The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (5 page)

“You only look down your nose at love,” said Branwell, as he sipped his coffee, “because you have never felt it.”

I glanced at Branwell, wondering at this assertion. He had never been in love before either, as far as I knew.

“Even if I did feel it, I should not be
swayed
by it,” said Mr. Grant.

“You are very wise, sir,” observed papa. “It is decidedly the best plan to remain single. Millions of marriages are unhappy; if everybody confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so.”

“You and mama were very happy, were you not, papa?” said I.

“There are exceptions to every rule,” replied papa. “Your mother was a rare and special woman, and what we felt for each other was equally rare. Most people tire of each other in a month and become no more than yokefellows.”

“Marriage can, I believe, be an advantageous connection,” remarked Mr. Nicholls, “when formed in consonance with dignity of views and permanency of solid interests.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Grant, as he picked berry seeds from his teeth with his fork. “Are you looking for a wife, Nicholls?”

Mr. Nicholls blushed. “Hardly. I could not afford to keep one. My thoughts are occupied with other things at present.”

“Yet women do not seem to understand that,” intoned Mr. Grant with annoyance. “All they can think or talk about is courtships and dowries.”

Branwell laughed. “Money can, indeed, bring a great deal to the equation.”

Listening to this, my heart beat thick, and my head grew hot; it was all I could do to keep silent. These self-satisfied gentlemen, by the simple accident of gender, had all the world at their disposal! What gave them the right to think, much less to speak, in such demeaning terms about women, love, and matrimony?

“The sole aim of most single women, I have observed, is to be married,” said Mr. Grant. “They scheme, they plot, they dress, they put on airs, all to ensnare husbands, yet the majority will never get one.”

“The matrimonial market in this district does seem to be overstocked!” laughed Mr. Nicholls.

I could contain myself no more. So hastily did I leap to my
feet, that my chair clattered to the floor. “What do you expect single women to do in this day and age, gentlemen, if not to seek a husband? Does society allow them any other occupation?”

A stunned look crossed all four male countenances. I continued heatedly, “Perhaps you think it unseemly to give voice to grievances that are unpopular, and which society cannot readily cure—but I will risk your scorn and your contempt, I will dare to trouble your ease, by pointing out a few well-measured truths. Look at the numerous families of girls in this neighbourhood: look at the Stokeses, whose daughters Mr. Grant has so happily maligned. Their brothers are all in business or in professions. Their sisters, on the other hand, have minds with equal prowess to theirs and to your own, yet they have nothing to do! This stagnant state of things makes them decline in health; it is no wonder that their minds and views shrink, likewise, to wondrous narrowness. With no way to earn a living, they know they are destined to become nothing but a burden to their fathers and their brothers, and to live out a meager, impecunious, solitary existence. If the great wish—the sole aim—of every one of them is to be married, a state which at least gives them
some
occupation as cherished wives and proud mothers, and the only state in which they can be regarded with any respect by society—how can you blame them?”

My pulse pounded, and my entire form trembled from the effort of releasing this tirade; the men stared at me in consternation, as if struck dumb. I quickly righted my chair and strode towards the door, thinking: I am
glad
I did it; it needed to be said.

As I reached the doorway, however, I heard Mr. Nicholls say, in his quiet, Irish lilt: “The words, gentlemen, of an ugly old maid.”

This statement was met by an outburst of laughter. My cheeks flamed; I turned in utter disbelief to stare at my oppressor, unsure that I had heard correctly. Could any one with a heart and soul have truly uttered words so unfeeling? Mr. Nicholls caught
my eye; his smile vanished; he blanched, and then his face went crimson.

I fled, determined not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing me burst into tears.

I rushed upstairs to find Emily helping Anne unpack her trunk in my bedroom, the chamber which Anne and I were now to share. Taking one look at my face, my sisters stopped what they were doing and asked me what was wrong.

I sank down upon the bed as I hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidence of my anguish. “Oh! It is too awful. The men were speaking so callously just now against unmarried women, that my temper lost its balance. I spoke my mind, and struck them all dumb.”

“I wanted to speak out once or twice myself earlier,” said Anne, sitting down beside me, “but I had not the nerve.”

“I am sure they deserved it,” added Emily. “It is nothing to cry about.”

“I am not crying,” I insisted, even though I was, “and I do not regret what I said. Only—as I was leaving the room, Mr. Nicholls said—oh! I can hardly bring myself to repeat it.”

“What did he say?” asked Emily, sitting cross-legged on the floor before me, like a Turk.

“He called me—” I took a deep breath, struggling to calm myself. “He called me ‘an ugly old maid.’”

“He never did!” said Anne in disbelief.

“Are you certain it was Mr. Nicholls who said it?” inquired Emily.

“There is no mistaking Mr. Nicholls’s voice and accent.”

“I cannot believe Mr. Nicholls would say something so cruel,” insisted Anne. “He seems like a nice, polite young man, for all his narrow views, and he was so wonderful with the dogs. Surely you must have heard wrong—or heard some one else.”

“I know what I heard,” said I, wiping my eyes and nose with my handkerchief. “I do not mind so much that he called me an old maid. I may despise the term in general, but I know it is
correct, and I already knew Mr. Nicholls regarded me as such: he referred to me as a spinster the day we met. But to be called
ugly!
”

Diary, I hope that I do not suffer from the sin of vanity; most true it is that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” As such, I realise that one should not take to heart the opinions of a single individual; yet I could not delude myself. The world revered a perfect complexion, rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and a cherry mouth; it admired a woman who was tall and stately, with a finely developed figure. I was none of those things.

“I know I am small and plain,” I said with a sigh, “but there is a world of difference between
plain
and
ugly.
A plain woman can endure, knowing that although others may not delight to look at her, at least her visage gives no offence. An ugly woman, on the other hand, is a blot on the face of creation: a poor, wretched, despicable thing, whose very presence creates discomfort, whispered tittering, and averted looks of silent pity. Ugly! I do believe it is the single most crushing word in the English language!”

“Charlotte: you are not ugly,” said Anne gently. “You are very attractive. I have long told you so.”

“You have a good, sweet, and pleasant face, which we love to look upon,” said Emily.

“You only say that because you are my sisters.”

“I say it because it is true,” declared Emily. “We are none of us agonizingly beautiful in this family, but what of it?”

“Do you not wish, sometimes, that you
were
beautiful?” I asked.

“I am what God made me,” said Emily with a shrug. “I do not desire to be different.”

“When I have those thoughts,” said Anne, “I push them away, and concentrate on my inner being: on becoming the best person I can be. God does not care what our exterior form looks like.”

“
He
may not, but people do. They judge us by our looks; they form first opinions which rarely waver. When I caught Mr.
Nicholls’s eye after he spoke, he looked ashamed of himself; but that does not excuse the saying of it. He is truly an obnoxious man, and Mr. Grant is no better.”

“They are not so bad,” observed Anne, as we all rose and set to work unpacking her trunk. “The views they expressed with regard to women—at least the ones I heard—are not really any different from papa’s or the other men I have met, or those we read about in the daily papers. It is just what men are brought up to believe.”

“Just because men are dolts in general does not excuse that pair for becoming part of the norm,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” said Anne, “but I still say, I think you heard wrong, Charlotte. I cannot imagine Mr. Nicholls saying something so unfeeling. I think he likes you.”

“Likes me? Do not be ridiculous. Mr. Nicholls does not like me or any woman. He thinks our entire gender as lowly and devoid of intelligence as a gnat. I think he made that point very clear.”

At half-past eight that evening, the household gathered in papa’s study for prayers. The only person not present was Branwell, who had long since declined to participate in any such ecclesiastical pursuits. When papa concluded the service at nine o’clock (on the dot, as always), Anne matter-of-factly broke the news about her departure from Thorp Green.

“I don’t understand,” exclaimed papa in concern. “You had an excellent position with the Robinsons, and were well paid for a governess. Were you mistreated there?”

“No, papa,” said Anne quietly.

“Then why did you leave?”

“I simply felt it was the right time for me to go,” insisted Anne.

“Well, it seems a daft thing to do.”

I could discern the blush that crept across Anne’s countenance, although my father, with his clouded vision, could not. Papa bolted the door, wound the mahogany long case clock that
stood halfway up the stairs (his nightly ritual), and went up to his chamber. As we all followed to prepare for bed, and Emily and the servants disappeared into their respective rooms, I became determined to broach the subject with Anne one more time.

Anne and I changed into our night-shirts; as we unpinned and unbraided our hair, which had grown very long of late, we agreed to brush each other’s tresses instead of curling them. I sat down upon the bed behind Anne and set to work. Hair-brushing was a practice which Emily had no patience for, but which Anne and I had performed for each other with the greatest pleasure ever since childhood, and greatly missed when we were apart. After some time thus employed, I said, “I am so glad you are home, Anne. I have never seen Thorp Green, and you have shared very little of what your life was like there; yet I can completely understand your desire to leave it.”

Anne started in surprise. “You can?”

“Yes. I was miserable myself, as you may recall, in both of my posts as governess, particularly the first one.”

“Oh—I see,” was her reply.

“To be a governess is akin to being a slave,” said I, as I pulled the brush vigorously through her light brown locks. “Even the most enormous house, surrounded by the most beautiful woodlands, green lawns, and winding white paths, cannot make up for the lack of a free moment or a free thought to enjoy them in.”

“True.”

“I was twenty-three when I went to work for the Sidgwicks. Mrs. Sidgwick did not care to know me at all. Her entire purpose in life seemed to be to squeeze the greatest possible quantity of labour out of me. For a pauper’s wage, I was expected to teach a dozen subjects to children who had no interest in learning. From the instant I awoke to the hour of their bedtime, the children were constantly with me; I was then expected to sew by candlelight until I dropped from exhaustion—not only the usual hemming of handkerchiefs and tablecloths, but an entire wardrobe of doll clothes.”

“So was I,” admitted Anne. “In addition to sewing and mak
ing doll clothes, I was obliged to do fancy-work and paint pictures and write musical compositions, and pretend that they were my pupils’ own original work.”

“Oh! That makes my blood boil.”

“Were you ever allowed to join the adult company, Charlotte?”

“Join them? No. When the Sidgwicks entertained guests, it was my duty to keep the children out of their way. On rare occasions, I was obliged to present them arrayed in their best garments, to be paraded around the drawing-room in an ecstasy of vanity and excitement for the ladies to pet and admire—but I was instructed to sit in a corner—ignored and unwanted.”

“Unwanted, but not
unnoticed,
” added Anne, as she took the brush from me and we switched positions on the bed.

“Exactly. Did they ever talk about you as if you were not there, or were too ignorant to understand what they were saying?”

“All the time.”

I sighed, trying to relax as the brush in Anne’s hand tingled against my scalp and tugged pleasantly at my hair; but the memories we evoked brought back the sense of frustration and isolation I had felt six years earlier. “My employers did not consider me as a living and rational being, except as connected with the duties I had to perform. The servants would have nothing to do with me, either; as an educated woman, I suppose they considered me above them—so I did not fit in anywhere.”

“Nor did I. Were you banished to a room at the top of the house?”

“Yes.”

“What were your pupils like?”

“Incorrigible little beasts, most of the time.”

“Were you allowed to exact discipline?”

“Never, not even when Benson Sidgwick threw a Bible at me, or hurled stones at my face and nearly broke my nose.”

“Oh! Charlotte. I am so sorry; but I understand. That was such a trial for me. How the Robinsons expected me to maintain order without discipline, is beyond me. The youngest daugh
ter was a rude, swearing hoyden, and the two oldest girls went out of their way to flirt with perfectly decent men for whom they would never care a fig, just so they could win their esteem and break their hearts—and then boast of their many conquests. Sadly, the adults were no better than the children! They—” Anne stopped herself, then added quickly: “I should not have spoken so. All that is past, and it is wrong to speak ill of others.”