by Nick Holland
Of Anne he was more complimentary: ‘She was a gentle, quiet, rather subdued person, by no means pretty, yet of a pleasing appearance. Her manner was curiously expressive of a wish for protection and encouragement, a kind of constant appeal, which invited sympathy.’13
In these assessments we must consider that the Brontës were not at all the sort of women that George Smith was used to meeting. They were shorn of the adornments borne by the society women he usually saw, and he was never one to praise unduly, yet he still found Anne’s appearance to be pleasing. What he saw as a wish for protection was merely a result of Anne’s usual shyness when first in the company of someone she did not know, the eyes cast downwards and the hesitant speech.
Another man must be admitted into this fascinating secret. Smith called his chief reader to his office. A quiet, mild-looking man in his 50s was admitted. It was Mr W.S. Williams, with whom Charlotte, as Currer, had been corresponding and who had first discerned the brilliance of Jane Eyre.
Williams looked around in confusion, a faint smile playing on the faces of the sisters, but when Smith explained the situation to him, it was all he could do to stop himself snatching Charlotte’s hand and pressing it to his lips. He was fulsome in his praise, expressing what an honour it was to be in the company of the two Bells, or rather the two Brontës. Here at last was the affirmation the sisters never expected to receive. They were not now the quiet girls of the parsonage, they were not the teachers and governesses to be spoken down to. They were women who successful businessmen, learned men of letters, were honoured to meet, and they had effected this change with nothing more nor less than the power of their own minds.
With a surge of pride, which she would do her utmost to quell, Anne also felt her confidence returning. She spoke alongside Charlotte as they explained that they would now visit Thomas Cautley Newby before returning to Haworth the next day. Despite protestations from Smith, they insisted on retaining their pen names for their books, and they also refused to discuss the identity of Ellis Bell. On one matter, however, George Smith would not be defeated. He would not hear of Anne and Charlotte returning to Haworth on the next day; he insisted that they stay in London for a few days and let him and Mr Williams show them the sights of the capital. It was suggested that they stay with George Smith and his mother, but of course the sisters would not dream of such an imposition, preferring to remain at the Chapter Coffee House.
Anne and her sister had planned to go straight from Smith, Elder & Co. to Thomas Cautley Newby, but it seems likely that this visit was postponed until the Monday, now that they would be staying in London until Tuesday. The long journey without sleep, the downpour near Keighley and the nervous excitement of their visit to the publisher had all taken their toll. Anne could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on, with the difficulty in breathing that always accompanied it, while Charlotte suffered from a terrible headache. Nevertheless, before they retired to their room for rest they found time to do a little shopping, in which they bought a parasol each and presents for the people at home, including a Walter Scott novel for Emily.14
While the visit to the unworthy Newby could wait, there was another publisher the sisters may have taken an interest in, and they were located on the very road that they were staying on. Aylott & Jones, who had published Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, were also to be found on Paternoster Row. We have no concrete evidence that they visited this publisher, but it seems likely, as it was shortly after this time that the rights to the collection of poetry were transferred from Aylott & Jones to Smith, Elder & Co.15
At last the sisters had an hour to themselves, and Anne lay down upon her bed, letting the memories of the day wash over her. It was not over yet, and for Anne the best was yet to come. The dashing George Smith had arranged a very special treat for the celebrated, if unknown, authors, and it was one that could not have been better suited for Anne. He had invited them to accompany himself and Mr Williams to his box at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
For both sisters this was a daunting prospect, but especially so for Charlotte. She had never mixed in high society, as Anne had done in her posts as governess to both the Ingham and Robinson families, and she was worried that they would look ridiculously out of step with the other opera-goers. When George Smith arrived to collect them, her worst fears were confirmed. He was in full evening wear, including tails, whereas she and Anne were attired in the simple dresses they had arrived in. Charlotte was also self-conscious of the spectacles she had to wear for this event, and we can imagine her whispering to Smith throughout the evening of how she felt distinctly underdressed. Perhaps it is from this very early meeting between George Smith and Charlotte, and there were to be many more in the years ahead, that he formed his famous opinion of her, namely that ‘she would have given all her genius and fame to be beautiful’.16
Anne, whose companion for the evening was Mr Williams, was much less self-conscious. She was used to being dressed plainly in the company of lords, ladies and gentlemen. Even so, she was seeing opulence on a scale that she had never seen before, both in the building itself and in the people who frequented it.
The building was huge and dominated the front of Bow Street, with Doric columns announcing the grand entrance hall. It was larger in size than today’s Royal Opera House standing on the same site and had only been opened a year previously after an extensive redesign by Benedict Albano. There were 188 boxes in all, and Anne and Charlotte had to ascend the grand central staircase covered in red carpet to reach the box belonging to George Smith. A butler service was on hand to provide fine food and fine wine, but Anne was too enraptured in the opera itself. It was The Barber of Seville by Rossini, a composer admired by Anne, and one whose scores she had played on her piano.
She had seen performances of opera before, but not on this scale and not by performers of this virtuosity and brilliance. The famous ‘Figaro’s Aria’ in particular would have been a thing of sheer delight to Anne; surely music and singing of this scale could only be a gift from God? When she had held that accusatory letter in her hand in the parsonage, she could not have imagined that on the following evening she would be seated in this grand opera house listening to music that made her heart soar. She leaned forward excitedly in her seat, as her drumming fingers kept time with the score.
Back in the Chapter Coffee House, Anne could not stop talking about the performance, analysing which singers had been best. From this, Charlotte was to write that there were some things that Anne would have liked better about the performance, but that was simply a reflection of the impact it had made on this music-loving woman. When we look back on Anne’s life, here at least is one night that she would have found completely joyful.
Sunday morning arrived, and now Anne could indulge her other true passion in life. Mr Williams arrived to escort the sisters to church. Despite being in the shadow of St Paul’s, Anne asked to be taken to St Stephen’s church in Walbrook, which was home to the celebrated preacher Reverend George Croly. Anne had read of Croly’s reputation for Christian charity and of his brilliant sermons, where he would talk of God’s forgiveness and love for all. Alas, he was not there on that particular Sunday, but Anne found the evangelical service to her liking nonetheless.
On Sunday afternoon they were taken to dine at Mr Smith’s house, or rather at his mother’s house where he still lived, in Bayswater. They were introduced to the family as guests of honour, and such was the effect on Anne and her sister that they could barely eat any of the large meal that was set before them. After the meal they strolled through Kensington Gardens, marvelling at the beautiful lawns and flower beds, although in Anne’s eyes, they could never match the beauty of the wild moorland flowers.
Monday was to be their last full day in London, and it was on this day that they simply had to visit Thomas Newby. It is likely that he knew what was coming, and that George Smith had already contacted him now that he had received irrefutable proof of Newby’s duplicity. Charlotte must have b
een expecting Anne to renounce her contract with Newby and demand that he hand the rights over to George Smith, but once again she would prove to Charlotte that she was her own woman. Anne could talk with confidence when she had to, and she left Thomas Newby in no doubt of how distasteful she found his actions. Nevertheless, she would not break the contract with him, but instead insisted that she be allowed to write a preface to the second edition that would make clear her opinion on what Newby and the critics had been saying about The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and its author.
As they stormed out of the shamefaced Newby’s office, Charlotte must have been bewildered by her sister’s decision, but she was learning to bite her tongue when it came to Anne. To Anne, a contract was a contract; even if one side had broken it, she would not. Further to this, to break off from Newby would have been an insult to Emily, who had also accepted his terms. It must be endured.
Light relief was needed afterwards, and they went to a new exhibition at the Royal Academy, looking at masterpieces they had never dreamt they would see in person. Dinner followed at Mr Smith’s and then tea at Mr Williams’ house. This was to prove to be another musical highlight for Anne. Mr Williams had eight daughters, one of whom would become a celebrated opera singer, and on this occasion she sang with another guest who was present, the daughter of Leigh Hunt, the poet and publisher who had been a friend of Keats, Byron and Shelley. Encouraged by all present, it is likely that Anne was persuaded to join in with the singing on this occasion, enchanting her hosts with her soft yet sweet voice.
Every hour in London brought new joys for Anne; it was a world completely alien to the one she had known, yet one that was full of delights for all the senses. All too soon, the London adventure drew to an end. Tuesday morning saw them take one last visit to Cornhill on their way back to Euston train station. George Smith insisted on loading them with books to take back with them and asked them to stay for a few more days, but this they could not do for reasons they could not admit, even though the astute Smith may have guessed them. Anne and Charlotte had exhausted the funds they had come with, and consequently they had to travel by second class on their return train journey. They stayed overnight in Leeds, before arriving back in Haworth on Wednesday morning, heavily burdened with presents and books, and full of exciting stories that Emily insisted on hearing again and again.
It was to be Anne’s one and only visit outside of Yorkshire, but there remained one more journey that she and Charlotte would take together. The storm clouds had gathered over the moors between Haworth and Keighley at the start of their travels, but now they were gathering over the parsonage itself.
Notes
1. Gérin, Winifred, Anne Brontë, p.261
2. Spectator, 8 July 1848
3. The Rambler, September 1848
4. Morning Post, 14 August 1848
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. The Examiner, 29 July 1848
8. Brontë, Charlotte, Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell, p.4
9. Gérin, Winifred, Anne Brontë, p.261
10. Barker, Juliet, The Brontës, p.557
11. Charlotte gave a detailed recollection of this scene, and her time in London, in a letter to Mary Taylor on 8 September 1848. Smith, Margaret (ed.), The Letters of Charlotte Brontë, Volume 2, pp.111–5
12. Smith, George, A Memoir: With Some Pages of Autobiography, p.91
13. Ibid.
14. Gérin, Winifred, Anne Brontë, p.269
15. Hargreaves, G.D., ‘The Publishing of “Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell”’, Brontë Society Transactions 1969, p.298
16. Smith, George, A Memoir: With Some Pages of Autobiography, p.91
16
THE END OF THE UNHAPPY SCAPEGRACE
‘Pray for me, Helen!’
‘I do pray for you – every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must pray for yourself.’
His lips moved, but emitted no sound; then his looks became unsettled; and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that escaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to steal away for a breath of fresh air, for I was almost ready to faint; but a convulsive movement of his fingers, and a faintly whispered ‘Don’t leave me!’ immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and held it till he was no more … None can imagine the miseries, bodily and mental, of that deathbed! How could I endure to think that that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? It would drive me mad! But thank God I have hope – whatever fate awaits it, still, it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that He hath made, will bless it in the end!
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
1848 had started in promising fashion for Anne. She was now a published poet and novelist, and was working on a second novel. Whilst the year would bring personal triumphs for Anne, the excellent sales of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and her journey to London among them, it would also bring struggles, despair and eventual tragedy.
One particular struggle that assailed Anne from the very start of the year was her own increasingly fragile health. The severe attack of asthma that she had suffered towards the end of 1846 had been as alarming for her family as it was for her. She dealt with it by sitting still, breathing shallowly, conserving every intake of oxygen and showing few outward signs of the internal battle being fought, a battle for life. Charlotte described it thus, in a letter to Ellen Nussey:
She had two nights last week when her cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear and witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer; she bore it, as she does all affliction, without one complaint, only sighing now and then when nearly worn out.1
These attacks occurred more frequently than usual during 1847, and the winter of that year was particularly bleak, bringing an unending succession of colds, accompanied by difficulty in breathing, throughout the first three months of 1848. Anne could feel that her mental powers were at their height, but her physical powers were growing ever more unreliable. Nevertheless, in a letter that Anne wrote to Ellen on 26 January 1848 she plays down her troubles:
We are all cut up by this cruel east wind, most of us i.e. Charlotte, Emily, and I have had the influenza or a bad cold instead, twice over within the space of a few weeks; Papa has had it once, Tabby has hitherto escaped it altogether – I have no news to tell you, for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to speak of) since you were here – and yet we contrive to be busy from morning to night. Flossy is fatter than ever, but still active enough to relish a sheep hunt. I hope you and your circle have been more fortunate in the matters of cold than we have.2
There are two key things that Anne is hiding from Ellen in this letter. She says they have done nothing ‘to speak of’, and yet she had been occupied with something that she could not speak of – working on her new novel. This was certainly one of the matters that contrived to keep her busy from morning to night, and as Charlotte frequently warned her, the long evenings spent hunched over a candle, dredging up memories of events that had been hateful to witness were injurious to Anne’s health. The other thing that kept them occupied, and which Anne would never allude to in a letter even if she did so in her novel, was the increasingly terrible situation with Branwell.
Branwell suffered from three character flaws throughout his life: arrogance, self-pity and an addictive personality; they intensified as he grew older and formed a deadly cocktail. Patrick Brontë was an enlightened father in many ways, providing an education for his daughters that was much more fulsome and rounded than could be expected at the time, yet it was still young Branwell who was given the best of everything. As the only boy among five sisters, he quickly grasped that he would be expected to be the breadwinner of the family, that he was the great hope of the Brontës. This was a role that he relished in his childhood, telling his sisters how he would be a great writer or a great artist, but as reality took hold in his adult years, he found the disillusionment hard t
o cope with.
Any setback seemed insurmountable to Branwell. He had the opportunity to enter the Royal Academy but could not bear to subject himself to the inevitable scrutiny and criticism that this would bring to his work. When he found that portrait painting wasn’t as profitable as he had expected, he promptly gave it up. Rather than supervising the men under his command on the railway, he would spend days carousing in public houses and drawing sketches in his notebook. The promising child had turned into an adult that could not be relied upon to do even the simplest task, and nobody knew it better than him. He sought refuge in drink and then drugs.
Branwell had been intemperate since his teenage years, despite the appeals of Anne and Charlotte for him to avoid the temptations of drink. He would soon be relishing the taste of laudanum as well, and then came an addiction to opium itself. The effect of opium was liberating for Branwell: no longer was he a failure, no longer a disappointment to his family and himself; in effect, he was no longer himself at all, he was just a mind floating free of his body, with no earthly ties to weigh him down. He was still bright enough, at this point, to realise the damaging effects that opium addiction could bring. Going cold turkey, he weaned himself painfully off the drug, just as Lord Lowborough would do in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
At Thorp Green, however, a different temptation would prove even more powerful: the temptation of the flesh. Mrs Lydia Robinson was to be the most addictive substance of all to Branwell. He could not shake off the combination of love and lust, and he would in fact never try to do so. After his inevitable dismissal in the summer of 1845 he had immediately embarked upon his greatest drinking binge to date. In her diary paper of 1845, Anne wrote: