THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS.
“Like as a father pitieth his children.”
According to this text, Charlotte Brontë, though no orphan, had no father. She was born in the little village of Haworth, England. Her father was a clergyman, and a very curious man, if the stories told of him are true. I dare say he may have been a good man in his way, but I don’t fancy his way. I don’t like his burning up some pretty little red shoes, belonging to his little children, because he did not like the color. I don’t like his firing off pistols, when he got angry, and terrifying his little meek wife. I shouldn’t want to hear such a terrible minister preach, had I gone to his church. Well, never mind that. His feeble little wife was taken very sick, and the doctor said she must die; die, and leave those little children to the care of this father I have spoken of, who seemed to be about as fit for the charge, as an elephant would be to take care of little humming birds. One touch of his great paw would crush the life out of them.
LITTLE CHARLOTTE.—Page [82].
You may be sure the poor dying mother felt badly enough about all this, as she lay in her bed, growing thinner, and paler, and weaker each day. She could see the churchyard where she was to be buried from her chamber window; in fact, one had to pass through it, with its moss-grown tombstones, to get to the house, which was a very gloomy one at best, as parsonage houses are too apt to be. I suppose she tried very hard to feel willing to leave them; but she found she could not do it, if she saw their dear little faces every day. So they did not go to her sick-room any more; she could hear the pattering of their tiny feet in the entry, and their hushed whispers as they passed her door, and so, pressing her hands tightly over her mother heart, to still its pain, and leaning on the Crucified, she passed away.
It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much worse, I think, than to lose a father; because a father, be he ever so good and kind, must be away from his little ones, and cannot, by any possibility, understand their little wants and ways as a mother can; and a child’s heart is such a tender thing to touch; one may mean well, and give it such exquisite pain, and the poor thing cringes, and shrinks, and has no words by which it can tell its distress. But suppose the father understands nothing about a child’s heart. Suppose he thinks to treat it like a grown person’s, who has been knocked about the world till he don’t care for anything, who never cries, never laughs, never is glad, never is sorry, never wants to lay his head on a dear, kind shoulder, and cry—what then? Suppose that father, instead of taking breakfast, dinner, and supper with his lonely little children, takes his meals up in his own room, and leaves them sobbing over theirs, while they try to swallow the food that tasted so sweet when their dear mother sat at the head of the table—what then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country where they lived, where no flowers grew, where were no gardens; and that, when these little children became tired of huddling together, like a frightened flock of lambs, in their gloomy nursery, where never a cheerful fire was lighted, or cheerful lamps twinkled when night came on—suppose they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by the eldest, who was only seven, went through the damp churchyard, past their mother’s grave, and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without their father to lead them by the hand, or take them up in his arms when tired, or speak a kind word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands in any way? Suppose day after day went by in this fashion, what sort of children do you suppose they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy, jumping little things, such as God and man love to see, loving play and frolic, with broad chests and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not at all. They never once thought of playing; they hadn’t a toy in the house; their heads grew big, and their bodies grew little; and they were as wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired them not to go to sleep. But their father slept soundly, all the same as if their little hearts were not like an empty cage, out of which music and beauty has taken wing forever. Well, God loved them; that’s a comfort, and that thought kept little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she tried to be mother to her younger brothers and sisters; all the while she needed a mother herself, more than any dictionary could ever tell.
After a while, an aunt came to their house, to take charge of them. I was glad of that. I hoped she would make them play dolls, and run, and jump about; I hoped she would make the fires and lamps burn cheerily, and go round the house shedding brightness from her finger tips, as only a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out to walk with the little orphans, and when they came home to supper, sit down with them at the table, and say funny things to make them laugh; and good things to make them happy and glad. I hoped she would tie on their little night dresses with her own hands, and kiss them down on their pillows, and say, God bless you, my little darlings! It was such a pity she didn’t. I am sure a woman ought to understand little children better than she seemed to. But she just shut herself up in her room, the same way their father did, and took all her meals alone. I have no patience with her. I wish I had lived near them; they should have eaten and drank with me, poor little souls! Well, they had a kitchen, and a good old servant, named Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she was more of a mother to them, in her rough fashion, than anybody else. I told you these children had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not want any; they used to read newspapers and talk politics, just as your father and his gentleman friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother Goose,” I am sure they never heard of her, though they read many books that are considered much wiser, and which were just as much out of place in a nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to set before your little month-old baby, for its dinner. But how should they know that? Nobody about them seemed to think that childhood comes but once; or, in fact, was intended to come at all for them. “Milk for babes” was not the fashion at Haworth parsonage. Well, time passed on, till their father concluded to send Charlotte away to school, with her sisters. So they were put into a little covered cart with their things, and jolted along. I hope their father kissed them when they went away, but I am not at all sure of it. I am afraid he was too dignified. It is hard enough for a child to go away to school with a warm kiss on the lips, and a trunk full of comfortable clothes, in every stitch of which is woven a mother’s blessing. It is hard enough for a healthy, romping child, who is able to ask for what it wants everywhere, and on all occasions, to leave home, and go a long distance to a strange school, even though it may have letters often, and plum cakes often, and all sorts of little love-tokens, which home delights to send to the absent one. But to these little timid ones, who had never played with children, and were as much afraid of them as of strange, grown people; who had come up, shy and awkward and old-fashioned, and were painfully conscious of it, as soon as it was brought to their notice by contrast with those children, who had come from their warm firesides like some graceful house-plants, full of blossoms and verdure—ah! it was very sad for the poor little Brontë girls. What could they do when they got there, but stand at the window, and cry, as they looked out upon the snowy landscape? And when the girls urged them to play ball, and other such healthful games, they had no heart for it—no physical strength for it, either; they would have been tumbled over forty times in a minute, by their playmates, like so many ninepins, with a great, thumping ball. Well, they had a bad time of it, any way, at this school—bad food, bad air, and exposure. I suppose, too, their clothes were not warm enough, for the hand was cold that would have made the warm garment for those bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is “mother’s” fingers that fit the cloak close to the little neck, so that through no treacherous crevice the cruel “croup” may creep; it is “mother’s” fingers that quilt the little winter skirt with the soft, warm wool, and furnish the thick stocking, and comfortable hood. It is “mother’s” eye which sees just the thing that is needed to meet all weathers. We can imagine how they went shivering along, half clad, to the church on Sunday, where never a fire was lighted; how blue were their fingers; how cold their little feet! No wonder they grew sick. Little Maria Brontë, who was delicate under the remains of the whooping cough, suffered most severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. A blister was applied to her side for her relief, and the poor, weak child, happening to linger in bed one morning later than the usual hour for rising, was harshly dragged in this state into the middle of the room, and then punished, because she had not strength enough to dress herself in time to appear with the other scholars. This must have been very hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write home about it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she and her sisters were most anxious to learn everything that they could learn at this school; and in the next place, they had been so accustomed to keep all their childish troubles to themselves, although their hearts were nearly breaking, that I don’t suppose they once imagined, if they thought of it, that it would do any good to complain. So they shivered in the cold, and tried to swallow the bad food that was given them, when they grew so hungry they could not do without it, until poor little Maria grew so very bad, that her father had to be sent for. God pitied the poor child, and took her to heaven, to be with her mother. She died a few days after reaching home. Charlotte and Emily, the two remaining sisters, did not long stay in the school after their sister’s death. I think their father at last woke up to the thought, that they might die too, and nobody might be left at the old, gloomy parsonage, to send up his meals, or wait upon him, or read to him, or mend his clothes. So he brought them home too. I believe all children are fond of being in the kitchen. They are active, and like to see what is going on; they like to watch the cooking, and ask questions about it—often, much better than the cook likes to answer. The little Brontë girls’ cook was named Tabby, and a funny old woman she was. She was very kind to them, but she would have her own way, and made them do as she said; still, I have no doubt, from what I know of her, that she put by many a nice little bit for their hungry mouths, and told them a great many fairy stories, as they cuddled round the old kitchen fire, when her work was done; but I think they had to be very careful not to meddle with anything without leave, or get in her way, when she was hurried or busy; and that was all right enough, for the poor old thing must have elbow-room, you know; besides, it is a good thing for a child to be taught that it may not order about a good, faithful servant, old enough to be its mother, merely because she is a servant.
About this time the little girls began to amuse themselves writing little plays, poetry, and “compositions” for their own amusement. They had a little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which they and their brother Patrick used to write, and old Tabby had to speak pretty sharp, sometimes, to make them go to bed, when they were busy with these things. I suppose they did not care to go to bed early, for they did not sleep as healthy, happy children do, the moment their heads touch the pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them to a new day of joy; but no doubt they turned and tossed, and wished it were daylight, and all their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable to bear in the silent, dreary night. They who have been in great trouble know this; when the faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another, seems like spirit voices, torturing one with a language which you try, but cannot understand; when the dear ones who are dead seem so very near, and yet so very far away; when their faces seem to look out from the darkness, like a star suddenly appearing from a black cloud, and then again wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the nervous, lonely little Brontës begged Tabby not to send them to bed.
Charlotte did not stay long at home; her father resolved to send her away to school again, and her little sister and brother were forced to do without her.
When persons interest us very much, it is natural to wish to know how they look.
Well, then, Charlotte Brontë, at the time she went to this school, was a very homely little girl. One of her schoolmates draws for us this picture of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, looking very cold, and very miserable. When she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her dress was changed, but just as old-fashioned. She looked like a little old woman, so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and moving her head from side to side to catch sight of it. She was very shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was given her, she dropped her head over it, till her nose nearly touched it, and when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it, so that it was not possible to help laughing.” Another schoolmate says, that the first time she saw Charlotte, she was standing by the schoolroom window, looking out on the snowy landscape and crying, while all the rest of the girls were at play. Poor child! no doubt she felt desolate enough. Fortunately for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss Woolen, was a lady of intelligent mind and kind heart. She understood the odd-looking, timid, wise little being before her. She knew that there was a gem, all but the setting. So she did not overlook the knowledge stowed away in that little busy brain, because grammar and geography had found no place there. Then came the question, how to manage this little sensitive pupil, without keeping back the other girls in the class, who already understood these branches, though, perhaps, they were far behind her in others. At first she thought she must put her in the second class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught up” with the other girls. But the moment she mentioned it, Charlotte’s mortification and distress were such, that, like a wise teacher, she saw that if she only saved her this pain, by allowing her to go into the first class, she immediately would make up by private study wherein she was deficient; and so it proved.
One feels as glad at this kindness, as though she were one’s own little sister. We find her, at this time, not playing with the other romping girls, but standing in the playground with a book, or looking dreamily at the scenery. When urged to join them in their sports, she said No—always pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful games, she probably disliked, as much, perhaps, for lack of bodily strength, as from any other cause; though that would have come by degrees, had she only allowed herself to try; it was a great pity she did not. However, she was always so good-natured and amiable, that she was a favorite with the girls, although she wouldn’t play with them. Sometimes, with the natural freedom of their age, they would tell her that she was “awkward,” or ugly; but this never displeased her, though, I have no doubt, she felt sorry that they thought so. In the portraits of that fine face of hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly” seems to be sadly misapplied. Those might think so, who fancy a pink and white doll-face; but neither could such see the moral beauty of her daily life, over that thorny road, every meek, patient step of which was as the Saviour’s at Gethsemane.
Charlotte remained a year at this school, studying very hard. This was well, had she also remembered that her fragile body needed equal care with her mind; for of what use is knowledge if there is no bodily strength by which we can make it useful to those about us? Charlotte had no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a religious duty; to remind her that she was as responsible for the care of her body, as for the improvement of her mind. And so her mind kept on expanding, and threatening to shatter its feeble prison house in pieces. It was a great pity; but it seems even in England, where so much more attention is paid than here to “raising” perfect, robust specimens of men and women, such things do happen. At Miss Woolen’s school, Charlotte formed an agreeable intimacy with two schoolmates—young ladies of her own age. This was a great benefit to her, because she had been made so prematurely old in her feelings, by loneliness and sorrow. One cannot help catching animation and hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy companion, though one is ever so apt to look on the gloomy side of things. And so it is quite cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss Woolen’s school, and going back to her father’s dull house, these young girls exchanged letters and visits with one another. And now, perhaps, you suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she sat down and folded her hands in utter hopelessness, saying, “How awful dull it is here! there is no use in trying to live in such a desolate old cage of a place; it is really too bad for a young creature like me to be shut up here. It is too bad for any girl so fond of reading, writing, and drawing, to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” Perhaps you think that, as she was a “genius,” she said or thought all this. Not at all; and I’ll tell you why; because her genius was genuine, not sham. It is only make believe geniuses who think the every-day duties of life beneath their intellects. I want you to remember that Charlotte Brontë did not shrink from one of them. She swept, and she dusted, and she made beds, and she made bread (good, light, wholesome bread, too), and pared potatoes, and watched the pot boil, and kept everything in as nice order as if she had no taste for anything but housekeeping. Perhaps you think then that she folded her hands, and said, “I should think I had done enough now!” There you are wrong again. She looked from her window into the little churchyard, where her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must be a mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she repaired their clothes, and she taught them; for she had thoroughly learned her own lessons and all those things she had studied at school. There’s a girl for you! and all this, when she was so very fond of reading and writing, which stood to her lonely heart in place of loving friends, for whom she longed.
At length, on account of want of money, it became necessary for some one of the family to go out into the world to earn it. Who should it be? One would have naturally supposed the brother, as being a sturdy, healthy fellow, better able to fight his way than his delicate sisters, who shrank timidly from the sight of strange faces and strange voices. It seemed not the thing for them to go out into the wilderness, to make the path easy for his feet? If so, which of the sisters should do this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? Emily grew homesick to that degree when away, that her life was in danger, and was obliged to be recalled for that reason. So, whoever was sent, she must not go; for were there not two sisters already in the churchyard? Anne was too young. Charlotte, then, was, as usual, to buckle on the armor of duty over her brave heart, and stagger forth with what strength she might, to face the world. She was to be a governess! Imagine, if you can, the most torturing situation in which to place such a nature as hers; and the daily trial of it, could not come up to that included to her in the little word “governess.” Fortunately, her first experiment was with Miss Woolen, her old teacher—her scholars being younger sisters of her own playmates. Whatever she did, she did with her might; therefore, so zealous was she to make herself useful in her new situation, and so conscientious in the discharge of duties which a less noble girl would have dodged, or evaded sufficiently, at least, to make the position bearable, that we soon hear of the breaking down of her feeble body, so that she almost became crazy.
She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas about religious things; anxiety about her sister Emily, who, resolving not to burden her father with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. Then she was troubled, too, about the home affairs, which, as the elder sister, she could not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving childhood, which had been but childhood in name to her, we find Charlotte a woman, brave yet fearful; timid but courageous; the lion’s heart in the humming bird’s body. I meant only to have told you about her childhood; and yet you may ask me, was Charlotte never again comfortable, light-hearted, and happy? Did nobody but her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did nobody else find out what a good, intelligent, gifted girl she was? Oh yes, at last! At last came fame and honor to the little, quiet Charlotte. Great men and great women wanted to know her, because she wrote so beautifully, or, as they said, was “a genius;” and she had plenty of complimentary letters and invitations to visit, and all the publishers wanted to publish her books; and she earned money enough to put a great many pretty things in the little dull parlor at home, so that she hardly knew it to be the same room; but, dear me! by that time all her sisters lay in the little churchyard with her mother; and poor Charlotte looked about at all these pretty things, and great tears came into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, why didn’t all my money and my friends come while they were alive, and could have been made comfortable and happy by them, so that we could all have lived at home together, and not been separated, to go away and teach school? Why? Poor Charlotte could not find out that why, as she sat in that little parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at all the pretty things her money had bought. Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his good, gifted daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his room, and was very proud of her; but that didn’t warm her heart any, you know. By and by a gentleman came along and asked her to be his wife. And after a while she said, Yes, I will. I suppose she thought, I want to be loved, more than anything in this world. It is very well, perhaps, to be “a genius,” and to be admired; but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I will be loved; and then I shall be happy; for, after all, the brightest world is cold and chilly, without love to warm it. I am glad she was married; because her husband was good and kind to her, and she began to smile, and look so bright you would not have known her. She was happier than she had ever been in all her life. But one day, not long after she was married, she caught a very bad cold, and everybody saw that she was going to die; she had suffered very much in her life, and she was not strong enough to struggle any more. Now, don’t say, “What a pity!” when I tell you that she really died. It is never a pity, when the loving and the tender-hearted go where there is no more grieving.