Miss Wooler to recite them. She had a remarkable knack for making us interested in whatever we had to learn; she taught us to think and analyse and appreciate; and she awakened in me an even greater thirst for knowledge than I had yet possessed. Unlike my previous school—where the food had been scant or inedible—the meals at Roe Head were well prepared and in plentiful supply. Miss Wooler demonstrated a high regard for our physical well-being in general, allowing sufficient time for rest and play, and insisting that daily walks and outdoor games were essential to our health.

Unfortunately, I had no experience with outdoor games. On a frosty afternoon the day after my arrival, while the other girls were engaged in a game called “French and English,”
¹⁵
I retreated to the safety of a great, leafless tree on the frozen lawn, where I stood perusing Lindley Murray’s
English Grammar
. After some time thus employed, I heard a voice at my elbow.

“Why do you hold that book so close to your nose? Do you need spectacles?”

“No,” I said indignantly, turning to face the girl addressing me. “I can see just fine.”

“I did not mean to offend you. Your name is Charlotte, is it not?”

“Yes. You are Mary Taylor, and you have a younger sister here called Martha.”

“You have a good memory.” Mary, who I discovered was ten months younger than I, was astonishingly pretty, with intelligent eyes, a perfect complexion, and dark, silky hair. I could not help but notice, however—although her clothing was nicer than anything I owned—she was not as well dressed as the other pupils (a result, I later learned, of her father’s bankruptcy over an army contract.) Mary’s red frock had short sleeves and a low neck, a style then worn only by younger girls; her gloves had been stitched all over for longer wear; and her dark blue cloth coat was outgrown and far too short. The ensemble gave her a rather childish appearance; but it did not appear to bother her in the least, and it only served to put
me
at greater ease.

“Come join us, we are going to play ball,” said Mary.

“Thank you, but I do not play ball.”

“What do you mean? Every one plays ball.”

“Not I. I would much prefer to read.”

Before I could elaborate further, the other girls called urgently for us to join in their new game. “Come on,” urged Mary, holding out her gloved hand to me. “Hannah stayed in with a cold, and we need another girl on our side.”

It seemed that I had no recourse but to comply. Setting down my book, I took Mary’s hand, and we raced across the lawn to where the other six girls were waiting. They named their game of preference; I admitted that I had never played; a hurried explanation ensued; suddenly the action began. I ran along with the others and struggled to take part. When the ball was thrown in my direction, however, my clumsy attempts to catch it were all in vain.

“What
ever
is the matter with you, Irish?” exclaimed a plump, dark-haired girl called Leah Brooke, whose velvet cloak and black beaver bonnet proclaimed her the daughter of a wealthy family. “Are you blind, or just an idiot?”

“I told you, I do not know how to play.”

“Don’t they play ball in Ireland?” teased Amelia.

“I am not from Ireland!” I cried.

“She needs spectacles,” ventured Mary. “That is the problem. She cannot see the ball.”

“Stand out then, Irish!” cried Leah. “We will do better without you.”

Mortified by my own inadequacy, yet relieved at my escape, I fled the field and retreated to my quiet spot by the tree, where I read my book for the remainder of the hour.

No one asked me to join in games again. The rest of the week, I applied myself to my studies. The teachers were attentive and patient, but a group of girls, led by Leah and Amelia, took advantage of every opportunity to make fun of me, my accent, my appearance, and my ignorance in class. When I was unable to distinguish between an article and a substantive, or to name some obscure river in Africa, a chorus of snickers went around the room. Oh! How I longed to tell them that, although I might not be well versed in a study of grammar or the globe, I had created my very own kingdom in deepest darkest Africa, and had written scores of stories, essays, and poems; but I did not dare reveal this, for fear they would scorn me even more.

One afternoon, eight days after my arrival, matters came to a head. The girls were gathered in the entry way, chattering gaily as they donned their cloaks and bonnets for the play hour. I passed by, en route to the schoolroom with a book, when Amelia announced with a prideful smile, “Have you heard, Charlotte? You are
last
on the list!”

“What list?” I asked.

“We have taken a vote as to who is the prettiest girl in the school. Mary is first.
I
am second. And
you
are last.”

I froze in stunned dismay at this newest evidence of their cruelty. Mary added matter-of-factly: “Do not be upset, Charlotte. Some one has to be last. It is not your fault that you are so very ugly.”

Ugly? Was I truly
ugly
? It was the first time in my life that
any one had described me thus; I was so mortified, I wanted to die. I saw Mary’s eyes widen, as if surprised by my reaction, as I fled from the room.

The laughter of the other girls followed me as I darted into the schoolroom, where I threw myself onto the floor before the bow window and wept. Never had I felt so utterly alone, so deeply ashamed, and so thoroughly inadequate. My desolation in that strange place was now complete; I believe I lay there, weeping from the depths of my soul, for a good half-hour.

At length, I realised that some one had entered the room. I dried my eyes and rose, shrinking back against the window, hoping to avoid detection. From the corner of my vision, I observed a girl of medium height in a pale green dress standing by the bookcase—a new-comer. I wondered if she was the pupil who was to share my bed.

“What is the matter?” the girl asked gently, as she joined me by the window.

I turned away in silence, embarrassed to have been discovered at such a private moment.

“Why were you crying?” the girl persisted.

Clearly she was not going away. “I am just homesick,” I answered begrudgingly.

“Oh! Well,
I
have only just arrived. Next week it will be your turn to comfort
me,
for I shall surely be quite homesick by then.”

The sweetness and sympathy in her voice had an immediate effect; I turned and looked at her fully for the first time. She was very pretty, with a pale complexion, docile brown eyes, and dark brown hair that fell in soft curls to just below her chin. As she sat down on the cushioned window-seat and motioned for me to join her, she said, “My name is Ellen Nussey.”

I introduced myself. I learned in short order that Ellen was the youngest of twelve children; that she was almost exactly a year younger than I; and that she lived just a few miles away. “Last year, I attended the Moravian Ladies’ Academy a mile from home, but that school has not been the same since the Reverend Grimes departed, so mama sent me here.”

“You have a mother?” I said with envy.

“Of course. Don’t you?” When I shook my head, Ellen took my hands in hers, and said softly, “I am so sorry. I cannot imagine having no mother, but I know what it is like to lose a parent. My papa died five years ago. I miss him dearly.” We shared a silent, quivering smile, Ellen’s gaze reflecting a deep and genuine empathy. I did not know it then, but one of the greatest and most enduring friendships of my life had just begun.

At first, I was not sure I would love Ellen, as we were different in many essential ways. Ellen was a strict Calvinist, devoted to the rigid religious doctrines I had learned to abhor at the Clergy Daughters’ School, and unquestioning in her conformity to social and moral codes of behaviour. I, on the other hand, found myself questioning everything on a daily basis and struggling to behave within the limits that seemed to be expected of a clergyman’s daughter. Moreover, although Ellen was intelligent and conscientious, she was not intellectual; she read, but admitted that she did not comprehend or seek any deeper meaning in a work, which was so important to me. She was calm by nature, whereas I was passionate and romantic. On several occasions, I was obliged to deprive her of her book when she attempted, without any sense of the dramatic, to haltingly read aloud passages by Shakespeare or Wordsworth.

Ellen was, however, a good, true, and faithful friend, and a sympathetic listener. She soon became a welcome presence in my bedroom, serving as a buffer between myself and the uncertain temper and affected mannerisms of Amelia. Affection, which began as a germ, became a sapling, then a strong tree; sharing beds with Ellen—my dearest “Nell,” as I came to call her—I was able to enjoy a calm sleep every night.

A few weeks later, another friendship began in an unexpected quarter. It was twilight; while my school-mates chatted merrily around the fire in the schoolroom, I knelt close to the window
with a book, making use of every last ray of daylight to continue my studies.

“I thought, when first we met, that you could not see well,” observed Mary Taylor, as she took a seat on the floor beside me, “but I was wrong. Not only can you
see,
Charlotte Brontë, it appears that you can see in the dark.”

Mary had been avoiding me ever since the day of Ellen’s arrival; perhaps, I thought, she felt remorse for the brusque manner in which she had called me ugly. Now, I turned to find her gazing at me with twinkling eyes. “There is still enough light to read by—but only just,” I admitted. We both laughed.

“We have been studying all day, and will continue after supper. Can’t you take a little while to rest, as we do?”

“I would rather not. Every day that I am here, I am an object of expense to those at home. I feel a responsibility to learn, to use every opportunity to attain the knowledge which will fit me to one day find employment.”

“It
is
important, my father says, that all women find a way to earn their own living,” Mary agreed. She glanced over my shoulder at the book I was reading. “Is that the poem we are to memorize? Oh! How I dislike that poem! I do not understand a word of it.”

The poem was
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
“I have known this entire piece by heart since I was a child. We have only been given a small part to learn. Would you like me to explain it to you?”

“I would.”

I spent the remainder of the hour explaining the poem to Mary, and reciting its most dramatic and eloquent stanzas. When I had finished, Mary nodded with satisfaction, and said, “It does sound far more interesting when you explain it. You are a most intriguing person, Charlotte Brontë. There is more to you than meets the eye.”

“I would
hope
that to be true, particularly since that which meets the eye is so
displeasing.
”

Mary blushed and fell silent for a moment. “I am very sorry, Charlotte, for what I said all those weeks ago. I often speak without thinking; my sister Martha is just the same. We have been taught to say what is on our minds—but I did not mean to be unkind. Will you forgive me?”

She did not, I noticed, imply that her remark had been untruthful, or that she had only been teasing; but her sincerely apologetic tone and manner did much to appease my injured pride. “I forgive you.”

Mary smiled. “I am glad. Now we will be friends.”

That night, an event of some magnitude occurred, which dramatically and permanently altered my fortunes. A storm began to brew at sundown; by bedtime, the snow was swirling outside our windows in great flurried gusts, and the howling wind made the very house groan. Amelia, Ellen, and I had just changed into our night-shirts and completed our
toilettes,
when an even eerier sound rent the air: a high-pitched wail, which we determined to be of human origin.

“Some one is crying,” said I, listening at the wall, “and it seems to be issuing from the chamber next door.”

The weeping continued, and was soon accompanied by an exchange of dialogue that we could not decipher. Ellen and I decided to investigate. I grabbed a candle; Amelia, protesting that she did not wish to be left alone, quickly joined us. We padded softly into the corridor and knocked at the door of the adjacent room. Presently, a girl called Hannah opened the door and glanced out, holding her own candle aloft. “Yes?” Hannah was a serious, thin girl who had been ill for the past fortnight, and was only recently recovered.

“We heard some one crying,” said Ellen. “Is everything all right?”

“It is Susan. I think she is afraid of the snowstorm.”

“Perhaps we can comfort her,” I offered.

“Do as you wish,” said Hannah, leaving the door ajar as she turned back into the room. “We have tried everything.”

The three of us entered. The chamber, which was similar to ours, housed four girls. Leah Brooke and her sister Maria occupied the bed on one side of the room. Amelia, Ellen, and I crossed to the other bed, where, in the flickering candlelight, I perceived a lump of human size beneath the quilt. “Susan,” I intoned softly.