CHAPTER VI.
GIRLHOOD AT HAWORTH.
The next two years passed very solitarily for Emily at Haworth; the
Brontes were too poor for all to stay at home, and since it was
definitely settled that Emily could not live away, she worked hard at
home while her sisters went out in the world to gain their bread. She
had no friend besides her sisters; far-off Anne was her only confidant.
Outside her own circle the only person that she cared to meet was
Charlotte's friend Ellen, and, of course, Ellen did not come to Haworth
while Charlotte was away. Branwell, too, was absent. His first
engagement was as usher in a school; but, mortified by the boys'
sarcasms on his red hair and "downcast smallness," he speedily threw up
his situation and returned to Haworth to confide his wounded vanity to
the tender mercies of the rough and valiant Emily, or to loaf about the
village seeking readier consolation.
Then he went as private tutor to a family in Broughton-in-Furness. One
letter of his thence despatched to some congenial spirit in Haworth,
long since dead, has been lent to me by the courtesy of Mr. William
Wood, one of the last of Branwell's companions, in whose possession the
torn, faded sheet remains. Much of it is unreadable from accidental
rents and the purposed excision of private passages, and part of that
which can be read cannot be quoted; such as it is, the letter is
valuable as showing what things in life seemed desirable and worthy of
attainment to this much-hoped-in brother of the austere Emily, the
courageous Charlotte, the pious Anne.
"Broughton-in-Furness, March 15.
"OLD KNAVE OF TRUMPS,
"Don't think I have forgotten you though I have delayed so
long in writing to you. It was my purpose to send you a yarn
as soon as I could find materials to spin one with. And it
is only just now I have had time to turn myself round and
know where I am.
"If you saw me now you would not know me, and you would
laugh to hear the character the people give me. Oh, the
falsehood and hypocrisy of this world! I am fixed in a
little town retired by the seashore, embowered in woody
hills that rise round me, huge, rocky, and capped with
clouds. My employer is a retired county magistrate and large
landholder, of a right hearty, generous disposition. His
wife is a quiet, silent, amiable woman; his sons are two
fine, spirited lads. My landlord is a respectable surgeon,
and six days out of seven as drunk as a lord; his wife is a
bustling, chattering, kind-hearted soul; his daughter--oh!
death and damnation! Well, what am I? that is, what do they
think I am?--a most sober, abstemious, patient,
mild-hearted, virtuous, gentlemanly philosopher, the picture
of good works, the treasure-house of righteous thought.
Cards are shuffled under the tablecloth, glasses are thrust
into the cupboard, if I enter the room. I take neither
spirit, wine, nor malt liquors. I dress in black, and smile
like a saint or martyr. Every lady says, 'What a good young
gentleman is the Postlethwaites' tutor.' This is fact, as I
am a living soul, and right comfortably do I laugh at them;
but in this humour do I mean them to continue. I took a
half-year's farewell of old friend whisky at Kendal the
night after I [left]. There was a party of gentlemen at the
Royal Hotel; I joined them and ordered in supper and 'toddy
as hot as Hell.' They thought I was a physician, and put me
into the chair. I gave them some toasts of the stiffest sort
... washing them down at the same time till the room spun
round and the candles danced in their eyes. One was a
respectable old gentleman with powdered head, rosy cheeks,
fat paunch, and ringed fingers ... he led off with a speech,
and in two minutes, in the very middle of a grand sentence,
stopped, wagged his head, looked wildly round, stammered,
coughed, stopped again, called for his slippers, and so the
waiter helped him to bed. Next a tall Irish squire and a
native of the land of Israel began to quarrel about their
countries, and in the warmth of argument discharged their
glasses each at his neighbour's throat, instead of his own.
I recommended blisters, bleeding [here illegible], so I
flung my tumbler on the floor, too, and swore I'd join old
Ireland. A regular rumpus ensued, but we were tamed at last,
and I found myself in bed next morning, with a bottle of
porter, a glass, and corkscrew beside me. Since then I have
not tasted anything stronger than milk and water, nor, I
hope, shall I till I return at Midsummer, when we will see
about it. I am getting as fat as Prince Win at Springhead
and as godly as his friend Parson Winterbottom. My hand
shakes no longer: I write to the bankers at Ulverston with
Mr. Postlethwaite, and sit drinking tea and talking slander
with old ladies. As to the young ones, I have one sitting by
me just now, fair-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, sweet
eighteen. She little thinks the Devil is as near her. I was
delighted to see thy note, old Squire, but don't understand
one sentence--perhaps you will know what I mean............
.......................... How are all about you? I long...
[all torn next] everything about Haworth folk. Does little
Nosey think I have forgotten him. No, by Jupiter! nor is
Alick either. I'll send him a remembrance one of these days.
But I must talk to some one prettier; so good night, old
boy. Write directly, and believe me to be thine,
"THE PHILOSOPHER."
Branwell's boasted reformation was not kept up for long. Soon he came
back as heartless, as affectionate, as vain, as unprincipled as ever, to
laugh and loiter about the steep street of Haworth. Then he went to
Bradford as a portrait-painter, and--so impressive is audacity--actually
succeeded for some months in gaining a living there, although his
education was of the slenderest, and, judging from the specimens still
treasured in Haworth, his natural talent on a level with that of the
average new student in any school of art. His tawny mane, his pose of
untaught genius, his verses in the poet's corner of the paper could not
for ever keep afloat this untaught and thriftless portrait-painter of
twenty. Soon there came an end to his painting there. He disappeared
from Bradford suddenly, heavily in debt, and was lost to sight, until
unnerved, a drunkard, and an opium-eater, he came back to home and Emily
at Haworth.
Meanwhile impetuous Charlotte was growing nervous and weak, gentle Anne
consumptive and dejected, in their work away from home; and Emily was
toiling from dawn till dusk with her old servant Tabby for the old aunt
who never cared for her, and the old father always courteous and
distant.
They knew the face of necessity more nearly than any friend's, those
Bronte girls, and the pinch of poverty was for their own foot; therefore
were they always considerate to any that fell into the same plight.
During the Christmas holidays of 1837, old Tabby fell on the steep and
slippery street and broke her leg. She was already nearly seventy, and
could do little work; now her accident laid her completely aside,
leaving Emily, Charlotte, and Anne to spend their Christmas holidays in
doing the housework and nursing the invalid. Miss Branwell, anxious to
spare the girls' hands and her brother-in-law's pocket, insisted that
Tabby should be sent to her sister's house to be nursed and another
servant engaged for the Parsonage. Tabby, she represented, was fairly
well off, her sister in comfortable circumstances; the Parsonage kitchen
might supply her with broths and jellies in plenty, but why waste the
girls' leisure and scanty patrimony on an old servant competent to keep
herself. Mr. Bronte was finally persuaded, and his decision made known.
But the girls were not persuaded. Tabby, so they averred, was one of the
family, and they refused to abandon her in sickness. They did not say
much, but they did more than say--they starved. When the tea was served,
the three sat silent, fasting. Next morning found their will yet stronger
than their hunger--no breakfast. They did the day's work, and dinner came.
Still they held out, wan and sunk. Then the superiors gave in.
The girls gained their victory--no stubborn freak, but the right to make
a generous sacrifice, and to bear an honourable burden.
That Christmas, of course, there could be no visiting nor the next.
Tabby was slow in getting well; but she did not outweary the patience of
her friends.
Two years later, Charlotte writes to her old schoolfellow:--
"December 21, 1839.
"We are at present, and have been during the last month,
rather busy, as for that space of time we have been without
a servant, except a little girl to run errands. Poor Tabby
became so lame that she was at length obliged to leave us.
She is residing with her sister, in a little house of her
own, which she bought with her own savings a year or two
since. She is very comfortable, and wants nothing. As she is
near we see her very often. In the meantime, Emily and I are
sufficiently busy, as you may suppose: I manage the ironing
and keep the rooms clean; Emily does the baking and attends
to the kitchen. We are such odd animals that we prefer this
mode of contrivance to having a new face among us. Besides,
we do not despair of Tabby's return, and she shall not be
supplanted by a stranger in her absence. I excited aunt's
wrath very much by burning the clothes the first time I
attempted to iron; but I do better now. Human feelings are
queer things; I am much happier blackleading the stoves,
making the beds, and sweeping the floors at home than I
should be living like a fine lady anywhere else."[5]
The year 1840 found Emily, Branwell, and Charlotte all at home together.
Unnerved and dissipated as he was, Branwell was still a welcome presence;
his gay talk still awakened glad promises in the ambitious and loving
household which hoped all things from him. His mistakes and faults they
pardoned; thinking, poor souls, that the strong passions which led him
astray betokened a strong character and not a powerless will.
It was still to Branwell that they looked for the fame of the family.
Their poems, their stories, were to these girls but a legitimate means
of amusement and relief. The serious business of their life was to
teach, to cook, to clean; to earn or save the mere expense of their
existence. No dream of literary fame gave a purpose to the quiet days of
Emily Bronte. Charlotte and Branwell, more impulsive, more ambitious,
had sent their work to Southey, to Coleridge, to Wordsworth, in vain,
pathetic hope of encouragement, or recognition. Not so the sterner
Emily, to whom expression was at once a necessity and a regret. Emily's
brain, Emily's locked desk, these and nothing else knew the degree of
her passion, her genius, her power. And yet acknowledged power would
have been sweet to that dominant spirit.
Meanwhile the immediate difficulty was to earn a living. Even those
patient and courageous girls could not accept the thought of a whole
lifetime spent in dreary governessing by Charlotte and Anne, in solitary
drudgery by homekeeping Emily. One way out of this hateful vista seemed
not impossible of attainment. For years it was the wildest hope, the
cherished dream of the author of 'Wuthering Heights' and the author of
'Villette.' And what was this dear and daring ambition?--to keep a
ladies' school at Haworth.
Far enough off, difficult to reach, it looked to them, this paltry
common-place ideal of theirs. For the house with its four bedrooms would
have to be enlarged; for the girls' education, with its Anglo-French and
stumbling music, would have to be adorned by the requisite
accomplishments. This would take time; time and money; two luxuries most
hard to get for the Vicar of Haworth's harassed daughters. They would
sigh, and suddenly stop in their making of plans and drawing up of
circulars. It seemed so difficult.
One person, indeed, might help them. Miss Branwell had saved out of her
annuity of L50 a year. She had a certain sum; small enough, but to
Charlotte and Emily it seemed as potent as the fairy's wand. The
question was, would she risk it?
It seemed not. The old lady had always chiefly meant her savings for the
dear prodigal who bore her name, and Emily and Charlotte were not her
favourites. The girls indeed only asked for a loan, but she doubted,
hesitated, doubted again. They were too proud to take an advantage so
grudgingly proffered; and while their talk was still of what means they
might employ, while they still painfully toiled through improper French
novels as "the best substitute for French conversation," they gave up
the dream for the present, and Charlotte again looked out for a
situation. Nearly a year elapsed before she found it--a happy year, full
of plans and talks with Emily and free from any more pressing anxiety
than Anne's delicate health always gave her sisters. Branwell was away
and doing well as station-master at Luddendenfoot, "set off to seek
his fortune in the wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic,
knight-errant-like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester
Railway." Ellen came to stay at Haworth in the summer; it was quite
sociable and lively now in the grey house on the moors; for, compelled
by failing health, Mr. Bronte had engaged the help of a curate, and the
Haworth curate brought his clerical friends about the house, to the
great disgust of Emily, and the half-sentimental fluttering of pensive
Anne, which laid on Charlotte the responsibility of talking for all
three.
In the holidays when Anne was at home all the old glee and enjoyment of
life returned. There was, moreover, the curate, "bonnie, pleasant,
light-hearted, good-tempered, generous, careless, crafty, fickle, and
unclerical," to add piquancy to the situation. "He sits opposite to Anne
at church, sighing softly, and looking out of the corners of his
eyes--and she is so quiet, her look so downcast; they are a picture,"
says merry Charlotte. This first curate at Haworth was exempted from
Emily's liberal scorn; he was a favourite at the vicarage, a clever,
bright-spirited, and handsome youth, greatly in Miss Branwell's good
graces. He would tease and flatter the old lady with such graciousness
as made him ever sure of a welcome; so that his daily visits to Mr.
Bronte's study were nearly always followed up by a call in the opposite
parlour, when Miss Branwell would frequently leave her upstairs retreat
and join in the lively chatter. She always presided at the tea-table, at
which the curate was a frequent guest, and her nieces would be kept well
amused all through the tea hour by the curate's piquant sallies,
baffling the old lady in her little schemes of control over the three
high-spirited girls. None enjoyed the fun more than quiet Emily, always
present and amused, "her countenance glimmering as it always did when
she enjoyed herself," Miss Ellen Nussey tells me. Many happy legends,
too familiar to be quoted here, record the light heart and gay spirit
that Emily bore in those untroubled days. Foolish, pretty little stories
of her dauntless protection of the other girls from too pressing
suitors. Never was duenna so gallant, so gay, and so inevitable. In
compliment to the excellence of her swashing and martial outside on such
occasions, the little household dubbed her "The Major," a name that
stuck to her in days when the dash and gaiety of her soldiery bearing
was sadly sobered down, and only the courage and dauntless heart
remained.
But in these early days of 1841, Emily was as happy as other healthy
country girls in a congenial home. "She did what we did," says Miss
Nussey, "and never absented herself when she could avoid it--life at
this period must have been sweet and pleasant to her." An equal
unchequered life, in which trifles seemed of great importance. We hear
of the little joys and adventures of those days, so faithfully and long
remembered, with a pathetic pleasurableness. So slight they are, and all
their colour gone, like pressed roses, though a faint sweetness yet
remains. The disasters when Miss Branwell was cross and in no humour to
receive her guests; the long-expected excitement of a walk over the
moors to Keighley where the curate was to give a lecture, the alarm and
flurry when the curate, finding none of the four girls had ever received
a valentine, proposed to send one to each on the next Valentine's Day.
"No, no, the elders would never allow it, and yet it would certainly be
an event to receive a valentine; still, there would be such a lecture
from Miss Branwell." "Oh no," he said, "I shall post them at Bradford."
And to Bradford he walked, ten miles and back again, so that on the
eventful 14th of February the anxiously-expected postman brought four
valentines, all on delicately tinted paper, all enhanced by a verse of
original poetry, touching on some pleasant characteristic in each
recipient. What merriment and comparing of notes! What pleased feigning
of indignation! The girls determined to reward him with a Rowland for
his Oliver, and Charlotte wrote some rhymes full of fun and raillery
which all the girls signed--Emily entering into all this with much
spirit and amusement--and finally despatched in mystery and secret glee.
At last this pleasant fooling came to an end. Charlotte advertised for a
place, and found it. While she was away she had a letter from Miss
Wooler, offering Charlotte the goodwill of her school at Dewsbury Moor.
It was a chance not to be lost, although what inducement Emily and
Charlotte could offer to their pupils it is not easy to imagine. But it
was above all things necessary to make a home where delicate Anne might
be sheltered, where homesick Emily could be happy, where Charlotte could
have time to write, where all might live and work together. Miss
Wooler's offer was immediately accepted. Miss Branwell was induced to
lend the girls L100. No answer came from Miss Wooler. Then ambitious
Charlotte, from her situation away, wrote to Miss Branwell at
Haworth[6]:--
"September 29, 1841.
"Dear Aunt,
"I have heard nothing of Miss Wooler yet since I wrote to
her, intimating that I would accept her offer. I cannot
conjecture the reason of this long silence, unless some
unforeseen impediment has occurred in concluding the
bargain. Meantime a plan has been suggested and approved by
Mr. and Mrs. ---- and others which I wish now to impart to
you. My friends recommend, if I desire to secure permanent
success, to delay commencing the school for six months
longer, and by all means to contrive, by hook or by crook,
to spend the intervening time in some school on the
Continent. They say schools in England are so numerous,
competition so great, that without some such step towards
attaining superiority, we shall probably have a very hard
struggle and may fail in the end. They say, moreover, that
the loan of L100, which you have been so kind as to offer
us, will perhaps not be all required now, as Miss Wooler
will lend us the furniture; and that, if the speculation is
intended to be a good and successful one, half the sum, at
least, ought to be laid out in the manner I have mentioned,
thereby insuring a more speedy repayment both of interest
and principal.
"I would not go to France or to Paris. I would go to
Brussels, in Belgium. The cost of the journey there, at the
dearest rate of travelling, would be L5, living is there
little more than half as dear as it is in England, and the
facilities for education are equal or superior to any place
in Europe. In half a year I could acquire a thorough
familiarity with French. I could improve greatly in Italian
and even get a dash at German; _i.e._ providing my health
continued as good as it is now....
"These are advantages which would turn to real account when
we actually commenced a school; and, if Emily could share
them with me, we could take a footing in the world
afterwards which we never can do now. I say Emily instead of
Anne; for Anne might take her turn at some future period, if
our school answered. I feel certain, while I am writing,
that you will see the propriety of what I say. You always
like to use your money to the best advantage. You are not
fond of making shabby purchases; when you do confer a favour
it is often done in style; and depend upon it L50 or L100,
thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course, I know no
other friend in the world to whom I could apply on this
subject besides yourself. I feel an absolute conviction that
if this advantage were allowed us, it would be the making of
us for life. Papa will perhaps think it a wild and
ambitious scheme; but who ever rose in the world without
ambition. When he left Ireland to go to Cambridge University
he was as ambitious as I am now."
That was true. It must have struck a vibrant chord in the old man's
breast. Absorbed in parish gossip and his 'Cottage Poems,' caring no
longer for the world but only for newspaper reports of it, actively
idle, living a resultless life of ascetic self-indulgence, the Vicar of
Haworth was very proud of his energetic past. He had always held it up
to his children as a model for them to copy. Charlotte's appeal would
certainly secure her father as an ally to her cause. Miss Branwell, on
the other hand, would not wish for displays of ambition in her already
too irrepressible nieces. But she was getting old; it would be a comfort
to her, after all, to see them settled, and prosperously settled through
her generosity. "I look to you, Aunt, to help us. I think you will not
refuse," Charlotte had said. How, indeed, could Miss Branwell, living in
their home, be happy, and refuse?
Yet many discussions went on before anxious Charlotte got the answer.
Emily, whom it concerned as nearly, must have listened waiting in a
strange perturbation of hope and fear. To leave home--she knew well what
it meant. Since she was six years old she had never left Yorkshire; but
those months of wearying homesickness at Roe Head, at Halifax, must have
most painfully rushed back upon her memory. Haworth was health, content,
the very possibility of existence to this girl. To leave Haworth for a
strange town beyond the seas, to see strange faces all round, to hear
and speak a strange language, Charlotte's welcome prospect of adventure
must have taken a nightmare shape to Emily. And for this she must hope;
this she must desire, plead for if necessary, and at least uphold. For
Charlotte said the thing was essential to their future; and in all
details of management, Charlotte's word was law to her sisters. Even
Emily, the independent, indomitable Emily, so resolute in keeping to any
chosen path, looked to Charlotte to choose the way in practical affairs.
At length consent was secured, written and despatched. Gleeful Charlotte
gave notice to her employers and soon set out for home. There was much
to be done. "Letters to write to Brussels, to Lille and to London, lots
of work to be done, besides clothes to repair." It was decided that the
sisters should give up their chance of the school at Dewsbury Moor,
since the site was low and damp, and had not suited Anne. On their
return from Brussels they were to set up a school in some healthy
seaside place in the East Riding. Burlington was the place where their
fancy chiefly dwelt. To this beautiful and healthy spot, fronting the
sea, eager pupils would flock for the benefit of instruction by three
daughters of a clergyman, "educated abroad" (for six months) speaking
thorough French, improved Italian and a dash of German. A scintillating
programme of accomplishment danced before their eyes.
There were, however, many practical difficulties to be vanquished first.
The very initial step, the choice of a school, was hard to take.
Charlotte writes to Ellen:--
"January 20, 1842.
"We expect to leave England in about three weeks, but we are
not yet certain as to the day, as it will depend on the
convenience of a French lady now in London, Madame Marzials,
under whose escort we are to sail. Our place of destination
is changed. Papa received an unfavourable account from Mr.
or rather from Mrs. Jenkins of the French schools in
Bruxelles, representing them as of an inferior caste in many
respects. On further inquiry an institution at Lille in the
North of France was highly recommended by Baptist Noel and
other clergymen, and to that place it is decided that we are
to go. The terms are L50 a year for each pupil for board and
French alone; but a separate room will be allowed for this
sum; without this indulgence they are something lower. I
considered it kind in aunt to consent to an extra sum for a
separate room. We shall find it a great privilege in many
ways. I regret the change from Bruxelles to Lille on many
accounts."
For Charlotte to regret the change was for an improvement to be
discovered. She had set her heart on going to Brussels; Mrs. Jenkins
redoubled her efforts and at length discovered the Pensionnat of Madame
Heger in the Rue d'Isabelle.
Thither, as all the world is aware, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, both of
age, went to school.
"We shall leave England in about three weeks." The words had a ring of
happy daring in Charlotte's ears. Since at six years of age she had set
out alone to discover the Golden City, romance, discovery, adventure,
were sweet promises to her. She had often wished to see the world; now
she will see it. She had thirsted for knowledge; here is the source. She
longed to add new notes to that gamut of human character which she could
play with so profound a science; she shall make a masterpiece out of her
acquisitions. At this time her letters are full of busy gaiety, giving
accounts of her work, making plans, making fun. As happy and hopeful a
young woman as any that dwells in Haworth parish.
Emily is different. It is she who imagined the girl in heaven who broke
her heart with weeping for earth, till the angels cast her out in anger,
and flung her into the middle of the heath, to wake there sobbing for
joy. She did not care to know fresh people; she hates strangers; to walk
with her bulldog, Keeper, over the moors is her best adventure. To learn
new things is very well, but she prizes above everything originality and
the wild provincial flavour of her home. What she strongly, deeply loves
is her moorland home, her own people, the creatures on the heath, the
dogs who always feed from her hands, the flowers in the bleak garden
that only grow at all because of the infinite care she lavishes upon
them. The stunted thorn under which she sits to write her poems, is more
beautiful to her than the cedars of Lebanon. To each and all of these
she must now bid farewell. It is in a different tone that she says in
her adieus, "We shall leave England in about three weeks."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Mrs. Gaskell.]
[Footnote 6: Mrs. Gaskell.]