Juliet Gael

by Romancing Miss Bronte (v5)

  There was something disarmingly reassuring about Ellen, a genuine kindness that invited trust, but Charlotte had never known intimacy outside the intense bonds of her own uniquely gifted family. As children they had felt themselves branded by their poverty, and as a result, the feminine rituals of social calling had become a painful experience not to be endured. On the few occasions when their aunt had herded them to social tea drinkings in the finer homes on the outskirts of the village, the girls had suffered acutely from condescending glances and cutting remarks. Their best dresses were often hand-me-downs passed on to them by the very families in whose parlors they would be obliged to sit for a stifling hour or two, staring across the tea table at mothers and daughters who would recognize Anne’s dress or Emily’s bonnet, something discarded, too old-fashioned to be worn by anyone but the parson’s charity children.

  And so they grew up, socially defective, isolated, but with a firm belief in their worth as individuals. Intellectually gifted, they withdrew into their own tight world, where all that mattered were books, paintings, and music. Every human unkindness preyed on their minds, but alone, within their mental world and the comfort of their family, they were giants, titans, genii.

  Much to Charlotte’s surprise, over the long summer break following her first year at Roe Head, Ellen had kept up a faithful correspondence.

  The next summer, Charlotte was invited for two weeks at Rydings, the Nusseys’ grand old battlemented house with its rookery and fruit trees. It would be another year before Charlotte had the courage to reciprocate the offer.

  “She sounds boring and snobbish,” Emily had said. Emily didn’t like having to entertain visitors.

  “She can be snobbish, but honestly, Em, I find it refreshing sometimes, just to gossip about frivolous things.”

  Emily gave one of her contemptuous little grunts.

  “Besides, Ellen likes me. And whenever someone likes me, I can’t help but like them in return.”

  “I can’t see why. You have Branwell and me and Anne. Why should you need anyone else?”

  “Because I do.”

  “She won’t like us. No one does. We’re poor and we’re all odd. Except Aunt, but no one pays any attention to her. You just wait. Papa will launch into one of his horrifying tales after dinner and scare the wits out of her. She’ll never come back again.”

  But she did. Over the course of the years, they became comfortable with each other’s qualities and faults; they were contrasts but they suited each other, and affection grew into love. Charlotte was capable of infinite love.

  Ellen had already sent her luggage on with a carrier, and so they went directly to the Devonshire Arms for tea. Charlotte’s spirits were high, and Ellen thought she had not seen her friend so cheerful in years.

  “So, your dear brother Henry is engaged to be married,” Charlotte said gaily.

  “Are you not just a tiny bit jealous, Charlotte?”

  “Jealous! Why, not a whit!”

  “You could have been his bride, you know.”

  “Yes, and ten to one I shall never have the chance again.” She waved her gloved hand in a carefree gesture. “But n’importe.”

  “He was truly very fond of you.”

  “Oh, Nell, Henry thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t. I’d shock him—he’d think me too wildly romantic for his taste and he’d be constantly censuring me, and there you have it. That’s not the kind of husband I need.” She would not remind Nell of how irritable she could become when dissatisfaction set in, how insipid conversation with mediocre young men turned loose the ogre in her. And the idea of marrying one—like dear Henry … well, you might as well lock her up in the attic and throw away the key.

  Ellen sipped her tea and with a wounded voice said, “He is a grave and quiet young man, but then clergymen often are.”

  Charlotte reached across the table and touched her arm. “Dearest Nell, Henry will make a wonderful husband, but I know I could never have for him that intense feeling that would make me willing to die for him.”

  “Do you still think you can find that kind of love?”

  “I doubt it, but I can’t marry without it.” Charlotte added, “I only regret that you and I will not be sisters-in-law.”

  This seemed to be what Ellen had wanted to hear. She smiled. “But we are sisters in spirit.”

  “Yes. And that is more meaningful than any binding laws.”

  She peered at Charlotte, whose eyes seemed unusually brilliant. There was something very beguiling about her today, a spritelike air and effervescence. “My dear, you must have some news to tell me.”

  “News?” Charlotte started as she set down her cup.

  “Are you hiding something from me?”

  “What would I be hiding?”

  “Have you had attentions shown to you from a certain quarter?”

  “You mean romantic news.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Where would I find romance in Haworth?”

  “Your father’s curate?”

  Charlotte burst out in laughter. “You see romance in the strangest places, Ellen dear.”

  “What else would make you so lighthearted and cheerful?”

  “A visit from you and a bright sunny day,” she beamed.

  They walked back to Haworth in the cool of the evening, both of them refreshed and relaxed. They fell into easy chatter about the many dramas in their families. Ellen’s oldest brothers moved in aristocratic circles in London and were always good for a little court gossip, but the younger brothers seemed to be plagued with constant misfortune or poor health, one of them mentally ill, another an alcoholic. Ellen confided all these heartaches to Charlotte, and in return Charlotte openly confided Branwell’s adultery and addictions. In the privacy of letters and on visits like this, the most humiliating and distressing incidents were aired, wept over, prayed for; anger was purged and hope renewed. The only topic they never discussed was Charlotte’s writing, and so Charlotte kept her secret, and Ellen continued to search for romance in the air.

  Chapter Ten

  In the middle of October, London was just falling back into the rhythms of the social season. George Smith arrived early at his club, hoping to find a quiet spot where he could settle down with his newspapers and skim through the theater and book reviews.

  Within half an hour every seat was taken and waiters with bar carts were rattling to and fro with their cargo of tinkling glass. George remained hidden behind his paper for fear of finding himself drawn into conversation and thereby losing a good quarter of an hour listening to Mr. Wheatstone grumble about how Certain Members helped themselves unfairly to the rice pudding or how that selfish Burton hogged all the newspapers.

  But when he heard William Makepeace Thackeray’s voice, George quickly folded the paper and rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Thackeray, sir.”

  “Sit, sit, Mr. Smith,” Thackeray said. He was a sizable man, endowed with height, bulk, and equally weighty opinions, generally of the cynical and contrary kind. Thackeray rarely took the time to read the works of new authors, and his opinions could be harsh. Nonetheless, George had confidently sent him an early copy of Jane Eyre.

  George remained standing. “May I offer you a drink, sir?”

  “No, no. I’m on my way in to dinner.” Thackeray wagged a finger. “I do wish you had not sent me that new book of yours, Jane Eyre.”

  “And why is that, sir?”

  “I lost an entire day reading when I should have been writing. I’ve got printers waiting for my next installment—and here you send me a book that is absolutely irresistible.”

  “I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy it? Why, the man and woman are capital! Capital! I was exceedingly moved. Some of the love passages even made me cry—quite astonished my old servant when he came in with the coals, finding me blubbering into my handkerchief like a sentimental old fool. Who is this Currer Bell?”

  “We know nothing about him at all. The ma
nuscript arrived without any introduction.”

  “Oh, I’d wager it’s a woman. It is a woman’s writing. But a damn fine mind. Must have had a classical education to write like that. If it’s a woman, she certainly knows her language better than most ladies.”

  Thackeray checked his watch, then stuffed it back into his waistcoat pocket. “I must go. Do give my respects to the author.” Then, on impulse, he added softly, “I’d like to write a letter myself to Currer Bell. If you would be so kind as to forward it on to him.”

  “Currer Bell would be honored, sir.”

  “I don’t know why I should bother, but I feel I must. I was exceedingly moved.”

  That very day in Haworth, Charlotte and Anne put on their cloaks and trotted down the icy lane to the postmaster’s cottage to collect several heavy parcels, which turned out to be Charlotte’s six copies of the three-volume set of Jane Eyre. It had a quiet reception by comparison to the excitement it was already causing in London literary circles, of which the sisters were as yet ignorant. They waited until the others had gone to bed, and then Charlotte ceremoniously presented each of her sisters with a copy of Jane Eyre. The three of them sat around the fire hugging their shawls, with their feet propped on the grate and the dogs sleeping on the rug. The house was deadly silent except for the sound of pages turning and the wind, which they didn’t notice.

  “It’s very nicely done,” Anne said. “They published it well, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  No one had to say a word, but it was on all their minds that Newby had still not brought out Agnes Grey and Wuthering Heights. He seemed to be procrastinating, making promises and breaking them, and Emily kept writing polite inquiries, but there was nothing else they could do.

  Charlotte settled the three volumes in the lap of her skirt and folded her tiny, finely shaped hands over them. A long, serene silence filled the air.

  After a moment, Emily rose, set her volumes on the mantel, moved back her chair, and lay down on the rug with Keeper. Burrowing into the warmth of his body, her head pillowed against his chest, she tugged her shawl around her shoulders and curled up, gazing into the fire. The dog twitched a paw and slipped back into his dreams.

  “I do like Jane, you know,” Emily said. “I like her very much.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I was thinking, if you write that story again, about the professor, you must make him true to life, the way he really was, and you must keep your own voice. Like you have in Jane.”

  “I’ve been thinking about reworking it.”

  “Yes, you should.” Emily added thoughtfully, “What will you do with the other three copies of your book?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “There’s little I can do with them, given that no one knows I’m the author.”

  “You might be able to trust Mary Taylor with one, don’t you think?”

  “You wouldn’t object?”

  “Well, she is on the other side of the world. It would take six months to get there.”

  “This will come as quite a surprise to her. She thinks imagination is a rather useless faculty unless there is a moral to preach.”

  “You must swear her to secrecy.”

  “I shall instruct her to burn any letter with a reference to our work.”

  “Will she do it?”

  “Mary? Oh yes. Without a doubt.”

  Anne asked innocently, “Do you think it will be reviewed?”

  “I do hope so,” Charlotte said.

  “It will be,” Emily pronounced flatly, and no one contradicted her.

  From the Westminster Review of Jane Eyre: An Autobiography:

  Decidedly the best novel of the season … amply merits a second perusal. Whoever may be the author, we hope to see more such books from her pen; for that these volumes are from the pen of a lady, and a clever one, too we have not the shadow of a doubt.

  From the Era:

  This is an extraordinary book. Although a work of fiction, it is no mere novel, for there is nothing but nature and truth about it…. The story is unlike all that we have read, with very few exceptions, and for power of thought and expression, we do not know its rival among modern productions…. All the serious novel writers of the day lose in comparison with Currer Bell.

  G. H. Lewes in Fraser’s Magazine:

  We wept over Jane Eyre. This, indeed, is a book after our own heart, and, if its merits have not forced it into notice by the time this paper comes before our readers, let us, in all earnestness, bid them lose not a day in sending for it. The writer is evidently a woman, and, unless we are deceived, new in the world of literature. But, man or woman young or old, be that as it may, no such book has gladdened our eyes for a long while…. The story is not only of singular interest … but it fastens itself upon your attention, and will not leave you. The book closed, the enchantment continues … it is soul speaking to soul; it is an utterance from the depths of a struggling, suffering, much-enduring spirit: suspiria de profundis!

  Since they were removed from clubs, salons, and dinner parties where the well-read gathered, it was George Smith’s stoop-shouldered, self-effacing assistant who brought the excitement to their doorstep. Mr. Williams kept up a stream of long, thoughtful letters, enclosing the latest reviews and posting them as instructed to Currer Bell in care of C. Brontë, Esquire, Haworth. He was quite sure that C. Brontë and Currer Bell were one and the same: he had the proof of their handwriting under his nose; but the author’s identity remained an absolute mystery.

  “My dear Mr. Bell,” he wrote,

  I can assure you that you cannot underestimate the extent of your growing celebrity. I was a theater critic for the Spectator before assuming my present post with Mr. Smith, and it has been a long time since I’ve seen the creatures in such a frenzy. They are tumbling over themselves in a rush to crown you with their praise; Jane Eyre is quite the literary sensation, and everyone is speculating about the identity of the mystery author. I received letters addressed to you from George Henry Lewes and another from Leigh Hunt, eminent critics with whom I am sure you are acquainted, letters which I will forward today. I am sure they are both eager to congratulate Currer Bell and welcome him to the literary fold.

  Charlotte spent hours bent over her desk that winter, whittling away one quill after another as she exuberantly composed some of the most pleasurable letters she had ever written. She wrote of art and the mysterious sway of the creative process, of poetry and literature, of her brother Ellis’s own unique genius. The only true intellectual companions she had known, with tastes like her own, had been Branwell and Constantin Heger, and they had both abandoned her. Now she had a new audience worthy of her keen intelligence, and she confidently voiced her convictions on these things. Her correspondents may have suspected her sex, but she addressed them as a man, and they replied to her as an equal.

  Through all this, Charlotte felt as though she were riding a wave of muffled euphoria. All the long-hoped-for praise and worldly recognition had to be quietly folded up and tucked into the drawer of her small, portable writing desk or whispered about among the sisters in the kitchen or at night by firelight. Charlotte thought it was sadly ironic that such acclaim should come to her, and that she was not at liberty to enjoy its benefits. Yet, as she wrote to Mr. Williams, were her identity made known, she would suffer a painful self-consciousness that would destroy the peace of mind she needed to be able to write. All of England was abuzz about Jane Eyre, and yet its author continued to pass before their eyes unnoticed, a shadow in their midst.

  Quite unexpectedly, around the first of December, a parcel arrived from Newby; it contained the authors’ copies of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. Emily and Anne were devastated to discover that he had rushed the books into print without bothering to make their final corrections, but this disappointment was soon lost in the deluge of disturbing reviews.

  Critics attacked Wuthering Heights as a strange, wild story, which it was—and as lacking artistry, which
it did not. More than anything, they were baffled by it, just as Emily was baffled by them.

  Charlotte watched her read the reviews, then quietly shut them away in her writing-desk drawer.

  “What kind of world do these people inhabit that they are so blind to human nature?” Emily said coldly. “There’s nothing extraordinary at all about my characters. They are real and true.”

  There was little Charlotte could say. She could have predicted the public’s reaction. “They’re Londoners, Emily Jane. They live in a different world.”

  “Indeed—an intolerably false world. A very dull, stupid world.”

  Charlotte confided in Mary Taylor, far away on the other side of the world:

  My dearest Mary—

  I am enclosing the volumes of Emily and Anne’s works—which they both send with fond wishes.

  I regret to say that Wuthering Heights has provoked the harshest condemnations. The reviews have wounded Emily to the quick. All the critics write of the exceptional power of her language but they cannot understand the use to which she has put it: hers is indeed a dark genius that dwells in realms quite distasteful to the civilized mind, and I fear the book has offended a great many people.

  There is some truth in what they say, but I cannot bear to see her wounded so. It breaks my heart, Mary, and she is far too proud to show her feelings. It is rather queer the way it has turned out for the three of us, now all of us published authors—I would never have anticipated such feelings would disturb our domestic tranquillity—beneath the surface of our tedious lives run deep currents of pride, tempered by a fierce need to protect one another. We must all three brave harsh winds that blow hot and cold, and I find it strange that we can be so disquieted by these blasts when we are so far removed from the storm. Our bonds of affection are so deeply rooted that we feel each other’s heartache as if it were our own, and I can not take the same pleasure anymore in my own success.