Part 13

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’ New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1877.

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[Sidenote: Early reading.]

On their father’s shelves were few novels, and few books of poetry. The clergyman’s study necessarily boasted its works of divinity and reference; for the children there were only the wild romances of Southey, the poems of Sir Walter Scott, left by their Cornish mother, and “some mad Methodist magazines full of miracles and apparitions and preternatural warnings, ominous dreams and frenzied fanaticism; and the equally mad letters of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe ‘from the Dead to the Living’,” familiar to readers of ‘Shirley.’ To counterbalance all this romance and terror, the children had their interest in politics and _Blackwood’s Magazine_, “the most able periodical there is,” says thirteen-year-old Charlotte. They also saw _John Bull_, “a high Tory, very violent, the _Leeds Mercury_, _Leeds Intelligencer_, a most excellent Tory newspaper,” and thus became accomplished fanatics in all the burning questions of the day.

[Sidenote: Their aunt’s training.]

Miss Branwell took care that the girls should not lack more homely knowledge. Each took her share in the day’s work, and learned all details of it as accurately as any German maiden at her cooking school. Emily took very kindly to even the hardest housework; there she felt able and necessary.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

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[Sidenote: Anecdote of Charlotte.]

There is a touching story of Charlotte at six years old which gives us some notion of the ideal life led by the forlorn little girl at this time, when, her two elder sisters having been sent to school, she found herself living at home, the eldest of the motherless brood. She had read ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ and had been fascinated, young as she was, by that wondrous allegory. Everything in it was to her true and real; her little heart had gone forth with Christian on his pilgrimage to the Golden City, her bright young mind had been fixed by the Bedford tinker’s description of the glories of the Celestial Place; and she made up her mind that she too would escape from the City of Destruction, and gain the haven towards which the weary spirits of every age have turned with eager longing. But where was this glittering city, with its streets of gold, its gates of pearl, its walls of precious stones, its stream of life and throne of light? Poor little girl! The only place which seemed to her to answer Bunyan’s description of the celestial town was one which she had heard the servants discussing with enthusiasm in the kitchen, and its name was Bradford! So to Bradford little Charlotte Brontë, escaping from that Haworth parsonage which she believed to be a doomed spot, set off one day in 1822. Ingenious persons may speculate if they please upon the sore disappointment which awaited her when, like older people, reaching the place which she had imagined to be heaven, she found that it was only Bradford. But she never even reached her imaginary Golden City. When her tender feet had carried her a mile along the road, she came to a spot where overhanging trees made the highway dark and gloomy; she imagined that she had come to the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and, fearing to go forward, was presently discovered by her nurse cowering by the road side.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

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[Sidenote: Charlotte at fifteen.]

[Sidenote: First impressions of a school-mate.]

I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, and looking very cold and miserable. She was coming to school at Miss Wooler’s. When she appeared in the school-room, her dress was changed, but just as old. She looked a little old woman, so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and moving her head from side to side to catch a sight of it. She was very shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was given her, she dropped her head over it till her nose nearly touched, and when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it, still close to her nose, so that it was not possible to help laughing.

---- ----: _Communication_, quoted by MRS. GASKELL.

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I can well imagine that the grave, serious composure, which, when I knew her, gave her face the dignity of an old Venetian portrait, was no acquisition of later years, but dated from that early age when she found herself in the position of an elder sister to motherless children. But in a girl only just entered on her teens, such an expression would be called, (to use a country phrase) “old-fashioned;” and in 1831 ... we must think of her as a little, set, antiquated girl, very quiet in manners, and very quaint in dress; for, besides the influence exerted by her father’s ideas concerning the simplicity of attire befitting the daughters of a country clergyman, her aunt, on whom the duty of dressing her nieces principally devolved, had never been in society since she left Penzance, eight or nine years before, and the Penzance fashions of that day were still dear to her heart.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

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[Sidenote: Miss Nussey’s account of Charlotte at this period.]

[Sidenote: Combined ignorance and precocity.]

She never seemed to me the unattractive little person others designated her, but certainly she was at this time anything but _pretty_; even her good points were lost, her naturally beautiful hair of soft silky-brown being then dry and frizzy-looking, screwed up in tight curls, showing features that were all the plainer from her exceeding thinness and want of complexion; she looked “dried in.” A dark, rusty green stuff dress of old-fashioned make detracted still more from her appearance; but let her wear what she might, or do what she would, she had ever the demeanor of a born gentlewoman; vulgarity was an element that never won the slightest affinity with her nature. Some of the elder girls, who had been years at school, thought her ignorant. This was true in one sense; ignorant she was indeed in the elementary education which is given in schools, but she far surpassed her most advanced school-fellows in knowledge of what was passing in the world at large, and in the literature of her country. She knew a thousand things in these matters unknown to them.

[Sidenote: Near-sightedness.]

[Sidenote: Her hands.]

Music she wished to acquire, for which she had both ear and taste, but her near-sightedness caused her to stoop so dreadfully in order to see her notes that she was dissuaded from persevering in the acquirement, especially as she had at this time an invincible objection to wearing glasses. Her very taper fingers, tipped with the most circular nails, did not seem very suited for instrumental execution; but when wielding the pen or the pencil, they appeared in the very office they were created for.

[Sidenote: A vegetarian diet.]

[Sidenote: Conscientiousness.]

Her appetite was of the smallest; for years she had not tasted animal food; she had the greatest dislike to it; she always had something specially provided for her at our mid-day repast. Toward the close of the first half-year she was induced to take, little by little, meat gravy with vegetables, and in the second half-year she commenced taking a very small portion of animal food daily. She then grew a little bit plumper, looked younger and more animated, though she was never what is called lively at this period. She always seemed to feel that a deep responsibility rested upon her; that she was an object of expense to those at home, and that she must use every moment to attain her purpose for which she was sent to school, _i.e._, to fit herself for governess life. She had almost too much opportunity for her conscientious diligence. We were so little restricted in our doings, the industrious might accomplish the appointed tasks of the day and enjoy a little leisure, but she chose in many things to do double lessons when not prevented by class arrangement or a companion.

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[Sidenote: A hard student.]

She did not play or amuse herself when others did. When her companions were merry round the fire, or otherwise enjoying themselves during the twilight, which was always a precious time of relaxation, she would be kneeling close to the window occupied with her studies, and this would last so long that she was accused of seeing in the dark.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, now _The Century_.

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[Sidenote: Life at home after Charlotte’s return from Miss Wooler’s.]

[Sidenote: Emily on the moors.]

Charlotte staid a year and a half at school, and returned in the July of 1832 to teach Emily and Anne what she had learned in her absence--French, English and Drawing was pretty nearly all the instruction she could give. Happily genius needs no curriculum. Nevertheless the sisters toiled to extract their utmost boon from such advantages as came within their range. Every morning from nine till half-past twelve they worked at their lessons; then they walked together over the moors, just coming into flower. The moors knew a different Emily to the quiet girl of fourteen who helped in the housework and learned her lessons so regularly at home. On the moors she was gay, frolicsome, almost wild. She would set the others laughing with her quaint, humorous sallies and genial ways. She was quite at home there, taking the fledgling birds in her hands so softly that they were not afraid, and telling stories to them.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

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[Sidenote: Emily’s appearance in girlhood.]

Emily Brontë had ... a lithesome, graceful figure. She was the tallest person in the house, except her father. Her hair, which was naturally as beautiful as Charlotte’s, was in the same unbecoming tight curl and frizz; and there was the same want of complexion. She had very beautiful eyes--kind, kindling, liquid eyes; but she did not often look at you; she was too reserved. Their color might be said to be dark-gray, at other times dark-blue, they varied so. She talked very little. She and Anne were like twins--inseparable companions, and in the very closest sympathy, which never had any interruption.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, now _The Century_.

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All through her life her temperament was more than merely peculiar. She inherited not a little of her father’s eccentricity untempered by her father’s _savoir faire_. Her aversion to strangers has been already mentioned. When the curates, who formed the only society of Haworth, found their way to the parsonage, she avoided them as though they had brought the pestilence in their train. On the rare occasions when she went out into the world, she would sit absolutely silent in the company of those who were unfamiliar to her. So intense was this reserve that even in her own family, where alone she was at ease, something like dread was mingled with the affection felt towards her.

[Sidenote: Love of animals.]

Her chief delight was to roam on the moors, followed by her dogs, to whom she would whistle in masculine fashion. Her heart, indeed, was given to the dumb creatures of the earth. She never forgave those who ill-treated them, nor trusted those whom they disliked. One is reminded of Shelley’s “Sensitive Plant” by some traits of Emily Brontë; like the lady of the poem, her tenderness and charity could reach even

“----the poor banished insects, whose intent, Although they did ill, was innocent.”

[Sidenote: Personal courage.]

[Sidenote: Love of home.]

One instance of her remarkable personal courage is related in ‘Shirley,’ where she herself is sketched under the character of the heroine. It is her adventure with the mad dog which bit her at the door of the parsonage kitchen while she was offering it water. The brave girl took an iron from the fire, where it chanced to be heating, and immediately cauterized the wound on her arm, making a broad, deep scar, which was there until the day of her death. Not until many weeks after this did she tell her sisters what had happened. Passionately fond of her home among the hills, and of the rough Yorkshire people among whom she had been reared, she sickened and pined away when absent from Haworth. A strange, untamed and untamable character was hers; and none but her two sisters ever seem to have appreciated her remarkable merits.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

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[Sidenote: Emily in 1833.]

In 1833 Emily was nearly fifteen, a tall, long-armed girl, full grown, elastic of tread; with a slight figure that looked queenly in her best dresses, but loose and boyish when she slouched over the moors whistling to her dogs, and taking long strides over the rough earth. A tall, thin, loose-jointed girl--not ugly, but with irregular features and a pallid, thick complexion. Her dark-brown hair was naturally beautiful, and in later days looked well loosely fastened with a tall comb at the back of her head; but in 1833 she wore it in an unbecoming tight curl and frizz. She had very beautiful eyes of hazel color.... She had an aquiline nose, a large expressive, prominent mouth. She talked little. No grace or style in dress belonged to Emily, but under her awkward clothes her natural movements had the lithe beauty of the wild creatures that she loved.... Never was a soul with a more passionate love of Mother Earth, of every weed and flower, of every bird, beast and insect that lived. She would have peopled the house with pets had not Miss Branwell kept her niece’s love of animals in due subjection. Only one dog was allowed, who was admitted into the parlor at stated hours, but out of doors Emily made friends with all the beasts and birds. She would come home carrying in her hands some young bird or rabbit, and softly talking to it as she came. “Ee, Miss Emily,” the young servant would say, “one would think the bird could understand you.” “I am sure it can,” Emily would answer. “Oh, I am sure it can.”

[Sidenote: A dual life.]

Two lives went on side by side in her heart, neither ever mingling with or interrupting the other. Practical housewife with capable hands, dreamer of strange horrors: each self was independent of the companion to which it was linked by day and night. People in those days knew her but as she seemed--“t’ Vicar’s Emily”--a shy, awkward girl, never teaching in the Sunday-school like her sisters, never talking with the villagers like merry Branwell, but very good and hearty in helping the sick and distressed: not pretty in the village estimation--a “slinky lass,” no prim, trim little body like pretty Anne, nor with Charlotte Brontë’s taste in dress; just a clever lass with a spirit of her own. So the village judged her. At home they loved her with her strong feelings, untidy frocks, indomitable will and ready contempt for the commonplace; she was appreciated as a dear and necessary member of the household. Of Emily’s deeper self, her violent genius, neither friend nor neighbor dreamed in those days.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

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[Sidenote: The turning-point in Charlotte’s career.]

It was Charlotte’s visit to Brussels, first as pupil and afterwards as teacher in the school of Madame Héger, which was the turning-point in her life, which changed its currents, and gave to it a new purpose and a new meaning. Up to the moment of that visit she had been the simple, kindly, truthful Yorkshire girl, endowed with strange faculties, carried away at times by burning impulses, moved often by emotions the nature of which she could not fathom, but always hemmed in by her narrow experiences, her limited knowledge of life and the world. Until she went to Belgium, her sorest troubles had been associated with her dislike to the society of strangers, her heaviest burden had been the necessity under which she lay of tasting that “cup of life as it is mixed for governesses,” which she detested so heartily. Under the belief that they could qualify themselves to keep a school of their own if they had once mastered the delicacies of the French and German languages, she and Emily set off for this sojourn in Brussels.

One may be forgiven for speculating as to her future lot had she accepted the offer of marriage she received in her early governess days, and settled down as the faithful wife of a sober English gentleman. In that case ‘Shirley’ perhaps might have been written, but ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Villette’ never. She learned much during her two years’ sojourn in the Belgian capital; but the greatest of all the lessons she mastered while there was that self-knowledge the taste of which is so bitter to the mouth, though so wholesome to the life.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

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[Sidenote: The sisters’ life in Brussels.]

The flower-market out of doors, with clove-pinks, tall Mary-lilies, and delicate _roses d’amour_, filling the quaint mediæval square before the beautiful old façade of the Hôtel de Ville; Sainte-Gudule, with its spires and arches; the Montagne de la Cour (almost as steep as Haworth Street), its windows ablaze at night with jewels; the little, lovely park, its great elms just coming into leaf, its statues just bursting from their winter sheaths of straw; the galleries of ancient pictures, their walls a sober glory of colors, blues, deep as a summer night, rich reds, brown-golds, most vivid greens. All this should have made an impression on the two home-keeping girls from Yorkshire; and Charlotte, indeed, perceived something of its beauty and strangeness. But Emily, from a bitter sense of exile, from a natural narrowness of spirit, rebelled against it all as an insult to the memory of her home--she longed, hopelessly, uselessly, for Haworth. The two Brontës were very different to the Belgian school-girls in Madame Héger’s Pensionnat. They were, for one thing, ridiculously old to be at school--twenty-four and twenty-six--and they seemed to feel their position; their speech was strained and odd; all the “sceptical, wicked, immoral French novels, over forty of them, the best substitute for French conversation to be met with,” which the girls had toiled through with so much singleness of spirit, had not cured the broadness of their accent nor the artificial idioms of their Yorkshire French. Monsieur Héger, indeed, considered that they knew no French at all. Their manners, even among English people, were stiff and prim; the hearty, vulgar, genial expansion of their Belgian school-fellows must have made them seem as lifeless as marionettes. Their dress--Haworth had permitted itself to wonder at the uncouthness of those amazing leg-of-mutton sleeves (Emily’s pet whim in and out of fashion), at the ill-cut lankness of those skirts, clumsy enough on round little Charlotte, but a very caricature of mediævalism on Emily’s tall, thin, slender figure. They knew they were not in their element, and kept close together, rarely speaking. Yet, Monsieur Héger, patiently watching, felt the presence of a strange power under those uncouth exteriors. It was with the delight of a botanist discovering a rare plant in his garden, of a politician detecting a future statesman in his nursery, that he perceived the unusual faculty which lifted his two English pupils above their school-fellows.... It was Emily who had the larger share of Monsieur Héger’s admiration.... He gave her credit for logical powers, for a capacity for argument unusual in a man, and rare, indeed, in a woman. She, not Charlotte, was the genius in his eyes, although he complained that her stubborn will rendered her deaf to all reason, when her own determination, or her own sense of right, was concerned.

That time in Brussels was wasted upon Emily. The trivial characters which Charlotte made immortal merely annoyed her. The new impressions which gave another scope to Charlotte’s vision were nothing to her. All that was grand, remarkable, passionate, under the surface of that conventional Pensionnat de Demoiselles, was invisible to Emily. Notwithstanding her genius she was very hard and narrow. Poor girl, she was sick for home.... Charlotte’s engrossment in her new life, her eagerness to please her master, was a contemptible weakness to the imbittered heart. She would laugh when she found her elder sister trying to arrange her homely gowns in the French taste, and stalk silently through the large school-rooms with a fierce satisfaction in her own ugly sleeves, in the Haworth cut of her skirts. She seldom spoke a word to any one; only sometimes she would argue with Monsieur Héger, perhaps secretly glad to have the chance of shocking Charlotte. If they went out to tea, she would sit still on her chair, answering “Yes,” and “No;” inert, miserable, with a heart full of tears. When her work was done she would walk in the Crossbowmen’s ancient garden, under the trees, leaning on her shorter sister’s arm, pale, silent--a tall, stooping figure.... Emily did indeed work hard. She was there to work, and not till she had learned a certain amount would her conscience permit her to return to Haworth. It was for dear liberty that she worked. She began German, a favorite study in after years, and of some purpose, since the style of Hoffman left its impression on the author of ‘Wuthering Heights.’ She worked hard at music; and in half a year the stumbling school-girl became a brilliant and proficient musician. Her playing is said to have been singularly accurate, vivid, and full of fire. French, too, both in grammar and literature, was a constant study.

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[Sidenote: Emily at home during Charlotte’s second sojourn in Brussels.]