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Authors: Justine Picardie
Tags: Biographical, Biographical fiction, Fiction, General, Biography, Women Authors; English, Forgery of manuscripts, Woman authorship; English
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powerless'. And then the story became even more dramatic: Branwell claimed to have received a letter from 'a medical gentleman' who had attended Mr Robinson in his last illness, and subsequently witnessed Mrs Robinson's terrible decline. 'When he mentioned my name - she stared at him and fainted. When she recovered she in turn dwelt on her inextinguishable love for me - her horror at having been the first to delude me into wretchedness, and her agony at having been the cause of the death of her husband who, in his last hours, bitterly repented of his treatment of her. Her sensitive mind was totally wrecked. She wandered into talking of entering a nunnery: and the Doctor fairly debars me from hope in the future.'
As Daphne read this letter, and those that followed, she was puzzled by Branwell, and by his endless querulous complaints, but she also found herself wondering if the entire episode with Mrs Robinson was an invention on his part. Somehow, the story didn't ring true to Daphne - the cruel terms of the husband's will, the judicious intervention of the doctor, the talk of nunneries - could these be the twists of a plot lifted out of Branwell's Angrian tales; a gothic adventure for a Byronic hero like Northangerland, rather than a lonely parson's son? But if Branwell's story was real, then it revealed him to be hopelessly weak, intent only on using the end of his affair with Mrs Robinson as a reason for his lack of success as a writer. Perhaps what was most perplexing of all, thought Daphne, was Branwell's apparent assumption that by marrying Mrs Robinson he would share her inheritance, and therefore be able to live at leisure, rather than earn a living. Was it unfair of her, she wondered, for this to remind her of Tommy? After all, he had always worked hard, though of course her income was far greater than his army wages, or his salary from Buckingham Palace, and so it was her money that kept him in the style to which he had become accustomed, her books that paid for his boats and his hand-tailored suits, and was it her money that had underpinned his affair? No, she must stop thinking like this, it was too tormenting, it could serve no purpose, she must make herself purposeful again . . .
She swallowed, and tried to concentrate on Branwell's words; but it was impossible to suppress a small sense of exasperation, for while Branwell wallowed in self-pity in his letters to Leyland, his sisters wrote their masterpieces. As to whether Branwell knew about these novels, published secretly under pseudonyms like their poetry, his letters made no mention of this, though Daphne underlined a line in one of his rambling missives to Leyland: 'I know only that it is time for me to be something when I am nothing.'
His hopes were to be extinguished. In June 1848, when Jane Eyre was already a resounding success, he wrote to Leyland again in a panic, hoping that his old friend might help him fend off his persistent creditors, including the landlord of an inn, who was demanding payment of an outstanding bill. 'I am RUINED. I have had five months of such utter sleeplessness, violent cough and frightful agony of mind . . . Excuse this scrawl. Long have I resolved to write to you a letter of five or six pages, but intolerable mental wretchedness and corporeal weakness have utterly prevented me.' Three months later, Branwell was dead.
But had he left his promised novel behind him? Daphne turned to the second book that Symington had sent, feeling a surge of hope as she examined it. She traced the forefinger of her right hand over the gold embossed typeface on the front cover. 'And The Weary Are At Rest' . . . it seemed a resonant title, given that this was a posthumous publication, though Daphne doubted that Branwell was at rest; his voice that emerged from the books was far too capricious for that. This one looked impressive - very handsomely bound in black leather - but if she was to be entirely honest with herself, the story seemed
As Daphne read this letter, and those that followed, she was puzzled by Branwell, and by his endless querulous complaints, but she also found herself wondering if the entire episode with Mrs Robinson was an invention on his part. Somehow, the story didn't ring true to Daphne - the cruel terms of the husband's will, the judicious intervention of the doctor, the talk of nunneries - could these be the twists of a plot lifted out of Branwell's Angrian tales; a gothic adventure for a Byronic hero like Northangerland, rather than a lonely parson's son? But if Branwell's story was real, then it revealed him to be hopelessly weak, intent only on using the end of his affair with Mrs Robinson as a reason for his lack of success as a writer. Perhaps what was most perplexing of all, thought Daphne, was Branwell's apparent assumption that by marrying Mrs Robinson he would share her inheritance, and therefore be able to live at leisure, rather than earn a living. Was it unfair of her, she wondered, for this to remind her of Tommy? After all, he had always worked hard, though of course her income was far greater than his army wages, or his salary from Buckingham Palace, and so it was her money that kept him in the style to which he had become accustomed, her books that paid for his boats and his hand-tailored suits, and was it her money that had underpinned his affair? No, she must stop thinking like this, it was too tormenting, it could serve no purpose, she must make herself purposeful again . . .
She swallowed, and tried to concentrate on Branwell's words; but it was impossible to suppress a small sense of exasperation, for while Branwell wallowed in self-pity in his letters to Leyland, his sisters wrote their masterpieces. As to whether Branwell knew about these novels, published secretly under pseudonyms like their poetry, his letters made no mention of this, though Daphne underlined a line in one of his rambling missives to Leyland: 'I know only that it is time for me to be something when I am nothing.'
His hopes were to be extinguished. In June 1848, when Jane Eyre was already a resounding success, he wrote to Leyland again in a panic, hoping that his old friend might help him fend off his persistent creditors, including the landlord of an inn, who was demanding payment of an outstanding bill. 'I am RUINED. I have had five months of such utter sleeplessness, violent cough and frightful agony of mind . . . Excuse this scrawl. Long have I resolved to write to you a letter of five or six pages, but intolerable mental wretchedness and corporeal weakness have utterly prevented me.' Three months later, Branwell was dead.
But had he left his promised novel behind him? Daphne turned to the second book that Symington had sent, feeling a surge of hope as she examined it. She traced the forefinger of her right hand over the gold embossed typeface on the front cover. 'And The Weary Are At Rest' . . . it seemed a resonant title, given that this was a posthumous publication, though Daphne doubted that Branwell was at rest; his voice that emerged from the books was far too capricious for that. This one looked impressive - very handsomely bound in black leather - but if she was to be entirely honest with herself, the story seemed
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