Charlotte Bronte and Her Circle Part 21

'Do not forget to tell me how you are when you write again. I trust your indisposition is quite gone by this time.--Believe me, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_May_ 1_st_, 1849.

'DEAR ELLEN,--I returned Mary Taylor's letter to Hunsworth as soon as I had read it. Thank G.o.d she was safe up to that time, but I do not think the earthquake was then over. I shall long to hear tidings of her again.

'Anne was worse during the warm weather we had about a week ago. She grew weaker, and both the pain in her side and her cough were worse; strange to say, since it is colder, she has appeared rather to revive than sink. I still hope that if she gets over May she may last a long time.

'We have engaged lodgings at Scarbro'. We stipulated for a good-sized sitting-room and an airy double-bedded lodging room, with a sea view, and if not deceived, have obtained these desiderata at No. 2 Cliff. Anne says it is one of the best situations in the place. It would not have done to have taken lodgings either in the town or on the bleak steep coast, where Miss Wooler's house is situated. If Anne is to get any good she must have every advantage.

Miss Outhwaite [her G.o.dmother] left her in her will a legacy of 200 pounds, and she cannot employ her money better than in obtaining what may prolong existence, if it does not restore health. We hope to leave home on the 23rd, and I think it will be advisable to rest at York, and stay all night there. I hope this arrangement will suit you. We reckon on your society, dear Ellen, as a real privilege and pleasure. We shall take little luggage, and shall have to buy bonnets and dresses and several other things either at York or Scarbro'; which place do you think would be best? Oh, if it would please G.o.d to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be together! His will, however, must be done, and if she is not to recover, it remains to pray for strength and patience.

'C. B.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_May_ 8_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I hasten to acknowledge the two kind letters for which I am indebted to you. That fine spring weather of which you speak did not bring such happiness to us in its sunshine as I trust it did to you and thousands besides--the change proved trying to my sister.

For a week or ten days I did not know what to think, she became so weak, and suffered so much from increased pain in the side, and aggravated cough. The last few days have been much colder, yet, strange to say, during their continuance she has appeared rather to revive than sink. She not unfrequently shows the very same symptoms which were apparent in Emily only a few days before she died--fever in the evenings, sleepless nights, and a sort of lethargy in the morning hours; this creates acute anxiety--then comes an improvement, which rea.s.sures. In about three weeks, should the weather be genial and her strength continue at all equal to the journey, we hope to go to Scarboro'. It is not without misgiving that I contemplate a departure from home under such circ.u.mstances; but since she herself earnestly wishes the experiment to be tried, I think it ought not to be neglected. We are in G.o.d's hands, and must trust the results to Him. An old school-fellow of mine, a tried and faithful friend, has volunteered to accompany us. I shall have the satisfaction of leaving papa to the attentions of two servants equally tried and faithful. One of them is indeed now old and infirm, and unfit to stir much from her chair by the kitchen fireside; but the other is young and active, and even she has lived with us seven years. I have reason, therefore, you see, to be thankful amidst sorrow, especially as papa still possesses every faculty unimpaired, and though not robust, has good general health--a sort of chronic cough is his sole complaint.

'I hope Mr. Smith will not risk a cheap edition of _Jane Eyre_ yet, he had better wait awhile--the public will be sick of the name of that one book. I can make no promise as to when another will be ready--neither my time nor my efforts are my own. That absorption in my employment to which I gave myself up without fear of doing wrong when I wrote _Jane Eyre_, would now be alike impossible and blamable; but I do what I can, and have made some little progress. We must all be patient.

'Meantime, I should say, let the public forget at their ease, and let us not be nervous about it. And as to the critics, if the Bells possess real merit, I do not fear impartial justice being rendered them one day. I have a very short mental as well as physical sight in some matters, and am far less uneasy at the idea of public impatience, misconstruction, censure, etc., than I am at the thought of the anxiety of those two or three friends in Cornhill to whom I owe much kindness, and whose expectations I would earnestly wish not to disappoint. If they can make up their minds to wait tranquilly, and put some confidence in my goodwill, if not my power, to get on as well as may be, I shall not repine; but I verily believe that the "n.o.bler s.e.x" find it more difficult to wait, to plod, to work out their destiny inch by inch, than their sisters do. They are always for walking so fast and taking such long steps, one cannot keep up with them. One should never tell a gentleman that one has commenced a task till it is nearly achieved. Currer Bell, even if he had no let or hindrance, and if his path were quite smooth, could never march with the tread of a Scott, a Bulwer, a Thackeray, or a d.i.c.kens.

I want you and Mr. Smith clearly to understand this. I have always wished to guard you against exaggerated antic.i.p.ations--calculate low when you calculate on me. An honest man--and woman too--would always rather rise above expectation than fall below it.

'Have I lectured enough? and am I understood?

'Give my sympathising respects to Mrs. Williams. I hope her little daughter is by this time restored to perfect health. It pleased me to see with what satisfaction you speak of your son. I was glad, too, to hear of the progress and welfare of Miss Kavanagh. The notices of Mr. Harris's works are encouraging and just--may they contribute to his success!

'Should Mr. Thackeray again ask after Currer Bell, say the secret is and will be well kept because it is not worth disclosure. This fact his own sagacity will have already led him to divine. In the hope that it may not be long ere I hear from you again,--Believe me, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS WOOLER

'HAWORTH, _May_ 16_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR MISS WOOLER,--I will lose no time in thanking you for your letter and kind offer of a.s.sistance. We have, however, already engaged lodgings. I am not myself acquainted with Scarbro', but Anne knows it well, having been there three or four times. She had a particular preference for the situation of some lodgings (No. 2 Cliff). We wrote about them, and finding them disengaged, took them.

Your information is, notwithstanding, valuable, should we find this place in any way ineligible. It is a satisfaction to be provided with directions for future use.

'Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure. Ellen Nussey accompanies us (by Anne's expressed wish). I could not refuse her society, but I dared not urge her to go, for I have little hope that the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit to those engaged in it. Anne is extremely weak. She herself has a fixed impression that the sea air will give her a chance of regaining strength; that chance, therefore, we must have. Having resolved to try the experiment, misgivings are useless; and yet, when I look at her, misgivings will rise. She is more emaciated than Emily was at the very last; her breath scarcely serves her to mount the stairs, however slowly. She sleeps very little at night, and often pa.s.ses most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state. Still, she is up all day, and even goes out a little when it is fine. Fresh air usually acts as a stimulus, but its reviving power diminishes.

'With best wishes for your own health and welfare,--Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'No. 2 CLIFF, SCARBORO', _May_ 27_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--The date above will inform you why I have not answered your last letter more promptly. I have been busy with preparations for departure and with the journey. I am thankful to say we reached our destination safely, having rested one night at York. We found a.s.sistance wherever we needed it; there was always an arm ready to do for my sister what I was not quite strong enough to do: lift her in and out of the carriages, carry her across the line, etc.

'It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro'

and its bay once more. There is yet no revival of bodily strength--I fear indeed the slow ebb continues. People who see her tell me I must not expect her to last long--but it is something to cheer her mind.

'Our lodgings are pleasant. As Anne sits at the window she can look down on the sea, which this morning is calm as gla.s.s. She says if she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this moment--but she cannot breathe freely.

'My friend Ellen is with us. I find her presence a solace. She is a calm, steady girl--not brilliant, but good and true. She suits and has always suited me well. I like her, with her phlegm, repose, sense, and sincerity, better than I should like the most talented without these qualifications.

'If ever I see you again I should have pleasure in talking over with you the topics you allude to in your last--or rather, in hearing _you_ talk them over. We see these things through a gla.s.s darkly--or at least I see them thus. So far from objecting to speculation on, or discussion of, the subject, I should wish to hear what others have to say. By _others_, I mean only the serious and reflective--levity in such matters shocks as much as hypocrisy.

'Write to me. In this strange place your letters will come like the visits of a friend. Fearing to lose the post, I will add no more at present.--Believe me, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_May_ 30_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--My poor sister is taken quietly home at last. She died on Monday. With almost her last breath she said she was happy, and thanked G.o.d that death was come, and come so gently. I did not think it would be so soon.

'You will not expect me to add more at present.--Yours faithfully,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_June_ 25_th_, 1849.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I am now again at home, where I returned last Thursday. I call it _home_ still--much as London would be called London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins. But let me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and not quite a ruined or desolate home either. Papa is there, and two most affectionate and faithful servants, and two old dogs, in their way as faithful and affectionate--Emily's large house-dog which lay at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault, lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was being read--and Anne's little spaniel. The ecstasy of these poor animals when I came in was something singular. At former returns from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly--but not in that strange, heart-touching way. I am certain they thought that, as I was returned, my sisters were not far behind. But here my sisters will come no more. Keeper may visit Emily's little bed-room--as he still does day by day--and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne, they will never see them again--nor shall I--at least the human part of me. I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly? In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of solitude--the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me. I am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views. As to the night--could I do without bed, I would never seek it. Waking, I think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering.

Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell's death--they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on waking were at that time such as we do not put into language. Worse seemed at hand than was yet endured--in truth, worse awaited us.

'All this bitterness must be tasted. Perhaps the palate will grow used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid. This pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one day. Ellen would have come back with me but I would not let her. I knew it would be better to face the desolation at once--later or sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.

'Labour must be the cure, not sympathy. Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow. The society of a calm, serenely cheerful companion--such as Ellen--soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are necessary to make a remedy. Total change might do much; where that cannot be obtained, work is the best subst.i.tute.

'I by no means ask Miss Kavanagh to write to me. Why should she trouble herself to do it? What claim have I on her? She does not know me--she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay. I have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me. I have tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean upon it. The natural affection of my father and the attachment and solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me, but I do not look round for general pity; conventional condolence I do not want, either from man or woman.

'The letter you inclosed in your last bore the signature H. S.

Mayers--the address, Sheeps...o...b.., Stroud, Gloucestershire; can you give me any information respecting the writer? It is my intention to acknowledge it one day. I am truly glad to hear that your little invalid is restored to health, and that the rest of your family continue well. Mrs. Williams should spare herself for her husband's and children's sake. Her life and health are too valuable to those round her to be lavished--she should be careful of them.--Believe me, yours sincerely,

'C. BRONTE.'

It is not necessary to tell over again the story of Anne's death. Miss Ellen Nussey, who was an eye witness, has related it once for all in Mrs.

Gaskell's Memoir. The tomb at Scarborough hears the following inscription:--