Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

E >> Elizabeth Claghorn Gaskell >> The Life of Charlotte Bronte




The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. Smith's
invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their
quarters, saying they were not prepared for a long stay.

When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte paid for the
excitement of the interview, which had wound up the agitation and
hurry of the last twenty-four hours, by a racking headache and
harassing sickness. Towards evening, as she rather expected some
of the ladies of Mr. Smith's family to call, she prepared herself
for the chance, by taking a strong dose of sal-volatile, which
roused her a little, but still, as she says, she was "in grievous
bodily case," when their visitors were announced, in full evening
costume. The sisters had not understood that it had been settled
that they were to go to the Opera, and therefore were not ready.
Moreover, they had no fine elegant dresses either with them, or
in the world. But Miss Bronte resolved to raise no objections in
the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of headache and
weariness, they made haste to dress themselves in their plain
high-made country garments.

Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of
this visit to London, describing the entrance of her party into
the Opera-house:--

"Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood by the box-
door, which was not yet opened, with a slight, graceful
superciliousness, quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I
felt pleasurably excited in spite of headache, sickness, and
conscious clownishness; and I saw Anne was calm and gentle, which
she always is. The performance was Rossini's 'Barber of
Seville,'--very brilliant, though I fancy there are things I
should like better. We got home after one o'clock. We had never
been in bed the night before; had been in constant excitement for
twenty-four hours; you may imagine we were tired. The next day,
Sunday, Mr. Williams came early to take us to church; and in the
afternoon Mr. Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage, and
took us to his house to dine.

"On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the
National Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's, and then went home
to tea with Mr. Williams at his house.

"On Tuesday morning, we left London, laden with books Mr. Smith
had given us, and got safely home. A more jaded wretch than I
looked, it would be difficult to conceive. I was thin when I
went, but I was meagre indeed when I returned, my face looking
grey and very old, with strange deep lines ploughed in it--my
eyes stared unnaturally. I was weak and yet restless. In a while,
however, these bad effects of excitement went off, and I regained
my normal condition."

The impression Miss Bronte made upon those with whom she first
became acquainted during this visit to London, was of a person
with clear judgment and fine sense; and though reserved,
possessing unconsciously the power of drawing out others in
conversation. She never expressed an opinion without assigning a
reason for it; she never put a question without a definite
purpose; and yet people felt at their ease in talking with her.
All conversation with her was genuine and stimulating; and when
she launched forth in praise or reprobation of books, or deeds,
or works of art, her eloquence was indeed burning. She was
thorough in all that she said or did; yet so open and fair in
dealing with a subject, or contending with an opponent, that
instead of rousing resentment, she merely convinced her hearers
of her earnest zeal for the truth and right.

Not the least singular part of their proceedings was the place at
which the sisters had chosen to stay.

Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a
narrow flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's; at
each end there are posts placed, so as to prevent the passage of
carriages, and thus preserve a solemn silence for the
deliberations of the "Fathers of the Row." The dull warehouses on
each side are mostly occupied at present by wholesale stationers;
if they be publishers' shops, they show no attractive front to
the dark and narrow street. Half-way up, on the left-hand side,
is the Chapter Coffee-house. I visited it last June. It was then
unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house, two
hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient
country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had
heavy beams running across them; the walls were wainscotted
breast high; the staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking
up much space in the centre of the house. This then was the
Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, was the resort of all
the booksellers and publishers; and where the literary hacks, the
critics, and even the wits, used to go in search of ideas or
employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in
those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he
was starving in London. "I am quite familiar at the Chapter
Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of
chances of employment; here his letters were to be left.

Years later, it became the tavern frequented by university men
and country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and,
having no private friends or access into society, were glad to
learn what was going on in the world of letters, from the
conversation which they were sure to hear in the Coffee-room. In
Mr. Bronte's few and brief visits to town, during his residence
at Cambridge, and the period of his curacy in Essex, he had
stayed at this house; hither he had brought his daughters, when
he was convoying them to Brussels; and here they came now, from
very ignorance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented
by men; I believe there was but one female servant in the house.
Few people slept there; some of the stated meetings of the Trade
were held in it, as they had been for more than a century; and,
occasionally country booksellers, with now and then a clergyman,
resorted to it; but it was a strange desolate place for the Miss
Brontes to have gone to, from its purely business and masculine
aspect. The old "grey-haired elderly man," who officiated as
waiter seems to have been touched from the very first with the
quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and he tried to make them
feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy room
up-stairs, where the meetings of the Trade were held. The high
narrow windows looked into the gloomy Row; the sisters, clinging
together on the most remote window-seat, (as Mr. Smith tells me
he found them, when he came, that Saturday evening, to take them
to the Opera,) could see nothing of motion, or of change, in the
grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close, although the whole
breadth of the Row was between. The mighty roar of London was
round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet every footfall
on the pavement below might be heard distinctly, in that
unfrequented street. Such as it was, they preferred remaining at
the Chapter Coffee-house, to accepting the invitation which Mr.
Smith and his mother urged upon them, and, in after years,
Charlotte says:--

"Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine
squares; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much
more in earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such
serious things, sights, sounds. The City is getting its
living--the West End but enjoying its pleasure. At the West End
you may be amused; but in the City you are deeply excited."
(Villette, vol. i. p.89.)

Their wish had been to hear Dr. Croly on the Sunday morning, and
Mr. Williams escorted them to St. Stephen's, Walbrook; but they
were disappointed, as Dr. Croly did not preach. Mr. Williams also
took them (as Miss Bronte has mentioned) to drink tea at his
house. On the way thither, they had to pass through Kensington
Gardens, and Miss Bronte was much "struck with the beauty of the
scene, the fresh verdure of the turf, and the soft rich masses
of foliage." From remarks on the different character of the
landscape in the South to what it was in the North, she was led
to speak of the softness and varied intonation of the voices of
those with whom she conversed in London, which seem to have made
a strong impression on both sisters. All this time those who came
in contact with the "Miss Browns" (another pseudonym, also
beginning with B), seem only to have regarded them as shy and
reserved little country-women, with not much to say. Mr. Williams
tells me that on the night when he accompanied the party to the
Opera, as Charlotte ascended the flight of stairs leading from
the grand entrance up to the lobby of the first tier of boxes,
she was so much struck with the architectural effect of the
splendid decorations of that vestibule and saloon, that
involuntarily she slightly pressed his arm, and whispered, "You
know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing." Indeed, it must
have formed a vivid contrast to what they were doing and seeing
an hour or two earlier the night before, when they were trudging
along, with beating hearts and high-strung courage, on the road
between Haworth and Keighley, hardly thinking of the
thunder-storm that beat about their heads, for the thoughts which
filled them of how they would go straight away to London, and
prove that they were really two people, and not one imposter. It
was no wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and
worn out, after the fatigue and excitement of this visit.

The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at this time is of a
different character to anything telling of enjoyment.

"July 28th.

"Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems
much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights
with him. He sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie
awake at night. But has not every house its trial?"

While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact
of her authorship of "Jane Eyre," she received a letter from one
of them, making inquiries about Casterton School. It is but right
to give her answer, written on August 28th, 1848.

"Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will
write without further delay. It often happens that when we linger
at first in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to
retard us to an inexcusably late period. In my last, I forgot to
answer a question which you asked me, and was sorry afterwards
for the omission. I will begin, therefore, by replying to it,
though I fear what information I can give will come a little
late. You said Mrs. ---- had some thoughts of sending ---- to
school, and wished to know whether the Clergy Daughters' School
at Casterton was an eligible place. My personal knowledge of that
institution is very much out of date, being derived from the
experience of twenty years ago. The establishment was at that
time in its infancy, and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus
fever decimated the school periodically; and consumption and
scrofula, in every variety of form bad air and water, bad and
insufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils.
It would not THEN have been a fit place for any of Mrs. ----'s
children; but I understand it is very much altered for the better
since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge (a
situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque--low, damp,
beautiful with wood and water) to Casterton. The accommodations,
the diet, the discipline, the system of tuition--all are, I
believe, entirely altered and greatly improved. I was told that
such pupils as behaved well, and remained at the school till
their education was finished, were provided with situations as
governesses, if they wished to adopt the vocation and much care
was exercised in the selection , it was added, that they were
also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. .
. . The oldest family in Haworth failed lately, and have quitted
the neighbourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it
is said, thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to
say, continues in very good health, considering his age; his
sight, too, rather, I think, improves than deteriorates. My
sisters likewise are pretty well."

But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household, and
gathering blackness every hour.

On October the 9th, she thus writes:--

"The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble
home. Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the
summer; but still, neither the doctors nor himself thought him so
near his end as he was. He was entirely confined to his bed but
for one single day, and was in the village two days before his
death. He died, after twenty minutes' struggle, on Sunday
morning, September 24th. He was perfectly conscious till the last
agony came on. His mind had undergone the peculiar change which
frequently precedes death, two days previously; the calm of
better feelings filled it; a return of natural affection marked
his last moments. He is in God's hands now; and the All-Powerful
is likewise the All-Merciful. A deep conviction that he rests at
last--rests well, after his brief, erring, suffering, feverish
life--fills and quiets my mind now. The final separation, the
spectacle of his pale corpse, gave me more acute bitter pain than
I could have imagined. Till the last hour comes, we never how
know much we can forgive, pity, regret a near relative. All his
vices were and are nothing now. We remember only his woes. Papa
was acutely distressed at first, but, on the whole, has borne the
event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne is always
delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It was my
fate to sink at the crisis, when I should have collected my
strength. Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday; I
could not regain my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I
became at once much reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel.
At last, bilious fever declared itself. I was confined to bed a
week,--a dreary week. But, thank God! health seems now returning.
I can sit up all day, and take moderate nourishment. The doctor
said at first, I should be very slow in recovering, but I seem to
get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly MUCH BETTER."

I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his last illness,
that he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said,
that as long as there was life there was strength of will to do
what it chose; and when the last agony came on, he insisted on
assuming the position just mentioned. I have previously stated,
that when his fatal attack came on, his pockets were found filled
with old letters from the woman to whom he was attached. He died!
she lives still,--in May Fair. The Eumenides, I suppose, went out
of existence at the time when the wail was heard, "Great Pan is
dead." I think we could better have spared him than those awful
Sisters who sting dead conscience into life.

I turn from her for ever. Let us look once more into the
Parsonage at Haworth.

"Oct. 29th, 1848.

"I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late
illness, and am almost restored to my normal condition of health.
I sometimes wish that it was a little higher, but we ought to be
content with such blessings as we have, and not pine after those
that are out of our reach. I feel much more uneasy about my
sister than myself just now. Emily's cold and cough are very
obstinate. I fear she has pain in her chest, and I sometimes
catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has moved at all
quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her reserved nature
occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless to question
her; you get no answers. It is still more useless to recommend
remedies; they are never adopted. Nor can I shut my eyes to
Anne's great delicacy of constitution. The late sad event has, I
feel, made me more apprehensive than common. I cannot help
feeling much depressed sometimes. I try to leave all in God's
hands; to trust in His goodness; but faith and resignation are
difficult to practise under some circumstances. The weather has
been most unfavourable for invalids of late; sudden changes of
temperature, and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here.
Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favourable
effect might be produced on the general health, and these
harassing colds and coughs be removed. Papa has not quite
escaped, but he has so far stood it better than any of us. You
must not mention my going to ---- this winter. I could not, and
would not, leave home on any account. Miss ---- has been for some
years out of health now. These things make one FEEL, as well as
KNOW, that this world is not our abiding-place. We should not
knit human ties too close, or clasp human affections too fondly.
They must leave us, or we must leave them, one day. God restore
health and strength to all who need it!"

I go on now with her own affecting words in the biographical
notice of her sisters.

"But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape
which to anticipate is dread; to look back on grief. In the very
heat and burden of the day, the labourers failed over their work.
My sister Emily first declined. . . . Never in all her life had
she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not
linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. . . .
Day by day, when I, saw with what a front she met suffering, I
looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love: I have seen
nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in
anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature
stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of ruth for
others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to
the flesh; from the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the
fading eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in
health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to
remonstrate, was a pain no words can render."

In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday
succeeding Branwell's death. She made no complaint; she would not
endure questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time
did Charlotte and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their
writing, to listen with wrung hearts to the failing step, the
laboured breathing, the frequent pauses, with which their sister
climbed the short staircase; yet they dared not notice what they
observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper than hers. They
dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing
assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat, still and silent.

"Nov. 23rd, 1848.

"I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied
yet. She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your
impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted,
pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues;
the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these
symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her
pulse, the only time she allowed it be to felt, was found to beat
115 per minute. In this state she resolutely refuses to see a
doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings, she will
scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is,
and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows
how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced
boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and
even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think
Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world."

When a doctor had been sent for, and was in the very house, Emily
refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him what
symptoms they had observed; and the medicines which he sent she
would not take, denying that she was ill.

"Dec. 10th, 1848.

"I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now
interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in
truth, I hardly know what to think myself. Hope and fear
fluctuate daily. The pain in her side and chest is better; the
cough, the shortness of breath, the extreme emaciation continue.
I have endured, however, such tortures of uncertainty on this
subject that, at length, I could endure it no longer; and as her
repugnance to seeing a medical man continues immutable,--as she
declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near her,--I have
written unknown to her, to an eminent physician in London, giving
as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw
up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or
two. I am thankful to say, that my own health at present is very
tolerable. It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best
will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or
bear much. She, too, at present, has frequent pains in the side.
Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very
anxious.

"The ----s (Anne Bronte's former pupils) were here about a week
ago. They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They seemed
overjoyed to see Anne: when I went into the room, they were
clinging round her like two children--she, meantime, looking
perfectly quiet and passive. . . . I. and H. took it into their
heads to come here. I think it probable offence was taken on that
occasion,--from what cause, I know not; and as, if such be the
case, the grudge must rest upon purely imaginary grounds,--and
since, besides, I have other things to think about, my mind
rarely dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel as
if I should not care who neglected, misunderstood, or abused me.
I would rather you were not of the number either. The crab-cheese
arrived safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it:
it looks very nice. I wish she were well enough to eat it."

But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Bronte's
shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched
in the little hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a
lingering spray of heather--just one spray, however withered--to
take in to Emily, she saw that the flower was not recognised by
the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet, to the last, Emily adhered
tenaciously to her habits of independence. She would suffer no
one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the old stern
spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and dressed
herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for
herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of
sewing: the servants looked on, and knew what the catching,
rattling breath, and the glazing of the eye too surely foretold;
but she kept at her work; and Charlotte and Anne, though full of
unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope. On that
morning Charlotte wrote thus--probably in the very presence of
her dying sister:--

"Tuesday.

"I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of
hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The
physician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He
sent some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as
these I have never known. I pray for God's support to us all.
Hitherto He has granted it."

The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only
whisper in gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to
Charlotte, "If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now."
About two o'clock she died.

"Dec. 21st, 1848.

"Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will
suffer more in this world. She is gone, after a hard short
conflict. She died on TUESDAY, the very day I wrote to you. I
thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks;
and a few hours afterwards, she was in eternity. Yes; there is no
Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted,
mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm
at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her
suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by;
the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to
tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel
them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life
in its prime. But it is God's will, and the place where she is
gone is better than that she has left.

"God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such
agony as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she
were well and strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you
now come to us for a few days? I would not ask you to stay long.
Write and tell me if you could come next week, and by what train.
I would try to send a gig for you to Keighley. You will, I trust,
find us tranquil. Try to come. I never so much needed the
consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there
would be none for you in the visit, except what your kind heart
would teach you to find in doing good to others."

As the old, bereaved father and his two surviving children
followed the coffin to the grave, they were joined by Keeper,
Emily's fierce, faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside of the
mourners, and into the church, and stayed quietly there all the
time that the burial service was being read. When he came home,
he lay down at Emily's chamber door, and howled pitifully for
many days. Anne Bronte drooped and sickened more rapidly from
that time; and so ended the year 1848.

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