Brontës (112 page)

Though Anne could write cheerfully enough, her father was in low spirits. He had had a particularly grim few months with Branwell, who had been ‘more than ordinarily troublesome and annoying of late – he leads papa a wretched life'. Branwell had ‘contrived by some means to get more money from the old quarter' and had plunged back into his dissolute habits. In this he seems to have been ably assisted by J.B. Leyland, who had been
commissioned to carve decorations for the new church being built at Oxenhope.
²
This work no doubt provided an excuse for Branwell to visit Leyland in the company of John Brown, who worked closely with the sculptor. The three were soon spending Branwell's money in the Halifax inns. Writing apologetically to Leyland in early January, Branwell struggled unconvincingly to justify his conduct. ‘I was really far enough from well when I saw you last week at Halifax', he protested:

I was not intoxicated when I saw you last, Dear Sir, but I was so much broken down and embittered in heart that it did not need much extra stimulus to make me experience the fainting fit I had, after you left, at the Talbot, and another, more severe at Mr Crowthers – the Commercial Inn – near the Northgate.
³

The accompanying sketch of‘The rescue of the Punch bowl, a scene in the Talbot' belied Branwell's words, depicting John Brown (‘St John in the Wilderness') spilling the punchbowl and scattering glasses as he wrestled the table away from Branwell (‘St Patrick – alias Lord Peter'), Leyland (‘Phidias'), Daniel Sugden (‘Sugdeniensis', the landlord) and ‘Draco the Fire Drake'. Confirming the morbidity of his mood, he drew a self-portrait above this sketch in which he depicted himself naked with a noose around his neck, in the guise of ‘Patrick Reid', the notorious Mirfield murderer who was hanged at York on 9 January 1848.
⁴

Branwell's ‘fainting fits' were almost certainly brought on by his excessive drinking and may have been a symptom of
delirium tremens
. Writing to Ellen at about the same time, Charlotte complained, ‘he is always sick, has two or three times fallen down in fits'. On one notorious occasion, Branwell even managed to set his bedclothes on fire while lying in a drunken stupor. Fortunately, Anne happened to be passing his open door and, realizing the danger, tried to rouse him. When she could not do so she ran to get Emily, who unceremoniously dragged her brother out of his bed, flung him into the corner and the blazing bedclothes into the middle of the room, dashed to the kitchen for a large can of water and doused the flames.
⁵
When his children were small, Patrick had been deeply concerned about the dangers of fire, with candles, oil lamps and open fires in constant use in the house; now, with his son an irresponsible alcoholic, he insisted that in future Branwell should sleep in the same room as himself. In doing this, the seventy-year-old Patrick was making a rod for his own back: he was
‘harassed day and night' by Branwell's ‘intolerable conduct'. As Mrs Gaskell melodramatically described it, possibly on the authority of Martha Brown, the Brontës' servant:

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 morning. The trembling sisters, sick with fright, would implore their father not to expose himself to this danger; but Mr Brontë is no timid man, and perhaps he felt that he could possibly influence his son to some self-restraint, more by showing trust in him than by showing fear … In the mornings young Brontë 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;' (whimpering) ‘it's
her
fault,
her
fault'
⁶

More prosaic, and infinitely more touching, is Patrick's note in the margin of his copy of Graham's
Modern Domestic Medicine
. Marking the section on ‘Insanity, or Mental Derangement' with an asterisk, he wrote: ‘there is also “delirium tremens”, brought on, sometimes, by intoxication – the patient thinks himself haunted; by demons, sees luminous [?substans?], in his imagination, has frequent tremors of the limbs, If intox—n, be left off – this madness, will in general, gradually diminish &c.' Reading the text, he obviously recognized his son's symptoms: ‘unrestrained behaviour … an irritability which urges on the patient in an extravagant pursuit of something real or imaginary, to the ruin of himself, or annoyance of his friends; and ultimately leads him, if opposed in his disordered wishes, to acts of extreme violence'. Under the causes of insanity, Patrick could not fail to notice that the first of the ‘passions and emotions most productive of this complaint' was love. Poignantly, however, and as if taking at least some of the responsibility for his son's mental and physical breakdown on himself, the cause Patrick underlined was ‘hereditary disposition'. All he could do now was pray for his son and repeat Charlotte's hopeless comment: ‘what will be the ultimate end God knows –'.
⁷

As if it was not enough to watch his only son killing himself through drink, Patrick had recently had to face a shocking tragedy involving one of his oldest friends, the Reverend Thomas Brooksbank Charnock, son of the former minister of Haworth. After taking a Master of Arts degree at Oxford, Charnock had returned to reside in the area and, having no parish of his own and being of independent means, he had frequently assisted Patrick by
taking duties for him. At the end of October 1847, aged only forty-seven, he committed suicide by hanging himself in his dressing room. Though his reasons for doing so were not discovered, it was particularly distressing that a clergyman, whose faith in God alone should have given him hope, had been driven to such straits of desperation. Though it was too late to do anything for his old friend now, Patrick did what he could to preserve his dignity in death, taking the burial service in Haworth Church himself instead of delegating it to his curate.
⁸

In the circumstances, it was not surprising that Patrick's spirits were low at the beginning of 1848. Perhaps with the view of cheering him up, Emily and Anne persuaded Charlotte that it was now time to tell their father of her literary success. Reluctant at first, a small incident made up her mind for her: she overheard the postman asking Patrick where one Currer Bell could be living and his reply that there was no such person in the parish. Charlotte wrote in haste to Smith, Elder & Co., informing them that in future it would be better ‘not to put the name of Currer Bell on the outside of communications; if directed simply to Miss Brontë they will be more likely to reach their destination safely. Currer Bell is not known in this district and I have no wish that he should become known.'
⁹
Then, taking a copy of
Jane Eyre
, some newspaper reviews and her courage into her hands, she ‘marched into his study' and had the following conversation with him:

‘Papa I've been writing a book.' ‘Have you my dear?' and he went on reading. ‘But Papa I want you to look at it.' ‘I can't be troubled to read MS.' ‘But it is printed.' ‘I hope you have not been involving yourself in any such silly expense' ‘I think I shall gain some money by it. May I read you some reviews.
¹⁰

In this matter-of-fact way, Patrick learnt that his quiet, reclusive, thirty-one-year-old daughter was ‘Currer Bell', the literary sensation of London. As Mrs Gaskell reported it to a friend after hearing the story directly from Charlotte herself, Patrick's reaction was equally subdued. He invited his daughters to tea the same afternoon and informed them: ‘Children, Charlotte has been writing a book – and I think it is a better one than I expected.'
¹¹
Though Patrick may not have immediately recognized the brilliance of
Jane Eyre
, there is manifold evidence of his pride and joy in Charlotte's achievement which was to be the comfort of his declining years. Displaying his quiet sense of humour, he may even have passed on the book
to one of his clerical friends whose daughters had been at the Clergy Daughters' School, for Charlotte reported to Williams:

I saw an elderly clergyman reading it the other day, and had the satisfaction of hearing him exclaim ‘Why – they have got – school, and Mr – here, I declare! and Miss – (naming the originals of Lowood, Mr Brocklehurst and Miss Temple) He had known them all: I wondered whether he would recognize the portraits, and was gratified to find that he did and that moreover he pronounced them faithful and just – he said too that Mr – (Brocklehurst) ‘deserved the chastisement he had got.'
¹²

The ‘elderly clergyman' is likely to have been Thomas Crowther, vicar of Cragg Vale, who had sent his daughters to the Clergy Daughters' School in the early 1830s and later made ‘disparaging remarks' about it to Arthur Nicholls. With barely concealed glee, Charlotte noted that though her ‘elderly clergyman' had recognized her characters, he had not recognized ‘Currer Bell': ‘What author would be without the advantage of being able to walk invisible?' she declared with no small satisfaction. ‘One is thereby enabled to keep such a quiet mind.'
¹³

Charlotte was well aware that she could not afford to rest on her laurels for long, however, and for some time had been pondering the problem of her next work. Wisely, in view of her preferred method of writing through numerous drafts, she rejected her publishers' suggestion of a serial and decided on ‘another venture in the 3 vol: novel form'.
¹⁴
Finding a subject was more difficult and she discussed the problem at length with both William Smith Williams and George Henry Lewes, an author and reviewer who, somewhat self-importantly, had written to Currer Bell to say that he intended to review
Jane Eyre
. In so doing, he had warned her to ‘beware of Melodrame' and ‘adhere to the real', suggesting that she ought not to ‘stray far from the ground of experience'. Charlotte had replied by telling him the cautionary tale of
The Professor
; which was declared by all to be ‘original, faithful to Nature' but was rejected seven times on the grounds that ‘such a work would not sell'. The experience had taught her the importance of allowing the imagination free rein: ‘is not the real experience of each individual very limited?' she demanded:

and if a writer dwells upon that solely or principally is he not in danger of repeating himself, and also of becoming an egotist?

Then too, Imagination is a strong, restless faculty which claims to be heard and exercised, are we to be quite deaf to her cry and insensate to her struggles?
¹⁵

Having read Lewes' reviews of
Jane Eyre
, Charlotte wrote to thank him for his generous treatment, adding an explanation for her defence of the imaginative over the real.

I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake new works: my stock of materials is not abundant but very slender, and besides neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer …

If I ever
do
write another book, I think I will have nothing of what you call ‘melodrame'; I
think
so, but I am not sure. I
think
too I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Austen's ‘mild eyes'; ‘to finish more, and be more subdued'; but neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or at least, when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them which becomes their master, which will have its own way, putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature; new moulding characters, giving unthought-of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new ones. Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can we indeed counteract it?
¹⁶

The acclaimed author of
Jane Eyre
was still at heart the same girl who had once written, ‘I'm just going to write because I cannot help it', and whose Angrian dreams had been so vivid and compulsive that they had appeared more real than her Roe Head surroundings. Curiously, until Lewes suggested it, Charlotte had never read any Jane Austen. She then read
Pride and Prejudice
, famously declaring it

An accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden with neat borders and delicate flowers – but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy – no open country – no fresh air – no blue hill – no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen in their elegant but confined houses.
¹⁷

While Charlotte realized, as Lewes did not, that Jane Austen's style and tone were the absolute antithesis of her own, she nevertheless also recognized his
criticism of her tendency to melodrama and her ‘untrue' pictures of high society. It was, after all, what many of the reviewers had found fault with and Williams himself advised her to avoid. Thanking him for his literary advice, Charlotte told Williams that she kept his letters and referred ‘not unfrequently' to them. ‘Circumstances may render it impracticable for me to act up to the letter of what you counsel,' she told him,

but I think I comprehend the spirit of your precepts – and trust I shall be able to profit thereby. Details – Situations \Which/ I do not understand, and cannot personally inspect, I would not for the world meddle with, lest I should make even a more ridiculous mess of the matter than Mrs Trollope did in her ‘Factory Boy' – besides – not one feeling, on any subject, public or private, will I ever affect that I do not really experience –
¹⁸