‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘November 9th, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — I have read Lord John Russell’s letter with very great zest and relish, and think him a spirited sensible little man for writing it. He makes no old-womanish outcry of alarm and expresses no exaggerated wrath. One of the best paragraphs is that which refers to the Bishop of London and the Puseyites. Oh! I wish Dr. Arnold were yet living, or that a second Dr. Arnold could be found! Were there but ten such men amongst the hierarchs of the Church of England she might bid defiance to all the scarlet hats and stockings in the Pope’s gift. Her sanctuaries would be purified, her rites reformed, her withered veins would swell again with vital sap; but it is not so.
‘It is well that truth is indestructible — that ruin cannot crush nor fire annihilate her divine essence. While forms change and institutions perish, “truth is great and shall prevail.”
‘I am truly glad to hear that Miss Kavanagh’s health is improved. You can send her book whenever it is most convenient. I received from Cornhill the other day a periodical containing a portrait of Jenny Lind — a sweet, natural, innocent peasant-girl face, curiously contrasted with an artificial fine-lady dress. I do like and esteem Jenny’s character. Yet not long since I heard her torn to pieces by the tongue of detraction — scarcely a virtue left — twenty odious defects imputed.
‘There was likewise a most faithful portrait of R. H. Home, with his imaginative forehead and somewhat foolish-looking mouth and chin, indicating that mixed character which I should think he owns. Mr. Home writes well. That tragedy on the Death of Marlowe reminds me of some of the best of Dumas’ dramatic pieces. — Yours very sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January, 1851.
‘Dear Ellen, — I sent yesterday the Leader newspaper, which you must always send to Hunsworth as soon as you have done with it. I will continue to forward it as long as I get it.
‘I am trying a little Hydropathic treatment; I like it, and I think it has done me good. Inclosed is a letter received a few days since. I wish you to read it because it gives a very fair notion both of the disposition and mind; read, return, and tell me what you think of it.
‘Thackeray has given dreadful trouble by his want of punctuality. Mr. Williams says if he had not been helped out with the vigour, energy, and method of Mr. Smith, he must have sunk under the day and night labour of the last few weeks.
‘Write soon.
‘C. B.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘July 21st, 1851.
‘My dear Sir, — I delayed answering your very interesting letter until the box should have reached me; and now that it is come I can only acknowledge its arrival: I cannot say at all what I felt as I unpacked its contents. These Cornhill parcels have something of the magic charm of a fairy gift about them, as well as of the less poetical but more substantial pleasure of a box from home received at school. You have sent me this time even more books than usual, and all good.
‘What shall I say about the twenty numbers of splendid engravings laid cozily at the bottom? The whole Vernon Gallery brought to one’s fireside! Indeed, indeed I can say nothing, except that I will take care, and keep them clean, and send them back uninjured. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘November 6th, 1851.
‘My dear Sir, — I have true pleasure in inclosing for your son Frank a letter of introduction to Mrs. Gaskell, and earnestly do I trust the acquaintance may tend to his good. To make all sure — for I dislike to go on doubtful grounds — I wrote to ask her if she would permit the introduction. Her frank, kind answer pleased me greatly.
‘I have received the books. I hope to write again when I have read The Fair Carew. The very title augurs well — it has no hackneyed sound. — Believe me, sincerely yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, May 28th, 1853.
‘My dear Sir, — The box of books arrived safely yesterday evening, and I feel especially obliged for the selection, as it includes several that will be acceptable and interesting to my father.
‘I despatch to-day a box of return books. Among them will be found two or three of those just sent, being such as I had read before — i.e., Moore’s Life and Correspondence, 1st and 2nd vols.; Lamartine’s Restoration of the Monarchy, etc. I have thought of you more than once during the late bright weather, knowing how genial you find warmth and sunshine. I trust it has brought this season its usual cheering and beneficial effect. Remember me kindly to Mrs. Williams and her daughters, and, — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘December 6th, 1853.
‘My dear Sir, — I forwarded last week a box of return books to Cornhill, which I trust arrived safely. To-day I received the Edinburgh Guardian, for which I thank you.
‘Do not trouble yourself to select or send any more books. These courtesies must cease some day, and I would rather give them up than wear them out. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
CHAPTER XV: WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The devotion of Charlotte Brontë to Thackeray, or rather to Thackeray’s genius, is a pleasant episode in literary history. In 1848 he sent Miss Brontë, as we have seen, a copy of Vanity Fair. In 1852 he sent her a copy of Esmond, with the more cordial inscription which came of friendship.
The second edition of Jane Eyre was dedicated to him as possessed of ‘an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recognised,’ and as ‘the first social regenerator of the day.’ And when Currer Bell was dead, it was Thackeray who wrote by far the most eloquent tribute to her memory. When a copy of Lawrence’s portrait of Thackeray was sent to Haworth by Mr. George Smith, Charlotte Brontë stood in front of it and, half playfully, half seriously, shook her fist, apostrophising its original as ‘Thou Titan!’
With all this hero-worship, it may be imagined that no favourable criticism gave her more unqualified pleasure than that which came from her ‘master,’ as she was not indisposed to consider one who was only seven years her senior, and whose best books were practically contemporaneous with her own.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, October 28th, 1847.
‘Dear Sir, — Your last letter was very pleasant to me to read, and is very cheering to reflect on. I feel honoured in being approved by Mr. Thackeray, because I approve Mr. Thackeray. This may sound presumptuous perhaps, but I mean that I have long recognised in his writings genuine talent, such as I admired, such as I wondered at and delighted in. No author seems to distinguish so exquisitely as he does dross from ore, the real from the counterfeit. I believed too he had deep and true feelings under his seeming sternness. Now I am sure he has. One good word from such a man is worth pages of praise from ordinary judges.
‘You are right in having faith in the reality of Helen Burns’s character; she was real enough. I have exaggerated nothing there. I abstained from recording much that I remember respecting her, lest the narrative should sound incredible. Knowing this, I could not but smile at the quiet self-complacent dogmatism with which one of the journals lays it down that “such creations as Helen Burns are very beautiful but very untrue.”
‘The plot of Jane Eyre may be a hackneyed one. Mr. Thackeray remarks that it is familiar to him. But having read comparatively few novels, I never chanced to meet with it, and I thought it original. The work referred to by the critic of the Athenæum, I had not had the good fortune to hear of.
‘The Weekly Chronicle seems inclined to identify me with Mrs. Marsh. I never had the pleasure of perusing a line of Mrs. Marsh’s in my life, but I wish very much to read her works, and shall profit by the first opportunity of doing so. I hope I shall not find I have been an unconscious imitator.
‘I would still endeavour t
o keep my expectations low respecting the ultimate success of Jane Eyre. But my desire that it should succeed augments, for you have taken much trouble about the work, and it would grieve me seriously if your active efforts should be baffled and your sanguine hopes disappointed. Excuse me if I again remark that I fear they are rather too sanguine; it would be better to moderate them. What will the critics of the monthly reviews and magazines be likely to see in Jane Eyre (if indeed they deign to read it), which will win from them even a stinted modicum of approbation? It has no learning, no research, it discusses no subject of public interest. A mere domestic novel will, I fear, seem trivial to men of large views and solid attainments.
‘Still, efforts so energetic and indefatigable as yours ought to realise a result in some degree favourable, and I trust they will. — I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,
‘C. Bell.
‘October 28th, 1847.
‘I have just received the Tablet and the Morning Advertiser. Neither paper seems inimical to the book, but I see it produces a very different effect on different natures. I was amused at the analysis in the Tablet, it is oddly expressed in some parts. I think the critic did not always seize my meaning; he speaks, for instance, of “Jane’s inconceivable alarm at Mr. Rochester’s repelling manner.” I do not remember that.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘December 11th, 1847.
‘Dear Sir, — I have delayed writing to you in the hope that the parcel you sent would reach me; but after making due inquiries at the Keighley, Bradford, and Leeds Stations and obtaining no news of it, I must conclude that it has been lost.
‘However, I have contrived to get a sight of Fraser’s Magazine from another quarter, so that I have only to regret Mr. Home’s kind present. Will you thank that gentleman for me when you see him, and tell him that the railroad is to blame for my not having acknowledged his courtesy before?
‘Mr. Lewes is very lenient: I anticipated a degree of severity which he has spared me. This notice differs from all the other notices. He must be a man of no ordinary mind: there is a strange sagacity evinced in some of his remarks; yet he is not always right. I am afraid if he knew how much I write from intuition, how little from actual knowledge, he would think me presumptuous ever to have written at all. I am sure such would be his opinion if he knew the narrow bounds of my attainments, the limited scope of my reading.
‘There are moments when I can hardly credit that anything I have done should be found worthy to give even transitory pleasure to such men as Mr. Thackeray, Sir John Herschel, Mr. Fonblanque, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Lewes — that my humble efforts should have had such a result is a noble reward.
‘I was glad and proud to get the bank bill Mr. Smith sent me yesterday, but I hardly ever felt delight equal to that which cheered me when I received your letter containing an extract from a note by Mr. Thackeray, in which he expressed himself gratified with the perusal of Jane Eyre. Mr. Thackeray is a keen ruthless satirist. I had never perused his writings but with blended feelings of admiration and indignation. Critics, it appears to me, do not know what an intellectual boa-constrictor he is. They call him “humorous,” “brilliant” — his is a most scalping humour, a most deadly brilliancy: he does not play with his prey, he coils round it and crushes it in his rings. He seems terribly in earnest in his war against the falsehood and follies of “the world.” I often wonder what that “world” thinks of him. I should think the faults of such a man would be distrust of anything good in human nature — galling suspicion of bad motives lurking behind good actions. Are these his failings?
‘They are, at any rate, the failings of his written sentiments, for he cannot find in his heart to represent either man or woman as at once good and wise. Does he not too much confound benevolence with weakness and wisdom with mere craft?
‘But I must not intrude on your time by too long a letter. — Believe me, yours respectfully,
‘C. Bell.
‘I have received the Sheffield Iris, the Bradford Observer, the Guardian, the Newcastle Guardian, and the Sunday Times since you wrote. The contrast between the notices in the two last named papers made me smile. The Sunday Times almost denounces Jane Eyre as something very reprehensible and obnoxious, whereas the Newcastle Guardian seems to think it a mild potion which may be “safely administered to the most delicate invalid.” I suppose the public must decide when critics disagree.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, December 23rd, 1847.
‘Dear Sir, — I am glad that you and Messrs. Smith & Elder approve the second preface.
‘I send an errata of the first volume, and part of the second. I will send the rest of the corrections as soon as possible.
‘Will the inclosed dedication suffice? I have made it brief, because I wished to avoid any appearance of pomposity or pretension.
‘The notice in the Church of England Journal gratified me much, and chiefly because it was the Church of England Journal. Whatever such critics as he of the Mirror may say, I love the Church of England. Her ministers, indeed, I do not regard as infallible personages, I have seen too much of them for that, but to the Establishment, with all her faults — the profane Athanasian creed excluded — I am sincerely attached.
‘Is the forthcoming critique on Mr. Thackeray’s writings in the Edinburgh Review written by Mr. Lewes? I hope it is. Mr. Lewes, with his penetrating sagacity and fine acumen, ought to be able to do the author of Vanity Fair justice. Only he must not bring him down to the level of Fielding — he is far, far above Fielding. It appears to me that Fielding’s style is arid, and his views of life and human nature coarse, compared with Thackeray’s.
‘With many thanks for your kind wishes, and a cordial reciprocation of them, — I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,
‘C. Bell.
‘On glancing over this scrawl, I find it so illegibly written that I fear you will hardly be able to decipher it; but the cold is partly to blame for this — my fingers are numb.’
The dedication here referred to is that to Thackeray. People had been already suggesting that the book might have been written by Thackeray under a pseudonym; others had implied, knowing that there was ‘something about a woman’ in Thackeray’s life, that it was written by a mistress of the great novelist. Indeed, the Quarterly had half hinted as much. Currer Bell, knowing nothing of the gossip of London, had dedicated her book in single-minded enthusiasm. Her distress was keen when it was revealed to her that the wife of Mr. Thackeray, like the wife of Rochester in Jane Eyre, was of unsound mind. However, a correspondence with him would seem to have ended amicably enough.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, January 28th, 1848.
‘Dear Sir, — I need not tell you that when I saw Mr. Thackeray’s letter inclosed under your cover, the sight made me very happy. It was some time before I dared open it, lest my pleasure in receiving it should be mixed with pain on learning its contents — lest, in short, the dedication should have been, in some way, unacceptable to him.
‘And, to tell you the truth, I fear this must have been the case; he does not say so, his letter is most friendly in its noble simplicity, but he apprises me, at the commencement, of a circumstance which both surprised and dismayed me.
‘I suppose it is no indiscretion to tell you this circumstance, for you doubtless know it already. It appears that his private position is in some points similar to that I have ascribed to Mr. Rochester; that thence arose a report that Jane Eyre had been written by a governess in his family, and that the dedication coming now has confirmed everybody in the surmise.
‘Well may it be said that fact is often stranger than fiction! The coincidence struck me as equally unfortunate and extraordinary. Of course I knew nothing whatever of Mr. Thackeray’s domestic concerns, he existed for me only as an author. Of all regarding his personality, station, connections, private history, I was, and am still in a great measure, totally in the dark; but I am very very sorry that my inadvertent blunder shoul
d have made his name and affairs a subject for common gossip.
‘The very fact of his not complaining at all and addressing me with such kindness, notwithstanding the pain and annoyance I must have caused him, increases my chagrin. I could not half express my regret to him in my answer, for I was restrained by the consciousness that that regret was just worth nothing at all — quite valueless for healing the mischief I had done.
‘Can you tell me anything more on this subject? or can you guess in what degree the unlucky coincidence would affect him — whether it would pain him much and deeply; for he says so little himself on the topic, I am at a loss to divine the exact truth — but I fear.
‘Do not think, my dear sir, from my silence respecting the advice you have, at different times, given me for my future literary guidance, that I am heedless of, or indifferent to, your kindness. I keep your letters and not unfrequently refer to them. Circumstances may render it impracticable for me to act up to the letter of what you counsel, but I think I comprehend the spirit of your precepts, and trust I shall be able to profit thereby. Details, situations which I do not understand and cannot personally inspect, I would not for the world meddle with, lest I should make even a more ridiculous mess of the matter than Mrs. Trollope did in her Factory Boy. Besides, not one feeling on any subject, public or private, will I ever affect that I do not really experience. Yet though I must limit my sympathies; though my observation cannot penetrate where the very deepest political and social truths are to be learnt; though many doors of knowledge which are open for you are for ever shut for me; though I must guess and calculate and grope my way in the dark, and come to uncertain conclusions unaided and alone where such writers as Dickens and Thackeray, having access to the shrine and image of Truth, have only to go into the temple, lift the veil a moment, and come out and say what they have seen — yet with every disadvantage, I mean still, in my own contracted way, to do my best. Imperfect my best will be, and poor, and compared with the works of the true masters — of that greatest modern master Thackeray in especial (for it is him I at heart reverence with all my strength) — it will be trifling, but I trust not affected or counterfeit. — Believe me, my dear sir, yours with regard and respect,
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