The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  He suddenly looks very young and vulnerable, crouching there, and she’s tempted to stroke his head. She doesn’t, though — he’d only shy away, and she doesn’t want him to withdraw from her, not after he’s confided so much, come so close.

  She does feel for him. For all his life, everyone has spoken to him, of him, in a way that’s led him to think of himself as special. London seems to have delivered a terrible shock to his pride.

  She says, gently, “But what about the Academy? What did they say about your paintings?”

  He stands up, looking abject, his pallor making his freckles stand out. “I never got there, Em.”

  “What?” She stares at him, shocked.

  He shrugs, then indicates with a gesture that they should carry on walking, and this time he takes her arm.

  “On the very first day I went to the National Gallery — you know, I’ve always wanted to see all those wonderful masterpieces. But when I did” — he shakes his head — “I thought, What a fool I am. These are works of genius. What I’ve done are just worthless daubs.”

  “But Branny, those paintings in the gallery are by artists at the height of their powers. You can’t expect to achieve that straightaway — you’re just starting out. But you might one day.”

  “Hah!” Branwell emits a hollow laugh. “That’s a nice theory, Em, but it won’t wash. I still hadn’t quite given up when I went to the British Museum, because Robinson said I needed some sketches of classical statues for my submission portfolio.” He blows the air out of his cheeks. “There was another chap there, sketching away, and we got talking. It turns out he was a student at the Academy, and he showed me some of his drawings. They were brilliant, Em, totally brilliant. I couldn’t for the life of me reveal my paltry efforts — I just slunk away. And that was it. I knew I couldn’t show my face at the Academy — they’d have laughed me to scorn.”

  “And that’s when you came home?”

  “Not right away. I was a fool, Em, a wretched fool. I couldn’t face telling them at home that I’d funked it, so I went and found the Castle Tavern, you know, the one I told you about, where the innkeeper, Tom Spring, used to be a prizefighter. It was full of sporting types, fellows who know how to have a good time.”

  “Is that where your money went?”

  “Yes, well, there and … other places.” Branwell looks sheepish.

  Emily gives him a look and he says, “Oh, if you must know, yes, I lost a lot betting at a cockpit. I know it was stupid,” he adds hastily as Emily opens her mouth. “You’ve no need to tell me, but once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I kept going back until the money ran out. Then there was nothing else to do but come home.”

  “Oh, Branny.” Emily can see, all too easily, how all this came about. Her brother is so … malleable. Is that the word? He makes her think of a candle flame wavering at every draft … bright, vital, but with nothing solid at its center. “Does Papa know what really happened?”

  “He got it out of me eventually. Em, it was awful. It would have been better if he was angry. He was just … you know … disappointed. Aunt, of course, has been very snippy about it. They’ve both taken the line that it’s better to forget it ever happened, say no more about it, you know, that sort of thing. But it’s easier said than done. I can’t forget it, that’s for sure.”

  Emily squeezes his arm again.

  “It hasn’t helped that, when I got back, Father knew that I’d been running up a slate at the Bull. I don’t know how he found out. I wouldn’t have thought John Brown would have blabbed.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Sugden thought that with you going away, he wasn’t going to see his money.”

  “Oh, I’d have paid him in the end,” says Branwell airily, with something of his old spirit. “But the devil of it is that Father keeps trying to get me to promise not to go there again. I mean, what’s a fellow to do? I’ve got to have some amusement. And besides, it’s an expression of my artistic nature. Byron was a great tippler, you know.”

  Emily holds her tongue. On this subject she doesn’t feel any sympathy, but there’s no point in saying anything — he won’t take any notice of her and she doesn’t want to alienate him just when they’re getting closer.

  He looks up at her and says with a slightly embarrassed air, “By the way, thanks for last night. You’re a brick.”

  Emily accepts this compliment with a brief nod. But then she says, “Don’t think I’m going to keep putting you to bed, though, if you get into such a state again.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” Branwell says earnestly. “I can promise you that.”

  After a pause, Emily says, “So what are you going to do with yourself now? I mean, now you’re not going to be an artist?”

  Branwell gives her a grin and with a flash of his old manner says, “I’ll be a writer, of course. I’ve always thought that was more my style than the daubing.”

  The conversation about London stays with Emily.

  She realizes that it’s changed the way she feels about Branwell. She no longer resents all the advantages he’s been given over the years, the favoritism shown toward him by Aunt. It must be hard to bear all that pressure.

  She sees now that she’s lucky. Of course, Aunt would prefer that she were proper and ladylike; the old lady would be overjoyed if she suddenly developed a passion for dainty, embroidered handwork, but she can easily shrug all that off. It’s not the same as being expected to succeed at everything she does. Poor Branwell — maybe being a boy isn’t so wonderful after all.

  Some days later Branwell comes to find her.

  “Did you know that James Hogg has died?”

  “Oh no.” Emily is sorry to hear the news. The writer is a great favorite with them all, and they’ve enjoyed his contributions to Blackwood’s Magazine.

  She’s surprised that Branwell seems more excited than upset, but he soon explains why. “I’ve written to the editor of Blackwood’s. There’s a good chance that they’ll take me on as his replacement. What do you think?” He thrusts the letter in front of her nose.

  Emily reads it, wincing inwardly. “Do you think it’s a good idea to sound quite so — well — sure of yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This, for instance.” She points to a sentence: I know myself so far as to beleive in my own originality.

  Branwell opens his eyes wide. “But it’s true. Don’t you think I have originality?”

  “Yes, but — oh, never mind. Are you sure that’s how you spell ‘believe’?”

  “Hah.” He snatches the letter from her. “What do you know about it? Your spelling’s terrible.”

  He’s right about that, so she doesn’t argue, but contents herself with wishing him good luck.

  “Thanks, Em.” He winks. “Here’s to the start of my career as a professional writer!”

  Emily’s glad to see him so cheerful again, though she’s not sure that his optimism is well-founded. She’s pleased and touched that he’s confiding in her, though. Perhaps now that they’re getting on so well, it would be all right to show him some of her writing? But she’s still not sure. In any case it will soon be the Christmas holidays and Anne will be back. It will be so much better to work with her rather than risk involving Branwell.

  She’s looking forward to seeing both her sisters. Perhaps, at last, she’ll be able to have a proper conversation with Charlotte, and as for Anne — she can’t wait to talk to her about all her ideas for Gondal.

  But when her sisters come home, Emily can see at once that something’s wrong — they both look strained and unhappy.

  Charlotte must be finding teaching a struggle, but she’s wary of asking her about it. Her sister is bound to be prickly and say what she always does — that duty must come before her own feelings — and Emily doesn’t want to have a row about it, especially when she’s feeling so grateful to Charlotte for rescuing her from Roe Head.

  She doesn’t get a chance to talk to Anne privately until one afternoon
when Charlotte decides not to come for a walk with them, as it’s too cold.

  Emily and Anne aren’t put off by the raw chill in the air and, wrapped up warmly, they set off with Grasper. As soon as she can Emily launches into the subject of Roe Head. But Anne’s answers are unexpected. Being at school is tolerable, she says — she likes the work and the teachers aren’t so terrifying now that she’s used to them.

  “What about the other girls? Has Lydia Marriot been bullying you?”

  Anne’s eyes widen in surprise and she shakes her head. “She doesn’t take any notice of me — I’m far too insignificant.”

  Even with more probing, Emily can’t get any further.

  Giving it up as a bad job, she launches into an account of the latest goings-on in Gondal. In the middle of a dramatic account of the assassination of Julius, she breaks off.

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  But Emily can tell that Anne’s mind is elsewhere. Her sister has turned away and is gazing across to the crags, whose tops are white with a dusting of snow.

  Deflated, Emily falls silent too. Surely her sister hasn’t lost interest in Gondal? Her heart skips a beat at the thought. No, she can’t have. It must be something else; it has to be.

  The next morning, when she and Charlotte happen to be alone in the kitchen getting dinner ready, she asks casually, “Do you know what’s troubling Anne?”

  Charlotte looks up from the turnip she’s peeling. She seems surprised. “Is something troubling Anne?”

  “I think so.” Emily is irritated. All this time Charlotte’s been living in the same place as Anne, seeing her every day, and she hasn’t even noticed. She measures some flour into a mixing bowl.

  “Well, why don’t you ask her? She’s more likely to talk to you than to me.”

  Charlotte’s tone is offhand. Doesn’t she care how Anne feels?

  Exasperated, Emily takes an egg and cracks it with such force on the rim of the bowl that the whole thing collapses into the flour. After patiently picking out the pieces of shell, she adds the second egg with more care and begins to beat the mixture.

  “You’re good at that,” Charlotte observes. “My batter always goes lumpy.”

  Mollified, Emily shoots a quick smile at her sister and then on an impulse she says, “You know, Charlotte, I’m so glad you made Papa send for me. I …” Unable to find the words, she waves her spoon at the kitchen. “This is right, you know, for me.”

  “Good. I’m pleased for you.”

  But Charlotte doesn’t sound very pleased. Does her sister resent the fact that she’s staying at home and able to please herself?

  Tentatively, feeling as though she’s about to tread on a lapwing’s egg, Emily says, “Now that Branwell’s not going to the Royal Academy, do you still feel you should keep on at Roe Head?”

  Concentrating on another turnip, Charlotte says in a flat voice, “I was talking to Papa last night and he’s hoping that Branwell will try for the Academy again next year. Or if not, perhaps he should go on a tour of Europe, studying art in all the great capitals.”

  “Oh.” This is news to Emily — perhaps Branwell himself doesn’t know of Papa’s plans yet. “Goodness. If he did either of those, it would cost a lot of money.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte’s face is grim.

  Emily gives her sister a sympathetic glance. How she would love to go on such a tour herself. But Charlotte isn’t looking — with fierce concentration and rapid movements of the knife, she’s chopping the turnips into small pieces. “And then there’s Anne to think of — oh, damn it.”

  “Charlotte!” Emily is shocked. Not so much at the sight of blood spurting from Charlotte’s thumb where the knife caught her, but because her sister never swears.

  Scooping up a basin of water from the pail, she catches hold of Charlotte’s injured hand and plunges it in. “You must keep it in till it stops bleeding.” She looks at her sister and is surprised to see that Charlotte’s eyes are brimming with tears.

  “Does it hurt a lot?”

  Charlotte shakes her head. “It’s only a scratch.”

  She draws her hand away from Emily’s to dry it on her apron, but she takes her time about it, as if she doesn’t want to look Emily in the face.

  Emily touches her sleeve. “Charles, what is it?”

  Charlotte opens her arms in a gesture of despair. “I don’t know what to do.” She looks directly at Emily. “I feel as if I must keep on at Roe Head because it saves the expense of two of us and it’s giving Anne an education. It helps Papa too, if he knows that I can support myself — it’s one less thing for him to worry about. But, you know … I was right — I’m not cut out for teaching.”

  Emily doesn’t know what to say. It’s true, of course, but it doesn’t seem tactful to say so. “You didn’t do too badly.”

  Charlotte gives her a look. “Don’t be silly, Emily. You saw what I was like. But that’s not the point. I wouldn’t mind not being brilliant at it if I enjoyed it, but I don’t. The truth is, I hate it.”

  “Oh, Charles.” Emily would like to give her sister a hug, but she knows that Charlotte’s struggling to maintain her self-control.

  “And …” Charlotte pauses and then says in a rush, “Don’t mock, but what I really want to do is try to earn my living as a writer. You know, with Branwell approaching Blackwood’s — I had no idea it was that simple. I’d love to try something like that too.” She looks at Emily half-beseechingly, as if she’s desperate for her approval.

  But Emily is already beaming. If Charlotte devotes herself to writing it will mean she’ll stay at home. When Anne finishes at school, they’ll all be together again, just like they were in the old days. “Charlotte, that’s a marvelous idea.”

  Charlotte adds, flushing slightly, “I know it’s unlikely, but I would love it if my work was published. Just think, it might be known about and talked about, perhaps even after I am dead. Don’t you think that would be a fine thing?”

  Emily doesn’t see it at all. She has no desire to be famous. For her the whole delight of writing lies in the doing of it, in the living in her imaginary world. What does it matter if no one ever reads it? She does it for herself. She can see, though, that it matters to Charlotte.

  She says encouragingly, “You never know, perhaps it will happen. Your writing’s brilliant, just as good as Branwell’s, no, better sometimes.”

  But Charlotte shakes her head and sighs. “No, it’s just a foolish dream. I’m not going to be able to be a writer, am I? I mean, a published one.”

  “You must speak to Papa,” says Emily decisively. “If he knows how unhappy you are teaching, he won’t want you to carry on.”

  “What about Anne?”

  “Papa can ask Aunt to pay Anne’s fees. You’re always saying that Anne is her little pet — she’s sure to say yes.”

  Charlotte still looks doubtful. But Emily’s determined to convince her.

  “Listen, Charlotte. You missed out on your chance to be an artist because you wouldn’t speak out. Don’t make the same mistake again. Once Papa knows how important this is to you, he’ll do everything he can to support you. I think he’ll be thrilled. You know how much he values literature. And he had his own poems published, didn’t he? And The Maid of Killarney?”

  As Emily speaks, Charlotte’s expression changes to one of dawning hope. “Oh, Emily, you might be right. I will speak to Papa.”

  “Do it now. I think he’s in his study.”

  Charlotte shakes her head, laughing. “No. I won’t interrupt him when he’s working. I’ll wait for a better moment.”

  Emily feels very pleased with herself for cheering Charlotte up and this emboldens her to try the same with Anne. The problem is she’s not sure where to begin, since she has no idea what’s troubling her little sister.

  She’s given a clue on Sunday morning in church, when, happening to glance at Anne during the sermon, she’s alarmed to see her staring at Papa wit
h a stricken look on her face. What can be the matter? Papa’s theme today is cheerful, about God’s mercy being shown to those who repent. There’s nothing distressing there as far as Emily can see, but Anne has such awkward notions sometimes, there’s no telling what might be going through her mind.

  The last thing Emily wants is a conversation about religion with her sister.

  As far as she’s concerned, a person’s relationship with God is a private matter. And her sister can always talk to Aunt or Papa. They’d be much better at sorting out any spiritual questions that might be plaguing her.

  Emily’s sorry that Anne’s unhappy, but she can’t help feeling relieved. At least it means Anne hasn’t lost interest in Gondal.

  The next day is wild and squally, but in the afternoon the weather brightens up. Though it’s still windy, Emily persuades Anne to come out and as soon as they’re away from the house she plunges straight in.

  “Going back to Julius’s assassination … I thought that one of the assassins could be slain himself, but that Douglas could escape. I imagine him riding up the glen and the soldiers trapping him on a mountain ledge with a chasm below. But he manages to escape by starting an avalanche, which kills his pursuers. What do you think?”

  Anne shrugs.

  “Come on, you must have an opinion.”

  Biting her lip, Anne is silent, but then she bursts out, “I can’t … you know … I can’t feel very interested at the moment in these made-up people.”

  “Made-up people! What do you mean? You make it sound as if they don’t matter.”

  “Well, they don’t, really, do they? Not compared to real life.”

  Emily comes to a dead stop. At once the wind drives against her as if it’s determined to beat her down.

  Did Anne really just say that? Did she really say that their heroes and heroines didn’t matter?

  A kind of panic seizes her, making her want to lash out. If she stays where she is, she’ll say something unforgivable.