Читать книгу The Key to the Brontë Works - John Malham-Dembleby - Страница 10

"A … lady lean and pale

Who totters forth wrapt in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,"

were responsible for the "plot" of Jane Eyre including an insane lady who wanders out of her chamber at night and dons a vapoury veil.

And evidence of the enthusiasm with which Charlotte Brontë applied herself to Jane Eyre is the fact that she at once took from Montagu's little volume for this her second story based upon the book's suggestions, the names of

Broughton, Poole (from Pooley), Eshton, Georgiana, Lynn (from Linton), Lowood (from Low-wood), Mason, Ingram, Helen,[16] and possibly Millcote (from Weathercote).

Thus far we see Charlotte Brontë drew Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre from the same source; that in a word, Jane Eyre, was Charlotte's second attempt to utilize and amplify the suggestions in Montagu's work which had appealed to her when she began Wuthering Heights, and we see the suggestions she utilized in Jane Eyre always bear unmistakable relationship to those she had utilized in her Wuthering Heights. But the use Charlotte Brontë made of Montagu's book was not in the nature of literary theft; that volume simply afforded suggestions which she enlarged upon.

I shall presently show how I find Jane Eyre is the second attempt of Currer Bell to enlarge upon suggestions that had appealed to her when she first read Montagu. For a commencement I will refer to the early construction of her Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. As simple stories they both are based upon the description Montagu gives of an isolated hostelry with an inhospitable hostess, a midnight apparition, and an air of mystery that surrounds the hostess and a peculiar, uncouth servant, to whom I have already alluded. The stage properties of this narrative, the characters, and the "action" or plot, I will give side by side, as they appear severally, first in Montagu, next in Wuthering Heights, and finally in Jane Eyre. Herewith the reader will have excellent examples of the two chief methods I find Charlotte Brontë employed often when she drew from a character in more than one work or instance, or when she desired to veil the identity of her originals. Charlotte Brontë's Methods I. and II., being discovered equally in Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre show, as conclusively as any other evidence, that she was the author of both works. No consideration whatsoever can alter the iron fact or depreciate from its significance, that it was absolutely my discovery of Charlotte Brontë's Methods I. and II., which revealed to me the sensational verbal and other parallels between Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre I give in The Key to the Brontë Works:—

Read carefully:—

Charlotte Brontë's Method I.—The interchange of sexes. Thus the original of A may be a woman, and the original of B a man; but A may be represented as a man, and B as a woman.

Charlotte Brontë's Method II.—Altering the age of a character portrayed. Thus the original of C may be young, and the original of D old; but C may be represented as old, and D as young.

The literal extracts to which I have referred I print as occurring in the three works:—Montagu the original, Wuthering Heights, and Jane Eyre. I will first give the substance, or subject matter, side by side:—

Montagu.	Wuthering Heights.	Jane Eyre.
Montagu goes on horseback to a solitary house at a distance from any habitable dwelling, alone, and seeks a night's repose. But though comfort is all around, he finds an air of mystery surrounds the inhospitable hostess and her deep-voiced, Yorkshire dialect-speaking, country-bred man-servant.	Lockwood, of whom Montagu was palpably the original, goes on horseback to a solitary house at a distance from any habitable dwelling, alone, and seeks a night's repose. But he finds an air of mystery surrounds the inhospitable host (Charlotte Brontë's Method I., interchange of the sexes) and his harsh-voiced, Yorkshire dialect-speaking, country-bred man-servant.	Jane (Method I., interchange of the sexes) goes to a solitary house, alone. Comfort is all around, but an air of mystery surrounds the master's wife and a peculiar harsh-voiced female servant (Method I., interchange of the sexes).
Montagu is shown to bed up a step-ladder that leads through a trap, and sleeps only fitfully, dreaming. He hears noises and perceives a gleam of light He starts to find the white-faced apparition of his hostess standing at his bedside, lighted candle in hand, her features convulsed with diabolical rage. The deep-voiced, Yorkshire dialect-speaking peculiar man-servant he sees by looking down the step-ladder through the trap.	Lockwood is shown to bed, and sleeps only fitfully, dreaming. He hears noises and perceives a gleam of light. He starts to find the white-faced apparition of his host standing at his bedside, lighted candle in hand, his features convulsed with diabolical rage. The harsh-voiced, Yorkshire dialect-speaking man-servant, a sour old man (Charlotte Brontë's Method II., the altering of the age of a character portrayed), comes down a step-ladder that vanished through a trap.	Jane, in bed one night, sleeps only fitfully, dreaming. She hears noises and perceives a gleam of light. She starts to find the apparition of her master's wife standing at her bedside, lighted candle in hand, her features convulsed with diabolical rage. The harsh-voiced, peculiar female servant Jane first encountered after having gone to the attics and through a trap-door to the roof.

In the literal extracts I now give the reader will perceive that in the description of the bedside, candle-bearing apparition in Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë followed Montagu almost word for word, and in the whole staging of the midnight episode at the house of the inhospitable host in Wuthering Heights followed him entirely in outlining the story. Both the Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre versions give unequivocal evidence of being refractions from Montagu conveyed through one brain alone, the peculiar idiosyncrasy and elective sensitiveness of which are undeniably recognizable as Charlotte Brontë's:—

Montagu.	Wuthering Heights.	Jane Eyre.
A Night's Repose.	A Night's Repose.	A Night's Repose.
My servant having lamed his steed … I arrived alone at a small hostelry in a secluded part of the country, and apparently at some distance from any habitable dwelling. Having determined to rest for the night, I discovered in the woman who seemed to be the hostess an anxiety to get rid of me; but with the usual obstinacy of curiosity caused by this apparent anxiety, I determined not to be thwarted; so, putting up my horse, I entered the house, and sat down to a humble but substantial meal, prepared during my absence in the stable; and though comfort had sway with all around me, yet there was an evident air of profound mystery between my hostess and her boy-of-all-work, a thick-set son of the north, with a deep voice and a sturdy manner; whilst I, with all the malignant pleasure of counteracting any mystery, secretly enjoyed the hope of discovering the reason of wishing my absence. … I was not at all disconcerted, but philosophically finished my meal … and at an early hour requested to be shown where I was to rest for the night. Refusing to listen to any excuse, I was shown up a ladder into a small room. … I thanked my guide, and … laid down with the expectation of sleeping hard, an expectation which was not realized, for thoughts obtruded themselves upon me, wholly preventing repose. Midnight had scarcely fallen when I heard voices in the room below, and by a light which grew stronger every moment I felt some person was about to ascend the ladder. Before Charlotte Brontë proceeds with the dramatic experiences of this terrible night she provides entirely original matter independent of Montagu, as a preface. I will give Montagu his space, however, for we have here a duet in unison, so to speak, between Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. The trio will be resumed in perfect sequence after Montagu has rested a few bars in the introduction. My reader will note with sensational interest, I am sure, that in both of Charlotte Brontë's introductions to the appearance of the candle-bearing, frenzied, bedside apparition, the separate narrators tell us that a gale is blowing; that they dreamed most disagreeably twice. The first dream being in each instance that of journeying upon an unknown road, and the second dream that of an unknown ice-cold little child (always referred to in the neuter "it"), which "wailed piteously" and "clung" to the narrators in "terror," intense horror being accentuated by their being unable to rid themselves of the clinging, shivering small "creature," as Charlotte Brontë calls "it." The "doleful" moaning and the "blast" play their part in each version, and in both a "branch" is duly grasped or seized by the dreamer. For the origin of this wailing little creature see my chapter, "Charlotte Brontë's Child Apparition." Further, the reader will observe that in both Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre Montagu's bedside, candle-bearing apparition is not a dream, but a candlelit reality, immediately sequent to the dream of the tenacious child phantom. I will here resume Montagu's narrative: … By a light which grew stronger every moment, I felt some person was about to ascend the ladder. At this moment every murder … I had heard of crowded upon my brain, and I instantly determined to make the best fight I could, … and with my partially closed eyes turned towards the trap-door. I had only just time to make my arrangements when, clad in a white gown, fastened close up to her neck, with her black hair, matted by carelessness, hanging over her collar, and as pale as death, ascended my hostess. Never shall I forget her dreadfully hideous expression. She came up to the bedside and looked at me for a full minute, and after passing the candle carefully before my eyes, left me, and carefully descended the ladder. Montagu arises, and, looking down the ladder, finds the thick-set servant is also astir with the mysterious, hideous visitant. Then Montagu hears his trap-door replaced; and he wakes to learn he has had the nightmare.	Heathcliffe, when he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, did put out his hand to unchain it … calling as we entered the court, "Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse; and bring some wine." Joseph was an elderly, nay an old man, very old perhaps, though hale and sinewy. "The Lord help us!" he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse, looking … in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of Divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent. "Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs hardly know how to receive them," says Heathcliffe. Resuming his narrative in Chapter II., Lockwood tells us he goes again to Wuthering Heights and gains admittance with difficulty, after muttering, "Wretched inmates, you deserve perpetual isolation … for your churlish inhospitality. I don't care, I will get in." "As to staying here," cries Heathcliffe, "I don't keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Joseph [the country-bred servant] if you do." Chapter III. Lockwood at last is guided to bed by a servant. While leading the way, she recommended … "I should hide the candle, … for her master had an odd notion about the chamber … and never let anybody lodge there willingly." … I sank back in bed and fell asleep. … Alas! what could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can compare with it since I was capable of suffering.… I began to dream. … I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road. We came to a chapel. … Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter-rappings; … at last, to my unspeakable relief, they awoke me. … What … had suggested the tumult? … the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by. … I dreamt again, if possible still more disagreeably than before. … I heard the gusty wind, … I thought I rose … to unhasp the casement. "I must stop [the fir bough's teasing sound]," I muttered, knocking my hand through the glass and stretching an arm out to seize the … branch; instead of which my fingers closed on the fingers of an ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed. … I discerned … a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel, and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, … rubbing it to and fro till the blood ran down; … still it wailed … and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. I said, "Let me go!" The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine … and stopped my ears. … Yet the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry, moaning; … I tried to jump up, but could not stir a limb. … Hasty footsteps approached my chamber door, … a light glimmered … at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead. The intruder appeared to hesitate. … … Heathcliffe stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers, with a candle dripping over his fingers and his face white. … The first creak of the oak startled him, … the light leaped from his hold. … "It is only your guest, sir," I called out. "I had the nightmare." "Mr. Lockwood … who showed you up to this room?" grinding his teeth to control the maxillary convulsions. "It was your servant, Zillah," I replied, flinging myself on to the floor, and … resuming my garments. … "The place … is swarming with ghosts and goblins." "What do you mean?" asked Heathcliffe. … "Lie down and finish out the night since you are here. … " I descended; … nothing was stirring … and then Joseph [shuffled] down a wooden ladder that vanished through a trap—the ascent to his garret, I suppose.	Jane is shown the bedrooms of the secluded Thornfield Hall:— "Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" "No … no one sleeps here. One would … say that if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt."… I followed … to the attics, and thence by a trap-door to the roof of the hall … a laugh struck my ear … "Who is it?"… the laugh was as preternatural … as any I ever heard. … The … door opened, and a servant came out—a woman of between thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure … and with a hard, plain face. … One day Jane, out for a walk, sees a horseman approaching who, in sympathy with Montagu's story of laming a horse, has an accident. "Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?" Jane asks later of a servant. "Yes, it slipped." Thus Jane learns the horseman is the master of Thornfield Hall. She discovers an air of mystery surrounds the master of the house; and a thick-set woman servant is involved. Chapter XV. Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of the [mystery that seemed to surround Mr. Rochester]. … I hardly knew whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any rate I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur. … I wished I had kept my candle burning; the night was drearily dark. … I rose and sat up in bed listening; … I was chilled with fear. … I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated … I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached my ear when it fled affrighted. … There was a demonia laugh … at my chamber door. … I thought the goblin laughter stood at my bedside. … Something … moaned. "Was that Grace Poole?" [the thick-set servant] thought I. … There was a candle burning outside. Chapter XXV. … After I went to bed I could not sleep—a sense of anxious excitement depressed me. The gale still rising seemed to my ear to muffle a … doleful undersound. … During my first sleep I was following the windings of an unknown road; … rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little child—a very small creature, … which shivered in my cold arms and wailed piteously in my ear. I dreamt another dream. … I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms—however its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. … I climbed the thin wall [of the house] with frantic, perilous haste, … the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me. … The blast blew so strong … I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant, … the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee; I lost my balance, fell, and awoke. "Now, Jane, that is all," put in Rochester. To which Jane Eyre replies, "All the preface; the tale is yet to come." On waking a gleam dazzled my eyes; … it was candle light. … A form emerged from the closet; it took the light and held it aloft. … I had risen up in bed, I bent forward, … then my blood crept cold through my veins. … It was not even that strange woman Grace Poole [the thick-set servant]. … It seemed … a woman … with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet or shroud I cannot tell. The features were fearful and ghastly to me; … it was a savage face. I wish I could forget … the lineaments. … Just at my bedside the figure stopped: the fiery eye glared upon me—she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. "Now," says Rochester. "I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality: a woman did, I doubt not, enter your room; and that woman was—must have been—Grace Poole [the thick-set servant]. You call her a strange being yourself."

Truly Montagu's description of the coarse-voiced, thick-set, country-bred servant, and his implication with the mystery of the lonely house had impressed Charlotte Brontë considerably. Whether she portrayed him as the Joseph of Wuthering Heights or, by her Method I., as the Grace Poole of Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë respects the original associations of this character as they were figured to her by Frederic Montagu's little fiction of "A Night's Repose." Herewith have we evidence as to mental idiosyncrasy and elective-sensitiveness recognizable as Charlotte Brontë's—proof that her brain and none other was responsible for both the Wuthering Heights and the Jane Eyre versions of the midnight incident from Montagu.