Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (575 page)

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

‘
January
30
th
, 1846.

‘My dear Miss Wooler, — I have not yet paid my usual visit to Brookroyd, but I frequently hear from Ellen, and she
 
did not fail to tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire.  She was unable, however, to give me your address; had I known it I should have written to you long since.

‘I thought you would wonder how we were getting on when you heard of the Railway Panic, and you may be sure I am very glad to be able to answer your kind inquiries by an assurance that our small capital is as yet undiminished.  The “York and Midland” is, as you say, a very good line, yet I confess to you I should wish, for my part, to be wise in time.  I cannot think that even the very best lines will continue for many years at their present premiums, and I have been most anxious for us to sell our shares ere it be too late, and to secure the proceeds in some safer, if, for the present, less profitable investment.  I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to regard the affair precisely from my point of view, and I feel as if I would rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily’s feelings by acting in direct opposition to her opinion.  She managed in a most handsome and able manner for me when I was at Brussels, and prevented by distance from looking after my own interests; therefore, I will let her manage still, and take the consequences.  Disinterested and energetic she certainly is, and if she be not quite so tractable or open to conviction as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not the lot of humanity.  And as long as we can regard those we love, and to whom we are closely allied, with profound and very unshaken esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex us occasionally by, what appear to us, unreasonable and headstrong notions.  You, my dear Miss Wooler, know full as well as I do the value of sisters’ affection to each other; there is nothing like it in this world, I believe, when they are nearly equal in age, and similar in education, tastes, and sentiments.

‘You ask about Branwell.  He never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear he has rendered himself incapable of filling any respectable station in life; besides, if money were at his disposal he would use it only to his own injury; the faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him.  You ask me if I do not think men are
 
strange beings.  I do, indeed — I have often thought so; and I think too that the mode of bringing them up is strange, they are not half sufficiently guarded from temptations.  Girls are protected as if they were something very frail and silly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and the least liable to be led astray.

‘I am glad you like Bromsgrove.  I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves to me that there is really such a thing as retributive justice even in this life; now you are free, and that while you have still, I hope, many years of vigour and health in which you can enjoy freedom.  Besides, I have another and very egotistical motive for being pleased: it seems that even “a lone woman” can be happy, as well as cherished wives and proud mothers.  I am glad of that — I speculate much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be married woman now-a-days, and I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or mother, and who, having attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, fortitude to support inevitable pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend.  I wish to send this letter off by to-day’s post, I must therefore conclude in haste. — Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours, most affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
November
4
th
, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen, — You do not reproach me in your last, but I fear you must have thought me unkind in being so long without answering you.  The fact is, I had hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth.  Branwell seemed to have a prospect of getting employment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, “Dear Ellen, come and see
 
us”; but the place (a secretaryship to a Railroad Committee) is given to another person.  Branwell still remains at home, and while he is here you shall not come.  I am more confirmed in that resolution the more I know of him.  I wish I could say one word to you in his favour, but I cannot, therefore I will hold my tongue.

‘Emily and Anne wish me to tell you that they think it very unlikely for little Flossy to be expected to rear so numerous a family; they think you are quite right in protesting against all the pups being preserved, for, if kept, they will pull their poor little mother to pieces. — Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
April
14
th
, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen, — I assure you I was very glad indeed to get your last note; for when three or four days elapsed after my second despatch to you and I got no answer, I scarcely doubted something was wrong.  It relieved me much to find my apprehensions unfounded.  I return you Miss Ringrose’s notes with thanks.  I always like to read them, they appear to me so true an index of an amiable mind, and one not too conscious of its own worth; beware of awakening in her this consciousness by undue praise.  It is the privilege of simple-hearted, sensible, but not brilliant people, that they can
be
and
do
good without comparing their own thoughts and actions too closely with those of other people, and thence drawing strong food for self-appreciation.  Talented people almost always know full well the excellence that is in them.  I wish I could say anything favourable, but how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell stays at home, and degenerates instead of improving?  It has been lately intimated to him, that he would be received again on the railroad where he was formerly stationed if he would behave more steadily, but he refuses to make an effort; he will not work; and at home he is a drain on every resource — an impediment to all happiness.  But there is no use in complaining.

‘My love to all.  Write again soon.

‘C. B.’

 
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
June
17
th
, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen, — I was glad to perceive, by the tone of your last letter, that you are beginning to be a little more settled.  We, I am sorry to say, have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately.  The death of Mr. Robinson, which took place about three weeks or a month ago, served Branwell for a pretext to throw all about him into hubbub and confusion with his emotions, etc., etc.  Shortly after came news from all hands that Mr. Robinson had altered his will before he died, and effectually prevented all chance of a marriage between his widow and Branwell, by stipulating that she should not have a shilling if she ever ventured to re-open any communication with him.  Of course he then became intolerable.  To papa he allows rest neither day nor night, and he is continually screwing money out of him, sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is withheld from him.  He says Mrs. Robinson is now insane; that her mind is a complete wreck owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr. Robinson (whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind) and grief for having lost him.  I do not know how much to believe of what he says, but I fear she is very ill.  Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for himself.  Good situations have been offered him more than once, for which, by a fortnight’s work, he might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing, except drink and make us all wretched.  I had a note from Ellen Taylor a week ago, in which she remarks that letters were received from New Zealand a month since, and that all was well.  I should like to hear from you again soon.  I hope one day to see Brookroyd again, though I think it will not be yet — these are not times of amusement.  Love to all.

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth,
March
1
st
, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen, — Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately.  I expect from the extravagance of his behaviour,
 
and from mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon.  The Misses Robinson, who had entirely ceased their correspondence with Anne for half a year after their father’s death, have lately recommenced it.  For a fortnight they sent her a letter almost every day, crammed with warm protestations of endless esteem and gratitude.  They speak with great affection too of their mother, and never make any allusion intimating acquaintance with her errors.  We take special care that Branwell does not know of their writing to Anne.  My health is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather more than on an uneasy mind, for, after all, I have many things to be thankful for.  Write again soon.

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
May
12
th
, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen, — We shall all be glad to see you on the Thursday or Friday of next week, whichever day will suit you best.  About what time will you be likely to get here, and how will you come?  By coach to Keighley, or by a gig all the way to Haworth?  There must be no impediments now?  I cannot do with them, I want very much to see you.  I hope you will be decently comfortable while you stay.

‘Branwell is quieter now, and for a good reason: he has got to the end of a considerable sum of money, and consequently is obliged to restrict himself in some degree.  You must expect to find him weaker in mind, and a complete rake in appearance.  I have no apprehension of his being at all uncivil to you; on the contrary, he will be as smooth as oil.  I pray for fine weather that we may be able to get out while you stay.  Goodbye for the present.  Prepare for much dulness and monotony.  Give my love to all at Brookroyd.

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
July
28
th
, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen, — Branwell is the same in conduct as ever.  His constitution seems much shattered.  Papa, and sometimes all of
 
us, have sad nights with him: he sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night.  But has not every house its trial?

‘Write to me very soon, dear Nell, and — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

Branwell Brontë died on Sunday, September the 24th, 1848,
  
and the two following letters from Charlotte to her friend Mr. Williams are peculiarly interesting.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
October
2
nd
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — “We have hurried our dead out of our sight.”  A lull begins to succeed the gloomy tumult of last week.  It is not permitted us to grieve for him who is gone as others grieve for those they lose.  The removal of our only brother must necessarily be regarded by us rather in the light of a mercy than a chastisement.  Branwell was his father’s and his sisters’ pride and hope in boyhood, but since manhood the case has been otherwise.  It has been our lot to see him take a wrong bent; to hope, expect, wait his return to the right path; to know the sickness of hope deferred, the dismay of prayer baffled; to experience despair at last — and now to behold the sudden early obscure close of what might have been a noble career.

‘I do not weep from a sense of bereavement — there is no prop withdrawn, no consolation torn away, no dear companion lost — but for the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light.  My brother was a year my junior.  I had aspirations and ambitions for him once, long ago — they have perished mournfully.  Nothing remains of him but a memory
 
of errors and sufferings.  There is such a bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe.  I trust time will allay these feelings.

‘My poor father naturally thought more of his
only
son than of his daughters, and, much and long as he had suffered on his account, he cried out for his loss like David for that of Absalom — my son my son! — and refused at first to be comforted.  And then when I ought to have been able to collect my strength and be at hand to support him, I fell ill with an illness whose approaches I had felt for some time previously, and of which the crisis was hastened by the awe and trouble of the death-scene — the first I had ever witnessed.  The past has seemed to me a strange week.  Thank God, for my father’s sake, I am better now, though still feeble.  I wish indeed I had more general physical strength — the want of it is sadly in my way.  I cannot do what I would do for want of sustained animal spirits and efficient bodily vigour.