Part 12

There never was such a tragedy as her whole story. The sadder and sterner, because so much of the ridiculous was mixed up with it, and because she could bear any thing better than to be ridiculous. It was such an awful joke, that she should have resolved--in all sincerity, no doubt--to make herself the greatest, wisest, best woman of the age. And to that end she set to work on her strong, heavy, unpliable, and, in many respects, defective and evil nature, and adorned it with a mosaic of admirable qualities, such as she chose to possess, putting in here a splendid talent and there a moral excellence, and polishing each separate piece, and the whole together, till it seemed to shine afar and dazzle all who saw it. She took credit to herself for having been her own Redeemer, if not her own Creator; and indeed she is far more a work of art than any of Mozier’s statues. But she was not working on an inanimate substance, like marble or clay; there was something within her that she could not possibly come at, to re-create or refine it; and by and by this rude old potency bestirred itself, and undid all her labor in the twinkling of an eye. On the whole, I do not know but I like her the better for it; because she proved herself a very woman after all.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: _Extract from Roman Journal_, in ‘Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife,’ a Biography, by Julian Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1885.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: “A strange tragedy.”]

Poor Margaret, that is a strange tragedy that history of hers; and has many traits of the heroic in it, though it is wild as the prophecy of a Sibyl. Such a pre-determination to _eat_ this big universe as her oyster or her egg, and to be absolute empress of all height and glory in it that her heart could conceive, I have not before seen in any human soul. Her “mountain _me_” indeed: but her courage, too, is high and clear, her chivalrous nobleness indeed is great; her veracity, in its deepest sense, _à toute épreuve_.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, 7th May, 1852. ‘Correspondence of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’

FOOTNOTES:

[7] The quotation is from Margaret’s ‘Summer on the Lakes,’ where this story is related in the episode of ‘Mariana.’ Mrs. Howe’s condensed account has been given, though possibly inexact in one particular. Margaret does not describe the _preceptress_ as having joined in the practical joke.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË (NICHOLLS).

(CURRER BELL.)

1816-1855.

EMILY BRONTË.

(ELLIS BELL.)

1818-1848.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË (NICHOLLS.)

(CURRER BELL.)

1816-1855.

EMILY BRONTË.

(ELLIS BELL.)

1818-1848.

The story of the Brontës is essentially the story of a family; not of one member, not even of its two famous members. This has been felt by the biographers of Charlotte and Emily Brontë, who have pictured for us the whole group with a vividness which, paradoxical as it may seem, is more characteristic of fiction than of biography. These lonely lives were knit fast together; it is hard to separate an individual thread from the others. At least the story of the family must first be told.

The Reverend Patrick Brontë (formerly Prunty), and Maria Branwell, his wife, had six children: Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte (born at Thornton, in the West Riding, April 21, 1816), Patrick Branwell, Emily (born at Thornton, in 1818), and Anne. In February, 1820, the Brontës removed to the famous parsonage of Haworth. In September, 1821, Mrs. Brontë died. The strange life of the motherless children, under the care of their aunt, Miss Branwell, is described in the following extracts. In 1824, the four older girls were sent to the school for clergymen’s daughters, at Cowan’s Bridge, which Charlotte afterward raised to a bad eminence in JANE EYRE, under the name of Lowood Institution. A long account of this shamefully mismanaged school may be found in Miss Robinson’s ‘Emily Brontë.’ Maria and Elizabeth died of consumption in 1825; their deaths were doubtless hastened by exposure and want of proper nourishment. In the autumn of the same year Charlotte and Emily were taken from the Cowan’s Bridge school.

Miss Branwell taught the children at home for some time; in 1831, Charlotte was again sent to school--this time to Miss Wooler’s, at Roe Head, on the road from Leeds to Haddersfield. She remained at this school a year and a half, and on returning taught her sisters what she had learned. At Roe Head began her life-long friendship with Ellen Nussey. In 1835, Charlotte went to teach at Miss Wooler’s, and Emily also went as a pupil to Roe Head, but remained there only three months, when Anne took her place, afterward becoming a teacher in the school. All her life Emily was passionately attached to the dreary parsonage and the lonely moors, and became actually ill when forced to be absent from home. In September, 1836, she obtained a hard position as teacher in a large school near Halifax, which she was obliged to leave the following spring.

In the meantime Miss Wooler had removed to Dewsbury Moor. Anne Brontë continued teaching in her establishment until December, 1837; Charlotte, until the following summer, when her health obliged her to return to Haworth. In 1839 both obtained positions as governess, Charlotte, however, leaving hers after a short time. Her second and more agreeable experience of this kind was in 1841, when she taught in a congenial family from March until Christmas. January, 1842, found all three sisters at home. It was now determined that Charlotte and Emily should spend six months in Brussels, at the Pensionnat of Monsieur and Madame Héger, preparatory to setting up a school for themselves--a plan which had long been discussed at the parsonage. Miss Branwell advanced the money for this undertaking, and the two sisters left home in February.

Their stay in Brussels was prolonged beyond expectation, on the proposal of Mme. Héger that they should spend the next term with her as pupil-teachers, Charlotte giving instruction in English, Emily in music. In October they were recalled to England by the news of Miss Branwell’s death. Anne being now in an excellent position, Emily volunteered to remain at home as housekeeper. Charlotte, acting on the advice of M. Héger, returned to Brussels in January, 1843, to complete her studies there; paying her way as before by teaching in the school, and receiving in addition a trifling salary.

About this time Patrick, or Branwell, Brontë, who, during an idle life about the village, had fallen into evil ways, and had recently been dismissed in disgrace from his situation as station-master at a small place on the line of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, obtained employment as tutor in the house where Anne was governess.

In January, 1844, Charlotte returned to Haworth, and the sisters endeavored to start the school of which they had long been dreaming. It was a complete failure. They were unable to secure a single pupil; and by November the cherished plan was relinquished.

Charlotte and Emily lived down their failure together in the dreary parsonage. Their father was growing old, was losing his sight. Anne was out of health; they were troubled about Branwell. At last, in June, 1845, a great blow fell upon them. Their brother had engaged in an intrigue with his employer’s wife: he was discovered, denounced, sent home in shame; and from that time forth “thought of little but stunning or drowning his agony of mind” with drink or opium. The miserable state of things at Haworth for the next three years is almost inconceivable; yet it was out of this very field of nettles that the flower of immortality was plucked.

In May, 1846, a little volume of verse “by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell” was put forth, but failed as the school had failed. Meanwhile, in the winter of 1845-6 and the following spring, each of the three sisters had been at work upon a novel. Emily’s was WUTHERING HEIGHTS, Anne’s, _Agnes Grey_, and Charlotte’s, _The Professor_. They were despatched to various publishers, at first together, afterwards singly. In August, 1846, Mr. Brontë underwent an operation for cataract at Manchester, Charlotte being his companion and nurse. The operation was successful. At the end of September father and daughter returned to Haworth. In August, 1847, JANE EYRE was completed and sent to Messrs. Smith & Elder as the work of “Currer Bell.” It was accepted, and was published in October. In December another publishing house brought out WUTHERING HEIGHTS and _Agnes Grey_. JANE EYRE almost immediately created a great sensation.

In the summer of 1848 a misunderstanding with their respective publishers led Charlotte and Anne to take a hurried journey to London, where they astonished Messrs. Smith & Elder with a call. They were very kindly received, and introduced to the friends of Mr. Smith as “the Miss Browns.”

In September, 1848, the unhappy Branwell died. Emily never left the house after the day of his funeral. A troublesome cough developed into consumption. After months of increasing weakness borne in a spirit of silent and stubborn resistance, in December, 1848, Emily Brontë followed her brother. Anne, always delicate, did not linger long behind them. In the ensuing spring she died at Scarborough, whither Charlotte and Miss Nussey had brought her but a few days before for the benefit of the sea air. Charlotte and her father were left alone together.

SHIRLEY, began before Emily’s death, was published in October, 1849; and toward the end of the year Charlotte visited London. The mask of “Currer Bell” was dropped, and Miss Brontë made the acquaintance of Thackeray, Harriet Martineau and others. In June, 1850, she was again in London. This year she took a flying trip to Scotland. She was Miss Martineau’s guest at Ambleside in December. In this month appeared the second edition of WUTHERING HEIGHTS and _Agnes Grey_, which she had edited, writing a preface, and a biographical notice of Emily and Anne. In June, 1851, she again visited London. Early in 1853 VILLETTE was published.

About this time the Reverend Arthur Nicholls, Mr. Brontë’s assistant, asked Charlotte to be his wife. Her father was bitterly opposed to the marriage; the daughter obeyed him; and Mr. Nicholls left Haworth. It was not until 1854 that Mr. Brontë could be induced to give his consent. On June 29th of this year, Charlotte was married to Mr. Nicholls. They visited Ireland, and on their return took up a happy and useful life at Haworth. The future seemed full of promise, the only cloud upon it being Mr. Nicholls’ lack of sympathy with his wife’s literary pursuits. But the story so sad till now was to be soon and sadly ended. On the 31st of March, 1855, Charlotte died at Haworth.

“Alas,” sings Matthew Arnold:[8]

“Early she goes on the path To the silent country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon!”

But in turning to Emily Brontë, his voice takes the accent of wonder:

“She (How shall I sing her?) whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Passion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died.”

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Haworth.]

The village of Haworth stands, steep and gray, on the topmost side of an abrupt low hill. Such hills, more steep than high, are congregated round, circle beyond circle, to the utmost limit of the horizon. Not a wood, not a river. As far as eye can reach these treeless hills, their sides cut into fields by gray walls of stone with here and there a gray stone village, and here and there a gray stone mill, present no other colors than the singular north-country brilliance of the green grass, and the blackish gray of the stone. Now and then a toppling, gurgling mill-beck gives life to the scene. But the real life, the only beauty of the country, is set on the top of all the hills, where moor joins moor from Yorkshire into Lancashire, a coiled chain of wild, free places. White with snow in winter, black at midsummer, it is only when spring dapples the dark heather-stems with the vivid green of the sprouting whortleberry bushes, only when in early autumn the moors are one humming mass of fragrant purple, that any beauty of tint lights up the scene. But there is always a charm in the moors for hardy and solitary spirits. Between them and heaven nothing dares to interpose. The shadows of the coursing clouds alter the aspect of the place a hundred times a day. A hundred little springs and streams well in its soil, making spots of vivid greenness round their rise. A hundred birds of every kind are flying and singing there. Larks sing; cuckoos call; all the tribe of linnets and finches twitter in the bushes; plovers moan; wild ducks fly past; more melancholy than all, on stormy days, the white sea-mews cry, blown so far inland by the force of the gales that sweep irresistibly over the treeless and houseless moors. There in the spring you may take in your hands the weak, halting fledglings of the birds; rabbits and game multiply in the hollows. There in the autumn the crowds of bees, mad in the heather, send the sound of their humming down the village street. The winds, the clouds, Nature and life, must be the friends of those who would love the moors.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’ (_Famous Women Series_). Boston: Roberts Bros., 1883.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Parsonage.]

The parsonage stands at right angles to the road, facing down upon the church; so that, in fact, parsonage, church, and belfried school-house, form three sides of an irregular oblong, of which the fourth is open to the fields and moors that lie beyond. The area of this oblong is filled up by a crowded church-yard, and a small garden or court in front of the clergyman’s house. As the entrance to this from the road is at the side, the path goes round the corner into the little plot of ground. Underneath the windows is a narrow flower-border, carefully tended in days of yore, although only the most hardy plants could be made to grow there. Within the stone-wall, which keeps out the surrounding church-yard, are bushes of elder and lilac; the rest of the ground is occupied by a square grass-plot and a gravel walk. The house is of gray stone, two stories high, heavily roofed with flags, in order to resist the winds that might strip off a lighter covering. It appears to have been built about a hundred years ago, and to consist of four rooms on each story; the two windows on the right (as the visitor stands, with his back to the church, ready to enter in at the front door), belonging to Mr. Brontë’s study, the two on the left to the family sitting-room.... The little church lies, as I mentioned, above most of the houses in the village; and the graveyard rises above the church, and is terribly full of upright tombstones.

ELIZABETH C. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë,’ Smith, Elder & Co., London, 1857.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Interior of the parsonage.]

The interior of the now far-famed parsonage lacked drapery of all kinds. Mr. Brontë’s horror of fire forbade curtains to the windows. There was not much carpet anywhere except in the sitting-room and on the study floor. The hall floor and stairs were done with sand-stone, always beautifully clean, as everything else was about the house; the walls were not papered, but stained in a pretty dove-colored tint; hair-seated chairs and mahogany tables, book-shelves in the study, but not many of these elsewhere.... A little later on, [Miss N. is writing of 1833], there was the addition of a piano.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1871.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Parentage of the Brontës.]

The children’s father was a nervous, irritable, and violent man, who endowed them with a nervous organization easily disturbed, and an indomitable force of volition. The girls, at least, showed both these characteristics. Patrick Branwell must have been a weaker, more brilliant, more violent, less tenacious, less upright copy of his father; and seems to have suffered no modification from the patient and steadfast moral nature of his mother. She was the model that her daughters copied, in different degrees, both in character and in health. Passion and will their father gave them.... On both sides, the children got a Celtic strain; and this is a matter of significance, meaning a predisposition to the superstition, imagination, and horror that is a strand in all their work. Their mother, Maria Branwell, was of a good, middle-class Cornish family, long established as merchants in Penzance. Their father was the son of an Irish peasant, Hugh Prunty, settled in the north of Ireland, but native to the south.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Patrick Brontë’s career.]

[Sidenote: His change of name.]

His talents were early recognized by Mr. Tighe, the rector of Drumgooland. This gentleman undertook part, at least, of the cost of his education, which was completed at St. John’s College, Cambridge. As to the change of name from Prunty to Brontë, many fantastic stories have been told. Among them is one which represents the Brontës as having derived their name from that of the Bronterres, an ancient Irish family with which they were connected. The connection may possibly have existed, but there is no doubt upon one point. The incumbent of Haworth in early life bore the name of Prunty, and it was not until very shortly before he left Ireland for England that he changed it at the request of his patron, Mr. Tighe, for the more euphonious appellation of Brontë.

[Sidenote: His character.]

He appears to have been a strange compound of good and evil. That he was not without some good is acknowledged by all who knew him. He had kindly feelings towards most people, and he delighted in the stern rectitude which distinguished many of his Yorkshire flock. When his daughter became famous, no one was better pleased at the circumstance than he was. He cut out of every newspaper every scrap which referred to her; he was proud of her achievements, proud of her intellect, and jealous of her reputation. But throughout his whole life there was but one person with whom he had any real sympathy, and that person was himself. Passionate, self-willed, vain, habitually cold and distant in his demeanor towards those of his own household, he exhibited in a marked degree many of the characteristics which Charlotte Brontë afterwards sketched in the portrait of the Mr. Helstone of ‘Shirley.’... Among the many stories told of him by his children, there is one relating to the meek and gentle woman who was his wife.... Somebody had given Mrs. Brontë a very pretty dress, and her husband, who was as proud as he was self-willed, had taken offence at the gift. A word to his wife, who lived in habitual dread of her lordly master, would have secured all he wanted; but in his passionate determination that she should not wear the obnoxious garment, he deliberately cut it to pieces, and presented her with the tattered fragments. Even during his wife’s lifetime he formed the habit of taking his meals alone; he constantly carried loaded pistols in his pockets, and when excited he would fire these at the doors of the out-houses, so that the villagers were quite accustomed to the sound of pistol-shots at any hour of the day in their pastor’s house. It would be a mistake to suppose that violence was one of the weapons to which Mr. Brontë habitually resorted. However stern and peremptory might be his dealings with his wife (who soon left him to spend the remainder of his life in a dreary widowhood), his general policy was to secure his end by craft rather than by force. A profound belief in his own superior wisdom was conspicuous among his characteristics, and he felt convinced that no one was too clever to be outwitted by his diplomacy. He had also an amazing persistency, which led him to pursue any course on which he had embarked with dogged determination. It happened in later years, when his strength was failing, and when at last he began to see his daughter in her true light, that he quarreled with her regarding the character of one of their friends [Mr. Nicholls]. The daughter, always dutiful and respectful, found that any effort to stem the torrent of his bitter and unjust wrath when he spoke of the friend who had offended him, was attended by consequences which were positively dangerous. The veins of his forehead swelled, his eyes glared, his voice shook, and she was fain to submit lest her father’s passion should prove fatal to him. But when, wounded beyond endurance by his violence and injustice, she withdrew for a few days from her home, and told her father she would receive no letters from him in which this friend’s name was mentioned, the old man’s cunning took the place of passion. He wrote long and affectionate letters to her on general subjects; but accompanying each letter was a little slip of paper, which professed to be a note from Charlotte’s dog, Flossy, to his “much-respected and beloved mistress,” in which the dog, declaring that he saw “a good deal of human nature that was hid from those who had the gift of language,” was made to repeat the attacks upon the obnoxious person which Mr. Brontë dared no longer to make in his own character.

[Sidenote: Childhood of the Brontës.]

The parson’s children were not allowed to associate with their little neighbors in the hamlet; their aunt, who came to the parsonage after their mother’s death, had scarcely more sympathy with them than their father himself; their only friend was the rough but kindly servant Tabby, who pitied the bairns without understanding them.... So they grew up strange, lonely, old-fashioned children, with absolutely no knowledge of the world outside; so quiet and demure in their habits, that years afterward, when they had invited some of their Sunday scholars up to the parsonage, and wished to amuse them, they found that they had to ask the scholars to teach them how to play--they had never learned. Carefully secluded from the rest of the world, the little Brontë children found out fashions of their own in the way of amusement, and curious fashions they were. While they were still in the nursery, when the oldest of the family, Maria, was barely nine years old, and Charlotte, the third, was just six, they had begun to take a quaint interest in literature and politics. Heaven knows who it was who first told these wonderful pigmies of the great deeds of a Wellington or the crimes of a Bonaparte; but at an age when other children are generally busy with their bricks or their dolls, and when all life’s interests are confined for them within the walls of a nursery, these marvellous Brontës were discussing the life of the Great Duke, and maintaining the Tory cause as ardently as the oldest and sturdiest of the village politicians in the neighboring inn.

[Sidenote: Effect on Charlotte’s work in later life.]

It may be well to bear in mind the frequency with which the critics have charged Charlotte Brontë with exaggerating the precocity of children. What we know of the early days of the Brontës proves that what would have been exaggeration in any other person was in the case of Charlotte nothing but a truthful reproduction of her own experiences.