The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (47 page)

We spent the remaining two weeks of our honeymoon making a tour of western Ireland, including a stop in Kilkee, a most picturesque sea-side town set above a deeply curving bay. It was the first time since our arrival in Ireland that my new husband and I had been alone. We relished this time together, and the opportunity it afforded to renew our intimacy, and to increase our knowledge of each other. Our first morning in Kilkee, when we went out to the top of the cliffs and saw the Atlantic coming in below, all white with foam along the spectacular shore-line, I was so overwhelmed at the glorious sight that I longed to sit and look and be silent, rather than to walk and talk. Arthur not only graciously acceded to my wish, but admitted that he had had the same thought.

As we visited all the famous beauty spots of Ireland, taking in the magnificent scenery along the way, I enjoyed the kind and ceaseless care and protection of my husband, which made travelling a different and far more enjoyable matter from what it had heretofore been. Most pleasurable of all, however, was the deep contentment which enveloped me in the pure delight of Arthur’s company. Many was the time he would pull me into his arms for
an unexpected caress, and pronounce with deep sincerity: “Thank you for marrying me. You make me very happy.” With certainty and joy, I returned the sentiment.

On our honeymoon, I was indebted to my husband not only for this newfound happiness, but for saving my life.

As we were making a guided trek on horseback through the narrow, winding mountain gorge at the top of the Gap of Dunloe near Killarney, my mare slipped and became unruly. Arthur quickly dismounted from his pony and grabbed the bridle of mine, to lead her. Suddenly, my mare reared; I was thrown off and landed on the stones beneath her. I felt her kick and plunge around me; I thought the end had come, and that I should be crushed underfoot. Arthur, in consternation, let the creature loose, and she sprang over me.

“Charlotte!” cried Arthur in terror, as he lifted me up in his arms. “Are you hurt?”

I was stunned by my misadventure, but assured him that the mare’s hoofs never touched me. As the guide retrieved our horses, Arthur set me down and held me tightly to his chest; I felt the pounding of his heart against my cheek. “For a moment, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured against my hair.

I lifted my face to my husband’s, and standing on tiptoe, I planted a kiss on his lips. “You will never lose me. I love you too much to let you go.”

When we returned home on 11 August after more than a month’s absence, my husband and I were inundated with visitors from every part of the parish, some coming from quite a distance. Wishing to show our appreciation for the hearty welcome and general goodwill shown by the parishioners, Arthur and I decided to hold a small village entertainment. We invited all the students and teachers at the Day and Sunday schools, as well as the church bellringers and singers, to a tea and supper in the schoolroom.

Preparing for the event took some doing. When the appointed hour arrived—when, on that warm August evening, the tables
were all laid out in the schoolroom and across the yard, surrounded with benches, covered with white cloths and decorated with flowers, and the food (prepared by many hands) was at last in readiness—to our amazement, nearly five hundred people walked up! Arthur, beaming with delight, welcomed our guests with a brief but gracious speech, and the parishioners took turns making toasts to Arthur’s return to the parish, and to our wedded happiness.

“To Arthur an’ Charlotte,” proclaimed one man—an amiable farmer—with a raised glass and a ready smile, “two o’ th’ finest people i’ th’ parish, who finally had th’ good sense t’ get married. May yer lives together be long an’ prosperous, an’ yer home blessed wi’ mony childer.” The hearty applause which followed brought a deep blush to my cheeks.

Mr. Ainley, to my mind, gave the most affecting toast of all—all the more effective in light of its brevity. In a clear and booming voice, he simply said, “T’ Arthur Bell Nicholls: a consistent Christian, an’ a kind gentleman. T’ yer health, sir.”

As the congregation shouted their approval, I took Arthur’s hand and squeezed it, gazing up at him with shining eyes. I thought: to merit and win such a character as that—a consistent Christian, and a kind gentleman—was far better than to earn either wealth or fame or power. How fortunate I was, to have the love of such a man!

I discovered, in short order, that my life was greatly changed. Time—an article of which I had once had a large stock on hand—now seemed to be in very short supply; as a wife, I had scarcely an unemployed moment. The French newspapers I used to read now stacked up in a neglected pile; I was wanted continually by my husband, constantly called for, constantly occupied. It was a strange thing at first, yet I found it a marvelously good thing.

The mere fact of being wanted was, to me, a blessing after the total solitude of recent years. Arthur seemed to find such
pleasure in my company as he performed his many duties, that I could hardly refuse; and I, too, found great pleasure in the going and the doing. Entertaining visiting clergy and visiting the poor, organizing parish tea-drinkings and teaching at the Sunday school—the very same duties I had been obliged to perform as the parson’s daughter—took on a whole new aspect of interest and importance, now that I was the curate’s wife. Marriage, I discovered, was drawing me out of myself, in the best possible way.

At the same time, although I was very happy, I admit I sometimes missed my creative life. There was little opportunity for writing of any kind. I was obliged to scribble these diary pages in fits and starts, whenever a spare moment presented itself, or more often late at night, when Arthur was asleep.

Arthur began the practice of trying out his sermons on me, to seek my opinion before presenting them to the congregation. In his new, benevolent mood, his sermons were often sweet and uplifting, touching the better springs of man’s nature. When he menaced me, however, with something to a lesser standard, I did not hesitate to express my agreeable disappointment—and improvements were often just as agreeably made.

As I settled into the routine of my new life, summer turned to autumn, and autumn strode relentlessly towards winter. Arthur and I went into Bradford and had our pictures recorded by the new process called photography. It was so strange and wonderful to see the completed images. I was not too fond of mine, but Arthur liked it, and I thought Arthur looked particularly handsome in his, gazing off to the side with a gleam in his eyes and that contented half smile on his countenance.

My father, God bless him, continued in good health; he would, I hoped, be with us for many years yet. The reconciliation between Arthur and papa—once so unimaginable—remained untroubled. It became an hourly happiness to me to see how well the two men got on; never was there a misunderstanding or wrong word between them. Every time I saw Arthur put
on his gown or surplice and conduct a service or perform a sacred rite, I felt great comfort, knowing that my marriage would, as I had hoped, secure papa good aid in his old age.

Arthur and I grew closer with each passing day. There was always some new quirk or eccentricity on both our parts to discover, to laugh about, to adjust to. Faultless my husband was not; neither is any human being, and I am certainly no exception; but we neither of us expected perfection. We learned to tolerate those aspects of our habits and personalities that did not precisely meet our expectations, to treasure those that did, and to view with good humour everything that fell in between. There was no harassing restraint between us; together, we were at perfect ease, because we suited each other.

I was thumbing through
Jane Eyre
one day, and found this passage. Tears stung my eyes as I read it; for at the time of its composition, these words were but an expression of an idealised state of marital bliss which—until now—had existed only in my imagination:

Those words which I had penned so many years ago, from the depths of a lonely and longing heart, were now a perfect re
flection of the wonderful new life I was living with my Arthur. My husband was so good, so tender, so loving and true; my heart was knit to his.
⁶⁹

One night in late November, as Arthur and I sat cosily before the dining-room fire, listening to the howling of the wind around the house, my thoughts began to drift to a similar November evening, a year previously. As I paused in my knitting, I realised that there was only one thing missing from my life to make it thoroughly complete: something which had once been as vital and central to my being as breathing.

I glanced at my husband, whose handsome dark head was bent attentively over his newspaper. “Arthur, what were you doing at this same time, a year ago?”

“A year ago? I was sitting in a lonely, rented room in Kirk Smeaton, dreaming of a life with you.” He put down his paper, reached out and took my hand. “What were you doing?”

“I was sitting in this very same room, alone. To stave off loneliness, I started a new book.”

“A new book? What became of it?”

“I think I wrote about twenty pages, and then set them aside to write a letter. A certain correspondent, as I recall, was being very persistent at the time, with regard to a marriage proposal.”

“Did the gentleman’s persistence pay off?”

“It did. He waged a long and relentless battle, so completely convincing his quarry of the validity of his enterprise, that in the end, she felt
she
had been the true victor, in being won.”

Arthur laughed and squeezed my hand. Then, growing serious, he said, “If you were alone at this moment, Charlotte—if I were not here with you—would you be writing?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Do you wish to write now?”

I went quiet for a moment. “Would you mind if I did? Would you feel that I was ignoring you?”

“Of course not. Haven’t you been writing something anyway, in the months since we’ve been married? A diary, I think it is?”

My pulse began to quicken. “Yes, I have. I did not think you knew. Do you object?”

“Why would I object? Charlotte: you are a writer. I knew that long before I asked you to marry me. It’s what you love, and a part of who you are. I’ll love you whether you write or not. If you’ve had your fill of it, then stop. If you enjoy keeping a diary, then keep it. If you have a story you burn to tell, then get your paper and your ink or pencil, and go tell it.”

With rapidly beating heart, I dropped my knitting and ran upstairs, retrieved the pencilled pages I had abandoned the year before, and brought them down with me. As I resumed my seat by the fire, I said, “My sisters and I used to read our works aloud and critique them. Would you like to hear what I’ve written so far?”

“Fire away.”

I read the twenty-page fragment aloud. It was the story of a motherless young girl who attends an English boarding school, who discovers that her father has lied about his title and estate, and does not intend to pay his daughter’s fees. She then finds a new and unexpected benefactor. Arthur listened with interest and attention. We then entered into an interesting discussion in which Arthur shared his opinions and concerns. He worried that I might be criticised for writing again about a school, but I explained that this was only the beginning, and I intended to take the story in an entirely new direction. He admitted that he liked it very much, and thought it promising.

“Do you?” A little thrill ran through me. “It has been so many years since I had any one with whom to discuss my work—but—how would I find the time to write a book? Our days are so full already.”

“We can set aside a few hours every day for the occupation,
if you wish—and I promise,” he added with teasing eyes, “to offer my
invaluable
advice whenever requested, and otherwise to stay out of your way.”

“Thank you, dearest.” I kissed him, aware that I was doubly blest: not only was I married to one of the best of men—a loving partner with whom I could share all the joys and concerns of everyday life—but I knew now that I would never again be alone where my writing was concerned.

Diary, it is now Christmas Eve, 1854. Nearly two years have passed since I first began to write these pages. I feel now that I can end my tale, having brought it at last to as satisfactory a conclusion as all my books—yet even better, because this story is true.

In preparation for the holiday, Martha and I have devoted two days to the baking of cakes and mince-pies and other assorted culinary rites, required for our Christmas dinner tomorrow—after which, in my sisters’ and brother’s honour, we intend to read aloud passages from
Wuthering Heights, Agnes Grey,
and two of Branwell’s favourite published poems. We have cleaned down the house, and rubbed it with beeswax, oil, and innumerable cloths until it shines in every quarter. I have arranged every table, chair, bureau, and carpet with mathematical precision, and had enough coal and peat brought in to ensure that good fires are kept up to warm and brighten every room.

As I sit at the dining-room table now, surveying the glittering results of our efforts, I hear papa and Arthur conversing genially in the study across the hall. The sound of their deep Irish voices engaged in friendly banter never ceases to make me smile.