The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (25 page)

“If you like, I can come by Monday next to read to you. Shall I?” “Oh! If ye would, sir, I would so look forward t’ it. An’ thank ye again, for your most thoughtful an’ generous gift.”

“I did nothing but deliver a little coal, Mrs. Ainley. These good women are the ones deserving of your thanks. The garments they fashioned required a great many long hours to produce, making their gift far more thoughtful and generous than mine.”

With a bow, Mr. Nicholls took his leave. Through the window, I saw him pick up one of the little Ainley children in his arms. He talked and laughed with her, the other children prancing happily at his side, as he walked away.

When Anne and I left the cottage half an hour later, carrying the pieces of John’s shirt in our basket to complete at home, Anne said: “You see? I told you Mr. Nicholls was a good and amiable man. Do you believe me, now?”

“I do not know what to think. The man exhibits such wildly differing sides to his character! One day, he is spouting the most intolerant notions, or callously berating some poor church
goer for breaking a rule, and the next he is reading to them and delivering coal! Did it not infuriate you when Mr. Nicholls refused to attend the concert last week?”

“What business is it of ours if some one chooses to attend a concert or not?”

“It is the
reason behind
that choice, that tells us something about the man. It is a reflection of his prejudice.”

“True; but we all have prejudices. It is a measure of our complexity as people, and some of the best people I know are the most complex,” said Anne, with a look in my direction.

I sighed in frustration. “How does one reconcile the man that Mrs. Ainley just so reverently described, with the man who behaved with such cruelty a few years past, to Bridget Malone?”

“Mr. Nicholls was very young then. We should judge him for the man he is to-day, and not for his past misdeeds.”

“I shall
try
to think of him in a better light. But in truth—even if Mr. Nicholls brought coal to every poor family in the township—to me, he will always be the man who called me an ugly old maid.”

The spring of 1846 was a time of intense—albeit secret—creative output, as my sisters and I worked on our respective novels. Despite Emily’s harsh critique of
The Professor,
I was not inclined to change or rethink it. It was what it was; if it turned out to be defective, I would have only myself to blame.

In early May, there was great excitement when the first three copies of our published book of poems arrived at the parsonage. The moment I saw the parcel, discreetly addressed to “Miss Brontë,” I guessed what it contained. Giddily, I retrieved Emily and Anne from their piano practise and we raced upstairs, where we opened the package in the privacy of my bedroom.

“Oh!” we all cried in unison, when our eyes fell upon the book for the first time. It was very handsomely bound with an embossed bottle-green cloth cover, with its title and authorship—
Poems, by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell
—prominently displayed in gilt letters. The pleasure I felt at actually holding the little vol
ume in my hands cannot be described.

“It is so beautiful,” exclaimed Anne.

“It is
published
!” I cried.

“You were right, Charlotte,” said Emily. “There is something very satisfying in seeing our work in print, in such a well-bound volume.”

Laughing with delight, we embraced each other repeatedly. It was the achievement of a dream. It was to be two long months, however, before our little book received any notice whatsoever from reviewers. In the meantime, a catastrophe of such enormous proportions engulfed our household, that any thought of literary attainment was banished from our minds.

The Reverend Edmund Robinson died. We learned of the event during the first week of June, just after Whitsuntide,
⁴⁹
when Branwell received a letter from one of his informants at the Robinsons’ household.

“At last!” he cried, wild with joy, clutching the epistle to his chest as he burst into the dining-room, where my sisters and I were all busy fair-copying our manuscripts in ink. We quickly covered our work, but Branwell was too enveloped in his own emotional frenzy to take any notice of our occupation.

“The old man is gone!” he continued gleefully. “Dead and buried! My Lydia is free! It is only a matter of time now. Ere long, my hopes and dreams shall all be realised. I will be the husband of the lady whom I love best in the world. I will no longer be pestered by any of the small and countless botherments, which like mosquitoes, sting us in the world of work-a-day toil. I will live the life of a gentleman at leisure, and be allowed to make myself a name in the world of prosperity!”

We hardly knew how to reply. Anything we said would have made little impression, however. Branwell was wrapped in such a fever of anticipation, that he neither ate nor slept for the next three days and four nights, throwing all about him into hubbub and confusion with the state of his emotions, as he eagerly
awaited a word from “my Lydia.”

When the word came, it was to dash every one of Branwell’s cherished hopes. Mrs. Robinson sent her coachman, Mr. Allison, to explain the facts of the case, which were these: Mr. Robinson had recently altered his will; according to the new clause, his widow was precluded from having any further communication with Branwell, or else forfeit all interest in her estate. Furthermore, owing to remorse for her conduct towards her late husband, and grief for having lost him, Mrs. Robinson had become a complete wreck, and was—according to said Mr. Allison—contemplating retreat into a nunnery.

We could not be certain how much of this was true, particularly with regards to the will. It had never seemed likely to us that a wealthy, pampered woman like Mrs. Robinson, who spent money like water on frivolous items while on holiday (for so Anne had described her), would risk her comfortable style of life and incur the contempt of society by marrying a penniless, unemployed ex-tutor like Branwell. That lady had cast such a deep spell over my brother, however, that he had never entertained the concept.
⁵⁰

When the blow came, Branwell was already such a physical and emotional wreck, that he was driven to the brink of insanity. We, who had thought he could sink no lower than the state to which he had previously been reduced, were immediately proved wrong. For the rest of the day, he lay prostrate on the floor of the parsonage, bleating for hours on end like a new-born calf, shrieking that his heart had been broken beyond repair. That evening, when the household was gathered for prayers in papa’s study, Branwell burst into the room, wild-eyed and shouting:

“Give me some money, old man, and give it now.”

He held papa’s pistol in his hand. Martha, Tabby, and my sisters screamed in horror.

“Branwell,” I cried, my heart thundering in fear, “what are you doing? Put down the gun!”

Papa’s face went ashen. “Son, have you got my gun?”

“I have, and it is loaded, too, and aimed straight at your heart. Give me six shillings, or I swear I will blow your brains out, and my sisters’ as well.”

“Charlotte,” said papa quietly, “you know where my coin purse is. Give him the money.”

“Yes, papa.” I slowly rose, my eyes glued to Branwell’s. “I shall get your sordid money, Branwell, but not until you lower that weapon.”

He lowered the pistol; as I issued past him from the room, Martha and Anne burst into tears. Not until I returned with the demanded coins did Branwell relinquish the weapon to me, along with the stolen keys to papa’s bureau drawer, where the pistol had been kept. He then grabbed his hat and left the house. I sank down onto the entrance-hall’s stone floor, trembling with such anxiety as I had never before felt, regarding the cold, steel element of destruction in my fingers with dread and disdain. At length, Emily issued into the hall, gently took the gun and keys from my possession, and restored them to their rightful places.

The next morning, Branwell knelt at papa’s feet and begged his forgiveness in a torrent of anguished tears. My heart seemed to weep within me as I observed the look of shame, pity, and despair which diffused papa’s countenance as he rose and tenderly took Branwell in his arms.

That night, as I lay on the edge of sleep, a childhood memory came back to me.

I was fifteen years old, in my first term as a student at Roe Head School. It was a week-end morning in May, and it had been four long months since I had been home or seen any of the
members of my family. To my surprise, I was called into Miss Wooler’s parlour, where I found Branwell seated in one of her best chairs, waiting for me.

“Branni?” I cried, in stunned delight. “Is it really you?”

He rose to his feet, cap in hand, with a weary smile. “Hello, Charlotte.”

He was just a lad then, a month shy of fourteen, but his face, with its handsome Roman nose and well-turned chin, was that of a man of twenty-five. He was taller than I remembered; his best shirt was stained with perspiration, and his bush of chin-length, carroty hair projected out at the sides of his head like two spread hands; indeed, he looked very flushed and fatigued; yet I had never in all my life seen a more welcome sight.

“Oh! I cannot tell you how much I have missed you!” I flew into his arms, where I relished the warmth of his tight embrace. “How on earth did you come to be here?” I said in astonishment, knowing that Branwell had rarely been away from home before.

“I walked.”

“You walked
twenty miles
?”

“It is twenty miles by road, but I have been studying the map ever since you went away. I took a short cut across the fields and along the hilltops, just as a bird might fly. You should have seen me, Charlotte, cutting across the country, over pasture-fields and fallow and stubble and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and fences all the way. I am sure I cut out half the distance, or at least a third, for all it felt like twenty miles.” He took a step back and studied me, up and down, with a teasing grin. “Now that I am here and have seen you—and am satisfied that you are just the same—I shall be saying good-bye and heading back.”

“You will do no such thing!” I laughed and swatted him on the shoulder. “Oh! Such a long walk! You must be exhausted!”

“Not at all,” said he bravely.

Knowing that he must return before dark—and that our time together must, by necessity, be short—I was determined to make the most of every moment. I took him first to the kitchen,
where cook gave him some refreshment; I then showed him around the establishment, inside and out; then we stretched out on the wide front lawn in the shade of my favourite tree, where we chattered amiably for two precious hours.

He told me about his progress with his latest literary effort; I told him that I had been so busy with school, I had not had a single minute to even think of Glasstown; he promised to keep the saga going until I returned. He gave me all the little news of home, and of every one that I missed and held so dear; and before I knew it, it was time for him to leave.

“You will be coming home soon, will you not?” asked Branwell, as we said good-bye in the front drive.

“Yes. The term is over in five weeks.” Tears streaked my cheeks, and I saw answering tears in his own gaze. We hugged each other tightly. “Thank you so much for coming,” I breathed against my brother’s ear. “It meant the world to me.”

Now—fifteen years later—the memory of that golden day in May made me ache anew, and I sobbed convulsively. Those innocent, blissful days would never come again. It seemed that my darling brother—the boy who had once been our pride and joy, who had been so bonny and so filled with promise—was lost to us for ever.

Thank goodness my sisters and I had our writing endeavours to distract us from the somber atmosphere that pervaded the parsonage! On 4 July, 1846, two reviews of our book
Poems
at last appeared in the press. To our consternation, however, the first devoted a great deal of space to the mysterious identity of the “Bells.”

“‘Who are Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell?’” I read aloud from the review in the
Critic
to my sisters, as we all lay stretched out in the meadow beyond the parsonage, beneath a rustling green tree. A west wind was blowing, and bright, white clouds flitted rapidly above. The moors stretched out in the distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but all around us, the great swells of long grass undulated in waves to the breeze, and larks, throstles,
blackbirds, linnets, and cuckoos poured out music on every side in a glorious jubilee. “‘If the poets be of a past or of the present age, if living or dead, whether English or American, where born, or where dwelling, what their ages or station—nay, what their Christian names, the publishers have not thought fit to reveal to the curious reader.’” I lowered the newspaper, somewhat disconcerted. “It seems that in our effort to conceal our sex, we have unwittingly created a mystery.”

“Does he not say anything at all about the quality of the poetry?” asked Emily.

“He does, further down.” I read on: “‘It is so long since we have enjoyed a volume of such genuine poetry as this. Amid the heaps of trash and trumpery in the shape of verses, which lumber the table of the literary journalist, this small book of some 170 pages only has come like a ray of sunshine, gladdening the eye with present glory, and the heart with promise of bright hours in store. Here we have good, wholesome, refreshing, vigorous poetry—’”

Emily grabbed the newspaper from my hands and eagerly continued reading: “‘They in whose hearts are chords strung by nature to sympathise with the beautiful and the true in the world will recognise in the compositions of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, the presence of more genius than it was supposed this utilitarian age had devoted to the loftier exercise of the intellect.’” With a stunned expression, she repeated the one word which had most arrested her attention: “
Genius.
”

“Is the second review as good?” asked Anne quietly.

“Not quite,” I replied, turning to the
Athenaeum,
which I had already perused. “He accuses Acton and Currer of ‘indulgences of affection,’ but highly praises Ellis, who he says possesses ‘an evident power of wing that may reach heights not here attempted.’”