TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 30th, 1851.
‘Dear Nell, — I am very sorry to hear that Amelia is again far from well; but I think both she and I should try and not be too anxious. Even if matters do not prosper this time, all may go as well some future day. I think it is not these early mishaps that break the constitution, but those which occur in a much later stage. She must take heart — there may yet be a round dozen of little Joe Taylors to look after — run after — to sort and switch and train up in the way they should go — that is, with a generous use of pickled birch. From whom do you think I have received a couple of notes lately? From Alice. They are returned from the Continent, it seems, and are now at Torquay. The first note touched me a little by what I thought its subdued tone; I trusted her character might be greatly improved. There were, indeed, traces of the “old Adam,” but such as I was willing to overlook. I answered her soon and kindly. In reply I received to-day a longish letter, full of clap-trap sentiment and humbugging attempts at fine writing. In each production the old trading spirit peeps out; she asks for autographs. It seems she had read in some paper that I was staying with Miss Martineau; thereupon she applies for specimens of her handwriting, and Wordsworth’s, and Southey’s, and my own. The account of her health, if given by any one else, would grieve and alarm me. She talks of fearing that her constitution is almost broken by repeated trials, and intimates a doubt as to whether she shall live long: but, remembering her of old, I have good hopes that this may be a mistake. Her “beloved papa and mama” and her “precious sister,” she says, are living, and “gradely.” (That last is my word. I don’t know whether they use it in Birstall as they do here — it means in a middling way.)
‘You are to say no more about “Jupiter” and “Venus” — what do you mean by such heathen trash? The fact is, no fallacy can be wilder, and I won’t have it hinted at even in jest, because my common sense laughs it to scorn. The idea of the “little man” shocks me less — it would be a more likely match if “matches” were at all in question, which they are not. He still sends his little newspaper; and the other day there came a letter of a bulk, volume, pith, judgment, and knowledge, worthy to have been the product of a giant. You may laugh as much and as wickedly as you please; but the fact is, there is a quiet constancy about this, my diminutive and red-haired friend, which adds a foot to his stature, turns his sandy locks dark, and altogether dignifies him a good deal in my estimation. However, I am not bothered by much vehement ardour — there is the nicest distance and respect preserved now, which makes matters very comfortable.
‘This is all nonsense, Nell, and so you will understand it. — Yours very faithfully,
‘C. B.
‘The name of Miss Martineau’s coadjutor is Atkinson. She often writes to me with exceeding cordiality.’
TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL
‘March 22nd, 1851.
‘My dear Sir, — Yesterday I despatched a box of books to Cornhill, including the number of the North British Review which you kindly lent me. The article to which you particularly directed my attention was read with pleasure and interest, and if I do not now discuss it more at length, it is because I am well aware how completely your attention must be at present engrossed, since, if I rightly understood a brief paragraph in Mr. Smith’s last note, you are now on the eve of quitting England for India.
‘I will limit myself, then, to the expression of a sincere wish for your welfare and prosperity in this undertaking, and to the hope that the great change of climate will bring with it no corresponding risk to health. I should think you will be missed in Cornhill, but doubtless “business” is a Moloch which demands such sacrifices.
‘I do not know when you go, nor whether your absence is likely to be permanent or only for a time; whichever it be, accept my best wishes for your happiness, and my farewell, if I should not again have the opportunity of addressing you. — Believe me, sincerely yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL
‘March 24th, 1851.
‘My dear Sir, — I had written briefly to you before I received yours, but I fear the note would not reach you in time. I will now only say that both my father and myself will have pleasure in seeing you on your return from Scotland — a pleasure tinged with sadness certainly, as all partings are, but still a pleasure.
‘I do most entirely agree with you in what you say about Miss Martineau’s and Mr. Atkinson’s book. I deeply regret its publication for the lady’s sake; it gives a death-blow to her future usefulness. Who can trust the word, or rely on the judgment, of an avowed atheist?
‘May your decision in the crisis through which you have gone result in the best effect on your happiness and welfare; and indeed, guided as you are by the wish to do right and a high sense of duty, I trust it cannot be otherwise. The change of climate is all I fear; but Providence will over-rule this too for the best — in Him you can believe and on Him rely. You will want, therefore, neither solace nor support, though your lot be cast as a stranger in a strange land. — I am, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.
‘When you shall have definitely fixed the time of your return southward, write me a line to say on what day I may expect you at Haworth.
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 5th, 1851.
‘Dear Ellen, — Mr. Taylor has been and is gone; things are just as they were. I only know in addition to the slight information I possessed before, that this Indian undertaking is necessary to the continued prosperity of the firm of Smith, Elder, & Co., and that he, Taylor, alone was pronounced to possess the power and means to carry it out successfully — that mercantile honour, combined with his own sense of duty, obliged him to accept the post of honour and of danger to which he has been appointed, that he goes with great personal reluctance, and that he contemplates an absence of five years.
‘He looked much thinner and older. I saw him very near, and once through my glass; the resemblance to Branwell struck me forcibly — it is marked. He is not ugly, but very peculiar; the lines in his face show an inflexibility, and, I must add, a hardness of character which do not attract. As he stood near me, as he looked at me in his keen way, it was all I could do to stand my ground tranquilly and steadily, and not to recoil as before. It is no use saying anything if I am not candid. I avow then, that on this occasion, predisposed as I was to regard him very favourably, his manners and his personal presence scarcely pleased me more than at the first interview. He gave me a book at parting, requesting in his brief way that I would keep it for his sake, and adding hastily, “I shall hope to hear from you in India — your letters have been and will be a greater refreshment than you can think or I can tell.”
‘And so he is gone; and stern and abrupt little man as he is — too often jarring as are his manners — his absence and the exclusion of his idea from my mind leave me certainly with less support and in deeper solitude than before.
‘You see, dear Nell, though we are still precisely on the same level — you are not isolated. I feel that there is a certain mystery about this transaction yet, and whether it will ever be cleared up to me I do not know; however, my plain duty is to wean my mind from the subject, and if possible to avoid pondering over it. In his conversation he seemed studiously to avoid reference to Mr. Smith individually, speaking always of the “house” — the “firm.” He seemed throughout quite as excited and nervous as when I first saw him. I feel that in his way he has a regard for me — a regard which I cannot bring myself entirely to reciprocate in kind, and yet its withdrawal leaves a painful blank.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 9th, 1851.
‘Dear Nell, — Thank you for your kind note; it was just like you to write it though it was your school-day. I never knew you to let a slight impediment stand in the way of a friendly action.
‘Certainly I shall not soon forget last Friday, and never, I think, the evening and night su
cceeding that morning and afternoon. Evils seldom come singly. And soon after Mr. Taylor was gone, papa, who had been better, grew much worse. He went to bed early, and was very sick and ill for an hour; and when at last he began to doze, and I left him, I came down to the dining-room with a sense of weight, fear, and desolation hard to express and harder to endure. A wish that you were with me did cross my mind, but I repulsed it as a most selfish wish; indeed, it was only short-lived: my natural tendency in moments of this sort is to get through the struggle alone — to think that one is burdening and racking others makes all worse.
‘You speak to me in soft consolating accents, but I hold far sterner language to myself, dear Nell.
‘An absence of five years — a dividing expanse of three oceans — the wide difference between a man’s active career and a woman’s passive existence — these things are almost equivalent to an eternal separation. But there is another thing which forms a barrier more difficult to pass than any of these. Would Mr. Taylor and I ever suit? Could I ever feel for him enough love to accept him as a husband? Friendship — gratitude — esteem I have, but each moment he came near me, and that I could see his eyes fastened on me, my veins ran ice. Now that he is away I feel far more gently towards him; it is only close by that I grow rigid — stiffening with a strange mixture of apprehension and anger, which nothing softens but his retreat and a perfect subduing of his manner. I did not want to be proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was forced to be so.
‘Most true is it that we are over-ruled by one above us — that in his hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the potter.
‘Papa continues very far from well, though yesterday, and I hope this morning, he is a little better. How is your mother? Give my love to her and your sister. How are you? Have you suffered from tic since you returned home? Did they think you improved in looks?
‘Write again soon. — Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 23rd, 1851.
‘My dear Ellen, — I have heard from Mr. Taylor to-day — a quiet little note. He returned to London a week since on Saturday; he has since kindly chosen and sent me a parcel of books. He leaves England May 20th. His note concludes with asking whether he has any chance of seeing me in London before that time. I must tell him that I have already fixed June for my visit, and therefore, in all human probability, we shall see each other no more.
‘There is still a want of plain mutual understanding in this business, and there is sadness and pain in more ways than one. My conscience, I can truly say, does not now accuse me of having treated Mr. Taylor with injustice or unkindness. What I once did wrong in this way, I have endeavoured to remedy both to himself and in speaking of him to others — Mr. Smith to wit, though I more than doubt whether that last opinion will ever reach him. I am sure he has estimable and sterling qualities; but with every disposition and with every wish, with every intention even to look on him in the most favourable point of view at his last visit, it was impossible to me in my inward heart to think of him as one that might one day be acceptable as a husband. It would sound harsh were I to tell even you of the estimate I felt compelled to form respecting him. Dear Nell, I looked for something of the gentleman — something I mean of the natural gentleman; you know I can dispense with acquired polish, and for looks, I know myself too well to think that I have any right to be exacting on that point. I could not find one gleam, I could not see one passing glimpse of true good-breeding. It is hard to say, but it is true. In mind too, though clever, he is second-rate — thoroughly second-rate. One does not like to say these things, but one had better be honest. Were I to marry him my heart would bleed in pain and humiliation; I could not, could not look up to him. No; if Mr. Taylor be the only husband fate offers to me, single I must always remain. But yet, at times I grieve for him, and perhaps it is superfluous, for I cannot think he will suffer much: a hard nature, occupation, and change of scene will befriend him.
‘With kind regards to all, — I am, dear Nell, your middle-aged friend,
‘C. Brontë.
‘Write soon.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 5th, 1851.
‘My dear Ellen, — I have had a long kind letter from Miss Martineau lately. She says she is well and happy. Also, I have had a very long letter from Mr. Williams. He speaks with much respect of Mr. Taylor. I discover with some surprise, papa has taken a decided liking to Mr. Taylor. The marked kindness of his manner when he bid him good-bye, exhorting him to be “true to himself, his country, and his God,” and wishing him all good wishes, struck me with some astonishment. Whenever he has alluded to him since, it has been with significant eulogy. When I alluded that he was no gentleman, he seemed out of patience with me for the objection. You say papa has penetration. On this subject I believe he has indeed. I have told him nothing, yet he seems to be au fait to the whole business. I could think at some moments his guesses go farther than mine. I believe he thinks a prospective union, deferred for five years, with such a decorous reliable personage, would be a very proper and advisable affair.
‘How has your tic been lately? I had one fiery night when this same dragon “tic” held me for some hours with pestilent violence. It still comes at intervals with abated fury. Owing to this and broken sleep, I am looking singularly charming, one of my true London looks — starved out and worn down. Write soon, dear Nell. — Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘112 Gloucester Place,
‘Hyde Park, June 2nd, 1851.
‘Dear Ellen, — Mr. Taylor has gone some weeks since. I hear more open complaints now about his temper. Of Mr. Williams’ society I have enjoyed one evening’s allowance, and liked it and him as usual. On such occasions his good qualities of ease, kindliness, and intelligence are seen, and his little faults and foibles hidden. Mr. Smith is somewhat changed in appearance. He looks a little older, darker, and more careworn; his ordinary manner is graver, but in the evening his spirits flow back to him. Things and circumstances seem here to be as usual, but I fancy there has been some crisis in which his energy and filial affection have sustained them all. This I judge from the fact that his mother and sisters are more peculiarly bound to him than ever, and that his slightest wish is an unquestioned law. — Faithfully yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘November 4th, 1851.
‘Dear Ellen, — Papa, Tabby, and Martha are at present all better, yet none of them well. Martha at present looks feeble. I wish she had a better constitution. As it is, one is always afraid of giving her too much to do; and yet there are many things I cannot undertake myself, and we do not like to change when we have had her so long. How are you getting on in the matter of servants? The other day I received a long letter from Mr. Taylor. I told you I did not expect to hear thence, nor did I. The letter is long, but it is worth your while to read it. In its way it has merit, that cannot be denied; abundance of information, talent of a certain kind, alloyed (I think) here and there with errors of taste. He might have spared many of the details of the bath scene, which, for the rest, tallies exactly with Mr. Thackeray’s account of the same process. This little man with all his long letters remains as much a conundrum to me as ever. Your account of the domestic joys at Hunsworth amused me much. The good folks seem very happy — long may they continue so! It somewhat cheers me to know that such happiness does exist on the earth. Return Mr. Taylor’s letter when you have read it. With love to your mother, — I am, dear Nell, sincerely yours,
‘C. B.’
TO JAMES TAYLOR, BOMBAY
‘Haworth, November 15th, 1851.
‘My dear Sir, — Both your communications reached me safely — the note of the 17th September and the letter of the 2nd October. You do yourself less than justice when you stigmatise the latter as “ill-written.” I found it quite legible, nor did I lose a word, though the lines and let
ters were so close. I should have been sorry if such had not been the case, as it appeared to me throughout highly interesting. It is observable that the very same information which we have previously collected, perhaps with rather languid attention, from printed books, when placed before us in familiar manuscript, and comprising the actual experience of a person with whom we are acquainted, acquires a new and vital interest: when we know the narrator we seem to realise the tale.
‘The bath scene amused me much. Your account of that operation tallies in every point with Mr. Thackeray’s description in the Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo. The usage seems a little rough, and I cannot help thinking that equal benefit might be obtained through less violent means; but I suppose without the previous fatigue the after-sensation would not be so enjoyable, and no doubt it is that indolent after-sensation which the self-indulgent Mahometans chiefly cultivate. I think you did right to disdain it.
‘It would seem to me a matter of great regret that the society at Bombay should be so deficient in all intellectual attraction. Perhaps, however, your occupations will so far absorb your thoughts as to prevent them from dwelling painfully on this circumstance. No doubt there will be moments when you will look back to London and Scotland, and the friends you have left there, with some yearning; but I suppose business has its own excitement. The new country, the new scenes too, must have their interest; and as you will not lack books to fill your leisure, you will probably soon become reconciled to a change which, for some minds, would too closely resemble exile.
‘I fear the climate — such as you describe it — must be very trying to an European constitution. In your first letter, you mentioned October as the month of danger; it is now over. Whether you have passed its ordeal safely, must yet for some weeks remain unknown to your friends in England — they can but wish that such may be the case. You will not expect me to write a letter that shall form a parallel with your own either in quantity or quality; what I write must be brief, and what I communicate must be commonplace and of trivial interest.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 510
