Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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CHAPTER III

An article on "Vanity Fair" and "Jane Eyre" had appeared in the
Quarterly Review of December, 1848. Some weeks after, Miss Bronte
wrote to her publishers, asking why it had not been sent to her;
and conjecturing that it was unfavourable, she repeated her
previous request, that whatever was done with the laudatory, all
critiques adverse to the novel might be forwarded to her without
fail. The Quarterly Review was accordingly sent. I am not aware
that Miss Bronte took any greater notice of the article than to
place a few sentences out of it in the mouth of a hard and vulgar
woman in "Shirley," where they are so much in character, that few
have recognised them as a quotation. The time when the article
was read was good for Miss Bronte; she was numbed to all petty
annoyances by the grand severity of Death. Otherwise she might
have felt more keenly than they deserved the criticisms which,
while striving to be severe, failed in logic, owing to the misuse
of prepositions; and have smarted under conjectures as to the
authorship of "Jane Eyre," which, intended to be acute, were
merely flippant. But flippancy takes a graver name when directed
against an author by an anonymous writer. We call it then
cowardly insolence.

Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respecting the
merits and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment
which the reviewer passes on "Jane Eyre." Opinions as to its
tendency varied then, as they do now. While I write, I receive a
letter from a clergyman in America in which he says: "We have in
our sacred of sacreds a special shelf, highly adorned, as a place
we delight to honour, of novels which we recognise as having had
a good influence on character OUR character. Foremost is 'Jane
Eyre.'"

Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment.
And so (as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of
composition) I leave his criticisms regarding the merits of the
work on one side. But when--forgetting the chivalrous spirit of
the good and noble Southey, who said: "In reviewing anonymous
works myself, when I have known the authors I have never
mentioned them, taking it for granted they had sufficient reasons
for avoiding the publicity"--the Quarterly reviewer goes on into
gossiping conjectures as to who Currer Bell really is, and
pretends to decide on what the writer may be from the book, I
protest with my whole soul against such want of Christian
charity. Not even the desire to write a "smart article," which
shall be talked about in London, when the faint mask of the
anonymous can be dropped at pleasure if the cleverness of the
review be admired--not even this temptation can excuse the
stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should say of an
unknown woman: "She must be one who for some sufficient reason
has long forfeited the society of her sex"? Is he one who has led
a wild and struggling and isolated life,--seeing few but plain
and outspoken Northerns, unskilled in the euphuisms which assist
the polite world to skim over the mention of vice? Has he striven
through long weeping years to find excuses for the lapse of an
only brother; and through daily contact with a poor lost
profligate, been compelled into a certain familiarity with the
vices that his soul abhors? Has he, through trials, close
following in dread march through his household, sweeping the
hearthstone bare of life and love, still striven hard for
strength to say, "It is the Lord! let Him do what seemeth to Him
good"--and sometimes striven in vain, until the kindly Light
returned? If through all these dark waters the scornful reviewer
have passed clear, refined, free from stain,--with a soul that
has never in all its agonies cried "lama sabachthani,"--still,
even then let him pray with the Publican rather than judge with
the Pharisee.

"Jan. l0th, 1849.

"Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet
night last night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheelhouse
ordered the blister to be put on again. She bore it without
sickness. I have just dressed it, and she is risen and come
down-stairs. She looks somewhat pale and sickly. She has had one
dose of the cod-liver oil; it smells and tastes like train oil. I
am trying to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy, and stormy. My
spirits fall at intervals very low; then I look where you counsel
me to look, beyond earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get
strength, if not consolation. It will not do to anticipate. I
feel that hourly. In the night, I awake and long for morning;
then my heart is wrung. Papa continues much the same; he was very
faint when he came down to breakfast. . . . Dear E----, your
friendship is some comfort to me. I am thankful for it. I see few
lights through the darkness of the present time, but amongst them
the constancy of a kind heart attached to me is one of the most
cheering and serene."

"Jan. 15th, 1849.

"I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say she is
better. She varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is
passed pretty much the same. The morning is usually the best
time; the afternoon and the evening the most feverish. Her cough
is the most troublesome at night, but it is rarely violent. The
pain in her arm still disturbs her. She takes the cod-liver oil
and carbonate of iron regularly; she finds them both nauseous,
but especially the oil. Her appetite is small indeed. Do not fear
that I shall relax in my care of her. She is too precious not to
be cherished with all the fostering strength I have. Papa, I am
thankful to say, has been a good deal better this last day or
two.

"As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that if I
continue as I am I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of
the pains in my chest and back. They oddly return with every
change of weather; and are still sometimes accompanied with a
little soreness and hoarseness, but I combat them steadily with
pitch plasters and bran tea. I should think it silly and wrong
indeed not to be regardful of my own health at present; it would
not do to be ill NOW.

"I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking
upward. This is not the time to regret, dread, or weep. What I
have and ought to do is very distinctly laid out for me; what I
want, and pray for, is strength to perform it. The days pass in a
slow, dark march; the nights are the test; the sudden wakings
from restless sleep, the revived knowledge that one lies in her
grave, and another not at my side, but in a separate and sick
bed. However, God is over all."

"Jan. 22nd, 1849.

"Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days
last week, but to-day she looks very pale and languid again. She
perseveres with the cod-liver oil, but still finds it very
nauseous.

"She is truly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and
finds them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get
her just such a respirator as Mrs. ---- had. She would not object
to give a higher price, if you thought it better. If it is not
too much trouble, you may likewise get me a pair of soles; you
can send them and the respirator when you send the box. You must
put down the price of all, and we will pay you in a Post Office
order. "Wuthering Heights" was given to you. I have sent ----
neither letter nor parcel. I had nothing but dreary news to
write, so preferred that others should tell her. I have not
written to ---- either. I cannot write, except when I am quite
obliged."

"Feb. 11th, 1849.

"We received the box and its contents quite safely to-day. The
penwipers are very pretty, and we are very much obliged to you
for them. I hope the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case
she should ever be well enough to go out again. She continues
very much in the same state--I trust not greatly worse, though
she is becoming very thin. I fear it would be only self-delusion
to fancy her better. What effect the advancing season may have on
her, I know not; perhaps the return of really warm weather may
give nature a happy stimulus. I tremble at the thought of any
change to cold wind or frost. Would that March were well over!
Her mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are
nothing like Emily's. The thought of what may be to come grows
more familiar to my mind; but it is a sad, dreary guest."

"March 16th, 1849.

"We have found the past week a somewhat trying one; it has not
been cold, but still there have been changes of temperature whose
effect Anne has felt unfavourably. She is not, I trust, seriously
worse, but her cough is at times very hard and painful, and her
strength rather diminished than improved. I wish the month of
March was well over. You are right in conjecturing that I am
somewhat depressed; at times I certainly am. It was almost easier
to bear up when the trial was at its crisis than now. The feeling
of Emily's loss does not diminish as time wears on; it often
makes itself most acutely recognised. It brings too an
inexpressible sorrow with it; and then the future is dark. Yet I
am well aware, it will not do either to complain, or sink, and I
strive to do neither. Strength, I hope and trust, will yet be
given in proportion to the burden; but the pain of my position is
not one likely to lessen with habit. Its solitude and isolation
are oppressive circumstances, yet I do not wish for any friends
to stay with me; I could not do with any one--not even you--to
share the sadness of the house; it would rack me intolerably.
Meantime, judgment is still blent with mercy. Anne's sufferings
still continue mild. It is my nature, when left alone, to
struggle on with a certain perseverance, and I believe God will
help me."

Anne had been delicate all her life; a fact which perhaps made
them less aware than they would otherwise have been of the true
nature of those fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to have lost
but little time before they sent for the first advice that could
be procured. She was examined with the stethoscope, and the
dreadful fact was announced that her lungs were affected, and
that tubercular consumption had already made considerable
progress. A system of treatment was prescribed, which was
afterwards ratified by the opinion of Dr. Forbes.

For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested.
Charlotte--herself ill with a complaint that severely tried her
spirits--was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, last
sister. One comfort was that Anne was the patientest, gentlest
invalid that could be. Still, there were hours, days, weeks of
inexpressible anguish to be borne; under the pressure of which
Charlotte could only pray and pray she did, right earnestly. Thus
she writes on March 24th;--

"Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating; but its nature is not
doubtful. . . . In spirit she is resigned: at heart she is, I
believe, a true Christian. . . . May God support her and all of
us through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the
last hour when the struggle which separates soul from body must
be gone through! We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our
hearts clung to her with intense attachment. . . She was scarce
buried when Anne's health failed. . . . These things would be too
much, if reason, unsupported by religion, were condemned to bear
them alone. I have cause to be most thankful for the strength
that has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my father and to
myself. God, I think, is especially merciful to old age; and for
my own part, trials, which in perspective would have seemed to me
quite intolerable, when they actually came I endured without
prostration. Yet I must confess that, in the time which has
elapsed since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary,
deep, inert affliction, far harder to bear than those which
immediately followed our loss. The crisis of bereavement has an
acute pang which goads to exertion; the desolate after-feeling
sometimes paralyses. I have learnt that we are not to find solace
in our own strength; we must seek it in God's omnipotence.
Fortitude is good; but fortitude itself must be shaken under us
to teach us how weak we are!"

All through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of
being able to talk to her about her state; a comfort rendered
inexpressibly great by the contrast which it presented to the
recollection of Emily's rejection of all sympathy. If a proposal
for Anne's benefit was made, Charlotte could speak to her about
it, and the nursing and dying sister could consult with each
other as to its desirability. I have seen but one of Anne's
letters; it is the only time we seem to be brought into direct
personal contact with this gentle, patient girl. In order to give
the requisite preliminary explanation, I must state that the
family of friends, to which E---- belonged, proposed that Anne
should come to them; in order to try what change of air and diet,
and the company of kindly people could do towards restoring her
to health. In answer to this proposal, Charlotte writes:--

"March 24th.

"I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you
sincerely for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that
it would not do to take advantage of it, by quartering an
invalid upon the inhabitants of ----; but she intimates there is
another way in which you might serve her, perhaps with some
benefit to yourself as well as to her. Should it, a month or two
hence, be deemed advisable that she should go either to the
sea-side, or to some inland watering-place--and should papa be
disinclined to move, and I consequently obliged to remain at
home--she asks, could you be her companion? Of course I need not
add that in the event of such an arrangement being made, you
would be put to no expense. This, dear E., is Anne's proposal; I
make it to comply with her wish; but for my own part, I must add
that I see serious objections to your accepting it--objections I
cannot name to her. She continues to vary; is sometimes worse,
and sometimes better, as the weather changes; but, on the whole,
I fear she loses strength. Papa says her state is most
precarious; she may be spared for some time, or a sudden
alteration might remove her before we are aware. Were such an
alteration to take place while she was far from home, and alone
with you, it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses me
inexpressibly, and I tremble whenever she alludes to the project
of a journey. In short, I wish we could gain time, and see how
she gets on. If she leaves home it certainly should not be in the
capricious month of May, which is proverbially trying to the
weak. June would be a safer month. If we could reach June, I
should have good hopes of her getting through the summer. Write
such an answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can write any
additional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not
consider yourself as confined to discussing only our sad affairs.
I am interested in all that interests you."

FROM ANNE BRONTE

"April 5th, 1849.

"My dear Miss ----,--I thank you greatly for your kind letter,
and your ready compliance with my proposal, as far as the WILL
can go at least. I see, however, that your friends are unwilling
that you should undertake the responsibility of accompanying me
under present circumstances. But I do not think there would be
any great responsibility in the matter. I know, and everybody
knows, that you would be as kind and helpful as any one could
possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome. It
would be as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for
your company; otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for
your kind and often-repeated invitation to ----, pray give my
sincere thanks to your mother and sisters, but tell them I could
not think of inflicting my presence upon them as I now am. It is
very kind of them to make so light of the trouble, but still
there must be more or less, and certainly no pleasure, from the
society of a silent invalid stranger. I hope, however, that
Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany me
after all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a
change of air and scene to renovate her constitution. And then
your going with me before the end of May, is apparently out of
the question, unless you are disappointed in your visitors; but I
should be reluctant to wait till then, if the weather would at
all permit an earlier departure. You say May is a trying month,
and so say others. The earlier part is often cold enough, I
acknowledge, but, according to my experience, we are almost
certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the
laburnums and lilacs are in bloom; whereas June is often cold,
and July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than
this for my impatience of delay. The doctors say that change of
air or removal to a better climate would hardly ever fail of
success in consumptive cases, if the remedy were taken IN TIME;
but the reason why there are so many disappointments is, that it
is generally deferred till it is too late. Now I would not commit
this error; and, to say the truth, though I suffer much less from
pain and fever than I did when you were with us, I am decidedly
weaker, and very much thinner. My cough still troubles me a good
deal, especially in the night, and, what seems worse than all, I
am subject to great shortness of breath on going up-stairs or any
slight exertion. Under these circumstances, I think there is no
time to be lost. I have no horror of death: if I thought it
inevitable, I think I could quietly resign myself to the
prospect, in the hope that you, dear Miss ----, would give as
much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte, and be a
sister to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to
spare me, not only for papa's and Charlotte's sakes, but because
I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have
many schemes in my head for future practice--humble and limited
indeed--but still I should not like them all to come to nothing,
and myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God's will be
done. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and
believe me, dear Miss ----, yours most affectionately,

"ANNE BRONTE."

It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last
verses, before "the desk was closed, and the pen laid aside for
ever."

I.

"I hoped that with the brave and strong
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.

II.

"But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well:
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.

III.

"Thou God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope, away;
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.

IV.

"These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,--
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,--
Can I but turn to Thee.

IV.

"With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.

VI.

"Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate;
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.

VII.

"If Thou should'st bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise--more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.

VIII.

"Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whatever be my fate,
Oh let me serve Thee now!"

I take Charlotte's own words as the best record of her thoughts
and feelings during all this terrible time.

"April 12th.

"I read Anne's letter to you; it was touching enough, as you say.
If there were no hope beyond this world,--no eternity, no life to
come,--Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be
heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's death-day; it becomes a
more fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring idea in my mind
than ever. It was very terrible. She was torn, conscious,
panting, reluctant, though resolute, out of a happy life. But it
WILL NOT do to dwell on these things.

"I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne: it would
never do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had
consented, I never could. It is not that there is any laborious
attention to pay her; she requires, and will accept, but little
nursing; but there would be hazard, and anxiety of mind, beyond
what you ought to be subject to. If, a month or six weeks hence,
she continues to wish for a change as much as she does now, I
shall (D. V.) go with her myself. It will certainly be my
paramount duty; other cares must be made subservient to that. I
have consulted Mr. T----: he does not object, and recommends
Scarborough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be
so ordered, that you may be able to be with us at least part of
the time. . . . Whether in lodgings or not, I should wish to be
boarded. Providing oneself is, I think, an insupportable
nuisance. I don't like keeping provisions in a cupboard, locking
up, being pillaged, and all that. It is a petty, wearing
annoyance."

The progress of Anne's illness was slower than that of Emily's
had been; and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from
which, if she herself had little hope of benefit, her friends
might hereafter derive a mournful satisfaction.

"I began to flatter myself she was getting strength. But the
change to frost has told upon her; she suffers more of late.
Still her illness has none of the fearful rapid symptoms which
appalled in Emily's case. Could she only get over the spring, I
hope summer may do much for her, and then early removal to a
warmer locality for the winter might, at least, prolong her life.
Could we only reckon upon another year, I should be thankful; but
can we do this for the healthy? A few days ago I wrote to have
Dr. Forbes' opinion. . . . He warned us against entertaining
sanguine hopes of recovery. The cod-liver oil he considers a
peculiarly efficacious medicine. He, too, disapproved of change
of residence for the present. There is some feeble consolation in
thinking we are doing the very best that can be done. The agony
of forced, total neglect, is not now felt, as during Emily's
illness. Never may we be doomed to feel such agony again. It was
terrible. I have felt much less of the disagreeable pains in my
chest lately, and much less also of the soreness and hoarseness.
I tried an application of hot vinegar, which seemed to do good."

"May 1st.

"I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, you will be
at liberty to go with us, but the journey and its consequences
still continue a source of great anxiety to me , I must try to
put it off two or three weeks longer if I can; perhaps by that
time the milder season may have given Anne more strength,perhaps
it will be otherwise; I cannot tell. The change to fine weather
has not proved beneficial to her so far. She has sometimes been
so weak, and suffered so much from pain in the side, during the
last few days, that I have not known what to think. . . . She may
rally again, and be much better, but there must be SOME
improvement before I can feel justified in taking her away from
home. Yet to delay is painful; for, as is ALWAYS the case, I
believe, under her circumstances, she seems herself not half
conscious of the necessity for such delay. She wonders, I
believe, why I don't talk more about the journey: it grieves me
to think she may even be hurt by my seeming tardiness. She is
very much emaciated,--far more than when you were with us; her
arms are no thicker than a little child's. The least exertion
brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day,
but we creep rather than walk. . . . Papa continues pretty
well;--I hope I shall be enabled to bear up. So far, I have
reason for thankfulness to God."

May had come, and brought the milder weather longed for; but Anne
was worse for the very change. A little later on it became
colder, and she rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that,
if May were once over, she might last for a long time. Miss
Bronte wrote to engage the lodgings at Scarborough,--a place
which Anne had formerly visited with the family to whom she was
governess. They took a good-sized sitting-room, and an airy
double-bedded room (both commanding a sea-view), in one of the
best situations of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison
with life; besides, Anne had a small legacy left to her by her
godmother, and they felt that she could not better employ this
than in obtaining what might prolong life, if not restore health.
On May 16th, Charlotte writes:

"It is with a heavy heart I prepare; and earnestly do I wish the
fatigue of the journey were well over. It may be borne better
than I expect; for temporary stimulus often does much; but when I
see the daily increasing weakness, I know not what to think. I
fear you will be shocked when you see Anne; but be on your guard,
dear E----, not to express your feelings; indeed, I can trust
both your self-possession and your kindness. I wish my judgment
sanctioned the step of going to Scarborough, more fully than it
does. You ask how I have arranged about leaving Papa. I could
make no special arrangement. He wishes me to go with Anne, and
would not hear of Mr. N----'s coming, or anything of that kind;
so I do what I believe is for the best, and leave the result to
Providence."

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