The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (13 page)

Curiosity won out.

I closed the window, sat down on the bed, and began to read. I started with the last poem in the book—the one that had initially caught my attention. It was dated that very day; apparently, Emily had fair-copied it into the book that morning, upon arising. Entitled simply “Julian M. and A. G. Rochelle,” it was a dramatic ballad about a young woman in prison, during a war (Gondal’s great, fierce Republican-Royalist War, I would later come to learn), and a man torn between love and duty, as to whether or not to set her free. The effort was both lyrical and thrilling; it took my breath away.
²¹

I leafed back to the beginning of the note-book, and consumed its contents. My excitement mounted as I read on. These were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally wrote. Emily’s verse was vigorous and genuine; a sense of urgency existed in her lyric voice and narrative ballads that I had never before encountered. Her subject matter, too, was unusual. Her invented characters and situations (in this note-book, all inspired by inhabitants of Gondal) had enabled her to repeatedly examine the themes that preoccupied her: the cyclic continuity and changeableness of nature, the uncertainty of time, and the extremes of isolation, exile, and death.

My blood rushed through my veins; I knew I had discovered
something of immense value. So engrossed was I, as I pored through the volume, that I did not hear the approaching footsteps upon the stairs; I could only leap to my feet, red-faced, note-book in hand, when Emily strode into the room.

She froze and stared at me in shock; then she said, “How did you get that?”

“I am sorry. I—”

Emily darted forward and grabbed the note-book from my grasp. “This is mine. Nobody was to see this but me. You knew that.” Emily, by nature, was not garrulous; when deeply moved by serious fears or joys, she seldom allowed that emotion more than a furtive and fitful conquest of either eye or tongue. At this moment, however, her countenance was suffused with fury, and her voice rose in pitch, harsh and strident. “What did you do? Steal the key to my desk? Or force it open?”

“No! Your desk was lying open on the bed. Your note-book and ink bottle too, everything was open.” I saw Emily’s eyes briefly narrow, as if registering this unintentional neglect. I went on quickly, “I noticed it when I came in to change the sheets. The window was open. The wind was blowing. I only meant to recap the ink and close the note-book to—”

“Then why didn’t you?” Emily’s eyes flashed as she stared down at me; I had never seen her so angry. “Did you read this?”

“I—yes, I—”

“You had no right! How
much
of it did you read?”

“Nearly all.”

“Nearly
all
? How dare you!” With a forceful swing of her hand, she slapped me full upon the cheek.

The shocking blow brought tears to my eyes and sent me staggering back a step, onto the bed. I had never, in all my life, seen Emily slap any one, other than her own beloved Keeper, when he had misbehaved. I had rarely seen her angry, and when I had, that anger had never been trained on me; yet I knew that I deserved it. I righted myself, sitting on the bed, my hand to my burning cheek, which was now wet with tears.

“I am so sorry, Emily. I feared you would be angry, but oh,
how I hope you will forgive me! Your writing is beautiful—wonderful—incredible! In reading it, I feel that I have been given a gift.”

I glanced up, hoping to see a hint of forgiveness in Emily’s eyes, but I saw only fury. Through the open door, I glimpsed Anne standing in the hall, staring at us in silent consternation.

“
Get out of my room,
” exclaimed Emily, in a tone so fierce and deliberate, that it sent a chill up my spine.

I did not move; I knew, if I fled, she would shut the door and not come out or speak to me for the rest of the day; the rest of the week, perhaps. I would stay my ground; I would risk her wrath, and even her violence if it came again, to earn a chance to say what was on my mind. “Please, Emily: listen to me. I only intended to move the note-book out of harm’s way—nothing more. But a line or two caught my eye, and—once I had begun reading, I could not stop.”

“Liar! You could have stopped. You chose not to!”

“It was beyond my power to stop. Your poetry is so good, so original—it is like condensed energy, full of pathos, with a wild and peculiar music—melancholy, elevating—”

“I do not care for your flattery; you are trying to cover your shame. You
knew
how I felt, and yet you violated my privacy. You are a traitor; and I want you out of this room, now.”

E
mily slammed the door on my heels and did not reappear for two hours, until she was obliged to come downstairs to help prepare dinner.

I attempted to plead my case further as we worked side by side in the kitchen, but Emily silenced me with one stern reproval: “It was bad enough that you read one poem, Charlotte. But to read all—
all
! That was unforgiveable.”

Emily did not speak one word to me at the table—a tense and awkward meal, in which papa remarked: “You are very silent today, girls,” and, “Please don’t slam the platter down; the sound is quite harsh and grating.”

Immediately following that ordeal, I noticed Emily sitting on the front steps, absently stroking Keeper, who lay at her feet. I grabbed my shawl and joined her.

The sun had just set, taking with it what little warmth it had given to the day, and the wind still could not rest; a shiver ran through me as I sat down beside my sister on the cold stone steps. Light was fading fast; there was only one cloud in the autumn evening sky, and it curtained from pole to pole, shrouding the
church before us in a grey mist. We sat in silence for some time, as I gathered my thoughts. At last I said:

“We live in the same house, Emily. We work in the same kitchen. We eat at the same table. My bedroom door is but a few feet away from yours. You cannot stay angry with me for ever.”

“Watch me.”

Her clipped words stung like arrows. I flinched, but refused to be wounded. “Allow me to present a scenario for your consideration.”

“Do not bother.”

“Pretend, for a moment, that I have a portfolio of pictures I have drawn in secret, pictures which I consider my private property, and which I have made plain that I do not wish to share with any one.”

“Please abandon this ridiculous discourse.”

“Pretend you walked into my room and saw the window open, my portfolio open upon the bed, and the pictures scattered across the floor. Would you leave them there and walk away, or would you pick them up?”

Emily rolled her eyes. At last, she said begrudgingly: “Is the wind blowing?”

“It is.”

“Is there a threat of rain?”

“This is Yorkshire.”

“Are Flossy and Keeper in the house?”

“They could bound in at any moment.”

“Then I
suppose
I should pick them up.”

“Even though I had
expressly forbidden
any one from touching them?”

“Even so. I would worry that they might be spoiled. But knowing they were
private
pictures, I should be
very careful not to look at them.
”

“An admirable plan. But is it not possible that—despite your best intentions—your glance might inadvertently fall upon one of them?”

“A glance, nothing more.”

“What if, in that brief glance, you chanced to glimpse a picture of such splendour, and such exquisite beauty, as you had never before beheld? Would you avert your gaze? Would you squeeze shut your eyes? Or would you feel compelled to look upon it in full; in short, to feast your eyes upon it, and all the rest, for the pleasure they afforded, grateful for the opportunity of admiring the genius behind them?”

Emily sighed and threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! Fine! You would have made an admirable solicitor, Charlotte!
I forgive you.
There! Do you feel better now?”

I heaved an answering sigh. “I do.” A gust of wind rushed up with renewed force. I closed the distance between us on the step, put my arm around her, and wrapped my shawl around us both, drawing her close. “What were you thinking, coming out without your shawl?”

She laid her head against mine. “I am sorry I slapped you.”

“I am sorry I read your poems without asking permission.”

We sat some minutes thus, shivering in each other’s arms, as we watched the muffled, moonless, starless sky darken from grey to black. Harmony now restored, I allowed my mind to wander to another subject which had hovered at the edges of my consciousness all day, ever since the discovery of those pages. Was it too soon, I wondered? Did I dare to mention it?

I dared: “They should be published.”

“What?”

“Your poems. They merit publication.”

Emily pushed me aside and stood up in disgust. “You are a despicable and infuriating human being, Charlotte Brontë. If I felt my rhymes too private for
your
eyes, why on
earth
would I want them to be seen by others?”

“Surely you must have some spark of ambition,” I said, as I leapt to my feet and followed her and Keeper into the house, “to see your work in print.”

“I do not.”

“Why else did you copy them out so carefully into your note-book?”

“To preserve them for my own review, not for any one else’s!”

“They deserve—they cry out—to be published!”

“Never!” cried Emily as she fled up the stairs, Keeper at her heels. Seconds later, I heard her door slam.

The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of a drawer sliding open. I opened my eyes to the hazy sight of a slight female form, shrouded in white, removing something from the dresser. I sat up in bed, retrieved my spectacles and brought the hovering figure into focus, proving that it was indeed Anne. On seeing me awake, Anne came to the bed and sat down uncertainly beside me, cradling something to her chest.

“What is it, Anne?”

“Since Emily’s verse gave you so much pleasure,” said she quietly, “I thought perhaps you might like to look at these.” She held out two note-books, similar in size and make-up to Emily’s.

I took the proffered treasure with surprise, and looked inside. “How long have you been writing poetry?”

“For years and years: the whole time I was at Thorp Green, and for a long while before that. I have filled three other copy-books.”

“Why did you never say?”

“I used to feel as Emily does—that they were my private musings, for my eyes alone. But when I heard you say that hers ought to be published, I could not help but wonder—I suppose I have always wondered—if my poems had any merit at all. Would you be willing to read them, and tell me?”

Touched by her modesty, and delighted by her willingness to share, I read her poems at once. I spent all day at it, and was surprised and impressed by what I found. Loving Anne as dearly as I did, I could not be but a partial judge; yet I thought that her verses, too, had a sweet, sincere pathos of their own. If not quite as brilliant as Emily’s, they were equally worthy of publication.

As I contemplated what my sisters had been doing—that they had been writing secret poetry of such excellence—I felt a sudden surge of excitement, mingled with a hint of shame. I had written poetry, too, once upon a time; it resided, along with countless stories and novelettes, in a series of tattered boxes buried in my bureau. Almost all my life, writing had been my greatest joy and comfort: a place to express my happiest feelings, and my solace in times of pain. Although I had long burned to see my work in print, I had had no idea how to make that dream a reality; and since Anne came home in June, I had not written a single creative word.

Now, a sudden, renewed ambition burned within me: a desperate longing which I could not ignore. I waited until that evening, when my sisters and I were alone together in the dining-room, to bring up the subject. I was knitting a pair of stockings; Anne was sewing her grey-figured silk frock, newly dyed at Keighley; Emily was ironing.

“Anne showed me some poems she has written,” I said casually, my eyes intent upon my knitting. “They are quite good.”

“I know,” replied Emily, as she expertly worked the hot iron over a night-shirt.

“I wrote poetry myself, a few years past,” I added.

“I read Charlotte’s poems,” interjected Anne. “They are lovely.”

“I do not pretend that my work compares in any way to either of yours,” I continued, “but it occurred to me that we might, the three of us, publish a small collection.”

Emily blew out a contemptuous breath. “Are we
never
to hear the end of this?”

“Have we not, since early childhood, all cherished the dream of one day becoming published authors?”

“I have,” admitted Anne.

A blush crept across Emily’s countenance, betraying what she could not hide, but she pressed her lips in a tight line. “No.”

“We relinquished the dream years ago, when the necessity of
earning a living intervened. Now that we are all back home together, perhaps it is possible—if we put our minds to it—for dream and necessity to be combined. If we were to each choose our very best efforts, I believe they would make up a substantial volume of poetry, which we could sell for a good price.”

“A ludicrous idea,” retorted Emily. “My best poems are about Gondal. They would mean nothing to the public.”

“I disagree. They are universal works in theme and execution. You would have only to title them, and amend the text a very little—perhaps change a few names here and there—to make them wholly accessible to any one.”

“That is true,” said Anne; for she had persuaded Emily to allow her to read the Gondal note-book, and had been equally moved.

“I doubt we could make any money from a book of poetry,” argued Emily. “It would simply be an exercise to feed your vanity. Why cannot you both be content, as we have always been, to write to please ourselves? Why this sudden avidity for renown?”

“I do not seek renown,” I replied. “In truth, I do not care if I ever see my
name
in print. It is the
work itself
I wish to share—not just mine, but all of ours.”

“Why?” demanded Emily.

I realised I had never asked myself that question. “I suppose, after reading and admiring the works of others all my life, and feeling compelled for so many years to produce efforts of my own, I would like to discover—as Anne said, this morning—if they have any merit at all.”

“So you wish to receive validation of some sort,” retorted Emily, “from the world at large? You want to know if others—
strangers
—think our writing is any good?”

“Yes.”

Anne admitted that she shared the same desire.

“It would be thrilling,” I added, “to think that people we have never met were reading works that sprang from our imagination; that via tiny ink marks on a page, the thoughts and images of our invention were conveyed from our minds to theirs.
If, in reading, they felt some small measure of the pleasure I had in writing, it would prove a great reward.”

I saw a flicker of concurrence in Emily’s eyes; I knew that, deep down, she felt exactly as I did, although she could not admit it. If only, I thought, I could fan that spark to flame!

“What if others do not care for your work? Have you considered that?” asked Emily. “What if they despise your best efforts and call you a fool? How will you feel then?”

“If I agree with their assessment,” replied Anne, “I shall feel chastened and educated, and I will endeavour to improve. If I disagree, I’ll know they did not understand what I wrote, and I will disregard what they said.”

“That is easier said than done,” responded Emily with a frown. “Critics can be both harsh and cruel. More than one author of merit, I believe, has sunk under the mortification of bad notices. It is particularly hard, it seems to me, for women; from what I have read, authoresses are looked upon with great prejudice.”

“I have noticed that,” said I. “Critics sometimes do, in their reviews, use the weapon of sex or personality for their chastisement—or for their reward, a flattery which is not true praise.”

“Well, I refuse to subject myself to that scrutiny,” declared Emily.

“If Emily does not wish to participate, you and I might still publish a book of poems, Charlotte. We do not have to put our names on it.”

My pulse quickened at this notion. “Good idea. I should be most thankful for the sheltering shadow of an incognito.”

“We do not even have to reveal our gender,” added Anne. “We could each adopt a
nom de plume.
That is, if you do not think our writing is too decidedly feminine.”

“I do not see how any one could tell our sex from either the style or content of our work. Men do often write as women, and vice versa.”

“What name would you choose?” inquired Anne.

“I have no idea,” said I, with rising excitement, “but—”

“Are you picking
pen names,
now?” interrupted Emily, exasperated. “What do you two know about publishing a book? Not a thing! How would we even go about it?”

My mind seized on the word
we
in Emily’s last sentence, and I smiled. “I do not know. I shall seek advice, I suppose.”

Although Emily would not openly reconcile herself to our poetry book project for several more days, she listened in keenly on my conversations with Anne on the subject, and injected a comment or two. At last, one cold and wet October evening, after all the household was in bed, as Anne and I sat reading our poems at the dining-room table, Emily marched into the room.

“All right,” said she, pulling up a chair and plunking two note-books onto the table, “I will participate in this folly—on one condition.”

“Oh, Emily!” exclaimed Anne, her eyes bright. “I am so glad.”

“What condition?” I asked warily.

“That we keep the entire enterprise a secret. Papa is beset by so many difficulties, I do not wish to worry him further, nor do I wish to raise his hopes, lest the venture should prove to be a failure. In the event the book is a success, secrecy will be crucial to preserving our anonymity.”

“I agree,” I replied.

“What about Branwell?” said Anne. “May we tell him, at least? He has written some wonderful poetry over the years. He might like to make a contribution.”

“Do you really imagine that our brother could keep silent about something like this?” responded I, bristling. “And when would we tell him about it? When he is storming about the house, enraged because no one will give him a shilling? When he is lying bleary-eyed on the sofa, too ill to speak? Or when he is on his knees, sobbing like a three-year-old about his darling Mrs. Robinson?”