The collaboration which I have mentioned would by no means imply unfair action on the part of Emily Brontë: she was ever a kind, gentle, and faithful friend to Branwell, and had looked forward, perhaps more anxiously than her sisters, to his success in the world. There would be nothing extraordinary, then, in Branwell handing over to his favourite sister, to whom he was always grateful for her abiding affection, the work which he had begun, and which he, perhaps, felt himself dissatisfied with, or unable to complete, or in his supplying her with a plot, and assisting her with his experience in the delineation of the characters in any story she might wish to produce. To have done so would be quite consistent with what we know of him; and he never claimed the authorship, so far as I know, after the occasion of Mr. Grundy’s visit to the parsonage twelve months before the publication of the novel; and he read it to two or three personal friends only, and to these, if my supposition be correct, perhaps before his sister had taken up the work.
One other circumstance, besides the disappearance of Branwell’s novel, finds explanation in this view of the matter: that Emily, who never undertook a second novel, produced, not only the most original and powerful of the contemporary tales of the sisters, but one that is also a much longer story than ‘The Professor,’ by Charlotte, and half as long again as ‘Agnes Grey,’ by Anne. Here, then, must probably remain the question of the origin of ‘Wuthering Heights.’
CHAPTER XI.
BRANWELL BRONTË AND ‘THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL.’
Statement of Charlotte that her Sister Anne wrote the Book in consequence of her Brother’s Conduct — Supposition of Some that Branwell was the Prototype of Huntingdon — The Characters are Entirely Distinct — Real Sources of the Story — Anne Brontë at Pains to Avoid a Suspicion that Huntingdon was a Portrait of Branwell.
Charlotte Brontë, who never dreamed of attributing the production of so dire a story as ‘Wuthering Heights,’ by her sister Emily, to brooding on Branwell’s misfortunes, has, however, in her remarks on Anne Brontë’s second novel, ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,’ — meant by its author as a tale of warning against the evils of intemperance, — intimated that it was carried out as a duty by Anne, in consequence of the impression made upon her by her brother’s conduct; and certain writers, questioning the statement of Charlotte that the characters are fictitious, have concluded that, in Arthur Huntingdon, we have ‘a picture’ and a ‘portrait’ of Branwell Brontë. It seems to me, rightly considered, a cruel thing to Anne Brontë to believe that she has given us a portrait of her brother in the character of the perfidious Huntingdon. Had her brother been thus vile, she could not have borne to write over the details of his character; were he not like Huntingdon, she could not have libelled him so.
As none of the biographers of the Brontë sisters ever knew Branwell, it is probable that the Branwell Brontë of the biographies owes more to the supposed Branwell of the novels, than the characters in the novels do to the brother of the Brontës. It is Huntingdon’s wit, superficial as it is, that has connected him with the ideal of Branwell Brontë. A few traits of his, indeed, there may be in Huntingdon, but they are not the worst of those depicted in that character. The contempt for gambling which Huntingdon expresses may be taken as an instance.
We shall, however, look in vain for any true resemblance between the characters of Arthur Huntingdon and Branwell Brontë, and, certainly, in almost every respect, one is a direct contrast to the other. The biographer of Emily Brontë says, indeed, that Branwell ‘sat to Anne sorrily enough for the portrait of Henry (sic) Huntingdon;’ but I would ask where that portraiture lies? Huntingdon, be it marked, is not only a drunkard, but he is a libertine, a man who has even the callous brutality to recount to his trusting wife, as she sits by him on the sofa, endeavouring to amuse him, the ‘stories of his former amours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl, or the cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I express my horror and indignation,’ she says, ‘he lays it to the charge of jealousy, and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks.’ But it was different with Branwell, against whom it has never been charged that he sank to these low depths of criminal debauchery, indulgence, and treachery; and even those who have recounted the story of his passion for the wife of his employer, are compelled to say that he remained pure, and shrank in horror from the advances which they suppose she made. Huntingdon’s vicious disposition, too, is so sunk in selfishness, and there is in him such a cold brutality, — as where on many an occasion he triumphs over his powerless wife, — that he is placed in absolute contrast to Branwell, with his confiding, considerate, open-hearted, and generous nature.
It is but necessary to allude to Huntingdon’s hypocrisy to establish a further difference between his character and Branwell’s; and it is, moreover, very distinctive of Huntingdon’s mind that he is, throughout, utterly irreverent and irreligious, to such an extent that he jests at sacred things, and declares that his wife’s piety is enough to make him jealous of his Maker. Again he says, when he places her hand on the top of his head, and it sinks in a bed of curls, ‘rather alarmingly low, especially in the middle;’ ‘if God meant me to be religious, why didn’t He give me a proper organ of veneration?’ This irreverence he carries with him into domestic life, and he invades the sanctity of human affection, and the places the heart keeps holy, with his gross and insensate brutality. How different is this from Branwell Brontë, in whose character reverence and affection, above all things, were strong! Can we imagine Huntingdon dwelling so fondly in the affection of the long departed, as Branwell does in his poems of ‘Caroline;’ can we imagine him venerating as a precious possession to his dying day the sacred memories of his early years, as his supposed prototype did? What ‘swell of thought,’ seeming to fill ‘the bursting heart, the gushing eye’ with the memories of bygone years, could flood the shallow brain of the selfish and unfeeling Huntingdon? And Huntingdon, too, is afflicted with that well-known complaint of the continual drinker; he loses all interest in the affairs of life, and exists in perpetual levity. ‘There is always a “but” in this imperfect world,’ says his wife, ‘and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much mind it now, but if it be always so what shall I do with the serious part of myself?’ I would ask when Branwell Brontë displayed this unseemly levity? if he did not always write and speak in solid earnest; if, indeed, he did not live in the very midst of that storm and stress of acute feeling which Huntingdon’s wretched nature was incapable of experiencing at all?
Lastly, Helen Huntingdon tells us that her husband is impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, that he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting magazines, that she wishes he would take up some literary study, or learn to draw or play; and that, when deprived of his friends, his condition is comfortless, unalleviated as it is by the consolations of intellectual resources, and the answer of a good conscience towards God. What, then, were Branwell’s mental resources? His thoughts, on the contrary, were good and lofty enough; he was a student of literature, and especially a reader of the great poets; he had, indeed, taken up literary work; and he could and did both draw, and play on the organ; and when he was deprived of society, or cast into trouble, he found his consolation in his literary labours, and we have seen that, for the very purpose of obtaining alleviation in distress, he had written a volume of his novel. In short, he was, as far as his intellectual character and habits were concerned, exactly what Helen Huntingdon wished her husband might be.
If, then, there is no resemblance between Branwell Brontë’s disposition, character, and capabilities and those of Huntingdon in the novel, we might, after what has been said, surely expect to find that, in the unique point in which there is a correspondence of fact — their indulgence in drink — there would be some similar traits. But here, again, the resemblance is of the faintest, while the differences are radical. Huntingdon, for instance, is a continual and inveterate drinker; Branwell drank
but occasionally, and had long periods of temperance: Huntingdon drinks for the love of drink; Branwell drank in order to drown his sorrows. It is, moreover, made a special point by the Brontë biographers that part of Branwell’s intemperance was in taking opium, but this feature does not exist in Huntingdon, though Anne was clearly acquainted with the practice, for she mentions in the novel that Lord Lowborough at one time took it.
But, for the character of Huntingdon, we must look elsewhere. The account Charlotte gave of one whom the Brontës had known well, will show from what sources Anne drew her plot.
‘You remember Mr. and Mrs. — — ? Mrs. — — came here the other day, with a most melancholy tale of her wretched husband’s drunken, extravagant, profligate habits. She asked papa’s advice; there was nothing, she said, but ruin before them. They owed debts which they could never pay. She expected Mr. — — ‘s instant dismissal from his curacy; she knew, from bitter experience, that his vices were utterly hopeless. He treated her and her child savagely; with much more to the same effect. Papa advised her to leave him for ever, and go home, if she had a home to go to. She said this was what she had long resolved to do; and she would leave him directly, as soon as Mr. B — — dismissed him. She expressed great disgust and contempt towards him, and did not affect to have the shadow of regard in any way. I do not wonder at this, but I do wonder she should ever marry a man towards whom her feelings must always have been pretty much the same as they are now. I am morally certain no decent woman could experience anything but aversion towards such a man as Mr. — — . Before I knew, or suspected his character, and when I rather wondered at his versatile talents, I felt it in an uncontrollable degree. I hated to talk with him — hated to look at him; though, as I was not certain that there was substantial reason for such a dislike, and thought it absurd to trust to mere instinct, I both concealed and repressed the feeling as much as I could; and, on all occasions, treated him with as much civility as I was mistress of. I was struck with Mary’s expression of a similar feeling at first sight; she said, when we left him, “That is a hideous man, Charlotte!” I thought, “He is indeed.”‘
And here is another case known to the Brontës. ‘Do you remember my telling you — or did I ever tell you — about that wretched and most criminal Mr. — — ? After running an infamous career of vice, both in England and France, abandoning his wife to disease and total destitution in Manchester, with two children and without a farthing, in a strange lodging-house? Yesterday evening Martha came upstairs to say that a woman — “rather lady-like,” as she said — wished to speak to me in the kitchen. I went down. There stood Mrs. — — , pale and worn, but still interesting-looking and cleanly and neatly dressed, as was her little girl who was with her. I kissed her heartily. I could almost have cried to see her, for I had pitied her with my whole soul when I heard of her undeserved sufferings, agonies, and physical degradation. She took tea with us, stayed about two hours, and frankly entered into a narrative of her appalling distresses…. She does not know where Mr. — — is, and of course can never more endure to see him. She is now staying a few days at E — — with the — — s, who, I believe, have been all along very kind to her, and the circumstance is greatly to their credit.’
It was with cases like these before them that the Brontës wrought the infelicity of Heathcliff and Isabella, of Huntingdon and Helen. They felt themselves compelled to represent life as it appeared to them, they said.
Consumption and intemperance, the curses of our island and our climate, are found not the less in the West-Riding of Yorkshire. A cold and humid atmosphere, like poverty and want, begets a recourse to stimulants, and, with some natures, the bounds of moderation are soon passed. The prevalence of the latter evil had entered deeply into Anne’s thoughts. Her brother’s occasional indulgence had made it familiar to her; but we should clearly commit an error, as well as a great injustice to her, in supposing that, in the character of Huntingdon, she wished to present his failings to the public.
A careful study of the question has, indeed, convinced me, not only that Huntingdon is no portrait of Branwell Brontë, but that he is distinctly and designedly his very antitype. The author of ‘Wildfell Hall’ could scarcely have created a character so completely different from Branwell, unless she intended to do so; for, otherwise, writing under the influence of circumstances, and the inspiration of the moment, something of his strong personality must surely have found its way into the book. It is pleasant to be thus able to record, as an act of justice to Anne Brontë, that, though she had been compelled to witness the results of intemperance both in Branwell and in others, she purposely conveyed her lesson of these evils in the acts and thoughts of a character utterly distinct from her brother. Indeed, she was at considerable pains — which have unfortunately availed little — to prevent even a suspicion that her brother was the prototype of Huntingdon; for, to remove that impression, she has placed the hero of the story, Gilbert Markham, to a considerable extent, in Branwell’s very circumstances. There is no resemblance between Markham’s character and Branwell’s, beyond that of an ardent and generous temperament; but it should be observed that — exactly as with Branwell — Markham is enamoured of a married woman, the death of whose husband he anxiously awaits; that this passion is attributed to him as a monomania — ‘A monomania,’ says his brother Fergus, ‘but don’t mention it; all right but that;’ and, lastly, that Markham, too, thinks, as Branwell did, that the deceased husband of the lady ‘might have so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her marrying again.’
It should likewise be observed that ‘Wildfell Hall’ is just as much a protest against mariages de convenance, as it is against intemperance; but what had this to do with the family circumstances of the Brontës? It had far more to do with such instances as that of ‘Mr. and Mrs. — — ,’ quoted above from Charlotte’s letter, where infelicity was combined with intemperance, as it is in the case of Arthur and Helen Huntingdon.
CHAPTER XII.
BRANWELL’S FAILINGS. — PUBLICATION OF ‘JANE EYRE.’
Novel-writing — The Sisters’ Method of Work — Branwell’s Failing Health and Irregularities — ’Jane Eyre’ — Its Reception and Character — It was not Influenced by Branwell — Letter and Sketches of Branwell, 1848.
But, at this time, neither ‘Wuthering Heights’ nor ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ was before the public. It was not, indeed, till the summer of 1847 that the former, with ‘Agnes Grey,’ was accepted for publication. Meanwhile Anne was toiling away at her second book, and Charlotte was writing ‘Jane Eyre,’ under spells of inspiration.
Mrs. Gaskell has told us that the sisters were wont to put away their work at nine o’clock, and to walk about the sitting-room, talking over the plots of their stories, and discussing the incidents of them. Once or twice a week each was accustomed to read to the others what she had written, and hear the opinions they passed upon it. Mr. Brontë retired early to rest, and was in ignorance of the nature of the work going on, for his daughters never spoke to him of it, any more than they did to their friends. The writing of the sisters was, in fact, a secret shared only by their brother Branwell, who unquestionably gave his advice upon it, and instructed them on many points, besides, of practical value in their dealings with publishers and literary men, which their small knowledge of the world caused them to overlook.
But, at the time, Branwell’s health was visibly failing, and it became evident that, though naturally stronger than his sisters, he was not exempt from the consumptive tendency of his family. All his endeavours to obtain employment had proved futile. His physical health had long been giving way, and this soon rendered him incapable of sustained exertion. Much of his strange conduct arose probably from the reaction of this weakness on a mind endowed with so much intellectual power.
In most winters on these Yorkshire hills there are spells of severe frost and cold, and these were always times of suffering to the Brontës. Influenza would become epidemic at Haworth, and se
ldom neglected the inmates of the parsonage, close by the churchyard as the house was. Mr. Brontë had struggled hard to have proper drainage introduced into the village, but in vain. There was, indeed, ‘such a series of North-pole days’ in the December of 1846, as Charlotte did not remember; the sky looked like ice, and the wind was as keen as a two-edged blade. The consequence was that all the house was laid up with coughs and colds. Anne suffered from asthma; Mr. Brontë and Branwell had influenza and cough. Anxiously must they have watched every indication of change in the wind, and longed for the southwest breezes that, even in winter, sometimes came over the moors with all the softness of spring; and, on this occasion, they were not long disappointed, and Anne became much better. The novel writing went on as before. Branwell’s weakness and failings sometimes broke in upon this employment, but we do not find that, during the year 1847, he gave such trouble as would be likely to influence his sisters’ work. Of course he had little or no money at hand, and we know that he had contracted some small obligations during the period of distraction of the previous year. The result of this was that a sheriff’s-officer arrived at Haworth, and Branwell’s debts had to be paid, whereat his sister Charlotte seems to have been very angry, for she appears afterwards to accuse herself of being ‘too demonstrative and vehement.’ About three months later Charlotte was again in doubt about Branwell; she says his behaviour was ‘extravagant,’ and that he dropped ‘mysterious hints,’ which led her to believe that he had contracted further debts. In this, however, she was mistaken.
In the May of 1847, Charlotte invited ‘E.’ to visit her, and said that Branwell was quieter, for the good reason that he had got to the end of a considerable sum of money he became possessed of in the spring, and was obliged to restrict himself in some degree. ‘You must,’ she continues, ‘expect to find him weaker in mind, and the complete rake in appearance. I have no apprehension of his being uncivil to you; on the contrary, he will be as smooth as oil.’ It would appear that he had had some sum laid out, which he then recovered; but, as we have seen, he had got into debt before, and, in his alarm at the prospect of imprisonment in York Castle, it is said, told his friends, in the neighbourhood where he had been tutor, of his straits; upon which the widow of his late employer sent him money in kindness of heart, through a third person. At this period he expended much of his time at home in reading, and he wrote several poems.
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