Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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* "Bend," in Yorkshire, is strong ox leather.


"I send by this post Ruskin's 'Stones of Venice,' and I hope you
and Meta will find passages in it that will please you. Some
parts would be dry and technical were it not for the character,
the marked individuality which pervades every page. I wish
Marianne had come to speak to me at the lecture; it would have
given me such pleasure. What you say of that small sprite Julia,
amuses me much. I believe you don't know that she has a great
deal of her mama's nature (modified) in her; yet I think you will
find she has as she grows up.

"Will it not be a great mistake, if Mr. Thackeray should deliver
his lectures at Manchester under such circumstances and
conditions as will exclude people like you and Mr. Gaskell from
the number of his audience? I thought his London-plan too narrow.
Charles Dickens would not thus limit his sphere of action.

"You charge me to write about myself. What can I say on that
precious topic? My health is pretty good. My spirits are not
always alike. Nothing happens to me. I hope and expect little in
this world, and am thankful that I do not despond and suffer
more. Thank you for inquiring after our old servant; she is
pretty well; the little shawl, etc., pleased her much. Papa
likewise, I am glad to say, is pretty well; with his and my
kindest regards to you and Mr. Gaskell--Believe me sincerely and
affectionately yours,

C. BRONTE."

Before the autumn was far advanced, the usual effects of her
solitary life, and of the unhealthy situation of Haworth
Parsonage, began to appear in the form of sick headaches, and
miserable, starting, wakeful nights. She does not dwell on this
in her letters; but there is an absence of all cheerfulness of
tone, and an occasional sentence forced out of her, which imply
far more than many words could say. There was illness all through
the Parsonage household--taking its accustomed forms of lingering
influenza and low fever; she herself was outwardly the strongest
of the family, and all domestic exertion fell for a time upon her
shoulders.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"Sept. 26th.

"As I laid down your letter, after reading with interest the
graphic account it gives of a very striking scene, I could not
help feeling with renewed force a truth, trite enough, yet ever
impressive; viz., that it is good to be attracted out of
ourselves--to be forced to take a near view of the sufferings,
the privations, the efforts, the difficulties of others. If we
ourselves live in fulness of content, it is well to be reminded
that thousands of our fellow-creatures undergo a different lot;
it is well to have sleepy sympathies excited, and lethargic
selfishness shaken up. If, on the other hand, we be contending
with the special grief,--the intimate trial,--the peculiar
bitterness with which God has seen fit to mingle our own cup of
existence,--it is very good to know that our overcast lot is not
singular; it stills the repining word and thought,--it rouses the
flagging strength, to have it vividly set before us that there
are countless afflictions in the world, each perhaps
rivalling--some surpassing--the private pain over which we are
too prone exclusively to sorrow.

"All those crowded emigrants had their troubles,--their untoward
causes of banishment; you, the looker-on, had 'your wishes and
regrets,'--your anxieties, alloying your home happiness and
domestic bliss; and the parallel might be pursued further, and
still it would be true,--still the same; a thorn in the flesh for
each; some burden, some conflict for all.

"How far this state of things is susceptible of amelioration from
changes in public institutions,--alterations in national
habits,--may and ought to be earnestly considered: but this is a
problem not easily solved. The evils, as you point them out, are
great, real, and most obvious; the remedy is obscure and vague;
yet for such difficulties as spring from over-competition,
emigration must be good; the new life in a new country must give
a new lease of hope; the wider field, less thickly peopled, must
open a new path for endeavour. But I always think great physical
powers of exertion and endurance ought to accompany such a step.
. . . I am truly glad to hear that an ORIGINAL writer has fallen
in your way. Originality is the pearl of great price in
literature,--the rarest, the most precious claim by which an
author can be recommended. Are not your publishing prospects for
the coming season tolerably rich and satisfactory? You inquire
after 'Currer Bell.' It seems to me that the absence of his name
from your list of announcements will leave no blank, and that he
may at least spare himself the disquietude of thinking he is
wanted when it is certainly not his lot to appear.

"Perhaps Currer Bell has his secret moan about these matters; but
if so, he will keep it to himself. It is an affair about which no
words need be wasted, for no words can make a change: it is
between him and his position, his faculties and his fate."

My husband and I were anxious that she should pay us a visit
before the winter had set completely in; and she thus wrote,
declining our invitation:--

"Nov. 6th.

"If anybody would tempt me from home, you would; but, just now,
from home I must not, will not go. I feel greatly better at
present than I did three weeks ago. For a month or six weeks
about the equinox (autumnal or vernal) is a period of the year
which, I have noticed, strangely tries me. Sometimes the strain
falls on the mental, sometimes on the physical part of me; I am
ill with neuralgic headache, or I am ground to the dust with deep
dejection of spirits (not, however, such dejection but I can keep
it to myself). That weary time has, I think and trust, got over
for this year. It was the anniversary of my poor brother's death,
and of my sister's failing health: I need say no more.

"As to running away from home every time I have a battle of this
sort to fight, it would not do besides, the 'weird' would follow.
As to shaking it off, that cannot be. I have declined to go to
Mrs. ----, to Miss Martineau, and now I decline to go to you. But
listen do not think that I throw your kindness away; or that it
fails of doing the good you desire. On the contrary, the feeling
expressed in your letter,--proved by your invitation--goes RIGHT
HOME where you would have it to go, and heals as you would have
it to heal.

"Your description of Frederika Bremer tallies exactly with one I
read somewhere, in I know not what book. I laughed out when I got
to the mention of Frederika's special accomplishment, given by
you with a distinct simplicity that, to my taste, is what the
French would call 'impayable.' Where do you find the foreigner
who is without some little drawback of this description? It is a
pity."

A visit from Miss Wooler at this period did Miss Bronte much good
for the time. She speaks of her guest's company as being very
pleasant,"like good wine," both to her father and to herself. But
Miss Wooler could not remain with her long; and then again the
monotony of her life returned upon her in all its force; the only
events of her days and weeks consisting in the small changes
which occasional letters brought. It must be remembered that her
health was often such as to prevent her stirring out of the house
in inclement or wintry weather. She was liable to sore throat,
and depressing pain at the chest, and difficulty of breathing, on
the least exposure to cold.

A letter from her late visitor touched and gratified her much; it
was simply expressive of gratitude for attention and kindness
shown to her, but it wound up by saying that she had not for many
years experienced so much enjoyment as during the ten days passed
at Haworth. This little sentence called out a wholesome sensation
of modest pleasure in Miss Bronte's mind; and she says, "it did
me good."

I find, in a letter to a distant friend, written about this time,
a retrospect of her visit to London. It is too ample to be
considered as a mere repetition of what she had said before; and,
besides, it shows that her first impressions of what she saw and
heard were not crude and transitory, but stood the tests of time
and after-thought.

"I spent a few weeks in town last summer, as you have heard; and
was much interested by many things I heard and saw there. What
now chiefly dwells in my memory are Mr. Thackeray's lectures,
Mademoiselle Rachel's acting, D'Aubigne's, Melville's, and
Maurice's preaching, and the Crystal Palace.

"Mr. Thackeray's lectures you will have seen mentioned and
commented on in the papers; they were very interesting. I could
not always coincide with the sentiments expressed, or the
opinions broached; but I admired the gentlemanlike ease, the
quiet humour, the taste, the talent, the simplicity, and the
originality of the lecturer.

"Rachel's acting transfixed me with wonder, enchained me with
interest, and thrilled me with horror. The tremendous force with
which she expresses the very worst passions in their strongest
essence forms an exhibition as exciting as the bull fights of
Spain, and the gladiatorial combats of old Rome, and (it seemed
to me) not one whit more moral than these poisoned stimulants to
popular ferocity. It is scarcely human nature that she shows you;
it is something wilder and worse; the feelings and fury of a
fiend. The great gift of genius she undoubtedly has; but, I fear,
she rather abuses it than turns it to good account.

"With all the three preachers I was greatly pleased. Melville
seemed to me the most eloquent, Maurice the most in earnest; had
I the choice, it is Maurice whose ministry I should frequent.

"On the Crystal Palace I need not comment. You must already have
heard too much of it. It struck me at the first with only a vague
sort of wonder and admiration; but having one day the privilege
of going over it in company with an eminent countryman of yours,
Sir David Brewster, and hearing, in his friendly Scotch accent,
his lucid explanation of many things that had been to me before a
sealed book, I began a little better to comprehend it, or at
least a small part of it: whether its final results will equal
expectation, I know not."

Her increasing indisposition subdued her at last, in spite of all
her efforts of reason and will. She tried to forget oppressive
recollections in writing. Her publishers were importunate for a
new book from her pen. "Villette" was begun, but she lacked power
to continue it.

"It is not at all likely" (she says) "that my book will be ready
at the time you mention. If my health is spared, I shall get on
with it as fast as is consistent with its being done, if not
WELL, yet as well as I can do it. NOT ONE WHIT FASTER. When the
mood leaves me (it has left me now, without vouchsafing so much
as a word or a message when it will return) I put by the MS. and
wait till it comes back again. God knows, I sometimes have to
wait long--VERY long it seems to me. Meantime, if I might make a
request to you, it would be this. Please to say nothing about my
book till it is written, and in your hands. You may not like it.
I am not myself elated with it as far as it is gone, and authors,
you need not be told, are always tenderly indulgent, even blindly
partial to their own. Even if it should turn out reasonably well,
still I regard it as ruin to the prosperity of an ephemeral book
like a novel, to be much talked of beforehand, as if it were
something great. People are apt to conceive, or at least to
profess, exaggerated expectation, such as no performance can
realise; then ensue disappointment and the due revenge,
detraction, and failure. If when I write, I were to think of the
critics who, I know, are waiting for Currer Bell, ready 'to break
all his bones or ever he comes to the bottom of the den,' my hand
would fall paralysed on my desk. However, I can but do my best,
and then muffle my head in the mantle of Patience, and sit down
at her feet and wait."

The "mood" here spoken of did not go off; it had a physical
origin. Indigestion, nausea, headache, sleeplessness,--all
combined to produce miserable depression of spirits. A little
event which occurred about this time, did not tend to cheer her.
It was the death of poor old faithful Keeper, Emily's dog. He had
come to the Parsonage in the fierce strength of his youth. Sullen
and ferocious he had met with his master in the indomitable
Emily. Like most dogs of his kind, he feared, respected, and
deeply loved her who subdued him. He had mourned her with the
pathetic fidelity of his nature, falling into old age after her
death. And now, her surviving sister wrote: "Poor old Keeper died
last Monday morning, after being ill one night; he went gently to
sleep; we laid his old faithful head in the garden. Flossy (the
'fat curly-haired dog') is dull, and misses him. There was
something very sad in losing the old dog; yet I am glad he met a
natural fate. People kept hinting he ought to be put away, which
neither papa nor I liked to think of."

When Miss Bronte wrote this, on December 8th, she was suffering
from a bad cold, and pain in her side. Her illness increased, and
on December 17th, she--so patient, silent, and enduring of
suffering--so afraid of any unselfish taxing of others--had to
call to her friend for help:

"I cannot at present go to see you, but I would be grateful if
you could come and see me, even were it only for a few days. To
speak truth, I have put on but a poor time of it during this
month past. I kept hoping to be better, but was at last obliged
to have recourse to a medical man. Sometimes I have felt very
weak and low, and longed much for society, but could not persuade
myself to commit the selfish act of asking you merely for my own
relief. The doctor speaks encouragingly, but as yet I get no
better. As the illness has been coming on for a long time, it
cannot, I suppose, be expected to disappear all at once. I am not
confined to bed, but I am weak,--have had no appetite for about
three weeks--and my nights are very bad. I am well aware myself
that extreme and continuous depression of spirits has had much to
do with the origin of the illness; and I know a little cheerful
society would do me more good than gallons of medicine. If you
CAN come, come on Friday. Write to-morrow and say whether this be
possible, and what time you will be at Keighley, that I may send
the gig. I do not ask you to stay long; a few days is all I
request."

Of course, her friend went; and a certain amount of benefit was
derived from her society, always so grateful to Miss Bronte. But
the evil was now too deep-rooted to be more than palliated for a
time by "the little cheerful society" for which she so touchingly
besought.

A relapse came on before long. She was very ill, and the remedies
employed took an unusual effect on her peculiar sensitiveness of
constitution. Mr. Bronte was miserably anxious about the state of
his only remaining child, for she was reduced to the last degree
of weakness, as she had been unable to swallow food for above a
week before. She rallied, and derived her sole sustenance from
half-a-tea-cup of liquid, administered by tea-spoonfuls, in the
course of the day. Yet she kept out of bed, for her father's
sake, and struggled in solitary patience through her worst hours.

When she was recovering, her spirits needed support, and then she
yielded to her friend's entreaty that she would visit her. All
the time that Miss Bronte's illness had lasted, Miss ---- had
been desirous of coming to her; but she refused to avail herself
of this kindness, saying, that "it was enough to burden herself;
that it would be misery to annoy another;" and, even at her worst
time, she tells her friend, with humorous glee, how coolly she
had managed to capture one of Miss ----'s letters to Mr. Bronte,
which she suspected was of a kind to aggravate his alarm about
his daughter's state, "and at once conjecturing its tenor, made
its contents her own."

Happily for all parties, Mr. Bronte was wonderfully well this
winter; good sleep, good spirits, and an excellent steady
appetite, all seemed to mark vigour; and in such a state of
health, Charlotte could leave him to spend a week with her
friend, without any great anxiety.

She benefited greatly by the kind attentions and cheerful society
of the family with whom she went to stay. They did not care for
her in the least as "Currer Bell," but had known and loved her
for years as Charlotte Bronte. To them her invalid weakness was
only a fresh claim upon their tender regard, from the solitary
woman, whom they had first known as a little, motherless
school-girl.

Miss Bronte wrote to me about this time, and told me something of
what she had suffered.

"Feb. 6th, 1852.

"Certainly, the past winter has been to me a strange time; had I
the prospect before me of living it over again, my prayer must
necessarily be, 'Let this cup pass from me.' That depression of
spirits, which I thought was gone by when I wrote last, came back
again with a heavy recoil; internal congestion ensued, and then
inflammation. I had severe pain in my right side, frequent
burning and aching in my chest; sleep almost forsook me, or would
never come, except accompanied by ghastly dreams; appetite
vanished, and slow fever was my continual companion. It was some
time before I could bring myself to have recourse to medical
advice. I thought my lungs were affected, and could feel no
confidence in the power of medicine. When, at last, however, a
doctor was consulted, he declared my lungs and chest sound, and
ascribed all my sufferings to derangement of the liver, on which
organ it seems the inflammation had fallen. This information was
a great relief to my dear father, as well as to myself; but I had
subsequently rather sharp medical discipline to undergo, and was
much reduced. Though not yet well, it is with deep thankfulness
that I can say, I am GREATLY BETTER. My sleep, appetite, and
strength seem all returning."

It was a great interest to her to be allowed an ear]y reading of
Esmond; and she expressed her thoughts on the subject, in a
criticising letter to Mr. Smith, who had given her this
privilege.

"Feb. 14th, 1852.

"My dear Sir,--It has been a great delight to me to read Mr.
Thackeray's work; and I so seldom now express my sense of
kindness that, for once, you must permit me, without rebuke, to
thank you for a pleasure so rare and special. Yet I am not going
to praise either Mr. Thackeray or his book. I have read, enjoyed,
been interested, and, after all, feel full as much ire and sorrow
as gratitude and admiration. And still one can never lay down a
book of his without the last two feelings having their part, be
the subject or treatment what it may. In the first half of the
book, what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in which
the writer throws himself into the spirit and letters of the
times whereof he treats; the allusions, the illustrations, the
style, all seem to me so masterly in their exact keeping, their
harmonious consistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure
exemption from exaggeration. No second-rate imitator can write in
that way; no coarse scene-painter can charm us with an allusion
so delicate and perfect. But what bitter satire, what relentless
dissection of diseased subjects! Well, and this, too, is right,
or would be right, if the savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely
pleased with his work. Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an
aneurism; he has pleasure in putting his cruel knife or probe
into quivering, living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the
world to be good; no great satirist would like society to be
perfect.

"As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust. There is hardly
any punishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood
peep through a keyhole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy
and a milkmaid. Many other things I noticed that, for my part,
grieved and exasperated me as I read; but then, again, came
passages so true, so deeply thought, so tenderly felt, one could
not help forgiving and admiring.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the
political or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in his
heart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age
or date. He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself
daily sees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in
action. In him this faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and
if ever any passage in his writings lacks interest, it is when
this master-faculty is for a time thrust into a subordinate
position. I think such is the case in the former half of the
present volume. Towards the middle, he throws off restraint,
becomes himself, and is strong to the close. Everything now
depends on the second and third volumes. If, in pith and
interest, they fall short of the first, a true success cannot
ensue. If the continuation be an improvement upon the
commencement, if the stream gather force as it rolls, Thackeray
will triumph. Some people have been in the habit of terming him
the second writer of the day; it just depends on himself whether
or not these critics shall be justified in their award. He need
not be the second. God made him second to no man. If I were he, I
would show myself as I am, not as critics report me; at any rate,
I would do my best. Mr. Thackeray is easy and indolent, and
seldom cares to do his best. Thank you once more; and believe me
yours sincerely,

C. BRONTE."

Miss Bronte's health continued such, that she could not apply
herself to writing as she wished, for many weeks after the
serious attack from which she had suffered. There was not very
much to cheer her in the few events that touched her interests
during this time. She heard in March of the death of a friend's
relation in the Colonies; and we see something of what was the
corroding dread at her heart.

"The news of E----'s death came to me last week in a letter from
M ----; a long letter, which wrung my heart so, in its simple,
strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once.
It ripped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force. The
death-bed was just the same,--breath failing, etc. She fears she
shall now, in her dreary solitude, become a 'stern, harsh,
selfish woman.' This fear struck home; again and again have I
felt it for myself, and what is MY position to M----'s? May God
help her, as God only can help!"

Again and again, her friend urged her to leave home; nor were
various invitations wanting to enable her to do this, when these
constitutional accesses of low spirits preyed too much upon her
in her solitude. But she would not allow herself any such
indulgence, unless it became absolutely necessary from the state
of her health. She dreaded the perpetual recourse to such
stimulants as change of scene and society, because of the
reaction that was sure to follow. As far as she could see, her
life was ordained to be lonely, and she must subdue her nature to
her life, and, if possible, bring the two into harmony. When she
could employ herself in fiction, all was comparatively well. The
characters were her companions in the quiet hours, which she
spent utterly alone, unable often to stir out of doors for many
days together. The interests of the persons in her novels
supplied the lack of interest in her own life; and Memory and
Imagination found their appropriate work, and ceased to prey upon
her vitals. But too frequently she could not write, could not see
her people, nor hear them speak; a great mist of head-ache had
blotted them out; they were non-existent to her.

This was the case all through the present spring; and anxious as
her publishers were for its completion, Villette stood still.
Even her letters to her friend are scarce and brief. Here and
there I find a sentence in them which can be extracted, and which
is worth preserving.

"M----'s letter is very interesting; it shows a mind one cannot
but truly admire. Compare its serene trusting strength, with
poor ----'s vacillating dependence. When the latter was in her
first burst of happiness, I never remember the feeling finding
vent in expressions of gratitude to God. There was always a
continued claim upon your sympathy in the mistrust and doubt she
felt of her own bliss. M---- believes; her faith is grateful and
at peace; yet while happy in herself, how thoughtful she is for
others!"

"March 23rd, 1852.

"You say, dear E----, that you often wish I would chat on paper,
as you do. How can I? Where are my materials? Is my life fertile
in subjects of chat? What callers do I see? What visits do I pay?
No, you must chat, and I must listen, and say 'Yes,' and 'No,'
and 'Thank you!' for five minutes' recreation.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I am amused at the interest you take in politics. Don't expect
to rouse me; to me, all ministries and all oppositions seem to be
pretty much alike. D'Israeli was factious as leader of the
Opposition; Lord John Russell is going to be factious, now that
he has stepped into D'Israeli's shoes. Lord Derby's 'Christian
love and spirit,' is worth three half-pence farthing."

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