The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (17 page)

“I adore your Mr. Weston,” I told Anne one night, after a reading from her quiet and honest tale of a governess, which she had, at my suggestion, re-titled
Agnes Grey
. “He is such a sensible, sincere man, so affable and kind to the poor; a truly dedicated curate—far different from most of the young men we have known in that capacity.”

“He is very much like William Weightman,” observed Emily, referring to our much-loved curate who had died young and tragically from cholera a few years before.

“I did think of Mr. Weightman when I first wrote it,” admitted Anne, as we walked around the table, “but now the character reminds me more of Mr. Nicholls.”

“Mr. Nicholls?” said I. “Do not be absurd. Mr. Nicholls has none of the admirable qualities of your Mr. Weston.”

“Yes he does,” replied Anne.

“Martha said her mother is very beholden to Mr. Nicholls,” said Emily. “He is a good and thoughtful tenant, and was a great help to her in the house when Mr. Brown was ill.”

“Every one in the village likes Mr. Nicholls,” said Anne.

“Every one in the village
except
the Malones,” I argued, “and if they were not so discreet, and had shared that gentleman’s
history
with others, the whole village might well feel very differently about him.”

“I still believe there is more to Miss Malone’s tale than we have yet heard,” said Anne.

“And
I
have heard all I care to hear about Mr. Nicholls!” I cried, exasperated. “We are
supposed
to be talking about our books.”

“I was going to say, Anne,” said Emily, getting us back on track, “that although I find Mr. Weston too much of a goody-good for my taste, I do love your other characters. Agnes’s pu
pils and employers are all so wonderfully self-involved, and they exhibit such interesting streaks of cruelty.”

“Those are precisely the parts I
dislike,
” said I. “I think readers might be put off by the incident where the little boy tortures and kills the birds. It is disturbing. I cannot imagine that a six-year-old would do such a thing.”

“But he
did,
” insisted Anne. “Cuncliffe Ingham, who was in my charge, committed those very acts. Indeed, every incident I wrote about is taken from first-hand experience, except—” (here she blushed) “except the ending, which you have not heard yet.”

The next evening, we discussed Emily’s complex novel, which was set in our own Yorkshire moors. She called it
Wuthering Heights,
after the house that figures prominently in the story—its name derived from the atmospheric tumult to which its station was exposed in stormy weather.

“I was not sure I liked your structure at first,” I said, after Emily finished reading a particularly dark but fascinating chapter. “The way you move back and forth in time, and employ different narrators, neither of whom is very reliable—but now I think it quite brilliant.”

“I agree,” said Anne. “Shifting the viewpoint gives us an entirely new perspective. I think I will try it in my next book.”

“Were you thinking of
Rob Roy
when you wrote this, Emily?” I asked. “Your book reminds me in some ways of Scott’s themes and characters.”

“Perhaps I was, a bit,” mused Emily. “That has always been one of my favourite novels.”

“Cathy
is
similar in many ways to Diana Vernon,” commented Anne. “Both are misfits in a boorish family.”

“And Heathcliff, with his diabolical determination to undermine the Earnshaws and Lintons by seizing their inheritances, reminds me of Scott’s Rashleigh Osbaldistone,” I said. “But Emily: your story is so much fiercer and darker. I truly
despise
Heathcliff. He is so savage, tortured, and relentless. I find him entirely unredeemable.”

“Is he?” responded Emily, her eyebrows lifting quizzically.
“Or does his all-consuming passion for Catherine serve as his redemption?”

“His passion cannot excuse the systematic manner of his revenge on Hindley Earnshaw and the Lintons,” I insisted, “or the way he degrades and brutalises Isabella Linton and Hareton. He is hateful!”

“I do not mind that he is hateful,” said Anne. “Every story needs a villain.”

“But
is
he the villain?” argued Emily. “Or is he more akin to Byron’s Manfred, Mary Shelley’s Castruccio, or Milton’s Satan—a Gothic hero, a character who operates as a principle of evil?”

I shook my head. “He is a ghoul; a demon; an Afreet. I am not certain it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff.”

“I hear Branwell’s voice in every one of Heathcliff’s tortured ravings,” said Anne.

“Yes!” exclaimed I. “The way he goes on and on about his precious Cathy—‘Oh! My heart’s darling! I cannot live without my soul!’—and how he wants to follow her to the grave—it is Branwell, through and through. But Branwell has made us all wretched, Emily. Who will want to read this? Why have you chosen to write a book that is so relentlessly grim?”

“It is the story I wished to tell,” said Emily simply.

“The chapters you read last week were so violent and so fearful, that I did not sleep a wink,” I added with a shudder. “The images they conjured up in my mind disrupted my mental peace all the next day.”

“That is ridiculous,” scoffed Emily. “I do not believe you.”

“Can you not give
some
of your characters a few moments of happiness?” said Anne.

“I intend to,” insisted Emily. “You will just have to wait until the end.”

Emily was as unequivocal in her assessment of my novel, as I had been of hers. She disliked the title (“
The Master
sounds like a story about a landlord and his servant!”); I changed it there-
with to
The Professor.
She then insisted that my story was slow in starting, that it lacked excitement in general, and that my male protagonist was particularly flat. I disagreed. I liked my story and characters as they were (I have since learned better); but at the time, I could not see its flaws; I was just thrilled to be writing again—and to be involved, on a daily basis, in a free and lively communion with two other vibrant, interested, intelligent, kindred spirits with whom I could share the innermost workings of my mind.

I met each new day filled with excited anticipation, eager to pick up my pencil and get to work, to discover what my characters would say and do next. I was happy; I felt newly alive; it was as if I had been asleep for half a decade, and had only just awakened; as if I had been existing on the brink of starvation for years, and had finally sat down before a feast.

As we wrote, the months sped by. Christmas came and went; 1846 dawned; the country-side was buried in snow. At the end of January, we had still not received a single reply to my letters of inquiry on behalf of our book of poems. I did, however, gain some very sensible advice from William and Robert Chambers, publishers of one of my favourite periodicals,
Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.
They explained that a book of poetry by an unknown author or authors would most likely not appeal to a wide readership; therefore, it would be rare indeed for any publishing house to take on any such effort—unless said author was willing to pay for the publication himself.

My sisters and I despaired at first; but on further consideration, we rallied. “We could use a small portion of our legacies from Aunt Branwell,” I suggested, “if it is not too dear.”

“I do not mind paying,” said Emily, “but let us hope the book receives good reviews, so that we might see
some
return on our investment.”

“If it paves the way for the publication of our novels, it will be worth it,” agreed Anne.

I embarked on another round of letters, which I sent to a variety of publishers:

To our delight, the firm of Aylott & Jones, a small publishing house in London, soon agreed to undertake the printing of the book “at the author’s expense.” With great excitement, we bundled up our finished manuscript in two parcels and posted it to them. I explained that the authors were the “Bells,” adding only that they were “three persons—relatives,” and that all future correspondence should be written in care of their representative, “Miss C. Brontë.”

After a brief and business-like exchange, we learned that—to our astonishment—the cost required to print our book of poems would be much higher than anticipated.

“Thirty-one pounds!” I cried, when I received the news. “It is twice what I earned in a year in Brussels.”

“It is more than three quarters of my annual salary at Thorp Green,” said Anne.

“Perhaps we should reconsider,” said Emily.

I sat down heavily in my chair, and shook my head. “No. We have all worked too hard on this project to give up now. For months, I have been imagining that book in my mind. I long to see it in print—and to hold it in my hands. We cannot let a mere sum of money stand in our way. I will send Aylott and Jones a banker’s draft for the named sum.”

While we waited for our book of poems to reach the press, and my sisters and I worked diligently on our novels, papa’s disability weighed heavily on my heart and mind. Unsatisfied with our local physician’s prognosis of papa’s condition, I decided to undertake a brief excursion to Brookroyd to visit Ellen, where I consulted with her cousin’s husband, a surgeon who practised in Gomersal. The visit proved to be most illuminating.

“There is indeed an operation for cataracts,” explained Mr. Carr, a pragmatic physician with a kind face.

“Would you recommend the operation for a man who is nearly sixty-nine years of age?”

“I would. Although there is some risk involved—a small percentage of patients are rendered blind following the procedure—if your father is going blind in any case, the risk is negligible. Most patients have an excellent outcome: their sight is restored in full.”

“Where would we go for such a procedure, Mr. Carr?”

“There is an institution in Manchester that specialises in curing diseases of the eye. I am certain you could find your man there. You may have to wait a while, however. They cannot operate until the cataract is sufficiently hardened, and from your description, I do not know if your father’s eyes are ready or not.”

I returned to Haworth on the 2nd of March with newfound hope. Perhaps papa’s blindness could be cured! My sisters had written that they would meet me at the train station, but I walked all the way home without seeing any sign of them.

“They must have taken the new road to Keighley,” said papa, who I found in his study with Mr. Nicholls. “No doubt you just missed each other.”

Mr. Nicholls and I exchanged cool but civil hellos. Although he came to the parsonage on a daily basis to go over the activities in the parish with papa, and I regularly encountered him at church and at the Sunday school where I taught under his direction, I had managed to avoid any undue conversation with him for the past three months, ever since the day he delivered that
packet of writing paper. I was about to withdraw, but papa was anxious to hear what I had learned from Mr. Carr, so I plunged ahead with a brief overview.

“That’s encouraging news,” said Mr. Nicholls with enthusiasm. “If you can find a surgeon in Manchester who knows what he’s doing, Mr. Brontë, I’d say it’s worth a try.”

Papa agreed, and seemed greatly cheered. I went looking for my brother, eager to tell him what I had learned. To my dismay, I found Branwell lying on the dining-room floor by the sofa, his hair and clothes in extreme disarray, his eyes closed as he muttered nonsensically to himself.

“Branwell!” I exclaimed forcefully, shaking him by the shoulders as I bent over him. “Wake up! I have something to tell you!” He took no notice. “Branwell! Can you hear me? I have spoken to a surgeon. I have learned something most encouraging about papa’s condition.”

I might as well have spared myself the trouble. Branwell just giggled, unaware that I was even in the room. How, I wondered, had he obtained the money for spirits? Papa had been denying him any funds for months.

I heard the front door open, and with it, Emily’s and Anne’s laughter and conversation as they hurried in, suffering from the effects of a sudden rainstorm. We embraced in the passage, lamenting the fact that we had missed each other on the road. I told them of Branwell’s current condition, and asked what had happened.

“Branwell screwed a sovereign out of papa this morning, under pretence of paying a pressing debt,” said Emily in disgust, as she and Anne removed their drenched cloaks and bonnets. “He immediately went and changed it at a public-house, and has employed it as was to be expected.”

I sighed. “I was afraid something like this might happen, if I went away.”

“You could hardly have prevented it, Charlotte,” said Anne.

Emily concurred. “Papa keeps hoping his ‘boy’ will improve—
but Branwell is deceitful and conniving. He struck at papa’s weakest point; you know how he feels about leaving a debt unpaid.”

“It is too, too awful,” I said.

Emily shook her head sadly. “Branwell has truly become a hopeless being.”

At that moment, I heard a noise behind me; I turned with a start, to find Branwell standing in the doorway to the dining-room, as if risen from the dead, regarding me with blinking surprise in his bloodshot eyes. “Well, well, look who’s home,” said he in a slurred tone. “If it isn’t Charlotte the harlot.”

I froze, taken aback by this unexpected and mortifying appellation. Branwell was wont to say and do terrible things when he was drunk, but he had never before addressed me in such a manner.

“I heard the most interesting piece of news while you were away,” he went on. “It seems that I am not the only person in this house who is pining for an absent love.”