Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow

The three Brontë sisters, Charlotte (born 1816), Emily (b. 1818) and Anne (b. 1820), published their work under male pseudonyms —under Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell respectively— in order to be taken seriously as writers. Between them, they jointly published a volume of poems in 1846, titled Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, and seven novels. Charlotte wrote Jane Eyre (1847), Shirley (1849), Villette (1853) and The Professor (published posthumously in 1857), while Emily wrote only Wuthering Heights (1847) and Anne Agnes Grey (1847) and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848). Although all of their novels are considered classics, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall are undoubtedly their most famous and widely read books. 

The sisters were very close to each other and also to their only brother, Branwell (b. 1817), a painter and writer. In early childhood, the siblings had experienced tragic losses that only strengthened their bond. Their mother Maria died in 1821 at the age of 38 —likely from uterine or ovarian cancer— and four years later their two eldest sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, both died of tuberculosis within a month of each other (at ages 11 and 10). After their mother’s death, 'Aunt Branwell' (Elizabeth Branwell, their mother’s sister) helped raise the children and became a pivotal figure in their lives. Their father Patrick, a reserved and at times emotionally distant man, was often away from home because of his duties as a priest; still, he was a supportive father who valued his children's education and strongly encouraged their reading and writing. 

After the Brontës' early losses, tragedy would strike again a few decades later. In September 1848, Branwell died at the age of 31, most likely from tuberculosis, aggravated by his alcohol and opium addiction. Within three months, Emily also succumbed to tuberculosis (aged 30), and Anne followed in May 1849, dying of the same illness (aged 29). In less than a year, Charlotte had lost all of her remaining siblings, and only she and her father were left. (Aunt Elizabeth had died in 1842.) A month after Anne's death, Charlotte wrote to William Smith Williams —the literary advisor to her publisher and one of her frequent correspondents— informing him how she was coping with her immense loss. The only cure for her grief was work, she said. She had started writing her novel Shirley in 1848 and continued to work on the manuscript throughout her period of mourning. Shirley was eventually published in October 1849.

June 25th, 1849.

My dear Sir,

I am now again at home, where I returned last Thursday. I call it home still—much as London would be called London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins. But let me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and not quite a ruined or desolate home either. Papa is there, and two most affectionate and faithful servants, and two old dogs, in their way as faithful and affectionate—Emily’s large house-dog which lay at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault, lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was being read—and Anne’s little spaniel. The ecstasy of these poor animals when I came in was something singular. At former returns from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly—but not in that strange, heart-touching way. I am certain they thought that, as I was returned, my sisters were not far behind. But here my sisters will come no more. Keeper may visit Emily’s little bedroom—as he still does day by day—and Flossy may still look wistfully round for Anne, they will never see them again—nor shall I—at least the human part of me. I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly? In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of solitude—the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me. I am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views. As to the night—could do without bed, I would never seek it. Waking, I think, sleeping, I dream of them ; and I cannot recall them as they were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering. Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell’s death —they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on waking were at that time such as we do not put into language. Worse seemed at hand than was yet endured—in truth, worse awaited us.

All this bitterness must be tasted. Perhaps the palate will grow used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid. This pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one day. Ellen [Nussey; her close friend] would have come back with me, but I would not let her. I knew it would be better to face the desolation at once—later or sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.

Labour must be the cure, not sympathy. Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow. The society of a calm, serenely cheerful companion—such as Ellen—soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are necessary to make a remedy. Total change might do much; where that cannot be obtained, work is the best substitute.

I by no means ask Miss [Julia] Kavanagh to write to me. Why should she trouble herself to do it? What claim have I on her? She does not know me—she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay. I have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me. I have tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean upon it. The natural affection of my father, and the attachment and solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me, but I do not look round for general pity ; conventional condolence I do not want, either from man or woman.

The letter you enclosed in your last bore the signature H. S. Mayers—the address, Sheepscombe, Stroud, Gloucestershire ; can you give me any information respecting the writer? It is my intention to acknowledge it one day. I am truly glad to hear that your little invalid is restored to health, and that the rest of your family continue well. Mrs. Williams should spare herself for her husband’s and children’s sake. Her life and health are too valuable to those round her to be lavished—she should be careful of them. —Believe me, yours sincerely, C. Brontë.

Notes: 

- Julia Kavanagh was an Irish novelist. In June 1850, she and Charlotte Brontë met in London, reportedly at Kavanagh's request.

- Charlotte died in 1855, three weeks before her 39th birthday, as a result of complications of her pregnancy. Father Patrick outlived his whole family; he passed away in 1861, at the age of 84. 

Source letter: The Brontës : life and letters, being an attempt to present a full and final record of the lives of the three sisters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë from the biographies of Mrs. Gaskell and others, and from numerous hitherto unpublished manuscripts and letters (1908) by Clement Shorter 

Via: Internet Archive

Image top: Anne, Emily and Charlotte Brontë (left to right), painted by their brother Branwell, circa 1834. Branwell had initially painted himself with his sisters, but later erased his image to avoid cluttering the picture. This is the only surviving image of the three sisters together.

Image bottom: 1846 issue of the Brontë poems under the sisters' pseudonyms, and (right) the only surviving specimen of the three signatures of Currer (Charlotte), Ellis (Emily) and Acton (Anne) Bell.

Via: Wikimedia Commons