Introduction
Until now my portrayal of Rev. Brontë has hardly been "sympathizing" as Charlotte might have said. That was because up to now Patrick Brontë has appeared during his greatest battle - that of trying to stop his daughter, Charlotte, from marrying Arthur Bell Nicholls. It brought out an uncharacteristic hardness in the man, at least when it came to his children. Hard as flint.
Patrick was fighting tooth and nail to keep Charlotte, a world renowned author, from "lowering" herself by marrying the local penniless Irish curate.
Rev. Brontë was the same himself, fifty years before.
That's actually why he feels this calamitous marriage must be stopped. It was life or death for him. All his life Patrick fought to raise the family status. In his mind, this marriage would put the family's social advance back half a century.
Even lower, as Rev. Brontë, while being a penniless curate, he at least had a post when he married; Arthur Bell Nicholls did not even have that.
Yes, Arthur Bell Nicholls lacked money and position. However he had something no one else in the world had and he possessed that quality in super abundance.
In one of the battles Charlotte and her father had over the matter, I have Charlotte admit that while Mr. Nicholls lacked attributes and endowments in certain quarters; he had a very great deal of the one attribute she had not encountered elsewhere and which she could not discount or dismiss.
When Patrick sarcastically asks his daughter what that attribute could possibly be, Charlotte answers him with one word, "Ardor."
Well then, what was all that half century of striving for?
His other children were gone. His son and heir died a drunken ruin. Something had to be saved from all those years of care and labor. Why could not Charlotte simply be content with producing best sellers, rubbing elbows with Quality and being famous with the name he gave her? Well, she couldn't.
Besides all this, Patrick greatly feared for his daughter’s life. He did not believe Charlotte’s health would stand marital life. The tragedy was her subsequent health was excellent until the final illness
When, regardless of his efforts, Charlotte decided on marriage. Papa refused to agree and siege warfare broke out. Neither Brontë spoke to each other for days. Indeed, I believe Charlotte remained in her room the entire time. She was likely on a hunger strike too. A ploy that Brontë siblings historically used to great effect though out their lives.
After a few days, the family’s old servant, Tabby, who indeed helped to raise the Brontë children, had “beyond enough." She stood up from her Parsonage kitchen fireside chair, straightened her cap and marched (morally if not physically due to a wounded leg) into Patrick's study. She told him he had to give in. Did he want to kill his last child?
Tabby well knew and she reminded her employer, just who had the stronger will between the two Brontës. Somethings I think Tabby intervened for Patrick’s sake.
According to Tabby the main trouble was Mr. Nicholls “had no brass” (i.e. no money)
In any case Patrick finally lowered his banner and "remembered" himself. He returned to the man his daughter knew best. Rev. Brontë then willingly, and in time even enthusiastically joined in the project.
It’s true Patrick refused to give his daughter away during the marriage ceremony. But I believe that stemmed, not from an overly ill feeling for the groom, but from Patrick's sense of debt and gratitude towards the great Evangelical men of his younger years.
Men who helped Pat Punty come from just about nothing to the halls of Cambridge itself and beyond. Yes, Patrick raised himself, but he had help along the way.
I believed Rev. Brontë wrestled with the question. But he came to feel that in good faith and before God, he could not personally hand his daughter over to a deep-dyed Tractarian, his benefactors’ religious opponent. This speaks to the depth of the riff between the two factions.
When the call is made from God's alter,
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Patrick could not bring himself to say, "I do."
It is to be remembered Patrick broke off his first serious romance in England over a religious difference with his bride to be. Back then people and certainly, Patrick Brontë, took such matters as vows and loyalty very seriously.
In the film, "A Man for all Seasons" the great question is all about the taking of an oath. Thomas More went to the block rather than betray himself by breaking an oath, a vow, he had made in order to make another and an one he thought was wrong. If one cannot make a vow before God sincerely, it becomes an act of intolerable hypocrisy. At least it does to people like Patrick Brontë.
However, Patrick was glad to greet Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls upon their return from Church. Indeed, the report is he was the life of the wedding breakfast and shades of the dashing Recency curate were seen.
That is who I present in the first part of the following Brontë story. The man with eccentricities, piques, notions and yet deeply humane and caring.
In the story Arthur is writing about it in 1904. But the event takes place 1855, some weeks after Charlotte's passing. Now we see the Patrick Brontë who was beloved by his family, friends, his village and even his servants.
One of Martha Brown's sisters had a natural daughter that lived with the Browns while her mother worked elsewhere. When the child tragically died, the family asked Rev. Brontë to write the letter breaking the news to the young mother.
Rev. Brontë saw to his flock by day, then by night heroically nursed his wife on her death bed, his first two daughters and then his son in turn.
Arthur Bell Nicholls called, Patrick Brontë "my life's greatest friend." Indeed, it was Patrick Brontë who taught Arthur Bell Nicholls how to survive a great grief, much as a master teaches a young disciple.
Every step along the way, you find your teacher's foot print before you.
In the second part of the following story, taking place in December 1852 at the time of Arthur’s proposal, we see Patrick at his worst. Angry, suspicious, bitter, because in his mind, his daughter’s very life and his every step forward for half a century are threaten.
Enjoy!
Anne Lloyd
Charlotte’s proposal diary paper 1852
Arthur 1904
Some weeks after Charlotte's passing, I was engaging in what was to become a lifelong habit of mine, carried on to this very day. That of placing flowers in front of her portrait. In those early days, as I went about the task, my eyes cast everywhere but at that dear face. It was as yet too painful to regard it. I was not often in the room altogether, save for placing my tribute.
While arranging the moor flowers, I happen to notice the edge of papers pointing out from a book on the dining room shelves. A ray of the morning sun seemed to light it especially. It peaked my interest and I investigated. I instantly knew the hand and soon realized its import. It was a diary paper written by my wife from the time of my proposal. I reeled to hear in my mind, at full force, that dear, honest voice speaking to me again and yet saying things I had never heard.
The added novelty was to learn of events where I was not present. Most of its contents were known to me, including Rev. Brontë's anger, his disapproving sentiments and too, Charlotte's flinty mode of private expression.
However, what shocked me right though was learning of the prominence, indeed, the importance in my wife's life of one James Taylor, officer of Smith, Elder Publishers. I had no idea.
My usual stupor of grief was ended in a burst of agitation, almost frenzy. I knew Charlotte favored publisher Smith, but just who was this Mr. Taylor? I believed I had heard something of him. Rev Brontë couldn't help but boast that Charlotte's publishing firm thought so much of her, they sent one of its officers to collect her manuscript personally.
I was told to keep clear of the Parsonage that day due to a guest. I thought nothing of it then. I now learned she had contemplated an offer of marriage from this fellow! I sought my father in law at once.
"Sir, who is Mr. Taylor?"
"Mr. Taylor? But you know him Arthur...The church warden?
Or do you mean, Joe Taylor?"
How stupid of me not to clarify.
"No, no! The Mr. Taylor connected to Charlotte's publisher! James Taylor!"
He looked at me. "What a question. How do you come to ask it?"
"I found some pages of Charlotte's writing and he is more than mentioned."
"Oh? May I ask where did you find these pages?"
"They were in one of the books in the dining room."
"I see," he said glumly.
I spoke strongly. "It's as I've always said. There are writings, letters out there that are as dangerous as lucifer matches. She speaks most cutting of him. Totally unguarded! If Taylor sees this! "
"And how would that happen?"Brontë said. "Only you look though the Parsonage's stacks and I remember him now, Mr. James Taylor of Smith, Elder. He is in...India I believe. Might as well be the Moon. "
"Anything is possible whilst these papers exist. A book could be lent with such contents unguessed at, with the letters the danger is a thousand fold."
"Talks about his stature, does she?” Brontë said dryly. "He was small." My father in law was not taking the matter seriously.
"She does call him "the little man." I said. "But Sir, do you imagine that his size is the only significance of that word? It has been my experience she used that term to hide something of importance. This man meant something to her. She writes his mind did not impress her; also she says he was not a gentleman “
The strongest possible condemnation from a Brontë.
"Yes, Charlotte said that to me at the time." Brontë sighed.“She said all that in a pique because he did not ask her. I called her a minx." Then my father in law grew crimson, realizing he had said too much.
"You knew of this marital possibility, Sir?"
"About a supposed offer, I knew, but not from my daughter. At the time, I mostly conjectured." Brontë said. "However my daughter told me of it more fully sometime later.... inadvertently."
"Yet I was never told of him at all!" I cried.
“That was Charlotte's affair, lad. She obviously decided not to inform you. Which I can understand, there being enough fuss and disquiet around your own engagement, as it was."
"Fuss! Yes, there was fuss."
Brontë looked at me keenly."Arthur, what can it matter now?" I saw his own sorrow and though he meant to be kind, that question was the greatest jab possible. Currently, for a time, in my righteous anger, I was sheltered from my grief. He called me to return to reason. I could not.
"It matters because I'd like to believe I knew my wife!"
"I can see it’s been a shock to you and for that, I'm sorry.” Brontë said. "But remember Arthur, you won the day. Charlotte loved and married you. By God, she fought down all for you and you both were happy.
"Very happy. Sir!"
He nodded. “Indeed. So Lad…..be magnanimous."
It was sage advice. He meant the very best. But my Father-in-law spoke after knowing grief for many years. I was too freshly minted in the dreadful discipline to heed him. I still thought there was something I could do.
"It is not only that, Sir. It is this ever present danger, the letters! “I cried. “Her candid letters!"
I had already crossed swords and defended my wife in the press twice since her passing. I swore to do no more. Yet those damn letters remained. I believed could still stop the danger, privately.
"Letters.” Brontë muttered. He became annoyed, remembering the scene during Charlotte's funeral. “Now we come to it. Letters, again."
"And again, Sir" I said.
"What do you purpose to do? I can't imagine all this leads to nothing."
He knew me better than that.
"I'm going immediately to Miss Nussey and demand she destroy those letters as she pledged to do!"
Brontë sighed and closed his eyes.
"Can I not dissuade you?"
I already had my hat and coat from the passages’ hooks.
"No Sir! Good day!" and set out.
I should have listened to Father Brontë. However, Providence was kind. Miss Nussey was away from home. My tactic of surprise was useless and I was grateful to God ever after. The terrible scene that surely would have ensued would have done neither of us any good and much harm.
I was informed Miss Nussey was visiting in the South and would be away for some time. I was then asked if there was a message. If I failed to surprise Miss Nussey, I succeeded in confusing her servant. I simply told the girl no and went home. My temper had cooled. Indeed, it came to me, painfully, that I was so consumed with my anger, I had wholly ignored the anguish Charlotte's diary paper revealed and I was ashamed.
By the time I regained Haworth, having walked both ways, I was exhausted, feeling a great fool and sorrowful. But I ready to bristle if questioned in the least.
On my way to the front door, I passed the windows of Father Bronte’s study. I could see him sitting with a candle. He had stayed-up past his time to wait. Of course, I went to him. He merely looked up and said, "Ah, you are home. Your tea is in the dining room. Let us go in."
I meekly followed him. I was so contrite, I took my tea there, a bit of ham and bread, without a word, rather than have my meal in the kitchen which had been my habit since Charlotte's passing.
After my folly of an adventure, it was oddly calming to be sitting in that room again. I needed smoothing down and her portrait provided it. As I have said, I had scarcely looked at it since her death. Now began the feeling of solace and love it has afforded me ever since.
I studied Richmond’s portrait. She would forgive me. She would understand my foolish impulse. She always favored an act done in the warmth of feeling, rather than a cool calculation.
In the low, flickering light, in the artist's rendering, I saw again the many shades of Charlotte's beloved expressions. The artist had caught perfectly the dawn of her most loving look. The one that melted your heart in rapture and gratitude when she bestowed it. The sun never shone so brightly or benevolently. The printers could not capture that look in the least. In print this beloved portrait of Charlotte appears severe, even cross. Nothing was further from the truth.
At first I raged over this distortion between original and print. Then I was glad. In this way, the picture was still mine alone. Is it any wonder I gaze upon it for long periods to this day? No one can know the feelings it stirs within me.
I finally told my father-in-law Miss Nussey was away from home and I would not pursue the matter further in such a fashion. He murmured a short prayer of Thanksgiving.
I looked about the dining room. I intended to look for other diary papers and I found them too. All the along the years, until finding Miss Emily's and Anne's in '95 capped my career.
It was Publisher Smith who taught me the value of the copyright Charlotte had left to me. The power I had. I knew the power of her writing of course and he had the copyright to Charlotte’s books; that was not the issue. From Smith I learnt what it meant to have the power of copyright for her letters. That was when he tried to finesse the Brontë copyright, not already his, from the surely,” dullard curate husband.” But that is another story, as is the tale of who I later awarded that power.
For all my ranting about the need to fire-up such documents and my career of doing so, I found I could not destroy the following pages in my latest purge. I almost did. I held the pages above the flames. But I hear her voice too clearly when I read them to give these sheets over to destruction.
Arthur Bell Nicholls 1904. ,
************************
Charlotte 's Proposal Diary Paper
December 1852
Henry Nussey and Curate Bryce had sent their offer of marriage in letters. They had no thought or true feeling for the woman they wrote to and whose hand they lightly sought. Henry believed me to be a sensible, quiet Parson's daughter as I had always shown myself to be in his presence. Poor man if I had accepted! Curate Bryce thought me amusing and such an alliance could perhaps lead to a post.
Both gentlemen thought I would leap at the offer of matrimony with not much, or even any wooing required.
I suspect Ellen put Henry up to it. He wished simply to fill a post with a wife; all reason, no heart at all. So my refusals heretofore were proper, reasoned and even kind and offered no pain to either of those gentlemen. I was glad I was kind, as poor Mr. Bryce died a year later.
Mr. James Taylor had the feeling and the discriminations I could favor. But how hard he was. There was no kind laughter or melting there. I don't believe he has a melting point. He says I gave him "refreshment”, but I do not believe I was essential to him. Nor would my home nature be welcomed.
I tried to draw Mr. Taylor out as I did George Smith, my publisher, by using the example of the actress Rachel's performances.
When visiting in London, I took George, to witness the lady and her art twice in a week. He was appalled. Rarely have I seen the expression of disgust upon my publisher's face. He's too easy and smiling for that specter to visit often. But at the end of the performance, in my excitement, as I turned to George, I saw that expression then; deeply etched, deeply marked, almost a mask of rage and condemnation. Poor man, he had two doses of the medicine by that time. George found nothing in the lady or her art to endure, much less, admire. What then would he think of me and my innermost nature?
In Mr. Taylor's case, I wrote to him how I was affected by Rachel's performance.
I did not spare him any of the gruesome details. Indeed, I purposely used my able ability to delineate each glistening entrail. He got the full measure. I at least added censorious comments about her effect upon a person, to ease Mr. Taylor's way if he wished to condemn her.
I needed to find Mr. Taylor out. How far could he endure strong emotions expressed and their power?
However my professions did not elicit a comment either yay or nay. They were passed over and I remained in a mist; conjecturing that while he not may have been disgusted as was Mr. Smith, Mr. Taylor at least disapproved. That blew a cool wind onto the whole matter.
I did respect Mr. Taylor. Surely that counts for something. I always believed in his judgment and good-sense. What I doubted was his kindness. He seemed to me a little too harsh, rigid, and unsympathetic.
Indeed. Nether he nor I would bend to the other; I by instinct and he by character. We were like two fortresses with gates up and each peeking over the ramparts. From behind the battlements, we launched interesting letters over the walls in hopes of finding an accord. I set such store by letters all my life, yet here was another case where letters proved a false compass.
Correspondence could not overcome his sandy locks, a small stature and that dreadful, willful nose. Having so little in the way of pleasing looks myself, I have no right to expect it in others.
But that never restrained me from passing such judgments. How I love beauty! I tend to favor those who possess it, against my better inclinations; a fault of my character, I'll own.
It was not beneficial that each time Mr. Taylor and I seemed to have reached something of a quiet understanding, (through letters I again admit and Mr. William's good opinion of Mr. T) Publisher Smith would then find cause to complain of Mr. Taylor in harsh tones to me, almost unexampled in my knowledge of George.
It was hardly in good taste, but I could not disregard it. It caused me foreboding about "The Little Man” as I called Mr. Taylor to Ellen, and my possible future associations with him.
When George ordered Mr. Taylor to India to open a new office, I could not help but wonder if Mr. Smith was clearing the field of a rival? God, help me. I know it is nonsensical. Still, I am not made of stone and I could not dismiss the notion altogether.
All this kept me in abject suspension. Over all, the idea of the “Little Man” shocked me less than wonderings about my young, handsome publisher. So I gave Mr. Taylor his chance, agreed he could come to Haworth and I did my best. Yet, he pulled up at the decisive fence.
Papa, having been alerted by Ellen via letter of what was expected, (such is my almost certain surmise) could not have done more to show his approval of Mr. Taylor as a possible husband. Papa was his most amiable and as welcoming as I've seen him for some time; energetic and forth coming. Something of the charm and zest of the young, Irish curate in Regency days, of which I have heard, was evident once more.
I tried to see Mr. Taylor in the best light possible. However during that last visit, when he came near to me, instinct, unfailingly, rose up in protest
I told Ellen, at such times, my veins ran ice. Perhaps he perceived this aversion and was put off his aim. Afterwards, I expressed to Papa my feeling that Mr. Taylor was no gentleman. A fatal charge in this house. My Father protested and dismissed that pronouncement. But I stood firm in my opinion.
Mr. Taylor left Haworth without speaking, much less tending an offer. Indeed, this, his second visit, left a ruin. One does not journey to this rude district a second time merely to procure a manuscript. I had expectations of an offer and I was not alone in them. How can such a man be called a gentleman?
Mr. Taylor did not ask me. I can only surmise there was not enough affection for him to chance rejection. After his visit, he wrote, communicating his sailing date and he asked me if he would see me in London beforehand.In a sense Mr. Taylor asked me to change my London plans to accommodate his sailing schedule. Not in those words, but the implication was there.
This is just the sort of coercion which unsettles. But on reconsidering, I threw the dice again. I told him I was due to be in London the week after his departure and so it was likely we would not meet. In that way I did refuse him. I knew it would be impossible for him to change the date of his sailing, which, I'm sure, it is cast in iron.
What I did wonder was, would he then say to me that to leave without speaking to me again and having a last look could not be born. Would he beseech me to reconsider? That was what I was waiting for. If Mr. Taylor had made that appeal, I might have gone to him. But he didn't. So he left for India and nothing had changed between us, save everything.
All this kept me in abject suspension. Over all, the idea of the “Little Man” shocked me less than wonderings about my young, handsome publisher. So I gave Mr. Taylor his chance, agreed he could come to Haworth and I did my best. Yet, he pulled up at the decisive fence.
Papa, having been alerted by Ellen via letter of what was expected, (such is my almost certain surmise) could not have done more to show his approval of Mr. Taylor as a possible husband. Papa was his most amiable and as welcoming as I've seen him for some time; energetic and forth coming. Something of the charm and zest of the young, Irish curate in Regency days, of which I have heard, was evident once more.
I tried to see Mr. Taylor in the best light possible. However during that last visit, when he came near to me, instinct, unfailingly, rose up in protest
I told Ellen, at such times, my veins ran ice. Perhaps he perceived this aversion and was put off his aim. Afterwards, I expressed to Papa my feeling that Mr. Taylor was no gentleman. A fatal charge in this house. My Father protested and dismissed that pronouncement. But I stood firm in my opinion.
Mr. Taylor left Haworth without speaking, much less tending an offer. Indeed, this, his second visit, left a ruin. One does not journey to this rude district a second time merely to procure a manuscript. I had expectations of an offer and I was not alone in them. How can such a man be called a gentleman?
Mr. Taylor did not ask me. I can only surmise there was not enough affection for him to chance rejection. After his visit, he wrote, communicating his sailing date and he asked me if he would see me in London beforehand.In a sense Mr. Taylor asked me to change my London plans to accommodate his sailing schedule. Not in those words, but the implication was there.
This is just the sort of coercion which unsettles. But on reconsidering, I threw the dice again. I told him I was due to be in London the week after his departure and so it was likely we would not meet. In that way I did refuse him. I knew it would be impossible for him to change the date of his sailing, which, I'm sure, it is cast in iron.
What I did wonder was, would he then say to me that to leave without speaking to me again and having a last look could not be born. Would he beseech me to reconsider? That was what I was waiting for. If Mr. Taylor had made that appeal, I might have gone to him. But he didn't. So he left for India and nothing had changed between us, save everything.
We wrote for a time, however our letters eventually faded out and long before I became insensible of the day the India mail arrives upon these shores. I have to ruefully laugh. Here I was conscious of not merely the postal hour, I am too well versed in that, but then, the why and wherefores too of postal shipping over the seven seas! And sadly there is no one left in the dining room after prayers to laugh with me over such human folly.
Indeed. Mr. Taylor made no answer to my letter explaining my London timetable. There was no heartfelt appeal to alter my plan. I oddly recalled that scene in Emily's novel when Cathy is torn between the returned Heathcliff and her husband, Edgar. She collapses to her room and here Edgar allows her to stay alone without a word for three days. Three days! Heathcliff would have broken down the door in three seconds. That is what Cathy was waiting for Edgar to do. But he never came to her. He sat in his sitting room coldly waiting for Cathy to come to her senses by his lights.
"Fool!" I called him, when Emily read the passage to Anne and me. Eliciting an approving smile and nod from Ellis Bell.
I stand by that remark. That was Edgar's last opportunity to show Cathy the passion she understood as love. And who came to her at last? Heathcliff of course!
So after the James Taylor failure I believed that was an end to my tepid proposal career and even fainter, marital prospects. Closed and sealed forever, or so I thought; a great support had been taken from me and I grieved.
Indeed. Mr. Taylor made no answer to my letter explaining my London timetable. There was no heartfelt appeal to alter my plan. I oddly recalled that scene in Emily's novel when Cathy is torn between the returned Heathcliff and her husband, Edgar. She collapses to her room and here Edgar allows her to stay alone without a word for three days. Three days! Heathcliff would have broken down the door in three seconds. That is what Cathy was waiting for Edgar to do. But he never came to her. He sat in his sitting room coldly waiting for Cathy to come to her senses by his lights.
"Fool!" I called him, when Emily read the passage to Anne and me. Eliciting an approving smile and nod from Ellis Bell.
I stand by that remark. That was Edgar's last opportunity to show Cathy the passion she understood as love. And who came to her at last? Heathcliff of course!
So after the James Taylor failure I believed that was an end to my tepid proposal career and even fainter, marital prospects. Closed and sealed forever, or so I thought; a great support had been taken from me and I grieved.
But two days ago, our curate, Mr. Nicholls, knocked on the dining room door. He came before me pale and shaking from the first. Not after months of correspondence, full of hints and wondering; but before one word was spoken.
Mr. Nicholls did not break down a door. However the effect of that soft knock upon the dining room door last Monday evening was the same as if he had.
There was Mr. Nicholls standing before me overcome in the dining room. He had surrendered, laid his offering, his very self, on the altar of love and awaited his fate in suffering and supplication. A passion, far deeper than even his tireless castigating of dissenters was revealed and it was for me.
He said to me what I have not heard from any man, what no man had ever thought in passing, much less said; Mr. Nicholls said he loved me deeply and had done so for years. I knew he liked me and wish the sentiment returned, but had no appreciation for the depth of his regard.
Before that knock, I was in the dining room as usual after I had poured Monday's curate’s tea and left Papa and Mr. Nicholls to discuss church matters. As usual Mr. Nicholls left Papa an hour later. All was as usual and I heard Papa's door open and shut. But the usual sound of front door opening nor its clash afterwards did not come.
After some moments, I knew Mr. N. was lingering in the passage. That brooding presence could be felt though the door and we are alerted by what we do not hear as much as by what we do.
I stopped knitting and dimly wondered what he was about? The knowledge was breaking just before he tapped on the door and when he did, I instantly knew what was coming. This intelligence went through me like an electric strike. My knitting dropped from my hands and I shot up from my chair. In two steps I was standing at the mantel. I was rooted to the spot, mute and paralyzed.
Mr. Nicholls was before me in a moment and I felt I had entered another world altogether. The spectacle of one ordinarily so statue-like thus trembling, stirred and overcome, gave me a kind of strange, further shock.
Mr. Nicholls did not break down a door. However the effect of that soft knock upon the dining room door last Monday evening was the same as if he had.
There was Mr. Nicholls standing before me overcome in the dining room. He had surrendered, laid his offering, his very self, on the altar of love and awaited his fate in suffering and supplication. A passion, far deeper than even his tireless castigating of dissenters was revealed and it was for me.
He said to me what I have not heard from any man, what no man had ever thought in passing, much less said; Mr. Nicholls said he loved me deeply and had done so for years. I knew he liked me and wish the sentiment returned, but had no appreciation for the depth of his regard.
Before that knock, I was in the dining room as usual after I had poured Monday's curate’s tea and left Papa and Mr. Nicholls to discuss church matters. As usual Mr. Nicholls left Papa an hour later. All was as usual and I heard Papa's door open and shut. But the usual sound of front door opening nor its clash afterwards did not come.
After some moments, I knew Mr. N. was lingering in the passage. That brooding presence could be felt though the door and we are alerted by what we do not hear as much as by what we do.
I stopped knitting and dimly wondered what he was about? The knowledge was breaking just before he tapped on the door and when he did, I instantly knew what was coming. This intelligence went through me like an electric strike. My knitting dropped from my hands and I shot up from my chair. In two steps I was standing at the mantel. I was rooted to the spot, mute and paralyzed.
Mr. Nicholls was before me in a moment and I felt I had entered another world altogether. The spectacle of one ordinarily so statue-like thus trembling, stirred and overcome, gave me a kind of strange, further shock.
It seemed a dream or an imagined event like so many before in this room. But of this world, not of my own making. A near panic set in just as I feel in London, when too, strong incidents come to me relentlessly, from those outside of myself.
I am used to being the all-empowered agent, the source of the strong motives and intentions that come my way, most certainly of such scenes in the dining room!
I am not used to such events when raised by others and often become mute, even stupid in my fear and ineptitude. I became so now and in an even more marked fashion than when in London as this was Haworth's Parsonage dining room on a Monday evening! The very kernel of my life. Uninvited, unannounced, just as I have resolved to turn away from passion to reason, passion beyond reason burst though the dining room door.
“I love you" he said. It tore out of him as a confession.
Life's greatest gift, what I have always longed to hear, and yet offered from such a unexpected quarter and with such vehemence! Mr. Nicholls said he had waited to speak until my latest book was finished, knowing that must not be disrupted.
Little did he realize Villette had taken so long because I was writing alone, something I had never done before. But more than that; before my Muse would speak fully, with folded arms and glaring down, She sternly required my final acquiescence to perpetual spinsterhood.
Did not the James Taylor painful episode finally prove it was not to be my portion and that such a life was not for me? The Muse knew what she was asking, no entity knew better.
Still, from her throne, She insisted. I must leave behind the possibility of love's fullest expression to hear Her truthfully and more, to speak truly. Naturally I was reluctant to meet the stipulation. I had said in my youth I knew I would not marry, knew since I was twelve. That is easily said in youth. The condition, when time has gone by, is far harder to accept.
But the Muse would not be put off by my pleadings of grief and poor health, real as those conditions were. Finally, I could delay it no longer. I tearfully bowed and laid my sacrifice on a funeral pyre; accepted my fate and the Muse released Herself, I finished the book, burning such aspirations to a cinder.
However, it seems Providence has rejected the gift and has pulled me back into the maelstrom. Now with greater force and tribulation than the question has ever known because a man, looking wild and shaking from head to foot, said he loved me and wanted me as his wife.
Mr. Nicholls said he did not expect outright acceptance. He was simply asking for hope. Hope was a great thing to ask as it was. He knew that, did he? I cannot express what abject communication went between us over that understanding. Mr. Nicholls then stood in mute, sorrowing entrapment, and beaten; by Love, within its tearing claws.
I still could not speak. I continued to be sequestered in that shock. The statuesque, stiff, at times contentious and exacting High Church Tractarian, Mr. Nicholls, his grand voice altered, indeed he was near voiceless as he fervently declared himself in a most tumble-down fashion.
All of London believe my romantic ideal is a man striding about, willfully imparting absolute commands. They somehow miss the other part of my heroes. The truth that was before me now; a man broken by love and pleading for hope. Mr. N. has read my books. But he is incapable of the craft of emulation for effect. He comes to this state honestly. That is what was so dumbfounding.
I had never been proposed to in-person before. It has all been by letter. I finally learned what it cost a man to stand before one and ask such a question when he was unsure of the response. I trembled for him.
I am not used to such events when raised by others and often become mute, even stupid in my fear and ineptitude. I became so now and in an even more marked fashion than when in London as this was Haworth's Parsonage dining room on a Monday evening! The very kernel of my life. Uninvited, unannounced, just as I have resolved to turn away from passion to reason, passion beyond reason burst though the dining room door.
“I love you" he said. It tore out of him as a confession.
Life's greatest gift, what I have always longed to hear, and yet offered from such a unexpected quarter and with such vehemence! Mr. Nicholls said he had waited to speak until my latest book was finished, knowing that must not be disrupted.
Little did he realize Villette had taken so long because I was writing alone, something I had never done before. But more than that; before my Muse would speak fully, with folded arms and glaring down, She sternly required my final acquiescence to perpetual spinsterhood.
Did not the James Taylor painful episode finally prove it was not to be my portion and that such a life was not for me? The Muse knew what she was asking, no entity knew better.
Still, from her throne, She insisted. I must leave behind the possibility of love's fullest expression to hear Her truthfully and more, to speak truly. Naturally I was reluctant to meet the stipulation. I had said in my youth I knew I would not marry, knew since I was twelve. That is easily said in youth. The condition, when time has gone by, is far harder to accept.
But the Muse would not be put off by my pleadings of grief and poor health, real as those conditions were. Finally, I could delay it no longer. I tearfully bowed and laid my sacrifice on a funeral pyre; accepted my fate and the Muse released Herself, I finished the book, burning such aspirations to a cinder.
However, it seems Providence has rejected the gift and has pulled me back into the maelstrom. Now with greater force and tribulation than the question has ever known because a man, looking wild and shaking from head to foot, said he loved me and wanted me as his wife.
Mr. Nicholls said he did not expect outright acceptance. He was simply asking for hope. Hope was a great thing to ask as it was. He knew that, did he? I cannot express what abject communication went between us over that understanding. Mr. Nicholls then stood in mute, sorrowing entrapment, and beaten; by Love, within its tearing claws.
I still could not speak. I continued to be sequestered in that shock. The statuesque, stiff, at times contentious and exacting High Church Tractarian, Mr. Nicholls, his grand voice altered, indeed he was near voiceless as he fervently declared himself in a most tumble-down fashion.
All of London believe my romantic ideal is a man striding about, willfully imparting absolute commands. They somehow miss the other part of my heroes. The truth that was before me now; a man broken by love and pleading for hope. Mr. N. has read my books. But he is incapable of the craft of emulation for effect. He comes to this state honestly. That is what was so dumbfounding.
I had never been proposed to in-person before. It has all been by letter. I finally learned what it cost a man to stand before one and ask such a question when he was unsure of the response. I trembled for him.
Mr. Nicholls had given himself up to the anguish of love. Love as I know it to be, wounding, killing. I was looking into a strange sort of mirror reflection of myself, but not myself. Here seemed to be someone who could feel as keenly as I; outside of this house I have never met the like.
My continued silence urged him further on. He told me he believed he could continue to endure his suffering, as he had these eight years. But witnessing my endless loneliness, without speaking, was no longer within his power. My suffering Mr. Nicholls said he could endure no longer. It seemed keener than his own. It seemed to be his own indeed.
I looked in even more wonder. Did he even realize, in his artless, halting way, he was expressing the greatest maxims of Love? Principles and edicts hidden, save from those who do indeed love truly? Mr. Nicholls didn't come to these truths by imagination, of which he has none. He traveled to them slowly, by foot.
The most practical of men, Mr.N. would far rather live his life in quiet and peace. But his heart will not oblige. It has lashed him at last to this time and place. How I understood this! My own born and reared Yorkshire nature is as dry and as deadly prosaic as Tabby's own. But my double Celtic heart, ever the rebel, does not always obey the Yorkshire woman's wise sense.
I had tried to secure affection from other men using my Gift. But in the end, I met only confusion and defeat. All the while the unnoticed curate, with no aid or notice from me, burned with ardor.
My continued silence urged him further on. He told me he believed he could continue to endure his suffering, as he had these eight years. But witnessing my endless loneliness, without speaking, was no longer within his power. My suffering Mr. Nicholls said he could endure no longer. It seemed keener than his own. It seemed to be his own indeed.
I looked in even more wonder. Did he even realize, in his artless, halting way, he was expressing the greatest maxims of Love? Principles and edicts hidden, save from those who do indeed love truly? Mr. Nicholls didn't come to these truths by imagination, of which he has none. He traveled to them slowly, by foot.
The most practical of men, Mr.N. would far rather live his life in quiet and peace. But his heart will not oblige. It has lashed him at last to this time and place. How I understood this! My own born and reared Yorkshire nature is as dry and as deadly prosaic as Tabby's own. But my double Celtic heart, ever the rebel, does not always obey the Yorkshire woman's wise sense.
I had tried to secure affection from other men using my Gift. But in the end, I met only confusion and defeat. All the while the unnoticed curate, with no aid or notice from me, burned with ardor.
Mr. Nicholls then went on to say, “You have renown now Miss Bronte, you have great friends in London, the Quality come here to see you, yet in all this time nothing has altered! Night after night, you are still in this room alone!” He said he had waited for a natural betterment of my condition to happen along with Fame. But it hasn't and he must speak now in haste, least I begin a new book and I enter another period of seclusion.
In great humbleness he stood. Yet not in the least scraping or groveling, but a figure to admire, even noble, in his struggle with and then submission to his emotion. The destructive power of such strong feelings (how well I know them!) created within me more wonder and confusion and minutes passed.
Heretofore, I had never seen his eyes so fixed upon me. Mr. N usually appeared before me with eyes cast down, occasionally, when he did look at me, taking a glance or two. I am sure during our minor doctrinal tussles at the tea table. But I was too busy pouring to see him clearly. Nor did I wish to. However, lately he has looked boldly my way. I thought little of it.
Now as he bent down close to me, those blue eyes bored into mine; imperative, demanding. Ice blue, yet the effect was one of flame. I stood as fixed as they; unable to answer him. In his distress, his masculine scent enveloped me. I was then startled by a sudden wish for him to come closer.
The shock of this errant feeling finally caused me to come to my senses. I at last became animated .Yet all I could think of was to ask him had he spoken to Papa. Foolish question, had Papa been the least alerted to his aim, Mr. N. would never have achieved this private interview.
I asked regardless because I could not quite believe he had approached me without gaining Papa's permission. Such an outrageous breech of decorum from Mr. Nicholls seemed impossible. It was completely out of character. Mr. Nicholls is justly known as a grand believer in proper form and custom; to the letter and is gravely censorious towards those who were not. He would bar humanity from Heaven without the proper rights and rituals!
I asked him, if after I left them earlier this evening, had he spoken to Papa?
Mr. Nicholls said he dared not. Papa's health has been so fretful after his illness this summer, Mr. N said that he feared such a request would cause Papa yet another attack. So then I was certain this offer was made under rouge arrangements. This caused me even more bewilderment.
In great humbleness he stood. Yet not in the least scraping or groveling, but a figure to admire, even noble, in his struggle with and then submission to his emotion. The destructive power of such strong feelings (how well I know them!) created within me more wonder and confusion and minutes passed.
Heretofore, I had never seen his eyes so fixed upon me. Mr. N usually appeared before me with eyes cast down, occasionally, when he did look at me, taking a glance or two. I am sure during our minor doctrinal tussles at the tea table. But I was too busy pouring to see him clearly. Nor did I wish to. However, lately he has looked boldly my way. I thought little of it.
Now as he bent down close to me, those blue eyes bored into mine; imperative, demanding. Ice blue, yet the effect was one of flame. I stood as fixed as they; unable to answer him. In his distress, his masculine scent enveloped me. I was then startled by a sudden wish for him to come closer.
The shock of this errant feeling finally caused me to come to my senses. I at last became animated .Yet all I could think of was to ask him had he spoken to Papa. Foolish question, had Papa been the least alerted to his aim, Mr. N. would never have achieved this private interview.
I asked regardless because I could not quite believe he had approached me without gaining Papa's permission. Such an outrageous breech of decorum from Mr. Nicholls seemed impossible. It was completely out of character. Mr. Nicholls is justly known as a grand believer in proper form and custom; to the letter and is gravely censorious towards those who were not. He would bar humanity from Heaven without the proper rights and rituals!
I asked him, if after I left them earlier this evening, had he spoken to Papa?
Mr. Nicholls said he dared not. Papa's health has been so fretful after his illness this summer, Mr. N said that he feared such a request would cause Papa yet another attack. So then I was certain this offer was made under rouge arrangements. This caused me even more bewilderment.
Mr. Nicholls came to me behind Papa's back? I did not doubt it, yet could still hardly believe it. Mr. Nicholls said he knew Papa would be angry, could not approve, but he had to speak at last and so this lamentable course was forced upon him.
As I marveled, Mr. Nicholls asked me again, this time more urgently; could I give him hope? I knew nothing besides he must leave before Papa came to realize Mr. Nicholls was still in the house, that he and I were alone behind a closed door. It hardly seems possible Papa was not aware that his curate was still in the Parsonage.
I should have stopped him instantly. But I could not end such a fretful interview with a swift refusal. Mr. Nicholls's state was such that it seemed too cruel. An appropriately refusal would require time. A commodity I did not possess. I hurriedly told him he would have his answer on the morrow. Anything, to get him away before Papa found us.
But Mr. Nicholls seemed rooted to the spot himself.
"On the morrow!" I said again and again. “On the morrow, Sir, you will have your answer!"
This finally was heard and it seemed to have a beneficial effect upon him. His sorrowful face brightened. I could not stop to inquire. At last I took his arm and half-pulled and pushed this mount of masculinity towards the door. I yanked it open, looked furtively upon the passage and then pushed Mr. Nicholls out of the room; closing the door with real relief. Still I did not drawn breath until I heard the front door itself finally clash.
As I marveled, Mr. Nicholls asked me again, this time more urgently; could I give him hope? I knew nothing besides he must leave before Papa came to realize Mr. Nicholls was still in the house, that he and I were alone behind a closed door. It hardly seems possible Papa was not aware that his curate was still in the Parsonage.
I should have stopped him instantly. But I could not end such a fretful interview with a swift refusal. Mr. Nicholls's state was such that it seemed too cruel. An appropriately refusal would require time. A commodity I did not possess. I hurriedly told him he would have his answer on the morrow. Anything, to get him away before Papa found us.
But Mr. Nicholls seemed rooted to the spot himself.
"On the morrow!" I said again and again. “On the morrow, Sir, you will have your answer!"
This finally was heard and it seemed to have a beneficial effect upon him. His sorrowful face brightened. I could not stop to inquire. At last I took his arm and half-pulled and pushed this mount of masculinity towards the door. I yanked it open, looked furtively upon the passage and then pushed Mr. Nicholls out of the room; closing the door with real relief. Still I did not drawn breath until I heard the front door itself finally clash.
At least, the worst was avoided, that of Papa's coming upon the scene.
I immediately went to Papa. From the sound of the door well after Mr. Nicholls had left him, Papa was already wondering what had occurred. “Well ,what did the fellow want?" he asked me barely looking up.
I told Papa what had happened. Anger and agitation erupted, which was to be expected as Mr. Nicholls had declared himself without notice or sanction. However, Papa then eagerly asked how I answered Mr. Nicholls, for Papa was already relishing the news of my expected sharp dismissal. I answered him with dread.
For it was when Papa learned that instead of a rebuke, I had simply told Mr. Nicholls he would have my answer "on the morrow," when Papa learned I had, according to him, "thoughtlessly given myself, as if I were “a mere bowl of apples”, in a near promise and half-acceptance instead of “ the stringing reproof the blackguard deserved," that was when, after a moment of shock, Papa lost all sense of proportion. Fifty years rolled away and an outburst of Irish brogue assaulted my ears.
I told Papa what had happened. Anger and agitation erupted, which was to be expected as Mr. Nicholls had declared himself without notice or sanction. However, Papa then eagerly asked how I answered Mr. Nicholls, for Papa was already relishing the news of my expected sharp dismissal. I answered him with dread.
For it was when Papa learned that instead of a rebuke, I had simply told Mr. Nicholls he would have my answer "on the morrow," when Papa learned I had, according to him, "thoughtlessly given myself, as if I were “a mere bowl of apples”, in a near promise and half-acceptance instead of “ the stringing reproof the blackguard deserved," that was when, after a moment of shock, Papa lost all sense of proportion. Fifty years rolled away and an outburst of Irish brogue assaulted my ears.
He demanded to know if I had gone mad. What was I about? To give such an answer to that "fractious, mutinous, insignificant, miserable CURATE"? I told him I wished Mr. Nicholls to leave me as soon as possible and could not think of another way.
It is beyond my powers to adequately express Papa’sfury towards me and his curate. Papa foretold Mr. Nicholls will take my statement of “on the morrow” just as he did, as a near promise, as hope! And will become even more troublesome and determined. Why not? Had I not encouraged him?
Papa cried “Charlotte! I hardly know you!" He said I should have ordered Mr. Nicholls, from my presence the instant I knew what his aim was. That I should not have even waited to hear his disgusting declaration in order to refuse him! Then call on himself to thrash the fellow! “All this you knew when a child, much less the grown woman you are today, “said Papa.
He was overcome and I came in for further severe, marked chastisement. Mr. Nicholls received even more libelous epithets such as "villainous despoiler."
It is beyond my powers to adequately express Papa’sfury towards me and his curate. Papa foretold Mr. Nicholls will take my statement of “on the morrow” just as he did, as a near promise, as hope! And will become even more troublesome and determined. Why not? Had I not encouraged him?
Papa cried “Charlotte! I hardly know you!" He said I should have ordered Mr. Nicholls, from my presence the instant I knew what his aim was. That I should not have even waited to hear his disgusting declaration in order to refuse him! Then call on himself to thrash the fellow! “All this you knew when a child, much less the grown woman you are today, “said Papa.
He was overcome and I came in for further severe, marked chastisement. Mr. Nicholls received even more libelous epithets such as "villainous despoiler."
Had I loved Mr. Nicholls, I would have answered Papa with strong words of my own. As it was, my blood boiled to hear Mr. Nicholls and myself so unjustly abused. I mutely stood the punishment. Papa understood by my silence I thought him too harsh. Eventually, Papa's anger knew no bounds.
I indeed feared for his health. Mr. Nicholls’ grave apprehensions on that account proved correct. Papa's veins stood out, his eyes became bloodshot as they did this summer.
I indeed feared for his health. Mr. Nicholls’ grave apprehensions on that account proved correct. Papa's veins stood out, his eyes became bloodshot as they did this summer.
"I expect the conniver to announce the bans this Sunday from St Michael’s pulpit!"
To that I at last retorted, "Surely not Papa!" Then I finally spoke and said again and again I would at once write a letter of determined refusal to Mr. Nicholls that none could mistake and send it first thing in the morning via Martha.
"Why not tonight?" cried Papa" I wish it to be sent tonight! At once!” I said it was impossible at this late hour. I called Papa to calm, much as I would to Keeper or Flossie and with as little effect.
Finally Papa had exhausted himself and I retreated to my room, only conscious that no longer before my eyes were the specters of either Mr. Nicholls's morose, suffering face or Papa's livid, accusing one.
Neither did I know what to think, beyond that a letter of refusal must be composed as soon as possible. I only realized I had a pulsing headache as I sank into my bedroom chair. It had likely started some time before.
No drug would prove a remedy. Only the commencement of the imperative task at hand would answer. As I opened my desk, I reflected I had said “your answer on the morrow" repeatedly to Mr. Nicholls and "a firm refusal on the morrow" over and over to Papa. Each saying echoed with the pounding of my head.
I could see my hand trembling as I gathered pen and paper. Due to wavering lines, more than once I had to restart the letter. I made it as cool, yet kind as I was able and refused him. At last it was done. Yet I could not sleep, feeling that some great engine of untoward events had begun; its gears easily detected in this silent house.
No one has ever looked at me as he looked. No one has ever said to me what he said, or ever dreamed to. These true events are like a burning iron. They alter one and will never be forgotten. Only in my imagination have I known such doings. It is a far different matter in this Upper world. Heaven help and keep us all!
In the early morning, my letter went to Mr. Nicholls, refusing his offer in, I hope, a gentle, but firm, manner. I saw Martha flying down to her parents’ home to deliver it.
I told Martha to place it into Mr. Nicholls’ hand directly and to no one else. She was to then wait for his answer.
In time, I received from Mr. Nicholls a dignified note in the same strained but congenial tone as my own and I let out a sigh of relief. He sadly accepted my answer, promising friendship always. I could see the effort it cost him dearly in his disappointment.
That would have been the blessed end of this strange, sudden event, I believe, but for Papa. He could not bear that Mr. Nicholls did not hear an expression of his own outrage. Particularly, over the point of Mr. Nicholls approaching me without Papa's knowledge.
Papa insisted on writing to Mr. Nicholls himself. He said in spite of my protestations, he was sure my letter was insufficient to suppress Mr. Nicholls's ill-conceived, criminal "aspirations." And he did not like the fact I had sent it with Martha before he, himself, could hear its contents. On that point, I stood firm.
However, that spoke to Papa of further, hidden dealings. I strongly protested that notion. He seemed to trust me only a little more than Mr. Nicholls! He could not answer yes or no, but said again he was sure a far more strident tone was required. Papa said his position as father was had been bypassed by us both. It would not be now.
All this would have been bad enough, however. Papa's blood shot eyes were not yet sufficiently clear for him to pen a letter himself. So he required I take his dictation, an office I would usually never refuse.
But I shrank from the thought of Mr. Nicholls reading Papa's stinging epithets, written by my hand.
To that I at last retorted, "Surely not Papa!" Then I finally spoke and said again and again I would at once write a letter of determined refusal to Mr. Nicholls that none could mistake and send it first thing in the morning via Martha.
"Why not tonight?" cried Papa" I wish it to be sent tonight! At once!” I said it was impossible at this late hour. I called Papa to calm, much as I would to Keeper or Flossie and with as little effect.
Finally Papa had exhausted himself and I retreated to my room, only conscious that no longer before my eyes were the specters of either Mr. Nicholls's morose, suffering face or Papa's livid, accusing one.
Neither did I know what to think, beyond that a letter of refusal must be composed as soon as possible. I only realized I had a pulsing headache as I sank into my bedroom chair. It had likely started some time before.
No drug would prove a remedy. Only the commencement of the imperative task at hand would answer. As I opened my desk, I reflected I had said “your answer on the morrow" repeatedly to Mr. Nicholls and "a firm refusal on the morrow" over and over to Papa. Each saying echoed with the pounding of my head.
I could see my hand trembling as I gathered pen and paper. Due to wavering lines, more than once I had to restart the letter. I made it as cool, yet kind as I was able and refused him. At last it was done. Yet I could not sleep, feeling that some great engine of untoward events had begun; its gears easily detected in this silent house.
No one has ever looked at me as he looked. No one has ever said to me what he said, or ever dreamed to. These true events are like a burning iron. They alter one and will never be forgotten. Only in my imagination have I known such doings. It is a far different matter in this Upper world. Heaven help and keep us all!
In the early morning, my letter went to Mr. Nicholls, refusing his offer in, I hope, a gentle, but firm, manner. I saw Martha flying down to her parents’ home to deliver it.
I told Martha to place it into Mr. Nicholls’ hand directly and to no one else. She was to then wait for his answer.
In time, I received from Mr. Nicholls a dignified note in the same strained but congenial tone as my own and I let out a sigh of relief. He sadly accepted my answer, promising friendship always. I could see the effort it cost him dearly in his disappointment.
That would have been the blessed end of this strange, sudden event, I believe, but for Papa. He could not bear that Mr. Nicholls did not hear an expression of his own outrage. Particularly, over the point of Mr. Nicholls approaching me without Papa's knowledge.
Papa insisted on writing to Mr. Nicholls himself. He said in spite of my protestations, he was sure my letter was insufficient to suppress Mr. Nicholls's ill-conceived, criminal "aspirations." And he did not like the fact I had sent it with Martha before he, himself, could hear its contents. On that point, I stood firm.
However, that spoke to Papa of further, hidden dealings. I strongly protested that notion. He seemed to trust me only a little more than Mr. Nicholls! He could not answer yes or no, but said again he was sure a far more strident tone was required. Papa said his position as father was had been bypassed by us both. It would not be now.
All this would have been bad enough, however. Papa's blood shot eyes were not yet sufficiently clear for him to pen a letter himself. So he required I take his dictation, an office I would usually never refuse.
But I shrank from the thought of Mr. Nicholls reading Papa's stinging epithets, written by my hand.
What would be the effect upon him? My participation in Papa's letter, would make all I said in my refusal seem a cruel mockery and void its calming effect. It was pointless to try and dissuade Papa, or to even urge moderation. So fearing for his health, I finally commenced.
However, I soon perceived this abusive message was not merely for Mr. Nicholls, who Papa has decided has" now and forever forfeited the name of gentleman." (I knew how that would wound.) But this forced dictation was a punishment for me as well.
My offence was the "near accepting as a husband the local penniless Irish curate just because he asked you and who had the effrontery to come to you behind your father's back!" Papa was writing angrily to Mr. Nicholls, but I was a recipient of his ire as well.
Papa said, "Daughter, I require the aid of your penmanship as my eyes are impaired. But it is well you do participate in my letter. Otherwise, such a petulant spirit as Nicholls has now revealed himself to be, will seek to go around me again. Your contribution will, I hope, forestall him from such an attempt."
As long as I was at his desk, pen raised, seemingly ready to take his diction, Papa was just quiet enough to discuss the topic. So I ventured to speak, "Papa, given Mr. Nicholls’ history with us, I have no reason to mistrust his written acceptance of my refusal.
Papa answered that indeed, that up to Monday night, he would have agreed. But after, “the scoundrel" went behind his back, and showed "a scandalous, even madcap presumption" inconsistent with his place, his poverty and Papa's rights.
“Mr. Nicholls has showed himself capable of any outrage and he did not trust the man to heed my written refusal unless this extra method was applied. Unless, I join him in this needful castigation.“ Otherwise, Papa said, “as I say, he will come again."
Papa added, " You speak of his years with us, Indeed, it is this ‘pirate's’ many years with us that makes this grave calamity more painful for all concerned. For I had trusted him!"
I ventured further. Given the extraordinary circumstance and high emotions, leeway for such exchange was possible between him and I, indeed it was imperative.
I asked Papa again, did he not trust my refusal? And here, though his eyes were useless, he and I never-the-less regarded each other soberly. Finally, Papa grudgingly said he did, but went on to say, "What I fear Daughter, is your pity." What Papa said had been evident from the moment I told him about Mr. Nicholls' declaration and has only grown more robust since. Each of my protests show this to be so Papa said.
With a heavy heart I took up my pen again. But after some more lines, such were their tone, I again refused to continue and cautioned Papa; how could Mr. Nicholls serve him after this? This letter made a breech that hereto fore had not existed.
I said "Mr. Nicholls proposed," I said. "I have refused and he has accepted my refusal. However Papa, this letter would open an irreconcilable wound between you and he." Papa scoffed somewhat bitterly over that and said the breech had already been made, but not by him.
With a heavy heart I took up my pen again. But after some more lines, such were their tone, I again refused to continue and cautioned Papa; how could Mr. Nicholls serve him after this? This letter made a breech that hereto fore had not existed.
I said "Mr. Nicholls proposed," I said. "I have refused and he has accepted my refusal. However Papa, this letter would open an irreconcilable wound between you and he." Papa scoffed somewhat bitterly over that and said the breech had already been made, but not by him.
I pressed further and said the letter could well cause Mr. Nicholls to resign the curacy, indeed it was sure to. Had Papa dwelled on that? I asked him if that was what he wanted. Papa said he wanted the thief and robber to be stopped, by any and all means,repeating the wound was already made by Nicholls and it was grievous.
I dared to say again the letter was too severe. It was hardly fit to send. Papa’s anger, renewed at this persistent obstruction, was such, I could not chance further opposition and hope to preserve his health against added injury.
I took his dictation once more in a state I can hardly express. Papa was never as hard in my experience as he was now. He had quite forgotten himself. He was like flint. The wise, humane man I knew was in utter abeyance. Papa said I had recklessly near voided, not simply my own great achievements, my own standing in the world, but too, the family’s social advancement of fifty years.
To Papa, it was his duty to oppose such a course with all his power. Seeing Past his old face with its blind, blood shot eyes and the sharp condors of age. I saw too the young, raw bone, red headed Irish lad with fierce cornflower blue eyes.
I took his dictation once more in a state I can hardly express. Papa was never as hard in my experience as he was now. He had quite forgotten himself. He was like flint. The wise, humane man I knew was in utter abeyance. Papa said I had recklessly near voided, not simply my own great achievements, my own standing in the world, but too, the family’s social advancement of fifty years.
To Papa, it was his duty to oppose such a course with all his power. Seeing Past his old face with its blind, blood shot eyes and the sharp condors of age. I saw too the young, raw bone, red headed Irish lad with fierce cornflower blue eyes.
A lad who raised himself from nothing by his own determination and who will defend those hard won social gains to the end. I told Ellen that if she saw Papa now, she'd know something of him.
Papa then reminded me that I had had expectations from Mr. Taylor based only on his coming to Haworth twice. What would I call saying to Mr. Nicholls "on the morrow" as an answer to a direct, matrimonial appeal? What expectations did I think Mr. Nicholls would now have? My tongue was stilled.
Not merely due to his question's justice, but too, Papa, by his remark, had exposed his correspondence with Ellen. For how else would Papa know my expectations of Mr. Taylor with such certainty otherwise? I had not said a word to him of the matter.
Papa then reminded me that I had had expectations from Mr. Taylor based only on his coming to Haworth twice. What would I call saying to Mr. Nicholls "on the morrow" as an answer to a direct, matrimonial appeal? What expectations did I think Mr. Nicholls would now have? My tongue was stilled.
Not merely due to his question's justice, but too, Papa, by his remark, had exposed his correspondence with Ellen. For how else would Papa know my expectations of Mr. Taylor with such certainty otherwise? I had not said a word to him of the matter.
I said nothing now as I did not wish to draw attention to this blunder, least it impair a mode of communication all three of us find beneficial. For I often say to Ellen what I would have Papa know.
Papa went on, "And what pity did you have for Mr. Taylor, Charlotte? I had to take up the man's cause when you went so far as to say he had a second rate mind, that he was not a gentleman. I've yet to hear you say so of Nicholls, who showed himself no gentleman at all! Indeed, you have continually protested in Nicholls‘ favor! You deride one man and defend the other."
I said my protests on Mr. Nicholls' behavior were not personal, but merely a case of Christian charity. What else could I say to Papa? That one man said he loved me and showed the irrefutable truth of it, while the other man did not?
That one man asked, indeed pleaded for me and the other never said a word of marriage! That wouldn't serve in an argument based on reason; yet how close it is to the plain truth!
Papa asked me more than once, why did I say it? Why did I say "on the morrow" and not dismiss Mr. Nicholls from my presence the moment his aim was known? For an answer, I doggedly kept to the wish that Mr. Nicholls leave the house as soon as possible and concerns for Mr. Nicholls's health. Papa would have none of it. He had no patience previously these last few weeks for Mr. Nicholls’ own allusions to his faltering health.
I could hardly tell Papa the truth, as I barely perceived it myself; that until Mr. Nicholls’ appeal was over and he made his second call for hope, I was robbed of my senses by the depth and intensity of his emotion. Mr. Nicholls could barely speak. I could not speak at all.
Papa went on, "And what pity did you have for Mr. Taylor, Charlotte? I had to take up the man's cause when you went so far as to say he had a second rate mind, that he was not a gentleman. I've yet to hear you say so of Nicholls, who showed himself no gentleman at all! Indeed, you have continually protested in Nicholls‘ favor! You deride one man and defend the other."
I said my protests on Mr. Nicholls' behavior were not personal, but merely a case of Christian charity. What else could I say to Papa? That one man said he loved me and showed the irrefutable truth of it, while the other man did not?
That one man asked, indeed pleaded for me and the other never said a word of marriage! That wouldn't serve in an argument based on reason; yet how close it is to the plain truth!
Papa asked me more than once, why did I say it? Why did I say "on the morrow" and not dismiss Mr. Nicholls from my presence the moment his aim was known? For an answer, I doggedly kept to the wish that Mr. Nicholls leave the house as soon as possible and concerns for Mr. Nicholls's health. Papa would have none of it. He had no patience previously these last few weeks for Mr. Nicholls’ own allusions to his faltering health.
I could hardly tell Papa the truth, as I barely perceived it myself; that until Mr. Nicholls’ appeal was over and he made his second call for hope, I was robbed of my senses by the depth and intensity of his emotion. Mr. Nicholls could barely speak. I could not speak at all.
Then the fear of Papa finding us was my paramount, animating force. By the time I got Mr. Nicholls out the door, the moment for instant dismissal was long past. I could hardly command him before, when I could not command myself.
Papa said “Daughter, you disapproved of my writing to him in this fashion. Yet you are the cause! It is because of your answer to him, that this letter must be written, and must be indeed harsh, even unforgivable."
Papa said it was only by extinguishing the flame of hope I had thoughtlessly kindled, with a blaze of indignation, that a door so carelessly opened “to that skulking, traitorous blackguard” can again be sealed shut.
"He asked for hope and you supplied it, with the promise of "on the morrow.”
Then I was not only silenced, but too, felt a sickening dread. Inwardly I owned Papa was right, at least of my part. I recalled Mr. Nicholls expressly said he did not look for full acceptance. He asked simply for hope. In my haste to remove him from the house, my utterance gave enough of that nutrient to compromise myself to an ardent, would-be, suitor. I know the credulous ears the loving have and I remember the smile of relief on his face when Mr. Nicholls comprehended my words at last.
I went on to write Papa's letter as dictated, without further verbal protest, but boiling within. Such was my feeling, I decided that this communication cannot go to Mr. Nicholls without mitigation.
I took advantage of Papa's current blindness and said I had spoiled the envelop. I would retrieve one from my desk in the dining room. I swiftly left the parlor, before Papa could say use another of his, or grow suspicious over my sudden willingness for the task. At my desk, I penned a hastily written note of my own to Mr. Nicholls and to send along with Papa's letter.
In it I affirmed that while Mr. Nicholls indeed could not expect me to reciprocate the feelings he had expressed, but too" I wish to disclaim any participation in sentiments calculated to give you pain."
That is my penmanship of Papa's letter. I hoped Mr. Nicholls would know how it came about that Papa's letter was written in my hand, for I had no time to explain it. As curate, he had certainly penned many a letter to dictation when Papa's eyesight was impaired.
I placed it along with Papa's letter, and paused. I then realized that by sending this note, I was joining Mr. Nicholls in his crime; of going behind Papa's back. Just as Papa had foretold. I looked at the two letters side by side. I was again paralyzed. How had it come to this? Then Papa called to me. What was the delay? He wished his letter sent off!
Without further reflection, I sealed both letters in the envelope and Martha went running again. My anxiety while waiting for the answer caused me to pace the dining room. I have done so before many a time, but never due to a cause just down the lane! Papa's letter was such, we could expect anything to occur. Branwell would have at least dreamt of arriving with a sword, ready to defend his honor. Such is the weakness men call their strength.
Once removed from the heat of battle, as it were, I was aware this had constructed the greatest conflict between Papa and myself. Even the contest over Papa's eyes paled before it. Usually, a frown from either of us, or a knitted brow, is enough to cause the other to retreat. How many times did I give way to Papa about his eyes, until I could no longer stand by? How often did I have my way if I stood firm? Only a rejected meal or two often caused Papa to give in; much to Aunt's annoyance.
But over Mr. Nicholls, Papa and I went hammer and tongs! We advance, retreat, wheel about as it were and advance again. This ads to the fantastic nature of this astonishing incident.
At last, an answer to Papa was delivered. He called me in to read it to him. In the passage, I watched Martha until she was back in the kitchen and then entered Papa's study. With barely a steady voice, I read out a terse but civil note in which Mr. Nicholls indeed resigned his curacy. If Papa agreed, Mr. Nicholls would write to the Bishop to begin the removal as the duly-licensed curate.
Mr. Nicholls said he would not appear in the pulpit, but assured Papa he would see to the supply from others for Sunday preaching. He would however perform duties that could not wait until the new man arrived, such as burials and the school.
All this drew from Papa yet another unseemly, pungent epithet for our correspondent.
Thankfully, Mr. Nicholls made no allusion to my own note, so I would not be found out by Papa later when his eyesight returned. For Papa wished Mr. Nicholls’ reply to be placed among his papers. Now that his spleen was spent, Papa seemed somewhat mollified , or perhaps overawed at what has happened and the ruins in which we find ourselves. He was at last alive to the ramifications.
How were we and the Parish to go forward?" I said. “At least the dead will be buried, Papa. Mr. Nicholls said he would perform such needful duties.“ Papa was too much at a loss to appreciate my sarcasm. He was lost in thought.
Finally Papa said," I will wait a few days to answer. The scoundrel may think again and request permission to withdraw this resignation. If I refrain from answering him, Nicholls will know I'm offering him a chance to reconsider. Let him dwell on that.”
These two men knew each other well. I was watching a chess match.
But I was surprised. “You would allow Mr. Nicholls to stay, Papa?"
"Would that please you, daughter?” He asked suspiciously.
"Papa! No! It is my decided opinion Mr. Nicholls would be better placed and happier elsewhere!" I said.
Papa answered that he should only take Mr. Nicholls back on condition his curate gave Papa a promise never again to broach the obnoxious subject either to him or to me.
“Then I would accept Nicholls back," Papa said.
At last, an answer to Papa was delivered. He called me in to read it to him. In the passage, I watched Martha until she was back in the kitchen and then entered Papa's study. With barely a steady voice, I read out a terse but civil note in which Mr. Nicholls indeed resigned his curacy. If Papa agreed, Mr. Nicholls would write to the Bishop to begin the removal as the duly-licensed curate.
Mr. Nicholls said he would not appear in the pulpit, but assured Papa he would see to the supply from others for Sunday preaching. He would however perform duties that could not wait until the new man arrived, such as burials and the school.
All this drew from Papa yet another unseemly, pungent epithet for our correspondent.
Thankfully, Mr. Nicholls made no allusion to my own note, so I would not be found out by Papa later when his eyesight returned. For Papa wished Mr. Nicholls’ reply to be placed among his papers. Now that his spleen was spent, Papa seemed somewhat mollified , or perhaps overawed at what has happened and the ruins in which we find ourselves. He was at last alive to the ramifications.
How were we and the Parish to go forward?" I said. “At least the dead will be buried, Papa. Mr. Nicholls said he would perform such needful duties.“ Papa was too much at a loss to appreciate my sarcasm. He was lost in thought.
Finally Papa said," I will wait a few days to answer. The scoundrel may think again and request permission to withdraw this resignation. If I refrain from answering him, Nicholls will know I'm offering him a chance to reconsider. Let him dwell on that.”
These two men knew each other well. I was watching a chess match.
But I was surprised. “You would allow Mr. Nicholls to stay, Papa?"
"Would that please you, daughter?” He asked suspiciously.
"Papa! No! It is my decided opinion Mr. Nicholls would be better placed and happier elsewhere!" I said.
Papa answered that he should only take Mr. Nicholls back on condition his curate gave Papa a promise never again to broach the obnoxious subject either to him or to me.
“Then I would accept Nicholls back," Papa said.
"Papa, is that wise?"
“We will see what he's about “Papa said meditatively. "If Nicholls agrees to give up his aim, what does that say about his supposed ardor? If he fails to give me that promise, then I will be proven correct. He means to keep on. He is a continuing danger and has to go. Thankfully you are off to London soon to see to your book. I wish you could go today!"
“We will see what he's about “Papa said meditatively. "If Nicholls agrees to give up his aim, what does that say about his supposed ardor? If he fails to give me that promise, then I will be proven correct. He means to keep on. He is a continuing danger and has to go. Thankfully you are off to London soon to see to your book. I wish you could go today!"
I wondered at myself for not saying Mr. Nicholls must go regardless of anything. For how could I face the man in the Church or even the lane after this? But I remained silent on that point.
Papa was unaware his every doubt about Mr. Nicholls’ wish for me was a stab to my pride. It was inconceivable to him that Mr. Nicholls was sincere in his declarations of love and regard and truly wanted me to be his wife.
I left Papa to his further reflections. I was in my bedroom when I heard John Brown's door shut heavily and saw, behind the shutter, Mr. Nicholls leave in a excited state. All my hopes for a quiet close to the episode had come to nothing. This was not an end, but a beginning
Over the course of a few days, I kept watch from behind the shutters. Mr. Nicholls continued to be restless and ill. He carefully performs the occasional duty. I watched him during a burial or two in the church yard. His attention and fervor to the holy task before him while in such tumult speaks well of him, I own, and he gave the ritual his usual grave solemnity and comfort to the mourners.
I left Papa to his further reflections. I was in my bedroom when I heard John Brown's door shut heavily and saw, behind the shutter, Mr. Nicholls leave in a excited state. All my hopes for a quiet close to the episode had come to nothing. This was not an end, but a beginning
Over the course of a few days, I kept watch from behind the shutters. Mr. Nicholls continued to be restless and ill. He carefully performs the occasional duty. I watched him during a burial or two in the church yard. His attention and fervor to the holy task before him while in such tumult speaks well of him, I own, and he gave the ritual his usual grave solemnity and comfort to the mourners.
In a few days more, Papa called me into his study. I knew from Martha he had indeed received another letter from Mr. Nicholls. My hands fairly shook as I opened it and read aloud to Papa Mr. Nicholls's request to withdraw his resignation. I looked up to Papa. He was animated and pleased; he was right.
"What I foretold," he said, "the criminal has thought again! Now I will tell him he may indeed stay on as St. Michael’s curate, if but only if, he gives me a written pledge to never speak to me or to you about this ever again."
"A written pledge Papa?" He seemed bent on continuing to seek Mr. Nicholls's humiliation.
“Written, daughter." said as hard as flint. “His mere word is not enough. If Nicholls cannot produce that pledge," Papa said, "then you must own I was correct to send him my letter. It was by no means ended by your kind refusal alone. This sneaking thief is danger to this house as long as he is in Haworth."
"Then why keep him at all?" I asked.
Papa explained the process of resignation and removal was a lengthy one. If he stays or goes, Mr. Nicholls would still be in Haworth for some months in either case. Meanwhile Papa would at least have that written pledge as something as a shield. Unless the man was dead to honor all together.
"And Daughter, hear me," Papa pointed towards me for emphasis. "Whatever Nicholls' answer, as long as he is here, you must not offer him so much as a word or even a look, no matter how seemingly mild or tame. It would only add to your earlier encouragement and enflame the rouge. I will also put it about you have disdainfully refused him, as you ought to have!” Papa added. “A word to Brown will see to it."
“Papa! I would prefer you make no mention of it at all to anyone!"
"It can hardly be disguised Charlotte. Nicholls hasn't been to the church since that night. His absence has been noticed. Mr. Nicholls not buzzing about the church? And his student, Johnny, leading the choir? Unheard of! Instead of seeing to his duties, Nicholls sits and broods in that room of his, like the great morose lump he is."
I had no reason to ask how Papa knew all this. His knowledge came from the same source as mine, The Brown Intelligence Service, just down the lane. Martha has been a regular broadsheet. To this I add my own observations. Likely after John Brown reports to Papa, he does too.
“Nicholls does not perform a church service because he fears I would attend," Papa said. "And then he would be forced to endure my glare the whole time and a confrontation afterwards. He won't allow himself to be thus trapped.
I could not help but say it was well the congregation of St Michael's does not witness its Pastor and Curate behaving in an unseemly manner.
Papa became alive to that danger and his dissatisfaction with his curate' s avoidance was somewhat mitigated... for the time being.
Papa then told me his eyes were well enough to pen his own letters. I was glad of it, for my head was not fit for dictation and I stepped away from the struggle between he and Mr.Nicholls to submit to a passive existence!
Providence is over all; that is the only consolation.
It has been days and Mr. Nicholls has evaded sending that pledge, indeed, he doesn't answer Papa at all. So the matter remains completely unsettled.
1852 began with my wondering about a future with Mr. Taylor and it ends with the unlooked-for curate suitor; Mr. Nicholls! All this does no good for my head or liver. I long for the relative quiet of London as a respite from tumultuous Haworth!
The End
Anne Lloyd© 2024
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