"MY DEAR SIR,--I take a large sheet of paper, because I foresee that I am about to write another long letter, and for the same reason as before, viz., that yours interested me.
"I have received the _Morning Chronicle_, and was both surprised and pleased to see the pa.s.sage you speak of in one of its leading articles. An allusion of that sort seems to say more than a regular notice. I _do_ trust I may have the power so to write in future as not to disappoint those who have been kind enough to think and speak well of _Jane Eyre_; at any rate, I will take pains. But still, whenever I hear my one book praised, the pleasure I feel is chastened by a mixture of doubt and fear; and, in truth, I hardly wish it to be otherwise: it is much too early for me to feel safe, or to take as my due the commendation bestowed.
"Some remarks in your last letter on teaching commanded my attention.
I suppose you never were engaged in tuition yourself; but if you had been, you could not have more exactly hit on the great qualification--I had almost said the _one_ great qualification--necessary to the task: the faculty, not merely of acquiring but of imparting knowledge--the power of influencing young minds--that natural fondness for, that innate sympathy with, children, which, you say, Mrs. Williams is so happy as to possess.
He or she who possesses this faculty, this sympathy--though perhaps not otherwise highly accomplished--need never fear failure in the career of instruction. Children will be docile with them, will improve under them; parents will consequently repose in them confidence. Their task will be comparatively light, their path comparatively smooth. If the faculty be absent, the life of a teacher will be a struggle from beginning to end. No matter how amiable the disposition, how strong the sense of duty, how active the desire to please; no matter how brilliant and varied the accomplishments; if the governess has not the power to win her young charge, the secret to instil gently and surely her own knowledge into the growing mind intrusted to her, she will have a wearing, wasting existence of it. To _educate_ a child, as I daresay Mrs. Williams has educated her children, probably with as much pleasure to herself as profit to them, will indeed be impossible to the teacher who lacks this qualification. But, I conceive, should circ.u.mstances--as in the case of your daughters--compel a young girl notwithstanding to adopt a governess"s profession, she may contrive to _instruct_ and even to instruct well. That is, though she cannot form the child"s mind, mould its character, influence its disposition, and guide its conduct as she would wish, she may give lessons--even good, clear, clever lessons in the various branches of knowledge. She may earn and doubly earn her scanty salary as a daily governess. As a school-teacher she may succeed; but as a resident governess she will never (except under peculiar and exceptional circ.u.mstances) be happy.
Her deficiency will hara.s.s her not so much in school-time as in play-hours; the moments that would be rest and recreation to the governess who understood and could adapt herself to children, will be almost torture to her who has not that power. Many a time, when her charge turns unruly on her hands, when the responsibility which she would wish to discharge faithfully and perfectly, becomes unmanageable to her, she will wish herself a housemaid or kitchen girl, rather than a baited, trampled, desolate, distracted governess.
"The Governesses" Inst.i.tution may be an excellent thing in some points of view, but it is both absurd and cruel to attempt to raise still higher the standard of acquirements. Already governesses are not half nor a quarter paid for what they teach, nor in most instances is half or a quarter of their attainments required by their pupils. The young teacher"s chief anxiety, when she sets out in life, always is to know a great deal; her chief fear that she should not know enough. Brief experience will, in most instances, show her that this anxiety has been misdirected. She will rarely be found too ignorant for her pupils; the demand on her knowledge will not often be larger than she can answer. But on her patience--on her self-control, the requirement will be enormous; on her animal spirits (and woe be to her if these fail!) the pressure will be immense.
"I have seen an ignorant nursery-maid who could scarcely read or write, by dint of an excellent, serviceable, sanguine, phlegmatic temperament, which made her at once cheerful and unmoveable; of a robust const.i.tution and steady, unimpa.s.sionable nerves, which kept her firm under shocks and unhara.s.sed under annoyances--manage with comparative ease a large family of spoilt children, while their governess lived amongst them a life of inexpressible misery: tyrannised over, finding her efforts to please and teach utterly vain, chagrined, distressed, worried--so badgered, so trodden on, that she ceased almost at last to know herself, and wondered in what despicable, trembling frame her oppressed mind was prisoned, and could not realise the idea of ever more being treated with respect and regarded with affection--till she finally resigned her situation and went away quite broken in spirit and reduced to the verge of decline in health.
"Those who would urge on governesses more acquirements, do not know the origin of their chief sufferings. It is more physical and mental strength, denser moral impa.s.sibility that they require, rather than additional skill in arts or sciences. As to the forcing system, whether applied to teachers or taught, I hold it to be a cruel system.
"It is true the world demands a brilliant list of accomplishments.
For 20 pounds per annum, it expects in one woman the attainments of several professors--but the demand is insensate, and I think should rather be resisted than complied with. If I might plead with you in behalf of your daughters, I should say, "Do not let them waste their young lives in trying to attain manifold accomplishments. Let them try rather to possess thoroughly, fully, one or two talents; then let them endeavour to lay in a stock of health, strength, cheerfulness.
Let them labour to attain self-control, endurance, fort.i.tude, firmness; if possible, let them learn from their mother something of the precious art she possesses--these things, together with sound principles, will be their best supports, their best aids through a governess"s life.
"As for that one who, you say, has a nervous horror of exhibition, I need not beg you to be gentle with her; I am sure you will not be harsh, but she must be firm with herself, or she will repent it in after life. She should begin by degrees to endeavour to overcome her diffidence. Were she destined to enjoy an independent, easy existence, she might respect her natural disposition to seek retirement, and even cherish it as a shade-loving virtue; but since that is not her lot, since she is fated to make her way in the crowd, and to depend on herself, she should say: I will try and learn the art of self-possession, not that I may display my accomplishments, but that I may have the satisfaction of feeling that I am my own mistress, and can move and speak undaunted by the fear of man.
While, however, I pen this piece of advice, I confess that it is much easier to give than to follow. What the sensations of the nervous are under the gaze of publicity none but the nervous know; and how powerless reason and resolution are to control them would sound incredible except to the actual sufferers.
"The rumours you mention respecting the authorship of _Jane Eyre_ amused me inexpressibly. The gossips are, on this subject, just where I should wish them to be, _i.e._, as far from the truth as possible; and as they have not a grain of fact to found their fictions upon, they fabricate pure inventions. Judge Erle must, I think, have made up his story expressly for a hoax; the other _fib_ is amazing--so circ.u.mstantial! called on the author, forsooth! Where did he live, I wonder? In what purlieu of c.o.c.kayne? Here I must stop, lest if I run on further I should fill another sheet.--Believe me, yours sincerely,
"CURRER BELL.
"_P.S._--I must, after all, add a morsel of paper, for I find, on glancing over yours, that I have forgotten to answer a question you ask respecting my next work. I have not therein so far treated of governesses, as I do not wish it to resemble its predecessor. I often wish to say something about the "condition of women" question, but it is one respecting which so much "cant" has been talked, that one feels a sort of repugnance to approach it. It is true enough that the present market for female labour is quite overstocked, but where or how could another be opened? Many say that the professions now filled only by men should be open to women also; but are not their present occupants and candidates more than numerous enough to answer every demand? Is there any room for female lawyers, female doctors, female engravers, for more female artists, more auth.o.r.esses?
One can see where the evil lies, but who can point out the remedy?
When a woman has a little family to rear and educate and a household to conduct, her hands are full, her vocation is evident; when her destiny isolates her, I suppose she must do what she can, live as she can, complain as little, bear as much, work as well as possible.
This is not high theory, but I believe it is sound practice, good to put into execution while philosophers and legislators ponder over the better ordering of the social system. At the same time, I conceive that when patience has done its utmost and industry its best, whether in the case of women or operatives, and when both are baffled, and pain and want triumph, the sufferer is free, is ent.i.tled, at last to send up to Heaven any piercing cry for relief, if by that cry he can hope to obtain succour."
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
"_June_ 2, 1848.
"MY DEAR SIR,--I s.n.a.t.c.h a moment to write a hasty line to you, for it makes me uneasy to think that your last kind letter should have remained so long unanswered. A succession of little engagements, much more importunate than important, have quite engrossed my time lately, to the exclusion of more momentous and interesting occupations. Interruption is a sad bore, and I believe there is hardly a spot on earth, certainly not in England, quite secure from its intrusion. The fact is, you cannot live in this world entirely for one aim; you must take along with some single serious purpose a hundred little minor duties, cares, distractions; in short, you must take life as it is, and make the best of it. Summer is decidedly a bad season for application, especially in the country; for the sunshine seems to set all your acquaintances astir, and, once bent on amus.e.m.e.nt, they will come to the ends of the earth in search thereof.
I was obliged to you for your suggestion about writing a letter to the _Morning Chronicle_, but I did not follow it up. I think I would rather not venture on such a step at present. Opinions I would not hesitate to express to you--because you are indulgent--are not mature or cool enough for the public; Currer Bell is not Carlyle, and must not imitate him.
"Whenever you can write to me without encroaching too much on your valuable time, remember I shall always be glad to hear from you.
Your last letter interested me fully as much as its two predecessors; what you said about your family pleased me; I think details of character always have a charm even when they relate to people we have never seen, nor expect to see. With eight children you must have a busy life; but, from the manner in which you allude to your two eldest daughters, it is evident that they at least are a source of satisfaction to their parents; I hope this will be the case with the whole number, and then you will never feel as if you had too many. A dozen children with sense and good conduct may be less burdensome than one who lacks these qualities. It seems a long time since I heard from you. I shall be glad to hear from you again.--Believe me, yours sincerely,
"C. BELL."
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
"HAWORTH, _June_ 15_th_, 1848.
"MY DEAR SIR,--Thank you for your two last letters. In reading the first I quite realised your May holiday; I enjoyed it with you. I saw the pretty south-of-England village, so different from our northern congregations of smoke-dark houses cl.u.s.tered round their soot-vomiting mills. I saw in your description, fertile, flowery Ess.e.x--a contrast indeed to the rough and rude, the mute and sombre yet well-beloved moors over-spreading this corner of Yorkshire. I saw the white schoolhouse, the venerable school-master--I even thought I saw you and your daughters; and in your second letter I see you all distinctly, for, in describing your children, you unconsciously describe yourself.
"I may well say that your letters are of value to me, for I seldom receive one but I find something in it which makes me reflect, and reflect on new themes. Your town life is somewhat different from any I have known, and your allusions to its advantages, troubles, pleasures, and struggles are often full of significance to me.
"I have always been accustomed to think that the necessity of earning one"s subsistence is not in itself an evil, but I feel it may become a heavy evil if health fails, if employment lacks, if the demand upon our efforts made by the weakness of others dependent upon us becomes greater than our strength suffices to answer. In such a case I can imagine that the married man may wish himself single again, and that the married woman, when she sees her husband over-exerting himself to maintain her and her children, may almost wish--out of the very force of her affection for him--that it had never been her lot to add to the weight of his responsibilities. Most desirable then is it that all, both men and women, should have the power and the will to work for themselves--most advisable that both sons and daughters should early be inured to habits of independence and industry. Birds teach their nestlings to fly as soon as their wings are strong enough, they even oblige them to quit the nest if they seem too unwilling to trust their pinions of their own accord. Do not the swallow and the starling thus give a lesson by which man might profit?
"It seems to me that your kind heart is pained by the thought of what your daughter may suffer if transplanted from a free and indulged home existence to a life of constraint and labour amongst strangers.
Suffer she probably will; but take both comfort and courage, my dear sir, try to soothe your anxiety by this thought, which is not a fallacious one. Hers will not be a barren suffering; she will gain by it largely; she will "sow in tears to reap in joy." A governess"s experience is frequently indeed bitter, but its results are precious: the mind, feeling, temper are there subjected to a discipline equally painful and priceless. I have known many who were unhappy as governesses, but not one who regretted having undergone the ordeal, and scarcely one whose character was not improved--at once strengthened and purified, fortified and softened, made more enduring for her own afflictions, more considerate for the afflictions of others, by pa.s.sing through it.
"Should your daughter, however, go out as governess, she should first take a firm resolution not to be too soon daunted by difficulties, too soon disgusted by disagreeables; and if she has a high spirit, sensitive feelings, she should tutor the one to submit, the other to endure, _for the sake of those at home_. That is the governess"s best talisman of patience, it is the best balm for wounded susceptibility. When tried hard she must say, "I will be patient, not out of servility, but because I love my parents, and wish through my perseverance, diligence, and success, to repay their anxieties and tenderness for me." With this aid the least-deserved insult may often be swallowed quite calmly, like a bitter pill with a draught of fair water.
"I think you speak excellent sense when you say that girls without fortune should be brought up and accustomed to support themselves; and that if they marry poor men, it should be with a prospect of being able to help their partners. If all parents thought so, girls would not be reared on speculation with a view to their making mercenary marriages; and, consequently, women would not be so piteously degraded as they now too often are.
"Fortuneless people may certainly marry, provided they previously resolve never to let the consequences of their marriage throw them as burdens on the hands of their relatives. But as life is full of unforeseen contingencies, and as a woman may be so placed that she cannot possibly both "guide the house" and earn her livelihood (what leisure, for instance, could Mrs. Williams have with her eight children?), young artists and young governesses should think twice before they unite their destinies.
"You speak sense again when you express a wish that f.a.n.n.y were placed in a position where active duties would engage her attention, where her faculties would be exercised and her mind occupied, and where, I will add, not doubting that my addition merely completes your half-approved idea, the image of the young artist would for the present recede into the background and remain for a few years to come in modest perspective, the finishing point of a vista stretching a considerable distance into futurity. f.a.n.n.y may feel sure of this: if she intends to be an artist"s wife she had better try an apprenticeship with Fortune as a governess first; she cannot undergo a better preparation for that honourable (honourable if rightly considered) but certainly not luxurious destiny.
"I should say then--judging as well as I can from the materials for forming an opinion your letter affords, and from what I can thence conjecture of f.a.n.n.y"s actual and prospective position--that you would do well and wisely to put your daughter out. The experiment might do good and could not do harm, because even if she failed at the first trial (which is not unlikely) she would still be in some measure benefited by the effort.
"I duly received _Mirabeau_ from Mr. Smith. I must repeat, it is really _too_ kind. When I have read the book, I will tell you what I think of it--its subject is interesting. One thing a little annoyed me--as I glanced over the pages I fancied I detected a savour of Carlyle"s peculiarities of style. Now Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would write plain English; and to imitate his Germanisms is, I think, to imitate his faults. Is the author of this work a Manchester man? I must not ask his name, I suppose.--Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,
"CURRER BELL."
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
"_June_ 22_nd_, 1848.
"MY DEAR SIR,--After reading a book which has both interested and informed you, you like to be able, on laying it down, to speak of it with unqualified approbation--to praise it cordially; you do not like to stint your panegyric, to counteract its effect with blame.
"For this reason I feel a little difficulty in telling you what I think of _The Life of Mirabeau_. It has interested me much, and I have derived from it additional information. In the course of reading it, I have often felt called upon to approve the ability and tact of the writer, to admire the skill with which he conducts the narrative, enchains the reader"s attention, and keeps it fixed upon his hero; but I have also been moved frequently to disapprobation.
It is not the political principles of the writer with which I find fault, nor is it his talents I feel inclined to disparage; to speak truth, it is his manner of treating Mirabeau"s errors that offends--then, I think, he is neither wise nor right--there, I think, he betrays a little of crudeness, a little of presumption, not a little of indiscretion.
"Could you with confidence put this work into the hands of your son, secure that its perusal would not harm him, that it would not leave on his mind some vague impression that there is a grandeur in vice committed on a colossal scale? Whereas, the fact is, that in vice there is no grandeur, that it is, on whichever side you view it, and in whatever acc.u.mulation, only a foul, sordid, and degrading thing.
The fact is, that this great Mirabeau was a mixture of divinity and dirt; that there was no divinity whatever in his errors, they were all sullying dirt; that they ruined him, brought down his genius to the kennel, deadened his fine nature and generous sentiments, made all his greatness as nothing; that they cut him off in his prime, obviated all his aims, and struck him dead in the hour when France most needed him.
"Mirabeau"s life and fate teach, to my perception, the most depressing lesson I have read for years. One would fain have hoped that so many n.o.ble qualities must have made a n.o.ble character and achieved n.o.ble ends. No--the mighty genius lived a miserable and degraded life, and died a dog"s death, for want of self-control, for want of morality, for lack of religion. One"s heart is wrung for Mirabeau after reading his life; and it is not of his greatness we think, when we close the volume, so much as of his hopeless recklessness, and of the sufferings, degradation, and untimely end in which it issued. It appears to me that the biographer errs also in being too solicitous to present his hero always in a striking point of view--too negligent of the exact truth. He eulogises him too much; he subdues all the other characters mentioned and keeps them in the shade that Mirabeau may stand out more conspicuously. This, no doubt, is right in art, and admissible in fiction; but in history (and biography is the history of an individual) it tends to weaken the force of a narrative by weakening your faith in its accuracy.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
CHAPTER COFFEE-HOUSE, IVY LANE, "_July_ 8_th_, 1848.
"MY DEAR SIR,--Your invitation is too welcome not to be at once accepted. I should much like to see Mrs. Williams and her children, and very much like to have a quiet chat with yourself. Would it suit you if we came to-morrow, after dinner--say about seven o"clock, and spent Sunday evening with you?
"We shall be truly glad to see you whenever it is convenient to you to call.--I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,
"C. BRONTE."
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
"HAWORTH, _July_ 13_th_, 1848.
"MY DEAR SIR,--We reached home safely yesterday, and in a day or two I doubt not we shall get the better of the fatigues of our journey.