The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (36 page)

I believe I stayed in London longer than I ought, simply to avoid returning home, to an emptiness I found difficult to bear; I then spent several delightful days with Mrs. Gaskell and her family at her cheerful, airy house in Manchester. Upon my return to Haworth, Ellen came to visit; but after her departure, the solitude of my life at Haworth seemed overwhelming. I missed my sisters with a physical ache that—although lessened somewhat with time—still haunted my days, and kept me lying awake far into the night.

When I walked on the moors, everything reminded me of them, and the times when they were there with me. There was not a knoll of heather, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf, not a fluttering lark or linnet, but reminded me of Emily, who loved them so. The distant prospects had been Anne’s delight, and when I looked round, she was in the blue tints, the pale mists, the waves and shadows of the horizon. If only, I thought, I could taste one draught of oblivion, and forget much that my mind retained; but I could not forget.

I was harassed, too, by the knowledge that my publishers expected another novel. All my fits and starts at a new creative attempt had so far proved unsatisfying; but I could put off the inevitable no longer.

Since Smith & Elder had made it clear that they did not want
The Professor,
I locked up that martyrised manuscript in a cup
board, and decided to begin a new book—a book which would examine my experiences at the Pensionnat in Brussels in a different light, from the female point of view. I called it
Villette.
My charming Dr. John Graham Bretton and his mother, Mrs. Bretton, I patterned unashamedly after Mr. George Smith and his mother. My memories of Madame and Monsieur Héger I poured into my characterizations of Madame Beck and the professor, Paul Emanuel, who would ultimately win the heart of my heroine, Lucy Snowe.

My progress on the novel was achingly slow, disrupted by bouts of serious illness and loneliness. At times I despaired, hungering for some opinion beyond my own, but there was no one to whom I could read a line, or of whom to ask a counsel. Furthermore, Currer Bell could not apply himself solely to writing; he was also a “country housewife,” with sundry little matters connected with the needle and kitchen to attend to, which took up half his day, especially now when, alas! there were but one pair of hands to come to Martha’s aid, where once there had been three.

The months ticked by. Keeper died, and we buried him in the garden. Flossy grew old and fat. The silence in the parsonage was deafening, broken only by Mr. Nicholls’s regular visits to see papa. When Anne had asked Mr. Nicholls to tea that night so long ago, just two months before her death, she had unknowingly (or
was
there method in it?) planted a new idea in my head. The dining-table being too large and empty for just papa and myself, we had begun to take our meals together in papa’s study. On occasion, after Mr. Nicholls’s business with papa was concluded, I asked him to stay for tea.

Mr. Nicholls was no longer the boyish youth who had first come to Haworth; the years had changed and mellowed him. I thought him an even-better-looking and more-solidly-built man now, in his mid-thirties, than he had been before: his face and torso had filled out a bit, and the thick but neatly trimmed black whiskers which ringed his face and chin gave him a more mature appearance. Moreover, when he stayed to tea now, Mr.
Nicholls comported himself in a manner I found far more agreeable, mild, and uncontentious than in the past. Only rarely did he make a bigoted remark or espouse some Puseyite religious principle which made me wince, and I heard no more utterances from his lips that were disparaging to womankind. In fact, he admitted that he had changed his mind about some of his former views where women were concerned.

“I was raised to believe in a particular hierarchy between the sexes,” Mr. Nicholls explained one evening, “but you have caused me to rethink all that, Miss Brontë—or should I say, Mr. Bell.”

“You do not still think, then,” said I with a little grin, “that a woman’s place is in the kitchen?”

“Not if she can afford to hire a cook,” replied he, to which we both laughed.

During these infrequent visits, Mr. Nicholls and papa generally spent the hour discussing the needs of the parishioners, what could be done to ease the plight of the poor, how best to solve the issues that arose at the Day and Sunday schools, and the never-ending topic of Haworth’s health and sanitation woes. The three of us also talked about my brother and sisters, sharing fond or pleasant memories. Mr. Nicholls occasionally asked with interest about the novel I was working on; I found it was not a subject he could discuss in any depth, but I sensed that he was proud of me and my achievements. He seemed equally interested in the manner in which my life had changed, as a result of my writing.

“Your father says you have met a great many famous people, Miss Brontë,” said Mr. Nicholls one night.

“I would not say a great many, sir, but I have been so fortunate as to form a few new acquaintances.”

“Who among them is your favourite?”

Without hesitation, I replied: “Mrs. Gaskell. She is not only a very good writer, but a good and genuine person. Are you familiar with her work?”

“No.”

“She is a regular contributor to Dickens’s magazine
Household Words.
Her
Mary Barton
is an excellent novel. If you like, I can loan it to you.”

“I would appreciate that,” responded Mr. Nicholls, adding, “I understand you also hold Mr. Thackeray in high esteem. What is he like?”

“Well, he is very tall.”

Mr. Nicholls laughed. Papa said: “
Every one
is tall in comparison to you, my dear.”

“Despite Mr. Thackeray’s height,” said Mr. Nicholls, “did you enjoy his company?”

“Not really, sir.”

“No?”

“No. The first time I met him, I was such a trembling spectacle, viewing him as such a Titan of mind, that I just shook his hand and barely said a word. What little I did say, as I recall, was irretrievably stupid. The second time we met was at a dinner party at his house in Young Street. Mr. Thackeray had invited a brood of society women to meet me, who all seemed to expect some sort of brilliant literary lioness. I fear I greatly disappointed them all. I knew no one; I was shy and awkward; I could not supply the kind of thrilling conversation which they seemed to expect. When we ladies left the gentlemen to their port and returned to the drawing-room, I retreated to a corner and spent the better part of the evening exchanging a few low words with the only person with whom I felt comfortable: the governess.”

Mr. Nicholls laughed again. “It sounds a bit dreadful.”

“It was. I am afraid I do not possess the ease and confidence required to fit in with London society, sir, and I suspect I never shall.”

My answer seemed to please him. It was only months later that I understood why.

Mr. Nicholls left to spend his month-long holiday in Ireland. Whereas I had once given his annual absences no more than a
passing thought, I found I missed his smile and genial laugh at tea. In time, I came to consider him a valued member of the household circle, like a favourite cousin or a brother. In time, he did not bother to wait for an invitation to tea; he began inviting himself.

On my birthday in 1852, Mr. Nicholls surprised me with a gift—the first such offering since the writing paper he had so infamously purchased seven years before.

“I noticed that your copy of the
Book of Common Prayer
is rather worn,” said he, just before we sat down to dine that April afternoon.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Nicholls. My prayer book is so old, and has been read at so many Sunday services, it is nearly falling from its cover. I think that faith alone holds its pages together.”

He produced a brand-new edition in a handsome binding, which he placed into my hands. “I hope this will serve in its stead.”

I was both surprised and grateful. “Thank you, Mr. Nicholls. How thoughtful of you.”

“Happy birthday, Miss Brontë,” said he with a modest smile.

In the ensuing months, while I was still hard at work on
Villette,
I perceived a change in Mr. Nicholls’s behaviour towards me. I felt his eyes on me at church, when he sat across from me at tea, when he glanced into the Sunday school class I taught, or encountered me in the lane. He was often in low spirits now when we were together, and spoke of expatriation
⁶⁴
; and I saw that he was often held back in our conversations by a strange, feverish restraint.

For a long while, I scarce ventured to interpret to myself, much less hint to any other, the meaning behind his altered manner. Emily, Anne, and Ellen had all once insisted that Mr. Nicholls cared something for me, and wanted me to care for him. In my rancour towards him during those early years, I had
not perceived any truth in their assertions; now, I told myself I was wrong, or must be imagining it.

That autumn, Mr. Nicholls inquired repeatedly about the progress of my novel. It seemed to frustrate him, as much as it did Mr. Williams and Mr. Smith, that the work was taking longer to complete than anticipated. At last, I finished the third volume of
Villette
and sent the manuscript to my publisher, with instructions that its release be delayed until after Mrs. Gaskell’s new novel
Ruth
came out, so that the two books would not be in competition with each other. I then went to Brookroyd to visit Ellen for a much-needed, two-week respite. I had only just returned to Haworth, still much caught up in my concerns as to how that novel would be received, when an event occurred which created sudden havoc in my life, as completely and effectively as the most cataclysmic storm or earthquake:

Mr. Nicholls proposed.

I
t was Monday evening, the 13th of December, 1852. Mr. Nicholls came to tea. As always, the three of us gathered in papa’s study, seated in our customary chairs by the fire, our plates in our laps. Flossy, now very old and as gentle and sweet as ever, lay curled up on the floor beside us.

As we dined, I could not help but notice that Mr. Nicholls suffered from a nervous disquietude of manner more pronounced than any I had yet witnessed. He barely touched his food or sipped his tea, and replied to my questions in monosyllables.

“Your father tells me,” he said at last, with a strange, eager apprehension in his tone, “that you finished your new book.”

“I did. I sent the manuscript off just before I left to visit Ellen. It is quite a relief to have it off my hands, I can tell you. I have had my fill of writing for a while. I look forward to a long break.”

My answer seemed to both please and worry him. “You are happy with the book, I hope?”

“I am content that I have done my best. Unfortunately, my publisher is not
quite
as satisfied. Although Mr. Smith accepted the manuscript without revisions, he made it clear that he would have preferred a different romantic solution.”

“I do not disagree with him,” interjected papa. “I have problems with the ending of that book myself.”

Papa was unhappy, I knew, that his favourite character, Dr. John, dropped out of sight in the third volume, while the story pursued the growing relationship between the heroine and her professor, Monsieur Paul Emanuel. “I could not unite characters who are so totally unsuited to each other, papa.” At this pronouncement, I saw Mr. Nicholls’s face fall. I added quickly: “Forgive me, Mr. Nicholls. We ought not to discuss the ending of a book you have not yet read.”

He only nodded, and then fell silent for the next quarter of an hour, until I said good-night and withdrew from the room.

I adjourned, as was my habit, to the dining-room, where I sat reading in my chair by the fire. I heard the renewed murmur of conversation from behind the closed study door. At half-past eight I heard the door open, as if Mr. Nicholls meant to leave. I expected to hear the usual clash of the front door, since Mr. Nicholls and I had already said our good-nights; instead, to my surprise, he stopped in the passage and tapped at my open door.

“May I?” His deep voice, normally so sure and steady, quavered slightly.

I looked up from my book and beheld a peculiar, agitated look on his countenance, which was deadly pale. Like lightning, it flashed on me what was coming, and my heart began to pound with alarm. “You may. Please sit.”

Mr. Nicholls entered, but he did not sit. He stopped a few feet before me with downcast eyes and clasped hands, as if gathering his courage. When at last he raised his gaze to mine, he spoke low and vehemently, yet with difficulty. “Miss Brontë. Ever since I came to Haworth, almost from the first moment of our acquaintance, I’ve felt the greatest respect and admiration for you—for your remarkable intelligence, your strength and spirit, and your fine and giving heart. Over these many years, that admiration has grown into something deeper and more powerful. You are, and have been for quite some time, the single most important and valued person in my life.”

My heart thundered in my chest. To see this normally stoic man so diffused with emotion affected me deeply; but before I could gather my thoughts to speak, he went on, with great humility:

“I’ve longed for many years to express my feelings to you, but I was fully aware, in those early days, that you were not at all of like mind. Not only that, you were—and still are—so far above me: I’m only a poor curate, and you the parson’s daughter; and so I said nothing. The day we took that walk to the beck, some four years past, I thought the tide might turn in my favour; but then all that sadness happened in your dear family. I saw you needed time to heal and mend. And so I waited. Just as I gathered my courage to speak, I discovered, to my great surprise, that you were not only the Miss Brontë I had come to know and love so well—you were, in fact, a famous author. You met with great celebrities in London; you had the very world at your feet. Who was I, I asked myself, to dare approach you now on such a subject? How could I even hope that you might be interested in the likes of me?”

“Mr. Nicholls—” I began, but he raised a hand to stop me.

“Please; I must finish, before I lose my nerve again.” He glanced briefly into the fire, then back at me. “For many a moon, I tried to put the thought out of my mind. I tried to tell myself I must be satisfied to be Miss Brontë’s friend, and only a friend. I tried in vain. To be your friend, I knew, would never be enough. And so I’ve waited and I’ve watched, every day for the past three long years, silently hoping, yearning, to see some small sign from you—some tiny hint that you might in some way come to reciprocate my feelings. I felt a growing friendliness between us, and I thought: perhaps that is enough. I told myself: I must speak; but I saw how engrossed you were in your writing. Fearing to disturb your peace of mind, I resolved to wait until you’d finished your new book.”

He was trembling now, his eyes alive with such a desperation of hope and fear and affection, as I had never witnessed in my life. “These last few months I’ve endured such tortuous suffer
ing and agitation of mind and spirit, as I cannot begin to describe—afraid to admit to my feelings, yet unable to bear the agony of not knowing. I must say it now: I love you, Miss Brontë. I love you with all my heart and all my soul. I can imagine no greater honour on this earth, than if you were to agree to be my wife. Will you consider it? Will you have me? Will you marry me, and share my life with me?”

I was stunned—overwhelmed—speechless with confusion. For the first time, I felt what it costs a man to declare affection where he doubts response. I had begun to suspect that Mr. Nicholls harboured feelings for me, but I’d had no conception of the degree or strength of those feelings. He stood before me now, anxiously awaiting my reply. How was I to answer? How did I feel? I hardly knew.

“Have you spoken to papa?” I said at last.

“I dared not. I thought it best to speak to you first.”

I stood. “Mr. Nicholls: I am honoured and humbled by your offer, and from my heart, I thank you for it most respectfully. I can give you no answer, however, until I speak to papa.”

He looked at me desperately. “I understand; but surely, you can say how you feel. Do you return my affections? At least tell me that! I crave leave for some hope.”

“I think it best that I say no more at present, sir, for I do not yet know what I think or feel. I promise a reply on the morrow.” Still, he did not move. I took him by the arm and half led, half put him out of the room and into the hall. “Good-night, sir. Again, I thank you.”

Once I saw the front door close firmly behind him, I leaned back against the passage wall, my mind in a whirl, my heart pounding wildly. What had just happened? Had I imagined it—or had Mr. Nicholls truly just proposed marriage to me? I was thirty-six years old; I had given up any thought of marriage, sure in the belief that no one
I
could love would ever love me. I had long vowed that I would rather remain single all my days, than to marry a man who did not adore me, and whom I could not adore in return with all my heart; yet here was a conundrum.
Here was Mr. Nicholls, declaring his affection with as much passion and feeling as any romantic hero I had ever imagined in a story or a novel.

How did I feel about Mr. Nicholls? Did I love him? No; but whereas I had once despised him, I had, over the years, gained a true respect for him; I had grown to like him, and to consider him a trusted and valued friend—almost a member of the family. In his startling declaration, his entire being seemed to proclaim his love for me—a love he had kept hidden. Who could say if, in time, an answering love could blossom in my own heart?

Oh! If only my sisters were alive, I thought. How dearly I would have liked to share this news with them, and to obtain their counsel. I did not even have a close friend with whom to speak; the only women with whom I shared my confidence—Ellen, Mrs. Gaskell, and Miss Wooler—lived many miles away; and this was not a matter which could be deferred for a time-consuming deliberation by post. There was no one but papa; and I required his consent in any case. Surely, I thought, papa would share his wise and impartial views on the subject, and help me understand what I ought to do.

I took several deep breaths to steady myself, knocked at the study door, and entered.

Papa sat beside the fire-place, erect in his chair, reading the newspaper with the aid of a magnifying glass and the light of hearth and candle. Too unnerved to sit, too stunned to consider how best to choose my words, I strode to papa directly and simply said, with shaking voice: “Papa. I have just had a proposal.”

“What’s that?” said papa, his attention still fixed on his paper.

“Mr. Nicholls has asked me to marry him.”

Papa’s head shot up; his mouth fell open; he stared at me, aghast. The magnifying glass nearly slipped from his grasp; he caught it with both hands, recapturing the newspaper which threatened to slide from his lap. “What do you mean? Are you trying to provoke me? Or is this some kind of a joke?”

“No, papa. Mr. Nicholls came in to see me after he left you.
He has only just said the words. He declared that he loves me, and he asked me to be his wife.”

Papa’s voice rose in sudden anger. “That’s preposterous!
Mr. Nicholls?
Who does he think he is, to be making such an outrageous declaration—and to you, directly? How dare he? Such a question must be put to the father! I hope you gave him a flat refusal!”

“I made no answer, papa. I said I needed to speak to you first.”

“Well, you can tell him for me that he can go straight to the devil!”

“Papa!”

“
Mr. Nicholls?
Asking you
to marry him?
Is he mad? The man is my curate! A lowly curate! Did you know this declaration was coming?”

“I did not, but—I have seen signs. My reason tells me it has been long brewing.”

“How long? How long has it been brewing?”

“He said he has loved me for many years, but was afraid to come forward.”

Papa stood and strode to his desk, where he slammed down his newspaper and magnifying glass with such fury, it was a wonder the instrument did not shatter. Flossy, who had awakened with a start at papa’s first outburst, now scampered from the room in terror. “For many
years
? The ingrate! The bastard! All this time he’s been living amongst us, and working by my side—I thought him to be so diligent, so upstanding, so devoted to the community—all the while he’s just been plotting and planning behind my back, to steal away my only living daughter!”

I was stunned and affronted to hear papa speaking against Mr. Nicholls in this way. “Papa, that is not true. This was no plot. If Mr. Nicholls has feelings for me, they do not take away from the work he has done for you and for this parish.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl!” Papa whirled to face me, his eyes flashing behind his spectacles, with a growing anger and agitation that I thought most disproportionate to the occasion.
“The man is a cunning, devious liar. To think, after all the hours and weeks and
years
I’ve spent in the man’s company, he never breathed a word about this to me—not even a hint. For years, he has purposely concealed his aims from the both of us!”

“If he did, papa, I believe it was not out of cunning or disingenuousness—but because he feared this very reaction from you, and feared I might reject him.”

“And reject him you must, in no uncertain terms! I wouldn’t hear of such a match, not in a thousand years, I tell you! That man has nothing. Nothing! A measly ninety pounds a year, no expectation of a penny more to come, and no house of his own. Where does he expect to keep a wife? In that single room in which he lodges at the sexton’s house?”

“I do not know. I did not think of that. I suppose it is true that Mr. Nicholls does not have a great deal of money, papa—but should not the main consideration in my decision be more about my feelings for the man himself, rather than the size of his income?”

“The size of a man’s income tells you a great deal about the man, Charlotte. Marrying him would be a degradation! Clearly, he is only after your money.”

“My money?” I cried, aghast. “My
money
? Is it so inconceivable to you, papa, that a man could love me for myself?”

“Of course not!”

“You do not want any one thinking of me as a wife!”

“Don’t try my patience! You are a brilliant and successful woman, Charlotte—a celebrated author. If you wish to marry, then marry well! Had you said yes to James Taylor, I would have been proud!”

“Why? Because Mr. Taylor was leaving the country, and asked me to wait? That was a safe choice, was it not, papa? It would have kept me here as your housekeeper for another five years!”

“It has nothing to do with that!”

“Doesn’t it? What are you afraid of, papa? Do you think if I married, that I would go away and leave you, to live and die alone? I promised I would not—and I will not break that prom
ise. Mr. Nicholls lives here; if I married him, I would not be going anywhere!”

“To even
consider
that you should so lower yourself, as to fall prey to the common lot of any ordinary clergyman’s daughter—to marry your father’s
curate
—and such a lowly, ungrateful, lying wretch as this one is—it is unthinkable! You would be throwing yourself away!”

My blood boiled with a sense of injustice, but papa had worked himself up into a state not to be trifled with: the veins on his temples started up like whipcord, and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot, the same symptoms which had preceded the dangerous apoplectic seizure he had suffered earlier that year. The doctor had warned me, then, that extreme anxiety could produce a relapse of that condition, which could prove extremely debilitating, or even fatal.

“Papa, please calm yourself,” I said hastily, my anger mitigated by sudden concern.