Charlotte Bronte and Her Circle Part 18

'MY DEAR SIR,--Your letter seems to relieve me from a difficulty and to open my way. I know it would be useless to consult Drs. Elliotson or Forbes: my sister would not see the most skilful physician in England if he were brought to her just now, nor would she follow his prescription. With regard to h.o.m.oeopathy, she has at least admitted that it cannot do much harm; perhaps if I get the medicines she may consent to try them; at any rate, the experiment shall be made.

'Not knowing Dr. Epps's address, I send the inclosed statement of her case through your hands. {173}

'I deeply feel both your kindness and Mr. Smith's in thus interesting yourselves in what touches me so nearly.--Believe me, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_December_ 15_th_, 1848.

'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I mentioned your coming here to Emily as a mere suggestion, with the faint hope that the prospect might cheer her, as she really esteems you perhaps more than any other person out of this house. I found, however, it would not do; any, the slightest excitement or putting out of the way is not to be thought of, and indeed I do not think the journey in this unsettled weather, with the walk from Keighley and walk back, at all advisable for yourself. Yet I should have liked to see you, and so would Anne. Emily continues much the same; yesterday I thought her a little better, but to-day she is not so well. I hope still, for I _must_ hope--she is dear to me as life. If I let the faintness of despair reach my heart I shall become worthless. The attack was, I believe, in the first place, inflammation of the lungs; it ought to have been met promptly in time. She is too intractable. I _do_ wish I knew her state and feelings more clearly. The fever is not so high as it was, but the pain in the side, the cough, the emaciation are there still.

'Remember me kindly to all at Brookroyd, and believe me, yours faithfully,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_December_ 21_st_, 1848.

'MY DEAR ELLEN,--Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now.

She will never suffer more in this world. She is gone, after a hard, short conflict. She died on _Tuesday_, the very day I wrote to you.

I thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks, and a few hours afterwards she was in eternity. Yes, there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by; the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is G.o.d's will, and the place where she is gone is better than she has left.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_December_ 25_th_, 1848.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I will write to you more at length when my heart can find a little rest--now I can only thank you very briefly for your letter, which seemed to me eloquent in its sincerity.

'Emily is nowhere here now, her wasted mortal remains are taken out of the house. We have laid her cherished head under the church aisle beside my mother's, my two sisters'--dead long ago--and my poor, hapless brother's. But a small remnant of the race is left--so my poor father thinks.

'Well, the loss is ours, not hers, and some sad comfort I take, as I hear the wind blow and feel the cutting keenness of the frost, in knowing that the elements bring her no more suffering; their severity cannot reach her grave; her fever is quieted, her restlessness soothed, her deep, hollow cough is hushed for ever; we do not hear it in the night nor listen for it in the morning; we have not the conflict of the strangely strong spirit and the fragile frame before us--relentless conflict--once seen, never to be forgotten. A dreary calm reigns round us, in the midst of which we seek resignation.

'My father and my sister Anne are far from well. As for me, G.o.d has. .h.i.therto most graciously sustained me; so far I have felt adequate to bear my own burden and even to offer a little help to others. I am not ill; I can get through daily duties, and do something towards keeping hope and energy alive in our mourning household. My father says to me almost hourly, "Charlotte, you must bear up, I shall sink if you fail me"; these words, you can conceive, are a stimulus to nature. The sight, too, of my sister Anne's very still but deep sorrow wakens in me such fear for her that I dare not falter.

Somebody _must_ cheer the rest.

'So I will not now ask why Emily was torn from us in the fulness of our attachment, rooted up in the prime of her own days, in the promise of her powers; why her existence now lies like a field of green corn trodden down, like a tree in full bearing struck at the root. I will only say, sweet is rest after labour and calm after tempest, and repeat again and again that Emily knows that now.--Yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

And then there are these last pathetic references to the beloved sister.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_January_ 2_nd_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--Untoward circ.u.mstances come to me, I think, less painfully than pleasant ones would just now. The lash of the _Quarterly_, however severely applied, cannot sting--as its praise probably would not elate me. Currer Bell feels a sorrowful independence of reviews and reviewers; their approbation might indeed fall like an additional weight on his heart, but their censure has no bitterness for him.

'My sister Anne sends the accompanying answer to the letter received through you the other day; will you be kind enough to post it? She is not well yet, nor is papa, both are suffering under severe influenza colds. My letters had better be brief at present--they cannot be cheerful. I am, however, still sustained. While looking with dismay on the desolation sickness and death have wrought in our home, I can combine with awe of G.o.d's judgments a sense of grat.i.tude for his mercies. Yet life has become very void, and hope has proved a strange traitor; when I shall again be able to put confidence in her suggestions, I know not: she kept whispering that Emily would not, _could_ not die, and where is she now? Out of my reach, out of my world--torn from me.--Yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

'_March_ 3_rd_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--Hitherto, I have always forgotten to acknowledge the receipt of the parcel from Cornhill. It came at a time when I could not open it nor think of it; its contents are still a mystery. I will not taste, till I can enjoy them. I looked at it the other day.

It reminded me too sharply of the time when the first parcel arrived last October: Emily was then beginning to be ill--the opening of the parcel and examination of the books cheered her; their perusal occupied her for many a weary day. The very evening before her last morning dawned I read to her one of Emerson's essays. I read on, till I found she was not listening--I thought to recommence next day.

Next day, the first glance at her face told me what would happen before night-fall.

'C. BRONTE.'

'_November_ 19_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I am very sorry to hear that Mr. Taylor's illness has proved so much more serious than was antic.i.p.ated, but I do hope he is now better. That he should be quite well cannot be as yet expected, for I believe rheumatic fever is a complaint slow to leave the system it has invaded.

'Now that I have almost formed the resolution of coming to London, the thought begins to present itself to me under a pleasant aspect.

At first it was sad; it recalled the last time I went and with whom, and to whom I came home, and in what dear companionship I again and again narrated all that had been seen, heard, and uttered in that visit. Emily would never go into any sort of society herself, and whenever I went I could on my return communicate to her a pleasure that suited her, by giving the distinct faithful impression of each scene I had witnessed. When pressed to go, she would sometimes say, "What is the use? Charlotte will bring it all home to me." And indeed I delighted to please her thus. My occupation is gone now.

'I shall come to be lectured. I perceive you are ready with animadversion; you are not at all well satisfied on some points, so I will open my ears to hear, nor will I close my heart against conviction; but I forewarn you, I have my own doctrines, not acquired, but innate, some that I fear cannot be rooted up without tearing away all the soil from which they spring, and leaving only unproductive rock for new seed.

'I have read the _Caxtons_, I have looked at _f.a.n.n.y Hervey_. I think I will not write what I think of either--should I see you I will speak it.

'Take a hundred, take a thousand of such works and weigh them in the balance against a page of Thackeray. I hope Mr. Thackeray is recovered.

'The _Sun_, the _Morning Herald_, and the _Critic_ came this morning.

None of them express disappointment from _Shirley_, or on the whole compare her disadvantageously with _Jane_. It strikes me that those worthies--the _Athenaeum_, _Spectator_, _Economist_, made haste to be first with their notices that they might give the tone; if so, their manoeuvre has not yet quite succeeded.

'The _Critic_, our old friend, is a friend still. Why does the pulse of pain beat in every pleasure? Ellis and Acton Bell are referred to, and where are they? I will not repine. Faith whispers they are not in those graves to which imagination turns--the feeling, thinking, the inspired natures are beyond earth, in a region more glorious. I believe them blessed. I think, I _will_ think, my loss has been _their_ gain. Does it weary you that I refer to them? If so, forgive me.--Yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.

'Before closing this I glanced over the letter inclosed under your cover. Did you read it? It is from a lady, not quite an old maid, but nearly one, she says; no signature or date; a queer, but good-natured production, it made me half cry, half laugh. I am sure _Shirley_ has been exciting enough for her, and too exciting. I cannot well reply to the letter since it bears no address, and I am glad--I should not know what to say. She is not sure whether I am a gentleman or not, but I fancy she thinks so. Have you any idea who she is? If I were a gentleman and like my heroes, she suspects she should fall in love with me. She had better not. It would be a pity to cause such a waste of sensibility. You and Mr. Smith would not let me announce myself as a single gentleman of mature age in my preface, but if you had permitted it, a great many elderly spinsters would have been pleased.'

The last words that I have to say concerning Emily are contained in a letter to me from Miss Ellen Nussey.

'So very little is known of Emily Bronte,' she writes, 'that every little detail awakens an interest. Her extreme reserve seemed impenetrable, yet she was intensely lovable; she invited confidence in her moral power. Few people have the gift of looking and smiling as she could look and smile. One of her rare expressive looks was something to remember through life, there was such a depth of soul and feeling, and yet a shyness of revealing herself--a strength of self-containment seen in no other. She was in the strictest sense a law unto herself, and a heroine in keeping to her law. She and gentle Anne were to be seen twined together as united statues of power and humility. They were to be seen with their arms lacing each other in their younger days whenever their occupations permitted their union. On the top of a moor or in a deep glen Emily was a child in spirit for glee and enjoyment; or when thrown entirely on her own resources to do a kindness, she could be vivacious in conversation and enjoy giving pleasure. A spell of mischief also lurked in her on occasions when out on the moors. She enjoyed leading Charlotte where she would not dare to go of her own free-will. Charlotte had a mortal dread of unknown animals, and it was Emily's pleasure to lead her into close vicinity, and then to tell her of how and of what she had done, laughing at her horror with great amus.e.m.e.nt. If Emily wanted a book she might have left in the sitting-room she would dart in again without looking at any one, especially if any guest were present. Among the curates, Mr.

Weightman was her only exception for any conventional courtesy. The ability with which she took up music was amazing; the style, the touch, and the expression was that of a professor absorbed heart and soul in his theme. The two dogs, Keeper and Flossy, were always in quiet waiting by the side of Emily and Anne during their breakfast of Scotch oatmeal and milk, and always had a share handed down to them at the close of the meal. Poor old Keeper, Emily's faithful friend and worshipper, seemed to understand her like a human being. One evening, when the four friends were sitting closely round the fire in the sitting-room, Keeper forced himself in between Charlotte and Emily and mounted himself on Emily's lap; finding the s.p.a.ce too limited for his comfort he pressed himself forward on to the guest's knees, making himself quite comfortable. Emily's heart was won by the unresisting endurance of the visitor, little guessing that she herself, being in close contact, was the inspiring cause of submission to Keeper's preference. Sometimes Emily would delight in showing off Keeper--make him frantic in action, and roar with the voice of a lion. It was a terrifying exhibition within the walls of an ordinary sitting-room. Keeper was a solemn mourner at Emily's funeral and never recovered his cheerfulness.'

CHAPTER VII: ANNE BRONTE

It can scarcely be doubted that Anne Bronte's two novels, _Agnes Grey_ and _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_, would have long since fallen into oblivion but for the inevitable a.s.sociation with the romances of her two greater sisters. While this may he taken for granted, it is impossible not to feel, even at the distance of half a century, a sense of Anne's personal charm. Gentleness is a word always a.s.sociated with her by those who knew her. When Mr. Nicholls saw what professed to be a portrait of Anne in a magazine article, he wrote: 'What an awful caricature of the dear, gentle Anne Bronte!' Mr. Nicholls has a portrait of Anne in his possession, drawn by Charlotte, which he p.r.o.nounces to be an admirable likeness, and this does convey the impression of a sweet and gentle nature.

Anne, as we have seen, was taken in long clothes from Thornton to Haworth. Her G.o.dmother was a Miss Outhwaite, a fact I learn from an inscription in Anne's _Book of Common Prayer_. '_Miss Outhwaite to her G.o.ddaughter_, _Anne Bronte_, _July _13_th_, 1827.' Miss Outhwaite was not forgetful of her G.o.ddaughter, for by her will she left Anne 200 pounds.