Chapter VII: Conclusion: 228 (5)

I have mislaid your last letter, and so cannot look it over to see
what there is in it to answer; but it is time it was answered in
some fashion, whether I have anything to say or not. Miss ----'s
note is very like her. All that talk about "friendship," "mutual
friends," "auld lang syne," &c., sounds very like palaver. Mrs.
---- wrote to me a week or a fortnight since--a well-meaning,
amiable note, dwelling a good deal, excusably perhaps, on the good
time that is coming. I mean, to speak plain English, on her
expectation of soon becoming a mother. No doubt it is very natural
in her to feel as if no woman had ever been a mother before; but I
could not help inditing an answer calculated to shake her up a
bit. A day or two since I had another note from her, quite as good
as usual, but I think a trifle nonplussed by the rather
unceremonious fashion in which her terrors and the expected
personage were handled.... It is useless to tell you how I live. I
endure life; but whether I enjoy it or not is another question.
However, I get on. The weather, I think, has not been very good
lately; or else the beneficial effects of change of air and scene
are evaporating. In spite of regular exercise the old headaches
and starting, wakeful nights are coming upon me again. But I
_do_ get on, and have neither wish nor right to complain.

October, 1851.

I am not at all intending to go from home at present. I have just
refused successively, Miss Martineau, Mrs. Gaskell, and Mrs.
Forster. I could not go if I would. One person after another in
the house has been ailing for the last month and more. First Tabby
had the influenza, then Martha took it and is ill in bed now, and
I grieve to say Papa too has taken cold. So far I keep pretty
well, and am thankful for it, for who else would nurse them all?
Some painful mental worry I have gone through this autumn; but
there is no use in dwelling on all that. At present I seem to have
some respite. I feel more disinclined than ever for
letter-writing.... Life is a struggle.

November, 1851.

Papa, Tabby, and Martha are at present all better, but yet none of
them well. Martha especially looks feeble. I wish she had a better
constitution. As it is, one is always afraid of giving her too
much to do; and yet there are many things I cannot undertake
myself; and we do not like to change when we have had her so long.
The other day I received the enclosed letter from Australia. I had
had one before from the same quarter, which is still unanswered. I
told you I did not expect to hear thence--nor did I. The letter is
long, but it will be worth your while to read it. In its way it
has merit--that cannot be denied--abundance of information, talent
of a certain kind, alloyed (I think) here and there with errors of
taste. This little man with all his long letters remains as much a
conundrum to me as ever. Your account of the H---- "domestic joys"
amused me much. The good folks seem very happy; long may they
continue so! It somewhat cheers me to know that such happiness
_does_ exist on earth.

November, 1851.

All here is pretty much as usual.... The only events of my life
consist in that little change occasional letters bring. I have had
two from Miss W---- since she left Haworth, which touched me much.
She seems to think so much of a little congenial company, a little
attention and kindness. She says she has not for many days known
such enjoyment as she experienced during the ten days she stayed
here. Yet you know what Haworth is--dull enough. Before answering
X----'s letter from Australia I got up my courage to write to ----
and beg him to give me an impartial account of X----'s character
and disposition, owning that I was very much in the dark on these
points and did not like to continue correspondence without further
information. I got the answer which I enclose. Since receiving it
I have replied to X---- in a calm, civil manner. At the earliest I
cannot hear from him again before the spring.

December, 1851.

I hope you have got on this last week well. It has been very
trying here. Papa so far has borne it unhurt; but these winds and
changes have given me a bad cold; however, I am better now than I
was. Poor old Keeper (Emily's dog) died last Monday morning, after
being ill one night. He went gently to sleep; we laid his old
faithful head in the garden. Flossy is dull, and misses him.
There was something very sad in losing the old dog; yet I am glad
he met a natural fate. People kept hinting that he ought to be put
away, which neither Papa nor I liked to think of. If I were near a
town, and could get cod-liver oil fresh and sweet, I really would
most gladly take your advice and try it; but how I could possibly
procure it at Haworth I do not see.... You ask about "The Lily and
the Bee." If you have read it, you have effected an exploit beyond
me. I glanced at a few pages, and laid it down hopeless, nor can I
now find courage to resume it. But then, I never liked Warren's
writings. "Margaret Maitland" is a good book, I doubt not.

At this point the illness of which she makes light in these letters increased to such an extent as to alarm her father, and at last she consented to lay aside her work and allow herself the pleasure and comfort of a visit from her friend. The visit was a source of happiness whilst it lasted; but when it was over the depression returned, and there was a serious relapse. Something of her sufferings at this time--whilst "Villette" was still upon the stocks--will be gathered from the following letter, dated January 1852:

I wish you could have seen the coolness with which I captured your
letter on its way to Papa, and at once conjecturing its tenor,
made the contents my own. Be quiet. Be tranquil. It is, dear Nell,
my decided intention to come to B---- for a few days when I
_can_ come; but of this last I must positively judge for myself,
and I must take my time. I am better to-day--much better; but you
can have little idea of the sort of condition into which mercury
throws people to ask me to go from home anywhere in close or open
carriage. And as to talking--four days ago I could not well have
articulated three sentences. Yet I did not need nursing, and I
kept out of bed. It was enough to burden myself; it would have
been misery to me to have annoyed another.

March, 1852.

The news of E. T.'s death came to me last week in a letter from
M----, a long letter, which wrung my heart so in its simple,
strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once. It
ripped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force--the death-bed
was just the same--breath failing, &c. She fears she will now in
her dreary solitude become "a stern, harsh, selfish woman." This
fear struck home. Again and again I have felt it for myself; and
what is _my_ position to M----'s? I should break out in energetic
wishes that she would return to England, if reason would permit me
to believe that prosperity and happiness would there await her.
But I see no such prospect. May God help her as God only can help!

To another friend she writes as follows, in reply to an invitation to leave Haworth for a short visit:

March 12th, 1852.

Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that _must
be resisted_. From home I must not go unless health or some cause
equally imperative render a change necessary. For nearly four
months now (_i.e._ since I first became ill) I have not put pen to
paper; my work has been lying untouched, and my faculties have
been rusting for want of exercise; further relaxation is out of
the question, and _I will not permit myself to think of it_. My
publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to
check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty
answers. Yet the pleasure I now deny myself I would fain regard as
only deferred. I heard something about your purposing to visit
Scarborough in the course of the summer; and could I by the close
of July or August bring my task to a certain point, how glad
should I be to join you there for a while!... However, I dare not
lay plans at this distance of time; for me so much must depend,
first, on Papa's health (which throughout the winter has been, I
am thankful to say, really excellent), and, second, on the
progress of work--a matter not wholly contingent on wish or will,
but lying in a great measure beyond the reach of effort, or out of
the pale of calculation.

As the summer advanced her sufferings were scarcely abated, and at last, in search of some relief, she made a sudden visit by herself to Filey, inspired in part by her desire to see the memorial-stone erected above her sister's grave at Scarborough.

Filey Bay, June, 1852.

MY DEAR MISS ----,--Your kind and welcome note reached me at this
place, where I have been staying three weeks _quite alone_. Change
and sea-air had become necessary. Distance and other considerations
forbade my accompanying Ellen to the South, much as I should have
liked it had I felt quite free and unfettered. Ellen told me some
time ago that you were not likely to visit Scarborough till the
autumn, so I forthwith packed my trunk and betook myself here. The
first week or ten days I greatly feared the seaside would not suit
me, for I suffered almost incessantly from headache and other
harassing ailments; the weather, too, was dark, stormy, and
excessively--_bitterly_--cold. My solitude under such circumstances
partook of the character of desolation; I had some dreary evening
hours and night vigils. However, that passed. I think I am now
better and stronger for the change, and in a day or two hope to
return home. Ellen told me that Mr. W---- said people with my
tendency to congestion of the liver should walk three or four hours
every day; accordingly, I have walked as much as I could since I
came here, and look almost as sunburnt and weather-beaten as a
fisherman or a bathing-woman, with being out in the open air. As to
my work, it has stood obstinately still for a long while; certainly
a torpid liver makes a torpid brain. No spirit moves me. If this
state of things does not entirely change, my chance of a holiday in
the autumn is not worth much; yet I should be very sorry not to
meet you for a little while at Scarborough. The duty to be
discharged at Scarborough was the chief motive that drew me to the
east coast. I have been there, visited the churchyard, and seen the
stone. There were five errors; consequently I had to give
directions for its being re-faced and re-lettered.

The sea-air did her good; but she was still unable to carry her great work forward, in spite of the urgent pressure put upon her by those who in this respect merely expressed the impatience of the public.

Haworth, July, 1852.

I am again at home, where (thank God) I found all well. I
certainly feel much better than I did, and would fain trust that
the improvement may prove permanent.... The first fortnight I was
at Filey I had constantly recurring pain in the right side, and
sick headache into the bargain. My spirits at the same time were
cruelly depressed--prostrated sometimes. I feared the miseries and
the suffering of last winter were all returning; consequently I am
now indeed thankful to find myself so much better.... You ask
about Australia. Let us dismiss the subject in a few words, and
not recur to it. All is silent as the grave. Cornhill is silent
too; there has been bitter disappointment there at my having no
work ready for this season. Ellen, we must not rely upon our
fellow-creatures--only on ourselves, and on Him who is above both
us and them. My _labours_, as you call them, stand in abeyance,
and I cannot hurry them. I must take my own time, however long
that time may be.

August, 1852.

I am thankful to say that Papa's convalescence seems now to be
quite confirmed. There is scarcely any remainder of the
inflammation in his eyes, and his general health progresses
satisfactorily. He begins even to look forward to resuming his
duty ere long, but caution must be observed on that head. Martha
has been very willing and helpful during Papa's illness. Poor
Tabby is ill herself at present with English cholera, which
complaint, together with influenza, has lately been almost
universally prevalent in this district. Of the last I have myself
had a touch; but it went off very gently on the whole, affecting
my chest and liver less than any cold has done for the last three
years.... I write to you about yourself rather under constraint
and in the dark; for your letters, dear Nell, are most remarkably
oracular, dropping nothing but hints which tie my tongue a good
deal. What, for instance, can I say to your last postscript? It is
quite sibylline. I can hardly guess what checks you in writing to
me. Perhaps you think that as _I_ generally write with some
reserve, you ought to do the same. _My_ reserve, however, has its
origin not in design, but in necessity. I am silent because I have
literally _nothing to say_. I might, indeed, repeat over and over
again that my life is a pale blank, and often a very weary burden,
and that the future sometimes appals me; but what end could be
answered by such repetition, except to weary you and enervate
myself? The evils that now and then wring a groan from my heart
lie in my position--not that I am a _single_ woman and likely to
remain a _single_ woman, but because I am a lonely woman and
likely to be _lonely_. But it cannot be helped, and therefore
_imperatively must be borne_, and borne, too, with as few words
about it as may be. I write this just to prove to you that
whatever you would freely _say_ to me you may just as freely
write. Understand that I remain just as resolved as ever not to
allow myself the holiday of a visit from you till _I_ have done my
work. After labour, pleasure; but while work was lying at the wall
undone, I never yet could enjoy recreation.

Slowly page after page of "Villette" was now being written. The reader sees from these letters that the book was composed in no happy mood. Writing to her publisher a few weeks after the date of the last letter printed above, she says: "I can hardly tell you how I hunger to hear some opinions beside my own, and how I have sometimes desponded and almost despaired, because there was no one to whom to read a line, or of whom to ask a counsel. 'Jane Eyre' was not written under such circumstances, nor were two-thirds of 'Shirley.' I got so miserable about it that I could bear no allusion to the book. It is not finished yet; but now I hope." But though her work pressed so incessantly upon her, and her feverish anxiety to have it done weighed so heavily upon her health and spirits, she could still find time to answer her friend's letters in a way which showed that her interest in the outer world was as keen as ever:

September, 1852.

Thank you for A----'s notes. I like to read them, they are so full
of news, but they are illegible. A great many words I really
cannot make out. It is pleasing to hear that M---- is doing so
well, and the tidings about ---- seem also good. I get a note from
---- every now and then, but I fear my last reply has not given
much satisfaction. It contained a taste of that unpalatable
commodity called _advice_--such advice, too, as might be, and I
dare say was, construed into faint reproof. I can scarcely tell
what there is about ---- that, in spite of one's conviction of her
amiability, in spite of one's sincere wish for her welfare, palls
upon one, satiates, stirs impatience. She _will_ complacently put
forth opinions and tastes as her own which are _not_ her own, nor
in any sense natural to her. My patience can really hardly sustain
the test of such a jay in borrowed plumes. She prated so much
about the fine wilful spirit of her child, whom she describes as a
hard, brown little thing, who will do nothing but what pleases
himself, that I hit out at last--not very hard, but enough to make
her think herself ill-used, I doubt not. Can't help it. She often
says she is not "absorbed in self," but the fact is, I have seldom
seen anyone more unconsciously, thoroughly, and often weakly
egotistic. Then, too, she is inconsistent. In the same breath she
boasts her matrimonial happiness and whines for sympathy. Don't
understand it. With a paragon of a husband and child, why that
whining, craving note? Either her lot is not all she professes it
to be, or she is hard to content.

In October the resolute determination to allow herself no relaxation until "Villette" was finished broke down. She was compelled to call for help, and to acknowledge herself beaten in her attempt to crush out the yearning for company:

October, 1852.

Papa expresses so strong a wish that I should ask you to come, and
I feel some little refreshment so absolutely necessary myself,
that I really must beg you to come to Haworth for one single week.
I thought I would persist in denying myself till I had done my
work, but I find it won't do. The matter refuses to progress, and
this excessive solitude presses too heavily. So let me see your
dear face, Nell, just for one reviving week. Could you come on
Wednesday? Write to-morrow, and let me know by what train you
would reach Keighley, that I may send for you.

The visit was a pleasant one in spite of the weariness of body and mind which troubled Charlotte. She laid aside her task for that "one little week," went out upon the moors with her friend, talked as of old, and at last, when she was left alone once more, declared that the change had done her "inexpressible good." Writing to her friend immediately after the latter had left her, she says:

Your note came only this morning. I had expected it yesterday, and
was beginning actually to feel weary--like you. This won't do. I
am afraid of caring for you too much. You must have come upon ----
at an unfavourable moment, seen it under a cloud. Surely they are
not always or often thus, or else married life is indeed but a
slipshod paradise. I only send _The Examiner_, not having yet read
_The Leader_. I was spared the remorse I feared. On Saturday I
fell to business, and as the welcome mood is still decently
existent, and my eyes consequently excessively tired with
scribbling, you must excuse a mere scrawl. Papa was glad to hear
you had got home well--as well as we.... I do miss my dear
bed-fellow; no more of that calm sleep.

Her pen now began to move more quickly, and the closing chapters of "Villette" were written with comparative ease, so that at last she writes thus, on November 22nd:

Monday morning.

Truly thankful am I to be able to tell you that I finished my long
task on Saturday, packed and sent off the parcel to Cornhill. I
said my prayers when I had done it. Whether it is well or ill done
I don't know. _D. V._, I will now try to wait the issue quietly.
The book, I think, will not be considered pretentious, nor is it
of a character to excite hostility. As Papa is pretty well, I may,
I trust, dear Nell, do as you wish me, and come for a few days to
B----. Miss Martineau has also urgently asked me to go and see
her. I promised, if all were well, to do so at the close of
November or the commencement of December, so that I could go on
from B---- to Westmoreland. Would Wednesday suit you? "Esmond"
shall come with me--_i.e._ Thackeray's novel.

Every reader knows in what fashion "Villette" ends, and most persons also know from Mrs. Gaskell that the reason why the actual issue is left in some uncertainty was the author's filial desire to gratify her father. Charlotte herself was firmly resolved that she would _not_ make Lucy Snowe the happy wife of Paul Emanuel. She never meant to "appoint her lot in pleasant places." Lucy was to bear the storm and stress of life in the same manner as that in which her creator had been compelled to bear it; and she was to be left in the end alone, robbed for ever of the hope of spending the happy afternoon of her existence in the sunshine of love and congenial society. But Mr. Brontë, altogether unconscious of that tragedy of heart-sickness and soul-weariness which was being enacted under his own roof, and which furnished so striking a parallel to the story which ran through "Villette," would not brook a gloomy ending to the tale, and by protestations and entreaties induced his daughter at least so far to alter her plan as to leave the issue in doubt.

So "Villette" went its way, as "Jane Eyre" and "Shirley " had done before it, from the secluded parsonage at Haworth up to the busy publishing-house in Cornhill, and thence out into the world. There was some fear on Charlotte's part when the MS. had been despatched. She herself was gradually forming that which remained the fixed conviction of her life--the conviction that in "Villette" she had done her best, and that, for good or for ill, by it her reputation must stand or fall. But she was intensely anxious, as we have seen, to have the opinions of others upon the story. Nor was it only a general verdict on its merits for which she called. She was uneasy upon some minor points. According to her wont, she had taken most of her characters from life, and it was not during her stay at Brussels alone that she had studied the models which she employed when writing the book. Naturally, she was curious to know whether she had painted her portraits too literally. So "Villette" was allowed to pass, whilst still in MS., into the hands of the original of "Dr. John." When that gentleman had read the story, and criticised all the characters with the freedom of unconsciousness, her mind was set at rest, and she knew that she had not transgressed the bounds which divide the story-teller from the biographer.

In the meantime, her work done, she hurried away from Haworth to spend a well-earned holiday at B---- with her friend. "Esmond" accompanied her, and the quiet afternoons were spent in reading it aloud. On December 9th she writes from Haworth, announcing her safe return to her own home:

I got home safely at five o'clock yesterday afternoon, and, I am
most thankful to say, found Papa and all the rest quite well. I
did my business satisfactorily in Leeds, getting the head-dress
rearranged as I wished. It is now a very different matter to the
bushy, tasteless thing it was before. On my arrival I found no
proof-sheets, but a letter from Mr. S----, which I would have
enclosed, but so many words are scarce legible you would have no
pleasure in reading it. He continues to make a mystery of his
"reason"; something in the third volume sticks confoundedly in his
throat; and as to the "female character" about which I asked, he
responds that "she is an odd, fascinating little puss," but
affirms that "he is not in love with her." He tells me also that
he will answer no more questions about "Villette." This morning I
have a brief note from Mr. Williams, intimating that he has not
yet been permitted to read the third volume. Also there is a note
from Mrs. ----, very kind. I almost wish I could still look on
that kindness just as I used to do: it was very pleasant to me
once. Write _immediately_, dear Nell, and tell me how your
mother is. Give my kindest regards to her and all others at B----.
Everybody seemed very good to me this last visit. I remember it
with corresponding pleasure.

The private reception of "Villette" was not altogether that for which its author had hoped. Her publisher had objections to urge against certain features of the story, and those who saw the book in manuscript were not slow to express their own disapproval. It was evident that there was disappointment at Cornhill; and the proud spirit of Miss Brontë was keenly troubled. The letters in which she dwells on what was passing at that time need not be reproduced here, for their purport is sufficiently indicated by that which has just been given. But it is worth while to notice the scrupulous modesty with which she listened to all that was said by those who found fault, her careful anxiety to understand their objections, such as they were, and her perfect readiness to discuss every point raised with them. Of irritability under this criticism there is no trace, only a certain sadness and sorrow at the discovery that she had not succeeded in impressing others as she had hoped to do. Yet she is scarcely surprised that it is so. Had she not written years before, when "Shirley" was first produced, these words?--

No matter, whether known or unknown, misjudged or the contrary, I
am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as my powers
tend. The two human beings who understood me, and whom I
understood, are gone. I have some that love me yet, and whom I
love without expecting, or having a right to expect, that they
shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied, but I must have my
own way in the matter of writing.... I am thankful to God who gave
me the faculty; and it is for me a part of my religion to defend
this gift and to profit by its possession.

So now she is not astonished at finding herself misunderstood. Nor is she angry. She is perfectly ready to explain her real meaning to those who have misjudged her, but she is resolute in abiding by what she has written. The work wrung from her during those two years of pain and sorrow is not work which can be altered at will to please another. Even to meet the entreaties of her father she had refused to do more than draw a veil over the catastrophe in which the plot ends; and she cannot introduce new incidents, or lay on new colours, because the little circle of critics sitting in judgment on her manuscript have pronounced it to be imperfect. "I fear they" (the readers) "must be satisfied with what is offered. My palette affords no brighter tints; were I to attempt to deepen the reds or burnish the yellows, I should but blotch." Yet she admits that those who judge the book only from the outside have some reason to complain that it is not as other novels are:

You say that Lucy Snowe may be thought morbid and weak, unless
the history of her life be more freely given. I consider that she
_is_ both morbid and weak at times; her character sets up no
pretensions to unmixed strength, and anybody living her life
would necessarily become morbid. It was no impetus of healthy
feeling which urged her to the confessional, for instance; it was
the semi-delirium of solitary grief and sickness. If, however,
the book does not express all this, there must be a great fault
somewhere. I might explain away a few other points, but it would
be too much like drawing a picture and then writing underneath
the name of the object intended to be represented.

Happily, the heart of the great reading world is bigger and truer as a whole than any part of it is. What those who read the manuscript of "Villette" failed to see at the first glance was seen instantly by the public when the book was placed in its hands. From critics of every school and degree there came up a cry of wonder and admiration, as men saw out of what simple characters and commonplace incidents genius had evoked this striking work of literary art. Popular, perhaps, the book could scarcely hope to be, in the vulgar acceptation of the word. The author had carefully avoided the "flowery and inviting" course of romance, and had written in silent obedience to the stern dictates of an inspiration which, as we have seen, only came at intervals, leaving her between its visits cruelly depressed and pained, but which when it came held her spell-bound and docile. Yet out of the dull record of humble woes, marked by no startling episodes, adorned by few of the flowers of poetry, she had created such a heart-history as remains to this day without a rival in the school of English fiction to which it belongs.

I bring together a batch of notes, not all addressed to the same person, which give her account of the reception and success of the book:

February 11th, 1853.

Excuse a very brief note, for I have time only to thank you for
your last kind and welcome letter, and to say that, in obedience
to your wishes, I send you by this day's post two reviews--_The
Examiner_ and _The Morning Advertiser_--which, perhaps, you will
kindly return at your leisure. Ellen has a third--_The Literary
Gazette_--which she will likewise send. The reception of the book
has been favourable thus far--for which I am thankful--less, I
trust, on my own account than for the sake of those few real
friends who take so sincere an interest in my welfare as to be
happy in my happiness.

February 15th.

I am very glad to hear that you got home all right, and that you
managed to execute your commissions in Leeds so satisfactorily.
You do not say whether you remembered to order the Bishop's
dessert; I shall know, however, by to-morrow morning. I got a
budget of no less than seven papers yesterday and to-day. The
import of all the notices is such as to make my heart swell with
thankfulness to Him who takes note both of suffering and work and
motives. Papa is pleased too. As to friends in general, I believe
I can love them still without expecting them to take any large
share in this sort of gratification. The longer I live, the more
plainly I see that gentle must be the strain on fragile human
nature. It will not bear much.

I have heard from Mrs. Gaskell. Very kind, panegyrical, and so on.
Mr. S---- tells me he has ascertained that Miss Martineau _did_
write the notice in _The Daily News_. J. T. offers to give me a
regular blowing-up and setting down for £5, but I tell him _The
Times_ will probably let me have the same gratis.

March 10th, 1853.

I only got _The Guardian_ newspaper yesterday morning, and have
not yet seen either _The Critic_ or _Sharpe's Magazine_. _The
Guardian_ does not wound me much. I see the motive, which, indeed,
there is no attempt to disguise. Still I think it a choice little
morsel for foes (Mr. ---- was the first to bring the news of the
review to Papa), and a still choicer morsel for "friends"
who--bless them!--while they would not perhaps positively do one
an injury, still take a dear delight in dashing with bitterness
the too sweet cup of success. Is _Sharpe's_ small article like a
bit of sugar-candy, too, Ellen? or has it the proper wholesome
wormwood flavour? Of course I guess it will be like _The
Guardian_. My "dear friends" will weary of waiting for _The
Times_. "O Sisera! why tarry the wheels of thy chariot so long?"

March 22nd.

Thank you for sending ----'s notes. Though I have not attended to
them lately, they always amuse me. I like to read them; one gets
from them a clear enough idea of her sort of life. ----'s attempts
to improve his good partner's mind make me smile. I think it all
right enough, and doubt not they are happy in their way; only the
direction he gives his efforts seems of rather problematic wisdom.
Algebra and optics! Why not enlarge her views by a little
well-chosen general reading? However, they do right to amuse
themselves in their own way. The rather dark view you seem to take
of the general opinion about "Villette" surprises me the less, as
only the more unfavourable reviews seem to have come in your way.
Some reports reach me of a different tendency; but no matter; time
will show. As to the character of Lucy Snowe, my intention from
the first was that she should not occupy the pedestal to which
"Jane Eyre" was raised by some injudicious admirers. She is where
I meant her to be, and where no charge of self-laudation can touch
her.

XI.

MARRIAGE AND DEATH.

Every book, as we know, has its secret history, hidden from the world which reads only the printed pages, but legible enough to the author, who sees something more than the words he has set down for the public to read. Thackeray tells us how, reading again one of his smaller stories, written at a sad period of his own life, he brought back all the scene amid which the little tale was composed, and woke again to a consciousness of the pangs which tore his heart when his pen was busy with the imaginary fortunes of the puppets he had placed upon the mimic stage. Between the lines he read quite a different story from that which was laid before the reader. I have tried to show how largely this was the case with Charlotte Brontë's novels. Each was a double romance, having one meaning for the world, and another for the author. Yet she herself, when she wrote "Shirley" and "Villette," had no conception of the strange blending of the secret currents of the two books which was in store for her, or of the unexpected fate which was to befall the real heroine of her last work--to wit, herself.

I have told how fixed was her belief that "Lucy Snowe's" fate was to be a tragic one--a life the closing years of which were to be spent in loneliness and anguish, and amid the bitterness of withered hopes. Very few readers can have forgotten the closing passage of "Villette," in which the catastrophe, though veiled, can be readily discovered:

The sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow
sere; but--he is coming.

Frosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; the
wind takes its autumn moan; but--he is coming.

The skies hang full and dark--a rack sails from the west; the
clouds cast themselves into strange forms--arches and broad
radiations; there rise resplendent mornings--glorious, royal,
purple as a monarch in his state; the heavens are one flame; so
wild are they, they rival battle at its thickest--so bloody, they
shame Victory in her pride. I know some signs of the sky; I have
noted them ever since childhood. God, watch that sail! Oh! guard
it!

The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee--"keening" at
every window! It will rise--it will swell--it shrieks out long:
wander as I may through the house this night, I cannot lull the
blast. The advancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all
sleepless watchers hear and fear a wild south-west storm....

Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on
waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not
uttered--not uttered till, when the hush came, some could not feel
it; till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!

In darkness such as here is shadowed forth, Charlotte Brontë believed that her own life would close; all sunshine gone, all joys swept clean away by the bitter blast of death, all hopes withered or uprooted. But the end which she pictured was not to be. God was more merciful than her own imaginings; and at eventide there was light and peace upon her troubled path.

Those who turn to the closing passage of "Shirley" will find there reference to "a true Christian gentleman," who had taken the place of the hypocrite Malone, one of the famous three curates of the story. This gentleman, a Mr. McCarthy, was, like the rest, no fictitious personage. His original was to be found in the person of Mr. Nicholls, who for several years had lived a simple, unobtrusive life at Haworth, as curate to Mr. Brontë, and whose name often occurs in Charlotte's letters to her friend. In none of these references to him is there the slightest indication that he was more than an honoured friend. Nor was it so. Whilst Mr. Nicholls, dwelling near Miss Brontë, and observing her far more closely than any other person could do, had formed a deep and abiding attachment for her, she herself was wholly unconscious of the fact. Its first revelation came upon her as something like a shock; as something also like a reproach. Whilst she had thought herself alone, doomed to a life of solitude and pain, a tender yet a manly love had all the while been growing round her.

It is obvious that the letters which she addressed at this time (December, 1852) to her friend cannot be printed here. Yet no letters more honourable to the woman, the daughter, and the lover have ever been penned. There is no restraint now in the outpourings of her heart. Her friend is taken into her full confidence, and every hope and fear and joy is spoken out as only women who are pure and truthful and entirely noble can venture to speak out. Mrs. Gaskell has briefly but distinctly stated the broad features of this strange love story, giving such promise at the time, so happy and beautiful in its brief fruition, so soon to be quenched in the great darkness. Mr. Brontë resented the attentions of Mr. Nicholls to his daughter in a manner which brought to light all the sternness and bitterness of his character. There had been of late years a certain mellowing of his disposition, which Charlotte had dwelt upon with hopeful joy, as her one comfort in her lonely life at Haworth. How much he owed to her none knew but himself. When he was sinking under the burden of his son's death, she had rescued him; when, for one dark and bitter interval, he had sought refuge from grief and remorse in the coward's solace, her brave heart, her gentleness, her unyielding courage, had brought him back again from evil ways, and sustained and kept him in the path of honour; and now his own ambitions were more than satisfied by her success; he found himself shining in the reflected glory of his daughter's fame, and sunned himself, poor man, in the light and warmth. But all the old jealousy, the intense acerbity of his character, broke out when he saw another person step between himself and her, and that other no idol of the great world of London, but simply the honest man who had dwelt almost under his own roof-tree for years.

When, having heard with surprise and emotion, the story of Mr. Nicholls's attachment, Charlotte communicated his offer to her father, "agitation and anger disproportionate to the occasion ensued. My blood boiled with a sense of injustice. But Papa worked himself into a state not to be trifled with. The veins on his forehead started up like whipcord, and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot. I made haste to promise that on the morrow Mr. Nicholls should have a distinct refusal." It so happened that very soon after this, that is to say when "Villette" was published, Miss Martineau caused deep pain to its writer by condemning the manner in which "all the female characters in all their thoughts and lives" were represented as "being full of one thing--love." The critic not unjustly pointed out that love was not the be-all and the end-all of a woman's life. Perhaps her pen would not have been so sharp in touching on this subject, had she known with what quiet self-sacrifice the author of "Villette" had but a few weeks before set aside her own preferences and inclinations, and submitted her lot to her father's angry will. This truly must be reckoned as another illustration of the extent to which the _Quarterly_ reviewer of 1848 had formed an accurate conception of the character of "Currer Bell."

Not only was the struggle which followed sharp and painful, it was also stubborn and prolonged. Mr. Nicholls resigned the curacy he had held so many years, and prepared to leave Haworth. Mr. Brontë not only showed no signs of relenting, but openly exulted in his departure, and lost no opportunity of expressing in bitterly sarcastic language his opinion of his colleague's conduct. How deeply Charlotte suffered at this time is proved by the letters before me. Firmly convinced that her first duty was to the parent whose only remaining stay she was, she never wavered in her determination to sacrifice every wish of her own to his comfort. But her heart was racked with pity for the man who was suffering through his love for her, and her indignation was roused to fever-heat by the gross injustice of her father's conduct.

Compassion or relenting is no more to be looked for from Papa than
sap from firewood. I never saw a battle more sternly fought with
the feelings than Mr. N. fights with his, and when he yields
momentarily, you are almost sickened by the sense of the strain
upon him. However, he is to go, and I cannot speak to him or look
at him or comfort him a whit--and I must submit. Providence is
over all; that is the only consolation.

In all this--she says, after speaking again of the severity of
the struggle--it is not _I_ who am to be pitied at all, and of
course nobody pities me. They all think in Haworth that I have
disdainfully refused him. If pity would do him any good he ought
to have, and I believe has, it. They may abuse me if they will.
Whether they do or not I can't tell.

I thought of you on New Year's Day, and hope you got well over
your formidable tea-making. I am busy, too, in my little way,
preparing to go to London this week--a matter which necessitates
some little application to the needle. I find it quite necessary I
should go to superintend the press, as Mr. S---- seems quite
determined not to let the printing get on till I come. I have
actually only received three proof-sheets since I was at
Brookroyd. Papa wants me to go too, to be out of the way, I
suppose; but I am sorry for one other person whom nobody pities
but me.... They don't understand the nature of his feelings, but
I see now what they are. Mr. N---- is one of those who attach
themselves to very few, whose sensations are close and deep, like
an underground stream, running strong but in a narrow channel. He
continues restless and ill. He carefully performs the occasional
duty, but does not come near the church, procuring a substitute
every Sunday. A few days since he wrote to Papa requesting
permission to withdraw his resignation. Papa answered that he
should only do so on condition of giving his written promise never
again to broach the obnoxious subject either to him or to me. This
he has evaded doing, so the matter remains unsettled. I feel
persuaded the termination will be, his departure for Australia.
Dear Nell, without loving him, I don't like to think of him
suffering in solitude, and wish him anywhere so that he were
happier. He and Papa have never met or spoken yet.

During this crisis in her life, when suffering had come to her in a new and sharp form, but when happily the black cloud was lit up on the other side by the rays of the sun, she went up to London to spend a few weeks. From the letters written during her visit I make these extracts:

January 11th, 1853.

I came here last Wednesday. I had a delightful day for my journey,
and was kindly received at the close. My time has passed
pleasantly enough since I came, yet I have not much to tell you;
nor is it likely I shall have. I do not mean to go out much or see
many people. Sir J. S---- wrote to me two or three times before I
left home, and made me promise to let him know when I should be
in town, but I reserve to myself the right of deferring the
communication till the latter part of my stay. All in this house
appear to be pretty much as usual, and yet I see some changes.
Mrs. ---- and her daughter look well enough; but on Mr. ---- hard
work is telling early. Both his complexion, his countenance, and
the very lines of his features are altered. It is rather the
remembrance of what he was than the fact of what he is which can
warrant the picture I have been accustomed to give of him. One
feels pained to see a physical alteration of this kind; yet I feel
glad and thankful that it is _merely_ physical. As far as I can
judge, mind and manners have undergone no deterioration--rather, I
think, the contrary.

January 19th, 1853.

I still continue to get on very comfortably and quietly in London,
in the way I like, seeing rather things than persons. Being
allowed to have my own choice of sights this time I selected the
_real_ rather than the _decorative_ side of life. I have been over
two prisons, ancient and modern, Newgate and Pentonville; also the
Bank, the Exchange, the Foundling Hospital; and to-day, if all be
well, I go with Dr. Forbes to see Bethlehem Hospital. Mrs. ----
and her daughters are, I believe, a little amazed at my gloomy
tastes; but I take no notice. Papa, I am glad to say, continues
well. I enclose portions of two notes of his which will show you
better than anything I can say how he treats a certain subject. My
book is to appear at the close of this month. Mrs. Gaskell wrote
to beg that it should not clash with "Ruth," and it was impossible
to refuse to defer the publication a week or two.

The visit to London did good; but it could not remove the pain which she suffered during this period of conflict.

Haworth, May 19th, 1853.

It is almost a relief to hear that you only think of staying at
G---- a month; though of course one must not be selfish in wishing
you to come home soon.... I cannot help feeling satisfaction in
finding that the people here are getting up a subscription to
offer a testimonial of respect to Mr. N---- on his leaving the
place. Many are expressing both their commiseration and esteem for
him. The churchwardens recently put the question to him plainly:
Why was he going? Was it Mr. Brontë's fault or his own? His own,
he answered. Did he blame Mr. Brontë? No, he did not: if anybody
was wrong, it was himself. Was he willing to go? No; it gave him
great pain. Yet he is not always right. I must be just. Papa
addressed him at the school tea-drinking with _constrained_
civility, but still with _civility_. He did not reply civilly; he
cut short further words. This sort of treatment is what Papa never
will forget or forgive. It inspires him with a silent bitterness
not to be expressed.... It is a dismal state of things. The
weather is fine now, dear Nell. We will take these sunny days as a
good omen for your visit.

May 27th, 1853.

You will want to know about the leave-taking. The whole matter is
but a painful subject, but I must treat it briefly. The
testimonial was presented in a public meeting. Mr. F---- and Mr.
G---- were there. Papa was not very well, and I advised him to
stay away, which he did. As to the last Sunday, it was a cruel
struggle. Mr. N---- ought not to have had to take any duty. He
left Haworth this morning at six o'clock. Yesterday evening he
called to render into Papa's hands the deeds of the National
School, and to say good-bye. They were busy cleaning, washing the
paint, &c., so he did not find me there. I would not go into the
parlour to speak to him in Papa's presence. He went out, thinking
he was not to see me; and indeed till the very last moment I
thought it best not. But perceiving that he stayed long before
going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took
courage, and went out, trembling and miserable. I found him
leaning against the garden door.... Of course I went straight to
him. Very few words were interchanged; those few barely
articulate: several things I should have liked to ask him were
swept entirely from my memory. Poor fellow! but he wanted such
hope and such encouragement as I _could_ not give him. Still
I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and
indifferent to his constancy and grief. For a few weeks he goes to
the South of England--afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in
Yorkshire, but I don't know where. Papa has been far from strong
lately. I dare not mention Mr. N----'s name to him. He speaks of
him quietly and without opprobrium to others; but to me he is
implacable on the matter. However, he is gone--gone--and there's
an end of it! I see no chance of hearing a word about him in
future, unless some stray shred of intelligence comes through Mr.
G---- or some other second-hand source.

The remainder of the year 1853 was a chequered one. Mr. Nicholls left Haworth; Charlotte remained with her father. Those who saw her at this time bear testimony to the unfailing, never-flagging devotion she displayed towards one who was wounding her cruelly. But she bore this sorrow, like those which had preceded it, bravely and cheerfully. To her friend she opened her heart at times, revealing something of what she was suffering; but to all others she was silent.

Haworth, April 13th, 1853.