Try as she might, Charlotte could not escape the thrall of the past. Two days before the anniversary of Emily’s death, she could bear it no longer and wrote to Ellen begging her to come to Haworth, if only for a few days. ‘I am well aware myself that extreme and continuous depression of spirits has had much to do with the origin of the illness – and I know a little cheerful society would do me more good than gallons of medicine’, she confessed to Ellen, adding, ‘If you can come – come on
Chapter Twenty-Four
VILLETTE
Ellen responded immediately to Charlotte’s summons by coming straight to Haworth, though she did not arrive until the day after the third anniversary of Emily’s death. As usual, her presence cheered Charlotte, but she could only stay for a week and, after she left, Charlotte had a sudden relapse: ‘my head continued to ache all Monday – and yesterday the white tongue – parched mouth and loss of appetite were returned’, Charlotte reported to her friend, ‘– accordingly I am to take more medicine’.1 Mr Ruddock, who visited that day, identified the source of Charlotte’s illness as her liver and prescribed her a course of ‘blue pills’, containing a small dose of mercury, which she was to take for a week. Within a few days, however, Charlotte was seriously ill, ‘unable to swallow any nourishment except a few teaspoonsful of liquid per diem, my mouth became sore, my teeth loose, my tongue swelled, raw and ulcerated while water welled continually into my mouth’.2 These, as Charlotte, unlike her doctor, realized, were the classic symptoms of mercury poisoning. She abandoned the course of pills and was able to dissuade her father, who was going through agonies of anxiety, from calling in Mr Teale, the specialist whom they had consulted over Anne. Charlotte was able to report with a certain grim satisfaction to Ellen that Mr Ruddock was ‘sorely flustered when he found what he had done’, declaring that ‘he never in his whole practice knew the same effect produced by the same dose on Man – woman or child – and avows it is owing to an altogether peculiar sensitiveness of constitution’.3 Suddenly, Emily’s apparently wayward and stubborn refusal to be treated by ‘poisoning doctors’ seemed justified.
Looking back over this period, Charlotte herself recognized that illness alone was not responsible for her suffering.
It cannot be denied that the solitude of my position fearfully aggravated its other evils. Some long, stormy days and nights there were when I felt such a craving for support and companionship as I cannot express. Sleepless – I lay awake night after night – weak and unable to occupy myself – I sat in my chair day after day – the saddest memories my only company. It was a time I shall never forget – but God sent it and it must have been for the best.4
Now that Charlotte was genuinely ill, she had at least an excuse to avoid visiting local grandees who continued to inundate her with invitations. Previously, she had blamed her father’s precarious state of health for her refusal to leave home, prompting William Forster to write to Richard Monckton Milnes that ‘there was no use in our trying to get her away from her father … she will not, I expect can not, leave him’.5 This gave Monckton Milnes, the Yorkshire MP whom Charlotte had met in London, the bright idea of inviting both Charlotte and her father to his home, Fryston Hall at Ferrybridge. Fortunately for Charlotte, this invitation arrived when she was at her weakest and she was able to hand over the task of writing the refusal to her father with a clear conscience. ‘Were I in the habit of going from home, there are few persons, to whom I would give the preference over yourself,’ Patrick replied,’ – such not being the case, you will permit me to retain my customary rule, unbroken, and kindly accept my excuse.’ ‘My Daughter,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘I regret to say, is not well enough to be a visitor anywhere, just now – She has been out of health, for some time, and though now better, requires care, And for the present, I should wish her to stay at home.’6
Another person who tried an appeal to Patrick to get Charlotte away from Haworth was Ellen Nussey. Alarmed at the reports of her friend’s health, Ellen did what she had frequently done in the past and wrote to Charlotte’s family to get permission for a visit to Brookroyd which she knew Charlotte herself would decline. ‘I wish you could have seen the coolness with which I captured your letter on its way to Papa’, Charlotte informed Ellen, ‘and at once conjecturing its tenor, made the contents my own.’ For the moment she was too nauseous to travel but, she assured Ellen, the moment she felt well enough to do so, she would come to Brookroyd. In the meantime, she urged her friend, ‘Be quiet. Be tranquil.’7
It was not until the end of January that Charlotte was strong enough to make the journey to Brookroyd, even then taking the train only as far as Bradford and travelling the rest of the way in Ellen’s brother-in-law’s gig. She had given strict instructions to her ‘dear physician’: ‘I am to live on the very plainest fare – to take no butter – at present I do not take tea – only milk and water with a little sugar and dry bread – this with an occasional mutton chop is my diet – and I like it better than anything else.’8 Ellen’s companionship soon rallied Charlotte’s health and spirits. Ten days after her arrival she was able to respond positively to a kind letter from Mrs Gaskell.
As the date of this letter will shew – I am now from home – and have already benefited greatly by the kind attentions and cheerful society of the friends with whom I am staying – friends who probably do not care for me a pin – as Currer Bell – but who have known me for years as C. Brontë – and by whom I need not fear that my invalid weakness (which indeed I am fast overcoming) will be felt as a burden.
Certainly the past Winter has been to me a strange time – had I the prospect before me of living it over again – my prayer must necessarily be – ‘Let this cup pass from me’.9
She was even well enough to receive a visit from Miss Wooler’s sister Eliza, who made a morning call with three of her nieces and a nephew, though an invitation to dinner at the family home, Rouse Mill, had to be cancelled when the weather proved too severe.10
Charlotte returned home on 11 February 1852, but the beneficial effects of her fortnight’s holiday were to prove all too transitory. She was particularly chagrined that her brief excursion had caused her to miss George Smith who, on the spur of the moment, had made a detour on his trip to Scotland and called unexpectedly at the parsonage. ‘I do wish now I had delayed my departure from home a few days longer’, she wrote wistfully to him, ‘that I might have shared with my Father the true pleasure of receiving you at Haworth Parsonage. Such a pleasure your visit would have been as I have sometimes dimly imagined but never ventured to realize.’11
The reason for George Smith’s sudden visit to Haworth was never properly explained. Undoubtedly he was worried about Charlotte’s state of health and her admitted inability to produce her next novel: perhaps he simply wanted to see for himself whether she really was on the verge of death as London gossip constantly suggested. He may also have been concerned that his recent rejection of Harriet Martineau’s latest novel, ‘Oliver Weld’, might have been taken to heart by Charlotte, who had not only persuaded Miss Martineau to write her first novel in many years but had acted as broker between author and publisher to secure the book for Smith, Elder & Co. What all had hoped would turn out to be another Deerbrook was in fact a thinly disguised and badly written political and religious polemic which put everyone concerned in a difficult position.12 George Smith was anxious not to offend Charlotte, but the book was unacceptable from both a literary and a commercial point of view. Charlotte herself, who had gone to the trouble of suggesting pseudonyms for the author and had actually read the first volume of the book in manuscript before sending it
on to Smith, Elder & Co., was embarrassed by the fact that the golden prize she had hoped to bring to her publishers had turned out to be mere counterfeit. She had admitted her doubts to George Smith in her covering letter when sending the manuscript but, unwilling to hurt or alienate her other friend, had written ‘gloriously’ about it to her. Harriet Martineau, after a long silence which Charlotte feared meant that she had taken permanent offence, eventually admitted that the novel had been ‘a foolish prank’ but was scornful of George Smith’s timidity in refusing to publish a pro-Catholic book.13 Though Charlotte had reassured George Smith that the whole sorry episode had not in any way diminished her own regard for him, he may have felt it necessary to discuss the matter face to face.
Whatever George Smith’s motives in coming to Haworth were, Patrick must have been able to reassure him, for he did not take up Charlotte’s invitation to come to her at Brookroyd and never repeated his visit to her home. His frequent expressions of goodwill continued. He persuaded his mother to invite Charlotte to London again in the hope that a change of air and scene would do her good. This Charlotte regretfully rejected. ‘A treat must be earned before it can be enjoyed and the treat which a visit to you affords me is yet unearned, and must so remain for a time – how long I do not know.’14 More remarkably, knowing Charlotte’s enthusiasm for Thackeray, George Smith sent her the manuscript of the as yet unpublished first volume of The History of Henry Esmond Esquire. This, as Charlotte gratefully acknowledged, was a rare and special pleasure. As usual, Thackeray’s work filled her with a mixture of admiration and irritation.
In the first half of the work what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in which the author throws himself into the spirit and letter of the times whereof he treats … No second-rate imitator can write in this way; no coarse scene-painter can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect. But what bitter satire – what relentless dissection of diseased subjects! Well – and this too is right – or would be right if the savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work. Thackeray likes to discover an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasure in putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no great satirist would like Society to be perfect.
As usual – he is unjust to women – quite unjust: there is hardly any punishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood peep through a key-hole, listen at a door and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid.
Many other things I noticed that – for my part – grieved and exasperated me as I read – but then again came passages so true – so deeply thought – so tenderly felt – one could not help forgiving and admiring.
Interestingly, in the light of her own reluctance to treat social issues in her novels, Charlotte added a cautionary note. ‘I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the political or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in his heart, does not value political or religious intrigue of any age or date.’15 Charlotte had made the same criticism of Harriet Martineau’s ‘Oliver Weld’ – ‘I wish she had kept off theology’ – and this seems to reflect her own disillusionment with politics. The girl who had once written with breathless fervour about the emancipation of Catholics was now a cynical and uninterested observer, telling Ellen Nussey, ‘I am amused at the interest you take in politics – don’t expect to rouse me – to me all ministries and all oppositions seem to be pretty much alike. D’Israeli was factious as Leader of the Opposition – Lord J Russel[l] is going to be factious now that he has stepped into D’T’s shoes – Confound them all.’16 Perhaps as a result of her disillusionment with Branwell, Charlotte’s childhood enthusiasm for politics had gone the same way as her childhood enthusiasm for war.
Despite everyone’s efforts on her behalf, Charlotte did not get better. She had hoped to slip home from Brookroyd without informing the Haworth doctor, but someone had seen her arrive at Keighley station and told Mr Ruddock who promptly ‘came blustering in’ and ‘was actually cross’ that she had not written to him immediately. He tried to insist on her resuming a course of quinine tonics which she was convinced disagreed with her and then, just as suddenly, contradicted himself and prescribed something else. It was no wonder that Charlotte wrote despairingly to Ellen, ‘I wish I knew better what to think of this man’s skill. He seems to stick like a leech: I thought I should have done with him when I came home.’17 Ellen tried to persuade her to come with her on an extended visit to Sussex where her friend, Mary Gorham, was about to be married, but Charlotte was adamant. ‘I tell you now that unless want of/ health should absolutely compel me to give up work and leave home (which I trust and hope will not be the case) I certainly shall not think of going.’ Besides, she added, somewhat bitterly, ‘You can never want me less than when in Sussex surrounded by amusement and friends.’18 Miss Wooler added her own invitation, but Charlotte was equally firm: ‘Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that must be resisted’, she told her, adding by way of explanation,
From home I must not go unless health or some cause equally imperative render a change necessary. For nearly four months now (i.e. since I first became ill) I have not put pen to paper – my work has been lying untouched and my faculties have been rusting for want of exercise; further relaxation is out of the question and I will not permit myself to think of it.
It was a useful excuse but somewhat unfair to the remarkably patient George Smith to add, ‘My publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty answers.’19
Charlotte set to with a will and by 29 March 1852, six weeks after her return from Brookroyd, she had completed her draft of the first volume of Villette and began to make a fair copy of it for her publishers. The manuscript bears striking evidence of her state of mind during its composition. The first three chapters, which concern the child Paulina and had been conceived possibly as long ago as January 1850, were written up with scarcely any revision. The remainder of the volume, written in fits and starts but mainly since Charlotte’s visit to London in the summer of 1851, contains an average of three emendations per page. This suggests that Charlotte had toiled over the rough drafts, working and reworking them until she was satisfied before copying them up; it confirms the slowness of her rate of composition and the fact that, unlike with Jane Eyre, or even sections of Shirley, she had not been caught up and driven by her imagination. The last chapter, describing the nightmare long vacation Lucy Snowe spends virtually alone in the school at Villette, bears evidence of considerable revision.20 Here Charlotte was drawing on her own experience of the summer vacation at the Pensionnat Heger in 1843, which, as in the novel, drove her to a Catholic church where she made a confession; but more painfully, it impressed upon her the solitude of her current existence.
My heart almost died within me; miserable longings strained its chords. How long were the September days! How silent, how lifeless! How vast and void seemed the desolate premises! How gloomy the forsaken garden – gray now with the dust of a town-summer departed. Looking forward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardly knew how I was to live to the end. My spirits had long been gradually sinking; now that the prop of employment was withdrawn, they went down fast. Even to look forward was not to hope: the dumb future spoke no comfort, offered no promise, gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance on future good.21
For a while Charlotte stuck to her task. More invitations to go from home were received and declined with firmness. Mrs Gaskell was hoping for a visit to Manchester some time in the late spring or summer and Mrs Gore, the novelist who had tried so hard to meet Charlotte during her visit to London the previous June, wrote to enquire if she was coming up to Town again this year.22 Both were told that she had no intention of leaving home until her book was completed, but the summer months stretched before her like an abyss. No visits from home, at her own insistence, a reduction in contact with Ellen, who departed for Sussex at the end
of May and did not return till the beginning of October, silence from India where James Taylor, nursing his rejection like a festering wound, could not resume correspondence on terms of friendship alone; worst of all, a falling off in the number of letters from Cornhill, where George Smith and William Smith Williams, overwhelmed by work, were unaware that Charlotte would interpret their failure to write regularly as an expression of their ‘bitter disappointment … at my having no work ready for this season’.23
At home there was little to distract her. The Easter celebrations in Haworth passed her by unremarked though they must have increased her domestic duties. The Reverend William Cartman, Headmaster of the Grammar School at Skipton, came to preach two sermons on Easter Sunday which helped to raise funds for the recent improvements and repairs to the church which Patrick had carried out. In the afternoon there was an unusual funeral in the church when the brethren of the Keighley District of the Ancient Order of Foresters turned out in force to accompany the body of James Greenwood, the constable of Morton, to its final resting place in the churchyard. The following day, Easter Monday, was the fourth annual meeting of the Haworth Mechanics’ Institute, held in the National School room, where, ironically, one of the greatest novelists of the day was probably one of the anonymous ladies who were thanked for providing the excellent repast.24
Try as she might Charlotte could not settle down into a regular habit of writing. As always, this had the effect of bringing on the vicious cycle of depression and consequent poor health. Mary Taylor, though far away in New Zealand and several months behind with all the news from home, nevertheless had her finger on Charlotte’s pulse when she wrote that spring. ‘It is really melancholy that now, in the prime of life in the flush of your hard earned prosperity you can’t be well! Did not miss Martineau improve you? If she did why not try her & her plan again? But I suppose if you had hope & energy to try, you wd be well.’25 Charlotte was indeed bereft of both hope and energy; without them, writing was a chore. While Mary was penning this letter, Charlotte was just receiving her previous one, which informed her of the death from consumption, on 27 December 1851, of Mary’s cousin and close companion, Ellen, with whom she had set up shop in Wellington. Charlotte read Mary’s letter with searing pain: it ‘wrung my heart so – in its simple strong, truthful emotion – I have only ventured to read it once. It ripped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force – the death-bed was just the same – breath failing &c.’ Almost worse than this was Mary’s voicing of one of Charlotte’s greatest fears for herself, that she should ‘in her dreary solitude become “a stern, harsh, selfish woman” – this fear struck home – again and again I have felt it for myself – and what is my position – to Mary’s?’26
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