Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"March 25th, 1852.

"My dear Sir,--Mr. Smith intimated a short time since, that he
had some thoughts of publishing a reprint of Shirley. Having
revised the work, I now enclose the errata. I have likewise sent
off to-day, per rail, a return-box of Cornhill books.

"I have lately read with great pleasure, 'The Two Families.' This
work, it seems, should have reached me in January; but owing to a
mistake, it was detained at the Dead Letter Office, and lay there
nearly two months. I liked the commencement very much; the close
seemed to me scarcely equal to 'Rose Douglas.' I thought the
authoress committed a mistake in shifting the main interest from
the two personages on whom it first rests--viz., Ben Wilson and
Mary--to other characters of quite inferior conception. Had she
made Ben and Mary her hero and heroine, and continued the
development of their fortunes and characters in the same truthful
natural vein in which she commences it, an excellent, even an
original, book might have been the result. As for Lilias and
Ronald, they are mere romantic figments, with nothing of the
genuine Scottish peasant about them; they do not even speak the
Caledonian dialect; they palaver like a fine lady and gentleman.

"I ought long since to have acknowledged the gratification with
which I read Miss Kavanagh's 'Women of Christianity.' Her charity
and (on the whole) her impartiality are very beautiful. She
touches, indeed, with too gentle a hand the theme of Elizabeth of
Hungary; and, in her own mind, she evidently misconstrues the
fact of Protestant charities SEEMING to be fewer than Catholic.
She forgets, or does not know, that Protestantism is a quieter
creed than Romanism; as it does not clothe its priesthood in
scarlet, so neither does it set up its good women for saints,
canonise their names, and proclaim their good works. In the
records of man, their almsgiving will not perhaps be found
registered, but Heaven has its account as well as earth.

"With kind regards to yourself and family, who, I trust, have all
safely weathered the rough winter lately past, as well as the
east winds, which are still nipping our spring in Yorkshire,--I
am, my dear Sir, yours sincerely,

C. BRONTE."

"April 3rd, 1852.

"My dear Sir,--The box arrived quite safely, and I very much
thank you for the contents, which are most kindly selected.

"As you wished me to say what I thought of 'The School for
Fathers,' I hastened to read it. The book seems to me clever,
interesting, very amusing, and likely to please generally. There
is a merit in the choice of ground, which is not yet too
hackneyed; the comparative freshness of subject, character, and
epoch give the tale a certain attractiveness. There is also, I
think, a graphic rendering of situations, and a lively talent for
describing whatever is visible and tangible--what the eye meets
on the surface of things. The humour appears to me such as would
answer well on the stage; most of the scenes seem to demand
dramatic accessories to give them their full effect. But I think
one cannot with justice bestow higher praise than this. To speak
candidly, I felt, in reading the tale, a wondrous hollowness in
the moral and sentiment; a strange dilettante shallowness in the
purpose and feeling. After all, 'Jack' is not much better than a
'Tony Lumpkin,' and there is no very great breadth of choice
between the clown he IS and the fop his father would have made
him. The grossly material life of the old English fox-hunter, and
the frivolous existence of the fine gentleman present extremes,
each in its way so repugnant, that one feels half inclined to
smile when called upon to sentimentalise over the lot of a youth
forced to pass from one to the other; torn from the stables, to
be ushered perhaps into the ball-room. Jack dies mournfully
indeed, and you are sorry for the poor fellow's untimely end; but
you cannot forget that, if he had not been thrust into the way of
Colonel Penruddock's weapon, he might possibly have broken his
neck in a fox-hunt. The character of Sir Thomas Warren is
excellent; consistent throughout. That of Mr. Addison not bad,
but sketchy, a mere outline--wanting colour and finish. The man's
portrait is there, and his costume, and fragmentary anecdotes of
his life; but where is the man's nature--soul and self? I say
nothing about the female characters--not one word; only that
Lydia seems to me like a pretty little actress, prettily dressed
gracefully appearing and disappearing, and reappearing in a
genteel comedy, assuming the proper sentiments of her part with
all due tact and naivete, and--that is all.

"Your description of the model man of business is true enough, I
doubt not; but we will not fear that society will ever be brought
quite to this standard; human nature (bad as it is) has, after
all, elements that forbid it. But the very tendency to such a
consummation--the marked tendency, I fear, of the day--produces,
no doubt, cruel suffering. Yet, when the evil of competition
passes a certain limit, must it not in time work its own cure? I
suppose it will, but then through some convulsed crisis,
shattering all around it like an earthquake. Meantime, for how
many is life made a struggle; enjoyment and rest curtailed;
labour terribly enhanced beyond almost what nature can bear I
often think that this world would be the most terrible of
enigmas, were it not for the firm belief that there is a world to
come, where conscientious effort and patient pain will meet their
reward.--Believe me, my dear Sir, sincerely yours,

C. BRONTE."

A letter to her old Brussels schoolfellow gives a short
retrospect of the dreary winter she had passed through.

"Haworth, April 12th, 1852.

". . . I struggled through the winter, and the early part of the
spring, often with great difficulty. My friend stayed with me a
few days in the early part of January; she could not be spared
longer. I was better during her visit, but had a relapse soon
after she left me, which reduced my strength very much. It cannot
be denied that the solitude of my position fearfully aggravated
its other evils. Some long stormy days and nights there were,
when I felt such a craving for support and companionship as I
cannot express. Sleepless, I lay awake night after night, weak
and unable to occupy myself. I sat in my chair day after day, the
saddest memories my only company. It was a time I shall never
forget; but God sent it, and it must have been for the best.

"I am better now; and very grateful do I feel for the restoration
of tolerable health; but, as if there was always to be some
affliction, papa, who enjoyed wonderful health during the whole
winter, is ailing with his spring attack of bronchitis. I
earnestly trust it may pass over in the comparatively ameliorated
form in which it has hitherto shown itself.

"Let me not forget to answer your question about the cataract.
Tell your papa that MY father was seventy at the time he
underwent an operation; he was most reluctant to try the
experiment; could not believe that, at his age, and with his want
of robust strength, it would succeed. I was obliged to be very
decided in the matter, and to act entirely on my own
responsibility. Nearly six years have now elapsed since the
cataract was extracted (it was not merely depressed); he has
never once during that time regretted the step, and a day seldom
passes that he does not express gratitude and pleasure at the
restoration of that inestimable privilege of vision whose loss he
once knew."

I had given Miss Bronte; in one of my letters, an outline of the
story on which I was then engaged, and in reply she says:--

"The sketch you give of your work (respecting which I am, of
course, dumb) seems to me very noble; and its purpose may be as
useful in practical result as it is high and just in theoretical
tendency. Such a book may restore hope and energy to many who
thought they had forfeited their right to both; and open a clear
course for honourable effort to some who deemed that they and all
honour had parted company in this world.

"Yet--hear my protest!

"Why should she die? Why are we to shut up the book weeping?

"My heart fails me already at the thought of the pang it will
have to undergo. And yet you must follow the impulse of your own
inspiration. If THAT commands the slaying of the victim, no
bystander has a right to put out his hand to stay the sacrificial
knife: but I hold you a stern priestess in these matters."

As the milder weather came on, her health improved, and her power
of writing increased. She set herself with redoubled vigour to
the work before her; and denied herself pleasure for the purpose
of steady labour. Hence she writes to her friend:--

"May 11th.

"Dear E----, --I must adhere to my resolution of neither
visiting nor being visited at present. Stay you quietly at B.,
till you go to S., as I shall stay at Haworth; as sincere a
farewell can be taken with the heart as with the lips, and
perhaps less painful. I am glad the weather is changed; the
return of the south-west wind suits me; but I hope you have no
cause to regret the departure of your favourite east wind. What
you say about ---- does not surprise me; I have had many little
notes (whereof I answer about one in three) breathing the same
spirit,--self and child the sole all-absorbing topics, on which
the changes are rung even to weariness. But I suppose one must
not heed it, or think the case singular. Nor, I am afraid, must
one expect her to improve. I read in a French book lately, a
sentence to this effect, that 'marriage might be defined as the
state of two-fold selfishness.' Let the single therefore take
comfort. Thank you for Mary's letter. She DOES seem most happy;
and I cannot tell you how much more real, lasting, and
better-warranted her happiness seems than ever ----'s did. I
think so much of it is in herself, and her own serene, pure,
trusting, religious nature. ----'s always gives me the idea of a
vacillating, unsteady rapture, entirely dependent on
circumstances with all their fluctuations. If Mary lives to be a
mother, you will then see a greater difference.

"I wish you, dear E., all health and enjoyment in your visit;
and, as far as one can judge at present, there seems a fair
prospect of the wish being realised.--Yours sincerely,

"C. BRONTE."



CHAPTER XI.

The reader will remember that Anne Bronte had been interred in
the churchyard of the Old Church at Scarborough. Charlotte had
left directions for a tombstone to be placed over her; but many a
time during the solitude of the past winter, her sad, anxious
thoughts had revisited the scene of that last great sorrow, and
she had wondered whether all decent services had been rendered to
the memory of the dead, until at last she came to a silent
resolution to go and see for herself whether the stone and
inscription were in a satisfactory state of preservation.

"Cliffe House, Filey, June 6th, 1852.

"Dear E----, --I am at Filey utterly alone. Do not be angry, the
step is right. I considered it, and resolved on it with due
deliberation. Change of air was necessary; there were reasons why
I should NOT go to the south, and why I should come here. On
Friday I went to Scarborough, visited the churchyard and stone.
It must be refaced and relettered; there are five errors. I gave
the necessary directions. THAT duty, then, is done; long has it
lain heavy on my mind; and that was a pilgrimage I felt I could
only make alone.

"I am in our old lodgings at Mrs. Smith's; not, however, in the
same rooms, but in less expensive apartments. They seemed glad to
see me, remembered you and me very well, and, seemingly, with
great good will. The daughter who used to wait on us is just
married. Filey seems to me much altered; more
lodging-houses--some of them very handsome--have been built; the
sea has all its old grandeur. I walk on the sands a good deal,
and try NOT to feel desolate and melancholy. How sorely my heart
longs for you, I need not say. I have bathed once; it seemed to
do me good. I may, perhaps, stay here a fortnight. There are as
yet scarcely any visitors. A Lady Wenlock is staying at the large
house of which you used so vigilantly to observe the inmates. One
day I set out with intent to trudge to Filey Bridge, but was
frightened back by two cows. I mean to try again some morning. I
left papa well. I have been a good deal troubled with headache,
and with some pain in the side since I came here, but I feel that
this has been owing to the cold wind, for very cold has it been
till lately; at present I feel better. Shall I send the papers to
you as usual Write again directly, and tell me this, and anything
and everything else that comes into your mind.--Believe me, yours
faithfully,

"C. BRONTE."

"Filey, June 16th, 1852.

"Dear E----, --Be quite easy about me. I really think I am better
for my stay at Filey; that I have derived more benefit from it
than I dared to anticipate. I believe, could I stay here two
months, and enjoy something like social cheerfulness as well as
exercise and good air, my health would be quite renewed. This,
however, cannot possibly be; but I am most thankful for the good
received. I stay here another week.

"I return ----'s letter. I am sorry for her: I believe she
suffers; but I do not much like her style of expressing herself.
. . . Grief as well as joy manifests itself in most different
ways in different people; and I doubt not she is sincere and in
earnest when she talks of her 'precious, sainted father;' but I
could wish she used simpler language."

Soon after her return from Filey, she was alarmed by a very
serious and sharp attack of illness with which Mr. Bronte was
seized. There was some fear, for a few days, that his sight was
permanently lost, and his spirits sank painfully under this
dread.

"This prostration of spirits," writes his daughter, "which
accompanies anything like a relapse is almost the most difficult
point to manage. Dear E----, you are tenderly kind in offering
your society; but rest very tranquil where you are; be fully
assured that it is not now, nor under present circumstances, that
I feel the lack either of society or occupation; my time is
pretty well filled up, and my thoughts appropriated. . . . I
cannot permit myself to comment much on the chief contents of
your last; advice is not necessary: as far as I can judge, you
seem hitherto enabled to take these trials in a good and wise
spirit. I can only pray that such combined strength and
resignation may be continued to you. Submission, courage,
exertion, when practicable--these seem to be the weapons with
which we must fight life's long battle."

I suppose that, during the very time when her thoughts were thus
fully occupied with anxiety for her father, she received some
letter from her publishers, making inquiry as to the progress of
the work which they knew she had in hand, as I find the following
letter to Mr. Williams, bearing reference to some of Messrs.
Smith and Elder's proposed arrangements.

"To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"July 28th, 1852.

"My dear Sir,--Is it in contemplation to publish the new edition
of 'Shirley' soon? Would it not be better to defer it for a time?
In reference to a part of your letter, permit me to express this
wish,--and I trust in doing so, I shall not be regarded as
stepping out of my position as an author, and encroaching on the
arrangements of business,--viz.: that no announcement of a new
work by the author of 'Jane Eyre' shall be made till the MS. of
such work is actually in my publisher's hands. Perhaps we are
none of us justified in speaking very decidedly where the future
is concerned; but for some too much caution in such calculations
can scarcely be observed: amongst this number I must class
myself. Nor, in doing so, can I assume an apologetic tone. He
does right who does his best.

"Last autumn I got on for a time quickly. I ventured to look
forward to spring as the period of publication: my health gave
way; I passed such a winter as, having been once experienced,
will never be forgotten. The spring proved little better than a
protraction of trial. The warm weather and a visit to the sea
have done me much good physically; but as yet I have recovered
neither elasticity of animal spirits, nor flow of the power of
composition. And if it were otherwise, the difference would be of
no avail; my time and thoughts are at present taken up with close
attendance on my father, whose health is just now in a very
critical state, the heat of the weather having produced
determination of blood to the head.--I am, yours sincerely,

C. BRONTE."

Before the end of August, Mr. Bronte's convalescence became quite
established, and he was anxious to resume his duties for some
time before his careful daughter would permit him.

On September the 14th the "great duke" died. He had been, as we
have seen, her hero from childhood; but I find no further
reference to him at this time than what is given in the following
extract from a letter to her friend:--

"I do hope and believe the changes you have been having this
summer will do you permanent good, notwithstanding the pain with
which they have been too often mingled. Yet I feel glad that you
are soon coming home; and I really must not trust myself to say
how much I wish the time were come when, without let or
hindrance, I could once more welcome you to Haworth. But oh I
don't get on; I feel fretted--incapable--sometimes very low.
However, at present, the subject must not be dwelt upon; it
presses me too hardly--nearly--and painfully. Less than ever can
I taste or know pleasure till this work is wound up. And yet I
often sit up in bed at night, thinking of and wishing for you.
Thank you for the Times; what it said on the mighty and mournful
subject was well said. All at once the whole nation seems to take
a just view of that great character. There was a review too of an
American book, which I was glad to see. Read 'Uncle Tom's Cabin':
probably, though, you have read it.

"Papa's health continues satisfactory, thank God! As for me, my
wretched liver has been disordered again of late, but I hope it
is now going to be on better behaviour; it hinders me in
working--depresses both power and tone of feeling. I must expect
this derangement from time to time."

Haworth was in an unhealthy state, as usual; and both Miss Bronte
and Tabby suffered severely from the prevailing epidemics. The
former was long in shaking off the effects of this illness. In
vain she resolved against allowing herself any society or change
of scene until she had accomplished her labour. She was too ill
to write; and with illness came on the old heaviness of heart,
recollections of the past, and anticipations of the future. At
last Mr. Bronte expressed so strong a wish that her friend should
be asked to visit her, and she felt some little refreshment so
absolutely necessary, that on October the 9th she begged her to
come to Haworth, just for a single week.

"I thought I would persist in denying myself till I had done my
work, but I find it won't do; the matter refuses to progress, and
this excessive solitude presses too heavily; so let me see your
dear face, E., just for one reviving week."

But she would only accept of the company of her friend for the
exact time specified. She thus writes to Miss Wooler on October
the 21st:--

"E---- has only been my companion one little week. I would not
have her any longer, for I am disgusted with myself and my
delays; and consider it was a weak yielding to temptation in me
to send for her at all; but in truth, my spirits were getting
low--prostrate sometimes--and she has done me inexpressible good.
I wonder when I shall see you at Haworth again; both my father
and the servants have again and again insinuated a distinct wish
that you should be requested to come in the course of the summer
and autumn, but I have always turned rather a deaf ear; 'not
yet,' was my thought, 'I want first to be free;' work first, then
pleasure."

Miss ----'s visit had done her much good. Pleasant companionship
during the day produced, for the time, the unusual blessing of
calm repose at night; and after her friend's departure she was
well enough to "fall to business," and write away, almost
incessantly, at her story of Villette, now drawing to a
conclusion. The following letter to Mr. Smith, seems to have
accompanied the first part of the MS.

"Oct. 30th, 1852.

"My dear Sir,--You must notify honestly what you think of
'Villette' when you have read it. I can hardly tell you how I
hunger to hear some opinion besides my own, and how I have
sometimes desponded, and almost despaired, because there was no
one to whom to read a line, or of whom to ask a counsel. 'Jane
Eyre' was not written under such circumstances, nor were
two-thirds of 'Shirley'. I got so miserable about it, I could bear
no allusion to the book. It is not finished yet; but now I hope.
As to the anonymous publication, I have this to say: If the
withholding of the author's name should tend materially to injure
the publisher's interest, to interfere with booksellers' orders,
etc., I would not press the point; but if no such detriment is
contingent, I should be most thankful for the sheltering shadow
of an incognito. I seem to dread the advertisements--the
large-lettered 'Currer Bell's New Novel,' or 'New Work, by the
Author of Jane Eyre.' These, however, I feel well enough, are the
transcendentalisms of a retired wretch; so you must speak
frankly. . . . I shall be glad to see 'Colonel Esmond.' My
objection to the second volume lay here: I thought it contained
decidedly too much history--too little story."

In another letter, referring to "Esmond," she uses the following
words:--

"The third volume seemed to me to possess the most sparkle,
impetus, and interest. Of the first and second my judgment was,
that parts of them were admirable; but there was the fault of
containing too much History--too little story. I hold that a work
of fiction ought to be a work of creation: that the REAL should
be sparingly introduced in pages dedicated to the IDEAL. Plain
household bread is a far more wholesome and necessary thing than
cake; yet who would like to see the brown loaf placed on the
table for dessert? In the second volume, the author gives us an
ample supply of excellent brown bread; in his third, only such a
portion as gives substance, like the crumbs of bread in a
well-made, not too rich, plum-pudding."

Her letter to Mr. Smith, containing the allusion to 'Esmond,'
which reminded me of the quotation just given continues:--

"You will see that 'Villette' touches on no matter of public
interest. I cannot write books handling the topics of the day; it
is of no use trying. Nor can I write a book for its moral. Nor
can I take up a philanthropic scheme, though I honour
philanthropy; and voluntarily and sincerely veil my face before
such a mighty subject as that handled in Mrs. Beecher Stowe's
work, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' To manage these great matters rightly,
they must be long and practically studied--their bearings known
intimately, and their evils felt genuinely; they must not be
taken up as a business matter, and a trading speculation. I
doubt not, Mrs. Stowe had felt the iron of slavery enter into her
heart, from childhood upwards, long before she ever thought of
writing books. The feeling throughout her work is sincere, and
not got up. Remember to be an honest critic of 'Villette,' and
tell Mr. Williams to be unsparing: not that I am likely to alter
anything, but I want to know his impressions and yours."

To G. SMITH, ESQ.

"Nov. 3rd.

"My dear Sir,--I feel very grateful for your letter; it relieved
me much, for I was a good deal harassed by doubts as to how
'Villette' might appear in other eyes than my own. I feel in some
degree authorised to rely on your favourable impressions, because
you are quite right where you hint disapprobation. You have
exactly hit two points at least where I was conscious of
defect;--the discrepancy, the want of perfect harmony, between
Graham's boyhood and manhood,--the angular abruptness of his
change of sentiment towards Miss Fanshawe. You must remember,
though, that in secret he had for some time appreciated that
young lady at a somewhat depressed standard--held her a LITTLE
lower than the angels. But still the reader ought to have been
better made to feel this preparation towards a change of mood. As
to the publishing arrangement, I leave them to Cornhill. There
is, undoubtedly, a certain force in what you say about the
inexpediency of affecting a mystery which cannot be sustained; so
you must act as you think is for the best. I submit, also, to the
advertisements in large letters, but under protest, and with a
kind of ostrich-longing for concealment. Most of the third volume
is given to the development of the 'crabbed Professor's'
character. Lucy must not marry Dr. John; he is far too youthful,
handsome, bright-spirited, and sweet-tempered; he is a 'curled
darling' of Nature and of Fortune, and must draw a prize in
life's lottery. His wife must be young, rich, pretty; he must be
made very happy indeed. If Lucy marries anybody, it must be the
Professor--a man in whom there is much to forgive, much to 'put
up with.' But I am not leniently disposed towards Miss FROST from
the beginning, I never meant to appoint her lines in pleasant
places. The conclusion of this third volume is still a matter of
some anxiety: I can but do my best, however. It would speedily be
finished, could I ward off certain obnoxious headaches, which,
whenever I get into the spirit of my work, are apt to seize and
prostrate me. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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