Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (457 page)

But they all thought there could be no doubt about Branwell’s talent for drawing.  I have seen an oil painting of his, done I know not when, but probably about this time.  It was a group of his sisters, life-size, three-quarters’ length; not much better than sign-painting, as to manipulation; but the likenesses were, I should think, admirable.  I could only judge of the fidelity with which the other two were depicted, from the striking resemblance which Charlotte, upholding the great frame of canvas, and consequently standing right behind it, bore to her own representation, though it must have been ten years and more since the portraits were taken.  The picture was divided, almost in the middle, by a great pillar.  On the side of the column which was lighted by the sun, stood Charlotte, in the womanly dress of that day of gigot sleeves and large collars.  On the deeply shadowed side, was Emily, with Anne’s gentle face resting on her shoulder. Emily’s countenance struck me as full of power; Charlotte’s of solicitude; Anne’s of tenderness.  The two younger seemed hardly to have attained their full growth, though Emily was taller than Charlotte; they had cropped hair, and a more girlish dress.  I remember looking on those two sad, earnest, shadowed faces, and wondering whether I could trace the mysterious expression which is said to foretell an early death.  I had some fond superstitious hope that the column divided their fates from hers, who stood apart in the canvas, as in life she survived.  I liked to see that the bright side of the pillar was towards
her
— that the light in the picture fell on
her
: I might more truly have sought in her presentment — nay, in her living face — for the sign of death — in her prime.  They were good likenesses, however badly executed. From thence I should guess his family augured truly that, if Branwell had but the opportunity, and, alas! had but the moral qualities, he might turn out a great painter.

The best way of preparing him to become so appeared to be to send him as a pupil to the Royal Academy.  I dare say he longed and yearned to follow this path, principally because it would lead him to that mysterious London — that Babylon the great — which seems to have filled the imaginations and haunted the minds of all the younger members of this recluse family.  To Branwell it was more than a vivid imagination, it was an impressed reality.  By dint of studying maps, he was as well acquainted with it, even down to its by-ways, as if he had lived there.  Poor misguided fellow! this craving to see and know London, and that stronger craving after fame, were never to be satisfied.  He was to die at the end of a short and blighted life.  But in this year of 1835, all his home kindred were thinking how they could best forward his views, and how help him up to the pinnacle where he desired to be.  What their plans were, let Charlotte explain.  These are not the first sisters who have laid their lives as a sacrifice before their brother’s idolized wish.  Would to God they might be the last who met with such a miserable return!

“Haworth, July 6th, 1835.

“I had hoped to have had the extreme pleasure of seeing you at Haworth this summer, but human affairs are mutable, and human resolutions must bend to the course of events.  We are all about to divide, break up, separate.  Emily is going to school, Branwell is going to London, and I am going to be a governess.  This last determination I formed myself, knowing that I should have to take the step sometime, ‘and better sune as syne,’ to use the Scotch proverb; and knowing well that papa would have enough to do with his limited income, should Branwell be placed at the Royal Academy, and Emily at Roe Head.  Where am I going to reside? you will ask.  Within four miles of you, at a place neither of us is unacquainted with, being no other than the identical Roe Head mentioned above.  Yes!  I am going to teach in the very school where I was myself taught.  Miss W — - made me the offer, and I preferred it to one or two proposals of private governess-ship, which I had before received.  I am sad — very sad — at the thoughts of leaving home; but duty — necessity — these are stern mistresses, who will not be disobeyed.  Did I not once say you ought to be thankful for your independence?  I felt what I said at the time, and I repeat it now with double earnestness; if anything would cheer me, it is the idea of being so near you.  Surely, you and Polly will come and see me; it would be wrong in me to doubt it; you were never unkind yet.  Emily and I leave home on the 27th of this month; the idea of being together consoles us both somewhat, and, truth, since I must enter a situation, ‘My lines have fallen in pleasant places.’  I both love and respect Miss W-.”

CHAPTER VIII

On the 29th of July, 1835, Charlotte, now a little more than nineteen years old, went as teacher to Miss W — -’s. Emily accompanied her as a pupil; but she became literally ill from home-sickness, and could not settle to anything, and after passing only three months at Roe Head, returned to the parsonage and the beloved moors.

Miss Brontë gives the following reasons as those which prevented Emily’s remaining at school, and caused the substitution of her younger sister in her place at Miss W — -’s: —

“My sister Emily loved the moors.  Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; — out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side, her mind could make an Eden.  She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best-loved was — liberty.  Liberty was the breath of Emily’s nostrils; without it she perished.  The change from her own home to a school, and from her own very noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted and unartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the kindest auspices), was what she failed in enduring.  Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude.  Every morning, when she woke, the vision of home and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the day that lay before her.  Nobody knew what ailed her but me.  I knew only too well.  In this struggle her health was quickly broken: her white face, attenuated form, and failing strength, threatened rapid decline.  I felt in my heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall.  She had only been three months at school; and it was some years before the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on.”

This physical suffering on Emily’s part when absent from Haworth, after recurring several times under similar circumstances, became at length so much an acknowledged fact, that whichever was obliged to leave home, the sisters decided that Emily must remain there, where alone she could enjoy anything like good health.  She left it twice again in her life; once going as teacher to a school in Halifax for six months, and afterwards accompanying Charlotte to Brussels for ten.  When at home, she took the principal part of the cooking upon herself, and did all the household ironing; and after Tabby grew old and infirm, it was Emily who made all the bread for the family; and any one passing by the kitchen-door, might have seen her studying German out of an open book, propped up before her, as she kneaded the dough; but no study, however interesting, interfered with the goodness of the bread, which was always light and excellent.  Books were, indeed, a very common sight in that kitchen; the girls were taught by their father theoretically, and by their aunt, practically, that to take an active part in all household work was, in their position, woman’s simple duty; but in their careful employment of time, they found many an odd five minutes for reading while watching the cakes, and managed the union of two kinds of employment better than King Alfred.

Charlotte’s life at Miss W — -’s was a very happy one, until her health failed.  She sincerely loved and respected the former schoolmistress, to whom she was now become both companion and friend.  The girls were hardly strangers to her, some of them being younger sisters of those who had been her own playmates.  Though the duties of the day might be tedious and monotonous, there were always two or three happy hours to look forward to in the evening, when she and Miss W — - sat together — sometimes late into the night — and had quiet pleasant conversations, or pauses of silence as agreeable, because each felt that as soon as a thought or remark occurred which they wished to express, there was an intelligent companion ready to sympathise, and yet they were not compelled to “make talk.”

Miss W — - was always anxious to afford Miss Brontë every opportunity of recreation in her power; but the difficulty often was to persuade her to avail herself of the invitations which came, urging her to spend Saturday and Sunday with “E.” and “Mary,” in their respective homes, that lay within the distance of a walk.  She was too apt to consider, that allowing herself a holiday was a dereliction of duty, and to refuse herself the necessary change, from something of an over-ascetic spirit, betokening a loss of healthy balance in either body or mind.  Indeed, it is clear that such was the case, from a passage, referring to this time, in the letter of “Mary” from which I have before given extracts.

“Three years after — ” (the period when they were at school together) — “I heard that she had gone as teacher to Miss W — -’s.  I went to see her, and asked how she could give so much for so little money, when she could live without it.  She owned that, after clothing herself and Anne, there was nothing left, though she had hoped to be able to save something.  She confessed it was not brilliant, but what could she do?  I had nothing to answer.  She seemed to have no interest or pleasure beyond the feeling of duty, and, when she could get, used to sit alone, and ‘make out.’  She told me afterwards, that one evening she had sat in the dressing-room until it was quite dark, and then observing it all at once, had taken sudden fright.”  No doubt she remembered this well when she described a similar terror getting hold upon Jane Eyre.  She says in the story, “I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls — occasionally turning a fascinated eye towards the gleaming mirror — I began to recall what I had heard of dead men troubled in their graves . . . I endeavoured to be firm; shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly through the dark room; at this moment, a ray from the moon penetrated some aperture in the blind.  No! moon light was still, and this stirred . . . prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift-darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world.  My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears which I deemed the rustling of wings; something seemed near me.”

“From that time,” Mary adds, “her imaginations became gloomy or frightful; she could not help it, nor help thinking.  She could not forget the gloom, could not sleep at night, nor attend in the day.

“She told me that one night, sitting alone, about this time, she heard a voice repeat these lines:

“‘Come thou high and holy feeling,
Shine o’er mountain, flit o’er wave,
Gleam like light o’er dome and shielding.’

“There were eight or ten more lines which I forget.  She insisted that she had not made them, that she had heard a voice repeat them.  It is possible that she had read them, and unconsciously recalled them.  They are not in the volume of poems which the sisters published.  She repeated a verse of Isaiah, which she said had inspired them, and which I have forgotten.  Whether the lines were recollected or invented, the tale proves such habits of sedentary, monotonous solitude of thought as would have shaken a feebler mind.”

Of course, the state of health thus described came on gradually, and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 1836.  Yet even then there is a despondency in some of her expressions, that too sadly reminds one of some of Cowper’s letters.  And it is remarkable how deeply his poems impressed her.  His words, his verses, came more frequently to her memory, I imagine, than those of any other poet.

“Mary” says: “Cowper’s poem, ‘The Castaway,’ was known to them all, and they all at times appreciated, or almost appropriated it.  Charlotte told me once that Branwell had done so; and though his depression was the result of his faults, it was in no other respect different from hers.  Both were not mental but physical illnesses.  She was well aware of this, and would ask how that mended matters, as the feeling was there all the same, and was not removed by knowing the cause.  She had a larger religious toleration than a person would have who had never questioned, and the manner of recommending religion was always that of offering comfort, not fiercely enforcing a duty.  One time I mentioned that some one had asked me what religion I was of (with the view of getting me for a partizan), and that I had said that that was between God and me; — Emily (who was lying on the hearth-rug) exclaimed, ‘That’s right.’  This was all I ever heard Emily say on religious subjects.  Charlotte was free from religious depression when in tolerable health; when that failed, her depression returned.  You have probably seen such instances.  They don’t get over their difficulties; they forget them, when their stomach (or whatever organ it is that inflicts such misery on sedentary people) will let them.  I have heard her condemn Socinianism, Calvinism, and many other ‘isms’ inconsistent with Church of Englandism.  I used to wonder at her acquaintance with such subjects.”

“May 10th, 1836.

“I was struck with the note you sent me with the umbrella; it showed a degree of interest in my concerns which I have no right to expect from any earthly creature.  I won’t play the hypocrite; I won’t answer your kind, gentle, friendly questions in the way you wish me to.  Don’t deceive yourself by imagining I have a bit of real goodness about me.  My darling, if I were like you, I should have my face Zion-ward, though prejudice and error might occasionally fling a mist over the glorious vision before me — but I
am not like you
.  If you knew my thoughts, the dreams that absorb me, and the fiery imagination that at times eats me up, and makes me feel society, as it is, wretchedly insipid, you would pity and I dare say despise me.  But I know the treasures of the
Bible
; I love and adore them.  I can
see
the Well of Life in all its clearness and brightness; but when I stoop down to drink of the pure waters they fly from my lips as if I were Tantalus.

“You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations.  You puzzle me.  I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still more embarrassing to accept.  At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the very thickest melée of the Repetitions.  I was hearing the terrible fifth section when your note arrived.  But Miss Wooler says I must go to Mary next Friday, as she promised for me on Whit-Sunday; and on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, and stay till Monday.  There’s a free and easy proposal!  Miss W — - has driven me to it.  She says her character is implicated.”

Good, kind Miss W — -! however monotonous and trying were the duties Charlotte had to perform under her roof, there was always a genial and thoughtful friend watching over her, and urging her to partake of any little piece of innocent recreation that might come in her way.  And in those Midsummer holidays of 1836, her friend E. came to stay with her at Haworth, so there was one happy time secured.

Here follows a series of letters, not dated, but belonging to the latter portion of this year; and again we think of the gentle and melancholy Cowper.

“My dear dear E.,

“I am at this moment trembling all over with excitement, after reading your note; it is what I never received before — it is the unrestrained pouring out of a warm, gentle, generous heart . . . I thank you with energy for this kindness.  I will no longer shrink from answering your questions.  I
do
wish to be better than I am.  I pray fervently sometimes to be made so.  I have stings of conscience, visitings of remorse, glimpses of holy, of inexpressible things, which formerly I used to be a stranger to; it may all die away, and I may be in utter midnight, but I implore a merciful Redeemer, that, if this be the dawn of the gospel, it may still brighten to perfect day.  Do not mistake me — do not think I am good; I only wish to be so.  I only hate my former flippancy and forwardness.  Oh! I am no better than ever I was.  I am in that state of horrid, gloomy uncertainty that, at this moment, I would submit to be old, grey-haired, to have passed all my youthful days of enjoyment, and to be settling on the verge of the grave, if I could only thereby ensure the prospect of reconciliation to God, and redemption through his Son’s merits.  I never was exactly careless of these matters, but I have always taken a clouded and repulsive view of them; and now, if possible, the clouds are gathering darker, and a more oppressive despondency weighs on my spirits.  You have cheered me, my darling; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I might call you my own sister in the spirit; but the excitement is past, and I am now as wretched and hopeless as ever.  This very night I will pray as you wish me.  May the Almighty hear me compassionately! and I humbly hope he will, for you will strengthen my polluted petitions with your own pure requests.  All is bustle and confusion round me, the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons . . . If you love me,
do, do, do
come on Friday: I shall watch and wait for you, and if you disappoint me I shall weep.  I wish you could know the thrill of delight which I experienced, when, as I stood at the dining-room window, I saw — -, as he whirled past, toss your little packet over the wall.”

Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for events at Roe Head.  Then girls, running round the corner of the house and peeping between tree-stems, and up a shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a father or brother driving to market in his gig; might, perhaps, exchange a wave of the hand; or see, as Charlotte Brontë did from the window, a white packet tossed over the avail by come swift strong motion of an arm, the rest of the traveller’s body unseen.