But the sensations of illness in the family increased; the symptoms were probably aggravated6, if not caused, by the immediate7 vicinity of the church-yard, "paved with rain-blackened tomb-stones." On April 29th she writes:—
"We have had but a poor week of it at Haworth. Papa continues far from well; he is often very sickly in the morning, a symptom which I have remarked before in his aggravated attacks of bronchitis; unless he should get much better, I shall never think of leaving him to go to London. Martha has suffered from tic-douloureux, with sickness and fever, just like you. I have a bad cold, and a stubborn sore throat; in short, everybody but old Tabby is out of sorts. When —— was here, he complained of a sudden headache, and the night after he was gone I had something similar, very bad, lasting8 about three hours."
A fortnight later she writes:—
"I did not think Papa well enough to be left, and accordingly begged Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth to return to London without me. It was arranged that we were to stay at several of their friends' and relatives' houses on the way; a week or more would have been taken up on the journey. I cannot say that I regret having missed this ordeal9; I would as lief have walked among red-hot plough-shares; but I do regret one great treat, which I shall now miss. Next Wednesday is the anniversary dinner of the Royal Literary Fund Society, held in Freemasons' Hall. Octavian Blewitt, the secretary, offered me a ticket for the ladies' gallery. I should have seen all the great literati and artists gathered in the hall below, and heard them speak; Thackeray and Dickens are always present among the rest. This cannot now be. I don't think all London can afford another sight to me so interesting."
It became requisite10, however, before long, that she should go to London on business; and as Sir James Kay Shuttleworth was detained in the country by indisposition, she accepted Mrs. Smith's invitation to stay quietly at her house, while she transacted11 her affairs.
In the interval12 between the relinquishment14 of the first plan and the adoption15 of the second, she wrote the following letter to one who was much valued among her literary friends:—
"May 22nd.
"I had thought to bring the Leader and the Athenaeum myself this time, and not to have to send them by post, but it turns out otherwise; my journey to London is again postponed16, and this time indefinitely. Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's state of health is the cause—a cause, I fear, not likely to be soon removed. . . . Once more, then, I settle myself down in the quietude of Haworth Parsonage, with books for my household companions, and an occasional letter for a visitor; a mute society, but neither quarrelsome, nor vulgarising, nor unimproving.
"One of the pleasures I had promised myself consisted in asking you several questions about the Leader, which is really, in its way, an interesting paper. I wanted, amongst other things, to ask you the real names of some of the contributors, and also what Lewes writes besides his Apprenticeship17 of Life. I always think the article headed 'Literature' is his. Some of the communications in the 'Open Council' department are odd productions; but it seems to me very fair and right to admit them. Is not the system of the paper altogether a novel one? I do not remember seeing anything precisely18 like it before.
"I have just received yours of this morning; thank you for the enclosed note. The longings20 for liberty and leisure which May sunshine wakens in you, stir my sympathy. I am afraid Cornhill is little better than a prison for its inmates21 on warm spring or summer days. It is a pity to think of you all toiling22 at your desks in such genial23 weather as this. For my part, I am free to walk on the moors24; but when I go out there alone, everything reminds me of the times when others were with me, and then the moors seem a wilderness25, featureless, solitary26, saddening. My sister Emily had a particular love for them, and there is not a knoll27 of heather, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf, not a fluttering lark28 or linnet, but reminds me of her. The distant prospects29 were Anne's delight, and when I look round, she is in the blue tints30, the pale mists, the waves and shadows of the horizon. In the hill-country silence, their poetry comes by lines and stanzas31 into my mind: once I loved it; now I dare not read it, and am driven often to wish I could taste one draught32 of oblivion, and forget much that, while mind remains33, I never shall forget. Many people seem to recall their departed relatives with a sort of melancholy34 complacency, but I think these have not watched them through lingering sickness, nor witnessed their last moments: it is these reminiscences that stand by your bedside at night, and rise at your pillow in the morning. At the end of all, however, exists the Great Hope. Eternal Life is theirs now."
She had to write many letters, about this time, to authors who sent her their books, and strangers who expressed their admiration35 of her own. The following was in reply to one of the latter class, and was addressed to a young man at Cambridge:—
"May 23rd, 1850.
"Apologies are indeed unnecessary for a 'reality of feeling, for a genuine unaffected impulse of the spirit,' such as prompted you to write the letter which I now briefly36 acknowledge.
"Certainly it is 'something to me' that what I write should be acceptable to the feeling heart and refined intellect; undoubtedly37 it is much to me that my creations (such as they are) should find harbourage, appreciation38, indulgence, at any friendly hand, or from any generous mind. You are very welcome to take Jane, Caroline, and Shirley for your sisters, and I trust they will often speak to their adopted brother when he is solitary, and soothe39 him when he is sad. If they cannot make themselves at home in a thoughtful, sympathetic mind, and diffuse40 through its twilight41 a cheering, domestic glow, it is their fault; they are not, in that case, so amiable42, so benignant, not so real as they ought to be. If they CAN, and can find household altars in human hearts, they will fulfil the best design of their creation, in therein maintaining a genial flame, which shall warm but not scorch43, light but not dazzle.
"What does it matter that part of your pleasure in such beings has its source in the poetry of your own youth rather than in any magic of theirs? What, that perhaps, ten years hence, you may smile to remember your present recollections, and view under another light both 'Currer Bell' and his writings? To me this consideration does not detract from the value of what you now feel. Youth has its romance, and maturity44 its wisdom, as morning and spring have their freshness, noon and summer their power, night and winter their repose45. Each attribute is good in its own season. Your letter gave me pleasure, and I thank you for it.
"CURRER BELL."
Miss Brontë went up to town at the beginning of June, and much enjoyed her stay there; seeing very few persons, according to the agreement she made before she went; and limiting her visit to a fortnight, dreading46 the feverishness47 and exhaustion48 which were the inevitable49 consequences of the slightest excitement upon her susceptible50 frame.
"June 12th.
"Since I wrote to you last, I have not had many moments to myself, except such as it was absolutely necessary to give to rest. On the whole, however, I have thus far got on very well, suffering much less from exhaustion than I did last time.
"Of course I cannot give you in a letter a regular chronicle of how my time has been spent. I can only—just notify. what I deem three of its chief incidents: a sight of the Duke of Wellington at the Chapel51 Royal (he is a real grand old man), a visit to the House of Commons (which I hope to describe to you some day when I see you), and last, not least, an interview with Mr. Thackeray. He made a morning call, and sat above two hours. Mr. Smith only was in the room the whole time. He described it afterwards as a 'queer scene,' and—I suppose it was. The giant sate52 before me; I was moved to speak to him of some of his short-comings (literary of course); one by one the faults came into my head, and one by one I brought them out, and sought some explanation or defence. He did defend himself, like a great Turk and heathen; that is to say, the excuses were often worse than the crime itself. The matter ended in decent amity53; if all be well, I am to dine at his house this evening.
"I have seen Lewes too. . . . I could not feel otherwise to him than half-sadly, half-tenderly,—a queer word that last, but I use it because the aspect of Lewes's face almost moves me to tears; it is so wonderfully like Emily,—her eyes, her features, the very nose, the somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead, even, at moments, the expression: whatever Lewes says, I believe I cannot hate him. Another likeness54 I have seen, too, that touched me sorrowfully. You remember my speaking of a Miss K., a young authoress, who supported her mother by writing? Hearing that she had a longing19 to see me, I called on her yesterday. . . . She met me half-frankly, half-tremblingly; we sate down together, and when I had talked with her five minutes, her face was no longer strange, but mournfully familiar;—it was Martha in every lineament. I shall try to find a moment to see her again. . . . I do not intend to stay here, at the furthest, more than a week longer; but at the end of that time I cannot go home, for the house at Haworth is just now unroofed; repairs were become necessary."
She soon followed her letter to the friend to whom it was written; but her visit was a very short one, for, in accordance with a plan made before leaving London, she went on to Edinburgh to join the friends with whom she had been staying in town. She remained only a few days in Scotland, and those were principally spent in Edinburgh, with which she was delighted, calling London a "dreary55 place" in comparison.
"My stay in Scotland" (she wrote some weeks later) "was short, and what I saw was chiefly comprised in Edinburgh and the neighbourhood, in Abbotsford and in Melrose, for I was obliged to relinquish13 my first intention of going from Glasgow to Oban, and thence through a portion of the Highlands; but though the time was brief, and the view of objects limited, I found such a charm of situation, association, and circumstance, that I think the enjoyment56 experienced in that little space equalled in degree, and excelled in kind, all which London yielded during a month's sojourn57. Edinburgh, compared to London, is like a vivid page of history compared to a large dull treatise58 on political economy; and as to Melrose and Abbotsford, the very names possess music and magic."
And again, in a letter to a different correspondent, she says:—
"I would not write to you immediately on my arrival at home, because each return to this old house brings with it a phase of feeling which it is better to pass through quietly before beginning to indite59 letters. The six weeks of change and enjoyment are past, but they are not lost; memory took a sketch60 of each as it went by, and, especially, a distinct daguerreotype61 of the two days I spent in Scotland. Those were two very pleasant days. I always liked Scotland as an idea, but now, as a reality, I like it far better; it furnished me with some hours as happy almost as any I ever spent. Do not fear, however, that I am going to bore you with description; you will, before now, have received a pithy62 and pleasant report of all things, to which any addition of mine would be superfluous63. My present endeavours are directed towards recalling my thoughts, cropping their wings, drilling them into correct discipline, and forcing them to settle to some useful work: they are idle, and keep taking the train down to London, or making a foray over the Border—especially are they prone64 to perpetrate that last excursion; and who, indeed, that has once seen Edinburgh, with its couchant crag-lion, but must see it again in dreams, waking or sleeping? My dear sir, I do not think I blaspheme, when I tell you that your great London, as compared to Dun-Edin, 'mine own romantic town,' is as prose compared to poetry, or as a great rumbling65, rambling66, heavy epic67 compared to a lyric68, brief, bright, clear and vital as a flash of lightning. You have nothing like Scott's monument, or, if you had that, and all the glories of architecture assembled together, you have nothing like Arthur's Seat, and, above all, you have not the Scotch69 national character; and it is that grand character after all which gives the land its true charm, its true greatness.
On her return from Scotland, she again spent a few days with her friends, and then made her way to Haworth.
"July 15th.
I got home very well, and full glad was I that no insuperable obstacle had deferred70 my return one single day longer. Just at the foot of Bridgehouse hill, I met John, staff in hand; he fortunately saw me in the cab, stopped, and informed me he was setting off to B——, by Mr. Brontë's orders, to see how I was, for that he had been quite miserable71 ever since he got Miss ——'s letter. I found, on my arrival, that Papa had worked himself up to a sad pitch of nervous excitement and alarm, in which Martha and Tabby were but too obviously joining him. . . . The house looks very clean, and, I think, is not damp; there is, however, still a great deal to do in the way of settling and arranging,—enough to keep me disagreeably busy for some time to come. I was truly thankful to find Papa pretty well, but I fear he is just beginning to show symptoms of a cold: my cold continues better. . . . An article in a newspaper I found awaiting me on my arrival, amused me; it was a paper published while I was in London. I enclose it to give you a laugh; it professes72 to be written by an Author jealous of Authoresses. I do not know who he is, but he must be one of those I met. . . . The 'ugly men,' giving themselves 'Rochester airs,' is no bad hit; some of those alluded73 to will not like it."
While Miss Brontë was staying in London, she was induced to sit for her portrait to Richmond. It is a crayon drawing; in my judgment74 an admirable likeness, though of course there is some difference of opinion on the subject; and, as usual, those best acquainted with the original were least satisfied with the resemblance. Mr. Brontë thought that it looked older than Charlotte did, and that her features had not been flattered; but he acknowledged that the expression was wonderfully good and life-like. She sent the following amusing account of the arrival of the portrait to the donor:—
"Aug. 1st.
"The little box for me came at the same time as the large one for Papa. When you first told me that you had had the Duke's picture framed, and had given it to me, I felt half provoked with you for performing such a work of supererogation, but now, when I see it again, I cannot but acknowledge that, in so doing, you were felicitously75 inspired. It is his very image, and, as Papa said when he saw it, scarcely in the least like the ordinary portraits; not only the expression, but even the form of the head is different, and of a far nobler character. I esteem76 it a treasure. The lady who left the parcel for me was, it seems, Mrs. Gore77. The parcel contained one of her works, 'The Hamiltons,' and a very civil and friendly note, in which I find myself addressed as 'Dear Jane.' Papa seems much pleased with the portrait, as do the few other persons who have seen it, with one notable exception; viz., our old servant, who tenaciously78 maintains that it is not like—that it is too old-looking; but as she, with equal tenacity79, asserts that the Duke of Wellington's picture is a portrait of 'the Master' (meaning Papa), I am afraid not much weight is to be ascribed to her opinion: doubtless she confuses her recollections of me as I was in childhood with present impressions. Requesting always to be very kindly80 remembered to your mother and sisters, I am, yours very thanklessly (according to desire),
"C. BRONTË."
It may easily be conceived that two people living together as Mr. Brontë and his daughter did, almost entirely81 dependent on each other for society, and loving each other deeply (although not demonstratively)—that these two last members of a family would have their moments of keen anxiety respecting each other's health. There is not one letter of hers which I have read, that does not contain some mention of her father's state in this respect. Either she thanks God with simple earnestness that he is well, or some infirmities of age beset82 him, and she mentions the fact, and then winces83 away from it, as from a sore that will not bear to be touched. He, in his turn, noted84 every indisposition of his one remaining child's, exaggerated its nature, and sometimes worked himself up into a miserable state of anxiety, as in the case she refers to, when, her friend having named in a letter to him that his daughter was suffering from a bad cold, he could not rest till he despatched a messenger, to go, "staff in hand" a distance of fourteen miles, and see with his own eyes what was her real state, and return and report.
She evidently felt that this natural anxiety on the part of her father and friend increased the nervous depression of her own spirits, whenever she was ill; and in the following letter she expresses her strong wish that the subject of her health should be as little alluded to as possible.
"Aug. 7th.
"I am truly sorry that I allowed the words to which you refer to escape my lips, since their effect on you has been unpleasant; but try to chase every shadow of anxiety from your mind, and, unless the restraint be very disagreeable to you, permit me to add an earnest request that you will broach85 the subject to me no more. It is the undisguised and most harassing86 anxiety of others that has fixed87 in my mind thoughts and expectations which must canker wherever they take root; against which every effort of religion or philosophy must at times totally fail; and subjugation88 to which is a cruel terrible fate—the fate, indeed, of him whose life was passed under a sword suspended by a horse-hair. I have had to entreat89 Papa's consideration on this point. My nervous system is soon wrought90 on. I should wish to keep it in rational strength and coolness; but to do so I must determinedly91 resist the kindly-meant, but too irksome expression of an apprehension92, for the realisation or defeat of which I have no possible power to be responsible. At present, I am pretty well. Thank God! Papa, I trust, is no worse, but he complains of weakness."
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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shuns
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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5
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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6
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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7
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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11
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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12
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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13
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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15
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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16
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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moors
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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44
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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45
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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46
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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47
feverishness
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48
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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49
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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50
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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51
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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52
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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53
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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54
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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56
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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57
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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58
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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59
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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61
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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62
pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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66
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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67
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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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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71
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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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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81
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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winces
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| 避开，畏缩( wince的名词复数 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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86
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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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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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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90
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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