Read Romancing Miss Bronte Online
Authors: Juliet Gael
I
n the middle of October, London was just falling back into the rhythms of the social season. George Smith arrived early at his club, hoping to find a quiet spot where he could settle down with his newspapers and skim through the theater and book reviews.
Within half an hour every seat was taken and waiters with bar carts were rattling to and fro with their cargo of tinkling glass. George remained hidden behind his paper for fear of finding himself drawn into conversation and thereby losing a good quarter of an hour listening to Mr. Wheatstone grumble about how Certain Members helped themselves unfairly to the rice pudding or how that selfish Burton hogged all the newspapers.
But when he heard William Makepeace Thackeray’s voice, George quickly folded the paper and rose to his feet.
“Mr. Thackeray, sir.”
“Sit, sit, Mr. Smith,” Thackeray said. He was a sizable man, endowed with height, bulk, and equally weighty opinions, generally of the cynical and contrary kind. Thackeray rarely took the time to read the works of new authors, and his opinions could be harsh. Nonetheless, George had confidently sent him an early copy of
Jane Eyre
.
George remained standing. “May I offer you a drink, sir?”
“No, no. I’m on my way in to dinner.” Thackeray wagged a finger. “I do wish you had not sent me that new book of yours,
Jane Eyre
.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“I lost an entire day reading when I should have been writing. I’ve got
printers waiting for my next installment—and here you send me a book that is absolutely irresistible.”
“I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Enjoy it? Why, the man and woman are capital! Capital! I was exceedingly moved. Some of the love passages even made me cry—quite astonished my old servant when he came in with the coals, finding me blubbering into my handkerchief like a sentimental old fool. Who is this Currer Bell?”
“We know nothing about him at all. The manuscript arrived without any introduction.”
“Oh, I’d wager it’s a woman. It is a woman’s writing. But a damn fine mind. Must have had a classical education to write like that. If it’s a woman, she certainly knows her language better than most ladies.”
Thackeray checked his watch, then stuffed it back into his waistcoat pocket. “I must go. Do give my respects to the author.” Then, on impulse, he added softly, “I’d like to write a letter myself to Currer Bell. If you would be so kind as to forward it on to him.”
“Currer Bell would be honored, sir.”
“I don’t know why I should bother, but I feel I must. I was exceedingly moved.”
That very day in Haworth, Charlotte and Anne put on their cloaks and trotted down the icy lane to the postmaster’s cottage to collect several heavy parcels, which turned out to be Charlotte’s six copies of the three-volume set of
Jane Eyre
. It had a quiet reception by comparison to the excitement it was already causing in London literary circles, of which the sisters were as yet ignorant. They waited until the others had gone to bed, and then Charlotte ceremoniously presented each of her sisters with a copy of
Jane Eyre
. The three of them sat around the fire hugging their shawls, with their feet propped on the grate and the dogs sleeping on the rug. The house was deadly silent except for the sound of pages turning and the wind, which they didn’t notice.
“It’s very nicely done,” Anne said. “They published it well, don’t you think?”
Charlotte nodded.
No one had to say a word, but it was on all their minds that Newby had still not brought out
Agnes Grey
and
Wuthering Heights
. He seemed to be procrastinating, making promises and breaking them, and Emily kept writing polite inquiries, but there was nothing else they could do.
Charlotte settled the three volumes in the lap of her skirt and folded her tiny, finely shaped hands over them. A long, serene silence filled the air.
After a moment, Emily rose, set her volumes on the mantel, moved back her chair, and lay down on the rug with Keeper. Burrowing into the warmth of his body, her head pillowed against his chest, she tugged her shawl around her shoulders and curled up, gazing into the fire. The dog twitched a paw and slipped back into his dreams.
“I do like Jane, you know,” Emily said. “I like her very much.”
“I’m glad.”
“I was thinking, if you write that story again, about the professor, you must make him true to life, the way he really was, and you must keep your own voice. Like you have in Jane.”
“I’ve been thinking about reworking it.”
“Yes, you should.” Emily added thoughtfully, “What will you do with the other three copies of your book?”
Charlotte shrugged. “There’s little I can do with them, given that no one knows I’m the author.”
“You might be able to trust Mary Taylor with one, don’t you think?”
“You wouldn’t object?”
“Well, she is on the other side of the world. It would take six months to get there.”
“This will come as quite a surprise to her. She thinks imagination is a rather useless faculty unless there is a moral to preach.”
“You must swear her to secrecy.”
“I shall instruct her to burn any letter with a reference to our work.”
“Will she do it?”
“Mary? Oh yes. Without a doubt.”
Anne asked innocently, “Do you think it will be reviewed?”
“I do hope so,” Charlotte said.
“It will be,” Emily pronounced flatly, and no one contradicted her.
From the
Westminster Review
of
Jane Eyre: An Autobiography:
Decidedly the best novel of the season … amply merits a second perusal. Whoever may be the author, we hope to see more such books from her pen; for that these volumes are from the pen of a lady, and a clever one, too we have not the shadow of a doubt.
From the
Era:
This is an extraordinary book. Although a work of fiction, it is no mere novel, for there is nothing but nature and truth about it…. The story is unlike all that we have read, with very few exceptions, and for power of thought and expression, we do not know its rival among modern productions…. All the serious novel writers of the day lose in comparison with Currer Bell.
G. H. Lewes in
Fraser’s Magazine:
We wept over
Jane Eyre
. This, indeed, is a book after our own heart, and, if its merits have not forced it into notice by the time this paper comes before our readers, let us, in all earnestness, bid them lose not a day in sending for it. The writer is evidently a woman, and, unless we are deceived, new in the world of literature. But, man or woman young or old, be that as it may, no such book has gladdened our eyes
for a long while…. The story is not only of singular interest … but it fastens itself upon your attention, and will not leave you. The book closed, the enchantment continues … it is soul speaking to soul; it is an utterance from the depths of a struggling, suffering, much-enduring spirit:
suspiria de profundis!
Since they were removed from clubs, salons, and dinner parties where the well-read gathered, it was George Smith’s stoop-shouldered, self-effacing assistant who brought the excitement to their doorstep. Mr. Williams kept up a stream of long, thoughtful letters, enclosing the latest reviews and posting them as instructed to Currer Bell in care of C. Brontë, Esquire, Haworth. He was quite sure that C. Brontë and Currer Bell were one and the same: he had the proof of their handwriting under his nose; but the author’s identity remained an absolute mystery.
“My dear Mr. Bell,” he wrote,
I can assure you that you cannot underestimate the extent of your growing celebrity. I was a theater critic for the
Spectator
before assuming my present post with Mr. Smith, and it has been a long time since I’ve seen the creatures in such a frenzy. They are tumbling over themselves in a rush to crown you with their praise;
Jane Eyre
is quite the literary sensation, and everyone is speculating about the identity of the mystery author. I received letters addressed to you from George Henry Lewes and another from Leigh Hunt, eminent critics with whom I am sure you are acquainted, letters which I will forward today. I am sure they are both eager to congratulate Currer Bell and welcome him to the literary fold
.
Charlotte spent hours bent over her desk that winter, whittling away one quill after another as she exuberantly composed some of the most
pleasurable letters she had ever written. She wrote of art and the mysterious sway of the creative process, of poetry and literature, of her brother Ellis’s own unique genius. The only true intellectual companions she had known, with tastes like her own, had been Branwell and Constantin Heger, and they had both abandoned her. Now she had a new audience worthy of her keen intelligence, and she confidently voiced her convictions on these things. Her correspondents may have suspected her sex, but she addressed them as a man, and they replied to her as an equal.
Through all this, Charlotte felt as though she were riding a wave of muffled euphoria. All the long-hoped-for praise and worldly recognition had to be quietly folded up and tucked into the drawer of her small, portable writing desk or whispered about among the sisters in the kitchen or at night by firelight. Charlotte thought it was sadly ironic that such acclaim should come to her, and that she was not at liberty to enjoy its benefits. Yet, as she wrote to Mr. Williams, were her identity made known, she would suffer a painful self-consciousness that would destroy the peace of mind she needed to be able to write. All of England was abuzz about
Jane Eyre
, and yet its author continued to pass before their eyes unnoticed, a shadow in their midst.
Quite unexpectedly, around the first of December, a parcel arrived from Newby; it contained the authors’ copies of
Wuthering Heights
and
Agnes Grey
. Emily and Anne were devastated to discover that he had rushed the books into print without bothering to make their final corrections, but this disappointment was soon lost in the deluge of disturbing reviews.
Critics attacked
Wuthering Heights
as a strange, wild story, which it was—and as lacking artistry, which it did not. More than anything, they were baffled by it, just as Emily was baffled by them.
Charlotte watched her read the reviews, then quietly shut them away in her writing-desk drawer.
“What kind of world do these people inhabit that they are so blind to human nature?” Emily said coldly. “There’s nothing extraordinary at all about my characters. They are real and true.”
There was little Charlotte could say. She could have predicted the public’s reaction. “They’re Londoners, Emily Jane. They live in a different world.”
“Indeed—an intolerably false world. A very dull, stupid world.”
Charlotte confided in Mary Taylor, far away on the other side of the world:
My dearest Mary—
I am enclosing the volumes of Emily and Anne’s works—which they both send with fond wishes
.
I regret to say that
Wuthering Heights
has provoked the harshest condemnations. The reviews have wounded Emily to the quick. All the critics write of the exceptional power of her language but they cannot understand the use to which she has put it: hers is indeed a dark genius that dwells in realms quite distasteful to the civilized mind, and I fear the book has offended a great many people
.
There is some truth in what they say, but I cannot bear to see her wounded so. It breaks my heart, Mary, and she is far too proud to show her feelings. It is rather queer the way it has turned out for the three of us, now all of us published authors—I would never have anticipated such feelings would disturb our domestic tranquillity—beneath the surface of our tedious lives run deep currents of pride, tempered by a fierce need to protect one another. We must all three brave harsh winds that blow hot and cold, and I find it strange that we can be so disquieted by these blasts when we are so far removed from the storm. Our bonds of affection are so deeply rooted that we feel each other’s heartache as if it were our own, and I can not take the same pleasure anymore in my own success
.
As for my book, we have run through the second printing and a third will follow. It seems that they have adapted
Jane Eyre
to the stage (a ghastly melodramatic version with the ridiculous subtitle of
“The Secrets of Thornfield Hall”!). On the more serious side, there is a woman who would like to translate it into French. I confess I should be pleased to think it was being read in certain circles in Brussels, although I doubt any—save one—would guess that Currer Bell was the little English schoolmistress who had briefly lived among them
.
By now they seem to have made the connection that the Bell brothers are all related, and Mr. Williams writes me that there is speculation that we are all one and the same author—a hypothesis that has not served me well, as now there are a few new reviews claiming to detect the same coarseness in
Jane Eyre
that they so condemned in
Wuthering Heights
. I’m quite astounded as I can see no similarity in our works at all
.
I’m sorry to say that no one even bothered to review
Agnes Grey
—I don’t honestly know which is worse, to be ignored or reviled. Yet, as usual, Anne is the most courageous of us all; she can be quite harsh on me if I whine too much and reminds us that there is much to be thankful for, not least of which is the check I just received for another hundred pounds. Anne is well into her second novel—the cautionary tale of a debauched young man—she does not want for inspiration. Emily and I are struggling with ideas. I have made three attempts at something new and abandoned them all. That is quite like Anne, I think, to just get on with it
.
Burn this letter, as you promised
.
To Ellen, she wrote:
My dearest Nell
,
We are getting on here the same as usual—by that I mean Branwell continues to make our lives miserable. He is all self-pity with us and rage with Papa. I’m afraid we’ve all given up on him. It’s much worse when he has money as he only spends it on drink or
worse—which is why Papa gives him none, but then he wheedles it out of Her, and we’re back to where we began. Mr. Nicholls has just returned from his annual holiday in Ireland and he, God knows, is just the same. I cannot for my life see those interesting germs of goodness in him that you seem to have discovered on your last visit; I find him appallingly narrow-minded. I fear he is indebted to your imagination for his hidden treasures
.
Since your visit we have seen no one, been nowhere, and done nothing (to speak of) and yet we manage to be busy morning to night. I wish we had some real news to make this worth your time to read, but you must content yourself with my fond kisses instead
.