The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 10
Now, I had another such vision, and it filled me with a dire presentiment. Diary: it was the 17th of July, 1845, a Thursday; I mention the date, because it proved to have significance. Ellen and I had retired early that night. According to custom, we slept in the same bed during our many visits, even when necessity did not so dictate. We enjoyed this time together now equally as much as we had as school-mates; normally, we talked for a little while, and then drifted into a peaceful slumber.
This night was different. For some time after we went to bed, I could not sleep. As it was a summer evening, it did not grow dark for some time; when it did, the wind rose and began to blow with a low, sullen sound, more eerie than any gale. Shadows played on the wall, occasioned by the rattling, moonlit branches of the trees against the window. This effect, accompanied by the mournful moan of the wind, seemed to be the manifestation of some great, unearthly, and unholy power. I felt overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable sense of impending doom.
When at last I fell asleep, I dreamt. I found myself anxiously following, on foot, the windings of the road towards Haworth on a dark and gusty night. I sensed I was needed desperately at home and must reach that place without delay. As I trudged up hill, I carried an infant wrapped up in a shawl; the tiny creature squirmed in my arms and wailed piteously in my ear; I tried to whisper to it—to hum a lullaby—to offer solace and comfort—but so deep was its sufferings that my words failed to reach it. My arms were tired, and the child’s weight impeded my progress. It seemed to want any one but me, but I could not lay it down anywhere; I must do my best to keep it safe and warm.
With great effort, I reached the summit of the hill. To my dismay, the parsonage was not there. My home instead was a foreign place, more akin in aspect, size, and scope to North Lees Hall; and yet, it was North Lees Hall no longer: it was a dreary ruin. All that remained of the stately front was a roofless, fragile-looking, shell-like wall, with a gaping hole where the massive front door had once stood. Where was my family? I wondered in horror. What had happened?
The wind continued to wail; all at once, I realised the sound was not the wind at all; it was my father’s voice, and Anne’s, and Emily’s, and Branwell’s, all in one great cacophony of anguish; and it came from within the ruined structure.
“Where are you?” I cried, trembling. “I am coming to you! I am coming!”
Still carrying the child, I rushed inside. The interior walls still stood, but the hall was littered with the crumbling remains of roofing, plaster, and cornices. I waded frantically through the wreckage from room to room, until at last I found them: all the members of my family were there assembled in a forlorn tableau, weeping—all except Branwell, but I knew that he was suffering, too. His wailing, from somewhere unknown, was the loudest of all—and in perfect tune with the cries of the piteous infant in my arms.
I felt a sudden wrenching of my heart, as if that organ was tied to Branwell’s by some invisible, living thread; and by that connection, I was able to feel the paroxysms of pain that engulfed him.
“What has happened?” I tried to cry, but no words came from my mouth. All at once, the walls around us began to crumble; they gave way; loose stones and plaster rained down in a great storm upon me and my loved ones. I covered the child to protect it from the onslaught, and lost my balance; I felt myself falling; I awoke with a great gasp.
“Charlotte, what is it?” said Ellen, stirring beside me.
I clutched the covers to my chin and shivered, trying to still the frantic beating of my heart. “Oh, Ellen! I have had such a terrible dream.”
When I finished telling Ellen the particulars, she grasped my hand reassuringly in the dark and said, “It was only a dream, Charlotte dear. Do not distress yourself so.”
“It was a dream about a child,” I insisted, still filled with anxiety. “You know what that means. Some great calamity is going to befall me, or one of my loved ones.”
“That is just an old wives’ tale. I am sure your house and family are fine.”
“I am not worried about the house. It is just a symbol for something else: some ruinous event which is about to occur, or has occurred in my absence. Branwell will be home by now from Thorp Green, for his summer holiday. Oh! I am filled with such dread, Ellen. I must go home at first light.”
“Go home? But your two weeks are not finished, and you said you might stay yet another week.”
“I have changed my mind. My family needs me. I do not know why, I only know that they do.”
“I feared you might make some such protest, Charlotte, on account of your annual Sunday School services coming up—so I wrote to Emily to seek permission for you to stay. At least wait to hear from her before you make your decision.”
Emily’s reply arrived the next morning:
16 July, 1845–Haworth
Dear Miss Ellen,
If you have set your heart on Charlotte staying another week she has our united consent; I for one will take everything easy on Sunday—I’m glad she is enjoying herself: let her make the most of the next seven days & return stout and hearty—Love to her and you from Anne & myself and tell her all are well at home.
Yours affecty—
EJ Brontë
“You see?” said Ellen, after we read Emily’s letter. “All are well at home. I told you so. You may stop fretting now about your dream, and do as she says: make the most of the next week.”
I was sceptical; I still felt, to the very marrow of my bones, that something was amiss at home; but Emily’s cheerful, reassuring tone could not be denied.
I wrote to my sister in reply, announcing my intention to remain at Hathersage through the 28th of July. Ellen and I amused ourselves, receiving a variety of visitors, overseeing the installation of Henry’s new furniture, and undertaking one last trip to North Lees Hall, where I was relieved to see that it was still standing and not a refuge for bats and owls.
At length, however, I could not ignore my inner misgivings; on Saturday, the 26th of July, I determined that I must go home without delay.
As I decided to leave Hathersage at the last minute, and earlier than anticipated, I was unable to give word to my family of my arrival, and knew that no one could meet my train.
On board the railroad carriage from Sheffield to Leeds, I forgot my worries for a moment when my eye was caught by the gentlemen seated opposite me. I was overcome by a little shock of recognition: for in facial features, bodily proportions and mode of dress (the cut and tailoring of a suit coat fashioned by a French seamstress is unparalleled, in my experience), he resembled in many respects my Belgian professor, Monsieur Héger.
So sure was I that the gentleman must be a Frenchman, that I ventured to say to him, “Monsieur est français, n’est-ce pas?”
The man gave a start of surprise and answered immediately in his native tongue, “Oui, mademoiselle. Parlez-vous français?”19
A thrill went up my spine. Although I tried to read a little French every day, I had not heard that language spoken aloud even once since my return from Brussels; hearing it now reminded me of how dearly I had missed it. The gentleman and I engaged in a pleasant conversation for a few minutes, at which point I inquired—much to his surprise and puzzlement—if he had not passed the greater part of his life in Germany. He said that my surmise was correct, and wondered how I had arrived at such a conclusion. When I told him I had detected a trace of a German accent in his French, he smiled and remarked, “Vous êtes un magicien avec des langues, mademoiselle.”20
I enjoyed our repartee, and was sorry to be obliged to bid him au revoir when I left the train at Leeds. For the duration of my journey, I was immersed in memories of Brussels.
Upon my arrival at Keighley, however, my agony of anticipation about the fate of my family returned full force. So late was the hour, and so determined was I to reach home with haste, that I paid for a coach to drive me thither.
It was a clear summer night. Normally, I would have relaxed in my seat and observed the final declension of the sun from a painterly perspective, and felt a rush of pleasure in viewing its golden glow upon the familiar expanse of heath and meadow; for no matter how much I delighted in seeing new sights, it was always a welcome relief to return home. This evening, however, I could barely sit still, so beset was I by thoughts and feelings of foreboding, and an inexplicable presentiment that I was coming home to sorrow.
It was nearly dark when the coach turned up Church Lane, passed the sexton’s house and schoolhouse, and stopped beside the low wall leading to the front garden of the parsonage. I paid the driver, who set down my trunk on the flag-stones and left. I was about to head to the gate when I noticed a figure approaching in the shadows: it was Mr. Nicholls—the last person I wished to see!—apparently taking an evening stroll. He stopped a few feet away and regarded me, his expression very grave and worried.
“Miss Brontë.”
“Mr. Nicholls. Is anything wrong?”
He did not immediately reply. All at once a cold wind rose up, so fierce that it would have blown off my bonnet, had it not been securely tied. I was infused with an eerie chill, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the gust.
“Have you not heard?” asked he.
“Heard what?” said I, with growing alarm. I glanced at the house. Dim lights flickered in the downstairs windows, indicating that some one was still awake. Now I heard shouts from within the parsonage. My heart began to pound with alarm and dread, for I recognised the voice: it was Branwell’s, but not the Branwell I knew and loved; this was the Branwell who had had far too much to drink. “Oh no.”
“He has been like that for more than a week.” Picking up my trunk, Mr. Nicholls said, “Let me help you with this.” Before I could utter a protest, he started for the house.
I hurried ahead of him to the front door. Finding it locked, I knocked; a few tense moments passed as I stood on the doorstep, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Nicholls’s presence, while bursts of insensible rage issued from within. At last, the door opened, and my eyes met Anne’s; her visage was stricken; our brief, wordless exchange confirmed our mutual anguish.
I darted inside; Mr. Nicholls followed and set my trunk down in the entrance-hall.
“Tell that stupid ass of a mongrel to keep away from me!” I heard my brother shout in an angry slur, from the dining-room beyond. My cheeks burned, to think that Mr. Nicholls should be such an intimate witness to my brother’s dissolute behaviour.
“May I be of any further help, Miss Brontë? Would you like me to speak to him?”
“No! No thank you, Mr. Nicholls. I am sure we can manage. Thank you again. Good-night, sir.”
With a reluctant frown, Mr. Nicholls left. Anne locked the door. I glimpsed papa in his night-shirt, warily descending the stairs at the end of the hall. Anne and I rushed at once into the dining-room. There were only a few glowing embers in the hearth, but the glow of a single candle, along with the last fading rays of daylight, revealed the scene to my horrified eyes.
Branwell stood unsteadily beside the black horsehair sofa, his back to the door. His red hair and clothes were disheveled, and he was waving a fist at an uncertain and distraught Emily, behind whose skirts Flossy was cowering. “A man can’t even take a damned nap around here,” shouted Branwell in an intoxicated tone, “without that God-forsaken, mangy cur jumping up on top of him and slobbering all over his damn face!”
“Branwell, calm down,” said Emily quietly, her eyes darting briefly to mine and acknowledging her alarm. “Flossy did not mean any harm. He was only being affectionate.”
“Affection be damned!” snarled Branwell, as he snatched up a book from the dining-table and hurled it at the dog’s head. Flossy flinched in time to deflect the blow to his side, but he set up a piteous outcry on impact, and scampered past me out the door into the hall.
“Branwell!” Anne and I cried in unified horror. At the same moment, papa entered; I knew his near blindness would be further hampered by the dimness of the room.
“That’s enough!” said papa sternly. “Get hold of yourself, son.”
“Shut your mouth, old man!” Branwell took a tottering step towards Emily, grabbing hold of the table to keep his balance. “This is between me and my sister, and that damned stupid dog!”
“Branwell, please stop this,” said I, as I advanced cautiously towards him, my heart pounding. I was uncertain precisely what to do, for he was both taller and stronger than I; and I knew from previous experience that his strength only increased when he was inebriated.
Branwell turned, regarding me with blinking surprise in his bloodshot eyes. “Charlotte. Where’ve you been?”
“At Hathersage, visiting Ellen.” I hoped, by talking calmly, to distract him and calm him down.
“For a minute, I thought you’d gone back to Belgium,” slurred he, his anger dissipating as a stupid look lit his feverish countenance. “Funny—I was just talking to Anne about that the other day. What was it? Oh, yes. I said, ‘Have you noticed how sad Charlotte has been ever since she came back from Belgium?’ Anne said I was imagining it. But I said, ‘No, no, our Charlotte is sad all right. Mark my words: she is hiding something behind that staid, placid countenance of hers.’”
“I am not sad, and I am not hiding anything,” I insisted, but my cheeks grew warm, and I felt Emily’s questioning eyes on me.
“You are sad,” said he drunkenly. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. I should know. I know all about sad.” To my consternation, Branwell’s face suddenly crumpled, and he burst into tears. “Oh God! What am I to do? The misery—the anguish—the despair!” He dropped to the floor on his knees, and cried out, “How can I live without my life? How shall I bear it?”
So stunned was I by my brother’s erratic behaviour, that I could only stand in a state of paralysed dismay. Emily went to him; she soon coaxed him, weeping, to his feet, and led him from the room. I knew she would take him upstairs and settle him in bed, as she had done on many such occasions in the past. In the deadly quiet that followed, papa let out a small sob. He stood just inside the doorway, his gaunt countenance ravaged with grief and disappointment. I wrapped his thin frame in my embrace and held him tight, at a loss for words. “I am here now, papa,” was all I could think of to say.
“I am glad of it, child,” was his broken reply.
“Let me help you back to bed,” I offered, but he waved me off with a firm hand and shuffled out of the room.
The moment papa was gone, Anne burst into tears. My own anguish, which had been suppressed for nearly a week, now welled up like a white heat within my chest and spilled forth in a torrent from my eyes.
On previous occasions when Branwell was drunk, my sisters and I had tried to maintain a strong, united front, pretending that all was well once the worst was over, even when it clearly was not. This time, however, I was too distraught to be brave; I saw, in Anne’s answering gaze, that she was equally incapable of the task. In unison, we moved into each other’s arms, where we held each other tightly and indulged our tears for some minutes. At last, we dried our eyes and sank down on the sofa, where I regained my composure.
“What on earth has happened?” I asked, as I took off my gloves and bonnet. “Why is Branwell so distraught?”
“He has been dismissed from his post.”
“Dismissed? But why? You said Mrs. Robinson thinks so highly of him!”
“She did. Oh, Charlotte! I feel so naive—so stupid. From almost the first day Branwell arrived at Thorp Green Hall, I saw that he was the favourite of all the household. I was proud of him, and delighted. Mrs. Robinson was always commenting on what a remarkable young man he is. I thought she admired and appreciated him for his skills as a tutor and an artist. Until last month, I never thought—I never imagined that she, that he could do something so—so—” Anne’s voice quivered, as fresh tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“What? What has Branwell done?”
“He has been having a love affair these three years past with Mrs. Robinson!”
Six
I stared at Anne in shock and consternation. “A love affair? You cannot mean it. She is a married woman, and so much his senior. Surely they did not—”
“They did. Imagine the very worst and most sordid possible behaviour, Charlotte, and that is what they are guilty of. A week ago Thursday, Branwell received a letter from the Reverend Edmund Robinson, expressing his outrage and sternly intimating that he had discovered Branwell’s proceedings. He charged Branwell, on pain of exposure, to break off instantly and for ever all communication with every member of his family!”
“Did you say a week ago Thursday—the 17th?”
“Yes.”
Diary: it was that same Thursday night that I had had my terrible dream. A great numbness washed over me; for some moments, I was too stunned to think or speak. “Is it possible that Mr. Robinson is mistaken? Are you certain there is truth to the charge?”
“If only there was not. It is all true, Charlotte. Branwell has admitted everything. He claims that Mrs. Robinson has been at the helm of the affair from the beginning.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes. We both know Branwell too well, with all his Northangerland fantasies, to think that he would lie about being seduced.”
Northangerland was the central character in Branwell’s fiction—an amalgam of Buonaparte, Satan, and the quintessential Byronic hero—a rakish figure my brother so closely identified with, that he had used the name as his pseudonym for most of his published poetry.
“I suppose you are right. In his eyes, if he could have boasted that he swept the lady of the house off her feet and into his bed, he would have seen it as a far bigger feather in his cap.”
“He said Mrs. Robinson sought him out just a few months after he arrived at Thorp Green. Branwell admired her, and was grieved by her husband’s callous treatment of her on several occasions. You know our brother has never been one to hide his emotions.”
