SIMILE LETTER OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
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 t
he 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.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 436
