Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (613 page)

‘Well may it be said that fact is often stranger than fiction!  The coincidence struck me as equally unfortunate and extraordinary.  Of course I knew nothing whatever of Mr. Thackeray’s domestic concerns, he existed for me only as an author.  Of all regarding his personality, station, connections, private history, I was, and am still in a great measure, totally in the dark; but I am
very very
sorry that my inadvertent blunder should have made his name and affairs a subject for common gossip.

‘The very fact of his not complaining at all and addressing me with such kindness, notwithstanding the pain and annoyance I must have caused him, increases my chagrin.  I could not half express my regret to him in my answer, for I was restrained by the consciousness that that regret was just worth nothing at all — quite valueless for healing the mischief I had done.

‘Can you tell me anything more on this subject? or can you guess in what degree the unlucky coincidence would affect him — whether it would pain him much and deeply; for he says so little himself on the topic, I am at a loss to divine the exact truth — but I fear.

‘Do not think, my dear sir, from my silence respecting the advice you have, at different times, given me for my future literary guidance, that I am heedless of, or indifferent to, your kindness.  I keep your letters and not unfrequently refer to them.  Circumstances may render it impracticable for me to act up to the letter of what you counsel, 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.  Yet though I must limit my sympathies; though my observation cannot penetrate where the very deepest political and social truths are to be learnt; though many doors of knowledge which are open for you are for ever shut for me; though I must guess and calculate and grope my way in the dark, and come to uncertain conclusions unaided and alone where such writers as Dickens and Thackeray, having access to the shrine and image of Truth, have only to go into the temple, lift the veil a moment, and come out and say what they have seen — yet with every disadvantage, I mean still, in my own contracted way, to do my best.  Imperfect my best will be, and poor, and compared with the works of the true masters — of that greatest modern master Thackeray in especial (for it is him I at heart reverence with all my strength) — it will be trifling, but I trust not affected or counterfeit. — Believe me, my dear sir, yours with regard and respect,

‘Currer Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
March
29
th
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — The notice from the
Church of England Quarterly Review
is not on the whole a bad one.  True, it condemns the tendency of
Jane Eyre
, and seems to think Mr. Rochester should have been represented as going through the mystic process of “regeneration” before any respectable person could have consented to believe his contrition for his past errors sincere; true, also, that it casts a doubt on Jane’s creed, and leaves it doubtful whether she was Hindoo, Mahommedan, or infidel.  But notwithstanding these eccentricities, it is a conscientious notice, very unlike that in the
Mirror
, for instance, which seemed the result of a feeble sort of spite, whereas this is the critic’s real opinion: some of the ethical and theological notions are not according to his system, and he disapproves of them.

‘I am glad to hear that Mr. Lewes’s new work is soon to appear, and pleased also to learn that Messrs. Smith & Elder are the publishers.  Mr. Lewes mentioned in the last note I received from him that he had just finished writing his
 
new novel, and I have been on the look out for the advertisement of its appearance ever since.  I shall long to read it, if it were only to get a further insight into the author’s character.  I read
Ranthorpe
with lively interest — there was much true talent in its pages.  Two thirds of it I thought excellent, the latter part seemed more hastily and sketchily written.

‘I trust Miss Kavanagh’s work will meet with the success that, from your account, I am certain she and it deserve.  I think I have met with an outline of the facts on which her tale is founded in some periodical,
Chambers’ Journal
I believe.  No critic, however rigid, will find fault with “the tendency” of her work, I should think.

‘I will tell you why you cannot fully sympathise with the French, or feel any firm confidence in their future movements: because too few of them are Lamartines, too many Ledru Rollins.  That, at least, is my reason for watching their proceedings with more dread than hope.  With the Germans it is different: to their rational and justifiable efforts for liberty one can heartily wish well.

‘It seems, as you say, as if change drew near England too.  She is divided by the sea from the lands where it is making thrones rock, but earthquakes roll lower than the ocean, and we know neither the day nor the hour when the tremor and heat, passing beneath our island, may unsettle and dissolve its foundations.  Meantime, one thing is certain, all will in the end work together for good.

‘You mention Thackeray and the last number of
Vanity Fair
.  The more I read Thackeray’s works the more certain I am that he stands alone — alone in his sagacity, alone in his truth, alone in his feeling (his feeling, though he makes no noise about it, is about the most genuine that ever lived on a printed page), alone in his power, alone in his simplicity, alone in his self-control.  Thackeray is a Titan, so strong that he can afford to perform with calm the most herculean feats; there is the charm and majesty of repose in his greatest efforts;
he
borrows nothing from fever, his is never the energy of delirium — his energy is sane
 
energy, deliberate energy, thoughtful energy.  The last number of
Vanity Fair
proves this peculiarly.  Forcible, exciting in its force, still more impressive than exciting, carrying on the interest of the narrative in a flow, deep, full, resistless, it is still quiet — as quiet as reflection, as quiet as memory; and to me there are parts of it that sound as solemn as an oracle.  Thackeray is never borne away by his own ardour — he has it under control.  His genius obeys him — it is his servant, it works no fantastic changes at its own wild will, it must still achieve the task which reason and sense assign it, and none other.  Thackeray is unique.  I
can
say no more, I
will
say no less. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
March
2
nd
, 1849.

‘Your generous indignation against the
Quarterly
touched me.  But do not trouble yourself to be angry on Currer Bell’s account; except where the May-Fair gossip and Mr. Thackeray’s name were brought in he was never stung at all, but he certainly thought that passage and one or two others quite unwarrantable.  However, slander without a germ of truth is seldom injurious: it resembles a rootless plant and must soon wither away.

‘The critic would certainly be a little ashamed of herself if she knew what foolish blunders she had committed, if she were aware how completely Mr. Thackeray and Currer Bell are strangers to each other, that
Jane Eyre
was written before the author had seen one line of
Vanity Fair
, or that if C. Bell had known that there existed in Mr. Thackeray’s private circumstances the shadow of a reason for fancying personal allusion, so far from dedicating the book to that gentleman, he would have regarded such a step as ill-judged, insolent, and indefensible, and would have shunned it accordingly. — Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
August
14
th
, 1848.

‘My dear Sir, — My sister Anne thanks you, as well as myself, for your just critique on
Wildfell Hall
.  It appears to me
 
that your observations exactly hit both the strong and weak points of the book, and the advice which accompanies them is worthy of, and shall receive, our most careful attention.

‘The first duty of an author is, I conceive, a faithful allegiance to Truth and Nature; his second, such a conscientious study of Art as shall enable him to interpret eloquently and effectively the oracles delivered by those two great deities.  The Bells are very sincere in their worship of Truth, and they hope to apply themselves to the consideration of Art, so as to attain one day the power of speaking the language of conviction in the accents of persuasion; though they rather apprehend that whatever pains they take to modify and soften, an abrupt word or vehement tone will now and then occur to startle ears polite, whenever the subject shall chance to be such as moves their spirits within them.

‘I have already told you, I believe, that I regard Mr. Thackeray as the first of modern masters, and as the legitimate high priest of Truth; I study him accordingly with reverence.  He, I see, keeps the mermaid’s tail below water, and only hints at the dead men’s bones and noxious slime amidst which it wriggles;
but
, his hint is more vivid than other men’s elaborate explanations, and never is his satire whetted to so keen an edge as when with quiet mocking irony he modestly recommends to the approbation of the public his own exemplary discretion and forbearance.  The world begins to know Thackeray rather better than it did two years or even a year ago, but as yet it only half knows him.  His mind seems to me a fabric as simple and unpretending as it is deep-founded and enduring — there is no meretricious ornament to attract or fix a superficial glance; his great distinction of the genuine is one that can only be fully appreciated with time.  There is something, a sort of “still profound,” revealed in the concluding part of
Vanity Fair
which the discernment of one generation will not suffice to fathom.  A hundred years hence, if he only lives to do justice to himself, he will be better known than he is now.  A hundred years hence, some thoughtful critic, standing and looking down on the deep waters, will see shining through them the pearl without
 
price of a purely original mind — such a mind as the Bulwers, etc., his contemporaries have
not
, — not acquirements gained from study, but the thing that came into the world with him — his inherent genius: the thing that made him, I doubt not, different as a child from other children, that caused him, perhaps, peculiar griefs and struggles in life, and that now makes him as a writer unlike other writers.  Excuse me for recurring to this theme, I do not wish to bore you.

‘You say Mr. Huntingdon reminds you of Mr. Rochester.  Does he?  Yet there is no likeness between the two; the foundation of each character is entirely different.  Huntingdon is a specimen of the naturally selfish, sensual, superficial man, whose one merit of a joyous temperament only avails him while he is young and healthy, whose best days are his earliest, who never profits by experience, who is sure to grow worse the older he grows.  Mr. Rochester has a thoughtful nature and a very feeling heart; he is neither selfish nor self-indulgent; he is ill-educated, misguided; errs, when he does err, through rashness and inexperience: he lives for a time as too many other men live, but being radically better than most men, he does not like that degraded life, and is never happy in it.  He is taught the severe lessons of experience and has sense to learn wisdom from them.  Years improve him; the effervescence of youth foamed away, what is really good in him still remains.  His nature is like wine of a good vintage: time cannot sour, but only mellows him.  Such at least was the character I meant to pourtray.

‘Heathcliffe, again, of
Wuthering Heights
is quite another creation.  He exemplifies the effects which a life of continued injustice and hard usage may produce on a naturally perverse, vindictive, and inexorable disposition.  Carefully trained and kindly treated, the black gipsy-cub might possibly have been reared into a human being, but tyranny and ignorance made of him a mere demon.  The worst of it is, some of his spirit seems breathed through the whole narrative in which he figures: it haunts every moor and glen, and beckons in every fir-tree of the Heights.

‘I must not forget to thank you for the
Examiner
and
Atlas
 
newspapers.  Poor Mr. Newby!  It is not enough that the
Examiner
nails him by both ears to the pillory, but the
Atlas
brands a token of disgrace on his forehead.  This is a deplorable plight, and he makes all matters worse by his foolish little answers to his assailants.  It is a pity that he has no kind friend to suggest to him that he had better not bandy words with the
Examiner
.  His plea about the “printer” was too ludicrous, and his second note is pitiable.  I only regret that the names of Ellis and Acton Bell should perforce be mixed up with his proceedings.  My sister Anne wishes me to say that should she ever write another work, Mr. Smith will certainly have the first offer of the copyright.