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Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842 1885

S >> Stuart J. Reid, ed. >> Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842 1885




I was asked to deliver a lecture before some literary society in Leeds,
and it seemed to me that I could not do better than tell the story of the
Brontës; and defend them against the aspersions cast upon them by their
old neighbours. Accordingly, I wrote a lecture which was the foundation
of the little book I subsequently published on the same subject. Miss
Nussey, Charlotte's schoolfellow and bosom friend, and the "dear E." of
Mrs. Gaskell's "Life," was then living at Birstall, near Leeds. She heard
of my lecture through some mutual friend, and expressed a desire to be
allowed to read it. After having done so, she asked me to visit her--a
request with which I gladly complied. I found her a cheerful, neat, and
well-preserved woman, who, though she was well advanced in middle life,
retained a good deal of the charm of manner with which Caroline Helstone,
in the delightful story of "Shirley," is endowed.

I am well aware that the identity of Ellen Nussey and Caroline Helstone
has been questioned by some recent writers, and that Mr. Nicholls, who
was for a few months Charlotte Brontë's husband, is quoted in support of
this denial. All I can say is, first, that Miss Nussey acknowledged to me
the truth of the statement that she had served as a model for Caroline
Helstone, just as Emily Brontë served as a model for Shirley herself; and
secondly, that it was impossible for anyone to know Miss Nussey in those
days without seeing how vivid and truthful Charlotte's portrait of her
was. Almost her first words to me when I met her expressed her regret
that Mrs. Gaskell had not done justice to Charlotte's life and character
in her famous Memoir. To me this was rank heresy, for, like most other
persons, I was indebted to Mrs. Gaskell for nearly all the knowledge I
then possessed of the Brontë story. But, in reply to my defence of Mrs.
Gaskell, Miss Nussey entered into particulars. She explained to me that
Mrs. Gaskell had mixed up the sordid and shameful story of Branwell
Brontë with that of his sisters; and she protested against the way in
which local traditions, that had nothing to do with the character of the
gifted sisters, in whom there was not a single drop of Yorkshire blood,
had been imported into Mrs. Gaskell's narrative, as though these
traditions were in some way connected with the lives of the Brontës.
Finally, she declared that she would not rest satisfied until a book had
been written about Charlotte which toned down the over-colouring of Mrs.
Gaskell's narrative, and she asked me if I was prepared to write such a
book.

It was a flattering proposal, but I felt compelled to decline it. I was
well aware that I could not put myself into competition with Mrs.
Gaskell, even if I desired to do so, and I had no wish to appear to
attack a book which I regarded as one of the masterpieces of English
biography. But Miss Nussey was persistent, and she offered me the use of
all Charlotte's correspondence with her, including the letters relating
to her courtship and marriage, which Mrs. Gaskell had never even seen.
After I had read these letters and other documents with which Miss Nussey
furnished me, I suggested that, if I could not write a book, I might
still make one or two interesting magazine articles out of the materials
in my possession. Miss Nussey embraced this idea with enthusiasm,
protesting that so long as she could see Charlotte "set right" in the
eyes of the world, she would be perfectly satisfied with anything I chose
to do. Accordingly, in the spring of 1866, I wrote three articles which
appeared in _Macmillan's Magazine_. I wrote them with fear and
trembling, and I must add that I wrote them without any kind of
encouragement from outside, other than that which I received from Miss
Nussey herself. The general impression among the editors and critics of
the day was that there was nothing new to be said about the Brontës, and
that, even if there were, the public would not care to hear it. The kind
and genial editor of _Macmillan's Magazine_ himself--Sir George
Grove--shared this conviction, and it was only at the urgent request of
William Black, through whom I approached him, that he agreed to look at
my articles. However, having seen them, he liked them, and wrote to me
warmly in their praise. Nor did the public like them less, if Sir George
Grove was correct in his statement that these contributions of mine about
the author of "Jane Eyre" had done more to increase the sale of the
magazine than any article since Mrs. Stowe's famous defamation of Lord
Byron.

Nor did the matter end, as I thought it would have done, with the
publication of my articles in _Macmillan's_. I received a summons
from the famous head of that firm of publishers, Mr. Alexander Macmillan;
and, attending him in the deferential manner in which authors in those
days waited upon important publishers, was asked with characteristic
gruffness if I could add enough to the articles to make a book. "The
public," said Mr. Macmillan, in tones which made me feel my own
insignificance, "seems to want something more of the stuff; I really
don't know why. But if you can do something more, we'll make a book of
it." Then he named the honorarium I was to receive in payment both for
the magazine articles and the volume. It was a modest sum--only a hundred
pounds, and of this I felt that Miss Nussey was entitled to a
considerable share. But a hundred pounds was not to be despised. Besides,
I loved my subject, and knew that I had still something left to say about
it. So I closed with Mr. Macmillan's offer, and a few months later my
little book, "Charlotte Brontë: a Monograph," was duly published.

It will be seen that it was by accident rather than design that I wrote
the book. Miss Nussey moved me to the writing of the magazine articles;
Mr. Macmillan urged me to expand them into a volume. Otherwise I should
have written nothing on the subject, and it would have been left to
somebody else to start that Brontë cult which has since spread so widely.
The appearance of the volume marked an important epoch in my life. Yet,
in the first instance, "Charlotte Brontë" was very coldly received by the
critics. Most of them seemed to think that the book was entirely
superfluous. They evidently shared Mr. Macmillan's surprise that anybody
should think such a volume was needed. Most of them also agreed that I
had no special qualifications for the task I had undertaken, and that the
new matter I had brought to light was of little value. One of my critics,
the _Athenaeum_, poured contempt upon me for having spoken of "the
scent of the heather." The ingenuous writer evidently had seen heather
nowhere save on the slab of a fishmonger's shop. But, in spite of the
critics, the book sold, and sold rapidly. It went through three editions
in this country within a few weeks of its publication. It was republished
in America by arrangement with the Macmillans, and had so large a sale
there that it was speedily pirated, the pirates not even having the
decency to give my name upon the title-page.

Snubbed as I felt myself to be, I still had my reward. People who had
read the book wrote to me in enthusiastic terms, and they were not all
Americans who did so. I speedily became aware that I had, almost by
accident, tapped a vein of pure and rich sentiment. Best of all was the
fact that my kind friend, Lord Houghton, forwarded to me a letter he had
received from Mr. Swinburne which contained the following passage: "Has
anyone told you I am just about to publish a 'Study' on Charlotte Brontë,
which has grown out of all proportion to the thing it was meant to be--a
review of (or article on) Mr. Wemyss Reid's little jewel and
treasure-casket of a book?" Need I say that I was more than consoled for
the coldness of the reception which the Press had given to my first
literary essay by such words as these; nor had I long to wait before I
saw the Brontë cult a great and growing factor in our literary life. The
critics could not ignore Mr. Swinburne, and when his "Note" on Charlotte
Brontë appeared, they were compelled to discuss seriously the question
which they had previously regarded as superfluous or trivial.

At Mr. Swinburne's request I subsequently went to see the distinguished
poet at the rooms he occupied in Great James Street. My reception was not
what I had expected, though Mr. Swinburne cannot be blamed for the fact.
I was kept waiting on the doorstep, after ringing the bell, for an
unusually long time, and during the interval of waiting a tradesman's boy
arrived, basket on arm. He was more impatient than I was, and rang the
bell violently to quicken the movements of those within, evidently
careless as to whether he might be disturbing a poet's daydream. A
terrible old woman, with landlady written large all over her face and
person, opened the door, and, without paying the slightest attention to
me, began to rate the shopboy in no measured terms. He retaliated in the
same fashion, and I found myself quite unheeded in the midst of this war
of words. At last, tired of waiting, I interposed between the boy and the
landlady, and asked the latter if Mr. Swinburne was at home. She looked
at me with withering contempt for a few seconds, and then ejaculated,
"No, he ain't, and it would be a good thing for him if he never was when
the likes of you come to call on him." Having delivered herself of this
hospitable sentence, she slammed the door in my face, and left me a
sadder man. I never dared to face that lady again, and in consequence I
missed the pleasure of making Mr. Swinburne's acquaintance at that time.

I was elected about this time a member of the Savile Club, which then had
its home in Savile Row. My proposer was Mr. J. F. McLennan, the author of
"Primitive Marriage," and I owed my immediate election chiefly to his
good offices, but partly to the fact that my book on Charlotte Brontë had
found favour with the reading public. A great deal has been written since
then about the Brontës. Some of our ablest literary critics have
discussed their genius with a penetrating insight that has opened up for
us the secrets of their wonderful laboratory, whilst industrious
investigators have brought to light many facts which were unknown to Mrs.
Gaskell at the time when she wrote her famous Memoir. A Brontë Society
has been formed in Yorkshire, and no man would now be justified in
maintaining either that the Brontës are not fully appreciated in the
world of letters, or that in their own county their fame is neglected or
despised. I myself have added very little to the literature which has
been poured forth upon the subject since the appearance of Mr.
Swinburne's "Note." I shrank from doing so, because I was not in sympathy
with the public curiosity which aspired to know everything that there was
to tell about the Brontës without regard to its intrinsic interest, or to
that decent reticence which even the dead have a right to expect from us.
I did not, for example, in my "monograph" publish the remarkable letters
in which Charlotte told Miss Nussey the story of her strange love affair
with Mr. Nicholls. Mr. Nicholls was still living, and I felt that these
letters could not decently be published during his lifetime. Twenty years
later, however, they were published by Mr. Shorter, not only during the
lifetime of Mr. Nicholls, but with that gentleman's full consent.

My chief contribution to the Brontë controversy after the publication of
the "monograph" was a lecture delivered at the Royal Institution in 1895
on Emily Brontë and the authorship of "Wuthering Heights," in which I set
forth the theory that Emily had, in part, been inspired in her
description of the mad Heathcliffe and his terrible ravings by the bitter
experiences through which she passed as an eyewitness of her brother
Branwell's last days. My theory has met with a certain amount of
acceptance among Brontë students, and I still adhere to it as the most
probable explanation of a literary problem of no common difficulty.

Once, somewhere between 1890 and 1896, I was compelled to take up the pen
in my own defence. I read in the _North American Review_ an article
entitled "The Defamation of Charlotte Brontë," and to my great amazement
found that it was a vicious attack upon my little book published more
than twenty years previously! I was accused by the writer--an American
lady whose name I had never heard before and have now forgotten--of
having been the first to defame Charlotte Brontë, because I had been the
first to point out the singular influence over her life and character
which was exercised by her teacher in Brussels, M. Héger. It is now
obvious to everybody that this gentleman was not only the original of the
Paul Emanuel of "Villette," but was in many respects the inspiring
influence in the whole of Charlotte Brontë's career as a writer. That he
exercised a curious fascination over the untrained young woman who went
to Brussels in order to improve her knowledge of French we know from her
own declarations, nor is it surprising that a man of such genuine
intellectual force should have exercised this influence over the mind of
one who, until she met him, had known nothing whatever of intellectual
society. It was not only my right, but my duty, as a critic to point out
the important part which M. Héger had played in the development of
Charlotte Brontë's genius, and there was most assuredly nothing in what I
said that touched in the slightest degree the purity of her exalted
character. Yet my critic in the _North American Review_ professed to
discover that I had invented the story that Charlotte had "fallen in
love" with her teacher in Brussels, and abused me soundly for having
degraded her by presenting her to the world in an odious light. Surely it
is a mad world that can thus misconstrue obvious and innocent facts! I
cannot but think, however, that the good lady of the _North American
Review_ was more anxious to figure in the great Brontë controversy
than to contribute anything of value to our knowledge of the subject.

As I have said already, when I first wrote about the Brontës there were
many still living who had known the sisters well. Of these Miss Nussey
was the chief, and it may be of interest to repeat a few of the
statements which from time to time she made to me with regard to
Charlotte. One of the most striking of these was her account of the
single visit which she paid to Haworth after Charlotte became the wife of
Mr. Nicholls. Miss Nussey told me that she accompanied Charlotte and her
husband one day on a walk over the moors. In the course of their
conversation she asked Charlotte if she was writing another book. "No,"
replied Charlotte; "Arthur says I have no time for writing now, as I must
attend to my duties as a clergyman's wife." She said it in such a tone as
to convince her friend that she was not satisfied with her husband's
decision, and Miss Nussey, plucking up her courage, remonstrated with him
upon his refusal to allow Charlotte to exercise her great gift. Mr.
Nicholls's response was short and to the point. "I did not marry Currer
Bell, the novelist, but Charlotte Brontë, the clergyman's daughter.
Currer Bell may fly to heaven to-morrow for anything I care." I do not
vouch for the absolute truth of this story, but I give it as I heard it
from Miss Nussey, and I am quite sure that when she told it to me she
believed it to be true.

Charlotte must have been more attractive than the world at one time
believed her to have been, for she had several offers of marriage before
Mr. Nicholls appeared upon the scene as a suitor. Mrs. Smith, the mother
of Mr. George Smith, her publisher, was somewhat alarmed at the
possibility of her son's admiration for Charlotte's genius developing
into an affection for her, and whilst very kind to the young authoress,
she let her see that in her opinion Mr. Smith was much too young to
become her husband. In one of her letters to Miss Nussey, Charlotte
discussed this situation, and with her characteristic candour and good
sense came to the conclusion that Mrs. Smith was altogether right. Her
son was both too young and too brilliant, she declared, to make a fitting
husband for the obscure parson's daughter. In "Villette," where the story
of her own heart is told, Mrs. Smith and her son are to be found
portrayed in the characters of Mr. John and his mother.

Charlotte Brontë's fame, her genius, her power, live after her in her
books, and so long as those books are read will never be forgotten. But
it is not her fame, her genius, her power, which are the most precious
possessions she has left to us, but that sweetness and virtue, which like
bright flowers bloom upon her grave and remind us of the life which lies
beyond it.



CHAPTER XI.

VISITS TO THE CONTINENT.

Politics in Paris in 1877--An Oration by Gambetta--the Balloting--The
Republic Saved--Gambetta's Funeral--A Member of the Reform Club--The
Century Club--A Draught of Turpentine and Soda--The "Press Gang" at the
Reform--James Payn and William Black--George Augustus Sala and Sir John
Robinson--Disraeli's Triumph in 1878--A European Tour.


In the autumn of 1877 I went over to Paris, in order to watch the General
Election of that year. It was a fateful moment in the history of France.
The Royalists, and the whole of the anti-Republican forces, were bent
upon overthrowing the Republic, and they looked upon President Macmahon
as their tool. Thiers, the natural leader of the Republican party, had
died, after a brief illness, within a few weeks of the election; and
Gambetta, who had stepped into his place, was not only under prosecution
for his famous _"Ou se soumettre ou se démettre"_ speech, but was
still regarded by a large section of moderate men as a wild man, a _fou
furieux_, indeed, who could not be trusted with the fortunes of the
party. Every morning the Parisians awoke to wonder whether the expected
_coup d'état_ had taken place during the night. The drama had
clearly reached an exciting moment, and I thought it well to witness the
_dénouement_ for myself.

My kind friend Lord Houghton, on learning my intention, sent me a batch
of introductions to many of the leading men in Paris. They included the
Comte de Paris himself, M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire, the bosom friend of
M. Thiers, and M. Blowitz, of the _Times_. I did not see a
revolution, because none took place; but I had an excellent opportunity
of watching Paris pass through a political crisis, and of witnessing the
triumph of the Republic over its numerous and formidable enemies. That
year (1877) was indeed the best year in the history of the Republic. It
still had the support of the great mass of the public. The middle-class
gave it all their aid, and the combination of Thiers and Gambetta had
made the Left and Left Centre parties immensely powerful. It was
interesting to watch the beginnings of the clerical reaction, beginnings
which found their outward expression in the propagation of the cult of
the Sacred Heart. All Paris was singing in those days, either in the
original or in a parody, the hymn with the refrain, "Heaven save poor
France in the name of the Sacred Heart." On the whole, the parodists were
in a majority, and their parodies were just as blasphemous as one expects
them to be in France.

Through M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire, a typical French statesman of the
philosophical cast, I secured an invitation to the solitary meeting which
Gambetta, as candidate for Belleville, was permitted to hold prior to the
actual election. He was, as I have said, under remand in the prosecution
by which the Government had sought to silence his voice in the Chamber of
Deputies. They could not prevent his making this one speech to his
constituents, for the law gave him the right to do so, and the meeting
was therefore one of great importance. Gambetta spoke in a large circus
which was crowded to excess. He was received with great enthusiasm, but
before his speech was over he had wound up his audience to a still higher
pitch of passionate fervour. He struck me as being, in some respects, the
greatest of all the orators I had ever heard. He had that indispensable
qualification of the orator, a voice at once clear, powerful, and
melodious. His magnificent physique gave weight to the gestures in which
he indulged so freely, and which enabled him to conceal the infirmity
from which he suffered--blindness of one eye--whilst at the same time
allowing him always to keep his living eye fixed on the crowd before him.

I trembled for him when he began his great speech, for, unlike any
English orator I ever heard, he did not warm to his subject gradually,
taking care to make his audience accompany him step by step, but sprang
in a moment to a height of passionate and tempestuous eloquence from
which it seemed inevitable that he must quickly fall to an anti-climax.
But no anticlimax came. For more than an hour he continued to pour forth
a torrent of burning words that seemed to keep the vast multitude before
him in a state of excitement and enthusiasm hardly to be exaggerated.
Never before and never since have I witnessed such an effect as this
produced by an orator, and though he lacked the stately and sonorous
delivery of John Bright, and had no pretension to the intellectual
persuasiveness of Mr. Gladstone, I have always felt, since hearing that
speech, that Gambetta was the greatest orator to whom I ever listened.

It was rumoured that Gambetta was to be arrested on leaving the meeting,
and he himself believed this rumour to be true. Yet this did not cause
him to moderate his defiance of the Government and the reactionary
powers. I remember he closed his great oration with words to the
following effect: "I said in the Chamber not long ago, 'Clericalism, that
is the enemy.' I predict now that when this election is over, I shall
say, 'Clericalism, that is the vanquished.'" I was introduced to him
after his speech. He was lying on a couch in a little green room at the
back of the stage of the circus, panting, and fanning himself furiously
with his pocket-handkerchief, whilst one of his friends administered to
him copious draughts of champagne. He talked to me of the probability of
his arrest on leaving the building, but seemed absolutely confident as to
the future. The Government made no attempt, however, to interfere with
him, and but a few weeks later he was the ruling power in France.

The day on which the first ballot was taken was, according to French
custom, a Sunday. This was the day on which the quidnuncs had fixed as
the probable date of the _coup d'état_. The Conservatives, on the
other hand, pretended to believe that it would witness a fresh Communist
rising, of which Belleville was to be the centre. It was a beautiful
September day, and the excitement which possessed the whole French people
was visibly reflected in the streets of Paris. I spent the whole day in
driving from one polling station to another, accompanied by a friend who
had resided for many years in the French capital. What struck one was the
good order that was everywhere maintained, and the simplicity of the
arrangements for voting. There was nothing like the tumult that would
have been witnessed in any ordinary general election in England. It was
obvious, too, that much less care was taken to preserve the secrecy of
the ballot than is customary in this country.

As a newspaper correspondent I was freely admitted into every polling
station. It was not until two o'clock in the afternoon that I reached
Belleville, the reputed storm-centre. I had been warned that it would be
dangerous to venture into that district in the handsome carriage provided
for me by my friend. Yet when I climbed the steep hill leading to the
polling station where the Maire presided, I found everything perfectly
quiet. On entering the ballot-room, however, I was received in a somewhat
curious fashion by the Maire. "So you have come at last to poor
calumniated Belleville," he said. "You are the first journalist who has
been here to-day, and yet for a week past every journal in Paris has
declared that we were going to break out into a revolution. If they
really believed it, why did they not come and see how we behaved
ourselves? I call it infamous." The worthy Maire would hardly be pacified
by the thought that I, at least, had not been guilty of staying away. But
one could sympathise with his feelings, for in this spot, regarding which
the wildest stories were current in the Parisian Press, dulness reigned
supreme, and the polling station itself was as solemn and as silent as a
Quakers' meeting house.

It was different at night, when the first news of the result of the
election poured into Paris from the provinces, and it was seen that
Gambetta had been a true prophet, after all, and that Clericalism, and
all the other reactionary forces, had indeed been vanquished. Between ten
o'clock and midnight the long line of the boulevards was crowded with the
gayest multitude of men, women, and children that I ever met. They
cheered, they shouted, they sang for joy. The Republic had triumphed, and
France was saved. This was the burden of their song. Never did I see a
more good-natured crowd; but things would have been different if that
historic election had resulted otherwise. Paris was delighted and
good-humoured because she had won.

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