When we are away from home, our thoughts often turn to the place we left and the people who live there. We see a perfect example of that in Anne Brontë’s poem “Home”, and we also see it at the very heart of a letter that Charlotte Brontë sent to her brother Branwell in May 1843.
Charlotte is writing this letter from Brussels; after a year as a pupil in the Pensionnat Heger she is now serving as a teacher and, just like under the same scenario at Roe Head school, it’s a change that she very little likes. As typical of Charlotte, especially when writing to family members or to her best friend Ellen Nussey, Charlotte is unflinchingly honest and very self-critical. In this letter she describes herself as ‘exceedingly misanthropic and sour’, yet she has still managed to write a captivating letter, as we see below:
“Dear Branwell, I hear you have written a letter to me. This letter, however, as usual, I have never received, which I am exceedingly sorry for, as I have wished very much to hear from you. Are you sure that you put the right address and that you paid the English postage, 1s. 6d.? Without that, letters are never forwarded. I heard from papa a day or two since. All appears to be going on reasonably well at home. I grieve only that Emily is so solitary; but, however, you and Anne will soon be returning for the holidays, which will cheer the house for a time. Are you in better health and spirits, and does Anne continue to be pretty well? I understand papa has been to see you. Did he seem cheerful and well? Mind when you write to me you answer these questions, as I wish to know. Also give me a detailed account as to how you get on with your pupil and the rest of the family. I have received a general assurance that you do well and are in good odour, but I want to know particulars.
As for me, I am very well and wag on as usual. I perceive, however, that I grow exceedingly misanthropic and sour. You will say that this is no news, and that you never knew me possessed of the contrary qualities – philanthropy and sugariness. Das ist wahr (which being translated means, that is true); but the fact is, the people here are no go whatsoever. Amongst 120 persons which compose the daily population of this house, I can discern only one or two who deserve anything like regard. This is not owing to foolish fastidiousness on my part, but to the absence of decent qualities on theirs. They have not intellect or politeness or good-nature or good-feeling. They are nothing. I don’t hate them – hatred would be too warm a feeling. They have no sensations themselves and they excite none. But one wearies from day to day of caring nothing, fearing nothing, liking nothing, hating nothing, being nothing, doing nothing – yes, I teach and sometimes get red in the face with impatience at their stupidity. But don’t think I ever scold or fly into a passion. If I spoke warmly, as warmly as I sometimes used to do at Roe-Head, they would think me mad. Nobody ever gets into a passion here. Such a thing is not known. The phlegm that thickens their blood is too gluey to boil. They are very false in their relations with each other, but they rarely quarrel, and friendship is a folly they are unacquainted with. The black Swan, M. Héger, is the only sole veritable exception to this rule (for Madame, always cool and always reasoning, is not quite an exception). But I rarely speak to Monsieur now, for not being a pupil I have little or nothing to do with him. From time to time he shows his kind-heartedness by loading me with books, so that I am still indebted to him for all the pleasure or amusement I have. Except for the total want of companionship I have nothing to complain of. I have not too much to do, sufficient liberty, and I am rarely interfered with. I lead an easeful, stagnant, silent life, for which, when I think of Mrs. Sidgwick, I ought to be very thankful. Be sure you write to me soon, and beg of Anne to inclose a small billet in the same letter; it will be a real charity to do me this kindness. Tell me everything you can think of.
It is a curious metaphysical fact that always in the evening when I am in the great dormitory alone, having no other company than a number of beds with white curtains, I always recur as fanatically as ever to the old ideas, the old faces, and the old scenes in the world below.
Give my love to Anne. – And believe me, yours
Dear Anne, – Write to me. – Your affectionate Schwester, C.B.
Mr. Héger has just been in and given me a little German Testament as a present. I was surprised, for since a good many days he has hardly spoken to me.”
As Charlotte admits in the letter she could certainly be sour from time to time, she certainly wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly. She was also, however, a brilliant writer and someone with a deep sense of humour, and both of these qualities are more than shown in the letter to Branwell, and Anne, from their affectionate schwester (the German word for sister) Charlotte Brontë.
I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s post – I always find Charlotte’s letters so enlightening, and frequently entertaining too. I hope the same can be said of my Brontë News newsletter which goes out every Thursday to supporting subscribers of this site. It’s five pounds a month, and every penny goes to help support this website, so if you’d like to join our subscribers and gain a number of subscriber benefits, then please do click the link below:
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I hope that Spring is treating you well, and of course I hope to see you next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.