Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respecting the merits and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment14 which the reviewer passes on "Jane Eyre." Opinions as to its tendency varied15 then, as they do now. While I write, I receive a letter from a clergyman in America in which he says: "We have in our sacred of sacreds a special shelf, highly adorned16, as a place we delight to honour, of novels which we recognise as having had a good influence on character OUR character. Foremost is 'Jane Eyre.'"
Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment. And so (as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of composition) I leave his criticisms regarding the merits of the work on one side. But when—forgetting the chivalrous17 spirit of the good and noble Southey, who said: "In reviewing anonymous works myself, when I have known the authors I have never mentioned them, taking it for granted they had sufficient reasons for avoiding the publicity"—the Quarterly reviewer goes on into gossiping conjectures as to who Currer Bell really is, and pretends to decide on what the writer may be from the book, I protest with my whole soul against such want of Christian18 charity. Not even the desire to write a "smart article," which shall be talked about in London, when the faint mask of the anonymous can be dropped at pleasure if the cleverness of the review be admired—not even this temptation can excuse the stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should say of an unknown woman: "She must be one who for some sufficient reason has long forfeited19 the society of her sex"? Is he one who has led a wild and struggling and isolated20 life,—seeing few but plain and outspoken21 Northerns, unskilled in the euphuisms which assist the polite world to skim over the mention of vice23? Has he striven through long weeping years to find excuses for the lapse24 of an only brother; and through daily contact with a poor lost profligate25, been compelled into a certain familiarity with the vices26 that his soul abhors27? Has he, through trials, close following in dread28 march through his household, sweeping29 the hearthstone bare of life and love, still striven hard for strength to say, "It is the Lord! let Him do what seemeth to Him good"—and sometimes striven in vain, until the kindly30 Light returned? If through all these dark waters the scornful reviewer have passed clear, refined, free from stain,—with a soul that has never in all its agonies cried "lama sabachthani,"—still, even then let him pray with the Publican rather than judge with the Pharisee.
"Jan. 10th, 1849.
"Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet night last night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheelhouse ordered the blister31 to be put on again. She bore it without sickness. I have just dressed it, and she is risen and come down-stairs. She looks somewhat pale and sickly. She has had one dose of the cod-liver oil; it smells and tastes like train oil. I am trying to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy, and stormy. My spirits fall at intervals32 very low; then I look where you counsel me to look, beyond earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get strength, if not consolation33. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that hourly. In the night, I awake and long for morning; then my heart is wrung34. Papa continues much the same; he was very faint when he came down to breakfast. . . . Dear E——, your friendship is some comfort to me. I am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness of the present time, but amongst them the constancy of a kind heart attached to me is one of the most cheering and serene35."
"Jan. 15th, 1849.
"I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say she is better. She varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is passed pretty much the same. The morning is usually the best time; the afternoon and the evening the most feverish36. Her cough is the most troublesome at night, but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm still disturbs her. She takes the cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron regularly; she finds them both nauseous, but especially the oil. Her appetite is small indeed. Do not fear that I shall relax in my care of her. She is too precious not to be cherished with all the fostering strength I have. Papa, I am thankful to say, has been a good deal better this last day or two.
"As to your queries37 about myself, I can only say, that if I continue as I am I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of the pains in my chest and back. They oddly return with every change of weather; and are still sometimes accompanied with a little soreness and hoarseness38, but I combat them steadily39 with pitch plasters and bran tea. I should think it silly and wrong indeed not to be regardful of my own health at present; it would not do to be ill NOW.
"I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward. This is not the time to regret, dread, or weep. What I have and ought to do is very distinctly laid out for me; what I want, and pray for, is strength to perform it. The days pass in a slow, dark march; the nights are the test; the sudden wakings from restless sleep, the revived knowledge that one lies in her grave, and another not at my side, but in a separate and sick bed. However, God is over all."
"Jan. 22nd, 1849.
"Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days last week, but to-day she looks very pale and languid again. She perseveres40 with the cod-liver oil, but still finds it very nauseous.
"She is truly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and finds them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get her just such a respirator as Mrs. —— had. She would not object to give a higher price, if you thought it better. If it is not too much trouble, you may likewise get me a pair of soles; you can send them and the respirator when you send the box. You must put down the price of all, and we will pay you in a Post Office order. "Wuthering Heights" was given to you. I have sent —— neither letter nor parcel. I had nothing but dreary41 news to write, so preferred that others should tell her. I have not written to —— either. I cannot write, except when I am quite obliged."
"Feb. 11th, 1849.
"We received the box and its contents quite safely to-day. The penwipers are very pretty, and we are very much obliged to you for them. I hope the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case she should ever be well enough to go out again. She continues very much in the same state—I trust not greatly worse, though she is becoming very thin. I fear it would be only self-delusion to fancy her better. What effect the advancing season may have on her, I know not; perhaps the return of really warm weather may give nature a happy stimulus42. I tremble at the thought of any change to cold wind or frost. Would that March were well over! Her mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are nothing like Emily's. The thought of what may be to come grows more familiar to my mind; but it is a sad, dreary guest."
"March 16th, 1849.
"We have found the past week a somewhat trying one; it has not been cold, but still there have been changes of temperature whose effect Anne has felt unfavourably. She is not, I trust, seriously worse, but her cough is at times very hard and painful, and her strength rather diminished than improved. I wish the month of March was well over. You are right in conjecturing that I am somewhat depressed43; at times I certainly am. It was almost easier to bear up when the trial was at its crisis than now. The feeling of Emily's loss does not diminish as time wears on; it often makes itself most acutely recognised. It brings too an inexpressible sorrow with it; and then the future is dark. Yet I am well aware, it will not do either to complain, or sink, and I strive to do neither. Strength, I hope and trust, will yet be given in proportion to the burden; but the pain of my position is not one likely to lessen44 with habit. Its solitude45 and isolation46 are oppressive circumstances, yet I do not wish for any friends to stay with me; I could not do with any one—not even you—to share the sadness of the house; it would rack me intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still blent with mercy. Anne's sufferings still continue mild. It is my nature, when left alone, to struggle on with a certain perseverance47, and I believe God will help me."
Anne had been delicate all her life; a fact which perhaps made them less aware than they would otherwise have been of the true nature of those fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to have lost but little time before they sent for the first advice that could be procured48. She was examined with the stethoscope, and the dreadful fact was announced that her lungs were affected49, and that tubercular consumption had already made considerable progress. A system of treatment was prescribed, which was afterwards ratified50 by the opinion of Dr. Forbes.
For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested. Charlotte—herself ill with a complaint that severely51 tried her spirits—was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, last sister. One comfort was that Anne was the patientest, gentlest invalid52 that could be. Still, there were hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish53 to be borne; under the pressure of which Charlotte could only pray and pray she did, right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th;—
"Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating; but its nature is not doubtful. . . . In spirit she is resigned: at heart she is, I believe, a true Christian. . . . May God support her and all of us through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour when the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone through! We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts clung to her with intense attachment54. . . She was scarce buried when Anne's health failed. . . . These things would be too much, if reason, unsupported by religion, were condemned55 to bear them alone. I have cause to be most thankful for the strength that has hitherto been vouchsafed56 both to my father and to myself. God, I think, is especially merciful to old age; and for my own part, trials, which in perspective would have seemed to me quite intolerable, when they actually came I endured without prostration57. Yet I must confess that, in the time which has elapsed since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary58, deep, inert59 affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed our loss. The crisis of bereavement60 has an acute pang61 which goads62 to exertion63; the desolate64 after-feeling sometimes paralyses. I have learnt that we are not to find solace65 in our own strength; we must seek it in God's omnipotence66. Fortitude67 is good; but fortitude itself must be shaken under us to teach us how weak we are!"
All through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of being able to talk to her about her state; a comfort rendered inexpressibly great by the contrast which it presented to the recollection of Emily's rejection68 of all sympathy. If a proposal for Anne's benefit was made, Charlotte could speak to her about it, and the nursing and dying sister could consult with each other as to its desirability. I have seen but one of Anne's letters; it is the only time we seem to be brought into direct personal contact with this gentle, patient girl. In order to give the requisite69 preliminary explanation, I must state that the family of friends, to which E—— belonged, proposed that Anne should come to them; in order to try what change of air and diet, and the company of kindly people could do towards restoring her to health. In answer to this proposal, Charlotte writes:—
"March 24th.
"I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you sincerely for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that it would not do to take advantage of it, by quartering an invalid upon the inhabitants of ——; but she intimates there is another way in which you might serve her, perhaps with some benefit to yourself as well as to her. Should it, a month or two hence, be deemed advisable that she should go either to the sea-side, or to some inland watering-place—and should papa be disinclined to move, and I consequently obliged to remain at home—she asks, could you be her companion? Of course I need not add that in the event of such an arrangement being made, you would be put to no expense. This, dear E., is Anne's proposal; I make it to comply with her wish; but for my own part, I must add that I see serious objections to your accepting it—objections I cannot name to her. She continues to vary; is sometimes worse, and sometimes better, as the weather changes; but, on the whole, I fear she loses strength. Papa says her state is most precarious70; she may be spared for some time, or a sudden alteration71 might remove her before we are aware. Were such an alteration to take place while she was far from home, and alone with you, it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses72 me inexpressibly, and I tremble whenever she alludes73 to the project of a journey. In short, I wish we could gain time, and see how she gets on. If she leaves home it certainly should not be in the capricious month of May, which is proverbially trying to the weak. June would be a safer month. If we could reach June, I should have good hopes of her getting through the summer. Write such an answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can write any additional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not consider yourself as confined to discussing only our sad affairs. I am interested in all that interests you."
FROM ANNE BRONTË
"April 5th, 1849.
"My dear Miss ——,—I thank you greatly for your kind letter, and your ready compliance74 with my proposal, as far as the WILL can go at least. I see, however, that your friends are unwilling75 that you should undertake the responsibility of accompanying me under present circumstances. But I do not think there would be any great responsibility in the matter. I know, and everybody knows, that you would be as kind and helpful as any one could possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome. It would be as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for your company; otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and often-repeated invitation to ——, pray give my sincere thanks to your mother and sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting76 my presence upon them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light of the trouble, but still there must be more or less, and certainly no pleasure, from the society of a silent invalid stranger. I hope, however, that Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany me after all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a change of air and scene to renovate77 her constitution. And then your going with me before the end of May, is apparently78 out of the question, unless you are disappointed in your visitors; but I should be reluctant to wait till then, if the weather would at all permit an earlier departure. You say May is a trying month, and so say others. The earlier part is often cold enough, I acknowledge, but, according to my experience, we are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the laburnums and lilacs are in bloom; whereas June is often cold, and July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than this for my impatience79 of delay. The doctors say that change of air or removal to a better climate would hardly ever fail of success in consumptive cases, if the remedy were taken IN TIME; but the reason why there are so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred80 till it is too late. Now I would not commit this error; and, to say the truth, though I suffer much less from pain and fever than I did when you were with us, I am decidedly weaker, and very much thinner. My cough still troubles me a good deal, especially in the night, and, what seems worse than all, I am subject to great shortness of breath on going up-stairs or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances, I think there is no time to be lost. I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable82, I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect83, in the hope that you, dear Miss ——, would give as much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte, and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me, not only for papa's and Charlotte's sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practice—humble84 and limited indeed—but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God's will be done. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me, dear Miss ——, yours most affectionately,
"ANNE BRONTË."
It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last verses, before "the desk was closed, and the pen laid aside for ever."
I.
"I hoped that with the brave and strong
My portioned task might lie;
With purpose pure and high.
II.
And He has fixed it well:
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
III.
"Thou God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope, away;
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
IV.
"These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,—
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,—
Can I but turn to Thee.
IV.
"With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
VI.
"Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate;
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
VII.
"If Thou should'st bring me back to life,
More apt to lean on Thee.
VIII.
But, Lord, whatever be my fate,
Oh let me serve Thee now!"
I take Charlotte's own words as the best record of her thoughts and feelings during all this terrible time.
"April 12th.
"I read Anne's letter to you; it was touching94 enough, as you say. If there were no hope beyond this world,—no eternity95, no life to come,—Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's death-day; it becomes a more fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring96 idea in my mind than ever. It was very terrible. She was torn, conscious, panting, reluctant, though resolute97, out of a happy life. But it WILL NOT do to dwell on these things.
"I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne: it would never do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had consented, I never could. It is not that there is any laborious98 attention to pay her; she requires, and will accept, but little nursing; but there would be hazard, and anxiety of mind, beyond what you ought to be subject to. If, a month or six weeks hence, she continues to wish for a change as much as she does now, I shall (D. V.) go with her myself. It will certainly be my paramount99 duty; other cares must be made subservient100 to that. I have consulted Mr. T——: he does not object, and recommends Scarborough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be so ordered, that you may be able to be with us at least part of the time. . . . Whether in lodgings101 or not, I should wish to be boarded. Providing oneself is, I think, an insupportable nuisance. I don't like keeping provisions in a cupboard, locking up, being pillaged102, and all that. It is a petty, wearing annoyance7."
The progress of Anne's illness was slower than that of Emily's had been; and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from which, if she herself had little hope of benefit, her friends might hereafter derive103 a mournful satisfaction.
"I began to flatter myself she was getting strength. But the change to frost has told upon her; she suffers more of late. Still her illness has none of the fearful rapid symptoms which appalled104 in Emily's case. Could she only get over the spring, I hope summer may do much for her, and then early removal to a warmer locality for the winter might, at least, prolong her life. Could we only reckon upon another year, I should be thankful; but can we do this for the healthy? A few days ago I wrote to have Dr. Forbes' opinion. . . . He warned us against entertaining sanguine105 hopes of recovery. The cod-liver oil he considers a peculiarly efficacious medicine. He, too, disapproved106 of change of residence for the present. There is some feeble consolation in thinking we are doing the very best that can be done. The agony of forced, total neglect, is not now felt, as during Emily's illness. Never may we be doomed107 to feel such agony again. It was terrible. I have felt much less of the disagreeable pains in my chest lately, and much less also of the soreness and hoarseness. I tried an application of hot vinegar, which seemed to do good."
"May 1st.
"I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, you will be at liberty to go with us, but the journey and its consequences still continue a source of great anxiety to me, I must try to put it off two or three weeks longer if I can; perhaps by that time the milder season may have given Anne more strength,perhaps it will be otherwise; I cannot tell. The change to fine weather has not proved beneficial to her so far. She has sometimes been so weak, and suffered so much from pain in the side, during the last few days, that I have not known what to think. . . . She may rally again, and be much better, but there must be SOME improvement before I can feel justified108 in taking her away from home. Yet to delay is painful; for, as is ALWAYS the case, I believe, under her circumstances, she seems herself not half conscious of the necessity for such delay. She wonders, I believe, why I don't talk more about the journey: it grieves me to think she may even be hurt by my seeming tardiness109. She is very much emaciated,—far more than when you were with us; her arms are no thicker than a little child's. The least exertion brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day, but we creep rather than walk. . . . Papa continues pretty well;—I hope I shall be enabled to bear up. So far, I have reason for thankfulness to God."
May had come, and brought the milder weather longed for; but Anne was worse for the very change. A little later on it became colder, and she rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that, if May were once over, she might last for a long time. Miss Brontë wrote to engage the lodgings at Scarborough,—a place which Anne had formerly110 visited with the family to whom she was governess. They took a good-sized sitting-room111, and an airy double-bedded room (both commanding a sea-view), in one of the best situations of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison with life; besides, Anne had a small legacy112 left to her by her godmother, and they felt that she could not better employ this than in obtaining what might prolong life, if not restore health. On May 16th, Charlotte writes:
"It is with a heavy heart I prepare; and earnestly do I wish the fatigue113 of the journey were well over. It may be borne better than I expect; for temporary stimulus often does much; but when I see the daily increasing weakness, I know not what to think. I fear you will be shocked when you see Anne; but be on your guard, dear E——, not to express your feelings; indeed, I can trust both your self-possession and your kindness. I wish my judgment sanctioned the step of going to Scarborough, more fully85 than it does. You ask how I have arranged about leaving Papa. I could make no special arrangement. He wishes me to go with Anne, and would not hear of Mr. N——'s coming, or anything of that kind; so I do what I believe is for the best, and leave the result to Providence114."
They planned to rest and spend a night at York; and, at Anne's desire, arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte ends the letter to her friend, in which she tells her all this, with—
"May 23rd.
"I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of buying bonnets115, etc. Anne was very ill yesterday. She had difficulty of breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly116 still. To-day she seems better again. I long for the moment to come when the experiment of the sea-air will be tried. Will it do her good? I cannot tell; I can only wish. Oh! if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be together: His will, however, be done!"
The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. They were to have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with their friend to meet them at the Leeds Station, in order that they might all proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne was so ill, that it was impossible for the sisters to set out; yet they had no means of letting their friend know of this, and she consequently arrived at Leeds station at the time specified117. There she sate118 waiting for several hours. It struck her as strange at the time—and it almost seems ominous119 to her fancy now—that twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by which she was expecting her friends, coffins120 were carried forth121, and placed in hearses which were in waiting for their dead, as she was waiting for one in four days to become so.
The next day she could bear suspense122 no longer, and set out for Haworth, reaching there just in time to carry the feeble, fainting invalid into the chaise which stood at the gate to take them down to Keighley. The servant who stood at the Parsonage gates, saw Death written on her face, and spoke22 of it. Charlotte saw it and did not speak of it,—it would have been giving the dread too distinct a form; and if this last darling yearned123 for the change to Scarborough, go she should, however Charlotte's heart might be wrung by impending124 fear. The lady who accompanied them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years, has kindly written out for me the following account of the journey—and of the end.
"She left her home May 24th, 1849—died May 28th. Her life was calm, quiet, spiritual: SUCH was her end. Through the trials and fatigues125 of the journey, she evinced the pious126 courage and fortitude of a martyr127. Dependence128 and helplessness were ever with her a far sorer trial than hard, racking pain.
"The first stage of our journey was to York; and here the dear invalid was so revived, so cheerful, and so happy, we drew consolation, and trusted that at least temporary improvement was to be derived129 from the change which SHE had so longed for, and her friends had so dreaded130 for her.
"By her request we went to the Minster, and to her it was an overpowering pleasure; not for its own imposing131 and impressive grandeur132 only, but because it brought to her susceptible133 nature a vital and overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while gazing at the structure, 'If finite power can do this, what is the . . . ?' and here emotion stayed her speech, and she was hastened to a less exciting scene.
"Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude134 for every mercy was greater. After such an exertion as walking to her bed-room, she would clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent thanks, and she did this not to the exclusion135 of wonted prayer, for that too was performed on bended knee, ere she accepted the rest of her couch.
"On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough; our dear invalid having, during the journey, directed our attention to every prospect worthy136 of notice.
"On the 26th she drove on the sands for an hour; and lest the poor donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than her tender heart thought right, she took the reins137, and drove herself. When joined by her friend, she was charging the boy-master of the donkey to treat the poor animal well. She was ever fond of dumb things, and would give up her own comfort for them.
"On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and her eye brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God amongst her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent138 to dissuade139 her from the attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing140 to join in the public act of devotion and praise.
"She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with a sheltered and comfortable seat near the beach, she begged we would leave her, and enjoy the various scenes near at hand, which were new to us but familiar to her. She loved the place, and wished us to share her preference.
"The evening closed in with the most glorious sunset ever witnessed. The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded141 by the rays of the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like burnished142 gold; the little boats near the beach heaved on the ebbing143 tide, inviting144 occupants. The view was grand beyond description. Anne was drawn145 in her easy chair to the window, to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became illumined almost as much as the glorious scene she gazed upon. Little was said, for it was plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing view before her to penetrate146 forwards to the regions of unfading glory. She again thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and join those who were assembled at the House of God. We declined, gently urging the duty and pleasure of staying with her, who was now so dear and so feeble. On returning to her place near the fire, she conversed147 with her sister upon the propriety148 of returning to their home. She did not wish it for her own sake, she said she was fearing others might suffer more if her decease occurred where she was. She probably thought the task of accompanying her lifeless remains149 on a long journey was more than her sister could bear—more than the bereaved150 father could bear, were she borne home another, and a third tenant151 of the family-vault in the short space of nine months.
"The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness. She rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of her toilet herself, by her expressed wish. Her sister always yielded such points, believing it was the truest kindness not to press inability when it was not acknowledged. Nothing occurred to excite alarm till about 11 A. M. She then spoke of feeling a change. She believed she had not long to live. Could she reach home alive, if we prepared immediately for departure? A physician was sent for. Her address to him was made with perfect composure. She begged him to say how long he thought she might live;—not to fear speaking the truth, for she was not afraid to die. The doctor reluctantly admitted that the angel of death was already arrived, and that life was ebbing fast. She thanked him for his truthfulness152, and he departed to come again very soon. She still occupied her easy chair, looking so serene, so reliant there was no opening for grief as yet, though all knew the separation was at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently153 invoked154 a blessing155 from on high; first upon her sister, then upon her friend, to whom she said, 'Be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much of your company as you can.' She then thanked each for her kindness and attention.
"Ere long the restlessness of approaching death appeared, and she was borne to the sofa; on being asked if she were easier, she looked gratefully at her questioner, and said, 'It is not YOU who can give me ease, but soon all will be well, through the merits of our Redeemer.' Shortly after this, seeing that her sister could hardly restrain her grief, she said, 'Take courage, Charlotte; take courage.' Her faith never failed, and her eye never dimmed till about two o'clock, when she calmly and without a sigh passed from the temporal to the eternal. So still, and so hallowed were her last hours and moments. There was no thought of assistance or of dread. The doctor came and went two or three times. The hostess knew that death was near, yet so little was the house disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow of those so nearly bereaved, that dinner was announced as ready, through the half-opened door, as the living sister was closing the eyes of the dead one. She could now no more stay the welled-up grief of her sister with her emphatic156 and dying 'Take courage,' and it burst forth in brief but agonising strength. Charlotte's affection, however, had another channel, and there it turned in thought, in care, and in tenderness. There was bereavement, but there was not solitude;—sympathy was at hand, and it was accepted. With calmness, came the consideration of the removal of the dear remains to their home resting-place. This melancholy157 task, however, was never performed; for the afflicted158 sister decided81 to lay the flower in the place where it had fallen. She believed that to do so would accord with the wishes of the departed. She had no preference for place. She thought not of the grave, for that is but the body's goal, but of all that is beyond it.
"Her remains rest,
'Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, Where the ocean billows lave and strike the steep and turf-covered rock.'"
Anne died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to her father; but, knowing that his presence was required for some annual Church solemnity at Haworth, she informed him that she had made all necessary arrangements for the interment and that the funeral would take place so soon, that he could hardly arrive in time for it. The surgeon who had visited Anne on the day of her death, offered his attendance, but it was respectfully declined.
Mr. Brontë wrote to urge Charlotte's longer stay at the seaside. Her health and spirits were sorely shaken; and much as he naturally longed to see his only remaining child, he felt it right to persuade her to take, with her friend, a few more weeks' change of scene,—though even that could not bring change of thought. Late in June the friends returned homewards,—parting rather suddenly (it would seem) from each other, when their paths diverged159.
"July, 1849.
"I intended to have written a line to you to-day, if I had not received yours. We did indeed part suddenly; it made my heart ache that we were severed160 without the time to exchange a word; and yet perhaps it was better. I got here a little before eight o'clock. All was clean and bright waiting for me. Papa and the servants were well; and all received me with an affection which should have consoled. The dogs seemed in strange ecstasy161. I am certain they regarded me as the harbinger of others. The dumb creatures thought that as I was returned, those who had been so long absent were not far behind.
"I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room: I shut the door—I tried to be glad that I was come home. I have always been glad before—except once—even then I was cheered. But this time joy was not to be the sensation. I felt that the house was all silent—the rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were laid—in what narrow dark dwellings—never more to reappear on earth. So the sense of desolation and bitterness took possession of me. The agony that WAS to be undergone, and WAS NOT to be avoided, came on. I underwent it, and passed a dreary evening and night, and a mournful morrow; to-day I am better.
"I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel confidence in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may be cheered, and made endurable beyond what I can believe. The great trial is when evening closes and night approaches. At that hour, we used to assemble in the dining-room—we used to talk. Now I sit by myself—necessarily I am silent. I cannot help thinking of their last days, remembering their sufferings, and what they said and did, and how they looked in mortal affliction. Perhaps all this will become less poignant162 in time.
"Let me thank you once more, dear E——, for your kindness to me, which
I do not mean to forget. How did you think all looking at your home?
Papa thought me a little stronger; he said my eyes were not so sunken."
"July 14th, 1849.
"I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better to go out of myself, and talk of something more cheerful. My cold, wherever I got it, whether at Easton or elsewhere, is not vanished yet. It began in my head, then I had a sore throat, and then a sore chest, with a cough, but only a trifling163 cough, which I still have at times. The pain between my shoulders likewise amazed me much. Say nothing about it, for I confess I am too much disposed to be nervous. This nervousness is a horrid164 phantom165. I dare communicate no ailment166 to Papa; his anxiety harasses167 me inexpressibly.
"My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when I wake in the morning, and know that Solitude, Remembrance, and Longing are to be almost my sole companions all day through—that at night I shall go to bed with them, that they will long keep me sleepless—that next morning I shall wake to them again,—sometimes, Nell, I have a heavy heart of it. But crushed I am not, yet; nor robbed of elasticity168, nor of hope, nor quite of endeavour. I have some strength to fight the battle of life. I am aware, and can acknowledge, I have many comforts, many mercies. Still I can GET ON. But I do hope and pray, that never may you, or any one I love, be placed as I am. To sit in a lonely room—the clock ticking loud through a still house—and have open before the mind's eye the record of the last year, with its shocks, sufferings, losses—is a trial.
"I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with moderation—that you will not take alarm or think me in any way worse off than I am."
该作者的其他作品
《North and South 南方与北方》
《玛丽巴顿 Mary Barton》
该作者的其他作品
《North and South 南方与北方》
《玛丽巴顿 Mary Barton》
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1
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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8
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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11
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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13
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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14
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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15
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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17
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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18
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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19
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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24
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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25
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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26
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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27
abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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28
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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29
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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30
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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32
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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34
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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35
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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37
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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38
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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39
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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perseveres
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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42
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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43
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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44
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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45
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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46
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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47
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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48
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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49
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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50
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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52
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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53
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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54
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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55
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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57
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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58
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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59
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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60
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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61
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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62
goads
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| n.赶牲口的尖棒( goad的名词复数 )v.刺激( goad的第三人称单数 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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65
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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66
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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67
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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68
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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69
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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70
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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71
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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72
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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73
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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75
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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76
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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77
renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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78
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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80
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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81
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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82
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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83
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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84
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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85
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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86
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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87
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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88
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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89
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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105
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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106
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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111
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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112
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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113
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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114
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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115
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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116
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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117
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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118
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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119
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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120
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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123
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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125
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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126
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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127
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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128
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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129
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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130
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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131
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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132
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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133
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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134
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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135
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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137
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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138
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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139
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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140
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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141
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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142
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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143
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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144
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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146
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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148
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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149
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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150
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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151
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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152
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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153
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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154
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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155
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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156
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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157
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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158
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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160
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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161
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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162
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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163
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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164
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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165
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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166
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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167
harasses
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的第三人称单数 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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168
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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