July 26, 2025 • 31 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 nineteen, 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.
Speaker 2 (00:16):
French excerpts read by Ruce Golding.
Speaker 1 (00:19):
The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one,
section nineteen, Chapter thirteen. The moors were a great resource
this spring. Emily and Charlotte walked out on them perpetually,
to the great damage of our shoes, but I hope
to the benefit of our health. The old plan of
(00:41):
school keeping was often discussed in these rambles, But indoors
they set with vigor to shirt making for the absent Branwell,
and pondered in silence over their past and future life.
At last they came to a determination. I have seriously
entered into the enterprise of keeping a school, or rather
taking a limited number of pupils at home. That is,
(01:04):
I have begun, in good earnest to seek for pupils.
I wrote to missus Blank, the lady with whom she
had lived as governess, just before going to Brussels, not
asking her for her daughter. I cannot do that. But
informing her of my intention, I received an answer from
mister Blank expressive of I believe sincere regret that I
(01:25):
had not informed them a month sooner, in which case
he said they would gladly have sent me their own
daughter and also Colonel ESS's, but that now both were
promised to Miss C. I was partly disappointed by this
answer and partly gratified. Indeed, I derived quite an impulse
of encouragement from the warm assurance that if I had
(01:47):
but applied a little sooner, they would certainly have sent
me their daughter. I own I had misgivings that nobody
would be willing to send a child for education to Haworth.
These misgivings are partly away with. I have written also
to missus B, and have enclosed the diploma which Monsieur
Agier gave me before I left Brussels. I have not
(02:09):
yet received her answer, but I wait for it with
some anxiety. I do not expect that she will send
me any of her children, but if she would, I
dare say she could recommend me other pupils. Unfortunately, she
knows as only very slightly as soon as I can
get an assurance of only one pupil, I will have
cards of terms printed and will commence the repairs necessary
(02:31):
in the house. I wish all that to be done
before winter. I think of fixing the board and English
education at twenty five pounds per annum. Again at a
later date, July twenty fourth in the same year, she writes,
I am driving on with my small matter as well
as I can. I have written to all the friends
(02:52):
on whom I have the slightest claim, and to some
on whom I have no claim. Missus B, for example,
on her also, I have actually made bold to call.
She was exceedingly polite, regretted that her children were already
at school in Liverpool, thought the undertaking a most praiseworthy one,
but feared I should have some difficulty in making it
(03:13):
succeed on account of the situation. Such is the answer
I received from almost everyone. I tell them the retired
situation is, in some points of view, an advantage that
were it in the midst of a large town, I
could not pretend to take pupils on terms so moderate.
Missus B remarked that she thought the terms very moderate,
(03:34):
but that as it is not having house rent to pay.
We can offer the same privileges of education that are
to be had in expensive seminaries at little more than
half their price, and as our number must be limited,
we can devote a large share of time and pains
to each pupil. Thank you for the very pretty little
(03:55):
purse you have sent me. I make to you a
curious return in the shape of half a dostle and
cards of terms. Make such use of them as your
judgment shall dictate. You will see that I have fixed
the sum at thirty five pounds, which I think is
the just medium, considering advantages and disadvantages. This was written
(04:16):
in July. August, September and October passed away, and no
pupils were to be heard of day after day. There
was a little hope felt by the sisters until the
post came in, but Halworth village was wild and lonely,
and the Brontes but little known, owing to their want
of connections. Charlotte writes on the subject in the early
(04:39):
winter months to this effect, I, Emily and Anne, are
truly obliged to you for the efforts you have made
in our behalf, And if you have not been successful.
You are only like ourselves. Everyone wishes us well, but
there are no pupils to be had. We have no
present intention, however, of breaking our hearts on the subject,
(05:01):
still less of feeling mortified at defeat. The effort must
be beneficial, whatever the result may be, because it teaches
us experience and an additional knowledge of this world. I
send you two more circulars. A month later, she says,
we have made no alterations yet in our house. It
would be folly to do so while there is so
little likelihood of our ever getting pupils. I fear you
(05:24):
are giving yourself too much trouble on our account. Depend
upon it. If you were to persuade a mamma to
bring her child to Haworth, the aspect of the place
would frighten her, and she would probably take the dear
girl back with her instant her. We are glad that
we have made the attempt, and we will not be
cast down because it has not succeeded. There were probably
(05:47):
growing up in each sister's heart, secret, unacknowledged feelings of
relief that their plan had not succeeded. Yes, a dull
sense of relief that their cherished project had been tried
and had failed, for that house, which was to be
regarded as an occasional home for their brother, could hardly
be a fitting residence for the children of strangers. They had,
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in all likelihood become silently aware that his habits were
such as to render his society at times most undesirable.
Possibly too, they had by this time heard distressing rumors
concerning the cause of that remorse and agony of mind,
which at times made him restless and unnaturally merry, at
(06:31):
times rendered him moody and irritable. In January eighteen forty five,
Charlotte says Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on
the whole this time than he was in summer. Anne is,
as usual always good, mild and patient. The deep seated
(06:52):
pain which he was to occasion to his relations had
now taken a decided form and pressed heavily on Charlotte's
health and spirits. Early in this year she went to
h to bid goodbye to her dear friend Mary, who
was leaving England for Australia. Branwell, I have mentioned, had
obtained the situation of a private tutor. Anne was also
(07:16):
engaged as a governess in the same family, and was
thus a miserable witness to her brother's deterioration of character
at this period. Of the causes of this deterioration I
cannot speak, but the consequences were these. He went home
for his holidays, reluctantly stayed there as short a time
(07:36):
as possible, perplexing and distressing them all by his extraordinary conduct,
at one time in the highest spirits, at another in
the deepest depression, accusing himself of blackest guilt and treachery
without specifying what they were, and altogether evincing an irritability
of disposition bordering on insanity. Charlotte and Emily suffered acutely
(08:01):
from his mysterious behavior. He expressed himself more than satisfied
with his situation. He was remaining in it for a
longer time than he had ever done in any kind
of employment before, so that for some time they could
not conjecture that anything there made him so wilful and
restless and full of both levity and misery. But a
(08:23):
sense of something wrong connected with him sickened and oppressed them.
They began to lose all hope in his future career.
He was no longer the family pride and indistinct dread,
caused partly by his own conduct, partly by expressions of
agonizing suspicion in Anne's letters Home was creeping over their
(08:45):
minds that he might turn out their deep disgrace. But
I believe they shrank from any attempt to define their fears,
and spoke of him to each other as little as possible.
They could not help but think and mourn and wonder.
February twentieth, eighteen forty five. I spent a week at AH,
(09:10):
not very pleasantly. Headache, sickliness, and flatness of spirits made
me a poor companion, a sad drag on the vivacious
and loquacious gaiety of all the other inmates of the house.
I never was fortunate enough to be able to rally
for as much as a single hour while I was there.
(09:30):
I am sure all, with the exception perhaps of Mary,
were very glad when I took my departure. I begin
to perceive that I have too little life in me
nowadays to be fit company for any except very quiet people.
Is it age or what else that changes me? So
alas she hardly needed to have asked this question, how
(09:53):
could she be otherwise than flat spirited, a poor companion,
and a sad drag on the gaiety of those who
were light hearted happy. Her honest plan for earning her
own livelihood had fallen away, crumbled two ashes after all
her preparations, not a pupil, had offered herself, And instead
of being sorry that this wish of many years could
(10:14):
not be realized, she had reason to be glad. Her
poor father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his
blind helplessness. But this was a sacred, pious charge, the
duties of which she was blessed in fulfilling. The black
gloom hung over what had once been the brightest hope
(10:35):
of the family over Branwell, and the mystery in which
his wayward conduct was enveloped. Somehow and some time he
would have to turn to his home as a hiding
place for shame. Such was the sad foreboding of his sisters.
Then how could she be cheerful when she was losing
(10:55):
her dear and noble Mary for such a length of
time and distance of space, that her heart might well
prophesy that it was forever long before she had written
of Mary t that she was full of feelings noble, warm, generous,
devoted and profound. God bless her. I never hoped to
see in this world a character more truly noble. She
(11:18):
would die willingly for one she loved. Her intellect and
attainments are of the very highest standard, and this was
the friend whom she was to lose. Hear that friend's
account of their final interview. When I last saw Charlotte
January eighteen forty five, she told me she had quite
(11:40):
decided to stay at home. She owned she did not
like it. Her health was weak. She said she should
like any change at first, as she had liked Brussels
at first, and she thought that there must be some
possibility for some people of having a life of more
variety and more communion with human kind. But she saw
none for her. I told her very warmly that she
(12:03):
ought not to stay at home, that to spend the
next five years at home in solitude and weak health
would ruin her, that she would never recover it. Such
a dark shadow came over her face when I said,
think of what you will be five years. Hence that
I stopped and said, don't cry, Charlotte. She did not cry,
(12:24):
but went on walking up and down, the room and said,
in a little while, but I intend to stay Polly.
A few weeks after she parted from Mary, she gives
this account of her days at Haworth March twenty fourth,
eighteen forty five. I can hardly tell you how time
(12:45):
gets on at Haworth. There is no event whatever to
mark its progress. One day resembles another, and all have heavy,
lifeless physiognomies. Sunday, baking Day and sat are the only
ones that have any distinctive mark. Meantime, life wares away.
(13:06):
I shall soon be thirty, and I have done nothing. Yet.
Sometimes I get melancholy at the prospect before and behind me.
Yet it is wrong and foolish to repine. Undoubtedly my
duty directs me to stay at home for the present.
There was a time when Harworth was a very pleasant
place to me. It is not so now. I feel
(13:30):
as if we were all buried here. I long to
travel to work, to live a life of action. Excuse me, dear,
for troubling you with my fruitless wishes. I will put
by the rest and not trouble you with them. You
must write to me. If you knew how welcome your
letters are, you would write very often. Your letters and
(13:51):
the French newspapers are the only messengers that come to
me from the outer world beyond our moors, and very
welcome messengers they are. One of her daily employments was
to read to her father, and it required a little
gentle diplomacy on her part to effect this duty, for
there were times when the offer of another to do
(14:12):
what he had been so long accustomed to do for
himself only reminded him too painfully of the deprivation under
which he was suffering. And in secret, she too dreaded
a similar loss for herself. Long continued ill health, a
deranged condition of the liver, her close application to minute
(14:35):
drawing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual
sleeplessness at nights, the many bitter, noiseless tears she had
shed over Bramwell's mysterious and distressing conduct. All these causes
were telling on her poor eyes. And about this time
she thus writes to Monsieur eeget.
Speaker 2 (14:57):
I najan caje kran comne des remon linerci letter de
faculty cone cour a parasser Let's pray souf creelemo gen
connatre passed that letter g si crier a trefois je
pas de jorn de man deny, a career, a pat
(15:22):
fe saint free pricecl saudi, a college know mayors hot
certain mastri honor bia, voulu teimwe ye propacio mayor preson
gela viutre feble Devillandrea Berg said, the blessed the view
(15:44):
a pour moi in terrible privacio since las savevo for
ramasieur jecrere and livre agil dedire amormetra the literature O
solmetre a vu monsieur jevouse di suvon of francis, combian
(16:07):
respect combianus radova, A votre bonte, a vou conseil je
voudre la di un foi on the slane purpa in
fau pais bonci, la carriere de la ferme, noubier pad
(16:28):
my deir comov parte. Come on Madame less en france porte.
She called bianto avoir devon nouvelle said de massuri carlos
souvenir de vau bonte my memoir a ton souvenir dra
the respect gevu mar vesen spire dra oci a gree
(16:53):
monsieur ed catarin.
Speaker 1 (16:56):
It is probable that even her sisters and most intimate
friends ends did not know of this dread of ultimate
blindness which beset her at this period. What eye sight
she had to spare, she reserved for the use of
her father. She did but little plain sewing, not more
writing than could be avoided, and employed herself principally In
(17:18):
Knitting April second, eighteen forty five. I see plainly it
is proved to us that there is scarcely a draft
of unmingled happiness to be had in this world. Blank's
illness comes with Blank's marriage. Mary t finds herself free
(17:38):
and on that path to adventure and exertion to which
she has so long been seeking Admission. Sickness, hardship, danger
are her fellow travelers, her inseparable companions. She may have
been out of the reach of these southwest northwest gales
before they began to blow, or they may have spent
(17:59):
their fury on land and not ruffled the sea much.
If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed
while we have been sleeping in our beds or lying
awake thinking about her. Yet these real material dangers, when
once passed, leave in the mind. The satisfaction of having
struggled with difficulty and overcome it. Strength, courage, and experience
(18:23):
are their invariable results, whereas I doubt whether suffering purely
mental has any good result, unless it be to make us,
by comparison, less sensitive to physical suffering. Ten years ago,
I should have laughed at your account of the blunder
you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married man.
(18:45):
I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over much and
wondered how you could possibly regret being civil to a
decent individual merely because he happened to be single instead
of double. Now, however, I can perceive that your scruples
are founded on common sense. I know that if women
wish to escape the stigma of husband seeking, they must
(19:08):
act and look like marble or clay, cold, expressionless, bloodless,
for every appearance of feeling of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy,
admiration discussed are alike construed by the world into the
attempt to hook a husband. Never mind, well meaning women
(19:30):
have their own consciences to comfort them. After all. Do not, therefore,
be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are,
affectionate and good hearted. Do not too harshly repress sentiments
and feelings excellent in themselves because you fear that some
puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out
to fascinate him. Do not condemn yourself to live only
(19:53):
by halves, because if you showed too much animation, some
pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate
to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to
his inanity. Still, a composed, decent, equable deportment is a
capital treasure to a woman, and that you possess. Write
(20:14):
again soon, for I feel rather fierce and want stroking down.
June thirteenth, eighteen forty five. As to the Missus Blank,
who you say is like me, I somehow feel no
leaning to her at all. I never do to people
who are said to be like me, because I have
(20:36):
always a notion that they are only like me in
the disagreeable outside first acquaintance part of my character, in
those points which are obvious to the ordinary run of people,
and which I know are not pleasing. You say she
is clever, a clever person. How I dislike the term.
It means rather a shrewd, very ugly meddling talking woman.
(21:01):
I feel reluctant to leave Papa for a single day.
His sight diminishes weakly and cannot be wondered at that
as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving him,
his spirits sometimes sink. It is so hard to feel
that his few and scanty pleasures must all soon go.
He has now the greatest difficulty in either reading or writing,
(21:24):
and then he dreads the state of dependence to which
blindness will inevitably reduce him. He fears that he will
be nothing in his parish. I try to cheer him.
Sometimes I succeed temporarily, but no consolation can restore his sight,
or atone for the want of it. Still, he is
(21:45):
never peevish, never impatient, only anxious and dejected. For the
reason just given. Charlotte declined an invitation to the only
house to which she was now ever asked to come.
In answer to her correspondent's reply to this letter, she says,
you thought I refused you coldly? Did you? It was
(22:08):
a queer sort of coldness when I would have given
my ears to say yes, and was obliged to say no.
Matters however, are now a little changed Anne is come home,
and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then,
if all be well, I will come and see you.
Tell me only when I must come, mention the week
(22:30):
and the day. Have the kindness also to answer the
following queries if you can, How far is it from
Leeds to Sheffield? Can you give me a notion of
the cost? Of course, when I come, you will let
me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag
me out of visiting. I have no desire at all
to see your curate. I think he must be like
(22:51):
all the other curates I have seen, and they seem
to me a self seeking, vain, empty race. At this
blessed moment we have no less than three of them
in Haworth Parish, and there is not one to mend another.
The other day, they all three, accompanied by mister s dropped,
or rather rushed in unexpectedly to tea. It was Monday
(23:12):
baking day, and I was hot and tired. Still, if
they had behaved quietly and decently, I would have served
them out their tea in peace. But they began glorifying
themselves and abusing dissenters in such a manner that my
temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few sentences
sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb. Papa was
(23:34):
greatly horrified also, but I don't regret it. On her
return from this short visit to her friend, she traveled
with a gentleman in the railway carriage whose features and
bearing betrayed him in a moment to be a Frenchman.
She ventured to ask him if such was not the case,
and on his admitting it, she further inquired if he
(23:54):
had not passed a considerable time in Germany, and was
answered that he had. Her quick ear detected something of
the thick guttural pronunciation which Frenchmen say they are able
to discover even in the grand children of their countrymen
who have lived any time beyond the Rhine. Charlotte had
retained her skill in the language by the habit of
(24:15):
which she thus speaks to monsieur age.
Speaker 2 (24:19):
G campbeau cou du bris les francis jasprint dou les
jours in demipage de France parcaur je grande preisier prand
rosette lucent the ye presente madame la sieurance de mont
estime Giquante, Marial, Louisse, Claire nem deja Ubier, meg Oucitoujur
(24:45):
gagne Se dar Jean poor A Leers rouxel Jillire.
Speaker 1 (24:50):
And so her journey back to Haworth, after the rare
pleasure of this visit to her friend, was pleasantly beguiled
by conversation with the French gentleman. And when she arrived
at home, refreshed and happy, what to find there. It
was ten o'clock when she reached the parsonage. Branwell was there,
(25:12):
unexpectedly very ill. He had come home a day or
two before, apparently for a holiday, in reality, I imagine
because some discovery had been made which rendered his absence
imperatively desirable. The day of Charlotte's return he had received
a letter from mister Blank, sternly dismissing him, intimating that
(25:34):
his proceedings were discovered, characterizing them as bad beyond expression,
and charging him, on pained exposure, to break off immediately
and forever, all communication with every member of the family.
Whatever may have been the nature and depth of Branwell's sins,
whatever may have been his temptation, whatever his guilt, there
(25:55):
is no doubt of the suffering which his conduct entailed
upon his poor father and his innocent sisters. The hopes
and plans they had cherished long and labored hard to
fulfill were cruelly frustrated. Henceforward their days were embittered and
the natural rest of their nights destroyed by his paroxysms
(26:18):
of remorse. Let us read of the misery caused to
his poor sisters in Charlotte's own affecting words. We have
had sad work with Branwell. He thought of nothing but
stunning or drowning his agony of mind, no one in
this house could have rest. And at last we have
(26:38):
been obliged to send him from home for a week,
with some one to look after him. He has written
to me this morning expressing some sense of contrition. But
as long as he remains at home, I scarce dare
hope for peace in the house. We must all, I fear,
prepare for a season of distress and disquietude. When I
left you, I was strongly impressed with the feeling that
(27:01):
I was going back to sorrow. August eighteen forty five.
Things here at home are much as usual, not very
bright as it regards Branwell, though his health and consequently
his temper have been somewhat better this last day or two,
because he is now forced to abstain. August eighteenth, eighteen
(27:25):
forty five. I have delayed writing because I have no
good news to communicate my hopes ebb Low. Indeed, about Branwell,
I sometimes fear he will never be fit for much.
The late blow to his prospects and feelings has quite
made him reckless. It is only absolute want of means
(27:46):
that acts as any check to him. One ought, indeed
to hope to the very last, and I try to
do so, but occasionally hope in his case seems so fallacious.
November fourth, eighteen forty five. I hoped to be able
(28:06):
to ask you to come to Haworth. It almost seemed
as if Branwell had a chance of getting employment, and
I waited to know the result of his efforts in
order to say, dear Blank, come and see us. But
the place a secretaryship to a railway committee is given
to another person. Branwell still remains at home, and while
he is here, you shall not come. I am more
(28:29):
confirmed in that resolution the more I see of him.
I wish I could say one word to you in
his favor, but I cannot. I will hold my tongue.
We are all obliged to you for your kind suggestion
about leeds, but I think our school schemes are for
the present at rest. December thirty first, eighteen forty five.
(28:52):
You say well, in speaking of Blank, that no sufferings
are so awful as those brought on by dissipation. Alas
see the truth of this observation daily proved Blank and
Blank must have as weary and burdensome a life of
it in waiting upon their unhappy brother. It seems grievous, indeed,
that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely.
(29:16):
In fact, all their latter days blighted with the presence
of cruel, shameful suffering, the premature deaths of two at
least of the sisters, all the great possibilities of their
earthly lives snapped short. May be dated from Midsummer eighteen
forty five. For the last three years of Branwell's life,
he took opium habitually by way of stunning conscience. He
(29:40):
drank moreover whenever he could get the opportunity. The reader
may say that I have mentioned his tendency to intemperance
long before, it is true, But it did not become habitual,
as far as I can learn, until after he was
dismissed from his tutorship. He took opium because it made
him forget for a time more effectually than drink, and
(30:02):
besides it was more portable. In procuring it, he showed
all the cunning of the opium eater. He would steal
out while the family were at church, to which he
had professed himself too ill to go, and managed to
cajole the village druggist out of a lump. Or it
might be the carrier had unsuspiciously brought him some in
a package from a distance. For some time before his
(30:26):
death he had attacks of delirium tremens of the most
frightful character. He slept in his father's room, and he
would sometimes declare that either he or his father should
be dead before the morning. The trembling sisters, sick with fright,
would implore their father not to expose himself to this danger.
But mister Broughty is no timid man, and perhaps he
(30:46):
felt that he could possibly influence his son to some
self restraint more by showing trust in him. Than by
showing fear. The sisters often listened for the report of
a pistol in the dead of the night, till watchful
eye and hearkening ear grew heavy and dull with the
perpetual strain upon their nerves. In the morning's young Bronty
(31:09):
would saunter out, saying, with a drunkard's incontinence of speech,
the poor old man and I have had a terrible
night of it. He does his best, the poor old man,
but it's all over with me. End of section nineteen
Volume one, section nineteen, 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.
Speaker 2 (00:16):
French excerpts read by Ruce Golding.
Speaker 1 (00:19):
The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one,
section nineteen, Chapter thirteen. The moors were a great resource
this spring. Emily and Charlotte walked out on them perpetually,
to the great damage of our shoes, but I hope
to the benefit of our health. The old plan of
(00:41):
school keeping was often discussed in these rambles, But indoors
they set with vigor to shirt making for the absent Branwell,
and pondered in silence over their past and future life.
At last they came to a determination. I have seriously
entered into the enterprise of keeping a school, or rather
taking a limited number of pupils at home. That is,
(01:04):
I have begun, in good earnest to seek for pupils.
I wrote to missus Blank, the lady with whom she
had lived as governess, just before going to Brussels, not
asking her for her daughter. I cannot do that. But
informing her of my intention, I received an answer from
mister Blank expressive of I believe sincere regret that I
(01:25):
had not informed them a month sooner, in which case
he said they would gladly have sent me their own
daughter and also Colonel ESS's, but that now both were
promised to Miss C. I was partly disappointed by this
answer and partly gratified. Indeed, I derived quite an impulse
of encouragement from the warm assurance that if I had
(01:47):
but applied a little sooner, they would certainly have sent
me their daughter. I own I had misgivings that nobody
would be willing to send a child for education to Haworth.
These misgivings are partly away with. I have written also
to missus B, and have enclosed the diploma which Monsieur
Agier gave me before I left Brussels. I have not
(02:09):
yet received her answer, but I wait for it with
some anxiety. I do not expect that she will send
me any of her children, but if she would, I
dare say she could recommend me other pupils. Unfortunately, she
knows as only very slightly as soon as I can
get an assurance of only one pupil, I will have
cards of terms printed and will commence the repairs necessary
(02:31):
in the house. I wish all that to be done
before winter. I think of fixing the board and English
education at twenty five pounds per annum. Again at a
later date, July twenty fourth in the same year, she writes,
I am driving on with my small matter as well
as I can. I have written to all the friends
(02:52):
on whom I have the slightest claim, and to some
on whom I have no claim. Missus B, for example,
on her also, I have actually made bold to call.
She was exceedingly polite, regretted that her children were already
at school in Liverpool, thought the undertaking a most praiseworthy one,
but feared I should have some difficulty in making it
(03:13):
succeed on account of the situation. Such is the answer
I received from almost everyone. I tell them the retired
situation is, in some points of view, an advantage that
were it in the midst of a large town, I
could not pretend to take pupils on terms so moderate.
Missus B remarked that she thought the terms very moderate,
(03:34):
but that as it is not having house rent to pay.
We can offer the same privileges of education that are
to be had in expensive seminaries at little more than
half their price, and as our number must be limited,
we can devote a large share of time and pains
to each pupil. Thank you for the very pretty little
(03:55):
purse you have sent me. I make to you a
curious return in the shape of half a dostle and
cards of terms. Make such use of them as your
judgment shall dictate. You will see that I have fixed
the sum at thirty five pounds, which I think is
the just medium, considering advantages and disadvantages. This was written
(04:16):
in July. August, September and October passed away, and no
pupils were to be heard of day after day. There
was a little hope felt by the sisters until the
post came in, but Halworth village was wild and lonely,
and the Brontes but little known, owing to their want
of connections. Charlotte writes on the subject in the early
(04:39):
winter months to this effect, I, Emily and Anne, are
truly obliged to you for the efforts you have made
in our behalf, And if you have not been successful.
You are only like ourselves. Everyone wishes us well, but
there are no pupils to be had. We have no
present intention, however, of breaking our hearts on the subject,
(05:01):
still less of feeling mortified at defeat. The effort must
be beneficial, whatever the result may be, because it teaches
us experience and an additional knowledge of this world. I
send you two more circulars. A month later, she says,
we have made no alterations yet in our house. It
would be folly to do so while there is so
little likelihood of our ever getting pupils. I fear you
(05:24):
are giving yourself too much trouble on our account. Depend
upon it. If you were to persuade a mamma to
bring her child to Haworth, the aspect of the place
would frighten her, and she would probably take the dear
girl back with her instant her. We are glad that
we have made the attempt, and we will not be
cast down because it has not succeeded. There were probably
(05:47):
growing up in each sister's heart, secret, unacknowledged feelings of
relief that their plan had not succeeded. Yes, a dull
sense of relief that their cherished project had been tried
and had failed, for that house, which was to be
regarded as an occasional home for their brother, could hardly
be a fitting residence for the children of strangers. They had,
(06:10):
in all likelihood become silently aware that his habits were
such as to render his society at times most undesirable.
Possibly too, they had by this time heard distressing rumors
concerning the cause of that remorse and agony of mind,
which at times made him restless and unnaturally merry, at
(06:31):
times rendered him moody and irritable. In January eighteen forty five,
Charlotte says Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on
the whole this time than he was in summer. Anne is,
as usual always good, mild and patient. The deep seated
(06:52):
pain which he was to occasion to his relations had
now taken a decided form and pressed heavily on Charlotte's
health and spirits. Early in this year she went to
h to bid goodbye to her dear friend Mary, who
was leaving England for Australia. Branwell, I have mentioned, had
obtained the situation of a private tutor. Anne was also
(07:16):
engaged as a governess in the same family, and was
thus a miserable witness to her brother's deterioration of character
at this period. Of the causes of this deterioration I
cannot speak, but the consequences were these. He went home
for his holidays, reluctantly stayed there as short a time
(07:36):
as possible, perplexing and distressing them all by his extraordinary conduct,
at one time in the highest spirits, at another in
the deepest depression, accusing himself of blackest guilt and treachery
without specifying what they were, and altogether evincing an irritability
of disposition bordering on insanity. Charlotte and Emily suffered acutely
(08:01):
from his mysterious behavior. He expressed himself more than satisfied
with his situation. He was remaining in it for a
longer time than he had ever done in any kind
of employment before, so that for some time they could
not conjecture that anything there made him so wilful and
restless and full of both levity and misery. But a
(08:23):
sense of something wrong connected with him sickened and oppressed them.
They began to lose all hope in his future career.
He was no longer the family pride and indistinct dread,
caused partly by his own conduct, partly by expressions of
agonizing suspicion in Anne's letters Home was creeping over their
(08:45):
minds that he might turn out their deep disgrace. But
I believe they shrank from any attempt to define their fears,
and spoke of him to each other as little as possible.
They could not help but think and mourn and wonder.
February twentieth, eighteen forty five. I spent a week at AH,
(09:10):
not very pleasantly. Headache, sickliness, and flatness of spirits made
me a poor companion, a sad drag on the vivacious
and loquacious gaiety of all the other inmates of the house.
I never was fortunate enough to be able to rally
for as much as a single hour while I was there.
(09:30):
I am sure all, with the exception perhaps of Mary,
were very glad when I took my departure. I begin
to perceive that I have too little life in me
nowadays to be fit company for any except very quiet people.
Is it age or what else that changes me? So
alas she hardly needed to have asked this question, how
(09:53):
could she be otherwise than flat spirited, a poor companion,
and a sad drag on the gaiety of those who
were light hearted happy. Her honest plan for earning her
own livelihood had fallen away, crumbled two ashes after all
her preparations, not a pupil, had offered herself, And instead
of being sorry that this wish of many years could
(10:14):
not be realized, she had reason to be glad. Her
poor father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his
blind helplessness. But this was a sacred, pious charge, the
duties of which she was blessed in fulfilling. The black
gloom hung over what had once been the brightest hope
(10:35):
of the family over Branwell, and the mystery in which
his wayward conduct was enveloped. Somehow and some time he
would have to turn to his home as a hiding
place for shame. Such was the sad foreboding of his sisters.
Then how could she be cheerful when she was losing
(10:55):
her dear and noble Mary for such a length of
time and distance of space, that her heart might well
prophesy that it was forever long before she had written
of Mary t that she was full of feelings noble, warm, generous,
devoted and profound. God bless her. I never hoped to
see in this world a character more truly noble. She
(11:18):
would die willingly for one she loved. Her intellect and
attainments are of the very highest standard, and this was
the friend whom she was to lose. Hear that friend's
account of their final interview. When I last saw Charlotte
January eighteen forty five, she told me she had quite
(11:40):
decided to stay at home. She owned she did not
like it. Her health was weak. She said she should
like any change at first, as she had liked Brussels
at first, and she thought that there must be some
possibility for some people of having a life of more
variety and more communion with human kind. But she saw
none for her. I told her very warmly that she
(12:03):
ought not to stay at home, that to spend the
next five years at home in solitude and weak health
would ruin her, that she would never recover it. Such
a dark shadow came over her face when I said,
think of what you will be five years. Hence that
I stopped and said, don't cry, Charlotte. She did not cry,
(12:24):
but went on walking up and down, the room and said,
in a little while, but I intend to stay Polly.
A few weeks after she parted from Mary, she gives
this account of her days at Haworth March twenty fourth,
eighteen forty five. I can hardly tell you how time
(12:45):
gets on at Haworth. There is no event whatever to
mark its progress. One day resembles another, and all have heavy,
lifeless physiognomies. Sunday, baking Day and sat are the only
ones that have any distinctive mark. Meantime, life wares away.
(13:06):
I shall soon be thirty, and I have done nothing. Yet.
Sometimes I get melancholy at the prospect before and behind me.
Yet it is wrong and foolish to repine. Undoubtedly my
duty directs me to stay at home for the present.
There was a time when Harworth was a very pleasant
place to me. It is not so now. I feel
(13:30):
as if we were all buried here. I long to
travel to work, to live a life of action. Excuse me, dear,
for troubling you with my fruitless wishes. I will put
by the rest and not trouble you with them. You
must write to me. If you knew how welcome your
letters are, you would write very often. Your letters and
(13:51):
the French newspapers are the only messengers that come to
me from the outer world beyond our moors, and very
welcome messengers they are. One of her daily employments was
to read to her father, and it required a little
gentle diplomacy on her part to effect this duty, for
there were times when the offer of another to do
(14:12):
what he had been so long accustomed to do for
himself only reminded him too painfully of the deprivation under
which he was suffering. And in secret, she too dreaded
a similar loss for herself. Long continued ill health, a
deranged condition of the liver, her close application to minute
(14:35):
drawing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual
sleeplessness at nights, the many bitter, noiseless tears she had
shed over Bramwell's mysterious and distressing conduct. All these causes
were telling on her poor eyes. And about this time
she thus writes to Monsieur eeget.
Speaker 2 (14:57):
I najan caje kran comne des remon linerci letter de
faculty cone cour a parasser Let's pray souf creelemo gen
connatre passed that letter g si crier a trefois je
pas de jorn de man deny, a career, a pat
(15:22):
fe saint free pricecl saudi, a college know mayors hot
certain mastri honor bia, voulu teimwe ye propacio mayor preson
gela viutre feble Devillandrea Berg said, the blessed the view
(15:44):
a pour moi in terrible privacio since las savevo for
ramasieur jecrere and livre agil dedire amormetra the literature O
solmetre a vu monsieur jevouse di suvon of francis, combian
(16:07):
respect combianus radova, A votre bonte, a vou conseil je
voudre la di un foi on the slane purpa in
fau pais bonci, la carriere de la ferme, noubier pad
(16:28):
my deir comov parte. Come on Madame less en france porte.
She called bianto avoir devon nouvelle said de massuri carlos
souvenir de vau bonte my memoir a ton souvenir dra
the respect gevu mar vesen spire dra oci a gree
(16:53):
monsieur ed catarin.
Speaker 1 (16:56):
It is probable that even her sisters and most intimate
friends ends did not know of this dread of ultimate
blindness which beset her at this period. What eye sight
she had to spare, she reserved for the use of
her father. She did but little plain sewing, not more
writing than could be avoided, and employed herself principally In
(17:18):
Knitting April second, eighteen forty five. I see plainly it
is proved to us that there is scarcely a draft
of unmingled happiness to be had in this world. Blank's
illness comes with Blank's marriage. Mary t finds herself free
(17:38):
and on that path to adventure and exertion to which
she has so long been seeking Admission. Sickness, hardship, danger
are her fellow travelers, her inseparable companions. She may have
been out of the reach of these southwest northwest gales
before they began to blow, or they may have spent
(17:59):
their fury on land and not ruffled the sea much.
If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed
while we have been sleeping in our beds or lying
awake thinking about her. Yet these real material dangers, when
once passed, leave in the mind. The satisfaction of having
struggled with difficulty and overcome it. Strength, courage, and experience
(18:23):
are their invariable results, whereas I doubt whether suffering purely
mental has any good result, unless it be to make us,
by comparison, less sensitive to physical suffering. Ten years ago,
I should have laughed at your account of the blunder
you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married man.
(18:45):
I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over much and
wondered how you could possibly regret being civil to a
decent individual merely because he happened to be single instead
of double. Now, however, I can perceive that your scruples
are founded on common sense. I know that if women
wish to escape the stigma of husband seeking, they must
(19:08):
act and look like marble or clay, cold, expressionless, bloodless,
for every appearance of feeling of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy,
admiration discussed are alike construed by the world into the
attempt to hook a husband. Never mind, well meaning women
(19:30):
have their own consciences to comfort them. After all. Do not, therefore,
be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are,
affectionate and good hearted. Do not too harshly repress sentiments
and feelings excellent in themselves because you fear that some
puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out
to fascinate him. Do not condemn yourself to live only
(19:53):
by halves, because if you showed too much animation, some
pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate
to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to
his inanity. Still, a composed, decent, equable deportment is a
capital treasure to a woman, and that you possess. Write
(20:14):
again soon, for I feel rather fierce and want stroking down.
June thirteenth, eighteen forty five. As to the Missus Blank,
who you say is like me, I somehow feel no
leaning to her at all. I never do to people
who are said to be like me, because I have
(20:36):
always a notion that they are only like me in
the disagreeable outside first acquaintance part of my character, in
those points which are obvious to the ordinary run of people,
and which I know are not pleasing. You say she
is clever, a clever person. How I dislike the term.
It means rather a shrewd, very ugly meddling talking woman.
(21:01):
I feel reluctant to leave Papa for a single day.
His sight diminishes weakly and cannot be wondered at that
as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving him,
his spirits sometimes sink. It is so hard to feel
that his few and scanty pleasures must all soon go.
He has now the greatest difficulty in either reading or writing,
(21:24):
and then he dreads the state of dependence to which
blindness will inevitably reduce him. He fears that he will
be nothing in his parish. I try to cheer him.
Sometimes I succeed temporarily, but no consolation can restore his sight,
or atone for the want of it. Still, he is
(21:45):
never peevish, never impatient, only anxious and dejected. For the
reason just given. Charlotte declined an invitation to the only
house to which she was now ever asked to come.
In answer to her correspondent's reply to this letter, she says,
you thought I refused you coldly? Did you? It was
(22:08):
a queer sort of coldness when I would have given
my ears to say yes, and was obliged to say no.
Matters however, are now a little changed Anne is come home,
and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then,
if all be well, I will come and see you.
Tell me only when I must come, mention the week
(22:30):
and the day. Have the kindness also to answer the
following queries if you can, How far is it from
Leeds to Sheffield? Can you give me a notion of
the cost? Of course, when I come, you will let
me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag
me out of visiting. I have no desire at all
to see your curate. I think he must be like
(22:51):
all the other curates I have seen, and they seem
to me a self seeking, vain, empty race. At this
blessed moment we have no less than three of them
in Haworth Parish, and there is not one to mend another.
The other day, they all three, accompanied by mister s dropped,
or rather rushed in unexpectedly to tea. It was Monday
(23:12):
baking day, and I was hot and tired. Still, if
they had behaved quietly and decently, I would have served
them out their tea in peace. But they began glorifying
themselves and abusing dissenters in such a manner that my
temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few sentences
sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb. Papa was
(23:34):
greatly horrified also, but I don't regret it. On her
return from this short visit to her friend, she traveled
with a gentleman in the railway carriage whose features and
bearing betrayed him in a moment to be a Frenchman.
She ventured to ask him if such was not the case,
and on his admitting it, she further inquired if he
(23:54):
had not passed a considerable time in Germany, and was
answered that he had. Her quick ear detected something of
the thick guttural pronunciation which Frenchmen say they are able
to discover even in the grand children of their countrymen
who have lived any time beyond the Rhine. Charlotte had
retained her skill in the language by the habit of
(24:15):
which she thus speaks to monsieur age.
Speaker 2 (24:19):
G campbeau cou du bris les francis jasprint dou les
jours in demipage de France parcaur je grande preisier prand
rosette lucent the ye presente madame la sieurance de mont
estime Giquante, Marial, Louisse, Claire nem deja Ubier, meg Oucitoujur
(24:45):
gagne Se dar Jean poor A Leers rouxel Jillire.
Speaker 1 (24:50):
And so her journey back to Haworth, after the rare
pleasure of this visit to her friend, was pleasantly beguiled
by conversation with the French gentleman. And when she arrived
at home, refreshed and happy, what to find there. It
was ten o'clock when she reached the parsonage. Branwell was there,
(25:12):
unexpectedly very ill. He had come home a day or
two before, apparently for a holiday, in reality, I imagine
because some discovery had been made which rendered his absence
imperatively desirable. The day of Charlotte's return he had received
a letter from mister Blank, sternly dismissing him, intimating that
(25:34):
his proceedings were discovered, characterizing them as bad beyond expression,
and charging him, on pained exposure, to break off immediately
and forever, all communication with every member of the family.
Whatever may have been the nature and depth of Branwell's sins,
whatever may have been his temptation, whatever his guilt, there
(25:55):
is no doubt of the suffering which his conduct entailed
upon his poor father and his innocent sisters. The hopes
and plans they had cherished long and labored hard to
fulfill were cruelly frustrated. Henceforward their days were embittered and
the natural rest of their nights destroyed by his paroxysms
(26:18):
of remorse. Let us read of the misery caused to
his poor sisters in Charlotte's own affecting words. We have
had sad work with Branwell. He thought of nothing but
stunning or drowning his agony of mind, no one in
this house could have rest. And at last we have
(26:38):
been obliged to send him from home for a week,
with some one to look after him. He has written
to me this morning expressing some sense of contrition. But
as long as he remains at home, I scarce dare
hope for peace in the house. We must all, I fear,
prepare for a season of distress and disquietude. When I
left you, I was strongly impressed with the feeling that
(27:01):
I was going back to sorrow. August eighteen forty five.
Things here at home are much as usual, not very
bright as it regards Branwell, though his health and consequently
his temper have been somewhat better this last day or two,
because he is now forced to abstain. August eighteenth, eighteen
(27:25):
forty five. I have delayed writing because I have no
good news to communicate my hopes ebb Low. Indeed, about Branwell,
I sometimes fear he will never be fit for much.
The late blow to his prospects and feelings has quite
made him reckless. It is only absolute want of means
(27:46):
that acts as any check to him. One ought, indeed
to hope to the very last, and I try to
do so, but occasionally hope in his case seems so fallacious.
November fourth, eighteen forty five. I hoped to be able
(28:06):
to ask you to come to Haworth. It almost seemed
as if Branwell had a chance of getting employment, and
I waited to know the result of his efforts in
order to say, dear Blank, come and see us. But
the place a secretaryship to a railway committee is given
to another person. Branwell still remains at home, and while
he is here, you shall not come. I am more
(28:29):
confirmed in that resolution the more I see of him.
I wish I could say one word to you in
his favor, but I cannot. I will hold my tongue.
We are all obliged to you for your kind suggestion
about leeds, but I think our school schemes are for
the present at rest. December thirty first, eighteen forty five.
(28:52):
You say well, in speaking of Blank, that no sufferings
are so awful as those brought on by dissipation. Alas
see the truth of this observation daily proved Blank and
Blank must have as weary and burdensome a life of
it in waiting upon their unhappy brother. It seems grievous, indeed,
that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely.
(29:16):
In fact, all their latter days blighted with the presence
of cruel, shameful suffering, the premature deaths of two at
least of the sisters, all the great possibilities of their
earthly lives snapped short. May be dated from Midsummer eighteen
forty five. For the last three years of Branwell's life,
he took opium habitually by way of stunning conscience. He
(29:40):
drank moreover whenever he could get the opportunity. The reader
may say that I have mentioned his tendency to intemperance
long before, it is true, But it did not become habitual,
as far as I can learn, until after he was
dismissed from his tutorship. He took opium because it made
him forget for a time more effectually than drink, and
(30:02):
besides it was more portable. In procuring it, he showed
all the cunning of the opium eater. He would steal
out while the family were at church, to which he
had professed himself too ill to go, and managed to
cajole the village druggist out of a lump. Or it
might be the carrier had unsuspiciously brought him some in
a package from a distance. For some time before his
(30:26):
death he had attacks of delirium tremens of the most
frightful character. He slept in his father's room, and he
would sometimes declare that either he or his father should
be dead before the morning. The trembling sisters, sick with fright,
would implore their father not to expose himself to this danger.
But mister Broughty is no timid man, and perhaps he
(30:46):
felt that he could possibly influence his son to some
self restraint more by showing trust in him. Than by
showing fear. The sisters often listened for the report of
a pistol in the dead of the night, till watchful
eye and hearkening ear grew heavy and dull with the
perpetual strain upon their nerves. In the morning's young Bronty
(31:09):
would saunter out, saying, with a drunkard's incontinence of speech,
the poor old man and I have had a terrible
night of it. He does his best, the poor old man,
but it's all over with me. End of section nineteen
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