Emily Brontë
spent in his grandfather's cabin at Ahaderg.
He came home to find his sisters all away. Anne in her situation as
governess. Emily and Charlotte in Rue d'Isabelle. No one, therefore, to
be a check upon his habits, save the neat old lady, growing weaker day
by day, who spent nearly all her time in her bedroom to avoid the paven
floors of the basement; and the father, who did not care for company,
took his meals alone for fear of indigestion, and found it necessary to
spend the succeeding time in perfect quiet. The greater part of the day
was, therefore, at Branwell's uncontrolled, unsupervised disposal.
To do him justice, he does seem to have made so much effort after a new
place of work as was involved in writing letters to his friend Grundy,
and probably to others, suing for employment. But his offence had been
too glaring to be condoned. Mr. Grundy seems to have advised the hapless
young man to take shelter in the Church, where the influence of his
father and his mother's relatives might help him along; but, as Branwell
said, he had not a single qualification, "save, perhaps hypocrisy."
Parson's sons rarely have a great idea of the Church. The energy,
self-denial, and endurance which a clergyman ought to possess were
certainly not in Branwell's line. Besides, how could he take his degree?
Montgomery, it seems, recommended him to make trial of literature. "All
very well, but I have little conceit of myself and great desire for
activity. You say that you write with feelings similar to those with
which you last left me; keep them no longer. I trust I am somewhat
changed, or I should not be worth a thought; and though nothing could
ever give me your buoyant spirits and an outward man corresponding
therewith, I may, in dress and appearance, emulate something like
ordinary decency. And now, wherever coming years may lead--Greenland's
snows or sands of Afric--I trust, etc. 9th June, 1842."[12]
It is doubtful, judging from Branwell's letters and his verses, whether
anything much better than his father's 'Cottage in the Wood' would have
resulted from his following the advice of James Montgomery. Fluent ease,
often on the verge of twaddle, with here and there a bright, felicitous
touch, with here and there a smack of the conventional hymn-book and
pulpit twang--such weak and characterless effusions are all that is left
of the passion-ridden pseudo-genius of Haworth. Real genius is perhaps
seldom of such showy temperament.
Poor Branwell! it needed greater strength than his to retrieve that
first false step into ruin. He cannot help himself, and can find no one
to help him; he appeals again to Mr. Grundy (in a letter which must,
from internal evidence, have been written about this time, although a
different and impossible year is printed at its heading):--
"DEAR SIR,
"I cannot avoid the temptation to cheer my spirits by
scribbling a few lines to you while I sit here alone, all
the household being at church--the sole occupant of an
ancient parsonage among lonely hills, which probably will
never hear the whistle of an engine till I am in my grave.
"After experiencing, since my return home, extreme pain and
illness, with mental depression worse than either, I have at
length acquired health and strength and soundness of mind,
far superior, I trust, to anything shown by that miserable
wreck you used to know under my name. I can now speak
cheerfully and enjoy the company of another without the
stimulus of six glasses of whisky. I can write, think and
act with some apparent approach to resolution, and I only
want a motive for exertion to be happier than I have been
for years. But I feel my recovery from _almost insanity_ to
be retarded by having nothing to listen to except the wind
moaning among old chimneys and older ash-trees--nothing to
look at except heathery hills, walked over when life had all
to hope for and nothing to regret with me--no one to speak
to except crabbed old Greeks and Romans who have been dust
the last five [_sic_] thousand years. And yet this quiet
life, from its contrast, makes the year passed at
Luddendenfoot appear like a nightmare, for I would rather
give my hand than undergo again the grovelling carelessness,
the malignant, yet cold debauchery, the determination to
find out how far mind could carry body without both being
chucked into hell, which too often marked my conduct when
there, lost as I was to all I really liked, and seeking
relief in the indulgence of feelings which form the blackest
spot in my character.
"Yet I have something still left me which may do me service.
But I ought not to remain too long in solitude, for the
world soon forgets those who have bidden it 'good-bye.'
Quiet is an excellent cure, but no medicine should be
continued after a patient's recovery, so I am about, though
ashamed of the business, to dun you for answers to ----.
"Excuse the trouble I am giving to one on whose kindness I
have no claim, and for whose services I am offering no
return except gratitude and thankfulness, which are already
due to you. Give my sincere regards to Mr. Stephenson. A
word or two to show you have not altogether forgotten me
will greatly please,
"Yours, etc."
Alas, no helping hand rescued the sinking wretch from the quicksands of
idle sensuality which slowly engulfed him! Yet, at this time, there
might have been hope, had he been kept from evil. Deliver himself he
could not. His "great desire for activity" seems to have had to be in
abeyance for some months, for on the 25th of October he is still at
Haworth. He then writes to Mr. Grundy again. The letter brings us up to
the time when--in the cheerless morning--Charlotte and Emily set out on
their journey homewards; it reveals to us how much real undeserved
suffering must have been going on side by side with Branwell's
purposeless miseries in the grey old parsonage at Haworth. The good
methodical old maiden aunt--who for twenty years had given the best of
her heart to this gay affectionate nephew of hers--had come down to the
edge of the grave, having waited long enough to see the hopeless fallacy
of all her dreams for him, all her affection. Branwell, who was really
tender-hearted, must have been sobered then.
He writes to Mr. Grundy in a sincere and manly strain:--
"MY DEAR SIR,
"There is no misunderstanding. I have had a long attendance
at the death-bed of the Rev. Mr. Weightman, one of my
dearest friends, and now I am attending at the death-bed of
my Aunt, who has been for twenty years as my mother. I
expect her to die in a few hours.
"As my sisters are far from home, I have had much on my
mind, and these things must serve as an apology for what was
never intended as neglect of your friendship to us.
"I had meant not only to have written to you, but to the
Rev. James Martineau, gratefully and sincerely acknowledging
the receipt of his most kindly and truthful criticism--at
least in advice, though too generous far in praise--but one
sad ceremony must, I fear, be gone through first. Give my
most sincere respects to Mr. Stephenson, and excuse this
scrawl; my eyes are too dim with sorrow to see well.
Believe me, your not very happy, but obliged friend and
servant,
"P. B. BRONTE."
But not till three days later the end came. By that time Anne was home
to tend the woman who had taken her, a little child, into her love and
always kept her there. Anne had ever lived gladly with Miss Branwell;
her more dejected spirit did not resent the occasional oppressions, the
little tyrannies, which revolted Charlotte and silenced Emily. And, at
the last, all the constant self-sacrifice of those twenty years, spent
for their sake in a strange and hated country, would shine out, and yet
more endear the sufferer to those who had to lose her.
On the 29th of October Branwell again writes to his friend:--
"MY DEAR SIR,
"As I don't want to lose a _real_ friend, I write in
deprecation of the tone of your letter. Death only has made
me neglectful of your kindness, and I have lately had so
much experience with him, that your sister would _not now_
blame me for indulging in gloomy visions either of this
world or of another. I am incoherent, I fear, but I have
been waking two nights witnessing such agonising suffering
as I would not wish my worst enemy to endure; and I have now
lost the pride and director of all the happy days connected
with my childhood. I have suffered such sorrow since I last
saw you at Haworth, that I do not now care if I were
fighting in India, or ---- since, when the mind is
depressed, danger is the most effectual cure."
Miss Branwell was dead. All was over: she was buried on a Tuesday
morning, before Charlotte and Emily, having travelled night and day,
got home. They found Mr. Bronte and Anne sitting together, quietly
mourning the customary presence to be known no more. Branwell was not
there. It was the first time he would see his sisters since his great
disgrace; he could not wait at home to welcome them.
Miss Branwell's will had to be made known. The little property that she
had saved out of her frugal income was all left to her three nieces.
Branwell had been her darling, the only son, called by her name; but his
disgrace had wounded her too deeply. He was not even mentioned in her
will.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: 'Pictures of the Past.' F. H. Grundy.]
[Footnote 11: 'Pictures of the Past.']
[Footnote 12: 'Pictures of the Past.']
CHAPTER IX.
THE RECALL.
Suddenly recalled from what had seemed the line of duty, with all their
future prospects broken, the three sisters found themselves again at
Haworth together. There could be no question now of their keeping a
school at Burlington; if at all, it must be at Haworth, where their
father could live with them. Miss Branwell's legacies would amply
provide for the necessary alterations in the house; the question before
them was whether they should immediately begin these alterations, or
first of all secure a higher education to themselves.
At all events one must stay at home to keep house for Mr. Bronte. Emily
quickly volunteered to be the one. Her offer was welcome to all; she was
the most experienced housekeeper. Anne had a comfortable situation,
which she might resume at the end of the Christmas holidays, and
Charlotte was anxious to get back to Brussels.
It would certainly be of advantage to their school, that cherished dream
now so likely to come true, that the girls should be able to teach
German, and that one of them at least should speak French with fluency
and well. Monsieur Heger wrote to Mr. Bronte when Charlotte and Emily
left, pointing out how much more stable and enduring their advantages
would become, could they continue for another year at Brussels. "In a
year," he says, "each of your daughters would be completely provided
against the future; each of them was acquiring at the same time
instruction and the science to instruct. Mademoiselle Emily has been
learning the piano, receiving lessons from the best master that we have
in Brussels, and already she had little pupils of her own; she was
therefore losing at the same time a remainder of ignorance, and one,
more embarrassing still, of timidity. Mademoiselle Charlotte was
beginning to give lessons in French, and was acquiring that assurance
and _aplomb_ so necessary to a teacher. One year more, at the most, and
the work had been completed, and completed well."