The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 23
“Are ye going t’ th’ oratio a’ th’ church to-morrow night?” John Brown was asking him. “We are t’ hear th’ celebrated tenor, Thomas Parker, sing wi’ Mrs. Sunderland from Halifax, an’ a great variety of instrumental and choral performers besides.”
“I would never go to hear a Baptist sing,” sneered Mr. Nicholls brusquely, as he stepped aside to let me pass.
I could only shake my head at this. Indeed, all the Puseyite curates refused to attend that concert, an event which filled the house of worship to suffocation, and proved to be one of the leading events of the year. As I listened to the glorious music ringing through the church that night, I reminded myself that Mr. Nicholls was a narrow-minded bigot. Why on earth did I care what he thought of me? I was guiltless of any real wrong-doing; he was not. Remember Bridget Malone, I told myself. Mr. Nicholls is the one who should be ashamed to hold his head up, not you!
I contented myself with this notion. If Mr. Nicholls no longer respected me, it was not my fault, nor my concern; for I had never really liked or respected him. I would simply go on avoiding him.
Avoiding Mr. Nicholls, however, was easier said than done. He lived next door; he met with papa every day; he conducted all three Sunday services and supervised the schools; he was everywhere. In fact, Mr. Nicholls’s frequent visits to the parsonage gave rise to a dismaying rumour, which I first heard about in a letter from Ellen. She informed me that some one had inquired of her, with great solemnity and interest, if it was true that Mr. Nicholls and I were secretly engaged! I immediately replied in the negative, but her letter left me out of sorts for weeks.
My determination to think ill of Mr. Nicholls was sorely tested one afternoon in mid-March. It was a crisp, cold day: no longer winter, but not quite spring. Anne and I were making a round of visits to the poor to deliver the children’s clothing we had sewn over the preceding months for those in need.
Our first stops were to the crowded little houses which clustered along Main Street in the village, a task we did not relish, for although the tenants were gracious enough, their houses were cramped and often very dirty, and so redolent of bad air that we could not bring ourselves to stay longer than a minute. More pleasant were our visits to the parishioners who lived farther afield—the mill-workers in the valleys, and the poor farmers who scratched out a meager living from the soil.
As Anne and I headed out in that direction beneath a glorious canopy of bright blue sky, the wind sounded through the leafless branches of the few scattered trees, and snow-drifts, still lingering in the hollows of the hills and dales, were fast melting beneath the sun. We soon came to the Ainleys’ cottage, a tiny thatched and white-washed dwelling set just back from the road.
Three of the eight Ainley children, who were too young for school, were playing outside, attired in an assortment of old and ill-fitting, raggedy clothing. As Anne and I strode to the front door, the little ones surrounded us, making a clamour and fuss, tugging at our skirts and baskets and asking what we had brought them. Gently tousling their curly heads, I explained that they must be patient, for our deliveries must go into their mother’s hands first.
“Ah! Aren’t ye ladies angels t’ bring me clothes for me childer,” said Mrs. Ainley as she greeted us at the door and ushered us inside, carrying a one-year-old infant on her hip. A tall, kindly but tired-looking woman in a shabby brown dress, she was forty years old, but looked a decade older. “Th’ Lord only knows, I’ve nought but two hands, an’ wi’ eight children, it’s all I can do t’ put food i’ their mouths, mich less keep up wi’ all th’ sewing that be required t’ clothe ’em, particular hard i’ this cold weather, an’ me so bad wi’ th’ rheumatiz i’ me fingers an’ all.”
The children tried to follow us in, but their mother shooed them out. “Go an’ play outside, th’ lot o’ ye! There’s nought room for so mony bodies i’ this wee house, and I crave a bit o’ grown-up conversation wi’ our visitors.”
I shivered as we entered the little cottage; it was dark, close, and chilly, and smelled of smoke, but it was as tidy and clean as Mrs. Ainley could make it. She offered us ale, which we declined, aware that she could ill afford to share the beverage. Still holding the baby (a bonny, smiling lass with a head full of blonde curls), Mrs. Ainley quickly dusted off the two best chairs for us by the hearth; knowing that one of them was her favourite, I expressed a preference for sitting on a hard little stool in a corner near the window.
“I’m sorry it be so cold i’ here,” apologised Mrs. Ainley as she stirred the meager contents of the fire-place, which was no more than a few red cinders and a little bit of stick. “Our stock o’ coals an’ peat is finished, an’ we’re ill set t’ get more. Sin’ they lowered th’ wages at th’ mill, we’ve been i’ desperate straits. Wi’ th’ prices o’ bread an’ potaters so high, me husband barely earns enought for us t’ live on, for all he works from dawn till dark. Me oldest girl is a maid o’ all work, an’ she sends summat home every now an’ again, but it’s nought but a pittance.”
Anne and I expressed our sincere dismay at the dismal working conditions in the township, which we knew were a source of misery and privation for many.
“Ah well, there’s nought can be done about it, it’s all th’ poor state o’ trade what’s caused it, or so I’m told.” Mrs. Ainley placed the good-natured infant on a blanket on the floor at her feet, where it lay quietly sucking its thumb. The woman then took a seat before us and exclaimed with enthusiasm over each new garment we presented her, thanking us profusely.
“Sich fine workmanship as ye ladies do is not often seen. Oh! How I wish I could sew like ye. I can still knit, praise God, when I find th’ time, but me fingers can barely hold a sewing needle these days. There’s a Sunday shirt I’ve been trying t’ mak’ these past four month for me son John; he needs it sadly, but God knows how I’ll ever finish it.”
“I would be happy to finish it for you,” I offered.
“I can help,” added Anne. “We can start working on it while we are here, if you like.”
“Oh! Ye both are too good; I can never repay sich kindness.”
“There is nothing to repay, Mrs. Ainley,” said I. “If we can do something to ease your burden, it will give us great pleasure.”
Mrs. Ainley gratefully brought the pieces of the unfinished garment to us, along with her sewing box. I found two brass thimbles within, which Anne and I fitted to our tiny fingers by means of a roll of paper. Anne and I were soon at work sewing the shirt, while Mrs. Ainley knitted a pair of stockings. Moments later, a large, brindled cat sauntered in from the next room and lay down before the hearth, lazily licking its velvet paws with half-closed eyes, as it gazed at the decaying embers in the crooked fender.
“That cat’s nearly twelve year owd,” commented Mrs. Ainley, looking down on the animal with affection. “Like one o’ th’ family, he is. I dunnut what we’d do wi’out him. He’s a lucky one, too. Why, just th’ other day, Mr. Nicholls saved his life.”
“Mr. Nicholls?” said I in surprise.
“Indeed. T’wor about a week past, th’ cat went missing. For four day we saw neither hide nor hair of him. Th’ bairn were all beside ’emselfs with worry, crying like there wor no to-morrow. I shed a few tears, too, certain sure we’d never see th’ likes o’ ’at creature again. Then up th’ walk comes Mr. Nicholls, wi’ th’ cat in his arms. It’d got trapped i’ a storage closet at th’ Sunday school, he says. He just happened by an’ heard it mewing. Lord knows it would’ve died, otherwise. We’re i’ Mr. Nicholls’s debt. An’ not just about th’ cat, neither. I bless th’ day ’at gentleman arrived i’ these parts, I can tell ye.”
“Oh?” said Anne. “Why is that, Mrs. Ainley?”
“Mr. Nicholls has been so good t’ us. He be so different from ’at last curate, Mr. Smith, who ye hardly ever saw except at church, an’ who dinnut care nought for any one but hisself. Why, Mr. Nicholls stops by regular-like, t’ read me my favourite passages from th’ Bible, for ye know I can’t read so well meself, an’ we always have sich a nice chat abaat God an’ life an’ ’at. He talks t’ me as kind as owt,48 an’ sits beside me jist like a son or brother. I get sich comfort from his visits.”
As I listened to this discourse, I attacked the seam I was sewing with barely restrained annoyance. Could I not go anywhere, I wondered, without hearing Mr. Nicholls’s praises sung? My irritation turned to alarm when, a few minutes later, I heard a rattling cart pull up outside the cottage, followed by a knock at the front door. Mrs. Ainley answered it to find the aforementioned gentleman himself, standing with hat in hand.
“Good-afternoon to you, Mrs. Ainley,” said Mr. Nicholls, patting the heads of the giggling Ainley children beside him, as they tried to poke their heads inside the door. “I couldn’t help noticing the other day that your stock of coal was very low. I thought it might be a while before you could get more. So I took up a little collection from our parishioners and I’ve arranged to bring you some coal, which I hope will last until summer comes.”
This sudden appearance by Mr. Nicholls so startled me that I inadvertently stabbed my finger with my needle. Stifling a cry, I shrank back into the corner, cursing the ill-timing of our visit, and hoping he would not see me.
“Mr. Nicholls, ye are goodness itself!” cried Mrs. Ainley, looking as if she might weep for joy. “What a great blessing this is!”
“Do you have a wheelbarrow about, so we can put it in the coal bin?” asked he; then, glancing in and catching sight of Anne and me, he froze in surprise.
“The wheelbarrow’s out back, sir,” replied Mrs. Ainley. “Let me show ye.”
Some bustle followed in which Mr. Nicholls helped the carter transfer the coal to the bin, after which the horse and cart departed. As Mrs. Ainley and Mr. Nicholls returned to the front door I heard him say, “May I fill your coal scuttle, ma’am, before I go? It’s a cold day, and your fire looked wanting.”
“God bless ye, sir,” cried the grateful woman, as Mr. Nicholls followed her into the house. As he passed me and Anne, he acknowledged our presence by an aloof, unsmiling nod, which I returned with a nod equally as cool. He then fetched the coal scuttle, filled it, and brought it back inside. Carefully stepping around the sleeping child and cat, he added a few pieces of fuel to the fire. I bent my head over my work. After a small pause, in which I felt Mr. Nicholls’s eyes on me, he said, “Have you ladies formed a sewing circle?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Ainley. “Th’ Brontës jist come t’ bring me them sweet new clothes they made for me bairn. They stayed t’ keep me company, and t’ sew a shirt for me son John.”
“Did they?” said he, in a tone more gracious than before. Bending down to stroke the cat, who emitted a contented purr, Mr. Nicholls added, “Well, I won’t interrupt your visit, ladies. Good day to you, Miss Brontë, Miss Anne.”
My sister and I both responded in kind.
“I will see you in church on Sunday, Mrs. Ainley.”
“Ye will for certain, Mr. Nicholls. Ye know we never miss a Sunday service.”
“If you like, I can come by Monday next to read to you. Shall I?” “Oh! If ye would, sir, I would so look forward t’ it. An’ thank ye again, for your most thoughtful an’ generous gift.”
“I did nothing but deliver a little coal, Mrs. Ainley. These good women are the ones deserving of your thanks. The garments they fashioned required a great many long hours to produce, making their gift far more thoughtful and generous than mine.”
With a bow, Mr. Nicholls took his leave. Through the window, I saw him pick up one of the little Ainley children in his arms. He talked and laughed with her, the other children prancing happily at his side, as he walked away.
When Anne and I left the cottage half an hour later, carrying the pieces of John’s shirt in our basket to complete at home, Anne said: “You see? I told you Mr. Nicholls was a good and amiable man. Do you believe me, now?”
“I do not know what to think. The man exhibits such wildly differing sides to his character! One day, he is spouting the most intolerant notions, or callously berating some poor churchgoer for breaking a rule, and the next he is reading to them and delivering coal! Did it not infuriate you when Mr. Nicholls refused to attend the concert last week?”
“What business is it of ours if some one chooses to attend a concert or not?”
“It is the reason behind that choice, that tells us something about the man. It is a reflection of his prejudice.”
“True; but we all have prejudices. It is a measure of our complexity as people, and some of the best people I know are the most complex,” said Anne, with a look in my direction.
I sighed in frustration. “How does one reconcile the man that Mrs. Ainley just so reverently described, with the man who behaved with such cruelty a few years past, to Bridget Malone?”
“Mr. Nicholls was very young then. We should judge him for the man he is to-day, and not for his past misdeeds.”
“I shall try to think of him in a better light. But in truth—even if Mr. Nicholls brought coal to every poor family in the township—to me, he will always be the man who called me an ugly old maid.”
The spring of 1846 was a time of intense—albeit secret—creative output, as my sisters and I worked on our respective novels. Despite Emily’s harsh critique of The Professor, I was not inclined to change or rethink it. It was what it was; if it turned out to be defective, I would have only myself to blame.
In early May, there was great excitement when the first three copies of our published book of poems arrived at the parsonage. The moment I saw the parcel, discreetly addressed to “Miss Brontë,” I guessed what it contained. Giddily, I retrieved Emily and Anne from their piano practise and we raced upstairs, where we opened the package in the privacy of my bedroom.
“Oh!” we all cried in unison, when our eyes fell upon the book for the first time. It was very handsomely bound with an embossed bottle-green cloth cover, with its title and authorship—Poems, by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell—prominently displayed in gilt letters. The pleasure I felt at actually holding the little volume in my hands cannot be described.
“It is so beautiful,” exclaimed Anne.
“It is published!” I cried.
“You were right, Charlotte,” said Emily. “There is something very satisfying in seeing our work in print, in such a well-bound volume.”
Laughing with delight, we embraced each other repeatedly. It was the achievement of a dream. It was to be two long months, however, before our little book received any notice whatsoever from reviewers. In the meantime, a catastrophe of such enormous proportions engulfed our household, that any thought of literary attainment was banished from our minds.
The Reverend Edmund Robinson died. We learned of the event during the first week of June, just after Whitsuntide,49 when Branwell received a letter from one of his informants at the Robinsons’ household.
“At last!” he cried, wild with joy, clutching the epistle to his chest as he burst into the dining-room, where my sisters and I were all busy fair-copying our manuscripts in ink. We quickly covered our work, but Branwell was too enveloped in his own emotional frenzy to take any notice of our occupation.
“The old man is gone!” he continued gleefully. “Dead and buried! My Lydia is free! It is only a matter of time now. Ere long, my hopes and dreams shall all be realised. I will be the husband of the lady whom I love best in the world. I will no longer be pestered by any of the small and countless botherments, which like mosquitoes, sting us in the world of work-a-day toil. I will live the life of a gentleman at leisure, and be allowed to make myself a name in the world of prosperity!”
We hardly knew how to reply. Anything we said would have made little impression, however. Branwell was wrapped in such a fever of anticipation, that he neither ate nor slept for the next three days and four nights, throwing all about him into hubbub and confusion with the state of his emotions, as he eagerly awaited a word from “my Lydia.”
When the word came, it was to dash every one of Branwell’s cherished hopes. Mrs. Robinson sent her coachman, Mr. Allison, to explain the facts of the case, which were these: Mr. Robinson had recently altered his will; according to the new clause, his widow was precluded from having any further communication with Branwell, or else forfeit all interest in her estate. Furthermore, owing to remorse for her conduct towards her late husband, and grief for having lost him, Mrs. Robinson had become a complete wreck, and was—according to said Mr. Allison—contemplating retreat into a nunnery.
We could not be certain how much of this was true, particularly with regards to the will. It had never seemed likely to us that a wealthy, pampered woman like Mrs. Robinson, who spent money like water on frivolous items while on holiday (for so Anne had described her), would risk her comfortable style of life and incur the contempt of society by marrying a penniless, unemployed ex-tutor like Branwell. That lady had cast such a deep spell over my brother, however, that he had never entertained the concept.50
When the blow came, Branwell was already such a physical and emotional wreck, that he was driven to the brink of insanity. We, who had thought he could sink no lower than the state to which he had previously been reduced, were immediately proved wrong. For the rest of the day, he lay prostrate on the floor of the parsonage, bleating for hours on end like a new-born calf, shrieking that his heart had been broken beyond repair. That evening, when the household was gathered for prayers in papa’s study, Branwell burst into the room, wild-eyed and shouting:
“Give me some money, old man, and give it now.”
