Charlotte was arguing with her. Emily, listen tome. These are fine poems. I think we should put some of them in a book, together with mine and Anne’s and try to publish it. People should read them.
No, Emily shouted. Then her dog Keeper began to bark, and I didn’t here any more. But I think they talked about this again several times. I often heard voices arguing, and usually they never argued about their writing.
I want to tell them not to do it. I had published several small books myself, but I always lost money. I had to pay the publisher to print the books, and not many people bought them. It’s an easy way to lose money. But I was too ill, so I said nothing.
I learnt, many years later, that they paid over 30 dollar to have a book of poems printed, and that it sold two copies. I am not surprised that they didn’t tell me about it; we had very little money in our house.
I began to feel that there was something wrong with my head, as well as my eyes. Several times the postman brought an old packet to our house, which was addressed to a man called Currer Bell. I told him that no Currer Bell lived in Haworth, and sent him away. But then, a month or two later, he came back again, with the same old packet.
In the summer of 1846 Charlotte took me to see an eye doctor in Manchester. We stayed in rooms in the town. The doctor decided to operate on my eyes, and the next morning we got up early. I was afraid. Could I hold my hard still while the doctor cut into my eyes with a knife. Perhaps the pain would be too terrible. Perhaps I would move, or stand up, or…