Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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"CHARLOTTE BRONTE."

At the time when this letter was written, both Tabby and the
young servant whom they had to assist her were ill in bed; and,
with the exception of occasional aid, Miss Bronte had all the
household work to perform, as well as to nurse the two invalids.

The serious illness of the younger servant was at its height,
when a cry from Tabby called Miss Bronte into the kitchen, and
she found the poor old woman of eighty laid on the floor, with
her head under the kitchen-grate; she had fallen from her chair
in attempting to rise. When I saw her, two years later, she
described to me the tender care which Charlotte had taken of her
at this time; and wound up her account of "how her own mother
could not have had more thought for her nor Miss Bronte had," by
saying, "Eh! she's a good one--she IS!"

But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way--when, as
she says, "I fairly broke down for ten minutes; sat and cried
like a fool. Tabby could neither stand nor walk. Papa had just
been declaring that Martha was in imminent danger. I was myself
depressed with headache and sickness. That day I hardly knew what
to do, or where to turn. Thank God! Martha is now convalescent:
Tabby, I trust, will be better soon. Papa is pretty well. I have
the satisfaction of knowing that my publishers are delighted with
what I sent them. This supports me. But life is a battle. May we
all be enabled to fight it well!"

The kind friend, to whom she thus wrote, saw how the poor over-
taxed system needed bracing, and accordingly sent her a shower-
bath--a thing for which she had long been wishing. The receipt of
it was acknowledged as follows:--

"Sept. 28th, 1849. ". . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby
much better. A huge monster-package, from 'Nelson, Leeds,' came
yesterday. You want chastising roundly and soundly. Such are the
thanks you get for all your trouble. . . . Whenever you come to
Haworth, you shall certainly have a thorough drenching in your
own shower-bath. I have not yet unpacked the wretch.--"Yours, as
you deserve,
C. B."

There was misfortune of another kind impending over her. There
were some railway shares, which, so early as 1846, she had told
Miss Wooler she wished to sell, but had kept because she could
not persuade her sisters to look upon the affair as she did, and
so preferred running the risk of loss, to hurting Emily's
feelings by acting in opposition to her opinion. The depreciation
of these same shares was now verifying Charlotte's soundness of
judgment. They were in the York and North-Midland Company, which
was one of Mr. Hudson's pet lines, and had the full benefit of
his peculiar system of management. She applied to her friend and
publisher, Mr. Smith, for information on the subject; and the
following letter is in answer to his reply:--

"Oct. 4th, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--I must not THANK you for, but acknowledge the
receipt of your letter. The business is certainly very bad; worse
than I thought, and much worse than my father has any idea of. In
fact, the little railway property I possessed, according to
original prices, formed already a small competency for me, with
my views and habits. Now, scarcely any portion of it can, with
security, be calculated upon. I must open this view of the case
to my father by degrees; and, meanwhile, wait patiently till I
see how affairs are likely to turn. . . . However the matter may
terminate, I ought perhaps to be rather thankful than
dissatisfied. When I look at my own case, and compare it with
that of thousands besides, I scarcely see room for a murmur.
Many, very many, are by the late strange railway system deprived
almost of their daily bread. Such then as have only lost
provision laid up for the future, should take care how they
complain. The thought that 'Shirley' has given pleasure at
Cornhill, yields me much quiet comfort. No doubt, however, you
are, as I am, prepared for critical severity; but I have good
hopes that the vessel is sufficiently sound of construction to
weather a gale or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for you in
the end."

Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay a
visit to her friend; but her enjoyment in the holiday, which she
had so long promised herself when her work was completed, was
deadened by a continual feeling of ill-health; either the change
of air or the foggy weather produced constant irritation at the
chest. Moreover, she was anxious about the impression which her
second work would produce on the public mind. For obvious reasons
an author is more susceptible to opinions pronounced on the book
which follows a great success, than he has ever been before.
Whatever be the value of fame, he has it in his possession, and
is not willing to have it dimmed or lost.

"Shirley" was published on October 26th.

When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote to tell
her of his intention of reviewing it in the Edinburgh. Her
correspondence with him had ceased for some time: much had
occurred since.

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Nov. 1st, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--It is about a year and a half since you wrote to
me; but it seems a longer period, because since then it has been
my lot to pass some black milestones in the journey of life.
Since then there have been intervals when I have ceased to care
about literature and critics and fame; when I have lost sight of
whatever was prominent in my thoughts at the first publication of
'Jane Eyre;' but now I want these things to come back vividly, if
possible: consequently, it was a pleasure to receive your note. I
wish you did not think me a woman. I wish all reviewers believed
'Currer Bell' to be a man; they would be more just to him. You
will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what you deem
becoming to my sex; where I am not what you consider graceful,
you will condemn me. All mouths will be open against that first
chapter; and that first chapter is true as the Bible, nor is it
exceptionable. Come what will, I cannot, when I write, think
always of myself and of what is elegant and charming in
femininity; it is not on those terms, or with such ideas, I ever
took pen in hand: and if it is only on such terms my writing
will be tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble
it no more. Out of obscurity I came, to obscurity I can easily
return. Standing afar off, I now watch to see what will become of
'Shirley.' My expectations are very low, and my anticipations
somewhat sad and bitter; still, I earnestly conjure you to say
honestly what you think; flattery would be worse than vain; there
is no consolation in flattery. As for condemnation I cannot, on
reflection, see why I should much fear it; there is no one but
myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and suffering in
this life soon pass away. Wishing you all success in your
Scottish expedition,--I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,

C. BELL."

Miss Bronte, as we have seen, had been as anxious as ever to
preserve her incognito in "Shirley." She even fancied that there
were fewer traces of a female pen in it than in "Jane Eyre"; and
thus, when the earliest reviews were published, and asserted that
the mysterious writer must be a woman, she was much disappointed.
She especially disliked the lowering of the standard by which to
judge a work of fiction, if it proceeded from a feminine pen; and
praise mingled with pseudo-gallant allusions to her sex,
mortified her far more than actual blame.

But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at last.
The publication of "Shirley" seemed to fix the conviction that
the writer was an inhabitant of the district where the story was
laid. And a clever Haworth man, who had somewhat risen in the
world, and gone to settle in Liverpool, read the novel, and was
struck with some of the names of places mentioned, and knew the
dialect in which parts of it were written. He became convinced
that it was the production of some one in Haworth. But he could
not imagine who in that village could have written such a work
except Miss Bronte. Proud of his conjecture, he divulged the
suspicion (which was almost certainty) in the columns of a
Liverpool paper; thus the heart of the mystery came slowly
creeping out; and a visit to London, which Miss Bronte paid
towards the end of the year 1849, made it distinctly known. She
had been all along on most happy terms with her publishers; and
their kindness had beguiled some of those weary, solitary hours
which had so often occurred of late, by sending for her perusal
boxes of books more suited to her tastes than any she could
procure from the circulating library at Keighley. She often
writes such sentences as the following, in her letters to
Cornhill:--

"I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent
'Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe,' 'Guesses as Truth,'
'Friends in Council,' and the little work on English social life,
pleased me particularly, and the last not least. We sometimes
take a partiality to books as to characters, not on account of
any brilliant intellect or striking peculiarity they boast, but
for the sake of something good, delicate, and genuine. I thought
that small book the production of a lady, and an amiable,
sensible woman, and I liked it. You must not think of selecting
any more works for me yet; my stock is still far from exhausted.

"I accept your offer respecting the 'Athenaeum;' it is a paper I
should like much to see, providing that you can send it without
trouble. It shall be punctually returned."

In a letter to her friend she complains of the feelings of
illness from which she was seldom or never free.

"Nov. 16th, 1849.

You are not to suppose any of the characters in 'Shirley'
intended as literal portraits. It would not suit the rules of
art, nor of my own feelings; to write in that style. We only
suffer reality to SUGGEST, never to DICTATE. The heroines are
abstractions and the heroes also. Qualities I have seen, loved,
and admired, are here and there put in as decorative gems, to be
preserved in that sitting. Since you say you could recognise the
originals of all except the heroines, pray whom did you suppose
the two Moores to represent? I send you a couple of reviews; the
one is in the Examiner, written by Albany Fonblanque, who is
called the most brilliant political writer of the day, a man
whose dictum is much thought of in London. The other, in the
Standard of Freedom, is written by William Howitt, a Quaker! . .
. I should be pretty well, if it were not for headaches and
indigestion. My chest has been better lately."

In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor,
headache, and sickness, to which the slightest exposure to cold
added sensations of hoarseness and soreness at the chest, she
determined to take the evil in time, as much for her father's
sake as for her own, and to go up to London and consult some
physician there. It was not her first intention to visit
anywhere; but the friendly urgency of her publishers prevailed,
and it was decided that she was to become the guest of Mr. Smith.
Before she went, she wrote two characteristic letters about
"Shirley," from which I shall take a few extracts.

"'Shirley' makes her way. The reviews shower in fast. . . . The
best critique which has yet appeared is in the Revue des deux
Mondes, a sort of European Cosmopolitan periodical, whose head-
quarters are at Paris. Comparatively few reviewers, even in their
praise, evince a just comprehension of the author's meaning.
Eugene Forcarde, the reviewer in question, follows Currer Bell
through every winding, discerns every point, discriminates every
shade, proves himself master of the subject, and lord of the aim.
With that man I would shake hands, if I saw him. I would say,
'You know me, Monsieur; I shall deem it an honour to know you.' I
could not say so much of the mass of the London critics. Perhaps
I could not say so much to five hundred men and women in all the
millions of Great Britain. That matters little. My own conscience
I satisfy first; and having done that, if I further content and
delight a Forsarde, a Fonblanque, and a Thackeray, my ambition
has had its ration, it is fed; it lies down for the present
satisfied; my faculties have wrought a day's task, and earned a
day's wages. I am no teacher; to look on me in that light is to
mistake me. To teach is not my vocation. What I AM, it is useless
to say. Those whom it concerns feel and find it out. To all
others I wish only to be an obscure, steady-going, private
character. To you, dear E ----, I wish to be a sincere friend.
Give me your faithful regard; I willingly dispense with
admiration."

"Nov. 26th.

"It is like you to pronounce the reviews not good enough, and
belongs to that part of your character which will not permit you
to bestow unqualified approbation on any dress, decoration, etc.,
belonging to you. Know that the reviews are superb; and were I
dissatisfied with them, I should be a conceited ape. Nothing
higher is ever said, FROM PERFECTLY DISINTERESTED MOTIVES, of any
living authors. If all be well, I go to London this week;
Wednesday, I think. The dress-maker has done my small matters
pretty well, but I wish you could have looked them over, and
given a dictum. I insisted on the dresses being made quite
plainly."

At the end of November she went up to the "big Babylon," and was
immediately plunged into what appeared to her a whirl; for
changes, and scenes, and stimulus which would have been a trifle
to others, were much to her. As was always the case with
strangers, she was a little afraid at first of the family into
which she was now received, fancying that the ladies looked on
her with a mixture of respect and alarm; but in a few days, if
this state of feeling ever existed, her simple, shy, quiet
manners, her dainty personal and household ways, had quite done
away with it, and she says that she thinks they begin to like
her, and that she likes them much, for "kindness is a potent
heart-winner." She had stipulated that she should not be expected
to see many people. The recluse life she had led, was the cause
of a nervous shrinking from meeting any fresh face, which lasted
all her life long. Still, she longed to have an idea of the
personal appearance and manners of some of those whose writings
or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was accordingly
invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had been out for
the greater part of the morning, and, in consequence, missed the
luncheon hour at her friend's house. This brought on a severe and
depressing headache in one accustomed to the early, regular hours
of a Yorkshire Parsonage; besides, the excitement of meeting,
hearing, and sitting next a man to whom she looked up with such
admiration as she did to the author of "Vanity Fair," was of
itself overpowering to her frail nerves. She writes about this
dinner as follows:--

"Dec. 10th, 1849.

"As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of
excitement; but I suffer acute pain sometimes,--mental pain, I
mean. At the moment Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was
thoroughly faint from inanition, having eaten nothing since a
very slight breakfast, and it was then seven o'clock in the
evening. Excitement and exhaustion made savage work of me that
evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell."

She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of
meeting Mr. Thackeray, to decide whether he was speaking in jest
or in earnest, and that she had (she believed) completely
misunderstood an inquiry of his, made on the gentlemen's coming
into the drawing-room. He asked her "if she had perceived the
secret of their cigars;" to which she replied literally,
discovering in a minute afterwards, by the smile on several
faces, that he was alluding to a passage in "Jane Eyre". Her
hosts took pleasure in showing her the sights of London. On one
of the days which had been set apart for some of these pleasant
excursions, a severe review of "Shirley" was published in the
Times. She had heard that her book would be noticed by it, and
guessed that there was some particular reason for the care with
which her hosts mislaid it on that particular morning. She told
them that she was aware why she might not see the paper. Mrs.
Smith at once admitted that her conjecture was right, and said
that they had wished her to go to the day's engagement before
reading it. But she quietly persisted in her request to be
allowed to have the paper. Mrs. Smith took her work, and tried
not to observe the countenance, which the other tried to hide
between the large sheets; but she could not help becoming aware
of tears stealing down the face and dropping on the lap. The
first remark Miss Bronte made was to express her fear lest so
severe a notice should check the sale of the book, and
injuriously affect her publishers. Wounded as she was, her first
thought was for others. Later on (I think that very afternoon)
Mr. Thackeray called; she suspected (she said) that he came to
see how she bore the attack on "Shirley;" but she had recovered
her composure, and conversed very quietly with him: he only
learnt from the answer to his direct inquiry that she had read
the Times' article. She acquiesced in the recognition of herself
as the authoress of "Jane Eyre," because she perceived that there
were some advantages to be derived from dropping her pseudonym.
One result was an acquaintance with Miss Martineau. She had sent
her the novel just published, with a curious note, in which
Currer Bell offered a copy of "Shirley" to Miss Martineau, as an
acknowledgment of the gratification he had received from her
works. From "Deerbrook" he had derived a new and keen pleasure,
and experienced a genuine benefit. In HIS mind "Deerbrook," etc.

Miss Martineau, in acknowledging this note and the copy of
"Shirley," dated her letter from a friend's house in the
neighbourhood of Mr. Smith's residence; and when, a week or two
afterwards, Miss Bronte found how near she was to her
correspondent, she wrote, in the name of Currer Bell, to propose
a visit to her. Six o'clock, on a certain Sunday afternoon (Dec.
10th), was the time appointed. Miss Martineau's friends had
invited the unknown Currer Bell to their early tea; they were
ignorant whether the name was that of a man or a woman; and had
had various conjectures as to sex, age, and appearance. Miss
Martineau had, indeed, expressed her private opinion pretty
distinctly by beginning her reply, to the professedly masculine
note referred to above, with "Dear Madam;" but she had addressed
it to "Currer Bell, Esq." At every ring the eyes of the party
turned towards the door. Some stranger (a gentleman, I think)
came in; for an instant they fancied he was Currer Bell, and
indeed an Esq.; he stayed some time--went away. Another ring;
"Miss Bronte was announced; and in came a young-looking lady,
almost child-like in stature, in a deep mourning dress, neat as a
Quaker's, with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine eyes
blazing with meaning and her sensible face indicating a habit of
self-control." She came,--hesitated one moment at finding four or
five people assembled,--then went straight to Miss Martineau with
intuitive recognition, and, with the free-masonry of good feeling
and gentle breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated
round the tea-table; and, before she left, she told them, in a
simple, touching manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a
foundation was laid for her intimacy with Miss Martineau.

After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation that she
should not be specially introduced to any one, some gentlemen
were invited by Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner the evening
before she left town. Her natural place would have been at the
bottom of the table by her host; and the places of those who were
to be her neighbours were arranged accordingly; but, on entering
the dining-room, she quickly passed up so as to sit next to the
lady of the house, anxious to shelter herself near some one of
her own sex. This slight action arose out of the same womanly
seeking after protection on every occasion, when there was no
moral duty involved in asserting her independence, that made her
about this time write as follows: "Mrs. ---- watches me very
narrowly when surrounded by strangers. She never takes her eye
from me. I like the surveillance; it seems to keep guard over
me."

Respecting this particular dinner-party she thus wrote to the
Brussels schoolfellow of former days, whose friendship had been
renewed during her present visit to London:--

"The evening after I left you passed better than I expected.
Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup of coffee, I was
able to wait the eight o'clock dinner with complete resignation,
and to endure its length quite courageously, nor was I too much
exhausted to converse; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I
know my kind host and hostess would have been much disappointed.
There were only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but
of these five were critics--men more dreaded in the world of
letters than you can conceive. I did not know how much their
presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone, and
the reaction commenced. When I had retired for the night, I
wished to sleep--the effort to do so was vain. I could not close
my eyes. Night passed; morning came, and I rose without having
known a moment's slumber. So utterly worn out was I when I got to
Derby, that I was again obliged to stay there all night."

"Dec. 17th.

"Here I am at Haworth once more. I feel as if I had come out of
an exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and stimulus would have
seemed much to one accustomed to society and change, but to me
they were very marked. My strength and spirits too often proved
quite insufficient to the demand on their exertions. I used to
bear up as long as I possibly could, for, when I flagged, I could
see Mr. Smith became disturbed; he always thought that something
had been said or done to annoy me--which never once happened, for
I met with perfect good breeding even from antagonists--men who
had done their best or worst to write me down. I explained to him
over and over again, that my occasional silence was only failure
of the power to talk, never of the will. . . .

"Thackeray is a Titan of mind. His presence and powers impress
one deeply in an intellectual sense; I do not see him or know him
as a man. All the others are subordinate. I have esteem for some,
and, I trust, courtesy for all. I do not, of course, know what
they thought of me, but I believe most of them expected me to
come out in a more marked, eccentric, striking light. I believe
they desired more to admire and more to blame. I felt
sufficiently at my ease with all but Thackeray; with him I was
fearfully stupid."

She returned to her quiet home, and her noiseless daily duties.
Her father had quite enough of the spirit of hero-worship in him
to make him take a vivid pleasure in the accounts of what she had
heard and whom she had seen. It was on the occasion of one of her
visits to London that he had desired her to obtain a sight of
Prince Albert's armoury, if possible. I am not aware whether she
managed to do this; but she went to one or two of the great
national armouries in order that she might describe the stern
steel harness and glittering swords to her father, whose
imagination was forcibly struck by the idea of such things; and
often afterwards, when his spirits flagged and the languor of old
age for a time got the better of his indomitable nature, she
would again strike on the measure wild, and speak about the
armies of strange weapons she had seen in London, till he resumed
his interest in the old subject, and was his own keen, warlike,
intelligent self again.



CHAPTER V

Her life at Haworth was so unvaried that the postman's call was
the event of her day. Yet she dreaded the great temptation of
centring all her thoughts upon this one time, and losing her
interest in the smaller hopes and employments of the remaining
hours. Thus she conscientiously denied herself the pleasure of
writing letters too frequently, because the answers (when she
received them) took the flavour out of the rest of her life; or
the disappointment, when the replies did not arrive, lessened her
energy for her home duties.

The winter of this year in the north was hard and cold; it
affected Miss Bronte's health less than usual, however, probably
because the change and the medical advice she had taken in London
had done her good; probably, also, because her friend had come to
pay her a visit, and enforced that attention to bodily symptoms
which Miss Bronte was too apt to neglect, from a fear of becoming
nervous herself about her own state and thus infecting her
father. But she could scarcely help feeling much depressed in
spirits as the anniversary of her sister Emily's death came
round; all the recollections connected with it were painful, yet
there were no outward events to call off her attention, and
prevent them from pressing hard upon her. At this time, as at
many others, I find her alluding in her letters to the solace
which she found in the books sent her from Cornhill.

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