by Jessica Cox
In an attempt to contradict Newby’s assertion, Anne and Charlotte travelled to London shortly after the publication of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall to meet with Charlotte’s publishers, George Smith and William Smith Williams. The two parties had never previously met, and up until this point Smith and Williams were unsure of the identity of the author of Jane Eyre. In meeting with her publishers, Charlotte not only proved the separate identities of the Bells, but also confirmed suspicions that Currer Bell was a woman. In doing so, she also confirmed suspicions that Currer Bell was a woman. Her publishers offered to introduce Charlotte to key figures on the literary scene – including G.H. Lewes, with whom Charlotte had corresponded, and Thackeray whom she had long admired and to whom she dedicated the second edition of Jane Eyre. Charlotte, however, remained anxious to preserve the secret of her identity, and in particular the secret of her sex, and hence refused these invitations, informing her publisher that ‘to all the rest of the world we must be “gentlemen” as heretofore.’ Though the sisters took a risk in travelling to London and revealing their identities to Charlotte’s publishers, their secret remained concealed from the general public at least: ‘What author,’ she wrote to her publisher sometime later, ‘would be without the advantage of being able to walk invisible?’ As a child, her father had encouraged her to speak the truth from behind a mask; in youth, she had concealed her imaginary world from all but those closest to her; now, as a successful author, the desire to write from behind a mask of anonymity still prevailed.
Nevertheless, her willingness to risk the revelation of her identity seems indicative: perhaps she felt secure that she could continue to conceal her sex from the wider public, or perhaps her keenness to establish her individual identity as an author overrode her concerns that her gender would become known. Significantly, even after the trip to London, she continued to refer to Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell as men in her correspondence with her publishers, as though keen to preserve the facade even when they were fully aware of the truth (the incongruity is comical at times – her description of Acton Bell attending to his sewing at the fireside, for example).
Though Charlotte had taken steps to assure her publishers that the Bell ‘brothers’ were three separate writers, she remained anxious to disassociate herself from her sisters’ work. Discussing Anne’s second novel in her correspondence with her publisher following her return from London, she refrained from overt criticism, merely describing the subject as ‘unfortunately chosen’. However, she was clearly piqued by William Smith Williams’ reply, in which he compared Arthur Huntingdon to Rochester. She responded with barely concealed frustration, ‘there is no likeness between the two; the foundation of each character is entirely different.’ Huntingdon she considered to be ‘a specimen of the naturally selfish sensual, superficial man’, while Rochester, she insisted, ‘has a thoughtful nature and a very feeling heart’; Heathcliff, meanwhile, she condemns as ‘a mere demon’. Despite these assertions, there are significant parallels between the male protagonists of the Brontë novels, who all, to varying degrees, deviate from the image of the Victorian masculine ideal. While Arthur Huntingdon’s tendency towards dissipation and adultery, and his treatment of his wife, may mark him out as a villainous character, and Heathcliff’s all-consuming desire for revenge makes him something of an unsympathetic figure, the characters of Rochester, Robert Moore (Shirley) and Gilbert Markham (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall), with whom the reader is encouraged to identify, are all problematic figures: Rochester’s illicit affair with Adele’s mother, attempts to dupe the heroine into a bigamous marriage, and imprisonment of his first wife represent potential dilemmas for the modern feminist reader at least; Robert Moore is willing to enter into a mercenary marriage with the eponymous heroine, before he is eventually united with Caroline Helstone; and Gilbert Markham, spoilt and indulged by his mother, repeatedly exhibits a desire to control the heroine, Helen Graham, suggesting parallels with the novel’s villain, Arthur Huntingdon. These characters are thus not as dissimilar as Charlotte may have desired or claimed.
Though responses to the three novels caused moments of concern for Charlotte, she must nevertheless have delighted in her newfound success. After years of struggling to fulfil her literary ambitions while enduring the monotonous life of a teacher and governess, she finally succeeded, with the publication of Jane Eyre, in obtaining the goal she had so long desired – earning both a living and a reputation through her writing. While the struggle between the duties of the teacher/governess and the ambitions of the writer was now effectively over, Charlotte would continue to experience an intense sense of conflict in her life, as she struggled to preserve the secret of her true identity, despite the success of her works. The mask of Currer Bell was beginning to slip, and rumours began to spread among her friends and acquaintances that she had written a novel, though she endeavoured to keep her authorship of Jane Eyre from all but those closest to her; indeed, even Branwell and, for some time, Ellen and her father, were unaware of Currer Bell’s true identity. When rumour reached Ellen that Charlotte had penned a novel, she was reprimanded for crediting such rumours: ‘I have given no one a right either to affirm, or hint, in the most distant manner, that I am “publishing” […] Though twenty books were ascribed to me, I should own none. I scout the idea utterly’ This statement, which amounts to little less than a barefaced lie, may have its origins in Anne’s, and particularly Emily’s reluctance to reveal their identities as the Bell ‘brothers’, but there can be no doubt that Charlotte too remained anxious to preserve the secret for as long as possible. However, although the rumours that circulated proved a source of deep frustration for Charlotte, her greatest struggle was yet to come Though Anne had already published her second novel, Charlotte cannot have imagined the grief with which she would have to contend before the work on which she was now engaged saw the light of day
Bereavement
While Charlotte was still flush with the success of Jane Eyre, and working earnestly on her next novel, she experienced the first of the three tragic losses that were to befall her in quick succession in the coming months. Following the publication of Jane Eyre, life at the parsonage had grown ever more difficult as a consequence of Branwell’s continued decline. He became increasingly reliant on alcohol following his dismissal from the Robinson household, funding his habit by begging his father for money or incurring debts that his father was then forced to pay. In 1846, his former employer, Mr Robinson, died. Branwell professed to have hoped that such an event might clear the way for a union with his former mistress. However, following Mr Robinson’s death, Branwell claimed that his marriage to Lydia Robinson was prevented by a clause in her husband’s will that threatened to disinherit her if she saw her former lover again (an anecdote that seems to anticipate Casaubon’s treatment of Dorothea in George Eliot’s Middlemarch). There was no such clause, although whether or not Branwell was aware of this is unclear. Nevertheless, the incident seemed to plunge him further into despair, for which he continued to seek solace in drink and drugs.
Charlotte witnessed her brother’s decline and the destruction of the family’s hopes for him with an increasing sense of frustration and despair. If she empathised in any way with his apparent unrequited love for Lydia Robinson, in light of her own feelings for M. Heger, she had no sympathy or respect for his manner of dealing with it, having herself largely internalised her unhappi-ness at the separation from Heger. Branwell’s letters suggest a distinct tendency towards melancholy, pessimism and despair: disappointed in love, he refused to pursue his dream of a literary career, believing that his work would merely be overlooked by publishers and libraries, and referring to his inability to write whilst suffering ‘from agony to which the grave would be far preferable’. This sense of hopelessness prevailed for the rest of his life, as he increasingly sought solace in alcohol and opium: ‘If I sit down and try to write,’ he wrote to a friend in 1847, ‘all ideas that used to come clothed in sunlight now press round me in fu
neral black; for really every pleasurable excitement that I used to know has changed to insipidity or pain.’ Fearful of inflicting further pain on their already suffering brother, Charlotte and her sisters refrained from telling him of their own literary successes, and he was to die unaware that all three of them were published authors.
Following Branwell’s further deterioration in the wake of Robinson’s death, Charlotte described his behaviour as ‘intolerable’: ‘he is continually screwing money out of [Papa] sometimes threatening to kill himself if it is withheld from him […] [H]e will do nothing – except drink, and make us all wretched.’ Branwell’s gradual decline had a significant effect on his immediate family: not only was he a financial burden, with his refusal to work and his constant demands for money, but his descent into alcohol and drug abuse also marked the destruction of the hopes that the family had invested in him for so long. Branwell himself acknowledged this, admitting the year before he died that, ‘I shall never be able to realize the too sanguine hopes of my friends.’ In a letter to Ellen Nussey (whose own brother Joseph appears to have been a similar burden on his family, and, like Branwell, died young), Charlotte described her brother as ‘a drain on every resource – an impediment to all happiness’. Given the pair’s childhood alliance and shared dreams of literary success, Branwell’s tendency towards self-destruction must have been particularly painful for Charlotte. As it became apparent that Branwell would not fulfil these ambitions, Charlotte’s own recent success as a writer must have been tinged with sadness and regret at what might have been for the brother who showed so much promise in his youth.
Branwell’s lifestyle took an inevitable toll on his health. He had trouble sleeping and grew gradually more wasted in appearance. Though it was apparent to all that his health was failing, the suddenness with which death eventually overtook him came as something of a shock. On 22nd September 1848, he was still able to make the short walk into Haworth; the following day it became clear that he was seriously ill and he was confined to bed. The day after, with his family at his bedside, he died, at the age of just thirty-one. Despite the earlier losses of her mother, sisters and aunt, Branwell’s was the first death that Charlotte witnessed directly. Though she found the scene painful in the extreme, and though undoubtedly grieved at her brother’s death at such an early age, she was far from devastated by his loss: indeed, in light of his final years of decline and misery, his death seems to have come as something of a relief. She mourned not the loss of life, but the waste of talent: ‘I had aspirations and ambitions for him once,’ she wrote to William Smith Williams. These aspirations were the same as those she cherished for herself; while experiencing the fulfilment of her own ambitions, she was forced to come to terms with the utter destruction of Branwell’s. It was perhaps this, as well as the painful memories of his final years, that contributed to her own ill health immediately following her brother’s death: she was overcome with ‘heartache and sickness’ and eventually fever. She was confined to bed, and the doctor called in to advise. Though she recovered, she remained ill for several weeks after Branwell’s death, and the immediacy of her loss, as well as her own delicate health, had a detrimental effect on her ability to write; her imagination, she declared, was rendered ‘pale, stagnant, mute’. Though in many ways she sought to separate her public self as writer from her private self as sister and daughter, this proved all but impossible, and again and again in the months that followed her imagination seemed to stagnate as she sought to deal with the loss of those she loved. Shirley, on which she had begun working a few months earlier, was put to one side; by the time she returned to it, she was the solitary survivor of the six children of Patrick and Maria Brontë.
While Branwell’s death eventually came as something of a relief for Charlotte, the losses that she was to experience so soon afterwards were to prove devastating. Writing to Ellen of her brother’s death in October 1848, Charlotte informed her that ‘Emily and Anne are pretty well – though Anne is always delicate, and Emily has a cold & cough at present.’ Emily’s apparently trivial symptoms were eventually to prove fatal: unbeknown to the grieving sisters, she was already suffering from the disease from which she would die only two months later. Emily’s cough remained with her, and towards the end of October, Charlotte grew concerned: these symptoms were now accompanied by a shortness of breath, and the deterioration of her health grew increasingly obvious from her appearance. She was, in fact, suffering from tuberculosis – the disease that had already claimed the lives of three of Charlotte’s siblings. Emily had, since childhood, exhibited a degree of obstinacy, and she refused now to acknowledge that her symptoms were indicative of any serious illness, rejecting offers of remedies and medical advice, much to her family’s frustration. Furthermore, while Emily’s health steadily deteriorated, Charlotte grew increasingly concerned about Anne’s delicate health, though she initially attempted to dismiss her fears regarding her sisters as a reaction to Branwell’s death. To add to her woes, her father, their beloved servant Tabby, and Ellen Nussey were also suffering from ill health at this time. Charlotte was thus plagued with uncertain fears: ‘Without health,’ she wrote to her publisher, ‘there is little comfort.’ While the health of others improved, Emily’s continued to deteriorate. Her stoicism in the face of illness made it impossible at times for Charlotte to detect whether or not her health improved, but what hope there was ultimately proved false. Charlotte’s letters from this time indicate the depth of her attachment to Emily, to whom she had grown closer as her relationship with Branwell had deteriorated: ‘When she is ill,’ she wrote to William Smith Williams, ‘there seems to be no sunshine in the world for me; the tie of a sister is near and dear indeed.’ Charlotte’s relatively sheltered life and her small circle of acquaintances outside of her immediate family rendered her siblings of particular importance to her; the loss of Emily and Anne was all the more painful, in spite of any earlier sibling rivalry, because they had shared with her the fulfilment of her dream of becoming a writer. Over the course of her adult life, she had grown increasingly attached to Emily in particular, with whom she was closer in age, and with whom she had spent a significant amount of time in Brussels, removed from all other family members. The possibility of Emily’s death was thus inexpressibly painful to her: ‘I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in this world,’ she wrote, less than a month before her sister’s death, and, a few days later, ‘I must hope – she is dear to me as life.’
By late November, Emily’s deterioration was apparent, yet she would consent to neither remedies nor medical advice, persistently ignoring the signs that indicated the severity of her illness. A mere ten days before her death, she was still refusing medical attention, though she did eventually agree to try some homeopathic remedies. By this time, however, intervention was useless. Indeed, given the mortality rates for tuberculosis in the nineteenth century, it seems unlikely that earlier intervention would have affected the outcome of the disease (certainly it proved worthless in the case of Anne Brontë just a few months later). Emily died on 19th December 1848, at the age of thirty, and was interred next to her mother, her sisters Maria and Elizabeth, and her brother in the church next to the parsonage where she had resided for most of her life. Charlotte’s anguish at the loss of her dearest sister was acute, but barely had she had time to grieve, before it became apparent that Anne too was falling seriously ill.
While Charlotte still fluctuated between hope and despair over Emily, Anne was already showing signs of infection. In a letter written shortly before Emily’s death, Charlotte refers to the pain that Anne suffered in her side – an indication that tuberculosis had already taken hold. Though Charlotte may have felt closer to Emily, Anne was now her only remaining sibling. William Smith Williams encouraged her to seek comfort from her last surviving sister through their shared sorrow, little imagining that Anne too would be lost to Charlotte within a few short months, and his letter thus takes on an additional sense of pathos and tragedy: ‘
You and your sister must be more & more endeared to each other now that you are left alone on earth, and having the same hopes, & sorrows, & pursuits, your sympathies will be more & more closely entwined.’
Anne’s health deteriorated gradually but steadily over the coming months. Unlike Emily, she agreed to receive medical advice, but it was ultimately to no avail. In May 1849, Charlotte and Ellen Nussey accompanied Anne to Scarborough, in the hope that the sea air might improve her condition. It was not to be. Weakened by the slow but steady progress of the disease, she finally succumbed, dying peacefully at Scarborough on 28th May 1849, aged just twenty-nine, with Ellen and her one remaining sibling at her side. Unable to face the prospect of returning her sister’s body to Haworth, Charlotte arranged for Anne to be buried in Scarborough, hence she is the only one of the Brontë family not interred in the family vault beneath the church in Haworth. Her funeral was attended by Charlotte, Ellen and Miss Wooler. Charlotte remained in the area with Ellen for a number of days following Anne’s burial, before finally returning alone to Haworth and her grieving father.
Within the space of a few short months, the Brontë family had been devastated. Though Anne was the last and the youngest of her siblings to perish, Charlotte seems to have felt the loss of Emily more keenly. Three months after Emily’s death, she declared, ‘The feeling of Emily’s loss does not diminish as time wears on.’ Following Anne’s death, she wrote to William Smith Williams of her loss: ‘[Anne’s] quiet – Christian death did not rend my heart as Emily’s stern, simple, undemonstrative end did -1 let Anne go to God and felt He had a right to her. I could hardly let Emily go – I wanted to hold her back then – and I want her back now.’
