The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 8
At first, I was not sure I would love Ellen, as we were different in many essential ways. Ellen was a strict Calvinist, devoted to the rigid religious doctrines I had learned to abhor at the Clergy Daughters’ School, and unquestioning in her conformity to social and moral codes of behaviour. I, on the other hand, found myself questioning everything on a daily basis and struggling to behave within the limits that seemed to be expected of a clergyman’s daughter. Moreover, although Ellen was intelligent and conscientious, she was not intellectual; she read, but admitted that she did not comprehend or seek any deeper meaning in a work, which was so important to me. She was calm by nature, whereas I was passionate and romantic. On several occasions, I was obliged to deprive her of her book when she attempted, without any sense of the dramatic, to haltingly read aloud passages by Shakespeare or Wordsworth.
Ellen was, however, a good, true, and faithful friend, and a sympathetic listener. She soon became a welcome presence in my bedroom, serving as a buffer between myself and the uncertain temper and affected mannerisms of Amelia. Affection, which began as a germ, became a sapling, then a strong tree; sharing beds with Ellen—my dearest “Nell,” as I came to call her—I was able to enjoy a calm sleep every night.
A few weeks later, another friendship began in an unexpected quarter. It was twilight; while my school-mates chatted merrily around the fire in the schoolroom, I knelt close to the window with a book, making use of every last ray of daylight to continue my studies.
“I thought, when first we met, that you could not see well,” observed Mary Taylor, as she took a seat on the floor beside me, “but I was wrong. Not only can you see, Charlotte Brontë, it appears that you can see in the dark.”
Mary had been avoiding me ever since the day of Ellen’s arrival; perhaps, I thought, she felt remorse for the brusque manner in which she had called me ugly. Now, I turned to find her gazing at me with twinkling eyes. “There is still enough light to read by—but only just,” I admitted. We both laughed.
“We have been studying all day, and will continue after supper. Can’t you take a little while to rest, as we do?”
“I would rather not. Every day that I am here, I am an object of expense to those at home. I feel a responsibility to learn, to use every opportunity to attain the knowledge which will fit me to one day find employment.”
“It is important, my father says, that all women find a way to earn their own living,” Mary agreed. She glanced over my shoulder at the book I was reading. “Is that the poem we are to memorize? Oh! How I dislike that poem! I do not understand a word of it.”
The poem was The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. “I have known this entire piece by heart since I was a child. We have only been given a small part to learn. Would you like me to explain it to you?”
“I would.”
I spent the remainder of the hour explaining the poem to Mary, and reciting its most dramatic and eloquent stanzas. When I had finished, Mary nodded with satisfaction, and said, “It does sound far more interesting when you explain it. You are a most intriguing person, Charlotte Brontë. There is more to you than meets the eye.”
“I would hope that to be true, particularly since that which meets the eye is so displeasing.”
Mary blushed and fell silent for a moment. “I am very sorry, Charlotte, for what I said all those weeks ago. I often speak without thinking; my sister Martha is just the same. We have been taught to say what is on our minds—but I did not mean to be unkind. Will you forgive me?”
She did not, I noticed, imply that her remark had been untruthful, or that she had only been teasing; but her sincerely apologetic tone and manner did much to appease my injured pride. “I forgive you.”
Mary smiled. “I am glad. Now we will be friends.”
That night, an event of some magnitude occurred, which dramatically and permanently altered my fortunes. A storm began to brew at sundown; by bedtime, the snow was swirling outside our windows in great flurried gusts, and the howling wind made the very house groan. Amelia, Ellen, and I had just changed into our night-shirts and completed our toilettes, when an even eerier sound rent the air: a high-pitched wail, which we determined to be of human origin.
“Some one is crying,” said I, listening at the wall, “and it seems to be issuing from the chamber next door.”
The weeping continued, and was soon accompanied by an exchange of dialogue that we could not decipher. Ellen and I decided to investigate. I grabbed a candle; Amelia, protesting that she did not wish to be left alone, quickly joined us. We padded softly into the corridor and knocked at the door of the adjacent room. Presently, a girl called Hannah opened the door and glanced out, holding her own candle aloft. “Yes?” Hannah was a serious, thin girl who had been ill for the past fortnight, and was only recently recovered.
“We heard some one crying,” said Ellen. “Is everything all right?”
“It is Susan. I think she is afraid of the snowstorm.”
“Perhaps we can comfort her,” I offered.
“Do as you wish,” said Hannah, leaving the door ajar as she turned back into the room. “We have tried everything.”
The three of us entered. The chamber, which was similar to ours, housed four girls. Leah Brooke and her sister Maria occupied the bed on one side of the room. Amelia, Ellen, and I crossed to the other bed, where, in the flickering candlelight, I perceived a lump of human size beneath the quilt. “Susan,” I intoned softly.
“Who is that?” came a small, muffled voice.
“It is Charlotte Brontë. We heard you crying. You need not be afraid of the storm. It is only the snow and the eaves and the wind talking to each other.”
The quilt was suddenly thrown back, and its sturdy, red-haired, thirteen-year-old occupant sat up, a look of great distress on her tear-stained face. “I am not afraid. Mama says that a snowstorm is a gift from God, for it carpets the world afresh in sparkling white.” With this statement, Susan’s face crumpled anew, and she burst into fresh tears.
“If you are not afraid, then what is wrong?” inquired Ellen.
“Whenever it snowed,” explained Susan tearfully, “mama and I always watched it together at the window. Or if it was late at night, and the storm was very fierce, she would sit on my bed and tell me a story. Oh! How far I am from home! How I miss mama!”
“We all miss our mothers,” replied Leah Brooke crossly from her bed, “but there is no point in carrying on so.”
“I offered to borrow a book from the schoolroom and read to her,” said Hannah with an offended sniff, “but she was not keen on that notion.”
“I would rather listen to nails on a slate,” wailed Susan, “than to hear your pathetic attempt to read a story.”
I had heard Hannah read aloud in class, and could not disagree with Susan’s assessment of her abilities. Without stopping to think, I blurted, “I could tell you a story.” No sooner had I uttered the words, than I wished I could retract them. Every one turned to me with sudden interest; my cheeks grew warm. Quickly, I added, “My brother and sisters and I made up stories all the time, to entertain each other.”
“Did you?” asked Susan, as she wiped the tears from her face. “Are they good stories?”
“You must be the judge of that.”
“Well, go on then.” Susan moved back up against the head-board and smoothed the quilt, making room for me on her bed. “Tell me one.”
My stomach fluttered as I sat down. I glanced at the others. “Shall I really?”
“I do not mind, if it will get her to stop whining,” replied Leah, with a corroborating nod from her sister.
“This is stupid!” sneered Amelia. “We are too old for a bedtime story.”
“You may leave if you do not wish to listen,” said Ellen, curling up beside Maria Brooke.
Amelia hesitated, then sank down reluctantly on a nearby chair. All at once, our three other school-mates strode into the room. “What is going on?” asked Mary Taylor, who was wrapped in a quilt, her dark hair (as with most of us) tied up for the night in curls.
“Charlotte is going to tell us a story,” answered Hannah.
“Oh! How lovely!” Mary spread her quilt on the floor and sat down. She was joined by Cecilia Allison and Mary’s boisterous, twelve-year-old sister Martha, who cried, “I love stories!”
My heart began to hammer with distress. What ever had compelled me to speak so rashly? The tales that my siblings and I had invented while traipsing across the moors, or gathered around the fire of an evening, were private stories, concocted for our own amusement; we had never shared them with any one. The girls were looking at me expectantly, however; if I did not follow through with a tale of some interest, I knew I should never live it down. It would be best, I decided, to invent a brand-new story, tailored to the tastes of this audience. Taking a deep breath to still my nerves, I began, in a low, dramatic tone:
“Long, long ago, in a distant kingdom, a widowed Duke lived with his only daughter in a great, turreted castle, built on a towering cliff high above the sea. The young lady’s name was Emily. She was eighteen years of age, and no wild rose blooming in solitude ever equalled in loveliness this gentle flower of the forest.”
A stillness descended on the room. Every one was listening with interest; every one, I noticed, except Amelia. I went on: “Emily was not only beautiful, but accomplished. She could play the harp; she could read and speak three languages; she was a skilled artist and wrote delightful poetry; and she was known to walk many miles through any kind of weather to help a family in need.”
“She sounds too perfect to live,” said Amelia scornfully.
“Do be quiet,” cried Susan. To me she said: “Please go on.”
“Emily’s goodness, intelligence, and beauty caught the attention of a handsome young gentleman from a neighbouring county, the Marquis of Belvedere, whose name was William. They met; they fell in love; and their wedding date was set. The night before the wedding, Emily fell asleep in a state of blissful anticipation, dreaming of the event the next day, and of a lifetime with her beloved William. The rest of the castle and all the members of the wedding party were also fast asleep, tucked into their respective beds. It seemed that nothing could disturb Emily’s rest or safety, or the happy couple’s impending nuptials. But this was not the case. For the truth—the terrible truth—was that Emily was a somnambulist.”
“A what?” asked Leah.
“A somnambulist,” I repeated, to which Mary added, with a thrilled edge to her voice:
“A sleep-walker!”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Susan, enthralled.
I had thoroughly warmed, by now, to the telling of my tale, and found I was enjoying myself immensely. “Emily’s father, aware of this dangerous proclivity, had for many years posted a nurse outside Emily’s door, to ensure that she could never wander out at night. To-night, however, when Emily arose barefoot from her bed and issued sound asleep from her chamber door, her nurse—who had imbibed far too much wine at the dinner party that evening—was sound asleep in her chair. Emily slipped past her down the long corridor, then climbed the stairs to the top of the castle’s tallest tower, which was situated at the edge of a high cliff overlooking the sea. She reached a door leading to the tower roof, and opened it.”
“The tower roof!” cried Hannah in alarm, the blood draining from her already pale face.
“As Emily ventured out,” said I, “she was met by a blast of cold ocean wind; but even this did not wake her. She thought herself walking along a path in her favourite meadow, and smiled at the wind in her face as if it were but a refreshing gust of spring. Emily crossed to the low, crenellated wall which encircled the tower roof, and placed her hands upon it. The stone felt rough against her finger-tips, no different from the rocky crags she was accustomed to clambering over in the meadow with such ease. But Emily stood not in a meadow; she stood atop a battlement at cloud height, overlooking the surging sea. Beyond the wall was nothingness; just starry night, and a sheer drop to the waves which crashed against the rocks many hundreds of feet below.”
I paused; my audience, I noted to my delight, were all wide-eyed and sitting forward in breathless anticipation, awaiting my next words.
“What did she do?” asked Amelia eagerly.
“As if in a trance,” I went on, “Emily climbed up onto the narrow edge of the stone wall.”
A chorus of alarmed gasps arose from the assembled girls.
“Emily stood still for a long moment atop the parapet, the wind whipping through her thin night-shirt and her long golden hair. In her mind’s eye, she saw her beloved William standing ten yards distant, waiting for her with outstretched arms. ‘William!’ she whispered softly. ‘I will come to you!’”
I rose and acted out the scene: “Emily then began to walk, one measured step at a time, each footfall landing with miraculous precision atop the notches of the battlement, unaware that one false movement, one slight waver, could lead to certain death.”
“Oh!” cried Hannah in terror, her hand at her mouth.
“At the very moment that Emily was making this perilous journey, William, who was sleeping in a chamber far across the castle courtyard, awakened with a start, certain he had heard Emily calling to him. Whence had her voice issued? Following some impulse he could not explain, William went to the window. The sight that awaited his eyes made him gasp with terror. Emily, dressed like a wraith in flowing white, was traipsing along the circular parapet of the highest tower. Worse yet, he saw that dead ahead of her, the stone ledge—damaged by harsh sea-winds—was broken and crumbling.”
Another chorus of alarmed cries from my listeners met this pronouncement.
“Emily’s foot touched down,” I continued ominously. “Suddenly the wall trembled; the mortar gave way. ‘Emily!’ cried William. The young lady wavered, teetering back and forth on the edge of nothingness, her arms reaching out to grab for some support, but none was there!”
A piercing shriek suddenly split the air; I smiled, pleased that my story could produce so stimulating an effect. But when I glanced in the direction of the sound, my smile vanished: for my listeners were all staring at Hannah, who lay gasping and trembling violently on the bed, her eyes rolled back into her head, her hands at her heart.
“She is having a fit!” exclaimed Mary.
“Call Miss Wooler!” said I, in great distress.
Miss Wooler was immediately summoned; a doctor was called in; Hannah was deemed to be suffering from violent palpitations and given a sedative of some kind; our entire party was sternly lectured about talking after hours and summarily dispatched to bed.
So filled with remorse was I at having been the cause of Hannah’s seizure, that I barely slept that night. I could not help imagining the horrifying consequences that might have ensued, had her attack proved fatal, and I fully expected to receive a round of distressing reprimands from my school-mates and teachers at breakfast. However, as I wearily took my seat at the dining-table the next morning (Hannah was still confined to bed, and the teachers had yet to join us), to my surprise, I encountered the opposite reaction.
“That was quite a performance last night,” smiled Mary, as she sat down beside me.
“I have never heard such a thrilling story!” exclaimed Susan, beaming. “I forgot all about being homesick.”
“I thought I was going to die of fright, just listening to it!” cried Martha Taylor with enthusiasm.
“Hannah nearly did die of fright,” Amelia pointed out acerbically.
“That was not Charlotte’s fault,” said Ellen.
“Next time,” said Leah, smiling at me (the first time Leah had ever smiled in my direction, and this was quite an approving and appreciative smile), “we will meet in Charlotte’s room, and Hannah can stay behind.”
“There will not be a next time,” I insisted. “Miss Wooler was quite put out. We do not want to be fined for late-night talking.”
“Then we will just have to do our talking earlier,” said Martha.
“Or be careful not to get caught,” added Mary—a statement met by laughter and a lively chorus of agreement.
Susan glanced cautiously towards the doorway; there was, as yet, no sign of the teaching staff. In a conspiratorial tone, she said, “Tell us how the story ends.”
“Charlotte,” gasped Ellen, worried, “you dare not answer.”
“Miss Wooler did not say anything against talking at breakfast,” insisted Martha.
“Yes, yes!” cried Leah. “How does it end?”
Such a round of eager questions followed—“Did Emily fall?” “Did William save her?” “Did she marry?”—that I could not help but smile. I deemed it safe to reply.
“What happened is this: When William saw Emily atop the tower, he called out her name. Although it was far too great a distance for his voice to reach her, particularly over the howling wind, somehow Emily clearly heard his voice, and awoke with a start. Upon seeing where she was, Emily regained her footing, safely descended from the wall, and fled back to William, who raced to join her. They were wed the next day, and lived a long, happy life together, bearing five children, who were all perfect, beautiful, and extremely intelligent.”
Susan sighed happily. “That is the perfect ending.”16
From that day forward, my standing amongst the girls at Roe Head School was immeasurably and permanently improved. I was never again teased about my looks, my clothing, or my accent. I became accepted for who I was, even by Amelia. Ellen and Mary became my closest friends, and those girls who had once regarded me with disdain, now seemed to view me with new-found respect, and often came to me for help and advice with their studies.
As the term continued, I was persuaded on many occasions—despite the danger to our fortunes and reputations—to tell stories after hours. In an effort to avoid detection, we gathered in a far corner of my room by the light of a single candle, and spoke in hushed tones. Hannah conquered her timidity and joined us. Sometimes I spun tales aloud; other times, we exchanged secrets, shared treasured memories, or expressed our hopes and dreams for the future. On the one occasion that we were assessed a fine for “talking after hours,” my conspirators and I privately admitted that we did not mind being caught. It had been worth it; and it was a thrill to have done something, for once in our lives, that was against the rules.
