The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  Setting her mouth in a grim line, she strides off, splashing through the mud and yanking Grasper’s lead to make him follow.

  What’s happened to Anne in the space of a few short months? How can she say such a thing? The people of Gondal are more real than anything in ordinary life. They are her friends, her companions. How can Anne say that they don’t matter?

  Grasper stops to sniff at something.

  “Come on!” In turning to speak to him, she catches sight of Anne.

  Her sister is standing where she left her and from the shaking of her shoulders Emily can tell that she’s sobbing.

  Sighing, Emily goes back to her and silently passes her a handkerchief.

  Eventually Anne lifts her tear-stained face and gives Emily a wobbly smile. “Sorry.”

  Her sister’s shivering and her teeth are chattering. They should go home, but as Emily starts forward, Anne puts a hand on her arm. “The thing is — I just — oh, I don’t know how to put it into words.”

  Emily waits. Anne takes a deep breath. “If you want to know, I’m frightened that I’m going to go to hell.”

  Emily gapes at her. “What! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, I try so hard to be good, but I’m always failing. I’m sure I can’t possibly be one of the Elect and Mr. Allbutt says —”

  “Mr. Allbutt is a fool!” Emily’s suffered many of the clergyman’s tedious homilies at school. “You surely don’t believe all that Calvinistic nonsense?”

  “I …” Anne falters. “I don’t know. All the ministers at Mirfield speak of it with such certainty, it makes me think … well, there has to be something in it, hasn’t there?”

  Emily stares at Anne, feeling completely at a loss. She can’t understand the tangles both her sisters seem to get themselves into about these things. For her it’s simple — for some time now she’s felt fairly certain that if God is the Creator of all things, then He has made her as she is, and so she must accept herself.

  But Emily can’t just dismiss Anne’s ideas for the claptrap she thinks they are — it would only upset her more. “Listen.” She takes hold of Anne’s cold hands. “You must speak to Papa. I don’t know how to make you feel better about this, but he’ll know what to say.”

  In fact, Emily’s not so sure about that. Lately she’s been finding it harder to accept that God, if He’s good, could bring Himself to condemn sinners to everlasting punishment, but Papa, she knows, truly believes in the Last Judgment and the separation of humankind into sheep and goats, the saved and the damned. But Anne isn’t an unrepentant sinner. Perhaps Papa will be able to convince her of that.

  Anne is looking doubtful. “I don’t like to bother Papa — it’s not that important.”

  “Of course it is. Promise me that you’ll talk to him before you go back to school.”

  Anne nods. “All right, I will.”

  “We must go home. You’re freezing.”

  They walk back in silence, each deep in thought.

  Emily feels shaken. She would like to get hold of those wretched clergymen at Mirfield and give them a piece of her mind. And it’s not just Anne who’s affected — it feels as if there’s a huge barrier between Emily and her sister now. Anne has moved away from her to a place where she can’t reach her.

  As for Gondal … Emily has a bitter taste like ashes in her mouth. She can hardly bear to think about it, it hurts so much.

  When they return to the parsonage, Emily goes up to her bedroom to change her damp stockings and she finds Charlotte there, staring out of the window.

  “Charles? What are you doing up here in the cold?”

  Charlotte turns and Emily can see that she’s been crying. “I spoke to Papa.”

  “Oh.” Emily’s heart sinks. It doesn’t look good. “What did he say?”

  “He said …” Charlotte stops and her mouth twists into a grimace. She takes a deep breath and goes on, “He said that writing wasn’t a suitable profession for a woman and, even if I was determined to pursue that path, I was very unlikely to make any money. And he said writing was all very well as a leisure activity, but I shouldn’t let it interfere with real life.”

  “Oh, Charlotte.” Emily sinks onto the bed, at a loss for words. She can’t believe that Papa is so conventional. But then, thinking about it, of course it’s all of a piece with Papa approving of them sewing because Mama was a fine needlewoman and he thinks it’s appropriate for girls, and with Branwell always being the favored one just because he’s a boy.

  Even so, she’s dismayed by Papa’s attitude to writing. He’s let them read whatever they wanted and he’s never stopped them from writing. Why, it was Papa who, as each of them turned twelve, gave them their precious writing desks. She thought he approved of all their literary activity and took it seriously.

  “How can Papa think that what we do is just a nice hobby?”

  Charlotte shrugs. “Well, apparently he does. And he said that if I let myself dwell too much in imaginary worlds I would probably make myself unhappy.”

  “He said that?” Emily is astounded.

  It has never occurred to her that she shouldn’t immerse herself in Gondal — to do so is as natural as breathing.

  Charlotte continues, “And he said that I should look to God for support rather than my imagination.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” This time Emily can’t help herself. “I don’t agree with Papa. After all, God has given us our imagination, hasn’t He? He must want us to use it. Why does it have to be a choice between God and writing? Why can’t we have both?”

  Charlotte looks shocked. “You shouldn’t say such things. And Papa must be right, mustn’t he? He knows far more about these things than we do.”

  Emily presses her lips together. Papa is wrong about this, she’s sure he is. But there’s no point in arguing with Charlotte. She’ll never get her sister to agree. She changes the subject. “So what are you going to do now? Do as Papa says?”

  “Of course. What else can I do?” Charlotte’s voice rises into a wail. “I’ll go back to Roe Head and try to love teaching and sewing and all those other things a woman is supposed to devote herself to as much as I love reading and writing. And forget about earning my living as a writer.”

  She rushes out of the room, banging the door shut behind her.

  Emily puts her head in her hands. She’d like to crawl under the bedcovers and hide from it all — her sisters’ misery, and her own heartache.

  Just when things seem at their bleakest, Charlotte announces that Mary is coming to stay for a few days.

  Emily’s so glad to hear this. She can’t wait to see Mary again. Apart from anything else, she’s been worried because Mary never answered her last letter telling her she had returned home. Perhaps she hadn’t received it? In any case, Mary’s bound to cheer them all up.

  When she arrives it’s obvious that Mary’s in good form, and their first evening is just as jolly as Emily hoped it would be. Mary entertains them by telling them about her youngest brother, who has recently decided to wear blue clothes. “Just imagine, everything blue — trousers, coat, even his waistcoat!”

  “Why on earth would he do that?” Branwell tugs at the sleeve of his green coat, carefully chosen to contrast with his fawn trousers.

  “I’ve no idea — it’s some silly notion he’s got into his head that it’s more dignified to wear one color. His schoolmates tease him no end, saying he’s turned into a sailor, but he doesn’t care.”

  “He sounds brave,” says Emily. “Not giving in to public opinion.”

  Mary flashes her a smile. “Yes, indeed. I think he is.” Clasping her hands together, she leans forward. “But enough of that. Come on, I want to hear all about Roe Head.”

  Emily stiffens. But it’s all right. Mary’s looking at Charlotte. “Do tell, what are the inestimable Wooler sisters really like?”

  Charlotte laughs. “You mean you want to know whether they have any secret vices. Miss Catherine, an opium ad
dict? Miss Eliza, a secret gambler? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no, they’re just as they seem.”

  Mary looks crestfallen. “Well, what about the girls? What are they like?”

  “Oh, the girls.” Charlotte rolls her eyes. With a wicked grin, she launches into satirical character assassinations of her pupils.

  Emily, laughing along with the rest, is delighted to see her sister in this mood. It’s like having the old Charlotte back. Branwell’s grinning his head off and even Anne, flushed pink with amusement, looks less haunted.

  What a blessing that Mary’s come. It’s doing them all a power of good.

  Later, Emily lies in her camp bed, listening to Charlotte and Mary talking. Actually, they’re arguing, in a good-humored way, about novels. Charlotte earlier claimed that all writers since Scott were worthless and Mary is taking her to task.

  “Who do you mean? What have you read since we last met?”

  Charlotte has to admit that she hasn’t read any current fiction.

  “Oh, Charlotte! Then your assertion is nonsense. Shame on you! I’ve just read Balzac’s Le Père Goriot. It’s a splendid book. You should try it.”

  “You read it in French!”

  “Yes, slowly, of course, and with my dictionary at my elbow. But it was worth it. He says right at the beginning that it’s not a romance, and he’s right. I mean, Scott’s good in his way, if you want an adventurous romp, but in Balzac everything seems just like real life, it’s so believable.”

  Charlotte snorts. “I experience real life every day. When I read I want something different, you know, to take me away from it.”

  “Well, I enjoy that too, but this is something new — I feel as if he shows you the truth of what people are really feeling. It’s very affecting.”

  At Mary’s words, a thrill shoots through Emily, like a flame sparking into life. She would never desert her beloved Scott, but Mary has a point. Aiming to be real, to examine the human heart in your writing … What a fine thing that would be, if you could achieve it.

  Lying there in the dark, she’s filled with a sense of excitement, of anticipation. Since the conversation with Anne, she’s hasn’t wanted to think about Gondal, but Mary’s words have inspired her. She can’t wait to try out this new idea in her writing.

  Two days later, when Emily’s in the kitchen making bread, Mary comes in and flops onto a chair. “Hello, my dear. I’ve come to see what you’re doing. Gosh, it’s nice and warm in here.”

  Emily gives her a shy smile. Normally she’d hate being observed by anyone who wasn’t one of the family, but she doesn’t mind Mary watching her. Anyway, she’s glad to have a chance to talk to Mary by herself.

  Mary seems content to sit quietly, though, until Emily’s in the middle of kneading the dough, when she suddenly says, “Do you enjoy doing that?”

  Emily looks up, surprised. “Yes, I do.”

  “Hmm.” Mary ponders this and then says, “Well, I like to be active, but I shouldn’t want to spend my whole life bound to housework.”

  Emily’s not sure what to say. She doesn’t feel that housework is bondage — she enjoys it and finds it liberating, as she can think about her writing while she’s doing it. But she still doesn’t feel able to confide in Mary about her stories. What if Mary wanted to see them? After what happened at Roe Head, Emily never wants anyone outside the family to read her efforts. And now that she knows what Mary thinks of Scott, what would she say about Gondal?

  In the lengthening silence, Emily blurts out awkwardly, “Is there something you would like to do?”

  Mary looks at her and grins. “Indeed. I mean to earn my own living and be beholden to no one.”

  Emily sighs inwardly. This wretched subject again — earning one’s own living.

  Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

  Mary has picked up a wooden spoon and is twirling it between her hands. “But I wouldn’t like to be doing what Charlotte does.” She pulls a face. “Certainly not under the terms she’s agreed to. She told me that after paying Anne’s fees and putting something by for their clothes, she’s nothing left.”

  This is news to Emily. It makes Charlotte’s self-sacrifice even more pointless and awful. She fixes Mary with her eyes. “Oh, would you speak to her about it? And get her to see how stupid it is? Because she won’t listen to me. She’s afflicted with this ridiculous sense of duty and she’s going to make herself ill if she carries on.”

  Mary puts down the spoon and lays a hand on Emily’s arm. “I’ll try. But you know Charlotte. Once she’s set her mind on something …” She sighs. “Oh, let’s hope, my dear, that we don’t have to be teachers or bonnet makers.”

  Emily’s amused by Mary’s vehemence. Of course she has no intention of being any such thing. Remembering the conversation they had last time Mary was here, she says mischievously, “You don’t fancy a life of trimming bonnets with hand-worked roses, then?”

  “No, indeed.” Mary laughs. “I want to travel if I can and see as much of this world as possible … and I hope I might find a better means of earning my livelihood in another country, where they don’t have such narrow ideas of what women are capable of.”

  Suddenly it’s not so funny. Mary means to go far away? Emily didn’t know. Perhaps they could still go on writing to each other? But then, Mary didn’t reply to her last letter. She’s screwing up her courage to mention it when Mary stretches and says, “Anyway, whatever happens, I will not stay at home.” Her mouth twists with distaste as she says the word.

  Emily almost gasps. Tentatively she says, “Why not? What’s wrong with home?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t bear it. To be trapped in the same daily routine, to see the same small group of people all the time …” She shudders. “I know myself too well. Without variety and a wider circle of social contacts, I should never survive. Anyway” — jumping to her feet, she gives Emily one of her dazzling smiles — “I’d better leave you to your bread making or your dough might not rise.”

  She bounces out of the kitchen, leaving Emily staring after her.

  Something inside her has shriveled. She thought that she and Mary were so alike and had similar ideas about things. But she was wrong. To her, home means … oh, everything. She can’t put it into words and, even if she could, she can see now that Mary would never understand.

  By the next morning Emily’s recovered somewhat. After all, just because she and Mary don’t agree about everything, it doesn’t mean they can’t be friends. She’s looking forward to more conversations, especially if they manage to have another walk together, just the two of them.

  But over the next day or two it becomes obvious that this isn’t likely to happen, and it’s all because of Branwell. Whatever they’re doing, whether they stay in or go out, he insists on being with them.

  At first Emily doesn’t think anything of it — she’s just waiting for him to go away and leave them to it. But he doesn’t. And it gradually dawns on Emily that it’s Mary who’s keeping him there.

  She’d noticed on Mary’s last visit that Branwell seemed to like their guest’s company; now she can see that he’s definitely interested in her. It’s frustrating — it means there’s no chance for any of the rest of them to take Mary off for a private chat.

  As Emily hangs back, scowling and watching Branwell lavish attention on Mary, it dawns on her that Mary herself doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she’s positively encouraging him, making a point of sitting next to him at mealtimes and walking with him when they go out.

  With a sickening jolt she sees that Mary might be becoming fond of Branwell. Surely not! Mary’s just being polite, that’s all.

  But she can’t deceive herself for long. Mary isn’t polite — she behaves as she wants and says what she feels. She begins to watch Mary carefully. Everything about her behavior suggests that she’s only interested in Branwell; her eyes are always on him.

  Emily is astonished. Mary seemed such a strong, self-reliant person — someone she could real
ly admire — and now it appears she’s just like other women Emily’s read about, letting themselves become infatuated and behaving foolishly.

  After a while Emily can’t bear it any longer. She takes herself off to the kitchen and starts peeling the potatoes for dinner, relieved that Tabby’s still out shopping so she won’t have to talk.

  She’d been so looking forward to this visit, to seeing more of Mary and getting to know her better, and now this had to happen.

  Oh, this love! If that’s even what it is. Emily pulls a face and stabs her knife into a potato. It won’t do you any good, Mary.

  She’s fond of her brother, of course, but she’s amazed that Mary has fixed on him. He’s so unsuitable for her. He’s not likely to be careful of Mary’s feelings, and she’s bound to end up dissatisfied and unhappy.

  What a nuisance Branwell is. Why couldn’t he have left Mary alone? Savagely Emily chops the potatoes in half. But then she pauses, and putting down the knife, she presses her hands against her chest, against her heart.

  She can’t really blame Branwell. Mary knows her own mind. And it’s obvious to Emily now why Mary didn’t answer her letter. Apart from that one time in the kitchen, not once has Mary sought her out, not once has she tried to have a personal conversation with Emily.

  Emily lets her hands fall.

  She can’t avoid the truth any longer — Mary isn’t really interested in her at all.

  When Mary leaves them, Emily tells herself she’s glad she doesn’t have to see Mary making a fool of herself over Branwell anymore.

  But deep down, she feels wretched.

  Mary’s not the only one to behave idiotically. She herself has been a fool too, believing there was more to their relationship than there was. She let herself get carried away by the idea of who she thought Mary was, when really, she hardly knew her. On the basis of a few conversations and letters she had let herself believe that she and Mary were alike, no, more than that, were soul mates. In reality, they didn’t have all that much in common. Look at how Mary flirted with Branwell. Even more distressing, look at what she feels about home!