I let him sleep in my room at night, and he kept me awake for hours talking about
Mrs. Robinson. I remembered his paintings, his stories, his happy childish laughter. My fine, clever son had become a drunken animal.
The winter of 1846 was terribly cold. The wind blew snow around the house and over the gravestones. A lot of children died in the village. Anne was ill, Branwell was worse. We lit fires in
all the room, but there was ice inside the windows in the mornings. I spent most of my time with Branwell, so I didn’t think very much about the girls.
And then, one afternoon, Charlotte came into my room. I was sitting here, in this same chair, beside the fire. She had a book in her hand, and that strange, happy look on her face.
Papa, she said. I’ve been writing a book.
I smiled. Have you, my dear. I thought she had written another little book about Angria.
Yes, and I want you to read it.
Oh, I’m afraid it will hurt eyes too much. My eyes were much better, but the tiny writing in the Angria books was too small for me.
Oh on, she said. It’s not in my handwriting; it is printed. She held out the book in her hand.
My dear, Think how much it will cost, You will almost certainly lose money, because no one will buy it. No one knows your name.
I don’t think so, father. I didn’t pay to get it printed, you know. The publishers paid me. Listen to what people say about it in these magazines.
She sat down, and read to me from some of the most famous magazine in England. There were long articles in them, about a book called Jane Eyre, by Currer Bell. They were kind articles; most of the magazine writers liked the book.
This Currer Bell, then, I asked. Is it you.
Charlotte laughed. Yes, papa. It’s a man’s name, with the same first letters: CB- Charlotte Bronte, Currer Bell.