‘Dear Ellen, — I must write to you to-day whether I have anything to say or not, or else you will begin to think that I have forgotten you; whereas, never a day passes, seldom an hour, that I do not think of you, and the scene of trial in which you live, move, and have your being. Mary Taylor’s letter was deeply interesting and strongly characteristic. I have no news whatever to communicate. No changes take place here. Branwell offers no prospect of hope; he professes to be too ill to think of seeking for employment; he makes comfort scant at home. I hold to my intention of going to Brookroyd as soon as I can — that is, provided you will have me.
‘Give my best love to your mother and sisters. — Yours, dear Nell, always faithful,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 13th, 1845.
‘My dear Ellen, — I have often said and thought that you have had many and heavy trials to bear in your still short life. You have always borne them with great firmness and calm so far — I hope fervently you will still be enabled to do so. Yet there is something in your letter that makes me fear the present is the greatest trial of all, and the most severely felt by you. I hope it will soon pass over and leave no shadow behind it. I do earnestly desire to be with you, to talk to you, to give you what comfort I can. Branwell and Anne leave us on Saturday. Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on the whole this time than he was in summer. Anne is as usual — always good, mild, and patient. I think she too is a little stronger than she was. — Good-bye, dear Ellen,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘December 31st, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen, — I don’t know whether most to thank you for the very pretty slippers you have sent me or to scold you for occasioning yourself, in the slightest degree, trouble or expense on my account. I will have them made up and bring them with me, if all be well, when I come to Brookroyd.
‘Never doubt that I shall come to Brookroyd as soon as I can, Nell. I dare say my wish to see you is equal to your wish to see me.
‘I had a note on Saturday from Ellen Taylor, informing me that letters have been received from Mary in New Zealand, and that she was well and in good spirits. I suppose you have not yet seen them, as you do not mention them; but you will probably have them in your possession before you get this note.
‘You say well in speaking of Branwell that no sufferings are so awful as those brought on by dissipation. Alas! I see the truth of this observation daily proved.
‘Your friends must have a weary and burdensome life of it in waiting upon their unhappy brother. It seems grievous, indeed, that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely.
‘Write to me a little oftener, Ellen — I am very glad to get your notes. Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters. — Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘January 30th, 1846.
‘My dear Miss Wooler, — I have not yet paid my usual visit to Brookroyd, but I frequently hear from Ellen, and she did not fail to tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire. She was unable, however, to give me your address; had I known it I should have written to you long since.
‘I thought you would wonder how we were getting on when you heard of the Railway Panic, and you may be sure I am very glad to be able to answer your kind inquiries by an assurance that our small capital is as yet undiminished. The “York and Midland” is, as you say, a very good line, yet I confess to you I should wish, for my part, to be wise in time. I cannot think that even the very best lines will continue for many years at their present premiums, and I have been most anxious for us to sell our shares ere it be too late, and to secure the proceeds in some safer, if, for the present, less profitable investment. I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to regard the affair precisely from my point of view, and I feel as if I would rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily’s feelings by acting in direct opposition to her opinion. She managed in a most handsome and able manner for me when I was at Brussels, and prevented by distance from looking after my own interests; therefore, I will let her manage still, and take the consequences. Disinterested and energetic she certainly is, and if she be not quite so tractable or open to conviction as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not the lot of humanity. And as long as we can regard those we love, and to whom we are closely allied, with profound and very unshaken esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex us occasionally by, what appear to us, unreasonable and headstrong notions. You, my dear Miss Wooler, know full as well as I do the value of sisters’ affection to each other; there is nothing like it in this world, I believe, when they are nearly equal in age, and similar in education, tastes, and sentiments.
‘You ask about Branwell. He never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear he has rendered himself incapable of filling any respectable station in life; besides, if money were at his disposal he would use it only to his own injury; the faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him. You ask me if I do not think men are strange beings. I do, indeed — I have often thought so; and I think too that the mode of bringing them up is strange, they are not half sufficiently guarded from temptations. Girls are protected as if they were something very frail and silly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and the least liable to be led astray.
‘I am glad you like Bromsgrove. I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves to me that there is really such a thing as retributive justice even in this life; now you are free, and that while you have still, I hope, many years of vigour and health in which you can enjoy freedom. Besides, I have another and very egotistical motive for being pleased: it seems that even “a lone woman” can be happy, as well as cherished wives and proud mothers. I am glad of that — I speculate much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be married woman now-a-days, and I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or mother, and who, having attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, fortitude to support inevitable pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend. I wish to send this letter off by to-day’s post, I must therefore conclude in haste. — Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours, most affectionately,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘November 4th, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen, — You do not reproach me in your last, but I fear you must have thought me unkind in being so long without answering you. The fact is, I had hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth. Branwell seemed to have a prospect of getting employment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, “Dear Ellen, come and see us”; but the place (a secretaryship to a Railroad Committee) is given to another person. Branwell still remains at home, and while he is here you shall not come. I am more confirmed in that resolution the more I know of him. I wish I could say one word to you in his favour, but I cannot, therefore I will hold my tongue.
‘Emily and Anne wish me to tell you that they think it very unlikely for little Flossy to be expected to rear so numerous a family; they think you are quite right in protesting against all the pups being preserved, for, if kept, they will pull their poor little mother to pieces. — Yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 14th, 1846.
‘Dear Ellen, — I assure you I was very glad indeed to get your last note; for when three or four days elapsed after my second despatch to you and I got no answer, I scarcely doubted something was wrong. It relieved me much to find my apprehensions unfounded. I return you Miss Ringrose’s notes with thanks. I always like to read them, they app
ear to me so true an index of an amiable mind, and one not too conscious of its own worth; beware of awakening in her this consciousness by undue praise. It is the privilege of simple-hearted, sensible, but not brilliant people, that they can be and do good without comparing their own thoughts and actions too closely with those of other people, and thence drawing strong food for self-appreciation. Talented people almost always know full well the excellence that is in them. I wish I could say anything favourable, but how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell stays at home, and degenerates instead of improving? It has been lately intimated to him, that he would be received again on the railroad where he was formerly stationed if he would behave more steadily, but he refuses to make an effort; he will not work; and at home he is a drain on every resource — an impediment to all happiness. But there is no use in complaining.
‘My love to all. Write again soon.
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘June 17th, 1846.
‘Dear Ellen, — I was glad to perceive, by the tone of your last letter, that you are beginning to be a little more settled. We, I am sorry to say, have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately. The death of Mr. Robinson, which took place about three weeks or a month ago, served Branwell for a pretext to throw all about him into hubbub and confusion with his emotions, etc., etc. Shortly after came news from all hands that Mr. Robinson had altered his will before he died, and effectually prevented all chance of a marriage between his widow and Branwell, by stipulating that she should not have a shilling if she ever ventured to re-open any communication with him. Of course he then became intolerable. To papa he allows rest neither day nor night, and he is continually screwing money out of him, sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is withheld from him. He says Mrs. Robinson is now insane; that her mind is a complete wreck owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr. Robinson (whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind) and grief for having lost him. I do not know how much to believe of what he says, but I fear she is very ill. Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for himself. Good situations have been offered him more than once, for which, by a fortnight’s work, he might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing, except drink and make us all wretched. I had a note from Ellen Taylor a week ago, in which she remarks that letters were received from New Zealand a month since, and that all was well. I should like to hear from you again soon. I hope one day to see Brookroyd again, though I think it will not be yet — these are not times of amusement. Love to all.
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, March 1st, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen, — Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately. I expect from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. The Misses Robinson, who had entirely ceased their correspondence with Anne for half a year after their father’s death, have lately recommenced it. For a fortnight they sent her a letter almost every day, crammed with warm protestations of endless esteem and gratitude. They speak with great affection too of their mother, and never make any allusion intimating acquaintance with her errors. We take special care that Branwell does not know of their writing to Anne. My health is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather more than on an uneasy mind, for, after all, I have many things to be thankful for. Write again soon.
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 12th, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen, — We shall all be glad to see you on the Thursday or Friday of next week, whichever day will suit you best. About what time will you be likely to get here, and how will you come? By coach to Keighley, or by a gig all the way to Haworth? There must be no impediments now? I cannot do with them, I want very much to see you. I hope you will be decently comfortable while you stay.
‘Branwell is quieter now, and for a good reason: he has got to the end of a considerable sum of money, and consequently is obliged to restrict himself in some degree. You must expect to find him weaker in mind, and a complete rake in appearance. I have no apprehension of his being at all uncivil to you; on the contrary, he will be as smooth as oil. I pray for fine weather that we may be able to get out while you stay. Goodbye for the present. Prepare for much dulness and monotony. Give my love to all at Brookroyd.
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘July 28th, 1848.
‘Dear Ellen, — Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights with him: he sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night. But has not every house its trial?
‘Write to me very soon, dear Nell, and — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
Branwell Brontë died on Sunday, September the 24th, 1848, and the two following letters from Charlotte to her friend Mr. Williams are peculiarly interesting.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘October 2nd, 1848.
‘My dear Sir, — “We have hurried our dead out of our sight.” A lull begins to succeed the gloomy tumult of last week. It is not permitted us to grieve for him who is gone as others grieve for those they lose. The removal of our only brother must necessarily be regarded by us rather in the light of a mercy than a chastisement. Branwell was his father’s and his sisters’ pride and hope in boyhood, but since manhood the case has been otherwise. It has been our lot to see him take a wrong bent; to hope, expect, wait his return to the right path; to know the sickness of hope deferred, the dismay of prayer baffled; to experience despair at last — and now to behold the sudden early obscure close of what might have been a noble career.
‘I do not weep from a sense of bereavement — there is no prop withdrawn, no consolation torn away, no dear companion lost — but for the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light. My brother was a year my junior. I had aspirations and ambitions for him once, long ago — they have perished mournfully. Nothing remains of him but a memory of errors and sufferings. There is such a bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe. I trust time will allay these feelings.
‘My poor father naturally thought more of his only son than of his daughters, and, much and long as he had suffered on his account, he cried out for his loss like David for that of Absalom — my son my son! — and refused at first to be comforted. And then when I ought to have been able to collect my strength and be at hand to support him, I fell ill with an illness whose approaches I had felt for some time previously, and of which the crisis was hastened by the awe and trouble of the death-scene — the first I had ever witnessed. The past has seemed to me a strange week. Thank God, for my father’s sake, I am better now, though still feeble. I wish indeed I had more general physical strength — the want of it is sadly in my way. I cannot do what I would do for want of sustained animal spirits and efficient bodily vigour.
‘My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in literature — he was not aware that they had ever published a line. We could not tell him of our efforts for fear of causing him too deep a pang of remorse for his own time mis-spent, and talents misapplied. Now he will never know. I cannot dwell longer on the subject at present — it is too painful.
‘I thank you for your kind sympathy, and pray earnestly that your sons may all do well, and that you may be spared the sufferings my father has gone through. — Yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, October 6th, 1848.
‘My dear Sir, — I thank you for your last truly friendly letter, and for the number of Blackwood which accompanied it. Both arrived at a time when a relapse of illness had depressed me much. Both did me good,
especially the letter. I have only one fault to find with your expressions of friendship: they make me ashamed, because they seem to imply that you think better of me than I merit. I believe you are prone to think too highly of your fellow-creatures in general — to see too exclusively the good points of those for whom you have a regard. Disappointment must be the inevitable result of this habit. Believe all men, and women too, to be dust and ashes — a spark of the divinity now and then kindling in the dull heap — that is all. When I looked on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother (nature had favoured him with a fairer outside, as well as a finer constitution, than his sisters) and asked myself what had made him go ever wrong, tend ever downwards, when he had so many gifts to induce to, and aid in, an upward course, I seemed to receive an oppressive revelation of the feebleness of humanity — of the inadequacy of even genius to lead to true greatness if unaided by religion and principle. In the value, or even the reality, of these two things he would never believe till within a few days of his end; and then all at once he seemed to open his heart to a conviction of their existence and worth. The remembrance of this strange change now comforts my poor father greatly. I myself, with painful, mournful joy, heard him praying softly in his dying moments; and to the last prayer which my father offered up at his bedside he added, “Amen.” How unusual that word appeared from his lips, of course you, who did not know him, cannot conceive. Akin to this alteration was that in his feelings towards his relations — all the bitterness seemed gone.
‘When the struggle was over, and a marble calm began to succeed the last dread agony, I felt, as I had never felt before, that there was peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. All his errors — to speak plainly, all his vices — seemed nothing to me in that moment: every wrong he had done, every pain he had caused, vanished; his sufferings only were remembered; the wrench to the natural affections only was left. If man can thus experience total oblivion of his fellow’s imperfections, how much more can the Eternal Being, who made man, forgive His creature?
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 492
