Brontës

by Juliet Barker

  That good was self-evident. The day after Ellen’s departure, Charlotte ‘fell to business’ and cracked on with her work. Three days later, with ‘the welcome mood still … decently existent, and my eyes consequently excessively tired with scribbling’, she scrawled a note to Ellen and another to Williams. The latter was so unusually brief and almost peremptory in tone that it is worth quoting in full.

  Octbr 26 1852

  My dear Sir

  In sending a return-box of books to Cornhill – I take the opportunity of enclosing 2 Vols of M.S. the third Vol. is now so near completion that I trust, if all be well, I may calculate on its being ready in the course of two or three weeks. My wish is that the book should be published without Author’s name.

  I shall feel obliged if you will intimate the safe arrival of the Manuscript –

  Believe me

  Yours Sincerely

  C Brontë

  W. S. Williams Esqr.53

  The abruptness of this note cannot simply be explained away by the fact that Charlotte was tired after several days of continuous writing – she had, after all, managed a lengthier and inconsequential letter to Ellen the same day. The absence of all her former friendliness and, indeed, sense of intimacy, suggests rather that Charlotte had taken offence at Williams’ long silence. Unless the letters are missing, it would seem he had not written to her since July, and then only in response to a letter from her asking him questions which needed replies. Prior to that, Charlotte’s last letters written in her old friendly style dated as far back as the beginning of April. Charlotte seems to have persuaded herself that the cessation of the correspondence was an expression of Cornhill’s ‘bitter disappointment’ at her failure to produce a new book that season.54

  Charlotte’s demand for anonymity in the publication of her next work was understandable but naive. Smith, Elder & Co. might have been prepared to offer this to Harriet Martineau, who had not published a novel for over twelve years, but it was hardly to be expected that they would do the same for the eagerly awaited new work by Currer Bell. Indeed, they were counting on the announcements to achieve large sales. Williams was concerned enough about this request to take the letter to his employer and it was George Smith himself who replied to Charlotte, forcefully putting the publisher’s point of view. To him, Charlotte was prepared to be more conciliatory and to reveal the anxiety which lay behind her request.

  As to the anonymous publication – I have this to say. If the with-holding of the author’s name should tend materially to injure the publisher’s interest – to interfere with booksellers’ orders &c. I would not press the point; but if no such detriment is contingent – I should be most thankful for the sheltering shadow of an incognito. I seem to dread the advertisements – the large lettered ‘Currer Bell’s New Novel’ or ‘New Work by the Author of “Jane Eyre.”’ These, however, I feel well enough are the transcendentalisms of a retired wretch – and must not be intruded in the way of solid considerations; so you must speak frankly.55

  An unspoken consideration, which must have weighed just as heavily as fear of disappointing the critics, was that this would be Charlotte’s first novel to appear before a public to whom her true identity and much of the circumstances of her life had been revealed. Everyone would know exactly who had written Villette: the work would be judged by what people knew of her and, if the reaction to Shirley was anything to go by, it would be examined with an eye to identifying the originals of her characters. This would be a major embarrassment to her, for it was not difficult to recognize Charlotte herself in the lonely, watchful and caustic Lucy Snowe or, more importantly, George Smith in the handsome Dr John Graham Bretton.

  Several years before, when Ellen Nussey had claimed to recognize all the characters in Shirley, except the two heroines, Charlotte had written a crushing response.

  You are not to suppose any of the characters in Shirley intended as literal portraits – it would not suit the rules of Art – nor my own feelings to write in that style – we only suffer reality to suggest – never to dictate – the heroines are abstractions and the heros also – 56

  From her own references to, for instance, the curates, by their fictitious names, however, it is clear that Charlotte herself did not believe this statement, though it came as an immense surprise to her that the originals of her characters in Shirley should be so easily identifiable by others. Undoubtedly, the fear that George Smith would recognize his own portrayal and, more importantly, Charlotte’s own feelings for him as expressed in the fiction, had been at least partially responsible for the paralysis which had seized her so often when writing Villette. There was, too, the difficulty of resolving the relationship. Should Lucy Snowe, like Jane Eyre, triumph over her richer and more beautiful rivals for Dr John’s affections? If she did, would this, in effect, be a declaration of Charlotte’s own hopes for her relationship with George Smith?

  By the time Charlotte completed the fair copy of the first two volumes of Villette she had decided that this was not possible: realism must conquer fancy in fiction as it must in life. Towards the close of the second volume, therefore, she made Lucy Snowe bury Dr John’s precious letters to her in the school garden, thereby symbolically declaring the end of that relationship.57 Though she knew that Lucy and Dr John were not destined for each other, the reader – in this case George Smith himself – was left with no such certainty. Charlotte’s trepidation in sending the manuscript was even more intense than usual: would George Smith recognize himself and, if he did, what would he make of the fictitious life Charlotte had planned for him? She had gone to greater pains than ever before to disguise the character’s origins, his being the only instance in all her work of one whose fictional occupation differed from his genuine one. ‘You must notify honestly what you think of “Villette” when you have read it’, Charlotte anxiously asked him.

  I can hardly tell you how much I hunger to have some opinion besides my own, and how I have sometimes desponded and almost despaired because there was no one to whom to read a line – or of whom to ask a counsel. ‘Jane Eyre’ was not written under such circumstances, nor were two-thirds of ‘Shirley’. I got so miserable about it, I could bear no allusion to the book – it is not finished yet, but now – I hope.

  As an afterthought, she added, ‘Remember to be an honest critic of “Villette” and tell Mr Williams to be unsparing – not that I am likely to alter anything – but I want to know his impressions and yours.’58

  There can be no doubt that George Smith immediately recognized his own portrait. Had he not discovered his own character, there was plenty of other material to point it out to him: his own mother appearing as Mrs Bretton, the actress Rachel as Vashti, even the incident when he had calmly escorted his party to safety when a fire broke out in the theatre, which he had described in a letter to Charlotte, was faithfully reproduced. ‘Currer Bell’s’ visits to his home in London had proved even more fruitful than he had expected.

  Charlotte did not have long to wait for Cornhill’s reaction to the first two volumes of Villette. Like most of her other victims, though perhaps with greater cause, George Smith was not displeased to have been made fodder for her fiction. Within a week of receiving the manuscript he had read it and expressed his approval, prompting a relieved response from Charlotte. ‘I feel in some degree authorized to rely on your favourable impressions’, she added, ‘because you are quite right where you hint disapprobation.’ Charlotte was so pleased that George Smith not only approved of the book so far but had also not taken his own portrayal amiss, that something of the old gaiety which had so long been missing from her letters to him returned. Knowing that he was wise to the secret, she could play on the new pseudonyms as she had once with her own ‘Currer Bell’. George Smith had evidently enquired what was to be the fate of Dr John. ‘Lucy must not marry Dr John;’ she declared,

  he is far too youthful, handsome, bright-spirited and sweet-tempered; he is a ‘curled darling’ of Nature and of Fortune; h
e must draw a prize in Life’s Lottery; his wife must be young, rich and pretty; he must be made very happy indeed. If Lucy marries anybody – it must be the Professor – a man in whom there is much to forgive – much to ‘put up with.’ But I am not leniently disposed towards Miss Frost – from the beginning I never intended to appoint her lines in pleasant places.59

  The change in Lucy’s surname she explained in a letter to Williams.

  I can hardly express what subtility of thought made me decide upon giving her a cold name; but – at first – I called her ‘Lucy Snowe’ (spelt with an ‘e’) which ‘Snowe’ I afterward changed to ‘Frost’. Subsequently – I rather regretted the change and wished it ‘Snowe’ again … A cold name she must have – partly – perhaps – on the ‘lucus a non lucendo’ – principle – partly on that of the ‘fitness of things’ – for she has about her an external coldness.

  This letter to Williams, written in response to his criticisms of Villette, was very different from her jocular letter to his superior, again reflecting her estrangement from a man who had once been her closest confidant. Where she had freely admitted George Smith’s criticisms, she stubbornly stood her ground against Williams. ‘The 3rd vol. may perhaps do away with some of the objections – others will remain in force’, she told him.

  I do not think the interest of the story culminates anywhere to the degree you would wish. What climax there is – does not come on till near the conclusion – and even then – I doubt whether the regular novel-reader will consider ‘the agony piled sufficiently high’ – (as the Americans say) or the colours dashed on to the Canvass with the proper amount of daring. Still – I fear they must be satisfied with what is offered: my palette affords no brighter tints – were I to attempt to deepen the reds or burnish the yellows – I should but botch.

  Unless I am mistaken – the emotion of the book will be found to be kept throughout in tolerable subjection.60

  One of Williams’ strongest objections was to the character of Lucy Snowe. Aware that it would be seen as a self-portrait of the author, he perhaps sought to soften the criticism he anticipated in the reviews by suggesting that she should give further details of Lucy’s early life to explain why her nature was so warped and create greater sympathy for her. (This was, it should be remembered, on the same lines as his recommendation to Charlotte on publishing Shirley, when he had suggested that she should prefix a biographical notice to deflect the reviewers from personal comment which he knew would hurt her.) He received no thanks for his concern, merely a tart response.

  You say that she may be thought morbid and weak unless the history of her life be more fully given. I consider that she is both morbid and weak at times – the character sets up no pretensions to unmixed strength – and anybody living her life would necessarily become morbid. It was no impetus of healthy feeling which urged her to the confessional for instance – it was the semi-delirium of solitary grief and/ sickness. If, however, the book does not express all this – there must be a great fault somewhere –

  I might explain away a few other points but it would be too much like drawing a picture and then writing underneath the name of the object intended to be represented. We know what sort of a pencil that is which needs an ally in the pen.61

  The example Charlotte had picked to illustrate her point, one of the most painfully autobiographical incidents in the whole novel, revealed she could be as severe to herself as she was to her fictional creations. Interestingly, one of the objects of her revision of the manuscript before sending it to Cornhill had been to remove hints as to the unhappiness of Lucy’s early life. Among the deleted passages were a reference to her ‘residence with kinsfolk – I do not call it home’, a lament for ‘lost affections’ and a sentence beginning ‘Many a solitary struggle have I had in life’.62 Perhaps Charlotte, turning Williams’ point upon its head, had feared that any allusions to Lucy’s early life might be taken to be purely autobiographical by the reviewers and decided that they should therefore be avoided.

  The reaction at Cornhill was such as to cheer Charlotte and encourage her to proceed apace with the third volume. She even submitted ‘under protest, and with a kind of Ostrich-longing for concealment’ to ‘the advertisements and large letters’, and finally allowed the long-delayed single-volume edition of Shirley, which had been printed in August with endpapers carrying notices of her new work, to be issued.63 On 10 November, she was able to write confidently to George Smith telling him that ‘should I be able to proceed with the 3rd vol. at my average rate of composition, and with no more than the average amount of interruptions – I should hope to have it ready in about three weeks’. Since she had made the same prediction two weeks earlier and had not fulfilled it, she left it to her publishers to decide whether they should begin typesetting the first two volumes before they received the third.64

  In the event, Charlotte finished the third volume and its transcription only ten days later, sending it to George Smith on 20 November with the admonition to ‘speak, as before, frankly’. The unprecedented speed with which she completed Villette seems to have had two causes: her knowledge that the earlier part had met with approval, even though it drew on her own relationship with George Smith, and her belief that the last volume, in which Dr John was happily married off to Paulina and Lucy Snowe was partnered with the ‘crabbed Professor’, could not cause offence. Having completed the task which had hung over her with such appalling effect on her health and spirits for nearly three years, she laid down her pen with quiet confidence. ‘Now that “Villette” is off my hands –’, she told George Smith, ‘I mean to try to wait the result with calm. Conscience – if she be just – will not reproach me, for I have tried to do my best.’65

  Four days later, Charlotte packed her bags and set off for a well-earned visit to Ellen, intending to go on from Brookroyd to spend a week at Ambleside with Harriet Martineau.66 An invitation from Mrs Smith to stay in London, which arrived just as she was setting off, was politely deferred: ’it pleases me to have it in prospect, it is something to look forward to and to anticipate; I keep it, on the principle of the school-boy who hoards his choicest piece of cake’. Her father had suggested another, more cogent reason. It might be better to learn the fate of Villette at the hands of the reviewers before travelling to London. ‘I would rather undergo that infliction at Haworth’, Charlotte confessed, ‘than in London.’67 Another, equally compelling reason for not immediately accepting the invitation was that, as yet, there had been no response from Cornhill to the third volume of Villette.

  Ten days after she sent off the manuscript, there was still no word. This was unheard of in all Charlotte’s dealings with Smith, Elder & Co. On Wednesday, 1 December, she could contain herself no longer and wrote a brief note to George Smith. ‘I am afraid – as you do not write – that the 3rd Vol. has occasioned some disappointment. It is best, however, to speak plainly about it, if it be so. I would rather at once know the worst than be kept longer in suspense.’68 The letter prompted a response, but not the one Charlotte had expected. A bank bill arrived, containing £500 for the copyright of the novel. This in itself signified her publisher’s acceptance of the work, but there was no covering note – not a single line expressing approval or disapproval. By now Charlotte was panic-stricken. She made up her mind to take the next available train to London ‘to see what was the matter and what had struck my publisher mute’. Fortunately, the next morning brought a letter from George Smith: ‘you have thus been spared the visitation of the unannounced and unsummoned apparition of Currer Bell in Cornhill’, she told him, adding a little lecture which did not half reveal the state of anxiety to which she had been wrought. ‘Inexplicable delays should be avoided when possible, for they are apt to urge those subjected to their harrassment to sudden and impulsive steps.’69

  The reason for George Smith’s silence now became apparent. He was unhappy with the third volume, though not enough to turn down the manuscript or demand a rewrite. What he obje
cted to was the fact that his own character, Dr John, had almost completely dropped out of sight and that the story now pursued the growing relationship between Lucy Snowe and Monsieur Paul Emanuel. ‘I must pronounce you right again, in your complaint of the transfer of interest in the 3rd Vol – from one set of characters to another’, Charlotte replied. ‘It is not pleasant, and will probably be found as unwelcome to the reader, as it was, in a sense, compulsory upon the writer.’ It would not have been possible for Charlotte to have united Lucy Snowe and Dr John in marriage: even under the apparently safe mantle of fiction there were bounds beyond which she dared not step. ‘The spirit of Romance would have indicated another course, far more flowery and inviting … but this would have been unlike Real Life, inconsistent with Truth – at variance with Probability.’70

  George Smith, it seems, would have preferred the romantic solution. Though he undoubtedly had a sound literary case in arguing that the transfer of interest was too sudden and unexpected, there seems to have been a much more personal reason behind his disappointment. Though he continued to ‘make a mystery of his “reason”‘, it was clear that ‘something in the 3rd vol. sticks confoundedly in his throat’, so much so that nearly three weeks after the manuscript had been sent to Cornhill, Williams had still not been permitted to read it. In a second letter, which Charlotte withheld from Ellen allegedly because ‘so many words are scarce legible – you would have no pleasure in reading it’, George Smith made it clear that he thought the alliance between Dr John and Paulina misjudged. ‘She is an odd, fascinating little puss,’ he had told Charlotte in response to her question, but added ‘crabbedly’ that he was ‘not in love with her’.71 Was this, one cannot help wondering, a subtle suggestion that George Smith himself was in love with Charlotte Brontë? Or, at the very least, that he would have preferred her to any of the society beauties whom Charlotte was always pointing out as appropriate brides for him? Even Charlotte admitted that the fictional bride she had given him was a failure. She had aimed at making Paulina’s character ‘the most beautiful’ in the book but she had turned out to be the weakest, ‘and if this be the case – the fault lies in its wanting the germ of the real, in its being purely imaginary’. Was this a covert suggestion that the ideal bride for George Smith was equally illusory? The correspondence was clearly getting too near the bone for George Smith. ‘He tells me … that he will answer no more questions about “Villette”‘, Charlotte was obliged to tell Ellen.72