23 September: Boreham on Patrick Bronte

Ne'er-Do-Well's Centenary
We celebrate tomorrow the anniversary of the death of one of the most forlorn figures in our literary history.[1] Patrick Branwell Bronte died on September 24, 1848. Like his father, he was handsome, redheaded and hail-fellow-well-met with everyone. But everything seemed to be against him. If ever a boy needed a mother's care, he did. But Mrs. Bronte died when he was four. If ever a boy needed the companionship of a brother or two, Branwell did. But he had none. He had three sisters, wonderful as women, but of very little use as sisters.

In that crazy old parsonage on the Haworth hill, hemmed in by gravestones, the three consumptive girls—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—moved about like apocalyptic mysteries, sealed with seven seals. They were shy; but they were more than shy; they were reserved, taciturn, secretive. Every crack and cranny in the ramshackle old house was stuffed with their secrets. Mysteries, like mice, peeped out of every hole and scampered over the uneven floor. The girls brought to absolute perfection the art of keeping everybody—even one another—at arm's length. In their funny Bronte way they were deeply attached to one another, and to Branwell; but they exchanged no confidences. Branwell, effervescing with vitality and brimming over with the lust of life, found this pale feminine companionship less than satisfying.

He possessed genius. When unexpected guests arrived at the Black Bull, and the landlord was at his wits' end as to how to entertain them, he would send up to the parsonage for Branwell. A few minutes later the door would cautiously open, revealing a great gaunt forehead, hollow cheeks, piercing eyes and a huge mass of red and unkempt hair. The wily landlord knew that Branwell had as many tricks as a performing monkey; a few glasses of brandy set the entire repertoire in motion; and, for the rest of the evening, the fun was fast and furious.

A Vision Of What Might Have Been
What, one wonders, would have been Branwell's place in history if he had taken himself seriously? Before he was 20 he sent a batch of his poems to Wordsworth. "Read it, sir," he begged, "and, as you would hold a light to one in utter darkness, return me an answer, if but one word, telling me whether to write on or to write no more."

Nobody has ever been able to decide Branwell's part in the authorship of "Wuthering Heights." Mr. E. F. Benson thinks that the novel was Branwell's idea and that he himself wrote the opening chapters. Finding close application tedious, however, he handed the whole thing over to Emily, cheerfully collaborating with her in its development. The two died within a few weeks of each other. Branwell also translated the Odes of Horace. Many scholars have undertaken the same difficult task; but one competent critic declares that, at their best, Branwell's lines need fear comparison with none.

It is, however, in the realm of art that Branwell might have excelled had he been encouraged to apply himself diligently to his palette. In the National Portrait Gallery two of his paintings still hang. One of them represents his three famous sisters: the other is of Emily alone. When we reflect that the former, produced by a boy of very little training, and of no practical experience, is thought worthy of its place in the noble gallery, it is clear that Branwell was endowed with natural aptitude for such work. It reveals several qualities of real excellence. "But when," as John Drinkwater says, "we pass from this youthful venture to the single portrait of Emily, painted 10 years later, we are in the presence of startling achievement."

Brilliance Extinguished By Lack Of Sympathy
Branwell died at 31. His record is a gloomy one. As long as he lived at the parsonage, he kept the place in constant turmoil. He turned Paradise into pandemonium. When she knew that Branwell was spending the evening at the Black Bull, Emily, who understood him best, would sit up to receive him and see him safely to his room. She had good reason for this precaution. On one memorable night, when she had retired before his return, she detected a smell of smoke, and, rushing downstairs, found that in his drunken stupor he had set the place on fire. Giving no alarm, she worked away with pails of water till the last spark was extinguished.

Even when Branwell left home, his withdrawal provided the parsonage folk with no relief. He got into scrapes that nearly drove them to distraction, becoming, among other things, involved in a wretched love-affair with the wife of his employer. The repercussions of this ghastly business tore all laughter from the lips of the unhappy Brontes and banished all sleep from their eyes.

Yet there was a wealth of real downright goodness in him. He heard one day that a small girl in his father's Sunday school was desperately ill. "I went to see the poor little thing," he writes, "and stayed with her for half an hour, reading a psalm and, at her request, a hymn. I felt very like praying with her, too; but, you see, I was not good enough. How dare I pray for another who had almost forgotten how to pray for myself? I was sure she would die and came away with a heavy heart." Charlotte noticed his sadness and asked what ailed him he told her. "She gave me," he says, "a look I shall never forget. It wounded me as if somebody had struck me a blow on the mouth." She did not believe him! "Why can they not give me some credit," he cried, "when I am trying to be good?" He represents a strange medley of weakness and strength. He always said that he would die on his feet, and, surely enough, when his last agony came upon him, he insisted on struggling from his bed and standing upright! And, when his clothes were afterwards examined, the pockets were stuffed with the letters of the woman who had been the cause of all his trouble. These, the poignant happenings of 1848, are worth recalling, even after the passage of a hundred years.

F W Boreham

Image: Patrick Branwell Bronte

[1] This editorial appears in the Hobart Mercury on September 25, 1948.