GEORGE S. PHILLIPS: ‘Visit to Charlotte Brontë.’ ‘_The Ladies’ Repository_,’ September, 1872.
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A parcel arrived for me, enclosing a book, and a note which was examined as few notes ever are. The book was ‘Shirley’; and the note was from ‘Currer Bell.’ Here it is:
[Sidenote: Charlotte’s first meeting with Harriet Martineau.]
“Currer Bell offers a copy of ‘Shirley’ to Miss Martineau’s acceptance, in acknowledgment of the pleasure and profit he [she] has derived from her work. When C. B. first read ‘Deerbrook,’ he tasted a new and keen pleasure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In his mind, ‘Deerbrook’ ranks with the writings that have really done him good, added to his stock of ideas, and rectified his views of life.”
“November 7th, 1849.”
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We examined this note to make out whether it was written by a man or a woman. The hand was a cramped and nervous one, which might belong to anybody who had written too much, or was in bad health, or who had been badly taught. The erased “she” seemed at first to settle the matter; but somebody suggested that the “she” might refer to me under a form of sentence which might easily have been changed in the penning. I had made up my mind, as I had repeatedly said, that a certain passage in ‘Jane Eyre,’ about sewing on brass rings, could have been written only by a woman or an upholsterer. I now addressed my reply externally to ‘Currer Bell, Esq.’ and began it “Madam.” [A second note from Currer Bell, expressing a wish to meet Miss Martineau, was answered by an invitation to tea.]
The footman would certainly announce this mysterious personage by his or her right name; and, as I could not hear the announcement, I charged my cousins to take care that I was duly informed of it. Precisely as the time-piece struck six, a carriage stopped at the door; and after a minute of suspense, the footman announced “Miss Brogden”; whereupon my cousin informed me that it was Miss Brontë; for we had heard the name before, among others, in the way of conjecture. I thought her the smallest creature I had ever seen (except at a fair) and her eyes blazed, as it seemed to me. She glanced quickly round; and my trumpet pointing me out, she held out her hand frankly and pleasantly. I introduced her, of course, to the family, and then came a moment which I had not anticipated. When she was seated by me on the sofa, she cast up at me such a look,--so loving, so appealing,--that, in connection with her deep mourning dress, and the knowledge that she was the sole survivor of her family, I could with utmost difficulty return her smile, or keep my composure. I should have been heartily glad to cry. We soon got on very well; and she appeared more at ease that evening than I ever saw her afterwards, except when we were alone.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.
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[Sidenote: Mr. Lewes’ account of Charlotte.]
Lewes was describing Currer Bell to me yesterday as a little, plain, provincial, sickly-looking old maid. Yet what passion, what fire in her! Quite as much as in George Sand, only the clothing is less voluptuous.
GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Sara Hennell, 1853. ‘George Eliot’s Life as related in her Letters and Journals,’ arranged and edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.
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[Sidenote: Thackeray’s recollection.]
I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions.... She formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely; but perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure and lofty and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me....
WM. M. THACKERAY: ‘Roundabout Papers.’ London: Smith & Elder, 1863.
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[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s elaborate description.]
She was ... very small in figure--“stunted” was the word she applied to herself--but as her limbs and head were in just proportion to the slight, fragile body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive of deformity could properly be applied to her. With soft, thick, brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to give a description as they appeared to me in her later life. They were large and well shaped; their color a reddish-brown; but if the iris was closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety of tints. The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence; but now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome indignation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had been kindled which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I never saw the like in any human creature. As for the rest of her features, they were plain, large, and ill set; but, unless you began to catalogue them, you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and power of the countenance overbalanced every physical defect; the crooked mouth and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself would have cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever saw; when one of the former was placed in mine, it was like the soft touch of a bird in the middle of my palm. The delicate long fingers had a peculiar fineness of sensation, which was one reason why all her handiwork of whatever kind--writing, sewing, knitting--was so clear in its minuteness. She was remarkably neat in her whole personal attire; but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes and gloves.
MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’
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[Sidenote: A caricature.]
[Sidenote: Redeeming features.]
There is a little caricature sketched by herself lying before me as I write. In it all the more awkward of her physical points are ingeniously exaggerated. The prominent forehead bulges out in an aggressive manner, suggestive of hydrocephalus, the nose, “tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,” and the mouth are made unnecessarily large, while the little figure is clumsy and ungainly. But though she could never pretend to beauty, she had redeeming features, her eyes, hair, and massive forehead all being attractive points.
T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’
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[Sidenote: Charlotte’s well-known portrait.]
[Sidenote: The engraving.]
Mr. Nicholls asked me to step into the parlor and look at Charlotte’s portrait. It is the one from which the engraving in the ‘Life’ (Mrs. Gaskell’s) is made; but the latter does no justice to the picture, which Mr. Nicholls said was a perfect likeness of the original. I remarked that the engraving gives to the face, and especially to the eyes, a weird, sinister and unpleasant expression which did not appear in the portrait. He said he had observed it, and that nothing could be more unjust, for Charlotte’s eyes were as soft and affectionate in their expression as could possibly be conceived.
_Account of an Interview with Mr. Brontë and Mr. Nicholls_, quoted by T. W. REID.
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[Sidenote: Personal traits: Miss Martineau’s notes.]
[Sidenote: Slightly morbid.]
Between the appearance of ‘Shirley’ and that of ‘Villette’ she came to me;--in December, 1850. Our intercourse then confirmed my deep impression of her integrity, her noble conscientiousness about her vocation, and her consequent self-reliance in the moral conduct of her life. I saw at the same time tokens of a morbid condition of mind, in one or two directions;--much less than might have been expected, or than would have been seen in almost any one else under circumstances so unfavorable to health of body and mind as those in which she lived.
[Sidenote: Unspoilable.]
She was not only unspoiled by her sudden and prodigious fame, but obviously unspoilable. She was somewhat amazed by her fame, but oftener annoyed; at least when obliged to come out into the world to meet it, instead of its reaching her in her secluded home in the wilds of Yorkshire.
[Sidenote: Passionate love of truth.]
“I know,” she wrote, “that you will give me your thoughts upon my book, [‘Villette’] as frankly as if you spoke to some near relative whose good you preferred to her gratification. I wince under the pain of condemnation--like any other weak structure of flesh and blood; but I love, I honor, I kneel to Truth. Let her smite me on one cheek--good! the tears may spring to the eyes; but courage! There is the other side--hit again--hit sharply!” This was the genuine spirit of the woman. She might be weak for once; but her permanent temper was one of humility, candor, integrity and conscientiousness.