A few hundred yards further on and the weather suddenly changes again. The sky dulls, the wind whips my cheeks and the air is icy. The top now looks cold and sinister. I stop to place a stone on top of a cairn. These traditions die hard, and in weather less clement than today these makeshift waymarkers can be lifesavers. Did Branwell stop here to add to the pile? Did Wordsworth? Although there are bigger mountains, the steepness of Black Combe never lets up.
Eventually, I climb to the top. It’s mostly flat, with a scattering of rocks and clumps of grass. In the middle of this level top, there is a white trig point surrounded by a circular drystone wall that offers scant shelter from the gusty winds. You can see for miles around in every direction: to the east, far out to sea, a wind farm on the horizon; to the south-east, the River Duddon as it opens out into the mouth of the estuary, which in turn bleeds into the Irish Sea; to the north, behind the Combe, the great mounds and undulations of the Cumbrian mountains.
I have been accompanied along my entire journey by the soundtrack of the skylark, but it is only here, standing next to the trig point, that I can look up and see the bird above me, singing its heart out. From the west face of the Combe, I can see the Duddon valley in its entirety. This side of the Combe is corrugated with ravines and gills.
I take out Branwell’s poem again and this time compare it to Wordsworth’s ‘View from the top of Black Comb’.
This height a ministering angel might select:
For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands: — low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
To the southwest, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eyesight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot’s stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde: —
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth,
Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial station’s western base,
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
Far into silent regions blue and pale; —
And visibly engirding Mona’s Isle,
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak
Her habitable shores, but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator’s feet. — Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? or there
Do we behold the line of Erin’s coast?
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain
(Like the bright confines of another world)
Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now!
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene
The spectacle, how pure! — Of Nature’s works,
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,
A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man’s inheritance,
Of Britain’s calm felicity and power!
Some may say Wordsworth’s is the better poem. It is more sustained, more ambitious, loftier, certainly. But I prefer the simple ruggedness of Branwell’s. He only spent six months of his life here, but it seems to have been a creative six months, not only inspiring him to write poetry, but also to paint and draw. And it seems to have been an amorous time. He wrote to John Brown on 13 March 1840, no doubt talking about Robert Postlethwaite’s eighteen-year-old daughter Margaret: ‘I have one sitting by me just now – fair-faced, blue eyes, dark haired sweet eighteen – she little thinks the devil is so near her!’ But despite his carnal sentiments, he is unlikely to have made a move on his employer’s daughter (though employers’ wives are another thing, as we’ll see). Yet Juliet Barker is also convinced that during his stay he fathered an illegitimate child who died. She writes:
In October 1859, a friend of Mrs Gaskell’s, Richard Monckton Milnes, then Lord Houghton, visited William Brown, the sexton of Haworth, and was shown a number of letters written by Branwell to William’s brother John. Among them was the letter addressed to ‘Old Knave of Trumps’ from Broughton, which Brown had clearly not censored as Branwell had requested and which Houghton was therefore able partially to transcribe. Beneath his transcript, Houghton noted that Branwell ‘left Mr Postlethwaites with a natural child by one of the daughters or servants – which died’.
Through impressive detective work, she narrows the possibilities down to three women in the parish who all gave birth to illegitimate children during the period: Eleanor Nelson, Frances Atkinson and Agnes Riley. Eleanor Nelson was nineteen and living at Syke House. She was possibly a Postlethwaite servant. Frances Atkinson was seventeen, and the records suggest that she could have been a servant for either Postlethwaite or Fish. But according to Barker, the most probable is Agnes Riley, who was twenty-one. Her daughter, Mary Riley, was born on 20 February 1841, meaning she was conceived in May while Branwell was living in Broughton. Mary was one of Branwell’s favourite names. There is also the poem that he wrote in 1846 called ‘Epistle from a Father on Earth to his Child in her Grave’, which does what it says on the tin. The unnamed narrator addresses his child who died when ‘the day was in its dawn’. And ‘I – thy life’s source – was a wandering … keen mountain winds’. It returns to a well-worn theme in Branwell’s work: that the dead are free, and it is the living who are burdened. Is this autobiographical? Juliet Barker thinks so.
When he returned to Haworth, we do not know what excuse he used to explain his dismissal, but if he did father an illegitimate child here in Broughton, then that could well be the reason. And this was not perhaps the first time he had fathered a child. Descendants of Mary Ann Judson, who was born at Buckley Farms near Stanbury in 1839, believe she was Branwell’s illegitimate daughter by Martha Judson, a twenty-six-year-old married woman.
Sitting on top of a mountain is a great place to contemplate and reflect on our lives. From up here, we have a god-like perspective on the world, but at the same time we feel the smallness and the insignificance of our existence. Was Branwell reflecting on fatherhood? Or was he instead thinking of himself as a great Romantic poet in the Wordsworth tradition? He did not know as he stood on this brooding peak that he was not going to achieve any of his lofty ambitions but would instead die an ignominious death at the age of only thirty-one.
7
Luddenden Foot
Luddenden Foot railway station no longer exists. In its place is Fairlea Industrial Estate, which includes Vocation Brewery, a 4x4 van seller and one of the worst examples of public art I have ever encountered: a statue of Branwell Brontë. A short, squat figure, less than four feet high, that looks like a cross between a hunchbacked gargoyle and a morbidly obese leprechaun with grotesquely oversized hands. The figure bears no resemblance to Branwell Brontë. He bears no resemblance to any human form, to the extent that you wonder whether the sculptor actually ever saw a drawing of Branwell or ever observed a human being.
It is clearly a popular place for fly-tipping, because next to the statue is a handwritten sign that says ‘Please take your rubbish home’. The site has been cleared, but there are still remnants of detritus caught in the metal fence. The statue of Branwell stands beneath two trees, close to this fence. He clutches a scroll with his Goliath hands that are about three times the size of mine. On the scroll there is a quote: ‘I cannot think as roses blow’. It is a line from a poem he wrote in December 1841 while he was positioned at this station. Except the sculptor has got the line wrong; it should read, ‘I cannot think – think roses blow’. The sculptor has given Branwell a boxer’s nose and a squished-in mouth. He has carved bog eyes, each one not only facing in a different direction, but render
ed in a different style. There is no attempt at symmetry.
There used to be another really bad statue of Branwell on the towpath of the Rochdale Canal in Sowerby Bridge to mark his time working at that railway station – a badly carved wooden totem pole, with Branwell at the top – but it was burnt down by locals with good taste and is now a charred stump. Sally Wainwright wanted to end her film To Walk Invisible with a final shot of the statue but had to cut the scene when the figure was torched. I wonder if the locals knew of her intention?
This statue at Luddenden Foot, the only existing one, marks the spot where Branwell worked as clerk-in-charge from April Fool’s Day 1841 until he was dismissed for neglecting his duties in March 1842. Under his watch, £11 1s. 7d. went missing, equivalent to about £1,200 today. Although he was employed for less than a year, it was a creative period for him. He spent a lot of his time exploring the Calder Valley, and it was during this time that ‘Heaven and Earth’ was published in the Halifax Guardian, the first of many of his poems, under the pseudonym Northangerland. Although the literary achievements of his sisters would later eclipse his, he was the first to see his words in print and also the first to use a nom de plume.
In 2017, the bicentenary of Branwell’s birth, Christopher Goddard was commissioned by the Parsonage Museum to devise a Branwell walk, from the former station to Haworth, a route Branwell himself took on more than one occasion. Christopher called it the ‘Wandering Bard Walk’. At nearly eleven miles, it’s a decent linear yomp that takes in some interesting features, exploring the Calder Valley, over the tops of the moors to his family home. It includes varied woodlands, open moors and numerous pubs. I did the walk some time ago, but today I’m only doing a small section of it, ending at the Lord Nelson pub, where Branwell drank with local writers and artists, such as the poets William Dearden and William Heaton, and the sculptor Joseph Bentley Leyland.
I’m with Sarah Fanning, a writer and academic who specialises in film and TV adaptations of the Brontës’ novels. She’s based in Canada at Mount Allison University in New Brunswick. She’s written about adaptations of both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, and is currently working on an essay about Sally Wainwright’s film To Walk Invisible. She’s just come from an interview with Adam Nagaitis, who played Branwell in the film.
We stand and stare at the statue in disbelief. Sarah takes out her phone and photographs it from various angles. ‘It’s so telling,’ Sarah says at last. ‘It symbolises the culture of rejection that’s built up around Branwell ever since Gaskell’s The Life of Charlotte Brontë emerged in 1857.’
‘Yes, it’s amazing how much that still influences people’s impressions of Branwell, isn’t it? And maybe the Brontës in general.’
‘Gaskell really maligned Branwell in the public’s imagination as nothing more than a drunkard and failure who terrorised an otherwise peaceful household. The positive attributes of Branwell’s character and his own genius are somehow less interesting to the public, or at least are eclipsed, purposefully or not, by his sisters’ more remarkable stories. I’m amazed at how this statue quite literally solidifies the longstanding Gaskellian myth. I’m saddened by how small, ugly and moss-ridden it is. It really hits home how marginalised he still is in the Brontë story.’
It seems Sarah’s not a fan of the statue either. We walk up Station Road, past Milner Place. Although the station is no longer here, the train still rattles past. It must irk the good people of Luddenden that they have lost their rail link, a poorly executed statue of a former employee being no substitute. We cross a wrought-iron bridge over the River Calder. It’s wide and shallow at this point, and its waters resemble frothy coffee. A dipper skips onto a stone. It bobs its plump body up and down and cocks its tail. Its creamy white chest contrasts with its dark wing feathers, like it’s wearing a bib and tuxedo. It just needs a black bowtie to complete the look. There are still marks on the nearby buildings where the river burst its banks on Boxing Day 2016, causing millions of pounds of damage. We pass the park on our right and to our left a pub called the Old Brandy Wine. The road then goes over the Rochdale Canal, which travels to Hebden Bridge in one direction and Sowerby Bridge in the other. We attempt to cross the always busy Burnley Road. On the other side, we immediately hit a left up some old stone steps that lead to Danny Lane.
As we climb the cobbled road, I turn to Sarah and say, ‘So what’s this fascination of yours with adaptations? When did it start?’
‘When I was an undergraduate student living in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I guess. I was beginning to become interested in media studies, and I saw this new interest merging with my love for Victorian literature and the Brontës more generally. I think at first I was simply interested in seeing how filmmakers brought the complexity of Victorian novels to life on screen.’
‘It’s interesting to see how adaptions reflect their own time, perhaps?’
‘Yes, they act as snapshots of what’s going on in the world. You know, what kind of a man is Rochester in Hollywood in the 1940s?’
‘You’re referring to the 1943 Robert Stevenson version starring Orson Welles as Rochester?’
‘Yeah. When you watch that film today, you see war propaganda all over it. I was drawn to how texts like the Brontës’ can be read against ongoing ideological changes across history, and how they come to mean something different to us depending on what’s going on in our own cultures and societies. You see the impervious soldier-type man striding around in a black cape all the time with a thundering voice.’
‘I guess adaptations of Wuthering Heights are a good way of seeing that occur, because there is at least one for every age. Particularly the character of Heathcliff. We seem to use him as a totem for something redolent in our culture at any particular time.’
‘Exactly. Look what happens in the 1960s. The BBC starts adapting Wuthering Heights. And it’s no surprise Heathcliff fits perfectly into 1960s counterculture. His ostracism, dejection and anger align closely with the kind of issues 1960s youth culture was facing.’
‘This is the one with Ian McShane, right?’
‘Yes, the 1967 one. His brooding temperament along with his feelings of isolation and dissatisfaction with his lot – not to mention his Beatles haircut! – find a strong parallel with what was going on in Britain at that moment.’
‘I’ve just chaired a panel discussion about the 1992 film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. At Holmfirth Film Festival. I think it’s the only film adaptation to include the second-generation story.’
‘I didn’t like Juliette Binoche in that film. She just giggles through the whole thing. And I think Heathcliff is a much more complicated character than they allow him to be in that film. It’s Ralph Fiennes, right?’
‘Yeah, his film debut.’
‘He looks like a Harlequin male model.’
‘The whole thing is too stylised. And that includes Ralph Fiennes. He’s got make-up on to create a swarthy complexion. He’s wearing ridiculously over-the-top clothing. It’s filmed in North Yorkshire, so the landscape is very different.’
‘It’s very rocky, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, limestone. And somehow that takes something away from the characterisation. But also the house itself, Wuthering Heights, is this big Gothic castle.’
‘It’s hyperbole. It’s a complete misreading of the subtleties of the characters. The tone, the atmosphere, it’s completely over the top and does a disservice to Emily’s novel.’
We reach Ripley Terrace at the top of the hill and take some steps down to a dirt track, which leads to Roebuck’s Wood. To our left is a new housing estate comprising mainly three-storey town houses with built-in garages. The view darkens as we pass beneath the canopy of the woods. To our right are a series of red-brick bunkers built during the Second World War. The bunkers were constructed to serve the mill that once stood where the housing estate is now. I don’t know if the bunkers were ever used, but I imagine be-clogged mill workers crammed into their dank underground rooms. The bu
nkers are now used as dumping spaces, or else improvised dens for the estate’s children. There is something ominous about the dark mouths of their doorways, leading down to infernal caverns. The entrances are overgrown with ferns and brambles. Not Gothic in the way the Brontës’ writing can be said to be Gothic, but creepy and uncanny nevertheless.
‘I’m thinking about that other statue,’ I say. ‘The one that used to be on the towpath near Sowerby Bridge. It was you who brought it to my attention, I think. Poor Branwell, he doesn’t seem to get a fair deal. That’s true of Sally Wainwright’s film as well, maybe. By focusing on the latter part of his story, she somehow distorts the bigger picture of his life. Do you agree?’
‘Sally’s film gives a lot of space to Branwell, but I think in ways that play into the myth of the alcoholic brother who terrorised the household. Like in Gaskell’s biography, To Walk Invisible’s Branwell is used to present the sisters as – if not angelic – then certainly as victims of their brother’s dissipation.’
‘Because he only turned to alcohol towards the end. Aren’t you and Claire [O’Callaghan] working on something to do with this?’
‘Claire and I have just written about Branwell’s portrayal in this film, yes. Initially, we thought that Branwell’s story had finally come to the fore, but we quickly started to see just how villainised he is in Sally’s film. He doesn’t ever get a fair deal, as you say, and it’s boggling how, even in an age where there’s so much information around mental health and addiction, popular culture continues to push for this narrow view that as a brother Branwell was like the dark, destructive Hindley Earnshaw, Cathy’s alcoholic brother who is unable to cope with his grief, without offering any understanding that his behaviours, while often troublesome to both himself and his family, were most likely the result of some form of mental illness.’
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