Life of Charlotte Brontë | Page 7

that portion of her story which was already
written. Then, some morning, she would waken up, and the progress of
her tale lay clear and bright before her, in distinct vision. when this was
the case, all her care was to discharge her household and filial duties, so
as to obtain leisure to sit down and write out the incidents and
consequent thoughts, which were, in fact, more present to her mind at

such times than her actual life itself. Yet notwithstanding this
"possession" (as it were), those who survive, of her daily and household
companions, are clear in their testimony, that never was the claim of
any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected for an instant.
It had become necessary to give Tabby--now nearly eighty years of
age--the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished any of her work with
jealous reluctance, and could not bear to be reminded, though ever so
delicately, that the acuteness of her senses was dulled by age. The other
servant might not interfere with what she chose to consider her
exclusive work. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right of
peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she was growing blind, she often
left in those black specks, which we in the North call the "eyes" of the
potato. Miss Bronte was too dainty a housekeeper to put up with this;
yet she could not bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the
younger maiden go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby
that her work was less effectual than formerly. Accordingly she would
steal into the kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables,
without Tabby's being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of
interest and inspiration in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in
the potatoes, and noiselessly carry them back to their place. This little
proceeding may show how orderly and fully she accomplished her
duties, even at those times when the "possession" was upon her.
Any one who has studied her writings,--whether in print or in her
letters; any one who has enjoyed the rare privilege of listening to her
talk, must have noticed her singular felicity in the choice of words. She
herself, in writing her books, was solicitous on this point. One set of
words was the truthful mirror of her thoughts; no others, however
apparently identical in meaning, would do. She had that strong practical
regard for the simple holy truth of expression, which Mr. Trench has
enforced, as a duty too often neglected. She would wait patiently
searching for the right term, until it presented itself to her. It might be
provincial, it might be derived from the Latin; so that it accurately
represented her idea, she did not mind whence it came; but this care
makes her style present the finish of a piece of mosaic. Each
component part, however small, has been dropped into the right place.
She never wrote down a sentence until she clearly understood what she

wanted to say, had deliberately chosen the words, and arranged them in
their right order. Hence it comes that, in the scraps of paper covered
with her pencil writing which I have seen, there will occasionally be a
sentence scored out, but seldom, if ever, a word or an expression. She
wrote on these bits of paper in a minute hand, holding each against a
piece of board, such as is used in binding books, for a desk. This plan
was necessary for one so short-sighted as she was; and, besides, it
enabled her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the fire in the
twilight hours, or if (as was too often the case) she was wakeful for
hours in the night. Her finished manuscripts were copied from these
pencil scraps, in clear, legible, delicate traced writing, almost as easy to
read as print.
The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt's
life-time, of putting away their work at nine o'clock, and beginning
their study, pacing up and down the sitting room. At this time, they
talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and described their
plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the others what she had
written, and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told me, that
the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing her to alter her
work, so possessed was she with the feeling that she had described
reality; but the readings were of great and stirring interest to all, taking
them out of the gnawing pressure of daily-recurring cares, and setting
them in a free place. It was on one of these occasions, that Charlotte
determined to make her heroine plain, small, and unattractive,