Life of Charlotte Brontë | Page 6

Elizabeth Gaskell

room, with his eyes bandaged. No inflammation ensued, but still it
appears the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter privation of light are
necessary to ensure a good result from the operation. He is very patient,

but, of course, depressed and weary. He was allowed to try his sight for
the first time yesterday. He could see dimly. Mr. Wilson seemed
perfectly satisfied, and said all was right. I have had bad nights from
the toothache since I came to Manchester."
All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties which were
harassing them--notwithstanding the ill-success of their poems--the
three sisters were trying that other literary venture, to which Charlotte
made allusion in one of her letters to the Messrs. Aylott. Each of them
had written a prose tale, hoping that the three might be published
together. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" are before the world.
The third--Charlotte's contribution--is yet in manuscript, but will be
published shortly after the appearance of this memoir. The plot in itself
is of no great interest; but it is a poor kind of interest that depends upon
startling incidents rather than upon dramatic development of character;
and Charlotte Bronte never excelled one or two sketches of portraits
which she had given in "The Professor", nor, in grace of womanhood,
ever surpassed one of the female characters there described. By the
time she wrote this tale, her taste and judgment had revolted against the
exaggerated idealisms of her early girlhood, and she went to the
extreme of reality, closely depicting characters as they had shown
themselves to her in actual life: if there they were strong even to
coarseness,--as was the case with some that she had met with in flesh
and blood existence,--she "wrote them down an ass;" if the scenery of
such life as she saw was for the most part wild and grotesque, instead
of pleasant or picturesque, she described it line for line. The grace of
the one or two scenes and characters, which are drawn rather from her
own imagination than from absolute fact stand out in exquisite relief
from the deep shadows and wayward lines of others, which call to mind
some of the portraits of Rembrandt.
The three tales had tried their fate in vain together, at length they were
sent forth separately, and for many months with still- continued ill
success. I have mentioned this here, because, among the dispiriting
circumstances connected with her anxious visit to Manchester,
Charlotte told me that her tale came back upon her hands, curtly
rejected by some publisher, on the very day when her father was to

submit to his operation. But she had the heart of Robert Bruce within
her, and failure upon failure daunted her no more than him. Not only
did "The Professor" return again to try his chance among the London
publishers, but she began, in this time of care and depressing
inquietude, in those grey, weary, uniform streets; where all faces, save
that of her kind doctor, were strange and untouched with sunlight to
her,--there and then, did the brave genius begin "Jane Eyre". Read what
she herself says:--"Currer Bell's book found acceptance nowhere, nor
any acknowledgment of merit, so that something like the chill of
despair began to invade his heart." And, remember it was not the heart
of a person who, disappointed in one hope, can turn with redoubled
affection to the many certain blessings that remain. Think of her home,
and the black shadow of remorse lying over one in it, till his very brain
was mazed, and his gifts and his life were lost;--think of her father's
sight hanging on a thread;--of her sister's delicate health, and
dependence on her care;--and then admire as it deserves to be admired,
the steady courage which could work away at "Jane Eyre", all the time
"that the one-volume tale was plodding its weary round in London."
I believe I have already mentioned that some of her surviving friends
consider that an incident which she heard, when at school at Miss
Wooler's, was the germ of the story of Jane Eyre. But of this nothing.
can be known, except by conjecture. Those to whom she spoke upon
the subject of her writings are dead and silent; and the reader may
probably have noticed, that in the correspondence from which I have
quoted, there has been no allusion whatever to the publication of her
poems, nor is there the least hint of the intention of the sisters to
publish any tales. I remember, however, many little particulars which
Miss Bronte gave me, in answer to my inquiries respecting her mode of
composition, etc. She said, that it was not every day, that she could
write. Sometimes weeks or even months elapsed before she felt that she
had anything to add to
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code

 / 108
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.