Charlotte had to curb her impatience for nearly two months before the reviewers at last turned their attention to Poems, but in the meantime a catastrophe hit the Brontë household which must have driven all thoughts of literary fame from the sisters’ minds. It began with an innocent enough announcement in the local York papers: the Reverend Edmund Robinson of Thorp Green had died on Tuesday, 26 May 1846, at the age of forty-six. ‘He died as he lived’, claimed the obituary, ‘in firm & humble trust in his Saviour.’46 It seems likely that Branwell did not see the notice, for on 1 June he wrote a sonnet which he again titled, in Greek lettering, ‘Lydia Gisborne’ – Mrs Robinson’s maiden name. Ironically, the poem was a calm and reflective piece looking back to his last days at Thorp Green with sorrow rather than hectic grief.
On Ouse’s grassy banks – last Whitsuntide,
I sat, with fears and pleasures, in my
Commingled, as ‘it roamed without controul’,
Oer present hours and through a future wide
Where love, me thought, should keep, my heart beside
Her, whose
But, as I looked, descended summer’s sun,
And did not its descent my hopes deride?
The sky though blue was soon to change to grey –
I, on that day, next year must own no smile –
And as those waves, to Humber far away,
Were gliding – so, though that hour might beguile
My Hopes, they too,
Rolled past the shores of Joy’s now dim and distant isle.
Beneath the sonnet he sketched himself, a lonely figure with top hat and cane, standing beneath trees on a hill top looking out across the River Ouse and Vale of York towards Thorp Green. In each of the bottom corners he drew a tombstone, one inscribed ‘MEMORIA’, memories, and the other ‘EHEU’, alas. More significantly, like any young man in love, he had toyed with the name of his beloved, rejecting her current name as if he could pretend that her marriage did not exist and writing in the margin in an idle moment ‘Lydia Gisborne’ and, beneath it, ‘Lydia – B—’.47 As he did so he little imagined that his lover’s husband was now dead and that it was now possible for Lydia Gisborne/Robinson to become Lydia Brontë.
When the news eventually filtered through to Haworth, Branwell went almost wild with joy at the prospect of a legitimate union with Mrs Robinson. ‘I had reason to hope that ere very/ long I should be the husband of a Lady whom I loved best in the world’, he later told Leyland, ‘and with whom, in more than competence, I might live at leisure to try to make myself a name in the world of posterity, without being pestered by the small
We – I am sorry to say – have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately – The death of Mr Robinson – which took place about three weeks or a month ago – served Branwell for a pretext to throw all about him into hubbub and confusion with his emotions – &c. &c. Shortly after came news from all hands that Mr Robinson had altered his will before he died and effectually prevented all chance of a marriage between his widow and Branwell by stipulating that she should not have a shilling if she ever ventured to reopen any communication with him – Of course he then became intolerable – to papa he allows rest neither day nor night – and he is continualy screwing money out of him sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is withheld from him – He says Mrs R— is now insane – that her mind is a complete wreck – owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr R— (whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind) – And grief for having lost him.
I do not know how much to believe of what he says but I fear she is very ill –49
Though Charlotte clearly doubted the truth of Branwell’s account, he told the same story consistently to his friends and it seems indisputable that he was merely repeating what he himself had been told by his informants at Thorp Green. Suspicion arises because it was simply not true that Mr Robinson had altered his will to ensure that his widow would get nothing if she ‘reopened communication’ with Branwell.
Mr Robinson had indeed made a new will, on 2 January 1846, but it was not because he felt his own death was imminent or because he wanted to prevent his widow remarrying. Branwell’s name was not even mentioned. Mr Robinson’s purpose was actually to punish his eldest daughter, Lydia, for her rash elopement and marriage to the actor Henry Roxby, by cutting her out of his will. The original intention had been that all three daughters, Lydia, Elizabeth and Mary, should benefit from the £6,000 settled by each side of the family on their parents when they married in 1824. The new will treated Lydia as if she did not exist, dividing the Gisborne settlement equally between Elizabeth and Mary on their mother’s death and the Robinson money between Elizabeth and Mary, who were to receive £1,000 each, and Edmund junior who was to receive the remaining £4,000. This was the only change made to Mr Robinson’s will which, as in the earlier versions of 1825 and 1831, left all his property, valued at some £60,000, in trust for his son. Mrs Robinson herself was appointed a trustee and executor of the will and guardian of the children, together with her brothers-in-law, the Venerable Archdeacon Charles Thorpe and the Member of Parliament William Evans, and the family solicitor, Henry Newton. As was usual in financial settlements of this kind, Mrs Robinson was to have an income from the residue of her husband’s estate after his debts had been paid off until she died or until she married again. On remarriage she would also cease to be a trustee, executor or guardian.50 Such provisions were perfectly normal in the days before the Married Women’s Property Act and were intended to protect the inheritance of a son and heir against the interests of a stepfather. It was not their purpose to prevent a widow remarrying, but this was undoubtedly an interpretation that could be put on them in Mr Robinson’s case.
The question then arises as to who invented this interpretation. Most authors have been inclined to think that Branwell himself was responsible, arguing that he did so because he needed an excuse for being unable to marry Mrs Robinson, whose romance with him existed solely in his imagination.51 There can now be little doubt that there was a relationship between them and, equally, it seems much more likely that Mrs Robinson herself would use the will as an excuse for keeping Branwell at arm’s length. Her reaction to her daughter’s runaway marriage with a penniless actor was to endorse her husband’s decision by cutting Lydia out of her own will, so there was little likelihood that Mrs Robinson herself would throw away all for love. Though she had complete control over her father’s marriage settlement of £6,000, the income on such a sum would not be sufficient to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed: a pampered woman who could fritter away more than thirty pounds on brooches, shawls and the like in just a single month52 was not likely to wish to remarry unless her second husband was a man of substance. However captivated by Branwell’s attractions, Mrs Robinson was not prepared to risk her comfortable style of life and incur the amusement and contempt of society by marrying a penniless tutor seventeen years her junior.
However obvious this may seem to the modern commentator, it is a measure of the spell she had cast over Branwell that the idea never even occurred to him. It was, however, perfectly clear to Mrs Robinson that it was more important than ever to keep Branwell at a distance and that he must be restrained from doing anything rash that might compromise her. To forestall a
ny act of folly, she therefore took the extraordinary step of sending her coachman, William Allison, to Haworth to give Branwell ‘the statement of her case’.53 If anything points to her guilt in the affair it is surely the fact that she involved so many people as her messengers and go-betweens. She seems to have made confidants not just of her personal maid, Ann Marshall, which might be expected, but also of her medical attendant, Dr Crosby, and, most surprisingly of all, her coachman. William Allison was clearly loyal, however, and was rewarded for his services by being one of the few Thorp Green servants to remain with the family after the household was broken up.54
His visit to Haworth was surprisingly indiscreet – indeed, he seems to have almost courted publicity. Instead of calling quietly at the parsonage, he stopped at the Black Bull and sent a messenger to fetch Branwell to him. To the intense interest of the local gossips, the two were closeted together for some time, then Allison paid his bill and left. Nothing was seen or heard of Branwell until about an hour later when a noise ‘like the bleating of a calf’ was heard; when the curious came to investigate they found Branwell lying ‘in a kind of fit’, literally prostrated by the unexpected blow to his pride and prospects.55
The next day he had recovered sufficiently to send an agonized letter to Leyland: the ‘wretched scrawl’, so different from Branwell’s usual neat hand, covered with crossings out, smudges and ink blots, was eloquent testimony to his distress.
Mr Robinson of Thorp Green is dead, and he has left his widow in a dreadful state of health. She sent the Coachman over to me yesterday, and the account which he gave of her sufferings was enough to burst my heart.
Through the will she is left quite powerless, and her eldest daughter who married imprudently, is cut off without a shilling.
The Executing Trustees detest me, and one declares that if he sees me he will shoot me.
These things I do not care about, but I do care for the life of the one who suffers even more than I do. Her Coachman said that it was a pity to see her, for she was only able to kneel in her bedroom in bitter tears and prayers. She has worn herself out in attendance on him, and his conduct during the few days before his death, was exceedingly mild and repentant, but that only distressed her doubly. Her conscience has helped to agonize her, and that misery I am saved from.56
Though it defies belief that Mrs Robinson should have admitted her coachman to her bedroom to witness her sufferings, she was clever enough to portray herself in the way most calculated to appeal to Branwell. Stoicism might have earned his respect but extravagant grief struck a chord in his own nature. Just in case Branwell might be tempted to return to Thorp Green to comfort her, Mrs Robinson piled on the agony by staging an interview with Dr Crosby, the details of which she knew he would pass on. ‘Well, my dear Sir,’ Branwell wrote to Leyland,
I have got my finishing stroke at last – and I feel stunned into marble by the blow.
I have this morning recieved a long, kind and faithful letter from the medical gentleman who attended Mr R—in his last illness and who has since/ had an interview with one whom I can never forget.
He knows me well, and he pities my case most sincerely – for he declares that though used to the rough ups and downs of this weary world, he shed tears from his heart when he saw the state of that lady and knew what I should feel.
When he mentioned my name she stared at him and fainted. When she recovered she in turns dwelt on her inextinguishable love for me – her horror at having been the first to delude me into wretchedness, and her agony at having been the cause of the death of her husband, who, in his last hours, bitterly repented of his treatment of her.
Her sensitive mind was totally wrecked. She wandered into talking of entering a nunnery; and the Doctor fairly debars me from hope in the future.57
While Mrs Robinson cast herself in the role of tragic heroine, threatening madness and retreat into a nunnery, Branwell was genuinely driven to the edge of insanity. He had neither eaten for three days nor slept for four nights after the news of Mr Robinson’s death reached him: he had reached such a pitch of anticipation that the dashing of his hopes left him a physical and mental wreck. ‘My appetite is lost;’ he told Leyland, ‘my nights are dreadful, and having nothing to do makes me dwell on past scenes – on her own self, her voice – her person – her thoughts – till I could be glad if God would take me. In the next world I could not be worse than I am in this.’58 Again, aptly summarizing his plight for the remaining two years of his life, he complained:
What I shall do I know not – I am too hard to die, and too wretched to live. My wretchedness is not about castles in the air, but about stern realities; my hardihood
What he famously did, of course, was to resort to drink in an attempt to drown his sorrows. His exasperated sister complained to Ellen that ‘he neither can nor will do anything for himself – good situations have been offered more than once – for which by a fortnight’s work he might have qualified himself– but he will do nothing – except drink, and make us all wretched –’. One of the ‘good situations’ was the offer of a place on the Leeds and Manchester Railway, where he had been formerly employed, ‘if he would behave more steadily’; but, she declared bitterly, ‘he refuses to make an effort, he will not work – and at home he is a drain on every resource – an impediment to all happiness’.60 As usual she was being unfair to her brother. Even in the midst of telling Francis Grundy of his woes, he did not fail to ask his friend to exert himself on his behalf and help him find employment.61
While the attention of the whole household was necessarily fixed on Branwell and his complete collapse, the little book of Poems had been doing the rounds of the journals. Two frustrating months of silence had passed since its publication and then suddenly, on 4 July, two anonymous reviews appeared on the same day. Irritatingly, both seemed almost as much exercised by the identity of the mysterious Bells as by the quality of their verse – a problem that was to return with a vengeance to haunt the Brontës when they published their novels. ‘No preface introduces these poems to the reader’, the Critic declared.
Who are Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, we are nowhere informed. Whether the triumvirate have published in concert, or if their association be the work of an editor, viewing them as kindred spirits, is not recorded. If the poets be of a past or of the present age, if living or dead, whether English or American, where born, or where dwelling, what their ages or station – nay, what their Christian names, the publishers have not thought fit to reveal to the curious reader.62
In attempting to conceal their identity and sex, therefore, the Brontës had unwittingly stimulated the curiosity of the reviewers and created a mystery where none was intended. The reviewer of the Critic did at least have the perception to recognize why they had sought anonymity.
Perhaps they desired that the poems should be tried and judged upon their own merits alone, apart from all extraneous circumstances, and if such was their intent, they have certainly displayed excellent taste in the selection of compositions that will endure the difficult ordeal.63
Sydney Dobell, writing anonymously in the Athenaeum, simply assumed that the Bells were brothers, but he did have the discernment to note the superiority of Ellis’s contribution.
The second book on our list furnishes another example of a family in whom appears to run the instinct of song. It is shared, however, by the three brothers – as we suppose them to be – in very unequal proportions; requiring in the case of Acton Bell, the indulgences of affection … and rising, in that of Ellis, into an inspiration, which may yet find an audience in the outer world. A fine quaint spirit has the latter, which may have things to speak that men will be glad to hear, – and an evident power of wing that may reach heights not here attempted.64
The reviewer in the Critic was less discriminating and far more fulsome in his praise, de
livering as favourable a review of Poems as the Brontës could have wished.
… it is long since we have enjoyed a volume of such genuine poetry as this. Amid the heaps of trash and trumpery in the shape of verses, which lumber the table of the literary journalist, this small book of some 170 pages only has come like a ray of sunshine, gladdening the eye with present glory, and the heart with promise of bright hours in store. Here we have good, wholesome, refreshing, vigorous poetry – no sickly affectations, no namby-pamby, no tedious imitations of familiar strains, but original thoughts, expressed in the true language of poetry … The triumvirate have not disdained sometimes to model after great masters, but then they are in the manner only, and not servile copies. We see, for instance, here and there traces of an admirer of Wordsworth, and perhaps of Tennyson; but for the most part the three poets are themselves alone; they have chosen subjects that have freshness in them, and their handling is after a fashion of their own.
While recognizing that the poems were unconventional in form and would not have universal appeal, the reviewer was unstinting in his own praise.
they in whose hearts are chords strung by nature to sympathize with the beautiful and the true in the world without, and their embodiments by the gifted among their fellow men, will recognize in the compositions of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, the presence of more genius than it was supposed this utilitarian age had devoted to the loftier exercises of the intellect.65
This ‘unexpectedly and generously eulogistic’ commendation, justifying Charlotte’s insistence on publication in the face of her sisters’ opposition, clearly went to her head. She wrote hastily to Aylott & Jones authorizing them to spend a further ten pounds on advertisements which were all to quote this passage from the Critic’s review and requesting that copies of Poems should be sent to a further four journals.66 If she had hoped that this would stimulate a flow of similarly favourable reviews, she was sadly mistaken. Not a single notice appeared in the press until 10 October, when the Halifax Guardian, which must also have been a recipient of a review copy, published Emily’s ‘Death Scene’ in its poetry section, attributing it to ‘Ellis’s Poems’ but without any critical comment.67 The same month, the Dublin University Magazine published the third and last review of Poems; again the notice was favourable though not to an extent calculated to make the public rush out and buy the book. The critic, William Archer Butler, Professor of Moral Philosophy at the university, was ‘disposed to approve’ of the poems, which he characterized with startling inappropriateness as ‘uniform in a sort of Cowperian amiability and sweetness’; they were, he declared, ‘full of unobtrusive feeling; and their tone of thought seems unaffected and sincere’.68 By the time this review appeared, however, Charlotte was so grateful for any critical attention whatsoever that she wrote to thank the editor for its inclusion. ‘I thank you in my own name and that of my brothers, Ellis and Acton, for the indulgent notice that appeared in your last number of our first, humble efforts in literature’, she wrote, before adding her own fulsome tribute to the magazine:
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