"I shall anxiously search the next number of Fraser for your opinions on these points.--Believe me, dear Sir, yours gratefully,
"C. BELL."
But while gratified by appreciation as an author, she was cautious as to the person from whom she received it; for much of the value of the praise depended on the sincerity and capability of the person rendering it. Accordingly, she applied to Mr. Williams (a gentleman connected with her publishers" firm) for information as to who and what Mr. Lewes was. Her reply, after she had learnt something of the character of her future critic, and while awaiting his criticism, must not be omitted.
Besides the reference to him, it contains some amusing allusions to the perplexity which began to be excited respecting the "ident.i.ty of the brothers Bell," and some notice of the conduct of another publisher towards her sister, which I refrain from characterising, because I understand that truth is considered a libel in speaking of such people.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"Nov. 10th, 1847.
"Dear Sir,--I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not the Spectator which I rather regret, as censure, though not pleasant, is often wholesome.
"Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. I am glad to hear that he is a clever and sincere man: such being the case, I can await his critical sentence with fort.i.tude; even if it goes against me, I shall not murmur; ability and honesty have a right to condemn, where they think condemnation is deserved. From what you say, however, I trust rather to obtain at least a modified approval.
"Your account of the various surmises respecting the ident.i.ty of the brothers Bell, amused me much: were the enigma solved, it would probably be found not worth the trouble of solution; but I will let it alone; it suits ourselves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no one else.
"The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin Magazine, conjectured that the soi-disant three personages were in reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly prominent organ of self-esteem, and consequently impressed with a somewhat weighty notion of his own merits, thought them too vast to be concentrated in a single individual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of consideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astounded public! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer,--very original and striking, but not accurate. We are three.
"A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it should have been out, indeed, long since; for the first proof-sheets were already in the press at the commencement of last August, before Currer Bell had placed the MS. of "Jane Eyre" in your hands. Mr.----, however, does not do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder; a different spirit seems to preside at ---- Street, to that which guides the helm at 65, Cornhill. . . . My relations have suffered from exhausting delay and procrastination, while I have to acknowledge the benefits of a management at once business-like and gentleman-like, energetic and considerate.
"I should like to know if Mr. ---- often acts as he has done to my relations, or whether this is an exceptional instance of his method. Do you know, and can you tell me anything about him? You must excuse me for going to the point at once, when I want to learn anything: if my questions are importunate, you are, of course, at liberty to decline answering them.--I am, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 22nd, 1847.
"Dear Sir,--I have now read "Ranthorpe." I could not get it till a day or two ago; but I have got it and read it at last; and in reading "Ranthorpe," I have read a new book,--not a reprint--not a reflection of any other book, but a NEW BOOK.
"I did not know such books were written now. It is very different to any of the popular works of fiction: it fills the mind with fresh knowledge.
Your experience and your convictions are made the reader"s; and to an author, at least, they have a value and an interest quite unusual. I await your criticism on "Jane Eyre" now with other sentiments than I entertained before the perusal of "Ranthorpe."
"You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly respect you. I did not feel that your praise or blame would have any special weight. I knew little of your right to condemn or approve. NOW I am informed on these points.
"You will be severe; your last letter taught me as much. Well! I shall try to extract good out of your severity: and besides, though I am now sure you are a just, discriminating man, yet, being mortal, you must be fallible; and if any part of your censure galls me too keenly to the quick--gives me deadly pain--I shall for the present disbelieve it, and put it quite aside, till such time as I feel able to receive it without torture.--I am, dear Sir, yours very respectfully,
C. BELL."
In December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" appeared. The first-named of these stories has revolted many readers by the power with which wicked and exceptional characters are depicted. Others, again, have felt the attraction of remarkable genius, even when displayed on grim and terrible criminals. Miss Bronte herself says, with regard to this tale, "Where delineation of human character is concerned, the case is different. I am bound to avow that she had scarcely more practical knowledge of the peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun has of the country-people that pa.s.s her convent gates. My sister"s disposition was not naturally gregarious: circ.u.mstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; except to go to church, or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though the feeling for the people around her was benevolent, intercourse with them she never sought, nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced and yet she knew them, knew their ways, their language, and their family histories; she could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail minute, graphic, and accurate; but WITH them she rarely exchanged a word. Hence it ensued, that what her mind has gathered of the real concerning them, was too exclusively confined to those tragic and terrible traits, of which, in listening to the secret annals of every rude vicinage, the memory is sometimes compelled to receive the impress. Her imagination, which was a spirit more sombre than sunny--more powerful than sportive--found in such traits material whence it wrought creations like Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine. Having formed these beings, she did not know what she had done. If the auditor of her work, when read in ma.n.u.script, shuddered under the grinding influence of natures so relentless and implacable--of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell would wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of affectation.
Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have grown like a strong tree--loftier, straighter, wider-spreading--and its matured fruits would have attained a mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that mind time and experience alone could work; to the influence of other intellects she was not amenable."
Whether justly or unjustly, the productions of the two younger Miss Brontes were not received with much favour at the time of their publication. "Critics failed to do them justice. The immature, but very real, powers revealed in "Wuthering Heights," were scarcely recognised; its import and nature were misunderstood; the ident.i.ty of its author was misrepresented: it was said that this was an earlier and ruder attempt of the same pen which had produced "Jane Eyre."" . . . "Unjust and grievous error! We laughed at it at first, but I deeply lament it now."
Henceforward Charlotte Bronte"s existence becomes divided into two parallel currents--her life as Currer Bell, the author; her life as Charlotte Bronte, the woman. There were separate duties belonging to each character--not opposing each other; not impossible, but difficult to be reconciled. When a man becomes an author, it is probably merely a change of employment to him. He takes a portion of that time which has. .h.i.therto been devoted to some other study or pursuit; he gives up something of the legal or medical profession, in which he has. .h.i.therto endeavoured to serve others, or relinquishes part of the trade or business by which he has been striving to gain a livelihood; and another merchant or lawyer, or doctor, steps into his vacant place, and probably does as well as he. But no other can take up the quiet, regular duties of the daughter, the wife, or the mother, as well as she whom G.o.d has appointed to fill that particular place: a woman"s princ.i.p.al work in life is hardly left to her own choice; nor can she drop the domestic charges devolving on her as an individual, for the exercise of the most splendid talents that were ever bestowed. And yet she must not shrink from the extra responsibility implied by the very fact of her possessing such talents. She must not hide her gift in a napkin; it was meant for the use and service of others. In an humble and faithful spirit must she labour to do what is not impossible, or G.o.d would not have set her to do it.
I put into words what Charlotte Bronte put into actions.
The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It is necessary, however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was always present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time. It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views of life presented by the Brontes in their tales, should know how such words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the representation of coa.r.s.eness and shrank from it with repugnance, as if such conceptions arose out of the writers, should learn, that, not from the imagination--not from internal conception--but from the hard cruel facts, pressed down, by external life, upon their very senses, for long months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, when their affections were so great that they could not write otherwise than they did of life. It is possible that it would have been better to have described only good and pleasant people, doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did women, possessed of such wonderful gifts, exercise them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use. As to mistakes, stand now--as authors as well as women--before the judgment-seat of G.o.d.
"Jan. 11th, 1848.
"We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell has, by some means, contrived to get more money from the old quarter, and has led us a sad life. . . . Papa is hara.s.sed day and night; we have little peace, he is always sick; has two or three times fallen down in fits; what will be the ultimate end, G.o.d knows. But who is without their drawback, their scourge, their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains only to do one"s best, and endure with patience what G.o.d sends."
I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes" review on "Recent Novels," when it appeared in the December of the last year, but I find no allusion to it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,--I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it is with the sense of double content I express my grat.i.tude, because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not severe on "Jane Eyre;" you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my faults plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them so lightly, I should perhaps have pa.s.sed them over thus indicated, with too little reflection.
"I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender; and, besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers, are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer.
I tell you this, because your article in Frazer left in me an uneasy impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of "Jane Eyre" than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had a correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see you.
"If I ever DO write another book, I think I will have nothing of what you call "melodrama;" I think so, but I am not sure. I THINK, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Austen"s "mild eyes," "to finish more and be more subdued;" but neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or, at least, when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, which becomes their master--which will have its own way--putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature; new-moulding characters, giving unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully-elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new ones.
"Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can we indeed counteract it?
"I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most curious shall I be to see whether you will write up to your own principles, and work out your own theories. You did not do it altogether in "Ranthorpe"--at least not in the latter part; but the first portion was, I think, nearly without fault; then it had a pith, truth, significance in it, which gave the book sterling value; but to write so, one must have seen and known a great deal, and I have seen and known very little.
"Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point.
What induced you to say that you would have rather written "Pride and Prejudice," or "Tom Jones," than any of the "Waverley Novels"?
"I had not seen "Pride and Prejudice" till I read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate, daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced, highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.
"Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even "Consuelo," which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant.
"Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time, I should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you think the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply.--I am, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Jan. 18th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,--I must write one more note, though I had not intended to trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from you.
"You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the "influence"; well, I accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should be; I recognise the wisdom of your rules for its regulation. . . .
"What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must familiarise my mind with the fact, that "Miss Austen is not a poetess, has no "sentiment" (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted commas), no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry,"--and then you add, I MUST "learn to acknowledge her as ONE OF THE GREATEST ARTISTS, OF THE GREATEST PAINTERS OF HUMAN CHARACTER, and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived."
"The last point only will I ever acknowledge.
"Can there be a great artist without poetry?
"What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot be dest.i.tute of the divine gift. But by POETRY, I am sure, you understand something different to what I do, as you do by "sentiment." It is POETRY, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coa.r.s.e, something G.o.dlike. It is "sentiment," in my sense of the term--sentiment jealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive poison into purifying elixir.
"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without "sentiment,"
without Poetry, maybe IS sensible, real (more REAL than TRUE), but she cannot be great.
"I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pa.s.s over me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be, as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all Miss Austen"s works, as you recommend. . . . You must forgive me for not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, yours gratefully,