The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 11
“No; he is not.”
“When he openly and rashly expressed his feelings for her one day, to his surprise she declared feelings of her own. By the end of that first summer, she had encouraged him to—to—to go on to extremities. They met in secret at the house, or when Mr. Robinson was away. He says he is deeply in love with her. The way he talks—it is as if she has become all that matters to him in life.”
“Oh! This is too horrible. But this explains Branwell’s strange, irritable conduct over the past few years. He seemed to hate coming home for holidays, and when he was here, he exhibited such a wild range of feelings, from the highest spirits to the blackest of depressions—I could not understand it. On more than one occasion, I thought I detected an expression of hidden guilt in his eyes, but he always denied it.”
“I thought the same.”
“He is passed out in bed,” announced Emily, entering the room and sinking heavily into the easy chair beside us. “If we are very lucky, we will not hear a peep from him till morning.”
“Anne,” said I, “how and when did you learn the truth about all this?”
“I was taking a walk one afternoon last month through the woods behind Thorp Green, when I came upon Branwell sitting beneath a tree, writing in a note-book. When I asked what he was writing, he blushed. I was not going to press the matter, but he thrust the note-book at me and told me to read it. It was filled with poems of his own composition—most of them impassioned love poems about Mrs. Robinson. I was shocked and horrified. He only laughed and said, ‘Do not be such a prude.’ He then told me the whole story. I wanted to die of shame. I knew I could not stay in that house a moment longer.”
“I do not blame you for leaving,” said I. “I would have done the same.”
“Oh, Charlotte! You speak of blame. In some ways, I cannot help but blame myself for what has occurred.”
“What do you mean?”
Anne hesitated. Already, in the past few minutes, she had talked longer and expressed more emotion than in any conversation we had held in the past five years; I was afraid she might again withdraw into her quiet shell; but she did not.
“I have been unhappy at Thorp Green Hall for a long time, but not only with regard to my dissatisfaction with my duties as governess. I have had many other, unpleasant and undreamt of experiences of human nature, which—which have troubled me greatly. Knowing—even suspecting—what I did, I should never have recommended Branwell for a post at that house.”
Emily sat up straight in her chair and stared at Anne. “What experiences, Anne? What are you not telling us?”
Anne averted her gaze, and a blush crept over her cheeks. “I am loath to even speak of it, but since you both know nearly all already—” She took a breath, and went on, “I have seen Mrs. Robinson flirt openly with other gentlemen—guests and visitors to the house. I suspect that she was overly friendly with many of them—and it was not just my mistress who behaved so. In the years since Branwell’s arrival, I have observed numerous examples of base immorality between adults who are married, but not married to each other; all the while, their own spouses were in the house or on the grounds; at times, they were in the very next room. It grieved and sickened me to witness such immoral behaviour, and to be powerless to stop it—for how could I come forward with my suspicions? Surely I would have been dismissed on the spot. I blush with shame when I reflect that, simply by remaining silent, I became an unwilling accomplice to their indiscretions. And even more when I recall that, on one occasion a year past, one of their male guests, after imbibing too much liquor, attempted to become overly familiar with me.”
“Oh Anne!” cried Emily. “What did you do?”
“I fended him off. He never spoke of it again; I believe he was too drunk to recall what had happened.”
“Anne, I am so sorry.” Tears stung my eyes as I took her hands in mine. I realised, of a sudden, that my own experiences as a governess, which I had once thought so oppressive, were in fact quite tame and inconsequential in comparison with Anne’s. “All this time, I had no idea of what you were suffering. If only you had told me, I would have insisted that you leave Thorp Green years ago.”
“That is precisely why I did not mention it. It would only have caused you needless pain. How could I be certain, if I did leave, that circumstances would be different anywhere else?” Anne gave a deep sigh. “It mortifies me now, to think that while all this was occurring, Mrs. Robinson was on intimate terms with Branwell—and I had no inkling! It must have fed her vanity that, at forty-three years of age, she could seduce a good-looking young man, seventeen years her junior—particularly with three beautiful daughters in the house.”
“How did they get away with it so long, I wonder?” I asked.
“Apparently, Mrs. Robinson’s lady’s maid and the family doctor were both in collusion with her,” replied Emily.
“I must admit,” added Anne, “Mrs. Robinson was very adept at deception. To her husband’s face, she always appeared entirely proper. Behind his back, she constantly complained that he was old and sick, and could not—could not sufficiently attend to her needs.”
“Was it true, do you think?” I inquired.
“I do not know. He did not become sickly until recently, and he is not so very old; Mr. and Mrs. Robinson are the same exact age, in fact. He is a stern and intractable man, but for all his faults, I think him a far better and more respectable person than his wife.”
“How did he discover his wife’s infidelity?”
“We found that out only yesterday,” replied Emily, “when Branwell received a letter from the Robinsons’ doctor, whom he had befriended. As if Branwell’s previous actions had not been depraved enough, he did another incredibly stupid thing. Unable to be parted from that woman even for the few weeks of their holiday, he secretly followed them to Scarborough.”
“No!”
“The Robinsons’ gardener accompanied them on their journey, to assist the groom with the horses and luggage,” continued Emily. “He observed Branwell and Mrs. Robinson together in a boat-house, just below their lodgings at The Cliff. Apparently, said gardener felt a greater loyalty to his master than his mistress, for he wrote to Mr. Robinson upon his return home, revealing all.”
“And now Mr. Robinson has written, threatening to shoot Branwell if he dares to set foot again at Thorp Green Hall!” exclaimed Anne. “Branwell is utterly destroyed. Since Thursday he has done nothing but drink and storm and rage about the house in a frenzy of grief. We have not had a moment’s peace, except when he is at the tavern, or passed out cold.”
“I have never heard such ravings,” said Emily. “He is like a soul in hell.”
“Oh,” said I, “to think that I was whiling away my time at Hathersage for more than a week, and you were all suffering so. I wanted to come home a week ago Thursday; I knew I should have.”
“I am glad you stayed a little longer, if you enjoyed yourself,” said Emily. “God knows, it is not going to be any fun around here for a long while.”
“Charlotte, what are we to do?” said Anne.
“I do not know.”
On one point, I felt compassion for Branwell, and great sympathy for his plight: the fact that he had been attracted to, and had great love for, some one who was already married. It was a hopeless situation, beset with agonies, heartaches, and torments which (I acknowledged only in the deepest, most private recesses of my mind and heart) I had some past, mortifying experience.
“I am utterly heart-sick,” I said at last, taking careful measure of my words. “We cannot choose the objects of our affections, any more than we can choose our parents. If, however, by some misfortune, our feelings lead us in a direction that is not condoned by God or by society, we can—we must—exert self-control; we must not act on those unlawful desires. The fact that Branwell did—that he succumbed to temptation with Mrs. Robinson—is truly wicked.”
Emily glanced sharply at me at this pronouncement; the shrewd expression in her eyes told me she perceived that a personal truth lay behind it. However, she only said, “I agree with you. Branwell has tried to blame all this on Mrs. Robinson; but no matter how blatantly that woman threw herself at him, he was an equal player in all of this. He cannot justify his actions.”
Branwell held every one in our household a hostage of his torment for the next ten days, alternately drowning his distress of mind with alcohol or stunning it with opiates. He had only to cross the street from Haworth church to buy a sixpence-worth of opium, readily available at Betty Hardacre’s drug-shop; and to our great despair, nothing we said or did could dissuade him from the practice. When we could bear it no longer, my sisters and I sent him away to Liverpool for a week in the company of his friend John Brown, where they took a pleasure steamer along the coast of North Wales. I believe the brief respite did him good.
“I know what you think of me, Charlotte,” said Branwell one warm, August evening, not long after his return. “I know I have brought all my miseries upon my own head, but I am determined to fix myself.”
I was seated on a stile in a meadow behind the parsonage, overlooking the moors, which were lushly carpeted in the brilliant purple hue of summer. I had ventured out alone to find a bit of cool breeze to read by in the fading light of day, when Branwell appeared. Closing my book now, I said, “I applaud your determination. I look forward to meeting the new and improved Branwell.”
“You can wipe that sceptical look right off your face. Look at the progress I have made: I am standing here, cheerfully speaking to you, without the stimulus of six glasses of whisky!”
“An admirable achievement—but occasioned, as we both know, only by the absolute want of means—as papa has steadfastly refused to give you any money.”
“I tell you, Charlotte, I am going to change.” He perched on the stile beside me and gazed out pensively across the moor. “Nothing will ever again bring me so low as the nightmare of my old days, years ago, at Luddenden Foot. I would rather cut off my own hand, than to undergo again the groveling carelessness and malignant debauchery which too often marked my conduct when I was there.”
“Why, Branwell? Why did you act thus? You always said that you liked that job.”
“I did. The railroad is an exciting new venture, and it allowed me to earn my keep. But you must know, having been raised on Virgil and Byron, I aspired to greater things than ‘clerkin-charge’ of a tiny, out-of-the-way rail station, housed in a rude little hut. There was nothing to do! My only friends were in Halifax, and I could not go there as often as I liked. What other recourse did I have, besides drink?”
“Surely you do not expect me to dignify that with an answer?”
“At least I was not entirely lost to everything while I was there. I did write—or rewrite—a lot of poetry.”
“I remember.” I sighed. “I am a little envious of you, you know.”
“Envious of me? Why?”
“Because your poetry has been published. I have long dreamt of being published myself.”
“Well, dreaming of it will not make it happen, sister dear. You have talent, and you know it—but as they say: nothing ventured, nothing gained. To be published, you must first write something worthy of being published, and then you must be bold enough to submit it.”
“True.” I met his gaze. The affection in his eyes was so genuine, and he looked so bonny and fine, sitting there with the rays of the setting sun burnishing his carroty hair to gold, that for a moment he seemed like the Branwell of old. As children, we had been soulmates, inseparable, in perfect tune with each other; we had been able to complete each other’s sentences, and anticipate each other’s every thought and move; and we had both delighted in a continuous rivalry of creativity and composition that lasted nearly two decades. Was it possible that we might get a measure of our friendship back? Would Branwell truly try to “fix” himself? I said: “I have greatly missed you of late.”
“You will have no cause to miss me now. I am here—and will remain here, until the day Lydia Robinson is free. Then she will marry me, I will be lord of her estate, and live in genteel splendour with her for the rest of my life.”
My heart sank. “Branwell, please tell me you are not serious.”
“About what?”
“You cannot truly expect to marry Mrs. Robinson!”
“Of course I do. Her husband is very sickly. It will not be long now until he dies.”
“What a sick and morbid thing to say, even sicker to say it with hope in your eyes.”
“I am not the only person who hopes and longs for it. Lydia does not love her husband. She loves me.”
“Oh, Branwell. Even if that is true—do you truly think a woman of her rank and fortune would marry a man seventeen years her junior, with whom she had a scandalous affair?”
“I know she will. She told me we would be together for ever. I have only to wait. And while I am waiting, I will not sit idle. I intend to find some occupation, and—I promise you—I will remain sober as a judge.”
Keeping that promise proved to be beyond Branwell’s power. The very next afternoon, while my father was out on church business with Anne as his aide, and Emily was up in her room doing I knew not what, I was reading in the dining-room, when I heard shouts from outside, followed by a rap at the front door.
To my mortification, I encountered my brother on the doorstep, hurling drunken obscenities and being physically restrained and supported by Mr. Nicholls.
Since my return from my trip to Hathersage, every time I had seen Mr. Nicholls come up the walk on his way to meet with papa, I had gone upstairs, or sequestered myself in the dining-room behind a closed door. Now, there was no avoiding him.
“I was passing by the Black Bull,” announced Mr. Nicholls, as he strained to control my struggling brother, “when he and another gentleman burst out the door, cursing and throwing punches at one another. I sensed an outright brawl was likely, and thought it best to bring him home.”
“Unhand me, you God-damned, miserable lout!” thundered Branwell with savage vehemence, as he vigorously and fruitlessly attempted to break free, “or I’ll set the dogs on you, I swear to God I will!” Although my brother had engaged in boxing with the town toughs for some years in his youth, he was long out of practice; and despite his drink-fueled anger, he was in size and frame no match for the much taller, much-sturdier-built Mr. Nicholls.
“I have no fear of dogs,” retorted that gentleman, “in fact, I particularly like them.” To me, he added somewhat apologetically, “Where would you like me to put him?”
“In the dining-room,” said I, my cheeks warm with embarrassment, as I stepped back to admit him. Every one in the village, I knew, had been apprised of my brother’s dismissal from his post within a day of its occurrence. As a result of Branwell’s repeated, drunken outpourings of heart and soul at the pub, they were now equally well acquainted with every sordid detail of his humiliating conduct there, and his absurd expectations for his future. I cringed when I saw the pity in the eyes of the shopkeepers on Main Street; my heart smote me when I observed the averted gazes of the congregation on Sunday, when papa took his place at the pulpit; but I felt even greater shame to think that our new curate should be such a close observer of Branwell’s decline.
I already knew that Mr. Nicholls regarded me as a dried-up, bitter old maid, too unattractive to look upon. My father was a nearly-blind old man; add to that a drunken sot of a brother, who started brawls in the middle of the afternoon; how he must pity me, and my whole household! How he must laugh at us behind our backs! Still, I thought, I must not let my wounded pride get the better of me. As the curate dragged a still-squirming and swearing Branwell into the dining-room, I squared my shoulders and followed, determined that Mr. Nicholls would never know how much his cruel comment that night at tea had hurt me; indeed, if I could help it, he would never perceive a moment of weakness from me.
Mr. Nicholls deposited my brother in an easy chair, where, maintaining a firm grip, he insisted upon a verbal promise from his captive to sit still and quietly, before he would set him free. Branwell uttered another oath, and then reluctantly agreed.
“Villain!” Branwell spat out, as Mr. Nicholls let him go. “How dare you! I am the parson’s son, by God! I warn you, Nicholls: if you ever touch me like that again, I’ll have you shot, or sent back to Ireland!”
“Let us pray, then, that a similar occasion does not ever arise,” was the curate’s rejoinder, as he straightened his black coat and adjusted his collar.
“Branwell, please do not address Mr. Nicholls in such an insolent manner,” said I.
“I’ll address him any way I like,” snarled Branwell. “Now get out, Nicholls! You have done your Christian duty. You have played the Good Samaritan, and brought the prodigal son home. Now go back to church where you belong.”
Emily suddenly entered the room, a concerned look on her countenance. Martha, close at her heels, stopped just inside the doorway, where she crossed her arms and shook her head. “La, la, an’ what have we here, Maister Branwell? Two o’clock i’ th’ afternoon, an’ already three sheets t’ th’ wind?”
“Martha,” urged Branwell, with a sudden smile, and a voice diffused with charm, “be a good girl and bring me some of that wine I know you keep in the locked cupboard.”
“I will not, sir,” said Martha.
“Emily? Surely you would not deny your brother a drop, in his hour of need?”
“I believe you have had quite enough already,” observed Emily quietly.
Branwell sank farther down into his chair in a sullen pout. “You are parasites, the lot of you! Determined to suck the life out of me.”
Turning to Mr. Nicholls, I said with cool formality, “I am very grateful to you, sir, for bringing my brother home.” When I raised my eyes to his, to my surprise, I did not encounter the pity and derision I had anticipated; instead, I found compassion and concern, tempered by humility—and nerves.
