The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë

Imagine, if you will, that a great discovery has been made, which has sparked enormous excitement in the literary world: a series of journals, which have lain buried and forgotten for more than a century in the cellar of a remote farmhouse in the British Isles, have been officially authenticated as the private diaries of Charlotte Brontë. What would those diaries reveal?

Everyone keeps secrets. Charlotte Brontë—a passionate woman who wrote some of the most romantic and enduring fiction in the English language—was no exception. We can learn much about Charlotte through her biographies and surviving correspondence; but like all the members of the Brontë family, Charlotte had a deeply personal side that she did not share with even her closest friends and relations.

What intimate secrets did Charlotte Brontë harbor within her breast? What were her innermost thoughts and feelings, and her most private memories? What was her relationship with her brother and sisters, who were also talented and driven artists? How did an unknown parson’s daughter, who lived nearly her entire life in the obscurity of a remote Yorkshire village, come to write
Jane Eyre,
one of the world’s most beloved novels? And perhaps most importantly: did Charlotte ever find a true love of her own?

Seeking the answers to these questions, I began a meticulous study of Charlotte’s life. I found myself particularly intrigued by a very important part of the Brontë story, which has rarely been explored: Charlotte’s long and stormy relationship with her father’s curate, Arthur Bell Nicholls. It is well-known that Charlotte Brontë received four marriage proposals, including—most famously—an offer from Mr. Nicholls. However, Arthur Bell Nicholls remains an obscure and shadowy figure in Brontë biographies, generally only referred to in passing until the latter part of the story, and even then in no great detail. Yet it is a fact that Mr. Nicholls lived next door to the Brontës for eight years, was in almost daily contact with them all that time, and was deeply and secretly in love with Charlotte long before he summoned the nerve to propose to her.

Did Charlotte ever return Mr. Nicholls’s affections? Did she marry him? Ah—but as Charlotte herself might say—that is the crux of this story, and I like to think that the exploration of her feelings with regard to that very dilemma would have been the reason she wrote these volumes in the first place.

The story you are about to read is true. Charlotte’s life story is so fascinating, that I was able to spin the tale based almost entirely on fact, conjecturing only where I deemed necessary to enhance dramatic conflict or to fill in gaps in the history, and adding selected comments and footnotes for clarification. Although some may consider the unfolding tale to more closely resemble one of Charlotte’s beloved novels than a traditional diary, as she is looking back on past events, rather than recording them as they occurred, I believe that Charlotte would have written it this way, for this is a style and structure with which she felt most comfortable.

Here, then—with the greatest respect and admiration for the woman who inspired them—are
The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë.

Syrie James

VOLUME I

One

I
have received a proposal of marriage.

Diary, this offer, which came some months past, has thrown my entire household—nay, the entire village—into an uproar. Who is this man who has dared to ask for my hand? Why is my father so dead set against him? Why are half the residents of Haworth determined to lynch him—or shoot him? Since the moment of his offer, I have lain awake night after night, pondering the multitude of events which have led up to this conflagration. How on earth, I wonder, did things get so out of hand?

I have written about the joys of love. I have, in my secret heart, long dreamt of an intimate connection with a man; every Jane, I believe, deserves her Rochester—does she not? Yet I had long since given up all hope of that experience in my own life. Instead, I sought a career; and having found it, shall I—
must I
—now abandon it? Is it possible for a woman to give herself fully both to an occupation and a husband? Can these two critical halves of a woman’s mind and spirit peacefully coexist? It must be so; for true happiness, I believe, cannot be achieved any other way.

It has long been my practice, in times of great joy or emotional distress, to escape into the comfort of my imagination. There, in prose or poetry, I have given vent to my innermost thoughts and feelings behind the protective veil of fiction. In these pages, however, I wish to take a completely different tack. I wish herein to unburden my soul—to reveal certain truths which I have hitherto shared with only a few of my most intimate connections—and some which I have never dared breathe to a living soul. For I find myself to-day in a time of crisis, faced with a dilemma of the weightiest proportions.

Do I dare to defy papa, and incur the wrath of every one I know, by accepting this offer? Most importantly, do I wish to accept? Do I truly love this man, and wish to be his wife? I did not even like him when first we met; but a great deal has happened since then.

It seems to me that every experience I have ever had, everything I have ever thought or said or done, and every person I have ever loved, has contributed in some essential way to the human being I am to-day. Had one stroke of the brush touched the canvas in an altered manner, or splashed upon it a darker or lighter colour, I should be a very different person now. And so I turn to pen and paper in search of answers; perhaps in this way, I can endeavour to make some sense of what has led me to this moment, and come to understand how I feel—and what it is that Providence, in his goodness and wisdom, intends for me to do.

But hush! A story cannot commence in the middle, or at the end. No, to tell it properly, I must go back—back to where it all began: to that stormy day, nearly eight years past, when an unexpected visitor arrived at the parsonage door.

The 21st of April, 1845, was a gloomy, bone-chilling day.

I was awakened at daybreak by a great clap of thunder; moments later, the cloudy grey heavens opened up in a torrential downpour. All morning, rain spattered against the window-panes of the parsonage, pelted the roof and eaves, drenched the densely packed headstones in the nearby graveyard, and danced against
the flagstones in the adjacent lane, merging into rivulets which flowed in a steady stream past the church, toward the steep, cobbled main street of the village.

Inside the parsonage kitchen, however, all was cosy, full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous fire. It was a Monday—baking-day—which my sister Emily said was very convenient, for it was also my birthday. I had always preferred to observe such occasions with as little fuss as possible; but Emily insisted, as I was turning twenty-nine, that we should make time for a private celebration.

“It is your last year of an important decade,” said Emily, as she expertly kneaded a mound of dough on the floured centre table. Already, two loaves were in the oven, another bowl of dough was rising beneath a cloth, and I was well under way with preparations for a pie and a tart. “At the very least, we must mark the occasion with a cake.”

“I see no purpose in it,” said I, as I measured out the flour for a pastry crust. “Without Anne and Branwell here, it will not feel like much of a party.”

“We cannot put off our own pleasures in their absence, Charlotte,” said Emily solemnly. “We are meant to prize life and enjoy it, so long as we retain it.”

Emily was two years younger than I, and the tallest person in our family, other than papa. She was a complex personality with twin, diverse sides to her nature: brooding, melancholy introspection concerning the meaning of life and death; and sunny delight in contemplation of the world’s many joys and natural beauties. As long as she could live at home, surrounded by her moors, Emily was happy and took life easily; unlike me, she was rarely distressed. She preferred being lost in thought, or in the pages of a book, to any other occupation in life—a preference with which I heartily agreed. Emily had no regard for public opinion, and no interest in fashion; although it had long been the style to wear neatly waisted, fitted frocks and full petticoats, Emily still preferred to wear the old-fashioned, shapeless dresses and thin petticoats which clung to her legs, and did not particularly
suit her lean frame. As she rarely ventured out except to walk on the heath, it hardly mattered.

With her slender physique, pale complexion, and dark hair knotted up carelessly under a Spanish comb, Emily reminded me of a sturdy sapling: thin and graceful, yet unyielding; hardy in solitude; impervious to the effects of wind and rain. In the presence of strangers, Emily withdrew into herself, all gravity and silence; but in the company of family, her ebullient, sensitive nature found its full expression. I loved her as dearly as I loved life itself.

“How long has it been since we were all together for your birthday?” continued Emily.

“I cannot recall the last time,” said I with regret.

It had, indeed, been a long while since all my siblings and I had been in one location at the same time, other than a few short weeks at Christmas and the summer holidays. For the past five years, our youngest sister Anne had been serving as a governess for the Robinson family at Thorp Green Hall, near York. Our brother Branwell, younger than I by fourteen months, had joined Anne there three years previously, as a tutor to the eldest son. In the years before that, I had been much away at school, first as a student, and then as a teacher, followed by a stint of my own as a governess. Then had come two years in Belgium: a sojourn which had proved to be the most powerful, exhilarating, life-altering—and heartbreaking—experience of my existence.

“I am making you a spice cake, and that is final,” said Emily. “After supper, we shall sit by the fire and tell each other stories. Perhaps Tabby and papa will join us.”

Tabby was our elderly servant, a good, faithful Yorkshire woman who had been with us since childhood. Over the years, when she chanced to be in good humour, Tabby had brought her ironing-table to the dining-room hearth and allowed us to sit about it. While she got up the sheets and chemises, or crimped her night-cap borders, she fed our eager attention with tales of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and ballads—or, as I later discovered, from the pages of her favourite novels, such
as
Pamela.
¹On other occasions, our evenings by the fire had been enlivened by papa’s thrilling renditions of ghost stories and ancient, local legends.

To-night, however, it was uncertain whether or not papa would choose to participate.

I glanced out the kitchen window at the moors beyond. A shower wept over the distant hilltops, hiding their crests with the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. “Wonderful weather for a birthday. At least the day matches my mood: dark and somber, with turbulent storms and no end in sight.”

“You sound like me,” rejoined Emily, as she mixed together the ingredients for her cake. “Do not lose hope. If we take one day at a time, everything may yet work itself out.”

“How?” I sighed. “Papa’s eyesight grows dimmer with each passing day.”

My father was an Irish immigrant who, through perseverance and education, had risen far above his poor, illiterate family’s station. When the registrar at St. John’s College, Cambridge, could not understand the spelling of papa’s surname due to his broad Irish accent, he wrote it down himself, changing it from Brunty to the more interesting Brontë, after the Greek word for thunder. A good, kind, lively, and highly intelligent man, papa was widely read, with interests in literature, art, music, and science which reached far beyond his province as the parson of a small Yorkshire parish. He enjoyed writing, and had had several poems and religious stories published, as well as numerous articles; he was greatly involved in the politics of the community; and he was a deeply committed clergyman. He was also greatly troubled: for to-day, at age sixty-eight, after a lifetime of faithful service to the church, our adored father was going blind.

“I must now do all of papa’s reading and writing for him,” said I. “Soon, I fear he will not be able to keep up with his most basic duties in the parish—and if he loses his sight entirely, what
shall we do? Not only will papa forfeit all his scanty pleasures in life, and grow entirely dependent on us—a circumstance you know he greatly dreads—but he will no doubt be forced to forfeit his incumbency. We shall then lose not only his entire income, but our home as well.”
²

“In any other family, the son would come to the financial rescue,” observed Emily, shaking her head, “but our brother has never been able to hold a job for long.”

“Indeed, his stint as tutor at Thorp Green is the longest he has ever held a position,” I added, as I rolled out my pastry crust. “He seems to be highly valued there; yet his income is barely enough to cover his own expenses. We must accept it, Emily: should papa’s health fail, the entire burden of supporting the household will fall squarely upon our shoulders.”

I believe I felt the weight of this responsibility even more keenly than did my siblings, perhaps because I was the eldest child—a position acquired by tragedy and default, and not by rank of birth. My mother, of whom I have only the vaguest of memories, gave birth to six children in nearly as many years, and died when I was five. My beloved older sisters Maria and Elizabeth died in childhood. My brother and younger sisters and I, schooled by our father and reared by a stern and orderly maternal aunt who came to live with us, retreated into a delightful world of books and fantasy; we roamed the moors; we drew and painted; we read and wrote obsessively; we all dreamt of becoming published authors one day. Although our dream of writing never faded, it had long ago been set aside by necessity: we were obliged to earn a living.

Only two professions were open to my sisters and me—teaching or governessing—both occupations of bonded servitude which I despised. I had, for some time, believed that our best option was to commence our own school. It was with that aim in
mind—to gain attainments in French and German, to improve our chances of attracting pupils—that Emily and I had gone to Brussels three years ago, and I had stayed an extra year on my own. Upon my return, I had attempted to open a school at Haworth Parsonage; despite all my most concerted efforts, however, not a single parent was willing to send his child to such a desolate location.

I could not blame them. Haworth was but a small village in north Yorkshire, far from anywhere. In our entire moorland parish, there was not a single educated family other than ourselves. The region was blanketed in snow in winter and assailed by a cold and merciless wind three seasons of the year. There was no railway service; Keighley, the nearest town, lay four miles down the valley. Behind the parsonage, and surrounding it, lay the silent, sweeping, endless, windy slopes of the moors. Not every eye could discern the beauty which my siblings and I found in that vast, harsh, bleak landscape. To us, the moors had always been a kind of paradise, a place into which to escape, to allow our imaginations to run free and wild.

The parsonage, which lay atop the crest of a ruggedly steep hill, was a two-storeyed, symmetrical grey stone house built in the late eighteenth century. It overlooked a small square of crabbed lawn, which, on the other side of a low stone wall, adjoined the crowded, weedy graveyard, and beyond that the church. We were not enthusiastic gardeners; as the climate did not encourage growth other than the mosses which covered our damp stones and soil, we had but a few fruit bushes and some straggling thorns and lilacs along our semicircular gravel walk.

Although the garden may have been neglected, our house was not. Everything about it was kept lovingly, scrupulously clean, from the sparkling, Georgian sashed window-panes to the spotless sandstone floors, which extended beyond the kitchen to all the downstairs rooms. The unpapered walls were painted a pretty dove colour; because of papa’s fear of fire (and the dangerous combination of children, candles, and curtains), we had always had internal shutters instead of curtains, and
only small carpets in the dining-room and parlour (papa’s study). All our rooms, upstairs and down, were compact but well-proportioned, our furnishings scant but sturdy: hair-seated chairs and sofa, mahogany tables, and a few bookshelves filled with the classics we had relished since childhood. The parsonage was not a grand house by any means, but it was the largest in Haworth, and as such held some distinction; we neither required nor desired more; we dearly loved its every nook and cranny.

“Here we are, seven months without a curate in Haworth to assist papa,” said I, “if you do not count Reverend Joseph Grant of Oxenhope, who is too busy with his new school to be of any real help.”

“Is not papa meeting with a prospective candidate for the curacy to-morrow?”

“Yes.” Since I had been handling my father’s correspondence for some months, I knew a little bit about the gentleman in question. “He is a Mr. Nicholls from Ireland. He responded to papa’s advertisement in
The Ecclesiastical Gazette
.”

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