Authors: Justine Picardie
Tags: #Biographical, #Women authors; English, #Biographical fiction, #Fiction, #Forgery of manuscripts, #Woman authorship; English, #General, #Biography
Daphne (7 page)
But had he left his promised novel behind him? Daphne turned to the second book that Symington had sent, feeling a surge of hope as she examined it. She traced the forefinger of her right hand over the gold embossed typeface on the front cover. 'And The Weary Are At Rest' . . . it seemed a resonant title, given that this was a posthumous publication, though Daphne doubted that Branwell was at rest; his voice that emerged from the books was far too capricious for that. This one looked impressive - very handsomely bound in black leather - but if she was to be entirely honest with herself, the story seemed fragmentary and muddled in places.
Yet there was much that was intriguing within it, in particular Branwell's hero, his Angrian alter ego, Alexander Percy, the Earl of Northangerland, who embarked on an illicit love affair with a married woman, Maria Thurston of Dark-wall Hall. And surely Darkwall had something of Wuthering Heights about it? For a moment, Daphne's heart leapt, wondering if this story could perhaps have been an early outline of the later novel, and Maria and Percy the forerunners of Cathy and Heathcliff? Branwell told Leyland that he was working on his novel in September 1845, when Emily might have already been working on Wuthering Heights, for as far as Daphne could tell, Emily's book was finished the following summer. But could her ideas have overlapped or mingled with those of her brother? Branwell's plot was uncertain - almost non-existent at times - and his story seemed to have no linear narrative, no rational beginning or middle or end; nothing was resolved within it, but instead left scattered and random, yet even so, Daphne could not read it without being reminded again of Wuthering Heights, with Heathcliff clearly prefigured by Branwell's Northangerland. And as Daphne neared the end of 'And The Weary Are At Rest', she also found herself comparing it with Branwell's story of his affair with Mrs Robinson; for all of these tales seemed tangled together, in a sprawling, imaginative legend that was a continuation of Northanger-land's role in the childhood landscape of Angria.
It was twilight by the time Daphne finished reading the books, the rooks no longer circling above the trees, dusk mingling with the shadowy woods, and her exhilarating delight of the morning had dissipated with the setting sun, fading with the copper and crimson pathway that trembled and then vanished across the sea. Branwell's life was too gloomy for unadulterated celebration, too frustrated, and frustrating, and it heightened the familiar sense of foreboding that often descended upon Daphne as night fell in Menabilly, though she told herself that she embraced the darkness, that it was as fruitful as the light. But even so, she had a strange sense of being wedded to Branwell: they were in this together, in the shadowlands, for better, for worse. She vowed, in some unspoken way, that she would try to do her best by him - to show that he had a hand in
Wuthering Heights
- and perhaps reveal that he was more sinned against than sinning, for there was the intriguing matter of the forged signatures on Branwell's manuscripts that she should pursue. But she knew, also, that she must see him clearly; that this was the only way forward, for she must tell the truth, or hope that it would find a way of being told.
Daphne rose from her desk and left the hut, feeling stiff, walking slowly across the garden to the house, knowing that she should begin to make arrangements to return to London, to visit Tommy at the nursing home, and then bring him home to convalesce, at last, as soon as the doctors said he was fit to travel. There were bats flying above her head, and an owl that swooped, white-winged, towards the trees, but the moon was obscured by the clouds, and she could not see the stars, they all remained hidden.
Rebecca was quiet, also, as she had been throughout the day, pushed aside by Branwell; but Daphne sensed her, resentful and ignored, in the darkness at the edge of the woods, a vague outline against the rustling leaves and the pale, beseeching branches of the beech trees. 'Don't sulk,' said Daphne, quietly. Rebecca would have to wait, and so would Branwell, put aside for a little while; though what would they make of each other, should their paths ever cross, in the forested estates of Menabilly? Daphne laughed, and then felt, suddenly, a flash of elation. There need be no more evasion or invention. Tommy must be persuaded to understand the truth about their marriage, about its past, as well as its present tribulations. And from that, the future would at last become clear.
Menabilly,
Par,
Cornwall
20th July 1957
Dear Mr Symington,
Thank you very much indeed for your most interesting letter, and for sending me the two books. I am delighted to have been given the opportunity to add them to my library, and I enclose a cheque for £4, as requested.
As you can imagine, I have been studying them closely. Several things puzzle me. 'And The Weary Are At Rest' seems somewhat disjointed, and though it is generally held to have been written in the autumn of 1845, after Branwell returned from Thorp Green, several parts of it appear to me akin to earlier fragments of the youthful Angrian tales. I should very much value your opinion on this matter, as you have laboured longer on the juvenile works of the Brontës than anyone else, and I therefore believe your judgement to be the most worthwhile and authoritative, amongst the living, at any rate (but if only the dead could speak, to guide us through this mystery . . .)
Frankly, it seems to me that other Brontë scholars appear to be so besotted with Charlotte and Emily that it suits them to believe that Branwell never wrote anything worthwhile, yet when one carefully examines the lesser known stories and poems in the Shakespeare Head volume of Misc. Works, several that are attributed to Emily seem very much like Branwell's in style and content. There would, of course, be a scream of protest if one were to dare to suggest such a thing! But I wonder if Emily and Branwell worked more closely with one another than is generally recognised, particularly in the years from 1837 to 1839, when they spent a great deal of time alone at home together, while Charlotte and Anne were living away from Haworth? Certainly, there appears to be an overlap in the characters and plots that they invented for Gondal and Angria, and perhaps in later stories and poems, as well.
As for your intriguing references to forged signatures appearing on Branwell's manuscripts: naturally, I will treat what you tell me as being confidential, and you can count on my discretion, I assure you. But my mind has been running over this, and I wonder if you might tell me more about the manuscripts that were tampered with?
Presumably, it would have been profitable to dispose of the juvenile Brontë manuscripts for a good price to wealthy private collectors in the US, especially if they bore the signatures of Charlotte or Emily?
It is presumptuous of me to ask you so many questions, I know, but you are the only person that I can share this with. I wonder if you would consider selling me any more of the books or manuscripts that you possess in your fine Brontë library? I live so far away from Haworth that I cannot make the journey there as often as I wish, and commitments at home keep me here, so I am forced to rely on borrowing Brontë literature from the London Library.
Incidentally, have you ever met the widow of the late Clement Shorter? She married again, and lives down in Cornwall, where she is now a Mrs Long. I called on her earlier this year, to ask if she had any Brontë letters or manuscripts still in her possession. But she was most evasive, and gave neither a firm yes nor a no. I wonder if she has any treasures hidden in an attic. The manuscript of
Wuthering Heights
is bound to be produced one of these days, and imagine what it might reveal!
Excuse this long letter. I do look forward to hearing from you again soon,
Yours sincerely,
CHAPTER FIVE
Newlay Grove, July 1957
Beatrice had gone out to visit a friend in Leeds for lunch and would not return until the evening. 'It's as quiet as the grave in this house,' she said just before she left, looking accusingly at her husband. She did not call him Alex, his familiar boyhood name; these days, no one ever did, he realised, not even himself, except in his signature, and only then on occasional private letters, such as the one he wrote to Daphne du Maurier. If he addressed himself - which he did, from time to time, silently, in his study, it was as Symington. 'Press on, Symington, press on,' he told himself, half-encouraging, half-scolding.
Beatrice seemed annoyed with him today, as she was yesterday, not only because of the extra housework that she must do in the absence of sufficient servants, along with the other cost-cutting measures imposed by Symington, but perhaps because he avoided discussing with her his letters from Daphne du Maurier; at least, in no more detail than their original, brief conversation, when he told her the novelist had written to him concerning Branwell Brontë. When the second letter arrived from Cornwall this morning, Beatrice looked questioningly at him, having seen the postmark on the envelope, but Symington simply tucked it into his pocket, where it remained until he was in the safety of his locked study.
She's sharp, this one, thought Mr Symington, re-reading Daphne's letter again; for she appeared to have picked up on something that he took rather longer to realise all those years ago: that the story he sent her was incomplete. But what she might not yet know was that it was never more than a series of bits and pieces, inexpertly fitted together first by Branwell himself, in a futile attempt to form an entire novel, and then reassembled, without much more success, by Symington and Wise, and their colleague (Wise's friend, Symington's enemy) Mr Clement Shorter.
And she was asking the right questions, too; not only enquiring as to whether she might buy more manuscripts, but also making discreet moves to draw him out on the subject of Shorter. 'Incidentally,' she'd written in her final paragraph, but Symington knew that nothing in her letter was incidental and that Daphne must be very serious indeed to have tracked down Shorter's widow. Not that the woman would give anything away about the mysteries concerning her former husband and the Brontë manuscripts . . . why, the old rogue died in 1926, only a couple of years or so after he had introduced Symington to the great Wise.
Symington poured himself a large glass of whisky from the bottle he kept hidden from Beatrice in a locked desk drawer, and tried to navigate a way through the facts that he must explain to Daphne. 'The facts, stick to the facts,' he muttered to himself. But it was so hard to know the exact truth of the matter. He wrote down a phrase in his notebook in capital letters. WHERE THE TRUTH LIES. It looked like a title for a book, he thought, and not a bad one at that. 'Press on, Symington,' he repeated to himself, taking a sheet of his headed paper, the address printed in a neat black font. 'Get on with the task in hand.'
Dear Miss du Maurier
Thank you for your letter, and the cheque, which arrived today. I must say, it is an unexpected delight to discover that another writer is now taking so close an interest in Branwell after all these years of his neglect. I feel certain that we would have much to discuss, were we to meet.
You are quite right about the poems amibuted to Emily being by Branwell, and I did get a great protest some thirty years ago when I dared to say so.
He underlined 'great protest', and paused, uncertain for a moment, trying to remember where and when, exactly, this episode had taken place, and over which poems the arguments raged; but he could not remember the details, they slipped away from him, though the memory still felt raw to him, the recollection of being unjustly attacked and hounded and denounced. He swallowed a little more whisky, and gripped his pen tighter.
Forgive me if this information is already familiar to you, but perhaps I might provide some background to the Brontë manuscripts in my possession, and those elsewhere, as well? As you may already know, Mr Clement Shorter, like Mr T. J. Wise, was a faithful member of the Brontë Society. Indeed, when the Brontë Museum was opened in Haworth, in the closing years of the last century, its collection consisted largely of Brontë relics and manuscripts lent to the Society by Mr Shorter and Mr Wise.
Now, you might well ask, how did these gentlemen come across such precious treasures? Mr Wise was an astonishingly fervent and dedicated bibliophile
-
the owner of one of the most valuable collections of literary manuscripts and book in the country, which he left, after his death in 1937, to the British Museum, where it still resides, in the Library. He had the most uncommon flair for hunting down the rarest of original manuscripts by Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Browning and many more
-
and in 1895, it was at his behest, and his expense, that Mr Shorter (a journalist and the editor of the Illustrated London News, but an avid book collector at heart, like Mr Wise) travelled to Ireland to the home of Arthur Bell Nicholls, one-time curate of Haworth, and formerly Charlotte Brontë's husband, for a few happy months, until her untimely death in 1855.
Mr Shorter discovered Charlotte's widower at a moment when Mr Nicholls was prepared to talk, not only about his former wife and their life together, but also about the possibility of selling a large number of Brontë manuscripts and letters, which he had preserved for so many years, including their extraordinary childhood tales of Angria and Gondal, those little books written in a microscopic hand, as if for Lilliput. Mr Shorter bought the entire haul for four hundred pounds on behalf of Mr Wise; Mr Shorter retained the copyright of the material for future publication, though the ownership of the manuscripts themselves stayed with Mr Wise. As you can imagine, this treasure trove was already priceless, though we must be thankful that Mr Shorter rescued it, before Mr Nicholls consigned it to the flames of his fireplace, which I believe had been his original intention. That, at any rate, was the story Mr Shorter told me.
Mr Wise retained some of these precious manuscripts, but not all of them, particularly not those belonging to Branwell, in whom he had no great interest, unfortunately. Some were sold soon afterwards
-
many were scattered to collectors across America, where Charlotte was already widely admired, unlike her unhappy brother. In the years to come, I purchased a number of Brontë manuscripts on my own behalf from Mr Wise to add to my treasured collection, and others for the late Lord Brotherton, the esteemed Lord Mayor of Leeds and MP for Wakefield, who had employed me in 1923 as librarian to his private collection (which came to be known, under my stewardship, as the Bodleian of the North).
Sadly, these friends of mine died many years ago: Mr Shorter in 1926, soon after we had worked together on the two volumes of Branwell material, the story and letters that I enclosed with my last letter. Then my great patron, Lord Brotherton, died in 1930, bequeathing his collection to Leeds University, on the understanding that I was to care for it as librarian, and Mr Wise, as I have already mentioned, passed away in 1937. So I have struggled on alone, and my task has been a particularly arduous one, especially when it comes to restoring Branwell's reputation to the wider world. Sometimes, it feels as if I, too, have been adrift in Angria
. . .
As you may know, I am now approaching retirement, and although my researches and writing activities will continue, of course
-
for I could never fully retire from a lifetime of passionate commitment to uncovering the real truth about Branwell Brontë
-
the time
has
come to begin disposing of certain parts of my library, into the best possible hands.
Should you wish to acquire further items, perhaps you might let me know where your interest lies?
Symington decided this was a good place to end his letter, for the time being. He was struck, as before, by the power of his phrasing; but even so, he felt suddenly very tired. He thought, briefly, of his five sons - all of them grown men now - and how he had admonished them to keep quiet when they were boys while he was working, working, working, for Lord Brotherton and Wise and Shorter, working for Branwell, also. Did any of them understand how hard it had been for him? His first wife, the boys' mother, had died in 1927, three days after their twelfth wedding anniversary. Poor Elsie - Elsie Fitzgerald Flower, the daughter of a Pocklington butcher - though Symington still remembered how betrayed he had felt by her when she passed on and left him with five motherless children. Elsie had called him Alex, not like Beatrice, who called him nothing, now.
It had not always been this way. Beatrice arrived at his house as a servant, soon after Elsie's death, to work for him as a housekeeper and nanny. She knew what it was to be bereaved - her first husband had died two years previously - and it seemed natural that they should come together; indeed, they were married in June 1928, less than a year after Elsie's death, which caused some tongues to wag in Newlay Grove.
But their lives were sweet, for a time, thought Symington, for all her sourness now. He was earning a handsome salary from Lord Brotherton, who was generous, as well as rich, and also making a good deal of extra income, buying and selling books and manuscripts as a private dealer, following on in his father's footsteps in the trade, though without his father's shop-front, nothing as vulgar as that, Symington knew how to be discreet. There was money, then, for a cook and a maid and a gardener, even a chauffeur to drive them about in their big car; there was a manicured lawn tennis court in the back garden, and a great aviary full of exotic birds, much prized by Symington, their feathered plumage bright in the gloom of the cage. And he owned a handsome holiday house by the seaside in Filey, close enough to visit for weekends; and another house acquired next door in the Grove, a smaller one, but necessary to contain Symington's expanding library and collections of birds' eggs and fossils and stamps, and much else besides. Oh, and there were garden parties at Lord Brotherton's mansion, invitations to tea there, and expeditions to Haworth; more and more of those, after Symington and his employer (no, not his employer, his patron) joined the Brontë Society in 1923. Those were the good years, when doors opened wide to him, when everything seemed possible. He became librarian and curator for the Brontë Parsonage Museum, as well as shouldering his responsibilities for Lord Brotherton, and was also an assiduous editor for Shorter and Wise: he did all their hard work for them, and generously let them share the credit.
But no good deed goes unpunished. That was what his mother had said to him, and she was right. Was that why she left him so little in her will, when she died a decade ago? Just the defunct lead type and blocks from her father's printing press? Was she still trying to make some sort of point? Symington reached for his bottle of whisky to pour himself another glass, and found, to his surprise, that it was already empty. 'Press on, Symington,' he said to himself. 'Better press on.'
He closed his eyes and considered, briefly, what it might be to drink a little ink, now that the whisky was finished. There was ink in his blood, after all: his father a book dealer, his mother the daughter of a printer, it was his inheritance. Symington imagined sipping the ink, blue-black, and words filling his mouth as he swallowed it, poetry slipping out between his lips, wonderful sonnets, issuing as easily as a song. But his mouth was dry, like his hands, like the yellowing, faded manuscripts on his desk. He felt suddenly angry with all of them: with Elsie and his sons, who cared nothing for Branwell; with Beatrice, who thought only of herself; with Brotherton and Wise and Shorter, who grabbed all the glory; with his enemies at the Brontë Society and at Leeds University, who treated him disgracefully; and most of all, with Branwell himself. He considered picking up his magnifying glass, yet again, and examining Branwell's impossible, illegible writing; but he knew that nothing would have changed, that Branwell remained elusive, mocking, enraging. There was a time, soon after the manuscripts first came into his hands, when he believed Branwell would emerge out of the pages that had been hidden away for so long; a papery-white ghost, exhumed from the darkness, yet with a clear voice, grateful to be rescued by Symington, happy to step out of his coffin and into the light. But Branwell was obstinate, ungrateful, perversely incomprehensible . . . and he gave nothing away, thought Symington. He gave nothing.