July 26, 2025 • 25 mins
Delve into the fascinating life of Charlotte Brontë, the eldest among the renowned Brontë sisters, recognized as pillars of English literature. Her most celebrated work, Jane Eyre, stands as an everlasting classic. Just two years post her demise, her close friend Elizabeth Gaskell penned down her biography. This compelling biography invites you to discover more about the extraordinary Charlotte Brontë. Please note that Volume 2 of this work is also available as a separate recording.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Volume one, section eighteen, of the Life of Charlotte Bronte.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Bruce Pirie. The Life
of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one, section eighteen.
(00:27):
The grand vacance began soon after the date of this letter,
when she was left in the great deserted Poncionna with
only one teacher for a companion. This teacher, a frenchwoman,
had always been uncongenial to her, but left to each
other's sole companionship, Charlotte soon discovered that her associate was
more profligate, more steeped in a kind of cold, systematic
(00:51):
sensuality than she had before imagined it possible for a
human being to be, and her whole nature revolted from
this world's society. A low nervous fever was gaining upon
Miss Bronte. She had never been a good sleeper, but
now she could not sleep at all. Whatever had been
(01:13):
disagreeable or obnoxious to her during the day was presented
when it was over with exaggerated vividness to her disordered fancy.
There were causes for distress and anxiety in the news
from home, particularly as regarded Branwell. In the dead of
the night, lying awake at the end of the long
deserted dormitory in the vast and silent house, every fear
(01:38):
respecting those whom she loved and who were so far
off in another country became a terrible reality, oppressing her
and choking up the very life blood in her heart.
Those nights were times of sick, dreary, wakeful misery, precursors
of many such in after years. In the daytime, driven
(01:58):
abroad by loathing of her companion and by the weak
restlessness of fever, she tried to walk herself into such
a state of bodily fatigue as would induce sleep. So
she went out, and with weary steps, would traverse the
boulevards and the streets, sometimes for hours together, faltering and resting,
occasionally on some of the many benches placed for the
(02:20):
repose of happy groups or for solitary wanderers like herself.
Then up again anywhere but to the Poncionna, out to
the cemetery, where Martha lay out beyond it to the hills,
whence there is nothing to be seen but fields as
far as a horizon. The shades of evening made her
(02:40):
retrace her footsteps, sick for want of food, but not hungry,
fatigued with long continued exercise, yet restless still and doomed
to another weary, haunted night of sleeplessness. She would thread
the streets in the neighborhood of the Rue des of Belle,
and yet avoid it and its occupant till as late
(03:02):
an hour as she dared be out. At last, she
was compelled to keep her bed for some days, and
this compulsory rest did her good. She was weak, but
less depressed in spirits than she had been when the
school reopened and her positive practical duties recommenced. She writes thus,
(03:26):
October thirteenth, eighteen forty three. Mary is getting on well
as she deserves to do. I often hear from her
her letters, and yours are one of my few pleasures.
She urges me very much to leave Brussels and to
go to her, But at present, however tempted to take
such a step, I should not feel justified in doing so.
(03:48):
To leave a certainty for a complete uncertainty would be
to the last degree imprudent. Notwithstanding that Brussels is indeed
desolate to me. Now, since the Deeds left, I have
had no friend. I had indeed some very kind acquaintances
in the family of a doctor Blank, but they too
(04:10):
are gone now. They left in the latter part of August,
and I am completely alone. I cannot count the Belgians anything.
It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary
in the midst of numbers. Sometimes the solitude oppresses me
to an excess. One day lately I felt as if
(04:31):
I could bear it no longer, and I went to
Madame Ajee and gave her notice. If it had depended
on her, I should certainly have soon been at liberty.
But Monsieur Agie, having heard of what was in agitation,
sent for me the day after and pronounced with vehemence
his decision that I should not leave. I could not
(04:52):
at that time have persevered in my intention without exciting
him to anger. So I promised to stay a little
while longer. How long that will be I do not know.
I should not like to return to England to do nothing.
I am too old for that. Now. But if I
could hear of a favorable opportunity for commencing a school,
(05:13):
I think I should embrace it. We have as yet
no fires here, and I suffer much from cold. Otherwise
I am well in health. Mister Blank will take this
letter to England. He is a pretty looking and pretty
behaved young man, apparently constructed without a backbone, by which
I don't allude to his corporal spine, which is all
(05:35):
right enough, but to his character. I get on here
after a fashion. But now that Mary d has left Brussels,
I have nobody to speak to, for I count the
Belgians as nothing. Sometimes I ask myself how long shall
I stay here? But as yet I have only asked
the question, I have not answered it. However, when I
(05:58):
have acquired as much German as I think fit, I
think I shall pack up bag and baggage and depart.
Twinges of homesickness cut me to the heart every now
and then to day the weather is glaring and I
am stupefied with a bad cold and headache. I have
nothing to tell you. One day is like another in
this place. I know you, living in the country, can
(06:21):
hardly believe it is possible life can be monotonous in
the center of a brilliant capital like Brussels. But so
it is. I feel it most on holidays, when all
the girls and teachers go out to visit, and it
sometimes happens that I am left during several hours quite alone,
with four great desolate school rooms at my disposition. I
(06:44):
try to read, I try to write, but in vain.
I then wander about from room to room. But the
silence and loneliness of all the house weighs down one's
spirits like lead. You will hardly believe that Madame Aja
good and kind, as I have described her, never comes
near me on these occasions. I own I was astonished
(07:07):
the first time I was left alone thus when everybody
else was enjoying the pleasures of a fete day with
their friends, and she knew I was quite by myself,
and never took the least notice of me. Yet I
understand she praises me very much to everybody and says
what excellent lessons I give. She is not colder to
me than she is to the other teachers, but they
(07:29):
are less dependent on her than I am. They have
relations and acquaintances in Brussel. You remember the letter she
wrote me when I was in England. How kind and
affectionate that was? Is it not odd? In the meantime,
the complaints I make at present are a sort of
relief which I permit myself. In all other respects, I
(07:52):
am well satisfied with my position, and you may say
so to people who inquire after me. If anyone does
write to me, dear, whenever you can, you do a
good deed when you send me a letter, for you
comfort a very desolate heart. One of the reasons for
the silent estrangement between Madame Eger and Miss Bronte in
(08:13):
the second year of her residence at Brussels is to
be found in the fact that the English protestants dislike
of Romanism increased with her knowledge of it and its
effects upon those who professed it. And when occasion called
for an expression of opinion from Charlotte Bronty, she was
uncompromising truth. Madame Ager, on the opposite side, was not
(08:38):
merely a Roman Catholic. She was devout, not of a
warm or impulsive temperament. She was naturally governed by her
conscience rather than by her affections, and her conscience was
in the hands of her religious guides. She considered any
slight thrown upon her church as blasphemy against the Holy Truth.
(09:00):
And though she was not given to open expression of
her thoughts and feelings, yet her increasing coolness of behavior
showed how much her most cherished opinions had been wounded. Thus,
although there was never any explanation of Madame Ager's change
of manner, this may be given as one great reason
why about this time Charlotte was made painfully conscious of
(09:22):
a silent estrangement between them, an estrangement of which perhaps
the former was hardly aware. I have before alluded to
intelligence from home calculated to distress Charlotte exceedingly with fears
respecting Branwell, which I shall speak of more at large,
when the realization of her worst apprehensions came to effect
(09:44):
the daily life of herself and her sisters. I allude
to the subject again here in order that the reader
may remember the gnawing private cares which she had to
bury in her own heart, and the pain of which
could only be smothered for a time under the diligent
fulfillment of present duty. Another dim sorrow was faintly perceived
(10:07):
at this time her father's eye sight began to fail,
it was not unlikely that he might shortly become blind.
More of his duty must devolve on a curate and
mister Bronte, always liberal, would have to pay at a
higher rate than he had heretofore done for this assistance.
She wrote thus to Emily, December first, eighteen forty three.
(10:34):
This is Sunday morning. They are at their idolatrous mez,
and I am here, that is, in the refectoire. I
should like, uncommonly to be in the dining room at home,
or in the kitchen, or in the back kitchen. I
should like even to be cutting up the hash with
the clerk and some register people at the other table,
and you standing by, watching that I put enough flower,
(10:57):
not too much pepper, and above all that I save
the best pieces of the leg of mutton for tiger
and keeper, the first of which personages would be jumping
about to the dish and carving knife, and the latter
standing like a devouring flame on the kitchen floor. To
complete the picture tabby blowing the fire in order to
(11:17):
boil the potatoes to a sort of vegetable glue. How
divine are these recollections to me at this moment. Yet
I have no thought of coming home just now. I
lack a real pretext for doing so. It is true
this place is dismal to me, but I cannot go
home without a fixed prospect when I get there, and
(11:38):
this prospect must not be a situation that would be
jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. You
call yourself idle, absurd, absurd? Is Papa well? Are you well?
And Tabby you ask about Queen Victoria's visit to Brussels.
I saw her for an instant, flashing through the Rue
(11:59):
Royal and a carriage and six surrounded by soldiers. She
was laughing and talking very gaily. She looked a little stout,
vivacious lady, very plainly dressed, not much dignity or pretension
about her. The Belgians liked her very well. On the whole,
they said, she enlivened the somber court of King Leopold,
(12:19):
which is usually as gloomy as a conventicle. Write to
me again soon, tell me whether Papa really wants me
very much to come home, and whether you do. Likewise,
I have an idea that I should be of no
use there. A sort of aged person upon the parish.
I pray with heart and soul that all may continue
(12:40):
well at Haworth. Above all, in our gray half inhabited house.
God blessed the walls thereof safety, health, happiness and prosperity
to you, Papa and Tabby Amen c. B. Towards the
end of this year eighteen forty three, various reasons conspired
(13:03):
with the causes of anxiety which have been mentioned, to
make her feel that her presence was absolutely and imperatively
required at home. While she had acquired all that she
proposed to herself in coming to Brussels the second time,
and was moreover no longer regarded with the former kindliness
of feeling by Madame Mejer. In consequence of the state
(13:25):
of things working down with a sharp edge into a
sensitive mind, she suddenly announced to that lady her immediate
intention of returning to England. Both Monsieur and Madame Eger
agreed that it would be for the best when they
learned only that part of the case which she could
reveal to them, namely mister Bronte's increasing blindness, but as
(13:47):
the inevitable moment of separation from people and places among
which she had spent so many happy hours, drew near
her spirits gave way. She had the natural presentiment that
she saw them all for the last time, and she
received but a dead kind of comfort from being reminded
by her friends that Brussels and Harworth were not so
(14:08):
very far apart, that access from one place to the
other was not so difficult or impracticable as her tears
would seem to predicate. Nay, there was some talk of
one of Madame Eger's daughters being sent to her as
a pupil if she fulfilled her intention of trying to
begin a school. To facilitate her success in this plan,
(14:28):
should she ever engage in it, Monsieur Egette gave her
a kind of diploma, dated from and sealed with the
seal of the attainee, Royal de Brussel, certifying that she
was perfectly capable of teaching the French language, having well
studied the grammar and composition thereof, and moreover, having prepared
herself for teaching by studying and practicing the best methods
(14:51):
of instruction. This certificate is dated December twenty ninth, eighteen
forty three, and on the second of January eighteen forty four,
she arrived at Haworth. On the twenty third of the month,
she writes as follows. Every One asks me what I
am going to do now that I am returned home,
(15:12):
and everyone seems to expect that I should immediately commence
a school. In truth, it is what I should wish
to do. I desire it above all things. I have
sufficient money for the undertaking, and I hope now sufficient
qualifications to give me a fair chance of success. Yet
I cannot yet permit myself to enter upon life, to
(15:33):
touch the object which seems now within my reach, and
which I have been so long straining to attain. You
will ask me why it is on Papa's account. He is, now,
as you know, getting old, and it grieves me to
tell you that he is losing his sight. I have
felt for some months that I ought not to be
away from him, and I feel now that it would
(15:56):
be too selfish to leave him, at least as long
as Branwell and Ann are abs And in order to
pursue selfish interests of my own, with the help of God,
I will try to deny myself in this matter, and
to wait. I suffered much before I left Brussels. I think,
however long I live. I shall not forget what the
(16:16):
parting with Monsieur Agie cost me. It grieved me so
much to grieve him, who has been so true, kind
and disinterested a friend. At parting, he gave me a
kind of diploma certifying my abilities as a teacher, sealed
with the seal of the Attenne Royale, of which he
is professor. I was surprised also at the degree of
(16:40):
regret expressed by my Belgian pupils when they knew I
was going to leave. I did not think it had
been in their phlegmatic nature. I do not know whether
you feel as I do, but there are times now
when it appears to me as if all my ideas
and feelings, except a few friendships and affections are chained
(17:00):
from what they used to be. Something in me which
used to be enthusiasm is tamed down and broken. I
have fewer illusions. What I wish for now is active exertion,
a stake in life. Howorth seems such a lonely, quiet spot,
buried away from the world. I no longer regard myself
(17:23):
as young. Indeed, I shall soon be twenty eight, and
it seems as if I ought to be working and
braving the rough realities of the world as other people do.
It is, however, my duty to restrain this feeling at present,
and I will endeavor to do so. Of course, her
(17:44):
absent sister and brother obtained a holiday to welcome her
return home, and in a few weeks she was spared
to pay a visit to her friend at b But
she was far from well or strong, and the short
journey of fourteen miles seems to have fatigue her greatly.
Soon after she came back to Haworth, in a letter
(18:05):
to one of the household in which she had been staying,
there occurs this passage. Our poor little cat has been
ill two days and is just dead. It is piteous
to see even an animal lying lifeless. Emily is sorry.
These few words relate to points in the characters of
(18:27):
the two sisters which I must dwell upon. A little
Charlotte was more than commonly tender in her treatment of
all dumb creatures, and they, with that fine instinct so
often noticed, were invariably attracted towards her. The deep and
exaggerated consciousness of her personal defects, the constitutional absence of hope,
(18:49):
which made her slow to trust in human affection, and
consequently slow to respond to any manifestation of it, made
her manner shy and constrained to men and women, and
even to children. We have seen something of this trembling
distrust of her own capability of inspiring affection in the
(19:10):
grateful surprise she expresses at the regret felt by her
Belgian pupils at her departure. But not merely were her
actions kind. Her words and tones were ever gentle and
caressing towards animals, and she quickly noticed the least want
of care or tenderness on the part of others towards
any poor brute creature. The readers of surely may remember
(19:33):
that it is one of the tests which the heroine
applies to her lover. Do you know what, soothsayers, I
would consult the little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to
my door, the mouse that steals out of the cranny
in my wainscot, the bird in frost and snow that
pecks up my window for a crumb. The dog that
(19:55):
licks my hand and sits beside my knee. I know
somebody to whose knee the black cat loves to climb against,
whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old
dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his
tail and whinds affectionately. When somebody passes for somebody and
(20:15):
he read Charlotte Bronte and she he quietly strokes the
cat and lets her sit while he conveniently can. And
when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her
softly down and never flings her from him roughly. He
always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress.
(20:36):
The feeling which in Charlotte partook of something of the
nature of an affection, was with Emily more of a passion.
Someone speaking of her to me, in a careless kind
of strength of expression, said she never showed regard to
any human creature. All her love was reserved for animals.
The helplessness of an animal was its passport to Charlotte's heart.
(21:01):
The fierce, wild intractability of its nature was what often
recommended it to Emily. Speaking of her dead sister, the
former told me that from her many traits in Shirley's
character were taken. Her way of sitting on the rug,
reading with her arm round her rough bulldog's neck, her
calling to a strange dog running past with hanging head
(21:23):
and lolling tongue to give it a merciful draft of water,
its maddened snap at her, her nobly stern presence of mind,
going right into the kitchen and taking up one of
Tabby's red hot Italian irons to sear the bitten place,
and telling no one till the danger was well nigh over,
for fear of the terrors that might beset their weaker minds.
(21:46):
All this looked upon as a well invented fiction. In
Shirley was written down by Charlotte with streaming eyes. It
was the literal true account of what Emily had done.
The same tawny bulldog with his strangled whistle, called Tartar
in Shirley was Keeper in Hallworth Parsonage, a gift to Emily.
(22:10):
With the gift came a warning. Keeper was faithful to
the depths of his nature as long as he was
with friends. But he who struck him with a stick
or whip roused the relentless nature of the brute, who
flew at his throat forthwith and held him there till
one or the other was at the point of death.
Now Keeper's household fault was this he loved to steal
(22:35):
upstairs and stretch his square, tawny limbs on the comfortable
beds covered over with delicate white counterpanes. But the cleanliness
of the parsonage arrangements was perfect, and this habit of
Keeper's was so objectionable that Emily, in reply to Tavvy's remonstrances,
declared that if he was found again transgressing, she herself
(22:58):
in defiance of war warning, and his well known ferocity
of nature, would beat him so severely that he would
never offend again. In the gathering dusk of an autumn evening,
Tabby came half triumphantly, half tremblingly, but in great wrath,
to tell Emily that Keeper was lying on the best
(23:19):
bed in drowsy voluptuousness. Charlotte saw Emily's whitening face and
set mouth, but dared not speak to interfere. No one dared.
When Emily's eyes glowed in that manner, out of the
paleness of her face, and when her lips were so
compressed into stone, she went upstairs, and Tabby and Charlotte
(23:42):
stood in the gloomy passage below, full of the dark
shadows of coming night. Downstairs, came Emily dragging after her.
The unwilling keeper, his hind legs set in a heavy
attitude of resistance, held by the scuff of his neck,
growling low and savagely all the time. The watchers would
(24:05):
fain have spoken, but Durst not, for fear of taking
off Emily's attention and causing her to avert her head
for a moment from the enraged brute, she let him go,
planted in a dark corner at the bottom of the stairs.
No time was there to fetch stick or rod, for
fear of the strangling clutch at her throat. Her bare
(24:26):
clenched fist struck against his red, fierce eyes before he
had time to make his spring, and in the language
of the turf, she punished him till his eyes were
swelled up, and the half blind, stupefied beast was led
to his accustomed lair to have his swollen head fomented
and cared for by the very Emily herself. The generous
(24:49):
dog owed her no grudge. He loved her dearly ever
after he walked first among the mourners to her funeral.
He slept moaning for nights at the door of her
empty room, and never so to speak, rejoiced dog fashion.
After her death, he, in his turn, was mourned over
(25:11):
by the surviving sister. Let us somehow hope in half
read Indian creed, that he follows Emily now, and when
he rests, sleeps on some soft white bed of dreams, unpunished,
when he awakens to the life of the land of shadows.
(25:31):
Now we can understand the force of the words, our
poor little cat is dead. Emily is sorry. End of
section eighteen.
Volume one, section eighteen, of the Life of Charlotte Bronte.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Bruce Pirie. The Life
of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one, section eighteen.
(00:27):
The grand vacance began soon after the date of this letter,
when she was left in the great deserted Poncionna with
only one teacher for a companion. This teacher, a frenchwoman,
had always been uncongenial to her, but left to each
other's sole companionship, Charlotte soon discovered that her associate was
more profligate, more steeped in a kind of cold, systematic
(00:51):
sensuality than she had before imagined it possible for a
human being to be, and her whole nature revolted from
this world's society. A low nervous fever was gaining upon
Miss Bronte. She had never been a good sleeper, but
now she could not sleep at all. Whatever had been
(01:13):
disagreeable or obnoxious to her during the day was presented
when it was over with exaggerated vividness to her disordered fancy.
There were causes for distress and anxiety in the news
from home, particularly as regarded Branwell. In the dead of
the night, lying awake at the end of the long
deserted dormitory in the vast and silent house, every fear
(01:38):
respecting those whom she loved and who were so far
off in another country became a terrible reality, oppressing her
and choking up the very life blood in her heart.
Those nights were times of sick, dreary, wakeful misery, precursors
of many such in after years. In the daytime, driven
(01:58):
abroad by loathing of her companion and by the weak
restlessness of fever, she tried to walk herself into such
a state of bodily fatigue as would induce sleep. So
she went out, and with weary steps, would traverse the
boulevards and the streets, sometimes for hours together, faltering and resting,
occasionally on some of the many benches placed for the
(02:20):
repose of happy groups or for solitary wanderers like herself.
Then up again anywhere but to the Poncionna, out to
the cemetery, where Martha lay out beyond it to the hills,
whence there is nothing to be seen but fields as
far as a horizon. The shades of evening made her
(02:40):
retrace her footsteps, sick for want of food, but not hungry,
fatigued with long continued exercise, yet restless still and doomed
to another weary, haunted night of sleeplessness. She would thread
the streets in the neighborhood of the Rue des of Belle,
and yet avoid it and its occupant till as late
(03:02):
an hour as she dared be out. At last, she
was compelled to keep her bed for some days, and
this compulsory rest did her good. She was weak, but
less depressed in spirits than she had been when the
school reopened and her positive practical duties recommenced. She writes thus,
(03:26):
October thirteenth, eighteen forty three. Mary is getting on well
as she deserves to do. I often hear from her
her letters, and yours are one of my few pleasures.
She urges me very much to leave Brussels and to
go to her, But at present, however tempted to take
such a step, I should not feel justified in doing so.
(03:48):
To leave a certainty for a complete uncertainty would be
to the last degree imprudent. Notwithstanding that Brussels is indeed
desolate to me. Now, since the Deeds left, I have
had no friend. I had indeed some very kind acquaintances
in the family of a doctor Blank, but they too
(04:10):
are gone now. They left in the latter part of August,
and I am completely alone. I cannot count the Belgians anything.
It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary
in the midst of numbers. Sometimes the solitude oppresses me
to an excess. One day lately I felt as if
(04:31):
I could bear it no longer, and I went to
Madame Ajee and gave her notice. If it had depended
on her, I should certainly have soon been at liberty.
But Monsieur Agie, having heard of what was in agitation,
sent for me the day after and pronounced with vehemence
his decision that I should not leave. I could not
(04:52):
at that time have persevered in my intention without exciting
him to anger. So I promised to stay a little
while longer. How long that will be I do not know.
I should not like to return to England to do nothing.
I am too old for that. Now. But if I
could hear of a favorable opportunity for commencing a school,
(05:13):
I think I should embrace it. We have as yet
no fires here, and I suffer much from cold. Otherwise
I am well in health. Mister Blank will take this
letter to England. He is a pretty looking and pretty
behaved young man, apparently constructed without a backbone, by which
I don't allude to his corporal spine, which is all
(05:35):
right enough, but to his character. I get on here
after a fashion. But now that Mary d has left Brussels,
I have nobody to speak to, for I count the
Belgians as nothing. Sometimes I ask myself how long shall
I stay here? But as yet I have only asked
the question, I have not answered it. However, when I
(05:58):
have acquired as much German as I think fit, I
think I shall pack up bag and baggage and depart.
Twinges of homesickness cut me to the heart every now
and then to day the weather is glaring and I
am stupefied with a bad cold and headache. I have
nothing to tell you. One day is like another in
this place. I know you, living in the country, can
(06:21):
hardly believe it is possible life can be monotonous in
the center of a brilliant capital like Brussels. But so
it is. I feel it most on holidays, when all
the girls and teachers go out to visit, and it
sometimes happens that I am left during several hours quite alone,
with four great desolate school rooms at my disposition. I
(06:44):
try to read, I try to write, but in vain.
I then wander about from room to room. But the
silence and loneliness of all the house weighs down one's
spirits like lead. You will hardly believe that Madame Aja
good and kind, as I have described her, never comes
near me on these occasions. I own I was astonished
(07:07):
the first time I was left alone thus when everybody
else was enjoying the pleasures of a fete day with
their friends, and she knew I was quite by myself,
and never took the least notice of me. Yet I
understand she praises me very much to everybody and says
what excellent lessons I give. She is not colder to
me than she is to the other teachers, but they
(07:29):
are less dependent on her than I am. They have
relations and acquaintances in Brussel. You remember the letter she
wrote me when I was in England. How kind and
affectionate that was? Is it not odd? In the meantime,
the complaints I make at present are a sort of
relief which I permit myself. In all other respects, I
(07:52):
am well satisfied with my position, and you may say
so to people who inquire after me. If anyone does
write to me, dear, whenever you can, you do a
good deed when you send me a letter, for you
comfort a very desolate heart. One of the reasons for
the silent estrangement between Madame Eger and Miss Bronte in
(08:13):
the second year of her residence at Brussels is to
be found in the fact that the English protestants dislike
of Romanism increased with her knowledge of it and its
effects upon those who professed it. And when occasion called
for an expression of opinion from Charlotte Bronty, she was
uncompromising truth. Madame Ager, on the opposite side, was not
(08:38):
merely a Roman Catholic. She was devout, not of a
warm or impulsive temperament. She was naturally governed by her
conscience rather than by her affections, and her conscience was
in the hands of her religious guides. She considered any
slight thrown upon her church as blasphemy against the Holy Truth.
(09:00):
And though she was not given to open expression of
her thoughts and feelings, yet her increasing coolness of behavior
showed how much her most cherished opinions had been wounded. Thus,
although there was never any explanation of Madame Ager's change
of manner, this may be given as one great reason
why about this time Charlotte was made painfully conscious of
(09:22):
a silent estrangement between them, an estrangement of which perhaps
the former was hardly aware. I have before alluded to
intelligence from home calculated to distress Charlotte exceedingly with fears
respecting Branwell, which I shall speak of more at large,
when the realization of her worst apprehensions came to effect
(09:44):
the daily life of herself and her sisters. I allude
to the subject again here in order that the reader
may remember the gnawing private cares which she had to
bury in her own heart, and the pain of which
could only be smothered for a time under the diligent
fulfillment of present duty. Another dim sorrow was faintly perceived
(10:07):
at this time her father's eye sight began to fail,
it was not unlikely that he might shortly become blind.
More of his duty must devolve on a curate and
mister Bronte, always liberal, would have to pay at a
higher rate than he had heretofore done for this assistance.
She wrote thus to Emily, December first, eighteen forty three.
(10:34):
This is Sunday morning. They are at their idolatrous mez,
and I am here, that is, in the refectoire. I
should like, uncommonly to be in the dining room at home,
or in the kitchen, or in the back kitchen. I
should like even to be cutting up the hash with
the clerk and some register people at the other table,
and you standing by, watching that I put enough flower,
(10:57):
not too much pepper, and above all that I save
the best pieces of the leg of mutton for tiger
and keeper, the first of which personages would be jumping
about to the dish and carving knife, and the latter
standing like a devouring flame on the kitchen floor. To
complete the picture tabby blowing the fire in order to
(11:17):
boil the potatoes to a sort of vegetable glue. How
divine are these recollections to me at this moment. Yet
I have no thought of coming home just now. I
lack a real pretext for doing so. It is true
this place is dismal to me, but I cannot go
home without a fixed prospect when I get there, and
(11:38):
this prospect must not be a situation that would be
jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. You
call yourself idle, absurd, absurd? Is Papa well? Are you well?
And Tabby you ask about Queen Victoria's visit to Brussels.
I saw her for an instant, flashing through the Rue
(11:59):
Royal and a carriage and six surrounded by soldiers. She
was laughing and talking very gaily. She looked a little stout,
vivacious lady, very plainly dressed, not much dignity or pretension
about her. The Belgians liked her very well. On the whole,
they said, she enlivened the somber court of King Leopold,
(12:19):
which is usually as gloomy as a conventicle. Write to
me again soon, tell me whether Papa really wants me
very much to come home, and whether you do. Likewise,
I have an idea that I should be of no
use there. A sort of aged person upon the parish.
I pray with heart and soul that all may continue
(12:40):
well at Haworth. Above all, in our gray half inhabited house.
God blessed the walls thereof safety, health, happiness and prosperity
to you, Papa and Tabby Amen c. B. Towards the
end of this year eighteen forty three, various reasons conspired
(13:03):
with the causes of anxiety which have been mentioned, to
make her feel that her presence was absolutely and imperatively
required at home. While she had acquired all that she
proposed to herself in coming to Brussels the second time,
and was moreover no longer regarded with the former kindliness
of feeling by Madame Mejer. In consequence of the state
(13:25):
of things working down with a sharp edge into a
sensitive mind, she suddenly announced to that lady her immediate
intention of returning to England. Both Monsieur and Madame Eger
agreed that it would be for the best when they
learned only that part of the case which she could
reveal to them, namely mister Bronte's increasing blindness, but as
(13:47):
the inevitable moment of separation from people and places among
which she had spent so many happy hours, drew near
her spirits gave way. She had the natural presentiment that
she saw them all for the last time, and she
received but a dead kind of comfort from being reminded
by her friends that Brussels and Harworth were not so
(14:08):
very far apart, that access from one place to the
other was not so difficult or impracticable as her tears
would seem to predicate. Nay, there was some talk of
one of Madame Eger's daughters being sent to her as
a pupil if she fulfilled her intention of trying to
begin a school. To facilitate her success in this plan,
(14:28):
should she ever engage in it, Monsieur Egette gave her
a kind of diploma, dated from and sealed with the
seal of the attainee, Royal de Brussel, certifying that she
was perfectly capable of teaching the French language, having well
studied the grammar and composition thereof, and moreover, having prepared
herself for teaching by studying and practicing the best methods
(14:51):
of instruction. This certificate is dated December twenty ninth, eighteen
forty three, and on the second of January eighteen forty four,
she arrived at Haworth. On the twenty third of the month,
she writes as follows. Every One asks me what I
am going to do now that I am returned home,
(15:12):
and everyone seems to expect that I should immediately commence
a school. In truth, it is what I should wish
to do. I desire it above all things. I have
sufficient money for the undertaking, and I hope now sufficient
qualifications to give me a fair chance of success. Yet
I cannot yet permit myself to enter upon life, to
(15:33):
touch the object which seems now within my reach, and
which I have been so long straining to attain. You
will ask me why it is on Papa's account. He is, now,
as you know, getting old, and it grieves me to
tell you that he is losing his sight. I have
felt for some months that I ought not to be
away from him, and I feel now that it would
(15:56):
be too selfish to leave him, at least as long
as Branwell and Ann are abs And in order to
pursue selfish interests of my own, with the help of God,
I will try to deny myself in this matter, and
to wait. I suffered much before I left Brussels. I think,
however long I live. I shall not forget what the
(16:16):
parting with Monsieur Agie cost me. It grieved me so
much to grieve him, who has been so true, kind
and disinterested a friend. At parting, he gave me a
kind of diploma certifying my abilities as a teacher, sealed
with the seal of the Attenne Royale, of which he
is professor. I was surprised also at the degree of
(16:40):
regret expressed by my Belgian pupils when they knew I
was going to leave. I did not think it had
been in their phlegmatic nature. I do not know whether
you feel as I do, but there are times now
when it appears to me as if all my ideas
and feelings, except a few friendships and affections are chained
(17:00):
from what they used to be. Something in me which
used to be enthusiasm is tamed down and broken. I
have fewer illusions. What I wish for now is active exertion,
a stake in life. Howorth seems such a lonely, quiet spot,
buried away from the world. I no longer regard myself
(17:23):
as young. Indeed, I shall soon be twenty eight, and
it seems as if I ought to be working and
braving the rough realities of the world as other people do.
It is, however, my duty to restrain this feeling at present,
and I will endeavor to do so. Of course, her
(17:44):
absent sister and brother obtained a holiday to welcome her
return home, and in a few weeks she was spared
to pay a visit to her friend at b But
she was far from well or strong, and the short
journey of fourteen miles seems to have fatigue her greatly.
Soon after she came back to Haworth, in a letter
(18:05):
to one of the household in which she had been staying,
there occurs this passage. Our poor little cat has been
ill two days and is just dead. It is piteous
to see even an animal lying lifeless. Emily is sorry.
These few words relate to points in the characters of
(18:27):
the two sisters which I must dwell upon. A little
Charlotte was more than commonly tender in her treatment of
all dumb creatures, and they, with that fine instinct so
often noticed, were invariably attracted towards her. The deep and
exaggerated consciousness of her personal defects, the constitutional absence of hope,
(18:49):
which made her slow to trust in human affection, and
consequently slow to respond to any manifestation of it, made
her manner shy and constrained to men and women, and
even to children. We have seen something of this trembling
distrust of her own capability of inspiring affection in the
(19:10):
grateful surprise she expresses at the regret felt by her
Belgian pupils at her departure. But not merely were her
actions kind. Her words and tones were ever gentle and
caressing towards animals, and she quickly noticed the least want
of care or tenderness on the part of others towards
any poor brute creature. The readers of surely may remember
(19:33):
that it is one of the tests which the heroine
applies to her lover. Do you know what, soothsayers, I
would consult the little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to
my door, the mouse that steals out of the cranny
in my wainscot, the bird in frost and snow that
pecks up my window for a crumb. The dog that
(19:55):
licks my hand and sits beside my knee. I know
somebody to whose knee the black cat loves to climb against,
whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old
dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his
tail and whinds affectionately. When somebody passes for somebody and
(20:15):
he read Charlotte Bronte and she he quietly strokes the
cat and lets her sit while he conveniently can. And
when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her
softly down and never flings her from him roughly. He
always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress.
(20:36):
The feeling which in Charlotte partook of something of the
nature of an affection, was with Emily more of a passion.
Someone speaking of her to me, in a careless kind
of strength of expression, said she never showed regard to
any human creature. All her love was reserved for animals.
The helplessness of an animal was its passport to Charlotte's heart.
(21:01):
The fierce, wild intractability of its nature was what often
recommended it to Emily. Speaking of her dead sister, the
former told me that from her many traits in Shirley's
character were taken. Her way of sitting on the rug,
reading with her arm round her rough bulldog's neck, her
calling to a strange dog running past with hanging head
(21:23):
and lolling tongue to give it a merciful draft of water,
its maddened snap at her, her nobly stern presence of mind,
going right into the kitchen and taking up one of
Tabby's red hot Italian irons to sear the bitten place,
and telling no one till the danger was well nigh over,
for fear of the terrors that might beset their weaker minds.
(21:46):
All this looked upon as a well invented fiction. In
Shirley was written down by Charlotte with streaming eyes. It
was the literal true account of what Emily had done.
The same tawny bulldog with his strangled whistle, called Tartar
in Shirley was Keeper in Hallworth Parsonage, a gift to Emily.
(22:10):
With the gift came a warning. Keeper was faithful to
the depths of his nature as long as he was
with friends. But he who struck him with a stick
or whip roused the relentless nature of the brute, who
flew at his throat forthwith and held him there till
one or the other was at the point of death.
Now Keeper's household fault was this he loved to steal
(22:35):
upstairs and stretch his square, tawny limbs on the comfortable
beds covered over with delicate white counterpanes. But the cleanliness
of the parsonage arrangements was perfect, and this habit of
Keeper's was so objectionable that Emily, in reply to Tavvy's remonstrances,
declared that if he was found again transgressing, she herself
(22:58):
in defiance of war warning, and his well known ferocity
of nature, would beat him so severely that he would
never offend again. In the gathering dusk of an autumn evening,
Tabby came half triumphantly, half tremblingly, but in great wrath,
to tell Emily that Keeper was lying on the best
(23:19):
bed in drowsy voluptuousness. Charlotte saw Emily's whitening face and
set mouth, but dared not speak to interfere. No one dared.
When Emily's eyes glowed in that manner, out of the
paleness of her face, and when her lips were so
compressed into stone, she went upstairs, and Tabby and Charlotte
(23:42):
stood in the gloomy passage below, full of the dark
shadows of coming night. Downstairs, came Emily dragging after her.
The unwilling keeper, his hind legs set in a heavy
attitude of resistance, held by the scuff of his neck,
growling low and savagely all the time. The watchers would
(24:05):
fain have spoken, but Durst not, for fear of taking
off Emily's attention and causing her to avert her head
for a moment from the enraged brute, she let him go,
planted in a dark corner at the bottom of the stairs.
No time was there to fetch stick or rod, for
fear of the strangling clutch at her throat. Her bare
(24:26):
clenched fist struck against his red, fierce eyes before he
had time to make his spring, and in the language
of the turf, she punished him till his eyes were
swelled up, and the half blind, stupefied beast was led
to his accustomed lair to have his swollen head fomented
and cared for by the very Emily herself. The generous
(24:49):
dog owed her no grudge. He loved her dearly ever
after he walked first among the mourners to her funeral.
He slept moaning for nights at the door of her
empty room, and never so to speak, rejoiced dog fashion.
After her death, he, in his turn, was mourned over
(25:11):
by the surviving sister. Let us somehow hope in half
read Indian creed, that he follows Emily now, and when
he rests, sleeps on some soft white bed of dreams, unpunished,
when he awakens to the life of the land of shadows.
(25:31):
Now we can understand the force of the words, our
poor little cat is dead. Emily is sorry. End of
section eighteen.
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