Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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




"What, I sometimes ask, could I do without them? I have recourse
to them as to friends; they shorten and cheer many an hour that
would be too long and too desolate otherwise; even when my tired
sight will not permit me to continue reading, it is pleasant to
see them on the shelf, or on the table. I am still very rich, for
my stock is far from exhausted. Some other friends have sent me
books lately. The perusal of Harriet Martineau's 'Eastern Life'
has afforded me great pleasure; and I have found a deep and
interesting subject of study in Newman's work on the Soul. Have
you read this work? It is daring,--it may be mistaken,--but it is
pure and elevated. Froude's 'Nemesis of Faith' I did not like; I
thought it morbid; yet in its pages, too, are found sprinklings
of truth."

By this time, "Airedale, Wharfedale, Calderdale, and Ribblesdale"
all knew the place of residence of Currer Bell. She compared
herself to the ostrich hiding its head in the sand; and says that
she still buries hers in the heath of Haworth moors; but "the
concealment is but self-delusion." Indeed it was. Far and wide in
the West Riding had spread the intelligence that Currer Bell was
no other than a daughter of the venerable clergyman of Haworth;
the village itself caught up the excitement.

"Mr. ----, having finished 'Jane Eyre,' is now crying out for the
'other book;' he is to have it next week. . . . Mr. R ---- has
finished 'Shirley;' he is delighted with it. John ----'s wife
seriously thought him gone wrong in the head, as she heard him
giving vent to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping and
stamping on the floor. He would read all the scenes about the
curates aloud to papa." . . . "Martha came in yesterday, puffing
and blowing, and much excited. 'I've heard sich news!' she began.
'What about?' 'Please, ma'am, you've been and written two books--
the grandest books that ever was seen. My father has heard it at
Halifax, and Mr. G---- T---- and Mr. G---- and Mr. M---- at
Bradford; and they are going to have a meeting at the Mechanics'
Institute, and to settle about ordering them.' 'Hold your tongue,
Martha, and be off.' I fell into a cold sweat. "Jane Eyre" will
be read by J---- B----, by Mrs. T----, and B----. Heaven help,
keep, and deliver me!" . . . "The Haworth people have been making
great fools of themselves about Shirley; they have taken it in an
enthusiastic light. When they got the volumes at the Mechanics'
Institute, all the members wanted them. They cast lots for the
whole three, and whoever got a volume was only allowed to keep it
two days, and was to be fined a shilling per diem for longer
detention. It would be mere nonsense and vanity to tell you what
they say."

The tone of these extracts is thoroughly consonant with the
spirit of Yorkshire and Lancashire people, who try as long as
they can to conceal their emotions of pleasure under a bantering
exterior, almost as if making fun of themselves. Miss Bronte was
extremely touched in the secret places of her warm heart by the
way in which those who had known her from her childhood were
proud and glad of her success. All round about the news had
spread; strangers came "from beyond Burnley" to see her, as she
went quietly and unconsciously into church and the sexton "gained
many a half-crown" for pointing her out.

But there were drawbacks to this hearty and kindly appreciation
which was so much more valuable than fame. The January number of
the Edinburgh Review had contained the article on Shirley, of
which her correspondent, Mr. Lewes, was the writer. I have said
that Miss Bronte was especially anxious to be criticised as a
writer, without relation to her sex as a woman. Whether right or
wrong, her feeling was strong on this point. Now in this review
of Shirley, the heading of the first two pages ran thus: "Mental
Equality of the Sexes?" "Female Literature," and through the
whole article the fact of the author's sex is never forgotten.

A few days after the review appeared, Mr. Lewes received the
following note,--rather in the style of Anne Countess of
Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery.

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"I can be on my guard against my enemies, but God deliver me from
my friends!

CURRER BELL."

In some explanatory notes on her letters to him, with which Mr.
Lewes has favoured me, he says:--

"Seeing that she was unreasonable because angry, I wrote to
remonstrate with her on quarrelling with the severity or
frankness of a review, which certainly was dictated by real
admiration and real friendship; even under its objections the
friend's voice could be heard."

The following letter is her reply:--

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Jan. 19th, 1850.

"My dear Sir,--I will tell you why I was so hurt by that review
in the Edinburgh; not because its criticism was keen or its blame
sometimes severe; not because its praise was stinted (for,
indeed, I think you give me quite as much praise as I deserve),
but because after I had said earnestly that I wished critics
would judge me as an AUTHOR, not as a woman, you so roughly--I
even thought so cruelly--handled the question of sex. I dare say
you meant no harm, and perhaps you will not now be able to
understand why I was so grieved at what you will probably deem
such a trifle; but grieved I was, and indignant too.

"There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong to write.

"However, I will not bear malice against you for it; I know what
your nature is: it is not a bad or unkind one, though you would
often jar terribly on some feelings with whose recoil and quiver
you could not possibly sympathise. I imagine you are both
enthusiastic and implacable, as you are at once sagacious and
careless; you know much and discover much, but you are in such a
hurry to tell it all you never give yourself time to think how
your reckless eloquence may affect others; and, what is more, if
you knew how it did affect them, you would not much care.

"However, I shake hands with you: you have excellent points; you
can be generous. I still feel angry, and think I do well to be
angry; but it is the anger one experiences for rough play rather
than for foul play.--I am yours, with a certain respect, and more
chagrin,

CURRER BELL."

As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I
thank him for having allowed me to publish what is so
characteristic of one phase of Miss Bronte's mind. Her health,
too, was suffering at this time. "I don't know what heaviness of
spirit has beset me of late" (she writes, in pathetic words,
wrung out of the sadness of her heart), "made my faculties dull,
made rest weariness, and occupation burdensome. Now and then, the
silence of the house, the solitude of the room, has pressed on me
with a weight I found it difficult to bear, and recollection has
not failed to be as alert, poignant, obtrusive, as other feelings
were languid. I attribute this state of things partly to the
weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high
winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance
in the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness, and deep, heavy
mental sadness, such as some would call
PRESENTIMENT,--presentiment indeed it is, but not at all
super-natural. . . . I cannot help feeling something of the
excitement of expectation till the post hour comes, and when, day
after day, it brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid,
disgraceful, unmeaning state of things. I feel bitterly vexed at
my own dependence and folly; but it is so bad for the mind to be
quite alone, and to have none with whom to talk over little
crosses and disappointments, and to laugh them away. If I could
write, I dare say I should be better, but I cannot write a line.
However (by God's help), I will contend against this folly.

"I had rather a foolish letter the other day from ----. Some
things in it nettled me, especially an unnecessarily earnest
assurance that, in spite of all I had done in the writing line, I
still retained a place in her esteem. My answer took strong and
high ground at once. I said I had been troubled by no doubts on
the subject; that I neither did her nor myself the injustice to
suppose there was anything in what I had written to incur. the
just forfeiture of esteem. . . .

"A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously
touched me. Papa put into my hands a little packet of letters and
papers,--telling me that they were mamma's, and that I might read
them. I did read them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe. The
papers were yellow with time, all having been written before I
was born it was strange now to peruse, for the first time, the
records of a mind whence my own sprang; and most strange, and at
once sad and sweet, to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and
elevated order. They were written to papa before they were
married. There is a rectitude, a refinement a constancy, a
modesty, a sense, a gentleness about them indescribable. I wished
that she had lived, and that I had known her. . . . All through
this month of February, I have had a crushing time of it. I could
not escape from or rise above certain most mournful
recollections,--the last days, the sufferings, the remembered
words--most sorrowful to me, of those who, Faith assures me, are
now happy. At evening and bed-time, such thoughts would haunt me,
bringing a weary heartache."

The reader may remember the strange prophetic vision, which
dictated a few words, written on the occasion of the death of a
pupil of hers in January, 1840:

"Wherever I seek for her now in this world, she cannot be found;
no more than a flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago.
A bereavement of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling
those must have, who have seen all drop round them--friend after
friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone."

Even in persons of naturally robust health, and with no

"Ricordarsi di tempo felice
Nella miseria--"

to wear, with slow dropping but perpetual pain, upon their
spirits, the nerves and appetite will give way in solitude. How
much more must it have been so with Miss Bronte, delicate and
frail in constitution, tried by much anxiety and sorrow in early
life, and now left to face her life alone. Owing to Mr. Bronte's
great age, and long-formed habits of solitary occupation when in
the house, his daughter was left to herself for the greater part
of the day. Ever since his serious attacks of illness, he had
dined alone; a portion of her dinner, regulated by strict
attention to the diet most suitable for him, being taken into his
room by herself. After dinner she read to him for an hour or so,
as his sight was too weak to allow of his reading long to
himself. He was out of doors among his parishioners for a good
part of each day; often for a longer time than his strength would
permit. Yet he always liked to go alone, and consequently her
affectionate care could be no check upon the length of his walks
to the more distant hamlets which were in his cure. He would come
back occasionally utterly fatigued; and be obliged to go to bed,
questioning himself sadly as to where all his former strength of
body had gone to. His strength of will was the same as ever. That
which he resolved to do he did, at whatever cost of weariness;
but his daughter was all the more anxious from seeing him so
regardless of himself and his health. The hours of retiring for
the night had always been early in the Parsonage; now family
prayers were at eight o'clock; directly after which Mr. Bronte
and old Tabby went to bed, and Martha was not long in following.
But Charlotte could not have slept if she had gone,--could not
have rested on her desolate couch. She stopped up,--it was very
tempting,--late and later, striving to beguile the lonely night
with some employment, till her weak eyes failed to read or to
sew, and could only weep in solitude over the dead that were not.
No one on earth can even imagine what those hours were to her.
All the grim superstitions of the North had been implanted in her
during her childhood by the servants, who believed in them. They
recurred to her now,--with no shrinking from the spirits of the
Dead, but with such an intense longing once more to stand face to
face with the souls of her sisters, as no one but she could have
felt. It seemed as if the very strength of her yearning should
have compelled them to appear. On windy nights, cries, and sobs,
and wailings seemed to go round the house, as of the
dearly-beloved striving to force their way to her. Some one
conversing with her once objected, in my presence, to that part
of "Jane Eyre" in which she hears Rochester's voice crying out to
her in a great crisis of her life, he being many, many miles
distant at the time. I do not know what incident was in Miss
Bronte's recollection when she replied, in a low voice, drawing
in her breath, "But it is a true thing; it really happened."

The reader, who has even faintly pictured to himself her life at
this time,--the solitary days,--the waking, watching nights,--may
imagine to what a sensitive pitch her nerves were strung, and how
such a state was sure to affect her health.

It was no bad thing for her that about this time various people
began to go over to Haworth, curious to see the scenery described
in "Shirley," if a sympathy with the writer, of a more generous
kind than to be called mere curiosity, did not make them wish to
know whether they could not in some way serve or cheer one who
had suffered so deeply.

Among this number were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. Their
house lies over the crest of the moors which rise above Haworth,
at about a dozen miles' distance as the crow flies, though much
further by the road. But, according to the acceptation of the
word in that uninhabited district, they were neighbours, if they
so willed it. Accordingly, Sir James and his wife drove over one
morning, at the beginning of March, to call upon Miss Bronte and
her father. Before taking leave, they pressed her to visit them
at Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East
Lancashire. After some hesitation, and at the urgency of her
father, who was extremely anxious to procure for her any change
of scene and society that was offered, she consented to go. On
the whole, she enjoyed her visit very much, in spite of her
shyness, and the difficulty she always experienced in meeting the
advances of those strangers whose kindness she did not feel
herself in a position to repay.

She took great pleasure in the "quiet drives to old ruins and old
halls, situated among older hills and woods; the dialogues by the
old fireside in the antique oak-panneled drawing-room, while they
suited him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me. The house,
too, is much to my taste; near three centuries old, grey,
stately, and picturesque. On the whole, now that the visit is
over, I do not regret having paid it. The worst of it is, that
there is now some menace hanging over my head of an invitation to
go to them in London during the season. This, which would be a
great enjoyment to some people, is a perfect terror to me. I
should highly prize the advantages to be gained in an extended
range of observation; but I tremble at the thought of the price I
must necessarily pay in mental distress and physical wear and
tear."

On the same day on which she wrote the above, she sent the
following letter to Mr. Smith.

"March 16th, 1850.

"I return Mr. H----'s note, after reading it carefully. I tried
very hard to understand all he says about art; but, to speak
truth, my efforts were crowned with incomplete success. There is
a certain jargon in use amongst critics on this point through
which it is physically and morally impossible to me to see
daylight. One thing however, I see plainly enough, and that is,
Mr. Currer Bell needs improvement, and ought to strive after it;
and this (D. V.) he honestly intends to do--taking his time,
however, and following as his guides Nature and Truth. If these
lead to what the critics call art, it is all very well; but if
not, that grand desideratum has no chance of being run after or
caught. The puzzle is, that while the people of the South object
to my delineation of Northern life and manners, the people of
Yorkshire and Lancashire approve. They say it is precisely the
contrast of rough nature with highly artificial cultivation which
forms one of their main characteristics. Such, or something very
similar, has been the observation made to me lately, whilst I
have been from home, by members of some of the ancient East
Lancashire families, whose mansions lie on the hilly border-land
between the two counties. The question arises, whether do the
London critics, or the old Northern squires, understand the
matter best?

"Any promise you require respecting the books shall be willingly
given, provided only I am allowed the Jesuit's principle of a
mental reservation, giving licence to forget and promise whenever
oblivion shall appear expedient. The last two or three numbers of
Pendennis will not, I dare say, be generally thought sufficiently
exciting, yet I like them. Though the story lingers, (for me) the
interest does not flag. Here and there we feel that the pen has
been guided by a tired hand, that the mind of the writer has been
somewhat chafed and depressed by his recent illness, or by some
other cause; but Thackeray still proves himself greater when he
is weary than other writers are when they are fresh. The public,
of course, will have no compassion for his fatigue, and make no
allowance for the ebb of inspiration; but some true-hearted
readers here and there, while grieving that such a man should be
obliged to write when he is not in the mood, will wonder that,
under such circumstances, he should write so well. The parcel of
books will come, I doubt not, at such time as it shall suit the
good pleasure of the railway officials to send it on,--or rather
to yield it up to the repeated and humble solicitations of
Haworth carriers;--till when I wait in all reasonable patience
and resignation, looking with docility to that model of active
self-helpfulness Punch friendly offers the 'Women of England,' in
his 'Unprotected Female.'"

The books lent her by her publishers were, as I have before said,
a great solace and pleasure to her. There was much interest in
opening the Cornhill parcel. But there was pain too; for, as she
untied the cords, and took out the volumes one by one, she could
scarcely fail to be reminded of those who once, on similar
occasions, looked on so eagerly. "I miss familiar voices,
commenting mirthfully and pleasantly; the room seems very still--
very empty; but yet there is consolation in remembering that Papa
will take pleasure in some of the books. Happiness quite unshared
can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste." She goes on
to make remarks upon the kind of books sent.

"I wonder how you can choose so well; on no account would I
forestall the choice. I am sure any selection I might make for
myself would be less satisfactory than the selection others so
kindly and judiciously make for me; besides, if I knew all that
was coming, it would be comparatively flat. I would much rather
not know.

"Amongst the especially welcome works are 'Southey's Life', the
'Women of France,' Hazlitt's 'Essays,' Emerson's 'Representative
Men;' but it seems invidious to particularise when all are good.
. . . I took up a second small book, Scott's 'Suggestions on
Female Education;' that, too, I read, and with unalloyed
pleasure. It is very good; justly thought, and clearly and
felicitously expressed. The girls of this generation have great
advantages; it seems to me that they receive much encouragement
in the acquisition of knowledge, and the cultivation of their
minds; in these days, women may be thoughtful and well read,
without being universally stigmatised as 'Blues' and 'Pedants.'
Men begin to approve and aid, instead of ridiculing or checking
them in their efforts to be wise. I must say that, for my own
part, whenever I have been so happy as to share the conversation
of a really intellectual man, my feeling has been, not that the
little I knew was accounted a superfluity and impertinence, but
that I did not know enough to satisfy just expectation. I have
always to explain, 'In me you must not look for great
attainments: what seems to you the result of reading and study is
chiefly spontaneous and intuitive.' . . . Against the teaching of
some (even clever) men, one instinctively revolts. They may
possess attainments, they may boast varied knowledge of life and
of the world; but if of the finer perceptions, of the more
delicate phases of feeling, they be destitute and incapable, of
what avail is the rest? Believe me, while hints well worth
consideration may come from unpretending sources, from minds not
highly cultured, but naturally fine and delicate, from hearts
kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned dictums delivered with
pomp and sound may be perfectly empty, stupid, and contemptible.
No man ever yet 'by aid of Greek climbed Parnassus,' or taught
others to climb it. . . . I enclose for your perusal a scrap of
paper which came into my hands without the knowledge of the
writer. He is a poor working man of this village--a thoughtful,
reading, feeling being, whose mind is too keen for his frame, and
wears it out. I have not spoken to him above thrice in my life,
for he is a Dissenter, and has rarely come in my way. The
document is a sort of record of his feelings, after the perusal
of "Jane Eyre;" it is artless and earnest; genuine and generous.
You must return it to me, for I value it more than testimonies
from higher sources. He said, 'Miss Bronte, if she knew he had
written it, would scorn him;' but, indeed, Miss Bronte does not
scorn him; she only grieves that a mind of which this is the
emanation, should be kept crushed by the leaden hand of
poverty--by the trials of uncertain health, and the claims of a
large family.

"As to the Times, as you say, the acrimony of its critique has
proved, in some measure, its own antidote; to have been more
effective, it should have been juster. I think it has had little
weight up here in the North it may be that annoying remarks, if
made, are not suffered to reach my ear; but certainly, while I
have heard little condemnatory of Shirley, more than once have I
been deeply moved by manifestations of even enthusiastic
approbation. I deem it unwise to dwell much on these matters; but
for once I must permit myself to remark, that the generous pride
many of the Yorkshire people have taken in the matter, has been
such as to awake and claim my gratitude--especially since it has
afforded a source of reviving pleasure to my father in his old
age. The very curates, poor fellows! show no resentment each
characteristically finds solace for his own wounds in crowing
over his brethren. Mr. Donne was at first a little disturbed; for
a week or two he was in disquietude, but he is now soothed down;
only yesterday I had the pleasure of making him a comfortable cup
of tea, and seeing him sip it with revived complacency. It is a
curious fact that, since he read 'Shirley,' he has come to the
house oftener than ever, and been remarkably meek and assiduous
to please. Some people's natures are veritable enigmas I quite
expected to have had one good scene at least with him; but as yet
nothing of the sort has occurred."



CHAPTER VI

During the earlier months of this spring, Haworth was extremely
unhealthy. The weather was damp, low fever was prevalent, and the
household at the Parsonage suffered along with its neighbours.
Charlotte says, "I have felt it (the fever) in frequent thirst
and infrequent appetite; Papa too, and even Martha, have
complained." This depression of health produced depression of
spirits, and she grew more and more to dread the proposed journey
to London with Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. "I know what
the effect and what the pain will be, how wretched I shall often
feel, and how thin and haggard I shall get; but he who shuns
suffering will never win victory. If I mean to improve, I must
strive and endure. . . . Sir James has been a physician, and
looks at me with a physician's eye: he saw at once that I could
not stand much fatigue, nor bear the presence of many strangers.
I believe he would partly understand how soon my stock of animal
spirits was brought to a low ebb; but none--not the most skilful
physician--can get at more than the outside of these things: the
heart knows its own bitterness, and the frame its own poverty,
and the mind its own struggles. Papa is eager and restless for me
to go; the idea of a refusal quite hurts him."

But the sensations of illness in the family increased; the
symptoms were probably aggravated, if not caused, by the
immediate vicinity of the church-yard, "paved with rain-blackened
tomb-stones." On April 29th she writes:--

"We have had but a poor week of it at Haworth. Papa continues far
from well; he is often very sickly in the morning, a symptom
which I have remarked before in his aggravated attacks of
bronchitis; unless he should get much better, I shall never think
of leaving him to go to London. Martha has suffered from
tic-douloureux, with sickness and fever, just like you. I have a
bad cold, and a stubborn sore throat; in short, everybody but old
Tabby is out of sorts. When ---- was here, he complained of a
sudden headache, and the night after he was gone I had something
similar, very bad, lasting about three hours."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.