Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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They planned to rest and spend a night at York; and, at Anne's
desire, arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte ends the
letter to her friend, in which she tells her all this, with--

"May 23rd.

"I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of
buying bonnets, etc. Anne was very ill yesterday. She had
difficulty of breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly
still. To-day she seems better again. I long for the moment to
come when the experiment of the sea-air will be tried. Will it do
her good? I cannot tell; I can only wish. Oh! if it would please
God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be
together: His will, however, be done!"

The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. They were to
have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with
their friend to meet them at the Leeds Station, in order that
they might all proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne
was so ill, that it was impossible for the sisters to set out;
yet they had no means of letting their friend know of this, and
she consequently arrived at Leeds station at the time specified.
There she sate waiting for several hours. It struck her as
strange at the time--and it almost seems ominous to her fancy
now--that twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by
which she was expecting her friends, coffins were carried forth,
and placed in hearses which were in waiting for their dead, as
she was waiting for one in four days to become so.

The next day she could bear suspense no longer, and set out for
Haworth, reaching there just in time to carry the feeble,
fainting invalid into the chaise which stood at the gate to take
them down to Keighley. The servant who stood at the Parsonage
gates, saw Death written on her face, and spoke of it. Charlotte
saw it and did not speak of it,--it would have been giving the
dread too distinct a form; and if this last darling yearned for
the change to Scarborough, go she should, however Charlotte's
heart might be wrung by impending fear. The lady who accompanied
them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years, has
kindly written out for me the following account of the
journey--and of the end.

"She left her home May 24th, 1849--died May 28th. Her life was
calm, quiet, spiritual: SUCH was her end. Through the trials and
fatigues of the journey, she evinced the pious courage and
fortitude of a martyr. Dependence and helplessness were ever with
her a far sorer trial than hard, racking pain.

"The first stage of our journey was to York; and here the dear
invalid was so revived, so cheerful, and so happy, we drew
consolation, and trusted that at least temporary improvement was
to be derived from the change which SHE had so longed for, and
her friends had so dreaded for her.

"By her request we went to the Minster, and to her it was an
overpowering pleasure; not for its own imposing and impressive
grandeur only, but because it brought to her susceptible nature a
vital and overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while
gazing at the structure, 'If finite power can do this, what is
the . . . ?' and here emotion stayed her speech, and she was
hastened to a less exciting scene.

"Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude for every
mercy was greater. After such an exertion as walking to her
bed-room, she would clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent
thanks, and she did this not to the exclusion of wonted prayer,
for that too was performed on bended knee, ere she accepted the
rest of her couch.

"On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough; our dear invalid having,
during the journey, directed our attention to every prospect
worthy of notice.

"On the 26th she drove on the sands for an hour; and lest the
poor donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than
her tender heart thought right, she took the reins, and drove
herself. When joined by her friend, she was charging the
boy-master of the donkey to treat the poor animal well. She was
ever fond of dumb things, and would give up her own comfort for
them.

"On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and her eye
brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God
amongst her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent to dissuade
her from the attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing
to join in the public act of devotion and praise.

"She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with a
sheltered and comfortable seat near the beach, she begged we
would leave her, and enjoy the various scenes near at hand, which
were new to us but familiar to her. She loved the place, and
wished us to share her preference.

"The evening closed in with the most glorious sunset ever
witnessed. The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded by
the rays of the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like
burnished gold; the little boats near the beach heaved on the
ebbing tide, inviting occupants. The view was grand beyond
description. Anne was drawn in her easy chair to the window, to
enjoy the scene with us. Her face became illumined almost as much
as the glorious scene she gazed upon. Little was said, for it was
plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing view before
her to penetrate forwards to the regions of unfading glory. She
again thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and
join those who were assembled at the House of God. We declined,
gently urging the duty and pleasure of staying with her, who was
now so dear and so feeble. On returning to her place near the
fire, she conversed with her sister upon the propriety of
returning to their home. She did not wish it for her own sake,
she said she was fearing others might suffer more if her decease
occurred where she was. She probably thought the task of
accompanying her lifeless remains on a long journey was more than
her sister could bear--more than the bereaved father could bear,
were she borne home another, and a third tenant of the
family-vault in the short space of nine months.

"The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness.
She rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of her toilet
herself, by her expressed wish. Her sister always yielded such
points, believing it was the truest kindness not to press
inability when it was not acknowledged. Nothing occurred to
excite alarm till about 11 A. M. She then spoke of feeling a
change. She believed she had not long to live. Could she reach
home alive, if we prepared immediately for departure? A physician
was sent for. Her address to him was made with perfect composure.
She begged him to say how long he thought she might live;--not to
fear speaking the truth, for she was not afraid to die. The
doctor reluctantly admitted that the angel of death was already
arrived, and that life was ebbing fast. She thanked him for his
truthfulness, and he departed to come again very soon. She still
occupied her easy chair, looking so serene, so reliant there was
no opening for grief as yet, though all knew the separation was
at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently invoked a blessing
from on high; first upon her sister, then upon her friend, to
whom she said, 'Be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much
of your company as you can.' She then thanked each for her
kindness and attention.

"Ere long the restlessness of approaching death appeared, and she
was borne to the sofa; on being asked if she were easier, she
looked gratefully at her questioner, and said, 'It is not YOU who
can give me ease, but soon all will be well, through the merits
of our Redeemer.' Shortly after this, seeing that her sister
could hardly restrain her grief, she said, 'Take courage,
Charlotte; take courage.' Her faith never failed, and her eye
never dimmed till about two o'clock, when she calmly and without
a sigh passed from the temporal to the eternal. So still, and so
hallowed were her last hours and moments. There was no thought of
assistance or of dread. The doctor came and went two or three
times. The hostess knew that death was near, yet so little was
the house disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow
of those so nearly bereaved, that dinner was announced as ready,
through the half-opened door, as the living sister was closing
the eyes of the dead one. She could now no more stay the
welled-up grief of her sister with her emphatic and dying 'Take
courage,' and it burst forth in brief but agonising strength.
Charlotte's affection, however, had another channel, and there it
turned in thought, in care, and in tenderness. There was
bereavement, but there was not solitude;--sympathy was at hand,
and it was accepted. With calmness, came the consideration of the
removal of the dear remains to their home resting-place. This
melancholy task, however, was never performed; for the afflicted
sister decided to lay the flower in the place where it had
fallen. She believed that to do so would accord with the wishes
of the departed. She had no preference for place. She thought not
of the grave, for that is but the body's goal, but of all that is
beyond it.

"Her remains rest,

'Where the south sun warms the now dear sod,
Where the ocean billows lave and strike the steep and
turf-covered rock.'"

Anne died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to her
father; but, knowing that his presence was required for some
annual Church solemnity at Haworth, she informed him that she had
made all necessary arrangements for the interment and that the
funeral would take place so soon, that he could hardly arrive in
time for it. The surgeon who had visited Anne on the day of her
death, offered his attendance, but it was respectfully declined.

Mr. Bronte wrote to urge Charlotte's longer stay at the seaside.
Her health and spirits were sorely shaken; and much as he
naturally longed to see his only remaining child, he felt it
right to persuade her to take, with her friend, a few more weeks'
change of scene,--though even that could not bring change of
thought. Late in June the friends returned homewards,--parting
rather suddenly (it would seem) from each other, when their paths
diverged.

"July, 1849.

"I intended to have written a line to you to-day, if I had not
received yours. We did indeed part suddenly; it made my heart
ache that we were severed without the time to exchange a word;
and yet perhaps it was better. I got here a little before eight
o'clock. All was clean and bright waiting for me. Papa and the
servants were well; and all received me with an affection which
should have consoled. The dogs seemed in strange ecstasy. I am
certain they regarded me as the harbinger of others. The dumb
creatures thought that as I was returned, those who had been so
long absent were not far behind.

"I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room: I shut the
door--I tried to be glad that I was come home. I have always been
glad before--except once--even then I was cheered. But this time
joy was not to be the sensation. I felt that the house was all
silent--the rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three
were laid--in what narrow dark dwellings--never more to reappear
on earth. So the sense of desolation and bitterness took
possession of me. The agony that WAS to be undergone, and WAS NOT
to be avoided, came on. I underwent it, and passed a dreary
evening and night, and a mournful morrow; to-day I am better.

"I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel
confidence in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may be
cheered, and made endurable beyond what I can believe. The great
trial is when evening closes and night approaches. At that hour,
we used to assemble in the dining-room--we used to talk. Now I
sit by myself--necessarily I am silent. I cannot help thinking of
their last days, remembering their sufferings, and what they said
and did, and how they looked in mortal affliction. Perhaps all
this will become less poignant in time.

"Let me thank you once more, dear E----, for your kindness to me,
which I do not mean to forget. How did you think all looking at
your home? Papa thought me a little stronger; he said my eyes
were not so sunken."

"July 14th, 1849.

"I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better to
go out of myself, and talk of something more cheerful. My cold,
wherever I got it, whether at Easton or elsewhere, is not
vanished yet. It began in my head, then I had a sore throat, and
then a sore chest, with a cough, but only a trifling cough, which
I still have at times. The pain between my shoulders likewise
amazed me much. Say nothing about it, for I confess I am too much
disposed to be nervous. This nervousness is a horrid phantom. I
dare communicate no ailment to Papa; his anxiety harasses me
inexpressibly.

"My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when I wake in
the morning, and know that Solitude, Remembrance, and Longing are
to be almost my sole companions all day through--that at night I
shall go to bed with them, that they will long keep me
sleepless--that next morning I shall wake to them
again,--sometimes, Nell, I have a heavy heart of it. But crushed
I am not, yet; nor robbed of elasticity, nor of hope, nor quite
of endeavour. I have some strength to fight the battle of life. I
am aware, and can acknowledge, I have many comforts, many
mercies. Still I can GET ON. But I do hope and pray, that never
may you, or any one I love, be placed as I am. To sit in a lonely
room--the clock ticking loud through a still house--and have open
before the mind's eye the record of the last year, with its
shocks, sufferings, losses--is a trial.

"I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with
moderation--that you will not take alarm or think me in any way
worse off than I am."



CHAPTER IV

The tale of "Shirley" had been begun soon after the publication
of "Jane Eyre." If the reader will refer to the account I have
given of Miss Bronte's schooldays at Roe Head, he will there see
how every place surrounding that house was connected with the
Luddite riots, and will learn how stories and anecdotes of that
time were rife among the inhabitants of the neighbouring
villages; how Miss Wooler herself, and the elder relations of
most of her schoolfellows, must have known the actors in those
grim disturbances. What Charlotte had heard there as a girl came
up in her mind when, as a woman, she sought a subject for her
next work; and she sent to Leeds for a file of the Mercuries of
1812, '13, and '14; in order to understand the spirit of those
eventful times. She was anxious to write of things she had known
and seen; and among the number was the West Yorkshire character,
for which any tale laid among the Luddites would afford full
scope. In "Shirley" she took the idea of most of her characters
from life, although the incidents and situations were, of course,
fictitious. She thought that if these last were purely imaginary,
she might draw from the real without detection, but in this she
was mistaken; her studies were too closely accurate. This
occasionally led her into difficulties. People recognised
themselves, or were recognised by others, in her graphic
descriptions of their personal appearance, and modes of action
and turns of thought; though they were placed in new positions,
and figured away in scenes far different to those in which their
actual life had been passed. Miss Bronte was struck by the force
or peculiarity of the character of some one whom she knew; she
studied it, and analysed it with subtle power; and having traced
it to its germ, she took that germ as the nucleus of an imaginary
character, and worked outwards;--thus reversing the process of
analysation, and unconsciously reproducing the same external
development. The "three curates" were real living men, haunting
Haworth and the neighbouring district; and so obtuse in
perception that, after the first burst of anger at having their
ways and habits chronicled was over, they rather enjoyed the joke
of calling each other by the names she had given them. "Mrs.
Pryor" was well known to many who loved the original dearly. The
whole family of the Yorkes were, I have been assured, almost
daguerreotypes. Indeed Miss Bronte told me that, before
publication, she had sent those parts of the novel in which these
remarkable persons are introduced, to one of the sons; and his
reply, after reading it, was simply that "she had not drawn them
strong enough." From those many-sided sons, I suspect, she drew
all that there was of truth in the characters of the heroes in
her first two works. They, indeed, were almost the only young men
she knew intimately, besides her brother. There was much
friendship, and still more confidence between the Bronte family
and them,--although their intercourse was often broken and
irregular. There was never any warmer feeling on either side.

The character of Shirley herself, is Charlotte's representation
of Emily. I mention this, because all that I, a stranger, have
been able to learn about her has not tended to give either me, or
my readers, a pleasant impression of her. But we must remember
how little we are acquainted with her, compared to that sister,
who, out of her more intimate knowledge, says that she "was
genuinely good, and truly great," and who tried to depict her
character in Shirley Keeldar, as what Emily Bronte would have
been, had she been placed in health and prosperity.

Miss Bronte took extreme pains with "Shirley." She felt that the
fame she had acquired imposed upon her a double responsibility.
She tried to make her novel like a piece of actual life,--feeling
sure that, if she but represented the product of personal
experience and observation truly, good would come out of it in
the long run. She carefully studied the different reviews and
criticisms that had appeared on "Jane Eyre," in hopes of
extracting precepts and advice from which to profit.

Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death.
She had nearly finished the second volume of her tale when
Branwell died,--after him Emily,--after her Anne;--the pen, laid
down when there were three sisters living and loving, was taken
up when one alone remained. Well might she call the first chapter
that she wrote after this, "The Valley of the Shadow of Death."

I knew in part what the unknown author of "Shirley" must have
suffered, when I read those pathetic words which occur at the end
of this and the beginning of the succeeding chapter:--

"Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.

"Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night
after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead;
the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the
soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my
beloved,' it may implore. 'Heal my life's life. Rend not from me
what long affection entwines with my whole nature. God of
Heaven--bend--hear--be clement!' And after this cry and strife,
the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which
used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of
skylarks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips
which colour and heat have quitted,--'Oh! I have had a suffering
night. This morning I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot.
Dreams I am unused to have troubled me.'

"Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new
and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that
the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will
his idol should be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his
soul to the sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear. . . .

"No piteous, unconscious moaning sound--which so wastes our
strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of
unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath--preceded her waking. No
space of deaf apathy followed. The first words spoken were not
those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already
permitted to stray at times into realms foreign to the living."

She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write
without any one to listen to the progress of her tale,--to find
fault or to sympathise,--while pacing the length of the parlour
in the evenings, as in the days that were no more. Three sisters
had done this,--then two, the other sister dropping off from the
walk,--and now one was left desolate, to listen for echoing steps
that never came,--and to hear the wind sobbing at the windows,
with an almost articulate sound.

But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness;
"continually recurring feelings of slight cold; slight soreness
in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will," she writes,
"I cannot get rid."

In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but
temporary.

"Aug. 23rd, 1849.

"Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack
of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days--more
wretched indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened,
one trembles at any appearance of sickness; and when anything
ails Papa, I feel too keenly that he is the LAST--the only near
and dear relative I have in the world. Yesterday and to-day he
has seemed much better, for which I am truly thankful. . . .

"From what you say of Mr. ----, I think I should like him very
much. ---- wants shaking to be put out about his appearance. What
does it matter whether her husband dines in a dress-coat, or a
market-coat, provided there be worth, and honesty, and a clean
shirt underneath?"

"Sept. 10th, 1849.

"My piece of work is at last finished, and despatched to its
destination. You must now tell me when there is a chance of your
being able to come here. I fear it will now be difficult to
arrange, as it is so near the marriage-day. Note well, it would
spoil all my pleasure, if you put yourself or any one else to
inconvenience to come to Haworth. But when it is CONVENIENT, I
shall be truly glad to see you. . . . Papa, I am thankful to say,
is better, though not strong. He is often troubled with a
sensation of nausea. My cold is very much less troublesome, I am
sometimes quite free from it. A few days since, I had a severe
bilious attack, the consequence of sitting too closely to my
writing; but it is gone now. It is the first from which I have
suffered since my return from the sea-side. I had them every
month before."

"Sept. 13th, 1849.

"If duty and the well-being of others require that you should
stay at home, I cannot permit myself to complain, still, I am
very, VERY sorry that circumstances will not permit us to meet
just now. I would without hesitation come to ----, if Papa were
stronger; but uncertain as are both his health and spirits, I
could not possibly prevail on myself to leave him now. Let us
hope that when we do see each other our meeting will be all the
more pleasurable for being delayed. Dear E----, you certain]y
have a heavy burden laid on your shoulders, but such burdens, if
well borne, benefit the character; only we must take the
GREATEST, CLOSEST, MOST WATCHFUL care not to grow proud of our
strength, in case we should be enabled to bear up under the
trial. That pride, indeed, would be sign of radical weakness. The
strength, if strength we have, is certainly never in our own
selves; it is given us."

To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"Sept. 21st, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--I am obliged to you for preserving my secret,
being at least as anxious as ever (MORE anxious I cannot well be)
to keep quiet. You asked me in one of your letters lately,
whether I thought I should escape identification in Yorkshire. I
am so little known, that I think I shall. Besides, the book is
far less founded on the Real, than perhaps appears. It would be
difficult to explain to you how little actual experience I have
had of life, how few persons I have known, and how very few have
known me.

"As an instance how the characters have been managed, take that
of Mr. Helstone. If this character had an original, it was in the
person of a clergyman who died some years since at the advanced
age of eighty. I never saw him except once--at the consecration
of a church--when I was a child of ten years old. I was then
struck with his appearance, and stern, martial air. At a
subsequent period, I heard him talked about in the neighbourhood
where he had resided: some mention him with enthusiasm--others
with detestation. I listened to various anecdotes, balanced
evidence against evidence, and drew an inference. The original of
Mr. Hall I have seen; he knows me slightly; but he would as soon
think I had closely observed him or taken him for a character--he
would as soon, indeed, suspect me of writing a hook--a novel--as
he would his dog, Prince. Margaret Hall called "Jane Eyre" a
'wicked book,' on the authority of the Quarterly; an expression
which, coming from her, I will here confess, struck somewhat
deep. It opened my eyes to the harm the Quarterly had done.
Margaret would not have called it 'wicked,' if she had not been
told so.

"No matter,--whether known or unknown--misjudged, or the
contrary,--I am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as
my powers tend. The two human beings who understood me, and whom
I understood, are gone: I have some that love me yet, and whom I
love, without expecting, or having a right to expect, that they
shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied; but I must have my
own way in the matter of writing. The loss of what we possess
nearest and dearest to us in this world, produces an effect upon
the character we search out what we have yet left that can
support, and, when found, we cling to it with a hold of
new-strung tenacity. The faculty of imagination lifted me when I
was sinking, three months ago; its active exercise has kept my
head above water since; its results cheer me now, for I feel they
have enabled me to give pleasure to others. I am thankful to God,
who gave me the faculty; and it is for me a part of my religion
to defend this gift, and to profit by its possession.--Yours
sincerely,

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