CHAPTER X.
Early in March, 1841, Miss Brontë obtained
her second and last situation as a governess. This time she
esteemed herself fortunate in becoming a member of a kind-hearted
and friendly household. The master of it, she especially regarded
as a valuable friend, whose advice helped to guide her in one very
important step of her life. But as her definite acquirements were
few, she had to eke them out by employing her leisure time in
needle-work; and altogether her position was that of “bonne” or
nursery governess, liable to repeated and never-ending calls upon
her time. This description of uncertain, yet perpetual employment,
subject to the exercise of another person’s will at all hours of
the day, was peculiarly trying to one whose life at home had been
full of abundant leisure. Idle she never was in any place, but of
the multitude of small talks, plans, duties, pleasures, &c.,
that make up most people’s days, her home life was nearly
destitute. This made it possible for her to go through long and
deep histories of feeling and imagination, for which others, odd as
it sounds, have rarely time. This made it inevitable that—late on,
in her too short career—the intensity of her feelings should wear
out her physical health. The habit of “making out,” which had grown
with her growth, and strengthened with her strength, had become a
part of her nature. Yet all exercise of her strongest and most
characteristic faculties was now out of the question. She could not
(as while she was at Miss Wooler’s) feel amidst the occupations of
the day, that when evening came, she might employ herself in more
congenial ways. No doubt, all who enter upon the career of a
governess have to relinquish much; no doubt, it must ever be a life
of sacrifice; but to Charlotte Brontë it was a perpetual attempt to
force all her faculties into a direction for which the whole of her
previous life had unfitted them. Moreover the little Brontës had
been brought up motherless; and from knowing nothing of the gaiety
and the sportiveness of childhood—from never having experienced
caresses or fond attentions themselves—they were ignorant of the
very nature of infancy, or how to call out its engaging qualities.
Children were to them the troublesome necessities of humanity; they
had never been drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years
afterwards, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she watched our
little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her that they
were only average specimens of well brought up children. She was
surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of
kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part; and
constantly maintained that she was in the right, and I in the
wrong, when we differed on the point of their unusual excellence.
All this must be borne in mind while reading the following letters.
And it must likewise be borne in mind—by those who, surviving her,
look back upon her life from their mount of observation,—how no
distaste, no suffering ever made her shrink from any course which
she believed it to be her duty to engage in.
“March 3, 1841
“I told you some time since, that I meant to get a
situation, and when I said so my resolution was quite fixed. I felt
that however often I was disappointed, I had no intention of
relinquishing my efforts. After being severely baffled two or three
times,—after a world of trouble in the way of correspondence and
interviews,—I have at length succeeded, and am fairly established
in my new place.
“The house is not very large, but exceedingly
comfortable and well regulated; the grounds are fine and extensive.
In taking the place, I have made a large sacrifice in the way of
salary, in the hope of securing comfort,—by which word I do not
mean to express good eating and drinking, or warm fire, or a soft
bed, but the society of cheerful faces, and minds and hearts not
dug out of a lead-mine, or cut from a marble quarry. My salary is
not really more than 161. per annum, though it is nominally 201.,
but the expense of washing will be deducted therefrom. My pupils
are two in number, a girl of eight, and a boy of six. As to my
employers, you will not expect me to say much about their
characters when I tell you that I only arrived here yesterday. I
have not the faculty of telling an individual’s disposition at
first sight. Before I can venture to pronounce on a character, I
must see it first under various lights and from various points of
view. All I can say therefore is, both Mr. and Mrs.—1 seem to
me good sort of people. I have as yet had no cause to complain of
want of considerateness or civility. My pupils are wild and
unbroken, but apparently well-disposed. I wish I may be able to say
as much next time I write to you. My earnest wish and endeavour
will be to please them. If I can but feel that I am giving
satisfaction, and if at the same time I can keep my health, I
shall, I hope, be moderately happy. But no one but myself can tell
how hard a governess’s work is to me—for no one but myself is aware
how utterly averse my whole mind and nature are for the employment.
Do not think that I fail to blame myself for this, or that I leave
any means unemployed to conquer this feeling. Some of my greatest
difficulties lie in things that would appear to you comparatively
trivial. I find it so hard to repel the rude familiarity of
children. I find it so difficult to ask either servants or mistress
for anything I want, however much I want it. It is less pain for me
to endure the greatest inconvenience than to go into the kitchen to
request its removal. I am a fool. Heaven knows I cannot help
it!
“Now can you tell me whether it is considered
improper for governesses to ask their friends to come and see them,
I do not mean, of course, to stay, but just for a call of an hour
or two? If it is not absolute treason, I do fervently request that
you will contrive, in some way or other, to let me have a sight of
your face. Yet I feel, at the same time, that I am making a very
foolish and almost impracticable demand; yet this is only four
miles from B—!”
“March 21.
“You must excuse a very short answer to your most
welcome letter; for my time is entirely occupied. Mrs.—expected a
good deal of sewing from me. I cannot sew much during the day, on
account of the children, who require the utmost attention. I am
obliged, therefore, to devote the evenings to this business. Write
to me often; very long letters. It will do both of us good. This
place is far better than —, but, God knows, I have enough to do to
keep a good heart in the matter. What you said has cheered me a
little. I wish I could always act according to your advice.
Home-sickness affects me sorely. I like Mr.—extremely. The children
are over-indulged, and consequently hard at times to manage. Do,
do, do come and see me; if it be a breach of etiquette, never mind.
If you can only stop an hour, come. Talk no more about my forsaking
you; my darling, I could not afford to do it. I find it is not in
my nature to get on in this weary world without sympathy and
attachment in some quarter; and seldom indeed do we find it. It is
too great a treasure to be ever wantonly thrown away when once
secured.”
Miss Brontë had not been many weeks in her new
situation before she had a proof of the kind-hearted hospitality of
her employers. Mr.—wrote to her father and urgently invited him to
come and make acquaintance with his daughter’s new home, by
spending a week with her in it; and Mrs.—expressed great regret
when one of Miss Brontë’s friends drove up to the house to leave a
letter or parcel, without entering. So she found that all her
friends might freely visit her, and that her father would be
received with especial gladness. She thankfully acknowledged this
kindness in writing to urge her friend afresh to come and see her;
which she accordingly did.
“June, 1841.
“You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that
I cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in; but so it
is; and when a note is written, it has to be carried a mile to the
post, and that consumes nearly an hour, which is a large portion of
the day. Mr. and Mrs.—have been gone a week. I heard from them this
morning. No time is fixed for their return, but I hope it will not
be delayed long, or I shall miss the chance of seeing Anne this
vacation. She came home, I understand, last Wednesday, and is only
to be allowed three weeks’ vacation, because the family she is with
are going to Scarborough. I should like to see her, to judge for
myself of the state of her health. I dare not trust any other
person’s report, no one seems minute enough in their observations.
I should very much have liked you to have seen her. I have got on
very well with the servants and children so far; yet it is dreary,
solitary work. You can tell as well as me the lonely feeling of
being without a companion.”
Soon after this was written, Mr. and Mrs.—returned,
in time to allow Charlotte to go and look after Anne’s health,
which, as she found to her intense anxiety, was far from strong.
What could she do, to nurse and cherish up this little sister, the
youngest of them all? Apprehension about her brought up once more
the idea of keeping a school. If, by this means, they three could
live together, and maintain themselves, all might go well. They
would have some time of their own, in which to try again and yet
again at that literary career, which, in spite of all baffling
difficulties, was never quite set aside as an ultimate object; but
far the strongest motive with Charlotte was the conviction that
Anne’s health was so delicate that it required a degree of tending
which none but her sister could give. Thus she wrote during those
midsummer holidays.
“Haworth, July 19th, 1841.
“We waited long and anxiously for you, on the
Thursday that you promised to come. I quite wearied my eyes with
watching from the window, eye-glass in hand, and sometimes
spectacles on nose. However, you are not to blame; ... and as to
disappointment, why, all must suffer disappointment at some period
or other of their lives. But a hundred things I had to say to you
will now be forgotten, and never said. There is a project hatching
in this house, which both Emily and I anxiously wished to discuss
with you. The project is yet in its infancy, hardly peeping from
its shell; and whether it will ever come out a fine full-fledged
chicken, or will turn addle, and die before it cheeps, is one of
those considerations that are but dimly revealed by the oracles of
futurity. Now, don’t be nonplussed by all this metaphorical
mystery. I talk of a plain and every-day occurrence, though, in
Delphic style, I wrap up the information in figures of speech
concerning eggs, chickens, etcætera, etcæterorum. To come to the
point: papa and aunt talk, by fits and starts, of our—id est,
Emily, Anne, and myself—commencing a school! I have often, you
know, said how much I wished such a thing; but I never could
conceive where the capital was to come from for making such a
speculation. I was well aware, indeed, that aunt had money, but I
always considered that she was the last person who would offer a
loan for the purpose in question. A loan, however, she has offered,
or rather intimates that she perhaps will offer, in case pupils can
be secured, an eligible situation obtained, &c. This sounds
very fair, but still there are matters to be considered which throw
something of a damp upon the scheme. I do not expect that aunt will
sink more than 1501. in such a venture; and would it be possible to
establish a respectable (not by any means a showy) school, and to
commence housekeeping, with a capital of only that amount? Propound
the question to your sister, if you think she can answer it; if
not, don’t say a word on the subject. As to getting into debt, that
is a thing we could none of us reconcile our minds to for a moment.
We do not care how modest, how humble our commencement be, so it be
made on sure grounds, and have a safe foundation. In thinking of
all possible and impossible places where we could establish a
school, I have thought of Burlington, or rather of the
neighbourhood of Burlington. Do you remember whether there was any
other school there besides that of Miss—? This is, of course, a
perfectly crude and random idea. There are a hundred reasons why it
should be an impracticable one. We have no connections, no
acquaintances there; it is far from home, &c. Still, I fancy
the ground in the East Riding is less fully occupied than in the
West. Much inquiry and consideration will be necessary, of course,
before any place is decided on; and I fear much time will elapse
before any plan is executed...... Write as soon as you can. I shall
not leave my present situation till my future prospects assume a
more fixed and definite aspect.”
A fortnight afterwards, we see that the seed has
been sown which was to grow up into a plan materially influencing
her future life.
“August 7th, 1841.
“This is Saturday evening; I have put the children
to bed; now I am going to sit down and answer your letter. I am
again by myself—house—keeper and governess—for Mr. and Mrs.—are
staying at—. To speak truth, though I am solitary while they are
away, it is still by far the happiest part of my time. The children
are under decent control, the servants are very observant and
attentive to me, and the occasional absence of the master and
mistress relieves me from the duty of always endeavouring to seem
cheerful and conversable. Martha—,m it
appears, is in the way of enjoying great advantages; so is Mary,
for you will be surprised to hear that she is returning immediately
to the Continent with her brother; not, however, to stay there, but
to take a month’s tour and recreation. I have had a long letter
from Mary, and a packet containing a present of a very handsome
black silk scarf, and a pair of beautiful kid gloves, bought at
Brussels. Of course, I was in one sense pleased with the
gift—pleased that they should think of me so far off, amidst the
excitements of one of the most splendid capitals of Europe; and yet
it felt irksome to accept it. I should think Mary and Martha have
not more than sufficient pocket-money to supply themselves. I wish
they had testified their regard by a less expensive token. Mary’s
letters spoke of some of the pictures and cathedrals she had
seen—pictures the most exquisite, cathedrals the most venerable. I
hardly know what swelled to my throat as I read her letter: such a
vehement impatience of restraint and steady work; such a strong
wish for wings—wings such as wealth can furnish; such an urgent
thirst to see, to know, to learn; something internal seemed to
expand bodily for a minute. I was tantalised by the consciousness
of faculties unexercised,—then all collapsed, and I despaired. My
dear, I would hardly make that confession to any one but yourself;
and to you, rather in a letter than vivâ voce. These rebellious and
absurd emotions were only momentary; I quelled them in five
minutes. I hope they will not revive, for they were acutely
painful. No further steps have been taken about the project I
mentioned to you, nor probably will be for the present; but Emily,
and Anne, and I, keep it in view. It is our polar star, and we look
to it in all circumstances of despondency. I begin to suspect I am
writing in a strain which will make you think I am unhappy. This is
far from being the case; on the contrary, I know my place is a
favourable one, for a governess. What dismays and haunts me
sometimes, is a conviction that I have no natural knack for my
vocation. If teaching only were requisite, it would be smooth and
easy; but it is the living in other people’s houses—the
estrangement from one’s real character—the adoption of a cold,
rigid, apathetic exterior, that is painful.... You will not mention
our school project at present. A project not actually commenced is
always uncertain. Write to me often, my dear Nell; you know your
letters are valued. Your ‘loving child’ (as you choose to call me
so).
“C. B.”
“P. S. I am well in health; don’t fancy I am not;
but I have one aching feeling at my heart (I must allude to it,
though I had resolved not to). It is about Anne; she has so much to
endure: far, far more than I ever had. When my thoughts turn to
her, they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger. I know
what concealed susceptibility is in her nature, when her feelings
are wounded. I wish I could be with her, to administer a little
balm. She is more lonely—less gifted with the power of making
friends, even than I am. ‘Drop the subject.’ ”
She could bear much for herself; but she could not
patiently bear the sorrows of others, especially of her sisters;
and again, of the two sisters, the idea of the little, gentle
youngest suffering in lonely patience, was insupportable to her.
Something must be done. No matter if the desired end were far away;
all time was lost in which she was not making progress, however
slow, towards it. To have a school, was to have some portion of
daily leisure, uncontrolled but by her own sense of duty; it was
for the three sisters, loving each other with so passionate an
affection, to be together under one roof, and yet earning their own
subsistence; above all, it was to have the power of watching over
those two whose life and happiness were ever to Charlotte far more
than her own. But no trembling impatience should lead her to take
an unwise step in haste. She inquired in every direction she could,
as to the chances which a new school might have of success. But in
all there seemed more establishments like the one which the sisters
wished to set up than could be supported. What was to be done?
Superior advantages must be offered. But how? They themselves
abounded in thought, power, and information; but these are
qualifications scarcely fit to be inserted in a prospectus. Of
French they knew something; enough to read it fluently, but hardly
enough to teach it in competition with natives, or professional
masters. Emily and Anne had some knowledge of music; but here again
it was doubtful whether, without more instruction, they could
engage to give lessons in it.
Just about this time, Miss Wooler was thinking of
relinquishing her school at Dewsbury Moor; and offered to give it
up in favour of her old pupils, the Brontës. A sister of hers had
taken the active management since the time when Charlotte was a
teacher; but the number of pupils had diminished; and, if the
Brontës undertook it, they would have to try and work it up to its
former state of prosperity. This, again, would require advantages
on their part which they did not at present possess, but which
Charlotte caught a glimpse of. She resolved to follow the clue, and
never to rest till she had reached a successful issue. With the
forced calm of a suppressed eagerness, that sends a glow of desire
through every word of the following letter, she wrote to her aunt
thus.
“Sept. 29th, 1841.
“DEAR AUNT,
“I have heard nothing of Miss Wooler yet since I
wrote to her, intimating that I would accept her offer. I cannot
conjecture the reason of this long silence, unless some unforeseen
impediment has occurred in concluding the bargain. Meantime, a plan
has been suggested and approved by Mr. and Mrs.—” (the father and
mother of her pupils), “and others, which I wish now to impart to
you. My friends recommend me, if I desire to secure permanent
success, to delay commencing the school for six months longer, and
by all means to contrive, by hook or by crook, to spend the
intervening time in some school on the continent. They say schools
in England are so numerous, competition so great, that without some
such step towards attaining superiority, we shall probably have a
very hard struggle, and may fail in the end. They say, moreover,
that the loan of 1001., which you have been so kind as to offer us,
will, perhaps, not be all required now, as Miss Wooler will lend us
the furniture; and that, if the speculation is intended to be a
good and successful one, half the sum, at least, ought to be laid
out in the manner I have mentioned, thereby insuring a more speedy
repayment both of interest and principal.
“I would not go to France or to Paris. I would go
to Brussels, in Belgium. The cost of the journey there, at the
dearest rate of travelling, would be 51.; living is there little
more than half as dear as it is in England, and the facilities for
education are equal or superior to any other place in Europe. In
half a year, I could acquire a thorough familiarity with French. I
could improve greatly in Italian, and even get a dash of German; i.
e., providing my health continued as good as it is now. Mary is now
staying at Brussels, at a first rate establishment there. I should
not think of going to the Château de Kokleberg,n
where she is resident, as the terms are much too high; but if I
wrote to her, she, with the assistance of Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of
the British Chaplain, would be able to secure me a cheap decent
residence and respectable protection. I should have the opportunity
of seeing her frequently; she would make me acquainted with the
city; and, with the assistance of her cousins, I should probably be
introduced to connections far more improving, polished, and
cultivated, than I have yet known.
“These are advantages which would turn to real
account, when we actually commenced a school; and, if Emily could
share them with me, we could take a footing in the world afterwards
which we can never do now. I say Emily instead of Anne; for Anne
might take her turn at some future period, if our school answered.
I feel certain, while I am writing, that you will see the propriety
of what I say. You always like to use your money to the best
advantage. You are not fond of making shabby purchases; when you do
confer a favour, it is often done in style; and, depend upon it,
501., or 1001., thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course, I
know no other friend in the world to whom I could apply, on this
subject, except yourself. I feel an absolute conviction that, if
this advantage were allowed us, it would be the making of us for
life. Papa will, perhaps, think it a wild and ambitious scheme; but
who ever rose in the world without ambition? When he left Ireland
to go to Cambridge University, he was as ambitious as I am now. I
want us all to get on. I know we have talents, and I want them to
be turned to account. I look to you, aunt, to help us. I think you
will not refuse. I know, if you consent, it shall not be my fault
if you ever repent your kindness.”
This letter was written from the house in which she
was residing as governess. It was some little time before an answer
came. Much had to be talked over between the father and aunt in
Haworth Parsonage. At last consent was given. Then, and not till
then, she confided her plan to an intimate friend. She was not one
to talk over-much about any project, while it remained uncertain—to
speak about her labour, in any direction, while its result was
doubtful.
“Nov. 2, 1841.
“Now let us begin to quarrel. In the first place I
must consider whether I will commence operations on the defensive,
or the offensive. The defensive, I think. You say, and I see
plainly, that your feelings have been hurt by an apparent want of
confidence on my part. You heard from others of Miss Wooler’s
overtures before I communicated them to you myself. This is true. I
was deliberating on plans important to my future prospects. I never
exchanged a letter with you on the subject. True again. This
appears strange conduct to a friend, near and dear, long known, and
never found wanting. Most true. I cannot give you my excuses for
this behaviour; this word excuse implies confession of a fault, and
I do not feel that I have been in fault. The plain fact is, I was
not, I am not now, certain of my destiny. On the contrary, I have
been most uncertain, perplexed with contradictory schemes and
proposals. My time, as I have often told you, is fully occupied;
yet I had many letters to write, which it was absolutely necessary
should be written. I knew it would avail nothing to write to you
then to say I was in doubt and uncertainty—hoping this, fearing
that, anxious, eagerly desirous to do what seemed impossible to be
done. When I thought of you in that busy interval, it was to
resolve, that you should know all when my way was clear, and my
grand end attained. If I could, I would always work in silence and
obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results. Miss W.
did most kindly propose that I should come to Dewsbury Moor, and
attempt to revive the school her sister had relinquished. She
offered me the use of her furniture, for the consideration of her
board. At first, I received the proposal cordially, and prepared to
do my utmost to bring about success; but a fire was kindled in my
very heart, which I could not quench. I so longed to increase my
attainments—to become something better than I am; a glimpse of what
I felt, I showed to you in one of my former letters—only a glimpse;
Mary cast oil upon the flames—encouraged me, and in her own strong,
energetic language, heartened me on. I longed to go to Brussels;
but how could I get? I wished for one, at least, of my sisters to
share the advantage with me. I fixed on Emily. She deserved the
reward, I knew. How could the point be managed? In extreme
excitement, I wrote a letter home, which carried the day. I made an
appeal to aunt for assistance, which was answered by consent.
Things are not settled; yet it is sufficient to say we have a
chance of going for half a year. Dewsbury Moor is relinquished.
Perhaps, fortunately so, for it is an obscure, dreary place, not
adapted for a school. In my secret soul, I believe there is no
cause to regret it. My plans for the future are bounded to this
intention: if I once get to Brussels, and if my health is spared, I
will do my best to make the utmost of every advantage that shall
come within my reach. When the half-year is expired, I will do what
I can.
“Believe me, though I was born in April, the month
of cloud and sunshine, I am not changeful. My spirits are unequal,
and sometimes I speak vehemently, and sometimes I say nothing at
all; but I have a steady regard for you, and if you will let the
cloud and shower pass by, be sure the sun is always behind,
obscured, but still existing.”
At Christmas she left her situation, after a
parting with her employers, which seems to have affected and
touched her greatly. “They only made too much of me,” was her
remark, after leaving this family; “I did not deserve it.”
All four children hoped to meet together at their
father’s house this December. Branwell expected to have a short
leave of absence from his employment as a clerk on the Leeds and
Manchester Railway, in which he had been engaged for five months.
Anne arrived before Christmas-day. She had rendered herself so
valuable in her difficult situation, that her employers vehemently
urged her return, although she had announced her resolution to
leave them; partly on account of the harsh treatment she had
received, and partly because her stay at home, during her sisters’
absence in Belgium, seemed desirable, when the age of the three
remaining inhabitants of the parsonage was taken into
consideration.
After some correspondence and much talking over
plans at home, it seemed better, in consequence of letters which
they received from Brussels giving a discouraging account of the
schools there, that Charlotte and Emily should go to an institution
at Lille, in the north of France, which was highly recommended by
Baptist Noel, and other clergymen. Indeed, at the end of January,
it was arranged that they were to set off for this place in three
weeks, under the escort of a French lady, then visiting in London.
The terms were £50 each pupil, for board and French alone, but a
separate room was to be allowed for this sum; without this
indulgence, it was lower. Charlotte writes:—
“January 20th, 1842.
“I considered it kind in aunt to consent to an
extra sum for a separate room. We shall find it a great privilege
in many ways. I regret the change from Brussels to Lille on many
accounts, chiefly that I shall not see Martha. Mary has been
indefatigably kind in providing me with information. She has
grudged no labour, and scarcely any expense to that end. Mary’s
price is above rubies. I have, in fact, two friends—you and
her—staunch and true, in whose faith and sincerity I have as strong
a belief as I have in the Bible. I have bothered you both—you
especially; but you always get the tongs and heap coals of fire
upon my head. I have had letters to write lately to Brussels, to
Lille, and to London. I have lots of chemises, night-gowns,
pocket-handkerchiefs, and pockets to make; besides clothes to
repair. I have been, every week since I came home, expecting to see
Branwell, and he has never been able to get over yet. We fully
expect him, however, next Saturday. Under these circumstances how
can I go visiting? You tantalize me to death with talking of
conversations by the fireside. Depend upon it, we are not to have
any such for many a long month to come. I get an interesting
impression of old age upon my face; and when you see me next I
shall certainly wear caps and spectacles.”