Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  Emily Brontë.

  Finally, I give Anne’s last fragment, concerning which silence is essential. Interpretation of most of the references would be mere guess-work.

  Thursday, July the 31st, 1845. Yesterday was Emily’s birthday, and the time when we should have opened our 1845 paper, but by mistake we opened it to-day instead. How many things have happened since it was written — some pleasant, some far otherwise. Yet I was then at Thorp Green, and now I am only just escaped from it. I was wishing to leave it then, and if I had known that I had four years longer to stay how wretched I should have been; but during my stay I have had some very unpleasant and undreamt-of experience of human nature. Others have seen more changes. Charlotte has left Mr. White’s and been twice to Brussels, where she stayed each time nearly a year. Emily has been there too, and stayed nearly a year. Branwell has left Luddenden Foot, and been a tutor at Thorp Green, and had much tribulation and ill health. He was very ill on Thursday, but he went with John Brown to Liverpool, where he now is, I suppose; and we hope he will be better and do better in future. This is a dismal, cloudy, wet evening. We have had so far a very cold wet summer. Charlotte has lately been to Hathersage, in Derbyshire, on a visit of three weeks to Ellen Nussey. She is now sitting sewing in the dining-room. Emily is ironing upstairs. I am sitting in the dining-room in the rocking-chair before the fire with my feet on the fender. Papa is in the parlour. Tabby and Martha are, I think, in the kitchen. Keeper and Flossy are, I do not know where. Little Dick is hopping in his cage. When the last paper was written we were thinking of setting up a school. The scheme has been dropt, and long after taken up again and dropt again because we could not get pupils. Charlotte is thinking about getting another situation. She wishes to go to Paris. Will she go? She has let Flossy in, by-the-by, and he is now lying on the sofa. Emily is engaged in writing the Emperor Julius’s life. She has read some of it, and I want very much to hear the rest. She is writing some poetry, too. I wonder what it is about? I have begun the third volume of Passages in the Life of an Individual. I wish I had finished it. This afternoon I began to set about making my grey figured silk frock that was dyed at Keighley. What sort of a hand shall I make of it? E. and I have a great deal of work to do. When shall we sensibly diminish it? I want to get a habit of early rising. Shall I succeed? We have not yet finished our Gondal Chronicles that we began three years and a half ago. When will they be done? The Gondals are at present in a sad state. The Republicans are uppermost, but the Royalists are not quite overcome. The young sovereigns, with their brothers and sisters, are still at the Palace of Instruction. The Unique Society, above half a year ago, were wrecked on a desert island as they were returning from Gaul. They are still there, but we have not played at them much yet. The Gondals in general are not in first-rate playing condition. Will they improve? I wonder how we shall all be and where and how situated on the thirtieth of July 1848, when, if we are all alive, Emily will be just 30. I shall be in my 29th year, Charlotte in her 33rd, and Branwell in his 32nd; and what changes shall we have seen and known; and shall we be much changed ourselves? I hope not, for the worse at least. I for my part cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now. Hoping for the best, I conclude.

  Anne Brontë.

  Exactly fifty years were to elapse before these pieces of writing saw the light. The interest which must always centre in Emily Brontë amply justifies my publishing a fragment in facsimile; and it has the greater moment on account of the rough drawing which Emily has made of herself and of her dog Keeper. Emily’s taste for drawing is a pathetic element in her always pathetic life. I have seen a number of her sketches. There is one in the possession of Mr. Nicholls of Keeper and Flossy, the former the bull-dog which followed her to the grave, the latter a little King Charlie which one of the Miss Robinsons gave to Anne. The sketch, however, like most of Emily’s drawings, is technically full of errors. She was not a born artist, and possibly she had not the best opportunities of becoming one by hard work. Another drawing before me is of the hawk mentioned in the above fragment; and yet another is of the dog Growler, a predecessor of Keeper, which is not, however, mentioned in the correspondence. Upon Emily Brontë, the poet, I do not propose to write here. She left behind her, and Charlotte preserved, a manuscript volume containing the whole of the poems in the two collections of her verse, and there are other poems not yet published. Here, for example, are some verses in which the Gondals make a slight reappearance.

  ‘May 21st, 1838.

  GLENEDEN’S DREAM.

  ‘Tell me, whether is it winter?

  Say how long my sleep has been.

  Have the woods I left so lovely

  Lost their robes of tender green?

  ‘Is the morning slow in coming?

  Is the night time loth to go?

  Tell me, are the dreary mountains

  Drearier still with drifted snow?

  ‘“Captive, since thou sawest the forest,

  All its leaves have died away,

  And another March has woven

  Garlands for another May.

  ‘“Ice has barred the Arctic waters;

  Soft Southern winds have set it free;

  And once more to deep green valley

  Golden flowers might welcome thee.”

  ‘Watcher in this lonely prison,

  Shut from joy and kindly air,

  Heaven descending in a vision

  Taught my soul to do and bear.

  ‘It was night, a night of winter,

  I lay on the dungeon floor,

  And all other sounds were silent —

  All, except the river’s roar.

  ‘Over Death and Desolation,

  Fireless hearths, and lifeless homes;

  Over orphans’ heartsick sorrows,

  Patriot fathers’ bloody tombs;

  ‘Over friends, that my arms never

  Might embrace in love again;

  Memory ponderous until madness

  Struck its poniard in my brain.

  ‘Deepest slumbers followed raving,

  Yet, methought, I brooded still;

  Still I saw my country bleeding,

  Dying for a Tyrant’s will.

  ‘Not because my bliss was blasted,

  Burned within the avenging flame;

  Not because my scattered kindred

  Died in woe or lived in shame.

  ‘God doth know I would have given

  Every bosom dear to me,

  Could that sacrifice have purchased

  Tortured Gondal’s liberty!

  ‘But that at Ambition’s bidding

  All her cherished hopes should wane,

  That her noblest sons should muster,

  Strive and fight and fall in vain.

  ‘Hut and castle, hall and cottage,

  Roofless, crumbling to the ground,

  Mighty Heaven, a glad Avenger

  Thy eternal Justice found.

  ‘Yes, the arm that once would shudder

  Even to grieve a wounded deer,

  I beheld it, unrelenting,

  Clothe in blood its sovereign’s prayer.

  ‘Glorious Dream! I saw the city

  Blazing in Imperial shine,

  And among adoring thousands

  Stood a man of form divine.

  ‘None need point the princely victim —

  Now he smiles with royal pride!

  Now his glance is bright as lightning,

  Now the knife is in his side!

  ‘Ah! I saw how death could darken,

  Darken that triumphant eye!

  His red heart’s blood drenched my dagger;

  My ear drank his dying sigh!

  ‘Shadows come! what means this midnight?

  O my God, I know it all!

  Know the fever dream is over,

  Unavenged, the Avengers fall!’

  There are, indeed, a few fragments, all written in that tiny handwriting which the girls affected, and bearing various d
ates from 1833 to 1840. A new edition of Emily’s poems, will, by virtue of these verses, have a singular interest for her admirers. With all her gifts as a poet, however, it is by Wuthering Heights that Emily Brontë is best known to the world; and the weirdness and force of that book suggest an inquiry concerning the influences which produced it. Dr. Wright, in his entertaining book, The Brontës in Ireland, recounts the story of Patrick Brontë’s origin, and insists that it was in listening to her father’s anecdotes of his own Irish experiences that Emily obtained the weird material of Wuthering Heights. It is not, of course, enough to point out that Dr. Wright’s story of the Irish Brontës is full of contradictions. A number of tales picked up at random from an illiterate peasantry might very well abound in inconsistencies, and yet contain some measure of truth. But nothing in Dr. Wright’s narrative is confirmed, save only the fact that Patrick Brontë continued throughout his life in some slight measure of correspondence with his brothers and sisters — a fact rendered sufficiently evident by a perusal of his will. Dr. Wright tells of many visits to Ireland in order to trace the Brontë traditions to their source; and yet he had not — in his first edition — marked the elementary fact that the registry of births in County Down records the existence of innumerable Bruntys and of not a single Brontë. Dr. Wright probably made his inquiries with the stories of Emily and Charlotte well in mind. He sought for similar traditions, and the quick-witted Irish peasantry gave him all that he wanted. They served up and embellished the current traditions of the neighbourhood for his benefit, as the peasantry do everywhere for folklore enthusiasts. Charlotte Brontë’s uncle Hugh, we are told, read the Quarterly Review article upon Jane Eyre, and, armed with a shillelagh, came to England, in order to wreak vengeance upon the writer of the bitter attack. He landed at Liverpool, walked from Liverpool to Haworth, saw his nieces, who ‘gathered round him,’ and listened to his account of his mission. He then went to London and made abundant inquiries — but why pursue this ludicrous story further? In the first place, the Quarterly Review article was published in December 1848 — after Emily was dead, and while Anne was dying. Very soon after the review appeared Charlotte was informed of its authorship, and references to Miss Rigby and the Quarterly are found more than once in her correspondence with Mr. Williams.

  This is a lengthy digression from the story of Emily’s life, but it is of moment to discover whether there is any evidence of influences other than those which her Yorkshire home afforded. I have discussed the matter with Miss Ellen Nussey, and with Mr. Nicholls. Miss Nussey never, in all her visits to Haworth, heard a single reference to the Irish legends related by Dr. Wright, and firmly believes them to be mythical. Mr. Nicholls, during the six years that he lived alone at the parsonage with his father-in-law, never heard one single word from Mr. Brontë — who was by no means disposed to reticence — about these stories, and is also of opinion that they are purely legendary.

  It has been suggested that Emily would have been guilty almost of a crime to have based the more sordid part of her narrative upon her brother’s transgressions. This is sheer nonsense. She wrote Wuthering Heights because she was impelled thereto, and the book, with all its morbid force and fire, will remain, for all time, as a monument of the most striking genius that nineteenth century womanhood has given us. It was partly her life in Yorkshire — the local colour was mainly derived from her brief experience as a governess at Halifax — but it was partly, also, the German fiction which she had devoured during the Brussels period, that inspired Wuthering Heights.

  Here, however, are glimpses of Emily Brontë on a more human side.

  TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

  ‘March 25th, 1844.

  ‘Dear Nell, — I got home safely, and was not too much tired on arriving at Haworth. I feel rather better to-day than I have been, and in time I hope to regain more strength. I found Emily and Papa well, and a letter from Branwell intimating that he and Anne are pretty well too. Emily is much obliged to you for the flower seeds. She wishes to know if the Sicilian pea and crimson corn-flower are hardy flowers, or if they are delicate, and should be sown in warm and sheltered situations? Tell me also if you went to Mrs. John Swain’s on Friday, and if you enjoyed yourself; talk to me, in short, as you would do if we were together. Good-morning, dear Nell; I shall say no more to you at present.

  ‘C. Brontë.’

  TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

  ‘April 5th, 1844.

  ‘Dear Nell, — We were all very glad to get your letter this morning. We, I say, as both Papa and Emily were anxious to hear of the safe arrival of yourself and the little varmint. As you conjecture, Emily and I set-to to shirt-making the very day after you left, and we have stuck to it pretty closely ever since. We miss your society at least as much as you miss ours, depend upon it; would that you were within calling distance. Be sure you write to me. I shall expect another letter on Thursday — don’t disappoint me. Best regards to your mother and sisters. — Yours, somewhat irritated,

  ‘C. Brontë.’

  Earlier than this Emily had herself addressed a letter to Miss Nussey, and, indeed, the two letters from Emily Brontë to Ellen Nussey which I print here are, I imagine, the only letters of Emily’s in existence. Mr. Nicholls informs me that he has never seen a letter in Emily’s handwriting. The following letter is written during Charlotte’s second stay in Brussels, and at a time when Ellen Nussey contemplated joining her there — a project never carried out.

  TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

  ‘May 12, 1843.

  ‘Dear Miss Nussey, — I should be wanting in common civility if I did not thank you for your kindness in letting me know of an opportunity to send postage free.

  ‘I have written as you directed, though if next Tuesday means to-morrow I fear it will be too late. Charlotte has never mentioned a word about coming home. If you would go over for half-a-year, perhaps you might be able to bring her back with you — otherwise, she might vegetate there till the age of Methuselah for mere lack of courage to face the voyage.

  ‘All here are in good health; so was Anne according to her last account. The holidays will be here in a week or two, and then, if she be willing, I will get her to write you a proper letter, a feat that I have never performed. — With love and good wishes,

  ‘Emily J. Brontë.’

  The next letter is written at the time that Charlotte is staying with her friend at Mr. Henry Nussey’s house at Hathersage in Derbyshire.

  TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

  ‘Haworth, February 9th, 1846.

  ‘Dear Miss Nussey, — I fancy this note will be too late to decide one way or other with respect to Charlotte’s stay. Yours only came this morning (Wednesday), and unless mine travels faster you will not receive it till Friday. Papa, of course, misses Charlotte, and will be glad to have her back. Anne and I ditto; but as she goes from home so seldom, you may keep her a day or two longer, if your eloquence is equal to the task of persuading her — that is, if she still be with you when you get this permission. Love from Anne. — Yours truly,

  ‘Emily J. Brontë.’

  Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, ‘by Ellis and Acton Bell,’ were published together in three volumes in 1847. The former novel occupied two volumes, and the latter one. By a strange freak of publishing, the book was issued as Wuthering Heights, vol. I. and II., and Agnes Grey, vol. III., in deference, it must be supposed, to the passion for the three volume novel. Charlotte refers to the publication in the next letter, which contained as inclosure the second preface to Jane Eyre — the preface actually published. An earlier preface, entitled ‘A Word to the Quarterly,’ was cancelled.

  TO W. S. WILLIAMS

  ‘December 21st, 1847.

  ‘Dear Sir, — I am, for my own part, dissatisfied with the preface I sent — I fear it savours of flippancy. If you see no objection I should prefer substituting the inclosed. It is rather more lengthy, but it expresses something I have long wished to express.

  ‘Mr. Smith is kind indeed to think of sending m
e The Jar of Honey. When I receive the book I will write to him. I cannot thank you sufficiently for your letters, and I can give you but a faint idea of the pleasure they afford me; they seem to introduce such light and life to the torpid retirement where we live like dormice. But, understand this distinctly, you must never write to me except when you have both leisure and inclination. I know your time is too fully occupied and too valuable to be often at the service of any one individual.

  ‘You are not far wrong in your judgment respecting Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. Ellis has a strong, original mind, full of strange though sombre power. When he writes poetry that power speaks in language at once condensed, elaborated, and refined, but in prose it breaks forth in scenes which shock more than they attract. Ellis will improve, however, because he knows his defects. Agnes Grey is the mirror of the mind of the writer. The orthography and punctuation of the books are mortifying to a degree: almost all the errors that were corrected in the proof-sheets appear intact in what should have been the fair copies. If Mr. Newby always does business in this way, few authors would like to have him for their publisher a second time. — Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

  ‘C. Bell.’

  When Jane Eyre was performed at a London theatre — and it has been more than once adapted for the stage, and performed many hundreds of times in England and America — Charlotte Brontë wrote to her friend Mr. Williams as follows: —

  TO W. S. WILLIAMS

  ‘February 5th, 1848.

  ‘Dear Sir, — A representation of Jane Eyre at a minor theatre would no doubt be a rather afflicting spectacle to the author of that work. I suppose all would be wofully exaggerated and painfully vulgarised by the actors and actresses on such a stage. What, I cannot help asking myself, would they make of Mr. Rochester? And the picture my fancy conjures up by way of reply is a somewhat humiliating one. What would they make of Jane Eyre? I see something very pert and very affected as an answer to that query.

  ‘Still, were it in my power, I should certainly make a point of being myself a witness of the exhibition. Could I go quietly and alone, I undoubtedly should go; I should endeavour to endure both rant and whine, strut and grimace, for the sake of the useful observations to be collected in such a scene.