Part 15
A little lady in a black silk gown, whom I could not see at first for the dazzle in the room; she came up and shook hands with me at once.... She is (as she calls herself) _undeveloped_, thin, and more than half a head shorter than I am; soft brown hair, not very dark; eyes (very good and expressive, looking straight and open at you), of the same color as her hair; a large mouth; the forehead square, broad, and rather overhanging. She has a very sweet voice; rather hesitates in choosing her expressions, but when chosen they seem without an effort admirable, and just befitting the occasion; there is nothing overstrained, but perfectly simple.
MRS. GASKELL: _Letter_, published in ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: Charlotte at home.]
Miss Brontë put me in mind of her own ‘Jane Eyre.’ She looked smaller than ever, and moved about so quietly and noiselessly, just like a little bird, as Rochester called her, barring that all birds are joyous, and that joy can never have entered that house since it was first built.... There is something touching in the sight of that little creature entombed in such a place, and moving about herself like a spirit, especially when you think that the slight still frame encloses a force of strong fiery life, which nothing has been able to freeze or extinguish.
_Letter from a Visitor_: Quoted by Mrs. Gaskell.
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[Sidenote: The Rev. Patrick Brontë.]
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s appearance and manner.]
[Sidenote: Her eyes.]
I knocked at the door, and presently a tall, not uncourtly, but ancient and venerable man, with a gray head, and the most notable Milesian features, opened it, and smiling kindly upon me as I told my name, invited me in; and asking pardon for leaving me alone, vanished into a room on the right hand of the door, telling me he would ring for his daughter. The bell had hardly sounded before the door opened, and Miss Brontë stood before me. I was agreeably disappointed at her appearance. I had always heard that she was very plain and unprepossessing, with bashful manners. Instead of this, I found her exceedingly agreeable, from the first moment of her entrance to the last of the interview, and, instead of being plain, I thought her uncommonly attractive. She had the slightest, fairy-like figure, and very small hands and feet. Her head was superb, and her forehead broad and deep and square, appearing so more especially in her profile. Her eyes had, for me, a strange fascination, so weird, mystical, unfathomable they seemed; and this expression was deepened by a slight obliquity in them. She had over-worked herself, she said, and was tired, and her eyes were very weary and painful; all which was evident in her appearance; and I saw that the light was painful to her, although the room was darkened by the drawn blinds. She was dressed very simply, but neatly, and with taste.
GEORGE S. PHILLIPS: ‘Visit to Charlotte Brontë.’ ‘_The Ladies’ Repository_,’ September, 1872.
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A parcel arrived for me, enclosing a book, and a note which was examined as few notes ever are. The book was ‘Shirley’; and the note was from ‘Currer Bell.’ Here it is:
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s first meeting with Harriet Martineau.]
“Currer Bell offers a copy of ‘Shirley’ to Miss Martineau’s acceptance, in acknowledgment of the pleasure and profit he [she] has derived from her work. When C. B. first read ‘Deerbrook,’ he tasted a new and keen pleasure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In his mind, ‘Deerbrook’ ranks with the writings that have really done him good, added to his stock of ideas, and rectified his views of life.”
“November 7th, 1849.”
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We examined this note to make out whether it was written by a man or a woman. The hand was a cramped and nervous one, which might belong to anybody who had written too much, or was in bad health, or who had been badly taught. The erased “she” seemed at first to settle the matter; but somebody suggested that the “she” might refer to me under a form of sentence which might easily have been changed in the penning. I had made up my mind, as I had repeatedly said, that a certain passage in ‘Jane Eyre,’ about sewing on brass rings, could have been written only by a woman or an upholsterer. I now addressed my reply externally to ‘Currer Bell, Esq.’ and began it “Madam.” [A second note from Currer Bell, expressing a wish to meet Miss Martineau, was answered by an invitation to tea.]
The footman would certainly announce this mysterious personage by his or her right name; and, as I could not hear the announcement, I charged my cousins to take care that I was duly informed of it. Precisely as the time-piece struck six, a carriage stopped at the door; and after a minute of suspense, the footman announced “Miss Brogden”; whereupon my cousin informed me that it was Miss Brontë; for we had heard the name before, among others, in the way of conjecture. I thought her the smallest creature I had ever seen (except at a fair) and her eyes blazed, as it seemed to me. She glanced quickly round; and my trumpet pointing me out, she held out her hand frankly and pleasantly. I introduced her, of course, to the family, and then came a moment which I had not anticipated. When she was seated by me on the sofa, she cast up at me such a look,--so loving, so appealing,--that, in connection with her deep mourning dress, and the knowledge that she was the sole survivor of her family, I could with utmost difficulty return her smile, or keep my composure. I should have been heartily glad to cry. We soon got on very well; and she appeared more at ease that evening than I ever saw her afterwards, except when we were alone.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.
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[Sidenote: Mr. Lewes’ account of Charlotte.]
Lewes was describing Currer Bell to me yesterday as a little, plain, provincial, sickly-looking old maid. Yet what passion, what fire in her! Quite as much as in George Sand, only the clothing is less voluptuous.
GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Sara Hennell, 1853. ‘George Eliot’s Life as related in her Letters and Journals,’ arranged and edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.
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[Sidenote: Thackeray’s recollection.]
I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions.... She formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely; but perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure and lofty and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me....
WM. M. THACKERAY: ‘Roundabout Papers.’ London: Smith & Elder, 1863.
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[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s elaborate description.]
She was ... very small in figure--“stunted” was the word she applied to herself--but as her limbs and head were in just proportion to the slight, fragile body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive of deformity could properly be applied to her. With soft, thick, brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to give a description as they appeared to me in her later life. They were large and well shaped; their color a reddish-brown; but if the iris was closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety of tints. The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence; but now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome indignation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had been kindled which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I never saw the like in any human creature. As for the rest of her features, they were plain, large, and ill set; but, unless you began to catalogue them, you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and power of the countenance overbalanced every physical defect; the crooked mouth and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself would have cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever saw; when one of the former was placed in mine, it was like the soft touch of a bird in the middle of my palm. The delicate long fingers had a peculiar fineness of sensation, which was one reason why all her handiwork of whatever kind--writing, sewing, knitting--was so clear in its minuteness. She was remarkably neat in her whole personal attire; but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes and gloves.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: A caricature.]
[Sidenote: Redeeming features.]
There is a little caricature sketched by herself lying before me as I write. In it all the more awkward of her physical points are ingeniously exaggerated. The prominent forehead bulges out in an aggressive manner, suggestive of hydrocephalus, the nose, “tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,” and the mouth are made unnecessarily large, while the little figure is clumsy and ungainly. But though she could never pretend to beauty, she had redeeming features, her eyes, hair, and massive forehead all being attractive points.
T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’
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[Sidenote: Charlotte’s well-known portrait.]
[Sidenote: The engraving.]
Mr. Nicholls asked me to step into the parlor and look at Charlotte’s portrait. It is the one from which the engraving in the ‘Life’ (Mrs. Gaskell’s) is made; but the latter does no justice to the picture, which Mr. Nicholls said was a perfect likeness of the original. I remarked that the engraving gives to the face, and especially to the eyes, a weird, sinister and unpleasant expression which did not appear in the portrait. He said he had observed it, and that nothing could be more unjust, for Charlotte’s eyes were as soft and affectionate in their expression as could possibly be conceived.
_Account of an Interview with Mr. Brontë and Mr. Nicholls_, quoted by T. W. REID.
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[Sidenote: Personal traits: Miss Martineau’s notes.]
[Sidenote: Slightly morbid.]
Between the appearance of ‘Shirley’ and that of ‘Villette’ she came to me;--in December, 1850. Our intercourse then confirmed my deep impression of her integrity, her noble conscientiousness about her vocation, and her consequent self-reliance in the moral conduct of her life. I saw at the same time tokens of a morbid condition of mind, in one or two directions;--much less than might have been expected, or than would have been seen in almost any one else under circumstances so unfavorable to health of body and mind as those in which she lived.
[Sidenote: Unspoilable.]
She was not only unspoiled by her sudden and prodigious fame, but obviously unspoilable. She was somewhat amazed by her fame, but oftener annoyed; at least when obliged to come out into the world to meet it, instead of its reaching her in her secluded home in the wilds of Yorkshire.
[Sidenote: Passionate love of truth.]
“I know,” she wrote, “that you will give me your thoughts upon my book, [‘Villette’] as frankly as if you spoke to some near relative whose good you preferred to her gratification. I wince under the pain of condemnation--like any other weak structure of flesh and blood; but I love, I honor, I kneel to Truth. Let her smite me on one cheek--good! the tears may spring to the eyes; but courage! There is the other side--hit again--hit sharply!” This was the genuine spirit of the woman. She might be weak for once; but her permanent temper was one of humility, candor, integrity and conscientiousness.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’
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[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s record: Charlotte’s dread of a strange face.]
I had several opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was ingrained in her constitution, and how acutely she suffered in striving to overcome it. One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters who sang Scottish ballads exquisitely. Miss Brontë had been sitting quiet and constrained till they began “The Bonnie House of Airlie,” but the effect of that and “Carlisle Yetts,” which followed, was as irresistible as the playing of the Piper of Hamelin. The beautiful clear light came into her eyes; her lips quivered with emotion; she forgot herself, rose, and crossed the room to the piano, where she asked eagerly for song after song. The sisters begged her to come and see them the next morning, when they would sing as long as ever she liked; and she promised gladly and thankfully. But on reaching the house her courage failed. We walked some time up and down the street; she upbraiding herself all the while for folly, and trying to dwell on the sweet echoes in her memory, rather than on the thoughts of a third sister who would have to be faced if we went in. But it was of no use; and dreading lest this struggle with herself might bring on one of her trying headaches, I entered at last and made the best apology I could for her non-appearance.
[Sidenote: Superstitiousness.]
There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at this period which told secrets about the finely-strung frame. One night I was on the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just before bed-time. She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she was superstitious, and prone at all times to the involuntary recurrence of any thoughts of ominous gloom which might have been suggested to her. She said that on first coming to us she had found a letter on her dressing-table from a friend in Yorkshire, containing a story which had impressed her vividly ever since;--that it mingled with her dreams at night, and made her sleep restless and unrefreshing.
[Sidenote: The Brontës not fond of children.]
Neither Charlotte nor her sisters were naturally fond of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it.... The little Brontës had been brought up motherless; and from knowing nothing of the gaiety and sportiveness of childhood--from never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves--they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities of humanity; they had never been drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years afterward, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she watched our little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part; and constantly maintained that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we differed on the point of their unusual excellence.
My youngest little girl ... would steal her little hand into Miss Brontë’s scarcely larger one, and each took pleasure in this apparently unobserved caress. Yet once when I told Julia to take and show her the way to some room in the house, Miss Brontë shrank back: “Do not _bid_ her do anything for me,” she said; “it has been so sweet hitherto to have her rendering her little attentions _spontaneously_.”
As illustrating her feelings with regard to children, I may give what she says in [one] of her letters to me:
“Whenever I see Florence and Julia again, I shall feel like a fond but bashful suitor, who views at a distance the fair personage to whom, in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the clearest idea I can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but to whom I am a stranger--and to what children am I not a stranger? They seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways, are all matter of half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation.”
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: Manner of composing.]
I remember many little particulars which Miss Brontë gave me, in answer to my inquiries respecting her mode of composition. She said, that it was not every day that she could write. Sometimes weeks or even months elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of her story which was already written. Then, some morning, she would waken up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her, in distinct vision. When this was the case, all her care was to discharge her household and filial duties, so as to obtain leisure to sit down and write out the incidents and consequent thoughts, which were, in fact, more present to her mind at such times than her actual life itself. Notwithstanding this “possession,” ... those who survive, of her daily and household companions, are clear in their testimony, that never was the claim of any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected for an instant. It had been necessary to give Tabby--now nearly eighty years of age--the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not bear to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness of her senses was dulled by age. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she was growing blind, she often left in those black specks, which we in the North call the “eyes” of the potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty a housekeeper to put up with this; yet she could not bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was less effectual than formerly. Accordingly, she would steal into the kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby’s being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspiration, in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and noiselessly carry them back to their place. This little proceeding may show how orderly and fully she accomplished her duties, even at those times when the possession was upon her.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: Handwriting, etc.]
Miss Brontë’s handwriting was exceedingly small, nervous, and poor, but quite legible. Her first manuscript was a very small square book, or folding of paper, from which she copied, with extreme care. She was as much surprised to find that I never copy at all, as I was at her imposing on herself so much toil which seems to me unnecessary.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’
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[Sidenote: Charlotte’s pen-portrait of herself.]
Those who would understand Charlotte, even more than those who would understand Emily, should study the difference of tenderness between the touch that drew Shirley Keeldar and the touch that drew Lucy Snowe. This latter figure, as Mr. Wemyss Reid has observed with indisputable accuracy of insight, was, doubtless, if never meant to win liking or made to find favor in the general reader’s eyes, yet none the less evidently on that account the faithful likeness of Charlotte Brontë, studied from the life, and painted by her own hand with the sharp austere precision of a photograph rather than a portrait. But it is herself with the consolation and support of her genius withdrawn, with the strength of her spiritual arm immeasurably shortened, the cunning of her right hand comparatively cancelled; and this it is that makes the main undertone and ultimate result of the book somewhat mournfuller even than the literal record of her mournful and glorious life.
A. C. SWINBURNE: ‘A Note on Charlotte Brontë.’ London: Chatto & Windus, 1877.
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[Sidenote: A chat with Mrs. Gaskell.]
[Sidenote: The parlor at Haworth in Charlotte’s last days.]
We talked over the clear, bright fire; it is a cold country, and the fires were a pretty warm dancing light all over the house. The parlor has been evidently refurnished within the last few years, since Miss Brontë’s success has enabled her to have a little more money to spend. Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea of a country parsonage, possessed by people of very moderate means. The prevailing color of the room is crimson, to make a warm setting for the cold, gray landscape without. There is her likeness by Richmond, and an engraving from Laurence’s picture of Thackeray; and two recesses on each side of the high, narrow, old-fashioned mantel-piece, filled with books--books given to her, books she has bought, and which tell of her individual pursuits and tastes; not standard books.
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s weak sight.]
She cannot see well, and does little beside knitting. The way she weakened her eyesight was this: When she was sixteen or seventeen, she wanted much to draw, and she copied nimini-pimini copper-plate engravings out of annuals (“stippling,” don’t the artists call it?); ... till at the end of six months she had produced an exquisitely faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted to learn to express her ideas by drawing. After she had tried to draw stories, and not succeeded, she took the better mode of writing, but in so small a hand that it is almost impossible to decipher what she wrote at this time.
[Sidenote: Habits of order.]
[Sidenote: Emily “a Titan.”]
[Sidenote: A picture by Branwell.]
I soon observed that her habits of order were such that she could not go on with the conversation if a chair was out of its place; everything was arranged with delicate regularity.... I told her of ----’s admiration of ‘Shirley,’ which pleased her, for the character of ‘Shirley’ was meant for her sister Emily, about whom she is never tired of talking, nor I of listening. Emily must have been a remnant of the Titans--great-grand-daughter of the giants who used to inhabit the earth. One day Miss Brontë brought down a rough, common-looking oil painting, done by her brother, of herself--a little, rather prim-looking girl of eighteen--and the two other sisters, girls of sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair, and sad, dreamy-looking eyes.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: Charlotte’s life-long friendship with Ellen Nussey.]