A Girl Walks Into a Book

by Miranda K. Pennington

  AFTER William S. Williams, the editor who stayed up all night reading the Jane Eyre manuscript after it arrived, George Smith was Charlotte’s best literary friend—he appreciated her writing, fixed her spelling, and kept her supplied with novels, newspapers, and magazines despite her protestations that she didn’t deserve the attention. Since Emily had made Charlotte promise not to disclose their identities as authors, Charlotte had only ever corresponded as Currer Bell or C. Brontë on the Bells’ behalf. She had exchanged letters with Smith for about a year before finally deciding, in July of 1847, that she and Anne should go to London in person to put to rest some particularly pernicious gossip about the Bells and their novels.

  Emily and Anne’s publisher, T. C. Newby, had unscrupulously sold excerpts from The Tenant of Wildfell Hall to an American publisher, misrepresenting it as the latest work by Currer Bell. Newspapers had speculated for some time that either all three Bells were one person—Newby’s announcement was an apparent confirmation that left Smith, Elder & Co. understandably rankled. Smith wrote to Charlotte to say that as her publishers, they were miffed that she’d evaded their right of first refusal; the only way to clear up the misunderstanding, Charlotte felt, was in person.

  The account of Charlotte and Anne’s first meeting with Smith and Williams is priceless. Charlotte wrote to her friend Mary Taylor, who was by then running a shop in New Zealand with her brother:

  Somebody came up and said dubiously

  “Did you wish to see me, Ma’am?” “Is it Mr. Smith?” I said, looking up through my spectacles at a young, tall, gentlemanly man. “It is.”

  I then put his own letter into his hand directed to “Currer Bell.” He looked at it—then at me—again—yet again—I laughed at his queer perplexity—a recognition took place—I gave my real name—“Miss Brontë”—We were both hurried from the shop into a little back room, ceiled with a great skylight and only large enough to hold 3 chairs and a desk—and there explanations were rapidly gone into—Mr. Newby being anathematized, I fear with undue vehemence. Smith hurried out and returned quickly with one whom he introduced as Mr Williams—a pale, mild, stooping man of fifty.… Another recognition—a long, nervous shaking of hands—then followed talk—talk—talk—Mr Williams being silent—Mr Smith loquacious—

  “Allow me to introduce you to my mother & sisters—How long do you stay in Town? You must make the most of the time—tonight you must go to the Italian opera—you must see the Exhibition—Mr. Thackeray would be pleased to see you—if Mr Lewes* knew ‘Currer Bell’ was in town—he would have to be shut up—I will ask them both to dinner at my house &c”6

  Once the shock and excitement had calmed, Smith took the Misses Brontë to the opera, introducing them to as few people as possible as “the Misses Brown,” to services at St. Stephens, to dinners that both impressed and exhausted the “quaintly dressed little ladies, pale-faced and anxious-looking.” They returned home with friends for life. Shortly after, Charlotte received what surely was one of the last letters before she became so famous it would be absurd for someone to get her name wrong; Smith inadvertently addressed a bank letter to her as “Caroline.” After she revealed her true identity, Charlotte’s exchanges with Smith grew ever friendlier, though she is consistently overly self-deprecating—she insists he shouldn’t trouble himself with the likes of her, he must have better things to do, she wouldn’t want to intrude, etc. She and Williams corresponded like father and daughter, but George and Charlotte were, in an understated, heavy on the literary criticism sense, totally flirting.

  In one of her letters, following a brief lapse in communication after another visit in London, Charlotte said, “Of course I was not at all pleased when the small problem was solved by the letter being brought—I never care for hearing from you the least in the world.”7 That sort of teasing banter doesn’t occur in her correspondence with anyone else! “My dear sir I return the ‘Times’ and the ‘Literary Gazette’ with—Oh no! I forgot—not with thanks.”8 That “not with thanks” implies he told her to knock it off with the groveling.

  The two of them went to a phrenologist together in London, under the names Mr. And Miss Fraser. According to Smith, Dr. Browne, the phrenologist, was so struck by the “imaginative power” of a lady he’d examined that he was talking about her days later to anyone who would listen. Since we don’t have any of Smith’s letters to Charlotte, we can’t close-read them to assuage our curiosity about his feelings. We can tell, though, that Charlotte occasionally doubted her highhanded manner with him, but consistently received reassurance: “Mr Fraser kindly understood me—for which I beg to tell him—I am grateful—it is pleasant to be understood.”9 And this bit of sweetness: “Forgive all the nonsense of this letter—there is such a pleasure and relief either in writing or talking a little nonsense sometimes to anybody who is sensible enough to understand—and good natured enough to pardon it.”10 That’s what I’d always liked about Eric—I didn’t want to be dominated or overruled, but I did want to be met halfway. To be challenged. To have my volley returned. To have a little nonsense now and then.

  I don’t think George Smith was Constantin Heger 2.0; Charlotte didn’t look up to him as a teacher-god. They were intellectual equals, even if their age and social standing was uneven. Charlotte might write relationships that reflected traditional gender roles, even as she queered them with tomboys and Captain Shirley Keeldar, but in real life she was attracted to men she could hold her own with. As much as she liked his flippant correspondence, she carefully consigns her most overt appreciation to the pen of Currer Bell, keeping Charlotte Brontë at bay:

  But though Currer Bell cannot do this [write a serial for Smith, Elder & Co.]—you are still to think him your friend—and you are still to be his friend. You are to keep a fraction of yourself—if it be only the end of your little finger—for him, and that fraction he will neither let gentleman or lady—author or artist… take possession of—or so much as meddle with. He reduces his claim to a minute point—and that point he monopolizes.11

  That is surely the sound of a woman in love who believes, rightly or wrongly, that she can make no larger claim on the object of her affection. But that pinkie finger is hers.

  As much as George Smith appreciated Charlotte’s friendship, admired her writing, and bantered with her through the mails, after her death he denied ever being in love with her. He even said he’d found her appearance insufficiently charming. This earns him a side-eye for shallowness. I also think his opinion of her was somewhat compromised by the well-meaning efforts of literary gossips like Elizabeth Gaskell and Harriet Martineau, who were prone to spreading reports of Charlotte’s frailness and ill health even when Charlotte herself wasn’t particularly sickly. She was irked enough—and perhaps aware that it was affecting his perception of her—to write to him about it:

  May I be so egotistical as to say a word or two about my health. Two ladies—neither of them unknown to Fame—whom I reverence for their talents and love for their amiability, but of whom I would beg the small favour of being allowed to remain in tolerable health—seem determined between them that I shall be a sort of invalid;… If I do not answer the letters of these ladies by return of post… flying rumours presently reach me derogatory to my physical condition.…

  Why may not I be well like other people? I think I am reasonably well; not strong or capable of much continuous exertion (which I do not remember that I ever was) and apt no doubt to look haggard if over-fatigued—but otherwise I have no ailment and I maintain that I am well, and hope (D.V.) to continue so a while.12

  This is the passage often pointed to by Brontë enthusiasts and researchers to suggest that Charlotte was in love with Smith, and that she feared his feelings for her might be compromised by the rumors of her sickliness. And it’s very possible that they were, and he was dissuaded from developing stronger feelings for her as a result. The woman Smith eventually chose to marry he claimed to have fallen in love with at first sight; she was young, and ros
y-cheeked, and for Charlotte’s sake I hope you will join me in despising her.

  Even if they were never romantically attached, Charlotte was sufficiently invested in their relationship that receiving news of his engagement in 1853 led to a very brief and frosty acknowledgment, and then a chillier silence, until she wrote back to him with news of her own engagement the following year.

  I returned from my silent retreat calm and collected. I had eaten a significant quantity of yogurt, peanut butter, and tofu. I had learned to sit still. I felt like I’d had a breakthrough. The torch I carried wasn’t out, but it had dimmed enough that I could see beyond it. I had to live my life as though Eric were going to be permanently unavailable, and I had to really mean it, not just attempt to work reverse-psychology on the universe. Eric could stay locked in his unhappy relationship, since apparently it suited him, and I would eventually find a partner willing and eager to be with me. Then I would condescend to invite Eric to our wedding and make him die a little inside at how happy and radiant I was. This was Plan A, a significant improvement over Plan B, which was dying abandoned and alone in a forest.

  My first day back at work, Eric asked me to lunch, and confessed he actually had broken up with his girlfriend while I was away. My newfound serenity wobbled but didn’t falter—if we were going to be together, I didn’t want him on the rebound. I wanted him for keeps. We existed in sort of a limbo for a few weeks—socializing occasionally outside of work, texting daily, but not constantly. It was exasperating. If he wasn’t ready to address this lingering tension by my last day in the office, I planned to acknowledge myself defeated and move on.

  On the Monday of my last week at LightBulb he came out to Brooklyn with me after work. We sat on my couch, fidgeted with the red corduroy cushions, and watched the sunlight slant through the windows. I remember putting my toes into the beam that was heating up the hardwood floor where Gracie was sleeping. I was ready to surrender.

  “Even when you really want something to happen,” I said, “if it’s not the best thing for the person you care about, you don’t get to just demand it, right? Sometimes you just have to let go. I guess I’m ready.” It was weird to be having this conversation face to face. We rarely talked about anything serious out loud, least of all our relationship. I was used to having time to revise or think better of what I was about to say. There was a certain temptation to take out my phone and just text him. My sentiments had sounded so much more poignant in my head. We sat through a long pause while I wiped away a noble tear or two, expecting him to nod and admit he just wasn’t ready, although he liked me a lot, it was too soon, and he’d given it a lot of thought but just couldn’t in good conscience—

  “Wait, are you talking about us?” Eric said. I closed my eyes and exhaled in a very un-Zen huff. Every conversation we’d had for months, no matter how innocuous, was secretly about the Long Term Potential Of Us. How did he not get it? When I nodded, he gave me a hug and suggested we go get some dinner. We walked to Bogota, my favorite restaurant in Park Slope, and continued our circular conversation around “what this is exactly.” I have no patience for circular conversation. It makes me want to cut to the heart of things, but as the great Diana Ross and a few dozen others have vainly tried to warn me, you can’t hurry love. No, you just have to wait. Finally I put down my fork and said, “Listen, we’re already here. This is dating. We just haven’t kissed yet. The question is, do you want to be here or not? Because I’d understand if you didn’t, but I can’t keep going on as if you might if the truth is you don’t.” I speared a plantain and avoided eye contact while Eric worked out what I had said. He smiled (finally, one thing that’s better in person), and said, “I do. I want to be here.”

  I believe that I blushed. After dinner we got gelato and walked back to my apartment. I invited him up to the roof to “see the view of Manhattan.” I assumed anyone who’d ever dated anyone with a roof, or stairs, or a collection of etchings knew that a visit to see them was a flagrant transparency, but later Eric would profess he had no idea why I wanted to go upstairs. It was to make out, obviously. Maybe the reason Charlotte could never get things going with George Smith was the Smith & Elder offices didn’t have a rooftop with a view.

  I led him to the waist-high wall at the front of the building and perched up on it with a dexterity that my teenage self would have applauded. Behind me was Lower Manhattan’s skyline and the Williamsburg Savings Bank Tower clock, with its red neon hands. They seldom both worked at the same time, but that night they were glowing in tandem. He got nervous I’d fall, so I slid down to face him. Eric is almost exactly my height, so I was looking straight into his eyes. I don’t think we’d ever stood this close together unless the elevator was particularly crowded. His eyes were so blue. I could see individual curls in his dark hair, lit by the streetlights on Fourth Avenue. His hands were surprisingly smooth and soft as he slid them into mine. I had a split second to regret the whole idea because we were about to ruin everything when finally he kissed me. We kissed for a while, until I broke away giggling. I couldn’t stop, silly and suddenly shy, despite all my brazenness.

  The next day at work we sheepishly said hello over the cube wall and sat down. I felt like my cheeks were in some shade of red all day; my coworkers had to be aware of the magnetic waves ebbing through the office. That afternoon, an earthquake shook Manhattan. So maybe the magnetic waves had nothing to do with us. Our offices were on the top floor of a sturdy Rector Street building, and yet the whole floor swayed. The entire staff either chanced it in the elevators or bolted down all twenty-six flights of interior stairs to reconvene in Battery Park. I may have allowed a moment of smugness—Jane Eyre only got a lightning-struck tree after her first kiss, I got a whole earthquake—but then I remembered that it wasn’t a good omen.* It was, however, another one I chose to ignore. Work abandoned, Eric and I walked all the way up Broadway, soaking in that peculiar feeling of camaraderie New York City gets whenever something drastic happens to us all at once. We parted ways at Union Square with a squeeze of the hand and a kiss on the cheek.

  The lesson I should have learned from that shaky beginning was that Eric would take action when it felt like now or never, regardless of whether he was actually ready, and it would lead to unpleasant aftershocks every time. As you might have expected, there were some complications in leaping into a serious relationship with a man just out of an existing (and, I would find out later, still largely unresolved) domestic situation who wasn’t aware that I already saw our relationship as serious. He didn’t want to hurt me, but being with him meant compromises. It meant being patient when he took forever to make plans, and being gracious when plans had to be canceled at the last minute, and being accepting when he refused to make plans at all. I was required to access reservoirs of chill I’d never known before. Whatever grace and acceptance I had learned at the silent retreat had totally evaporated two weeks into our long-awaited relationship. It hurt that we were exchanging our easy everyday banter for tense, testy exchanges when my impatience met his reluctance. I was ready to be in love, and instead we were perpetually in transition.

  Eric was candid with me, but just like I’d predicted when I was a teenager, when Mr. Rochester offered a vision of paradise set sometime in the future in exchange for my dignity and self-respect in the moment, I took it and ran. Believing I’d done my due diligence (when I’d only taken the bare minimum dosage of Jane Eyre), I swallowed my expectations and eagerly signed up for what Eric had to offer—his hesitancy, his conflicted loyalties, his history of not communicating honestly when it was painful to do so. I imagined I would shape it into what I really wanted later.

  Come to think of it, Eric didn’t attempt to lure me to a villa on the Mediterranean. I wasn’t even invited to his actual apartment, because it was still the contested home of his shared-custody dog. But it wasn’t all bad. Our first real date post-kiss, post-quake was a visit to the Museum of the City of New York and a walk down Central Park West. Our third date was Th
e Elegance of the Hedgehog and a stroll around Midtown East. We fell into a rhythm—he would come to my apartment after work, we’d make out for a while, have dinner, and he’d go home. If I tried to make plans on the weekend, he was noncommittal and evasive. A smarter woman than I would have backed off immediately, busied herself with schoolwork, and attempted to date other people.

  Or, if I’d really wanted to do it up right, I could have thrown myself on the mercy of my aunt and uncle in White Plains, set off in the dark of night on the New Jersey Turnpike. This hypothetical smarter woman would have let Eric take his time with no hard feelings. Or the hard feelings would have won out, so she could stop wondering when he would call and what he would say and when he would want to see her. But I was no smarter than I’d ever been. Dumber, in fact, because for the first time I was outright rejecting the counsel of Jane Eyre, who is always full of wisdom and self-respect. When her romantic idol fell drastically short of her standards, Jane walked away. When my love interest showed the same frailty, I shortened my measuring stick. I asked for less, denied I had standards at all. Jane was also still speaking directly to me, by the way, or at least trying to:

  Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is better?—To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort—no struggle;—but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester’s mistress; delirious with his love half my time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me—no one will ever love me so again.… He was fond and proud of me—it is what no man besides will ever be.—But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’s paradise at Marseilles—fevered with delusive bliss one hour—suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next—or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?13