We have noticed how Branwell plays upon the word castaway at the close of his letter on his novel. Charlotte has said they all had a leaning to Cowper’s poem, ‘The Castaway,’ and appropriated it in one way or another; she told Mrs. Gaskell that Branwell had done so. The word is used twice in ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Heathcliff is described as having been a ‘little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway,’ and the younger Catherine addresses pious Joseph, oddly enough, and by a coincidence singular enough, remembering Branwell’s allusion in his letter, in these words: ‘No, reprobate! you are a castaway — be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay.’
Mention may also be made here, with reference to the occurrence of the names ‘Linton’ and ‘Hareton’ in ‘Wuthering Heights,’ that, somewhat before the time of the writing of his novel, Branwell was accustomed frequently to visit a place of the former designation, and that he had, as we have seen, when he was in Broughton-in-Furness, a friend of the name of Ayrton.
In the above letter on his novel it will be remembered, in speaking of the character of his work, that Branwell says he hopes to leap from the present bathos of fictitious literature to the firmly-fixed rock honoured by the foot of a Smollett or a Fielding, and speaks of revealing man’s heart as faithfully as in the pages of ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Lear.’ In the first four chapters of ‘Wuthering Heights,’ which serve as prelude to the darker portions of the story, we are introduced to the inmates of the farm that gives its name to the novel. Mr. Lockwood, who has rented Thrushcross Grange of Heathcliff, and has come to reside there, relates his experience of two visits he pays to his landlord at the ‘Heights.’ In the excellent humour of this portion of the story we are certainly reminded of Branwell Brontë, and perhaps of Smollett and Fielding too. The succeeding chapters are related in a manner more subdued, proper to the narration of the housekeeper. There is just one mention of ‘King Lear’ in ‘Wuthering Heights,’ on the second of these visits, when, at last, Mr. Lockwood, after he has been knocked down by the dogs, addresses the inmates of the ‘Heights,’ ‘with several incoherent threats of retaliation, that, in their infinite depth of virulency, smacked of “King Lear.”‘ More than once have this story and Shakspeare’s great tragedy been named in kinship, and Miss Robinson, unaware of Branwell’s observation on his own prose tale, gives a second place, with ‘King Lear,’ to ‘Wuthering Heights.’
It is impossible to read ‘Wuthering Heights’ without being struck with the part which consumption and death are made to play in the progress of the story. Scarcely a character is there depicted in whom we do not recognize some trait, some weakness, remotely or more closely, indicating deep-seated phthisis; and evidences of a true and certain observation, in the writer, are to be found in the pictures of its power there delineated. In Branwell’s poem on ‘Caroline,’ we have already seen with what certain touch he depicts her death from that disease; and how deeply, and almost morbidly, he broods on its ravages; and, in one of his later poems, we have a second and more striking picture of decline. In Emily’s verse anything of the kind is entirely wanting; and, indeed, it is what we miss in her poems, even more than what we find in Branwell’s, that must ever surprise us when we look for the author of ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Branwell, in his writings, is often engaged with subjects of real and personal interest, and the scheme of his work is apparent. Several of his poems, indeed, when once read, leave an impress on the memory which is evidence enough of the power and originality by which they are inspired. For the most part, Emily’s poems are impersonal, imaginative, and ideal.
It will be remembered that Mr. Grundy, in his ‘Pictures of the Past,’ has given an account of his last interview with Branwell, which he declares took place but a few days before Branwell died. I have shown conclusively that the interview is ascribed by Mr. Grundy, and by Miss Robinson following him, to a wrong date, and that it took place, in fact, in 1846, when the manuscript was still in the author’s hands, perhaps, indeed, undergoing revision at the time. Branwell, according to his friend, had concealed in his coat sleeve, on this occasion, a carving-knife, with which, in his frenzy, he designed to kill the devil, whose call, he supposed, had summoned him to the inn; and he was surprised to find Mr. Grundy there instead. I have surmised that, when this grotesque episode occurred, Branwell was but jesting with his friend, who, in his surprise, took him altogether au sérieux; and, remembering that Mr. Grundy says Branwell had declared to him before that ‘Wuthering Heights’ was in great part his own work, it will be seen that there are passages in the novel which seem to lend probability both to this surmise as to Branwell’s intention, and also to Mr. Grundy’s statement. Thus, in Chapter ix., Hindley Earnshaw returns to the house in a state of frenzied intoxication, and, finding Nelly Dean stowing away his son in a cupboard, he flies at her with a madman’s rage, crying: ‘By heaven and hell, you’ve sworn between you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is always out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you swallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You needn’t laugh; for I’ve just crammed Kenneth, head-downmost, in the Blackhorse marsh; two is the same as one — and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest till I do!’ To which Nelly Dean replies, ‘But I don’t like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley; it has been cutting red herrings. I’d rather be shot, if you please.’ Again, in Chapter xvii., when Isabella’s taunts have stung Heathcliff to retaliation, he snatches up a dinner-knife and flings it at her head; and she is struck beneath the ear. We may believe, then, that when Branwell appeared in this strange guise before his friend, he was but jestingly rehearsing in act, with an ‘antic disposition’ such incidents as he had recently described in the volume he had mentioned to Mr. Grundy.
Miss Robinson, in her ‘Emily Brontë’ (p. 95), has some sarcastic remarks about Branwell’s pride in his family name. ‘Proud of his name!’ she writes: ‘He wrote a poem on it, “Brontë,” an eulogy of Nelson, which won the patronizing approbation of Leigh Hunt, Miss Martineau, and others, to whom, at his special request, it was submitted. Had he ever heard of his dozen aunts and uncles, the Pruntys of Ahaderg? Or if not, with what sensations must the Vicar (sic) of Haworth have listened to this blazoning forth and triumphing over the glories of his ancient name?’ Branwell’s pride in the name of Brontë would have been foolish enough if it had been of the nature Miss Robinson supposes; but perhaps it had another meaning. At any rate Nelly Dean puts pride of birth in quite a different light in ‘Wuthering Heights,’ where she gives good advice to Heathcliff. ‘You’re fit for a prince in disguise,’ she says even to the ‘little Lascar,’ the ‘American or Spanish castaway.’ ‘Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!’ This was exactly what Branwell Brontë did.
There are two other points in which I will indicate correspondences between the phraseology and ideas of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and those of Branwell Brontë. In one of his letters here published, Branwell, sketching a criminal grinning with the halter round his neck, asks the question: ‘Is there really such a thing as the Risus Sardonicus? Did a man ever laugh the morning he was to be hanged?’ Now, in the novel, Isabella Heathcliff says: ‘I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves at the foot of the gallows.’ Lastly, Heathcliff declares, speaking of Hindley Earnshaw: ‘Correctly, that fool’s body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind.’ Now Branwell was not only familiar with the traditions of suicides buried at the cross-roads near Haworth, as well as at similar cross-roads, but he was accustomed, in his perambulations through the district, when in this direction, to visit the a
ncient hostel at that place: and, indeed, it was this house he fixed upon for the reading of the poem he had written, and where he read, as we have seen, in lieu of it, the portion, of his novel, surmised to be ‘Wuthering Heights,’ to Mr. Dearden and his other friend. It would be tedious to indicate all the minor similarities of expression in the novel to those in Branwell’s letters.
Yet there are two or three points noticeable in ‘Wuthering Heights,’ which are marked in Emily’s verse. Emily’s love of Nature, of the moors; her deep brooding on the mystery of being, which led her to look on the calm of death as an assurance of future rest for all, are to be found in her poetry; and, in a lesser degree, also in ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Thus we read, in Chapter xvi. of the story, of Linton and his dead wife: ‘Next morning — bright and cheerful out of doors — stole softened in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as death-like as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but his was the hush of exhausted anguish, and hers of perfect peace. Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before: “Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God!”‘
The reflections suggested to Nelly Dean by the spectacle of repose presented by the dead Catherine seem to Mr. Reid to be characteristic of Emily, speaking ‘out of the fulness of her heart.’ ‘I don’t know if it be a peculiarity in me,’ says the narrator in the story, ‘but I am seldom otherwise than happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter — the Eternity they have entered — where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even in a love like Mr. Linton’s, when he so regretted Catherine’s blessed release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitants.’ But Mr. Lockwood is made to say, speaking of the housekeeper’s anxiety to know if he thinks such people are happy in the other world, ‘I declined answering Mrs. Dean’s question, which struck me as something heterodox.’ The story also concludes, speaking of the head-stones of Edgar Linton, Heathcliff, and Catherine: ‘I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.’ But there is in these very points a remarkable coincidence of feeling between Branwell and Emily also. Indeed, in the expression of these thoughts, Branwell’s verse is well-nigh more powerful than Emily’s. We have known his desire for the oblivious peace of ‘Real Rest’; and, in his letters, he has sketched many head-stones, on one of which are the words: ‘I implore for rest’; and, in the ‘Epistle to a Child in her Grave,’ he has told us of the freedom from ill of that quiet and painless sepulchre. Here are a few stray lines of Branwell’s, which will serve as illustration of this coincidence:
‘Think not that Life is happiness,
But deem it duty joined with care;
Implore for hope in your distress,
And for your answers, get despair;
Yet travel on, for Life’s rough road
May end, at last, in rest with God!’
Again we may ask: did Branwell Brontë write ‘Wuthering Heights,’ or any part of it? The evidence that he did so is, probably, insufficient. But let it be remembered that, as stated in his letter to Leyland, he had clearly undertaken a three-volume novel, and, in one way or other, had written a volume of his story. The charge of falsehood brought against Branwell in his statement to Mr. Grundy will not now probably be renewed; but there may not be wanting some to say that Mr. Grundy is in error in connecting what his friend said to him about his own novel with some allusion of his sister’s to ‘Wuthering Heights,’ and that those gentlemen who believe the novel Branwell read to them to be the same as that attributed to Emily are in error also. It has been said that, on the rare occasions on which the father or brother entered the room where the sisters were writing their novels, nothing was said of the work in progress. But it must be confessed that these views meet with little encouragement from what we know of the history of that period.
We have seen that, prior to the autumn of 1845, Branwell had been employed in writing his novel; a little later, we have reason to suspect that he is not going on with it, and we find him writing a poem with the same theme as a contemporary one of Emily’s. We then find the sisters taking up novel writing with precisely Branwell’s views of the profit to be derived from it. When he writes to Leyland on the 28th of April, 1846, shortly before the poems of his sisters were published, and while they are finishing their novels, Branwell has ceased to speak of his, but says that, if he were in London personally, he would try a certain publisher with his poems. Now it was an edition of Wordsworth by this same publisher that Charlotte had, four months earlier, fixed upon as a model for the sisters’ own volume of poems. Branwell, then, however strained his relations with his sister Charlotte might be at this late date, must have known that his sisters were writing their tales. Why, then, the change in his aims? Why is he, who had propounded that view of the superior advantages of prose over poetic writing, which afterwards determined the sisters to write novels, silent about his own, and thinking of publishing his poems? and never again do we hear of any attempt on his part to finish his novel, though he lived a year after his sisters’ works were published. What had become of his novel in the interim?
Perhaps there is evidence, then, to warrant us in throwing out a suggestion that there may have been some measure of collaboration between Branwell and his sister, that he originated the idea, moulded the characters, and wrote the earlier portion of the work, which she, taking, revised, amended, completed, and imbued with enough of an individual spirit to give unity to the whole. In support of this view, it may be noted that, though there is no break in the style of ‘Wuthering Heights,’ yet all the interests of the original story are, in a manner, completed in the seventeenth chapter — that is, something more than half-way through the book. In that first portion of it we trace the vehement passion of Heathcliff for Catherine up to her death. We see his enmity to Edgar Linton, which is satisfied by his possession of Linton’s sister, whom he hates and despises, but who is the mother of a child to be heir to Thrushcross Grange, and we see the death of this unhappy wife. In this first portion of the novel is unrolled also the gradual growth of Heathcliff’s hatred of Earnshaw, from the time when he says: ‘I’m trying to settle how I shall pay Hindley back. I don’t care how long I wait, if I can only do it at last. I hope he will not die before I do,’ up to the death of that miserable character, whose son remains an ignorant dependent, because his drunken father has been lured to make away with his wealth at the gaming-table to his Mephistophelian pursuer. Here is depicted that dark and malevolent spirit which ranks Heathcliff with the demons, as where he says: ‘I have no pity — I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails. It is a moral teething, and I grind with greater energy in proportion to the increase of pain.’
In the second part of the story, opening with the eighteenth chapter, we are occupied with the fates of the children of Linton, Earnshaw, and Heathcliff. We learn how th
e latter trains up his miserable, puling son for the purpose of marrying the daughter of Linton, which he forcibly brings about, and thus completes his possession of the Grange; how he endeavours to pervert the youthful Hareton Earnshaw, to ‘see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another with the same wind to twist it;’ and in the end how his vengeance is completely thwarted. Thus there are two distinct parts in ‘Wuthering Heights,’ one being the completion and complement of the other.
As some evidence for the view here thrown out, I may mention that, in reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ in order to discover what correspondences there might exist between it and Branwell’s writings, in letters, etc., I was very much struck with the fact that, for every five of such correspondences which I discovered in the first part of the novel, I could find only one in the latter. We need not, therefore, be surprised if, in the concluding half of ‘Wuthering Heights,’ Branwell has stood to the author as model for some details of character, though these can be very few. Yet Nelly Dean does say of Heathcliff’s love for Catherine: ‘He might have had a monomania on the subject of his departed idol; but on every other point his wits were as sound as mine.’
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 473
