‘I have learned that we are not to find solace in our own strength: we must seek it in God’s omnipotence. Fortitude is good, but fortitude itself must be shaken under us to teach us how weak we are.
‘With best wishes to yourself and all dear to you, and sincere thanks for the interest you so kindly continue to take in me and my sister, — Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘April 16th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — Your kind advice on the subject of Homœopathy deserves and has our best thanks. We find ourselves, however, urged from more than one quarter to try different systems and medicines, and I fear we have already given offence by not listening to all. The fact is, were we in every instance compliant, my dear sister would be harassed by continual changes. Cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron were first strongly recommended. Anne took them as long as she could, but at last she was obliged to give them up: the oil yielded her no nutriment, it did not arrest the progress of emaciation, and as it kept her always sick, she was prevented from taking food of any sort. Hydropathy was then strongly advised. She is now trying Gobold’s Vegetable Balsam; she thinks it does her some good; and as it is the first medicine which has had that effect, she would wish to persevere with it for a time. She is also looking hopefully forward to deriving benefit from change of air. We have obtained Mr. Teale’s permission to go to the seaside in the course of six or eight weeks. At first I felt torn between two duties — that of staying with papa and going with Anne; but as it is papa’s own most kindly expressed wish that I should adopt the latter plan, and as, besides, he is now, thank God! in tolerable health, I hope to be spared the pain of resigning the care of my sister to other hands, however friendly. We wish to keep together as long as we can. I hope, too, to derive from the change some renewal of physical strength and mental composure (in neither of which points am I what I ought or wish to be) to make me a better and more cheery nurse.
‘I fear I must have seemed to you hard in my observations about The Emigrant Family. The fact was, I compared Alexander Harris with himself only. It is not equal to the Testimony to the Truth, but, tried by the standard of other and very popular books too, it is very clever and original. Both subject and the manner of treating it are unhackneyed: he gives new views of new scenes and furnishes interesting information on interesting topics. Considering the increasing necessity for and tendency to emigration, I should think it has a fair chance of securing the success it merits.
‘I took up Leigh Hunt’s book The Town with the impression that it would be interesting only to Londoners, and I was surprised, ere I had read many pages, to find myself enchained by his pleasant, graceful, easy style, varied knowledge, just views, and kindly spirit. There is something peculiarly anti-melancholic in Leigh Hunt’s writings, and yet they are never boisterous. They resemble sunshine, being at once bright and tranquil.
‘I like Carlyle better and better. His style I do not like, nor do I always concur in his opinions, nor quite fall in with his hero worship; but there is a manly love of truth, an honest recognition and fearless vindication of intrinsic greatness, of intellectual and moral worth, considered apart from birth, rank, or wealth, which commands my sincere admiration. Carlyle would never do for a contributor to the Quarterly. I have not read his French Revolution.
‘I congratulate you on the approaching publication of Mr. Ruskin’s new work. If the Seven Lamps of Architecture resemble their predecessor, Modern Painters, they will be no lamps at all, but a new constellation — seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading world ought to be anxiously agaze.
‘Do not ask me to mention what books I should like to read. Half the pleasure of receiving a parcel from Cornhill consists in having its contents chosen for us. We like to discover, too, by the leaves cut here and there, that the ground has been travelled before us. I may however say, with reference to works of fiction, that I should much like to see one of Godwin’s works, never having hitherto had that pleasure — Caleb Williams or Fleetwood, or which you thought best worth reading.
‘But it is yet much too soon to talk of sending more books; our present stock is scarcely half exhausted. You will perhaps think I am a slow reader, but remember, Currer Bell is a country housewife, and has sundry little matters connected with the needle and kitchen to attend to which take up half his day, especially now when, alas! there is but one pair of hands where once there were three. I did not mean to touch that chord, its sound is too sad.
‘I try to write now and then. The effort was a hard one at first. It renewed the terrible loss of last December strangely. Worse than useless did it seem to attempt to write what there no longer lived an “Ellis Bell” to read; the whole book, with every hope founded on it, faded to vanity and vexation of spirit.
‘One inducement to persevere and do my best I still have, however, and I am thankful for it: I should like to please my kind friends at Cornhill. To that end I wish my powers would come back; and if it would please Providence to restore my remaining sister, I think they would.
‘Do not forget to tell me how you are when you write again. I trust your indisposition is quite gone by this time. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 1st, 1849.
‘Dear Ellen, — I returned Mary Taylor’s letter to Hunsworth as soon as I had read it. Thank God she was safe up to that time, but I do not think the earthquake was then over. I shall long to hear tidings of her again.
‘Anne was worse during the warm weather we had about a week ago. She grew weaker, and both the pain in her side and her cough were worse; strange to say, since it is colder, she has appeared rather to revive than sink. I still hope that if she gets over May she may last a long time.
‘We have engaged lodgings at Scarbro’. We stipulated for a good-sized sitting-room and an airy double-bedded lodging room, with a sea view, and if not deceived, have obtained these desiderata at No. 2 Cliff. Anne says it is one of the best situations in the place. It would not have done to have taken lodgings either in the town or on the bleak steep coast, where Miss Wooler’s house is situated. If Anne is to get any good she must have every advantage. Miss Outhwaite [her godmother] left her in her will a legacy of £200, and she cannot employ her money better than in obtaining what may prolong existence, if it does not restore health. We hope to leave home on the 23rd, and I think it will be advisable to rest at York, and stay all night there. I hope this arrangement will suit you. We reckon on your society, dear Ellen, as a real privilege and pleasure. We shall take little luggage, and shall have to buy bonnets and dresses and several other things either at York or Scarbro’; which place do you think would be best? Oh, if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be together! His will, however, must be done, and if she is not to recover, it remains to pray for strength and patience.
‘C. B.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘May 8th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — I hasten to acknowledge the two kind letters for which I am indebted to you. That fine spring weather of which you speak did not bring such happiness to us in its sunshine as I trust it did to you and thousands besides — the change proved trying to my sister. For a week or ten days I did not know what to think, she became so weak, and suffered so much from increased pain in the side, and aggravated cough. The last few days have been much colder, yet, strange to say, during their continuance she has appeared rather to revive than sink. She not unfrequently shows the very same symptoms which were apparent in Emily only a few days before she died — fever in the evenings, sleepless nights, and a sort of lethargy in the morning hours; this creates acute anxiety — then comes an improvement, which reassures. In about three weeks, should the weather be genial and her strength continue at all equal to the journey, we hope to go to Scarboro’. It is not without misgiving that I contemplate a departure from home under such
circumstances; but since she herself earnestly wishes the experiment to be tried, I think it ought not to be neglected. We are in God’s hands, and must trust the results to Him. An old school-fellow of mine, a tried and faithful friend, has volunteered to accompany us. I shall have the satisfaction of leaving papa to the attentions of two servants equally tried and faithful. One of them is indeed now old and infirm, and unfit to stir much from her chair by the kitchen fireside; but the other is young and active, and even she has lived with us seven years. I have reason, therefore, you see, to be thankful amidst sorrow, especially as papa still possesses every faculty unimpaired, and though not robust, has good general health — a sort of chronic cough is his sole complaint.
‘I hope Mr. Smith will not risk a cheap edition of Jane Eyre yet, he had better wait awhile — the public will be sick of the name of that one book. I can make no promise as to when another will be ready — neither my time nor my efforts are my own. That absorption in my employment to which I gave myself up without fear of doing wrong when I wrote Jane Eyre, would now be alike impossible and blamable; but I do what I can, and have made some little progress. We must all be patient.
‘Meantime, I should say, let the public forget at their ease, and let us not be nervous about it. And as to the critics, if the Bells possess real merit, I do not fear impartial justice being rendered them one day. I have a very short mental as well as physical sight in some matters, and am far less uneasy at the idea of public impatience, misconstruction, censure, etc., than I am at the thought of the anxiety of those two or three friends in Cornhill to whom I owe much kindness, and whose expectations I would earnestly wish not to disappoint. If they can make up their minds to wait tranquilly, and put some confidence in my goodwill, if not my power, to get on as well as may be, I shall not repine; but I verily believe that the “nobler sex” find it more difficult to wait, to plod, to work out their destiny inch by inch, than their sisters do. They are always for walking so fast and taking such long steps, one cannot keep up with them. One should never tell a gentleman that one has commenced a task till it is nearly achieved. Currer Bell, even if he had no let or hindrance, and if his path were quite smooth, could never march with the tread of a Scott, a Bulwer, a Thackeray, or a Dickens. I want you and Mr. Smith clearly to understand this. I have always wished to guard you against exaggerated anticipations — calculate low when you calculate on me. An honest man — and woman too — would always rather rise above expectation than fall below it.
‘Have I lectured enough? and am I understood?
‘Give my sympathising respects to Mrs. Williams. I hope her little daughter is by this time restored to perfect health. It pleased me to see with what satisfaction you speak of your son. I was glad, too, to hear of the progress and welfare of Miss Kavanagh. The notices of Mr. Harris’s works are encouraging and just — may they contribute to his success!
‘Should Mr. Thackeray again ask after Currer Bell, say the secret is and will be well kept because it is not worth disclosure. This fact his own sagacity will have already led him to divine. In the hope that it may not be long ere I hear from you again, — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, May 16th, 1849.
‘My dear Miss Wooler, — I will lose no time in thanking you for your letter and kind offer of assistance. We have, however, already engaged lodgings. I am not myself acquainted with Scarbro’, but Anne knows it well, having been there three or four times. She had a particular preference for the situation of some lodgings (No. 2 Cliff). We wrote about them, and finding them disengaged, took them. Your information is, notwithstanding, valuable, should we find this place in any way ineligible. It is a satisfaction to be provided with directions for future use.
‘Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure. Ellen Nussey accompanies us (by Anne’s expressed wish). I could not refuse her society, but I dared not urge her to go, for I have little hope that the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit to those engaged in it. Anne is extremely weak. She herself has a fixed impression that the sea air will give her a chance of regaining strength; that chance, therefore, we must have. Having resolved to try the experiment, misgivings are useless; and yet, when I look at her, misgivings will rise. She is more emaciated than Emily was at the very last; her breath scarcely serves her to mount the stairs, however slowly. She sleeps very little at night, and often passes most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state. Still, she is up all day, and even goes out a little when it is fine. Fresh air usually acts as a stimulus, but its reviving power diminishes.
‘With best wishes for your own health and welfare, — Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘No. 2 Cliff, Scarboro’, May 27th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — The date above will inform you why I have not answered your last letter more promptly. I have been busy with preparations for departure and with the journey. I am thankful to say we reached our destination safely, having rested one night at York. We found assistance wherever we needed it; there was always an arm ready to do for my sister what I was not quite strong enough to do: lift her in and out of the carriages, carry her across the line, etc.
‘It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro’ and its bay once more. There is yet no revival of bodily strength — I fear indeed the slow ebb continues. People who see her tell me I must not expect her to last long — but it is something to cheer her mind.
‘Our lodgings are pleasant. As Anne sits at the window she can look down on the sea, which this morning is calm as glass. She says if she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this moment — but she cannot breathe freely.
‘My friend Ellen is with us. I find her presence a solace. She is a calm, steady girl — not brilliant, but good and true. She suits and has always suited me well. I like her, with her phlegm, repose, sense, and sincerity, better than I should like the most talented without these qualifications.
‘If ever I see you again I should have pleasure in talking over with you the topics you allude to in your last — or rather, in hearing you talk them over. We see these things through a glass darkly — or at least I see them thus. So far from objecting to speculation on, or discussion of, the subject, I should wish to hear what others have to say. By others, I mean only the serious and reflective — levity in such matters shocks as much as hypocrisy.
‘Write to me. In this strange place your letters will come like the visits of a friend. Fearing to lose the post, I will add no more at present. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘May 30th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — My poor sister is taken quietly home at last. She died on Monday. With almost her last breath she said she was happy, and thanked God that death was come, and come so gently. I did not think it would be so soon.
‘You will not expect me to add more at present. — Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘June 25th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — I am now again at home, where I returned last Thursday. I call it home still — much as London would be called London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins. But let me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and not quite a ruined or desolate home either. Papa is there, and two most affectionate and faithful servants, and two old dogs, in their way as faithful and affectionate — Emily’s large house-dog which lay at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault, lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was being read — and Anne’s little spaniel. The ecstasy of these poor animals when I came in was something singular. At former returns from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly — but not in that strange, heart-touching way. I am certain they thought that, as I was returned, my sisters were
not far behind. But here my sisters will come no more. Keeper may visit Emily’s little bed-room — as he still does day by day — and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne, they will never see them again — nor shall I — at least the human part of me. I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly? In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of solitude — the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me. I am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views. As to the night — could I do without bed, I would never seek it. Waking, I think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering. Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell’s death — they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on waking were at that time such as we do not put into language. Worse seemed at hand than was yet endured — in truth, worse awaited us.
‘All this bitterness must be tasted. Perhaps the palate will grow used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid. This pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one day. Ellen would have come back with me but I would not let her. I knew it would be better to face the desolation at once — later or sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.
‘Labour must be the cure, not sympathy. Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow. The society of a calm, serenely cheerful companion — such as Ellen — soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are necessary to make a remedy. Total change might do much; where that cannot be obtained, work is the best substitute.
‘I by no means ask Miss Kavanagh to write to me. Why should she trouble herself to do it? What claim have I on her? She does not know me — she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay. I have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me. I have tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean upon it. The natural affection of my father and the attachment and solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me, but I do not look round for general pity; conventional condolence I do not want, either from man or woman.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 498
