The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘No, miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together, they like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes to make it appear as though they know more than they do, and to throw out hints and things, just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was you, Miss Helen, I’d look very well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said I – ‘but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be dressed.’

  And indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough – it was not for Annabella – it was not for myself – it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.

  * * *

  13th. They are gone – and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than two months – above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to say – But O! for the time when we shall be always together, and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!

  * * *

  22nd. I have had several letters from Arthur, already. They are not long, but passing sweet, and just like himself – full of ardent affection, and playful, lively humour; but – there is always a but in this imperfect world – 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?21

  CHAPTER 23

  FIRST WEEKS OF MATRIMONY

  Feb.18th, 1822. Early this morning, Arthur mounted his hunter and set off in high glee to meet the — hounds. He will be away all day; and so I will amuse myself with my neglected diary – if I can give that name to such an irregular composition. It is exactly four months since I opened it last.

  I am married now, and settled down as Mrs Huntingdon of Grassdale Manor.1 I have had eight weeks experience of matrimony. And do I regret the step I have taken? – No – though I must confess, in my secret heart, that Arthur is not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him in the beginning, as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should have loved him, and if I had loved him first, and then made the discovery, I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married him. To be sure, I might have known him, for everyone was willing enough to tell me about him, and he himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was wilfully blind, and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am glad; for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a great deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I ought to have done, my duty, now, is plainly to love him and to cleave to him;2 and this just tallies with my inclination.

  He is very fond of me – almost too fond. I could do with less caressing and more rationality: I should like to be less of a pet and more of a friend, if I might choose – but I won’t complain of that: I am only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid coal, – very bright and hot, but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won’t – it shan’t, I am determined – and surely I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss that thought at once. But Arthur is selfish – I am constrained to acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me less pain than might be expected; for, since I love him so much, I can easily forgive him for loving himself; he likes to be pleased, and it is my delight to please him, – and when I regret this tendency of his, it is for his own sake, not for mine.

  The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes were already familiar to him: many had lost their interest in his eyes, and others had never had anything to lose. The consequence was, that, after a flying transit through part of France and part of Italy, I came back nearly as ignorant as I went, having made no acquaintance with persons and manners, and very little with things, – my head swarming with a motley confusion of objects and scenes – some, it is true, leaving a deeper and more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered by the recollection that my emotions had not been shared by my companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a particular interest in anything that I saw or desired to see, it had been displeasing to him in as much as it proved that I could take delight in anything disconnected with himself.

  As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not give me time to see one tenth of the beauties and interesting objects of Rome. He wanted to get me home, he said, to have me all to himself, and to see me safely installed as the mistress of Grassdale Manor, just as single-minded, as naive, and piquante as I was; and, as if I had been some frail butterfly, he expressed himself fearful of rubbing the silver off my wings by bringing me into contact with society, especially that of Paris and Rome; and, moreover, he did not scruple to tell me that there were ladies in both places that would tear his eyes out if they happened to meet him with me.

  Of course I was vexed at’ all this; but, still, it was less the disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment in him, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends for having seen and observed so little, without imputing one particle of blame to my companion. But when we got home – to my new, delightful home – I was so happy and he was so kind that I freely forgave him all; – and I was beginning to think my lot too happy, and my husband actually too good for me, if not too good for this world, when, on the second Sunday after our arrival, he shocked and horrified me by another instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home from the morning service – for it was a fine frosty day, and, as we are so near the church, I had requested the carriage should not be used: –

  ‘Helen,’ said he, with unusual gravity, ‘I am not quite satisfied with you.’

  I desired to know what was wrong.

  ‘But will you promise to reform, if I tell you?’

  ‘Yes, if I can – and without offending a higher authority.’

  ‘Ah! there it is, you see – you don’t love me with all your heart.’3

  ‘I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least, I hope I don’t): pray tell me what I have done or said amiss?’

  ‘It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you are: you are too religious. Now I like a woman to be religious, and I think your piety one of your greatest charms, but then, like all other good things, it may be carried too far. To my thinking, a woman’s religion ought not to lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She should have enough to purify and etherialize her soul, but not enough to refine away her heart, and raise her above all human sympathies.’

  ‘And am I above all human sympathies?’ said I.

  ‘No, darling; but you are making more progress towards that saintly condition than I like; for, all these two hours, I have been thinking of you and wanting to catch your eye, and you were so absorbed in your devotions that you had not even a glance to spare for me – I declare, it is enough to make one jealous of one’s Maker – which is very wrong, you know; so don’t excite such wicked passions again, for my soul’s sake.’

  ‘I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can,’ I answered, ‘and not one atom more of it to you than He allows.4 What are you, sir, that you should set yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute possession of my heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, every blessing I ever did or ever can enjoy – and yourself among the rest – if you are a blessing, which I am half inclined to doubt.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen; and don’t pinch my arm so, you’re squeezing your fingers into the bone.’

  ‘Arthur,
’ continued I, relaxing my hold of his arm, ‘you don’t love me half as much as I do you; and yet, if you loved me far less than you do, I would not complain, provided you loved your Maker more. I should rejoice to see you at any time, so deeply absorbed in your devotions that you had not a single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I should lose nothing by the change, for the more you loved your God the more deep and pure and true would be your love to me.’

  At this he only laughed, and kissed my hand, calling me a sweet enthusiast5 Then taking off his hat, he added –

  ‘But look here, Helen – what can a man do with such a head as this?’

  The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand on the top of it, it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low, especially in the middle.

  ‘You see I was not made to be a saint,’ said he, laughing. ‘If God meant me to be religious, why didn’t he give me a proper organ of veneration?’6

  ‘You are like the servant,’ I replied, ‘who instead of employing his one talent in his master’s service, restored it to him unimproved, alleging, as an excuse, that he knew him “to be a hard man, reaping where he had not sown and gathering where he had not strawed.”7 Of him, to whom less is given, less will be required; but our utmost exertions are required of us all. You are not without the capacity of veneration, and faith and hope, and conscience and reason, and every other requisite to a Christian’s character, if you choose to employ them; but all our talents increase in the using, and every faculty, both good and bad, strengthens by exercise; therefore, if you choose to use the bad – or those which tend to evil till they become your masters and neglect the good till they dwindle away, you have only yourself to blame. But you have talents, Arthur – natural endowments, both of heart and mind, and temper such as many a better Christian would be glad to possess – if you would only employ them in God’s service. I should never expect to see you a devotee, but it is quite possible to be a good Christian without ceasing to be a happy, merry-hearted man.’

  ‘You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is indisputably true; but listen here: I am hungry, and I see before me a good substantial dinner; I am told that, if I abstain from this today, I shall have a sumptuous feast tomorrow, consisting of all manner of dainties and delicacies. Now in the first place, I should be loath to wait till tomorrow, when I have the means of appeasing my hunger already before me; in the second place, the solid viands of today are more to my taste than the dainties that are promised me; in the third place, I don’t see tomorrow’s banquet, and how can I tell that it is not all a fable, got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is advising me to abstain, in order that he may have all the good victuals to himself? in the fourth place, this table must be spread for somebody, and, as Solomon says, “Who can eat, or who else can hasten hereunto more than I?”8 and finally, with your leave, I’ll sit down and satisfy my cravings of today, and leave tomorrow to shift for itself– who knows but what I may secure both this and that?’

  ‘But you are not required to abstain from the substantial dinner of today; you are only advised to partake of these coarser viands in such moderation as not to incapacitate you from enjoying the choicer banquet of tomorrow. If, regardless of that counsel, you choose to make a beast of yourself now, and overeat and overdrink yourself till you turn the good victuals into poison, who is to blame if, hereafter, while you are suffering the torments of yesterday’s gluttony and drunkenness, you see more temperate men sitting down to enjoy themselves at that splendid entertainment which you are unable to taste?’

  ‘Most true my patron saint; but again, our friend Solomon says, – “There is nothing better for a man than to eat and to drink, and to be merry.” ’9

  ‘And again,’ returned I, ‘he says, “Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou that, for all these things, God will bring thee into judgment.”’10

  ‘Well but, Helen, I’m sure I’ve been very good these last few weeks. What have you seen amiss in me; and what would you have me to do?’

  ‘Nothing – more than you do, Arthur: your actions are all right, so far; but I would have your thoughts changed; I would have you to fortify yourself against temptation, and not to call evil good, and good, evil; I should wish you to think more deeply, to look farther, and aim higher than you do.’

  We now stood before our own door, and I said no more; but, with an ardent and tearful embrace, I left him, and went into the house, and upstairs to take off my bonnet and mantle. I wished to say nothing more on that subject at the time, lest I should disgust him with both it and me.

  CHAPTER 24

  FIRST QUARREL

  March 25th – Arthur is getting tired – not of me I trust, but of the idle, quiet life he leads – and no wonder, for he has so few sources of amusement; he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting magazines; and when he sees me occupied with a book, he won’t let me rest till I close it In fine weather he generally manages to get through the time pretty well: but on rainy days, of which we have had a good many of late, it is quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I can to amuse him, but it is impossible to get him to feel interested in what I most like to talk about; while, on the other hand, he likes to talk about things that cannot interest me – or even that annoy me – and these please him the most of all; for his favourite amusement is to sit or loll beside me on the sofa and tell me 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, he lays it all to the charge of jealousy, and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I used to fly into passions or melt into tears at first, but seeing that his delight increased in proportion to my anger and agitation, I have since endeavoured to suppress my feelings and receive his revelations in the silence of calm contempt; but still, he reads the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy; and when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or fears my displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries to kiss and soothe me into smiles again – never were his caresses so little welcome as then! This is double selfishness, displayed to me and to the victims of his former love. There are times when, with a momentary pang – a flash of wild dismay, I ask myself, ‘Helen, what have you done?’ But I rebuke the inward questioner, and repel the obtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me; for, were he ten times as sensual and impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well know I have no right to complain. And I don’t and won’t complain. I do and will love him still; and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my fate with his.

  April 4th. – We have had a downright quarrel. The particulars are as follows: – Arthur had told me, at different intervals, the whole story of his intrigue with Lady F—, which I would not believe before. It was some consolation, however, to find that, in this instance, the lady had been more to blame than he; for he was very young at the time, and she had decidedly made the first advances, if what he said was true. I hated her for it, for it seemed as if she had chiefly contributed to his corruption, and when he was beginning to talk about her the other day, I begged he would not mention her, for I detested the very sound of her name,

  ‘Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she injured you, and deceived her husband, and was altogether a very abominable woman, whom you ought to be ashamed to mention.’

  But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband, whom it was impossible to love.

  ‘Then why did she marry him?’ said I.

  ‘For his money,’ was the reply.

  ‘Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love and honour him was another, that only increased the enormity of the last’

  ‘You are too severe upon the poor lady,’ laughed he. ‘But never mind, Helen, I don’t care for her now; and I never loved any of them half as much as I do you; s
o you needn’t fear to be forsaken like them.’

  ‘If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never should have given you the chance.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you, my darling!’

  ‘Most certainly not!’

  He laughed incredulously.

  ‘I wish I could convince you of it now!’ cried I, starting up from beside him; and for the first time in my life, and I hope the last, I wished I had not married him.

  ‘Helen,’ said he, more gravely, ‘do you know that if I believed you now, I should be very angry? – but thank Heaven I don’t. Though you stand there with your white face and flashing eyes, looking at me like a very tigress, I know the heart within you, perhaps a trifle better than you know it yourself

  Without another word, I left the room, and locked myself up in my own chamber.1 In about half an hour, he came to the door; and first he tried the handle, then he knocked.

  ‘Won’t you let me in, Helen?’ said he.

  ‘No; you have displeased me,’ I replied, ‘and I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice again till the morning.’

  He paused a moment, as if dumbfoundered2 or uncertain how to answer such a speech, and then turned and walked away. This was only an hour after dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone all the evening; and this considerably softened my resentment, though it did not make me relent. I was determined to show him that my heart was not his slave, and I could live without him if I chose; and I sat down and wrote a long letter to my aunt – of course telling her nothing of all this. Soon after ten o’clock, I heard him come up again; but he passed my door and went straight to his own dressing-room, where he shut himself in for the night.

  I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning, and not a little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast-room with a careless smile.

  ‘Are you cross still, Helen?’ said he, approaching as if to salute me. I coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out the coffee, observing that he was rather late.