The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 25
It was a pity, I often thought, that papa had not stayed long enough when he delivered me or my sisters to school, to comprehend fully the dismal living conditions, the harsh disciplinary practices, and the many offences with regard to food to which we were daily subjected.
Indeed, the food was very bad, and in very short supply; we were kept in a constant state of near starvation. The cook was extremely dirty; she did not always clean out her pots before using them again. The typical daily meal was a watery stew called hot-pot, of boiled potatoes and bits of tainted, rangy meat, which had such an offensive taste and smell that I could not eat it, and was unable to stomach meat for many years thereafter. The porridge at breakfast was not only often burnt, but filled with fragments of other indefinable, greasy substances. The milk was often bingy,52 and for tea, we were each allotted only a small mug of coffee and half a slice of brown bread—an offering which was usually stolen by one of the ravenous older girls. The only other food provided was a glass of water and a dreaded piece of oat cake before evening prayers.
As to prayers—although I firmly believe that religion is the life-blood of all existence, and should be the groundwork of all education—the unreasonably long hours dedicated to devotion, sermons, and lecture scripture lessons at the Clergy Daughters’ School, particularly on an empty stomach, served more to hinder rather than promote the salvation of immortal souls.
In my second week at school, I was watching the other girls running about in the convent-like garden during the mid-day play hour, when I spied my sister Maria taking refuge from the sun in a quiet corner beneath the covered veranda. A book was open on Maria’s lap, but she was not looking at it; instead, she stared off into space, to some point beyond the high, spike-guarded enclosing walls. I plunked down on the stone bench beside her and said, “A penny for your thoughts.”
Maria looked up with a startled and embarrassed smile. “I was thinking of home.”
“Oh! How I would love to be home right now. I hoped I would like this place, but now I do not think I shall.”
“It does not matter whether or not we like it, Charlotte. It is only important that we do well and get a proper education, for this is the only school papa can afford. Did you know that he has paid an additional fee for you and me to be educated as governesses?”
“Governesses?” I made a face. “What about Elizabeth? Is she to be a governess?”
“No. Papa said Elizabeth is more suited to be the mistress of the household when she grows up. You and I are lucky, Charlotte. We will learn so much more than the other girls. We must be as good as we can, learn everything that is assigned, be neat, tidy, and punctual at all times—and take care not to offend Miss Pilcher.”
Miss Pilcher, who taught history and grammar to the third class, was a short, thin woman whose weather-beaten face and permanently-frazzled expression made her appear a decade older than her twenty-six years. She slept in a chamber adjacent to the dormitory; it was her responsibility to see to it that we were all properly clad and prompt in our arrival at morning prayers, a duty which she seemed to greatly resent. She also seemed to take a particular dislike to Maria, who, to my dismay, she persecuted on a regular basis for the most minor of offences.
When Maria’s mind wandered in class, Miss Pilcher made her stand on a chair in the centre of the room for an entire day; for an untidy drawer, she pinned several undergarments to Maria’s frock, and bound around her forehead a piece of pasteboard, upon which she had inscribed the word “Slattern.” My heart burned with pain and fury at these injustices; but worse was yet to come. Twice, I saw Maria flogged with “the rod”: a terrifying tool made from a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. The fear of that tool’s sting was a great motivator to dutiful behaviour in every student; yet Miss Pilcher appeared to enjoy employing it for even the most cursory transgression. I watched in impotent horror, flinching as each of the twelve sharp lashes struck Maria’s neck; but Maria remained calm and stoic throughout the ordeal, not giving way to tears until later, after she had quietly returned the despised rod to its place of storage.
Every day, I prayed that papa would come and release us from our prison; instead, when papa did return in late November, he brought six-year-old Emily to join us. His stay was brief, and we were only permitted a few minutes’ audience with him. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but Maria made me promise not to breathe a word.
By now, Mr. Wilson had hired a new superintendent to manage the school. Miss Ann Evans was thirty years old, tall and lovely, and always impeccably dressed; she also had a sensitive nature. When I asked her to allow Emily to be my bed-fellow, so that I might more readily watch over her, my request was granted.
December came. The weather grew harsh and cold; we shivered in our beds, and the water in the ewers froze, making it impossible to wash. An early and deep snowfall made the road impassable, but we were still required to spend an hour every day in the open air of the frozen garden, and to walk more than two miles across the sweeping rise and fall of a snowy, exposed path every Sunday to church. Having no gloves, we arrived at church paralysed with cold, our hands numbed and covered with chilblains;53 ditto our feet, for having no boots, the snow crept into our shoes and melted there.
We sat through the all-day service frozen, with wet feet. In late afternoon, as my sisters and I trudged back to school in the long line of dejected girls and teachers, we wrapped our purple cloaks tightly about us, squeezing our eyes to slits against the bitter winter wind, which cut through our clothing and flayed our cheeks raw. Upon our return, we were treated to further Bible study and a long sermon by Miss Pilcher, during which Emily and I, and many of the other younger girls, often dropped in exhaustion from the benches to the floor.
Maria had developed a little cough that autumn, which she insisted was a lingering remnant of the whooping-cough. By late January, however, her cough was worse, and she grew increasingly weak and pale. Then Elizabeth caught a bad chill on one of our Sunday walks, and developed a cough of her own. Several other pupils suffered from similar complaints, which the teaching staff attributed to typical winter colds. One afternoon, I was alarmed to see that Maria’s handkerchief, after she was seized by a coughing fit, was tinged with blood. I gave intelligence of the event to Miss Evans; she called in Dr. Batty, who examined my sister.
A few days later, when I rose to dress at the first morning bell, I noticed that Maria was not in her bed. I applied to Miss Pilcher, who informed me that Maria had been removed to Miss Evans’s quarters during the night.
“Why?” I asked, filled with sudden, unspeakable dread.
“We believe she has consumption,”54 said Miss Pilcher tersely, as she shut her door in my face.
I had never heard of consumption. The apprehension I had witnessed on Miss Pilcher’s countenance implied that this was no simple childhood illness, from which one would easily recover. For the first time in my life, I was seized by the thought that my sister might die, and I felt a shock of horror and grief.
“I must see Maria,” I told my sisters, as we headed towards the dining-hall that morning.
“How can you?” said Elizabeth. “She is with Miss Evans.”
“Then that is where I shall find her.”
When the teachers were looking the other way, I slipped out of line and out the door; with pounding heart, I dashed along the pebbly path to the cottage I knew belonged to Miss Evans. She admitted me with barely a word, explaining that I would find my sister in her bedroom. I crossed the apartment to the adjoining chamber, where, beside the larger bed, I saw a huddled form lying on a narrow cot. I advanced, terrified. Was it Maria? Was she alive or dead?
“Charlotte,” said Maria in her gentle voice as I approached, “why are you here? Should you not be at breakfast?”
I sat down on the stool beside Maria’s bed with relief. Although she was pale, and her eyes looked feverish, she was not much changed from the day before. “They told me you were ill. I was worried about you.”
“Do not worry, Charlotte. Miss Evans has written to papa and asked him to come and take me home.”
“I am glad. I shall miss you, but the fresh air of the moors will cure you.” A coughing spell took hold of her; I winced at the effort it required for her to endure the lengthy spasms. “I wish there was something I could do to ease your suffering.”
“There is. You can make me a promise.”
“What promise?”
“If you hear that I have died, promise me you will not grieve.”
A hot pang seared my chest and throat. “Maria, you are not going to die.”
“I do not wish to. But if it is the Lord’s will that I should die, I must accept it and be grateful for the time I have had on earth.”
“How can you be grateful? You are far too young to die!”
“We all must die one day. My only regret is that I shall not have more time to spend with papa and you and all my family.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Are you very afraid?” I whispered.
Maria’s eyes shone with courage and intelligence as she said softly, “No, I am not afraid. If I die, I will go to God. He will be revealed to me in heaven. He is our father and our friend, and I love Him.”
A few days later, papa retrieved Maria from school. Over the next three months, while I clung to the belief that Maria was happy at home and getting well, conditions at the school turned from bad to worse. With the advent of spring, a new menace came to Cowan Bridge. The establishment lay in a low forest dell near a river, at times surrounded by dense fog, which brought moisture into the crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and became a breeding ground for typhus. By early April, nearly a third of the pupils, already weak from semi-starvation, had fallen ill. A doctor was called in. He condemned the preparation of the food, and the cook was dismissed. Ten more girls left school in declining health; I learned that six of them died soon after reaching home.
Emily and I somehow escaped the ravages of the typhoid fever, but Elizabeth did not. She was sent to the crowded hospital ward in the seminary, which I visited at every opportunity.
The second week of May, Emily and I were called in to a private meeting with Miss Evans in her study. I still remember what she wore that day: a lovely frock of deep violet silk, with a black lace collar and a black ribbon around her throat.
“Girls,” said Miss Evans, in a solemn voice, “I received a letter from your father to-day. I am so sorry to tell you this, but your sister Maria has passed away.”
Emily and I cried ourselves to sleep that night in each other’s arms. Were we truly never again to hear our sweet Maria’s voice? Were we never again to see her gentle smile, or feel the warmth of her motherly embrace? Of course, we could not go to the funeral; home was too far away.
Two weeks later, the doctor, upon examining Elizabeth again, determined that she had never suffered from typhus after all; she was in fact in the final stages of consumption, the same disease which had killed Maria. Emily and I watched helplessly as a servant lifted Elizabeth aboard the public coach to Keighley, which quickly drove away. Papa was shocked when a private gig drew up unannounced at Haworth parsonage with Elizabeth aboard. He took one look at her wasted face, the mirror image of Maria’s only weeks before, and after remanding her to Aunt Branwell’s care, he immediately came and rescued Emily and myself.
“You will never go back to that school,” proclaimed a tearful papa as we journeyed home, “and that’s the end of it.”
How shall I describe the relief that Emily and I felt at leaving behind, once and for all, the hardships of the Clergy Daughters’ School, and returning to our beloved home? It was a relief, however, that was tempered by enormous sadness: it was a home without Maria, and soon without Elizabeth. For Elizabeth’s illness was so advanced, that she died just two weeks after reaching Haworth.
Tears stung my eyes as—twenty-one years later—I stood at the window of our lodgings in Manchester and reflected on the loss of my two beloved sisters. My grief and resentment was as fresh and deep to-day as if the harrowing events had only just occurred. If, at that moment, a genie had granted my dearest wish, I would have asked him to send me back in time to when my sisters were still alive, so that I might embrace them once more; I would have asked, too, for a private moment with my younger self, so that I might provide her with hope, solace, and comfort.
As I sadly processed these thoughts and memories, a realisation struck me; I was suddenly overcome by a chill that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end; it was followed by a surge of heat, and the rapid pounding of my heart.
All at once, I knew what I should write next.
That anguished, lonely little school-girl, so miserable, starved and deprived—whose every thought and feeling I still recalled so vividly, to the depth of my very being—I could write about her.
Drawing on my own experience, I could fearlessly invest that little girl with all the emotion I wished, and deliver the kind of passionate story that I had so enjoyed writing in the past. The idea sent a thrill coursing through me, and my mind continued to work, all in a tumult. My main character should be motherless, I decided—that was something I knew about—and unwanted by the family who raised her. Perhaps she could grow up to be a governess; that was something I knew about, too.
There must be a romance, of course; I could add elements of the strange, the startling, and the harrowing, akin to the tales I had penned in my youth. But this would be no typical novel, I decided, about a young woman of great beauty—no! I would try something very different this time, from the stories I had written, and the books I had read: I would create a small, plain heroine, like myself. I could name her after one of my sisters; but no, that would be too blatant; instead, I would use Emily’s middle name: Jane.
Whether or not such a story would meet with approval from a publisher or the reading public, I could not be certain; I only knew that I must proceed. This was the book I was meant to write next.
I sat down at my desk. I seized a sheet of paper. By the flickering light of a single candle, I dipped my pen in my ink pot.
And I began to write Jane Eyre.
Thirteen
The first chapters of Jane Eyre poured out in a frenzy. Over the next five weeks, as I waited for my father to recuperate from his surgery, I wrote all day, every day, and most of the nights as well. It was the first time I had ever written from a woman’s point of view, and it felt so incredibly right.
The sense of extreme isolation and loneliness I had endured as a governess, I invested in my depiction of Jane as a child at Gateshead, unloved and unwanted by the Reeds. I re-created my life at the Clergy Daughters’ School, and evoked the memory of my gentle, patient sister Maria in Jane’s angelic but doomed friend, Helen Burns. Perhaps it was the intensely personal nature of these memories, bound up as they were by my terrible anger and grief caused by my sisters’ deaths, that caused me to write Jane Eyre with a zeal that I had never before encountered in any of my earlier literary efforts. I wrote in a white heat; I wrote as if my very life depended on it; I wrote in a fervent articulation of all the pent-up emotion that had been fermenting in my soul for years. Every word I penned felt so real and true—as indeed it was, for it was inspired by fact—it seemed as if I were merely taking dictation from some otherworldly, magical source.
While I wrote, to my joy and relief, my father’s health and vision improved daily. The surgeon continued to express his satisfaction at the success of the operation, and assured us that papa’s eyesight would be perfectly restored in that one eye; ere long, he would be able to both read and write.
We returned home at the end of September with high hopes. Two months later, papa was so recovered as to be able to return to active duty. Meanwhile, I continued to write obsessively. Other memories and incidents from my own life, past and present, found their way into my novel. Thornfield Hall became a fusion of North Lees Hall and Ellen’s childhood home, The Rydings. My fascination with attics and their mysterious occupants became a central theme, embellished by stories of the West Indies which I had been told by a friend at the Clergy Daughters’ School, Mellany Hane, who had once resided in that exotic land.
The quiet, humble life enjoyed by my sisters and me was reflected in Diana and Mary Rivers and Jane at Moor House; the Rivers’s good servant Hannah was the personification of Tabby. Many of the inner conflicts explored by the heroines in the stories of my youth found a new home in Jane Eyre’s tale—and an alarming accident which occurred at home the very autumn of its composition inspired a similar mishap, allowing Jane to save Mr. Rochester from grave danger.
The mishap occurred on a mid-afternoon in early November. Papa was out. My sisters and I had just entered the parsonage after a walk on the moors with the dogs. Moments after Anne went upstairs, we heard a scream and a crash. Greatly frightened, Emily and I raced up after her, immediately aware of a strong smell of burning. As we reached the upper landing, I saw blue wreaths of smoke rushing in a cloud from Branwell’s room.
“Branwell’s bedclothes are on fire!” cried Anne frantically from his doorway. “He will not wake up!”
In an instant we were all within the chamber, which was close and dark. Great tongues of flame leapt at the curtains hanging around Branwell’s bed, and had begun to incinerate the coverlets and sheets. In the midst of the heat and blaze, Branwell lay stretched and motionless, in his typical day-time stupor. His water-jug lay in pieces on the floor; I guessed that Anne had hurled its contents at the conflagration, to no good effect.
