I had developed serious doubts about this novel and its reception by my publisher and, ultimately, my readers. I feared their high expectations of Currer Bell, whose identity was a subject of intense speculation among the literati. And I mourned that my present success had failed to bring me everything I craved.
As a young girl, scribbling stories and dreaming of a future as an author, I believed that publication would gain me passage into a world of art galleries, concerts, and the theatre, where people conversed brilliantly. I’d hoped to travel and to win the friendship of writers, artists, and intellectuals. Yet here I remained, hidden behind a nom de plume, my life as a parson’s spinster daughter virtually unchanged. A wistful melancholy stole over me as I looked out the window and down the hill upon the grey rooftops of Haworth and the grey smoke from the textile mills in the wooded valley. Beyond these familiar environs lay the world of my dreams. I was thirty-two years old and, it seemed, destined to spend the rest of my days in torpid retirement.
Then I spied the postman coming up the road, and my spirits lifted. The post was a source of light and life to me. I carefully locked the desk drawer, because although Papa had been told the secret of Acton, Currer, and Ellis Bell, no one else must know—not even Branwell, who could not be trusted with the secret. I tucked the key in my pocket, hurried downstairs, and eagerly accepted a letter from the postman. I read the sender’s address on the envelope: “Smith, Elder & Company, 65 Cornhill, London.”
This was the letter that would launch me on a dangerous path through worlds beyond my imagination, but all I then understood was that the letter came from my publisher. As I scanned the two sheets, my anticipation of good news turned to dismay. I rushed downstairs and found Emily stirring a cauldron of preserves on the stove. Her bulldog, Keeper, lay beneath the table where Anne and our servant, Martha Brown, sealed jars. The kitchen was humid with fruity steam and hot from the coal fire.
“Emily. Anne,” I said, “we must talk.”
My face must have revealed my agitation, for they immediately followed me through the back door to the yard, out of Martha’s hearing. Above and away from us spread the moors, their hilly expanses broken only by a few stunted trees and the distant black lines of stone walls. Blustering wind whipped our skirts.
“Currer Bell has just received a disturbing communication,” I explained, then read aloud:
My Dear Sir,
As you will no doubt recall, Smith, Elder & Company has secured from you the exclusive right to publish your next novel and to grant secondary right of publication to our counterparts abroad. However, it has come to my attention that Mr. Thomas Cautley Newby, publisher of the works of Acton and Ellis Bell, has sold to an American publisher, for a high price, a book entitled The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, which he claims to be the new work by Currer Bell.
We at Smith, Elder & Company were quite indignant to learn that a rival business has gained a property which is lawfully ours. Are we to believe that you have deliberately breached your contract with us? (It would appear so, judging by the enclosed document.)
We respectfully request an explanation of this circumstance.
Yours Sincerely,
George Smith
Emily and Anne stared in astonishment. I cried, “Anne, my publisher believes your book to be mine. He suggests that I’ve cheated him!”
“There must be a mistake,” Anne said hesitantly. “My publisher knows that Acton Bell and Currer Bell are two separate individuals. Surely Mr. Newby would not claim otherwise.”
“But he has,” I said, holding out the paper that had accompanied George Smith’s letter. “This is an extract from a letter written by Mr. Newby to the American publisher: ‘To the best of my belief, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Agnes Grey, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall are all the production of one writer.’”
Emily shook her head, frowning. Anne, looking bewildered, ventured, “I cannot believe that Mr. Newby would intentionally misrepresent me.”
“I can,” I said, “because he has already treated you both in a shabby fashion. Remember that he charged the printing expenses for Agnes Grey and Wuthering Heights to you. Then he delayed publication of your books. And he hasn’t yet sent you the royalties he owes you. Mr. Newby is an unscrupulous man who would do anything to profit himself.”
“And he is doing so by capitalizing on the success of Currer Bell,” Emily said. Her large, luminous eyes, ever a magical mixture of fire and ocean, were of a hue that changed with her moods; now anger darkened them to slate blue. “He seeks to elevate little known authors by confusing them with a celebrated one.”
I winced: Emily was a person of few words, and those often too blunt for comfort. The differing degrees of success achieved by Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell represented a sensitive issue that we avoided discussing. Though Emily and Anne were genuinely pleased by my good fortune, I knew that if our positions were reversed, I would envy them, in spite of our affection for one another. I also knew how badly they must feel about the reviews of their books.
“There is not in the entire dramatis personae a single character which is not utterly hateful or thoroughly contemptible,” the Atlas had said of Wuthering Heights. Agnes Grey had fared no better. “It leaves no painful impression on the mind—some may think it leaves no impression at all.” Worse, both Emily and Anne had suffered from comparison to me when the Athenaeum had proclaimed of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey: “All three might be the work of one hand, but the first issued remains the best.”
How much I regretted that my writing had set me apart from my sisters! Would that today’s missive had not done further damage to our harmony!
“Dear Charlotte, I’m so sorry that my book has endangered your reputation,” Anne said.
She was always too ready to accept blame and thereby restore peace. “The fault belongs to Mr. Newby,” I said. “And I fear he has endangered more than my reputation.” I paced the yard in a fever of anxiety. “I know little of the law, but enough to see that appearances suggest that I’ve broken it.” I had a horrible vision of the authorities descending upon the parsonage, and myself arrested and thrown into prison. “What am I to do?”
“Write to Mr. Smith. Tell him that Currer Bell, Acton Bell, and Ellis Bell are three distinct individuals, and that anyone who says differently is a liar,” said Emily.
“But I told him as much when the critics raised the question of our identities,” I reminded her. “If he doubts me now, why should another letter convince him?”
“Perhaps I could order Mr. Newby to set matters right,” Anne offered.
“Why would he, and put himself in the wrong?” I said, dismissing the notion that mild-natured Anne could force anyone to do anything. I halted my pacing and faced my sisters. “The only way to solve the problem is to dispense with pen names and reveal who we really are.”
Anne gasped in alarm. “No!” Emily burst out. Vehemence harshened her normally quiet, melodious voice, and her eyes darkened to a stormy grey-green. “When you first suggested that we try to publish our works, we all agreed that we would always use pen names.”
While Anne and I had adopted pen names because we enjoyed the secret and thought that male aliases would assure our work a more favorable reception, Emily had wished to avoid unwanted exposure. Neither my sisters nor I participated much in any society, but Emily was the most reclusive among us. She was like a wild creature—happiest when rambling the moors alone. She shot a pleading glance at Anne, who moved close to her.
“Dear Charlotte,” said Anne, “I know your situation is grave, but surely there is a solution that doesn’t require us to reveal our true identities.”
Anne always took Emily’s side, for they shared a special intimacy that excluded everyone else. They were like twins sharing one heart. A familiar pang of envy needled me, because Emily was my favorite sister as well as Anne’s.
“But there is not another solution,” I insisted. “Even if I manage to convince Mr. Smi
th that I didn’t write The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, problems will continue to arise as long as there remains a mystery about who Acton, Ellis, and Currer Bell are. People will always confuse us.”
“Let them,” Emily declared, tossing her head. Her hair swirled in the wind; with her back to the clouded sky and sweeping moors, she seemed a wild force of nature. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” said I. Even as I admired Emily’s independent spirit and hated to cause her pain, I suddenly felt a tremendous impatience to cast off the pen name that had obscured me like a suffocating shroud. “We must let Mr. Smith and everyone else know us at last.”
“But . . . ,” Anne wrung her hands. “If Mr. Smith doesn’t believe there are three authors named Bell, why would he believe you if you write informing him that the authors are three Misses Brontë?”
“He probably would not,” I said, encouraged by a sense that Anne shared my desire for recognition. “Therefore, I propose that we go to London, so that Mr. Smith may see us with his own eyes.” As I spoke the words, my heart fluttered like wings inside my chest; the world of my dreams seemed suddenly within reach.
“London?” Emily said, as though I had suggested a trip to Hades. The color drained from her face, and she retreated from me. “I won’t go. I can’t!”
Here I must add a few more strokes to my portrait of Emily. She had spent almost her entire life in Haworth. Each time away, however brief, she would become sickly and lifeless, like a plant torn from its native soil. She feared strangers and crowds, and hated noisy, dirty cities. She made me feel selfishly cruel for asking her to travel to London; however, I was determined for us to go.
“Please, Emily,” I said. “It won’t be so terrible. We needn’t stay very long, and we won’t reveal our identities to anyone outside Smith, Elder & Company.”
“No!” Emily ran to the parsonage and pressed herself against its brick wall, looking more a frightened child than the woman of thirty years she then was.
Anne asked cautiously, “When would we leave?”
“Today,” I said. “I must mend my relations with Smith, Elder & Company as soon as possible.”
“Anne! You wish to go, too?” Emily gazed at Anne in disbelief. “You want to break your promise to me?”
“Oh, no,” Anne hastened to say. “It’s just that I think we must do what is right, and perhaps Charlotte knows best . . .” She quailed under the look of hurt and outrage that Emily gave her, then turned to me. “But we can’t just arrive at Smith, Elder & Company without warning. What would they think of us?”
My determination wavered. We possessed among us no beauty to help us gain favor, and I considered myself the plainest—so small and thin am I, with a head too large for my body, irregular features, and a pallid complexion. Furthermore, my plan seemed audaciously forward, defying convention that required modesty of the female sex. But I put aside vanity and fear of social censure; I got a firmer grip on my resolve.
“Smith, Elder & Company can hardly think less of us than they do at this moment,” I said. “We must risk a minor discourtesy for the sake of achieving a greater good.”
“Well, I’m not going,” Emily said. She was breathing hard, and her fingers kneaded her folded arms. “It’s not my predicament. Mr. Smith’s complaint regards only you and Anne. I’ve done nothing to warrant exposure. And I forbid you to tell anyone anything about me!”
It was clear that Emily would never be persuaded. “Very well; you may stay home,” I said reluctantly. “I won’t reveal your identity. I suppose that two of us will be enough to prove ourselves separate individuals to Mr. Smith . . . if you’ll come with me, Anne?”
Biting her lips, Anne looked from me to Emily, torn between her sense of duty to me and her loyalty to the person she loved best. When I became nurse, tutor, and disciplinarian to my younger siblings after the deaths of our mother and eldest sisters long ago, Anne was the only one never to disobey me. She had meekly accompanied me to the school where I taught, and she studied hard because she knew my salary paid her tuition. I knew she still felt indebted to me.
“Anne,” Emily pleaded.
A small sigh issued from Anne. Bowing her head, she murmured, “We’ll need Papa’s permission.”
Emily stood in stricken silence. Her eyes blazed with her fury and pain at Anne’s betrayal. Uttering a cry of despair, she turned from us and ran towards the moors with the swift grace of a fleeing deer. Anne and I silently watched her figure recede; then, without looking at each other, we went into the parsonage.
Papa was in his study, writing a sermon. When I told him about George Smith’s letter and our resolve to set things aright, he said, “Of course you must uphold your honor, and your proposal seems the only way.” Though I always defer to his authority, his generous heart is loath to deny me anything. He went on, “However, the idea of your traveling two hundred miles to London disturbs me. These are dangerous times.”
A cataclysm of revolution had convulsed Europe during the year. In France, radicals had rebelled against a corrupt, oppressive regime; strikes, riots, and warfare had beset Paris; the king had abdicated and gone into exile. In the Germanies, mobs had clashed with the army in the streets of Berlin. The Italian states had risen up against Austrian rule; in Vienna, the Hapsburg monarchy had battled its own citizens when they clamored for social reform. In Britain, Irish nationalists had revolted against English domination, while across England, radical Chartists had staged mass demonstrations. Their quest for voting rights for all men and equal representation in Parliament had incited violent disturbances. Queen Victoria had fled London. Yet I had no inkling that these events held any significance for me—they seemed but minor disturbances in distant domains.
“Things are somewhat quieted lately, Papa,” I said. “Anne and I should be safe enough.”
“Emily does not wish to go?”
“No, Papa.” Guilt sickened me.
Papa said with reluctance, “I should escort you and Anne.”
“Oh, no, Papa,” I said, “you must not risk your health.” He was susceptible to severe colds, and besides, I’d set my heart on our going unaccompanied. “We’ll be fine by ourselves. I’ve visited London before, and I know my way around the city.”
“Very well,” Papa said with evident relief. “But do be careful.”
“We shall, Papa.” I hesitated, then asked, “May we stay a few days to see the sights?”
After some debate, Papa consented. Jubilant, I hurried Anne upstairs, where we began hastily packing. I was folding garments into a trunk when I noticed Anne standing at the bedroom window. Outside stretched the moors, like an empty sea. Emily had disappeared.
“She’ll understand that we have no choice. She’ll forgive us,” I endeavored to reassure both Anne and myself.
Anne blinked away tears. I suffered a fresh onslaught of guilt, but resumed packing. The future beckoned.
Now, as the hour grows late and the candles burn low, I wonder if I would have gone to London had I known that I was taking my first step towards a man who personified evil and madness. Would I have gone knowing what pleasure and pain, hope and despair, terror and glory, would be mine? But the fact is that I did go; and perhaps, when I have finished recording my tale, I will know whether I am more glad or sorry.
2
ONCE, DURING A TRIP TO THE CONTINENT, I SAW A MEDIEVAL tapestry that depicted an everyday scene in an ancient town. Lords and ladies promenaded around the castle; merchants plied their trade in the street; peasants worked the fields while mounted hunters galloped through the forest and pilgrims entered a cathedral. Each tiny creature pursued his own business as if unaware of the folk in distant sections of the tapestry—yet all were joined by the underlying warp. I am struck by the resemblance of that tapestry to my story. On the morning I received George Smith’s letter, I had no knowledge of events occurring a hundred miles away or of persons whose lives would soon be interwoven with mine.
Birmingham is a large indust
rial city south of Haworth; for my description of it and the happenings there, I elaborate upon an account given me by my sister Anne, who became closely acquainted with certain characters and environs. In a district known as the gun quarter is a courtyard surrounded by the brick buildings of Lock Gunworks. The noise of saws, hammers, and metal on grindstones emanated from neighboring businesses. Smoke from forges blackened the sky. Across the city resounded the Birmingham Roar: continuous gunshots from the test-firing of weapons. On this day the craftsmen of Lock Gunworks gathered in the courtyard around Joseph Lock, proprietor.
“I have interrupted your work to make an important announcement,” Lock said. “As you are aware, Lock Gunworks has a long, illustrious history. My ancestors armed King William’s troops against Louis the Fourteenth of France.”
A portrait that hangs in the parlor of his house depicts Joseph Lock as a robust man with bold features and shrewd blue eyes. He appears quite the successful merchant and town leader. As to the thoughts in his mind at the time of this announcement, I must enter the realm of conjecture. I imagine him feeling an eerie sensation of being two selves divided—one the physical manifestation of Joseph Lock; the other, an ugly wretch cowering inside him, ridden by guilt.
“My father—may he rest in peace—manufactured guns for the Napoleonic Wars and the African trade,” Lock continued. “It has been my birthright and my privilege to manage the firm and carry on the family tradition of loyal service to the Crown.” Lock’s voice cracked; tears of shame welled in his eyes, for he had dishonored his privilege and broken tradition through a secret, abominable crime.
He gathered himself. “However, I summoned you here not to speak of the past, but of present concerns. It is with great regret that I am today retiring from my post as head of Lock Gunworks and ceasing all involvement in the firm’s operation.”
An uneasy stir rippled his audience; Lock noted surprise on many faces, curiosity on others. He reviled himself for making his men accomplices to his crime. He looked upon the grimy, calloused hands that crafted the guns that bore his name, and he hated himself for lying.
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 2