It’s frequently said that behind every great man there has to be a great woman, and I think it’s equally true that behind every great writer there has to be a great support network. After all, no man (or woman) is an island, to quote the great John Donne. In today’s post we’re going to look at a pivotal moment in the relationship between Charlotte Brontë and her great friend, great supporter, Ellen Nussey.
Ellen and Charlotte first met at Roe Head school and a lifelong, very close friendship was formed. Also at the school was Mary Taylor, another close friend and confidante of Charlotte’s (Mary and Ellen already knew each other from an earlier school). It was on this day 1833 that sixteen year old Ellen Nussey made her first visit to see Charlotte Brontë at Haworth Parsonage – and Ellen’s reminiscence, produced nearly four decades later for Scribner’s magazine gives an account of the parsonage at this time, and the people within it. I reproduce Ellen’s account below:
“My first visit to Haworth was full of novelty and freshness. The scenery for some miles before we reached Haworth was wild and uncultivated, with hardly any population; at last we came to what seemed a terrific hill, such a steep declivity no one thought of riding down it; the horse had to be carefully led. We no sooner reached the foot of this hill than we had to begin to mount again,over a narrow, rough, stone-paved road; the horses’ feet seemed to catch at boulders, as if climbing. When we reached the top of the village there was apparently no outlet, but we were directed to drive into an entry which just admitted the gig; we wound round in this entry and then saw the church close at hand, and we entered on the short lane which led to the parsonage gateway. Here Charlotte was waiting, having caught the sound of the approaching gig. When greetings and introductions were over, Miss Branwell (the aunt of the Brontës) took possession of their guest and treated her with the care and solicitude due to a weary traveller. Mr. Brontë, also, was stirred out of his usual retirement by his own kind consideration, for not only the guest but the man-servant and the horse were to be made comfortable. He made enquiries about the man, of his length of service, &c., with the kind purpose of making a few moments of conversation agreeable to him.
Even at this time, Mr. Brontë struck one as looking very venerable, with his snow-white hair and powdered coat-collar. His manner and mode of speech always had the tone of high bred courtesy. He was considered somewhat of an invalid, and always lived in the most abstemious and simple manner. His white cravat was not then so remarkable as it grew to be afterwards. He was in the habit of covering this cravat himself. We never saw the operation, but we always had to wind for him the white sewing-silk which he used. Charlotte said it was her father’s one extravagance – he cut up yards and yards of white lutestring (silk) in covering his cravat; and . Joseph Woolfe (the renowned and learned traveller), who, when on a visit and in a long fit of absence, “went into a clean shirt every day for a week, without taking one off,” so Mr. Brontë’s cravat went into new silk and new size without taking any off, till at length nearly half his head was enveloped in cravat. His liability to bronchial attacks, no doubt, attached him to this increasing growth of cravat.
Miss Branwell was a very small, antiquated little lady. She wore caps large enough for half a dozen of the present fashion, and a front of light auburn curls over her forehead. She always dressed in silk. She had a horror of the climate so far north, and of the stone floors in the parsonage. She amused us by clicking about in pattens whenever she had to go into the kitchen or look after household operations. She talked a great deal of her younger days; the gayeties of her dear native town, Penzance, in Cornwall; the soft, warm climate, etc. The social life of her younger days she used to recall with regret; she gave one the idea that she had been a belle among her own home acquaintances. She took snuff out of a very pretty gold snuff-box, which she sometimes presented to you with a little laugh, as if she enjoyed the slight shock and astonishment visible in your countenance. In summer she spent part of the afternoon in reading aloud to Mr. Brontë. In the winter evenings she must have enjoyed this; for she and Mr. Brontë had often to finish their discussions on what she had read when we all met for tea. She would be very lively and intelligent, and tilt arguments against Mr. Brontë without fear.
“Tabby,” the faithful, trustworthy old servant, was very quaint in appearance – very active, and, in these days, the general servant and factotum. We were all ” childer” and “bairns,” in her estimation. She still kept to her duty of walking out with the “childer,” if they went any distance from home, unless Branwell were sent by his father as a protector. Poor” Tabby,” in later days, after she had been attacked with paralysis, would most anxiously look out for such duties as she was still capable of. The post-man was her special point of attention. She did not approve of the inspection which the younger eyes of her fellow-servant bestowed on his deliveries. She jealously seized them when she could, and carried them off with hobbling step, and shaking head and hand, to the safe custody of Charlotte.
Emily Brontë had by this time acquired a lithesome, graceful figure. She was the tallest person in the house, except her father. Her hair. which was naturally as beautiful as Charlotte’s, was in the same unbecoming tight curl and frizz, and there was the same want of complexion. She had very beautiful eyes-kind, kindling, liquid eyes; but she did not often look at you; she was too reserved. Their color might be said to be dark gray. at other times dark blue. they varied so. She talked very little She and Anne were like twins – inseparable companions, and in the very closest sympathy, which never had any interruption.
Anne – dear, gentle Anne – was quite different in appearance from the others. She was her aunt’s favorite. Her hair was a very pretty, light brown, and fell on her neck in graceful curls. She had lovely. violet-blue eyes, fine penciled eyebrows, and clear, almost transparent complexion. She still pursued her studies, and especially her sewing, under the surveillance of her aunt. Emily had now begun to have the disposal of her own time. Branwell studied regularly with his father, and used to paint in oils, which was regarded as study for what might be eventually his profession. All the household entertained the idea of his becoming an artist, and hoped he would be a distinguished one. In fine and suitable weather delightful rambles were made over the moors, and down into the glens and ravines that here and there broke the monotony of the moorland. The rugged bank and rippling brook were treasures of delight. Emily. Anne, and Branwell used to ford the streams, and sometimes placed stepping–stones for the other two; there was always a lingering delight in these spots – every moss, every flower, every tint and form, were noted and enjoyed.
Emily especially had a gleesome delight in these nooks of beauty,-her reserve for the time vanished. One long ramble made in these early days was far away over the moors to a spot familiar to Emily and Anne. which they called” The Meeting of the Waters.” It was a small oasis of emerald green turf, broken here and there by small clear springs; a few large stones served as resting-places; seated here, we were hidden from all the world, nothing appearing in view but miles and miles of heather, a glorious blue sky, and brightening sun. A fresh breeze wafted on us its exhilarating influence; we laughed and made mirth of each other, and settled we would call ourselves the quartette. Emily, half reclining on a slab of stone, played like a young child with the tadpoles in the water, making them swim about, and then fell to moralizing on the strong and the weak. the brave and the cowardly, as she chased them with her hand. No serious care or sorrow had so far cast its gloom on nature’s youth and buoyancy, and nature’s simplest offerings were fountains of pleasure and enjoyment.
The interior of the now far-famed parsonage lacked drapery of all kinds. Mr. Brontë’s horror of fire forbade curtains to the windows; they never had these accessories to comfort and appearance till long after Charlotte was the only inmate of the family sitting-room, she then ventured on the innovation when her friend was with her; it did not please her father, but it was not forbidden.
There was not much carpet anywhere except in the sitting-room, and on the study floor. The hall floor and stairs were done with sand-stone, always beautifully clean, as everything was about the house; the walls were not papered, but stained in a pretty dove-coloured tint; hair-seated chairs and mahogany tables, book-shelves in the study, but not many of these elsewhere. Scant and bare indeed, many will say, yet it was not a scantness that made itself felt. Mind and thought, I had almost said elegance but certainly refinement, diffused themselves over all, and made nothing really wanting.
Mr. Brontë’s health caused him to retire early. He assembled his household for family worship at eight o’clock; at nine he locked and barred the front door, always giving as he passed the sitting-room door a kindly admonition to the “children” not to be late; half-way up the stairs he stayed his steps to wind up the clock, the clock that in after days seemed to click like a dirge in the refrain of Longfellow’s poem. “The old Clock on the Stairs:
“Foreer-never!
Never-forever!”
Every morning was heard the firing of a pistol from Mr. Brontë’s room window, it was the discharging of the loading which was made every night. Mr. Brontë’s tastes led him to delight in the perusal of battle-scenes, and in following the artifice of war; had he entered on military service instead of ecclesiastical he would probably have had a very distinguished career. The self-denials and privations of camp-life would have agreed entirely with his nature, for he was remarkably independent of the luxuries and comforts of life. The only dread he had was of fire, and this dread was so intense it caused him to prohibit all but silk or woollen dresses for his daughters; indeed, for anyone to wear any other kind of fabric was almost to forfeit his respect.
Mr. Brontë at times would relate strange stories, which had been told to him by some of the oldest inhabitants of the parish, of the extraordinary lives and doings of people who had resided in far-off, out-of-the-way places, but in contiguity with Haworth, stories which made one shiver and shrink from hearing; but they were full of grim humor and interest to Mr. Brontë and his children, as revealing the characteristics of a class in the human race, and as such Emily Brontë has stereotyped them in her Wuthering Heights.”
As you can see, Ellen was a fine writer in her own right. I will be celebrating my birthday tomorrow, so if you enjoy these blog posts, now in their eleventh year, then do consider clicking the link on the website and subscribing to support the blog for a small monthly amount – and subscribers get an exclusive weekly newsletter every Thursday: https://www.annebronte.org/support-this-site/
I hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.