Emily Brontë
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