Romancing Miss Bronte (39 page)

When a batch of newspaper clippings arrived from Cornhill, Charlotte would wait until the evening to bring it to her father, and she and Ellen would settle in his parlor for tea. Ellen thus was included in the tight circle of Currer Bell’s intimates—which was quite another thing from being Charlotte Brontë’s friend. With her father’s eyesight deteriorating once again, Charlotte simply edited out any negative passages as she read the reviews to him. It was the way she had always dealt with him.

She was understandably vexed when Mr. Grant swooped down on them one evening during tea, sounding the alarm of a caustic review in the
Guardian
.

“Have you not seen it, Miss Brontë?”

“I have not, sir.”

“Well then, you must inquire immediately. Perhaps your publisher has withheld it in order to avoid wounding you.”

“Mr. Grant, I am indeed indebted to my publishers for all I know of the favorable notices. The hostile notices I leave to the care of my friends, and they never fail to disappoint me. Come, please, sir, do sit down and have a cup of tea and tell us what you know.”

“Well, I’ve not seen the review myself, but Mrs. Grant’s cousin who resides in London read it and was most shocked. Here, I have her letter.” He reached into his hat, withdrew a note, and unfolded it. Charlotte threw an uneasy glance at her father, who sat rigid with his mouth frozen in a downward thrust.

“She was kind enough to copy the phrases of interest. She says the reviewer
calls the book stern and masculine and says that your—or, rather, Currer Bell’s—vocation is in depicting ‘suppressed emotion and unreturned affection’ …”

At this Charlotte recoiled inwardly. She felt her cheeks grow warm, but she was intent on keeping her smile pleasant and cool.

“… and, let’s see—where is it—oh, yes, he complains of a ‘cynical and bitter spirit’ and a lack of refinement. And this—this most outrageous insult of all: he says, ‘Lucy Snowe herself is Jane Eyre over again; both are reflections of Currer Bell; and for the reasons above given, though we admire the abilities of these young ladies, we should respectfully decline (ungallant critics that we are) the honor of their intimate acquaintance.’”

He folded the letter and tucked it back into his hat, his chest pumped with indignation.

“This is an unmanly insult, Miss Brontë,” he huffed, “and I shall be glad to write a scorching—yes, scorching—letter to the editor on your behalf.”

Charlotte could feel Ellen’s embarrassment, and a quick glance at her father noted the restrained anger in his jaw. She rushed in soothingly: “Mr. Grant, please, do let me pour you a cup of tea. We have an extra cup right here. Do sit down.”

He pulled up a chair and Charlotte said, “That was ever so considerate of you to alert me to this notice, sir, but I assure you, I know the critic in question, and he has every right to lisp his opinion of Currer Bell’s female characters. I do forgive him very freely—but I assure you I am not in the least perturbed at not meeting his standard for an intimate acquaintance. Now, your tea. I trust you’ll find it sweet enough.”

They had found her weakness—this issue about loving and being loved in return—but she had bared her soul bravely and willingly for all of them to see, because she believed it was important to reveal the truth about women’s hearts. So it was devastating when a woman with whom she had forged a fragile friendship revealed herself so utterly insensitive.

When Charlotte had stayed at Harriet Martineau’s home in Ambleside,
she had observed with admiration the woman’s vigor and strength, watched her rise every morning at four and swim in the freezing lake waters before taking to her desk. As painful as it had been, she had listened with quiet tolerance to Miss Martineau’s atheistic views. For her own edification, Charlotte had sincerely implored Miss Martineau to be a truthful critic of her work. So when she received Miss Martineau’s letter she was expecting candid opinions, from one writer to another; but she did not anticipate this: “The merits are downright wonderful. As for the faults, I do deeply regret that your mind seems to be full of the subject of one passion—love. I think there is unconscionably too much of it (giving an untrue picture of life), and speaking with the frankness you desire,
I do not like its kind
.”

Then, the very next day, she received from Cornhill a packet containing a review in the
Daily News
, also written by Harriet Martineau:

After weeks of tortured reflection, Charlotte wrote a brief reply:

V
illette
’s success kept Charlotte’s spirits high that spring. The reviews continued to pour in, nearly all of them eulogizing in part, and with most criticism directed toward the book rather than her personal character. But in the absence of the old irritating speculation about her gender and identity, she was now forced to endure a different, even more cruel scrutiny—the kind that Mr. Grant had seized upon so enthusiastically. She had boldly dared to examine the psychology of a woman’s unhappiness—and everyone knew that this woman was herself.

As it became evident that
Villette
was based on her years of study in Brussels, readers were curious to draw the connections between her novel and her life. In literary salons and over London dinner tables, through correspondence moving from one house to another across the country, those who had made her acquaintance began to speculate about her past and, above all, the identity of Monsieur Paul Emanuel.

To Lily Gaskell she had offered glimpses into her life in Brussels, but to no one had she ever whispered an intimation of love. It was quite unnecessary, since it was all there in the novel for everyone to read.

She could not know—indeed, it was a blessing that she would never know—how transparent she had made herself.

“Lily, you know George Smith. Is it true that he was the inspiration for Graham Bretton?”

“I’m sure he was.”

“Is the portrait true to life?”

“Very much like him.”

“What about that fiery little professor? He scolds her so abominably. Should you have fallen in love with him?”

“Well, one can see how Lucy Snowe did, when he alone had the power to see anything of her heart.”

“I do feel almost a sense of reverence for one who is capable of so much deep feeling.”

“Is she as sad in person?”

Elizabeth Gaskell put aside her embroidery and looked up at the Winkworth sisters. “I think she works off a great deal of her sadness into her writing and out of her life. I hope to have her to visit this summer. You will get a glimpse of her yourself.” She added with a smile. “Be forewarned. She does have a wicked sense of humor.”

Inevitably, men read her differently.

After finishing
Villette
, Thackeray sent off a note to the beautiful socialite with whom he had recently fallen in love:

Heger hung like a shadow in Charlotte’s thoughts during these months. Writing him into Paul Emanuel had not erased the pain, although that had dulled over the years. There had been profound satisfaction in reshaping her life so that she might have him and then ultimately free herself from him through his death. She hoped that she might be able to move on without him in the next book, but she had her doubts. She could not imagine the face of a lover that did not look like him and sound like him, and make her feel the way she had felt with him.

Easter arrived and Charlotte was kept busy entertaining visiting parsons and presiding over refreshments and local teas. She had been relieved to hear that Arthur had withdrawn his application to the missionary society and had found himself a curacy, but she did not know where. He and her father never spoke anymore. Arthur had withdrawn ever deeper into a solitary life. He still performed his duties, the marriages and burials, but in such a frozen and gloomy manner that the villagers and his fellow curates took notice and began to shun him. If Mr. Grant or any other clergyman called hoping to cheer him, he would scarcely speak; try as they might to gain his confidence, he would tell them nothing. His stubborn silence alienated his friends but inspired Charlotte’s respect, and she fervently wished that her father would show the same restraint. Flossy still went to his lodgings, and he would come out and take the dog on lonely walks into the moors. He would cross the tops to see Sutcliffe Sowden, but that was all. No one else seemed to like him anymore.

“He looks ill and miserable,” she wrote to Ellen.

The wind, sweetened with the smell of moorland grasses, whipped at Arthur’s back as he made his way along the rocky path toward home. He had been out to visit Mrs. Binns, who had never regained her health after the birth of her sixth child, and Arthur suspected she would not survive. The family had always been kind to him, and he had wanted to see her and pray with her one last time. Night had already fallen when he left the farm, but the moors were flooded with silver moonlight so that he could see far beyond the rays cast by his lantern.

Lacking the means to keep a horse, Arthur walked out of necessity, but he was a man of strong constitution with the endurance to tread the ragged land, and he relished the physical challenge. Even on cold days he would dawdle, taking time to marvel at the exposed roots of some massive elder, or an intriguing outcrop of purplish rock, or the shifting shadows cast by clouds racing over the frozen moortops. He found in these moments a deep fulfillment quite outside the realm of his religion. He had no inclinations toward botany, nor art, nor poetry; he did not have the education to examine the world scientifically or contemplate it through verse. He was quite simply a simple man in awe of creation, and
that God had not graced him with a particular talent by which to interpret it all did not mean that it was any less wonderful to him.

He had often pondered sharing these small delights with a wife. Had he accepted a living elsewhere, in a more civilized part of the country, he would perhaps have been married by now. But for reasons he could not clearly articulate he had remained here, and as the years had passed, he had grown firmly attached to this place.

And to Charlotte.

He passed down the narrow snicket between moss-grown walls and followed the path through the graveyard to the church. In his despondency he had been lax in supervising the altar preparations. Such negligence was uncharacteristic of him. The following morning, on Whitsunday, he would take his last communion service in Haworth, and he intended to perform it with all due reverence and dignity. Arthur firmly believed that the form of things mattered and that if the form broke down, the heart would be vulnerable to temptation.