Charlotte. We cannot tell anyone. Not Papa, not Branwell. You certainly can’t tell Ellen. She can’t keep a secret. Nor Mary—”
“But Mary’s on the other side of the world.”
“The word would get back to her family. We would have to publish under pseudonyms and keep the entire business our secret.”
Anne said, “How will we hide it from Papa?”
“He sees us writing all the time. He just doesn’t have the foggiest notion what we’re doing with it. Nor does he care.” She shrugged. “He can’t see anymore, anyway.”
Emily turned her stern look on Charlotte. “You must swear to it.”
After a long hesitation, Charlotte said, “All right, then.”
“Go on, do it. Raise your hand.”
“All right, I swear. To secrecy.”
“Absolute and utter, without exception.”
“Emily Jane, that’s enough. Don’t be so fierce.”
“We could be whomever we wish to be,” Anne said.
Charlotte pulled her dress over her head, and with her chin in her chest as she buttoned up her bodice she muttered, “Well, we could be men then, couldn’t we?”
“I suppose we could.”
“Or at least choose names that could be masculine.”
“Like when we were children,” Anne smiled wistfully. “When we were Parry and Ross and Wellington.”
“But brothers. With the same family name.”
There was a certain aura of romance about it, since the work had to be done under a cloak of secrecy. Throughout the short winter days and long evenings that followed, they scurried back and forth from kitchen to dining room to bedroom, trawling through old copybooks behind closed doors, reading aloud and advising one another, rewriting with a fresh critical eye. Clumsy, rambling pieces were restructured; others were pruned and polished. During those hours the dimly lighted parsonage hummed with energy. This was no tedious labor performed out of duty. This was a calling. The hours flew by. Time seemed to disappear. Industry brought with it fresh hope, and hope fueled their writing.
They left to Charlotte the tedious correspondence with publishers, and when at long last they found one who would take the work on condition that they assume the printing costs, they agreed to pay the expensesout of the small inheritance from their aunt, hoping to make a little from the sales and perhaps win some critical acclaim.
But more important, their little publishing effort drew them back to their passion for storytelling. The process of sifting through their stories of Angria and Gondal generated new ideas. Mature ideas, drawn from observations of real life, deepened by personal experience and passions profoundly felt.
What if?
they asked themselves and one another.
Why not?
they thought. So by the time the proofs for their small volume of poetry arrived from the printer the following spring, they had each plunged headlong into their first novel.
It was natural that Charlotte’s novel should be born out of heartache and the need to live again moments that would never be matched in intensity of feeling. For years she had been writing the story in her head, in flashes of scenes and dialogue, and by the time she sat down to write, she knew exactly where the narrative would take her. She would revisit Brussels; she would refashion her own story of unrequited love in the way writers have that gives them the power to transform a painful reality; she would create for herself the one thing she so desperately desired: the condition of loving deeply and being loved in return.
If Arthur began to fall just a little in love with her that spring, it was because she had slipped into that mystifying state of grace where she could move untouched by all the drama swirling around her. Always light-footed, she seemed to Arthur to fairly float down the lane in front of his eyes, and when she greeted him in the hall of the parsonage or poured his cup of tea, her eyes seemed to conceal some hidden joy. He thought her detached and vaguely wild of spirit, like a
“But Mary’s on the other side of the world.”
“The word would get back to her family. We would have to publish under pseudonyms and keep the entire business our secret.”
Anne said, “How will we hide it from Papa?”
“He sees us writing all the time. He just doesn’t have the foggiest notion what we’re doing with it. Nor does he care.” She shrugged. “He can’t see anymore, anyway.”
Emily turned her stern look on Charlotte. “You must swear to it.”
After a long hesitation, Charlotte said, “All right, then.”
“Go on, do it. Raise your hand.”
“All right, I swear. To secrecy.”
“Absolute and utter, without exception.”
“Emily Jane, that’s enough. Don’t be so fierce.”
“We could be whomever we wish to be,” Anne said.
Charlotte pulled her dress over her head, and with her chin in her chest as she buttoned up her bodice she muttered, “Well, we could be men then, couldn’t we?”
“I suppose we could.”
“Or at least choose names that could be masculine.”
“Like when we were children,” Anne smiled wistfully. “When we were Parry and Ross and Wellington.”
“But brothers. With the same family name.”
There was a certain aura of romance about it, since the work had to be done under a cloak of secrecy. Throughout the short winter days and long evenings that followed, they scurried back and forth from kitchen to dining room to bedroom, trawling through old copybooks behind closed doors, reading aloud and advising one another, rewriting with a fresh critical eye. Clumsy, rambling pieces were restructured; others were pruned and polished. During those hours the dimly lighted parsonage hummed with energy. This was no tedious labor performed out of duty. This was a calling. The hours flew by. Time seemed to disappear. Industry brought with it fresh hope, and hope fueled their writing.
They left to Charlotte the tedious correspondence with publishers, and when at long last they found one who would take the work on condition that they assume the printing costs, they agreed to pay the expensesout of the small inheritance from their aunt, hoping to make a little from the sales and perhaps win some critical acclaim.
But more important, their little publishing effort drew them back to their passion for storytelling. The process of sifting through their stories of Angria and Gondal generated new ideas. Mature ideas, drawn from observations of real life, deepened by personal experience and passions profoundly felt.
What if?
they asked themselves and one another.
Why not?
they thought. So by the time the proofs for their small volume of poetry arrived from the printer the following spring, they had each plunged headlong into their first novel.
It was natural that Charlotte’s novel should be born out of heartache and the need to live again moments that would never be matched in intensity of feeling. For years she had been writing the story in her head, in flashes of scenes and dialogue, and by the time she sat down to write, she knew exactly where the narrative would take her. She would revisit Brussels; she would refashion her own story of unrequited love in the way writers have that gives them the power to transform a painful reality; she would create for herself the one thing she so desperately desired: the condition of loving deeply and being loved in return.
If Arthur began to fall just a little in love with her that spring, it was because she had slipped into that mystifying state of grace where she could move untouched by all the drama swirling around her. Always light-footed, she seemed to Arthur to fairly float down the lane in front of his eyes, and when she greeted him in the hall of the parsonage or poured his cup of tea, her eyes seemed to conceal some hidden joy. He thought her detached and vaguely wild of spirit, like a
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