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 Brontë’s school-days 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
Brontë 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”1
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.ar The
whole family of the Yorkesas were,
I have been assured, almost daguerreotypes. ‡ Indeed,
Miss Brontë 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 Brontë 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 Brontë would have been,
had she been placed in health and prosperity.
Miss Brontë 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 certainly 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 a 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
can not 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.at 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. Hall2 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 book—a novel—as he would his dog,
Prince. Margaret Hallau
called ‘Jane Eyre’ a ‘wicked book,’ on the authority of the
‘uarterly;’ 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 newstrung
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,
“CHARLOTTE BRONTË.”
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 Brontë 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 Brontë 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 Brontë 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. 1 st, 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 feminity; 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 Brontë, 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.3
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 Brontë. 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 Brontë 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:—4
“I was indeed very much interested in the books you
sent. ‘Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe,’ ‘Guesses at 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 works for me yet;
my stock is still far from exhausted.
“I accept your offer respecting the
‘Athenæum;’av 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 setting. 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:5 the one
is in the ‘xaminer,’ 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.aw
Comparatively few reviewers, even in their praise, evince a just
comprehension of the author’s meaning. Eugene Forsarde, 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, &c., 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 dressmaker
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,”ax 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 heartwinner.” 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.”ay 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 Brontë 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.6
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,”
&c.
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 Brontë 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),az 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 Brontë” was announced; and in
came a young-looking lady, almost child-like in stature,7 “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.—ba
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 schoolfellowbb 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.