The Secret E-Book

Charlotte Bronte

• Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 159

Beschreibung

A rollicking adventure from the Brontës' imagined kingdom of Verdopolis, The Secret is a tale of intrigue, lies, duplicity, and all-conquering love. It is accompanied by five other associated pieces, making up a unique volume from the best of Brontë's juvenilia.

Leseprobe

The Secret

Charlotte Brontë

Foreword bySalley Fields

Hesperus Classics

Published by Hesperides Press Limited

167-169 Great Portland Street

W1W 5PF London

www.hesperus.press

First published by Hesperus Press Limited, 2006

‘The Secret’ and ‘Lily Hart’ © Hesperus Press, 2006

Foreword © Salley Vickers, 2006

E-book edition first published by Hesperus Press, 2024

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-84391-125-8

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-84391-341-2

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.

Contents

Foreword

Salley Vickers

The Secret

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Lily Hart

Albion and Marina

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Rivals

The Bridal

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

A Peep into a Picture Book

Note on the Text

Notes

Biographical Note

Foreword

Salley Vickers

Reading the Brontës’ juvenilia leaves one with a slight feeling of literary voyeurism. The stories that the four beleaguered young people, Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Branwell, wrote to and for each other were their private lifelines in the social desert of the Haworth home, which proved the crucible of some exceptional creative activity. The stories of other realms, written in minute handwriting in tiny, touching home-made books, are classic examples of the uses of the imagination to escape the limitations of the quotidian, which in the Brontës’ case was particularly short on other sources of nourishment. The four siblings invented imaginal worlds that they explored and exchanged with each other, Anne and Emily creating Gondal, about which the latter later wrote some of her most haunting poems, and Branwell and Charlotte Angria.

The two principal stories in this collection, ‘The Secret’ and ‘Lily Hart’, are based in Angria, a kingdom located in Africa and peopled by a bizarrely eclectic society that includes the Duke of Wellington (who appears in both stories and in ‘The Secret’ makes a pivotal appearance).

The stories are essentially fairy tales, and the choice of an African location must have been arrived at as the most extreme known geographical opposite to the chill climate and moorland terrain of its Yorkshires creators. Fairy tales are not expressions of social realism and the city of Verdopolis is no more African than Paris or Vienna. Its aristocratic population, including the aforementioned Duke of Wellington, composed of princes, marquises and earls, live in splendid mansions, surrounded by parklands, fountains and forests. They drive their carriages along tree-lined boulevards, where the shops display plentiful jewels – diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds – designed to open the purses of the well-heeled males’ leisured spouses.

The costume, too, is equally magnificent: silk capes, furlined gowns, diadems like crescent moons, golden shoes. Yet, inevitably, amid all this is to be found the dove-like simplicity of a woman whose natural delicacy and taste infinitely surpass the cruder manifestations of blood and birth.

This, pretty clearly, is the fantasy figure born out of the adolescent Charlotte’s own sexual longings. We know her to have been small and plain, and Marion and Lily are the versions of that state but elevated to a condition of romantic desirability. In time, these fairy-tale figures evolved into Jane Eyre, and later Lucy Snowe, whose smallness of stature and demure looks retain something of the prototypes’ improbable allure. Jane and Lucy are, of course, also made of sterner, more prosaic stuff. Yet even in the mature portraits we can detect the fantastic sparkle that allow us to perceive them as credible objects of desire.

In ‘The Secret’ other nascent traits that are to resurface in the later writings are observable. Here is the sounding out of the male voice, which evolved by extension into the pseudonym of Currer Bell, the male persona under which Charlotte published for most of her life. The narrator of ‘The Secret’ is the brother of Arthur, Marquis of Douro, the baffled husband of the lovely Marion, and indeed, it turns out, also a son to the illustrious Duke. As someone who has written in a male voice myself, I find it especially intriguing that an adolescent girl should have elected to write so early from a contra-sexual position.

Charlotte began writing the Angria stories in 1829, a few years after the traumatic deaths of her elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, who in significant ways had taken the place in her affections of their dead mother. It is apparent that the stories were both an exercise of the innate talent possessed by the whole family and also a form of imaginative therapy to soften the sharp edges of a life that had already borne some severe blows. The socially elevated, financially disembarrassed, picturesque Angrian world is a happy foil to that of its young authors, who, nevertheless, were avid readers, and whose imaginations were fed, among other literary sources, on the Blackwood Magazine, a Tory periodical among whose heroes was the Duke of Wellington. Byron was another favourite, and his flamboyant public image unquestionably informs the romantic male figures whom Charlotte both wrote of and whose perspective she daringly chose to write from.

‘The Secret’ also figures that other character that is to become central to the mature novels, the passionate governess. However, unlike Jane Eyre or Lucy Snowe, the suppressed emotion finds expression in unmediated villainy. Rejected herself by the glamorous Marquis, the aptly named Miss Foxley sets out to destroy the peace of mind of his young and credulous wife by fiendishly resurrecting the spectre of an old betrothal to a childhood sweetheart, a man believed to be long drowned.

Both ‘The Secret’ and ‘Lily Hart’ contain elements of the supernatural, which the young Brontës imbibed from the currently fashionable gothic stories featured in the Blackwood Magazine. The drowned lover reappears in ghostly, and ghastly, form to assure Marion that her marriage is legitimate and by this means, coupled with the manly resourcefulness of the Marquis, the jealous machinations of the wicked governess are trounced. ‘Lily Hart’ plays with a similar theme. A natural affinity between social unequals – Lily is pure and lovely but not of appropriate status to her beloved – leads to a period of enforced separation, and at the moment when the engagement is tested, by the attentions of a potential rival, her lover is visited by the voice of Lily, who, as we later learn, has died in the belief that he is lost to her.

All the stories in this volume betray both the immaturity and the incipient talent of the author. The fantasy is childish, predictable and compensatory, and the language, as you would expect of a young girl, often overblown and arch. And yet behind it there beats the unmistakable pulse of something larger, more ambitious in it project and anarchic, and enthralling, in its scope. The psychology is unsophisticated but not unrealistic, and the stories have flashes of gem-like clarity. In their very awkwardness the themes of hidden emotion, loss and suffering become poignant presages of both the life of this author and the greater works that we know were still to come.

The Secret

ChapterOne

A dead silence had reigned in the Home Office of Verdopolis⁠1 for three hours on the morning of a fine summer’s day, interrupted only by such sounds as the scraping of a penknife, the dropping of a ruler, an occasional cough or whisper, and now and then some brief mandate, uttered by the noble First Secretary, in his commanding tones. At length that sublime personage, after completing some score or so of dispatches, addressing a small, slightly built young gentleman who occupied the chief situation among the clerks, said:

‘Mr Rhymer, will you be good enough to tell me what o’clock it is?’

‘Certainly, my lord!’ was the prompt reply as, springing from his seat, the ready underling, instead of consulting his watch like other people, hastened to the window in order to mark the sun’s situation. Having made his observations, he answered:

‘’Tis twelve precisely, my lord.’

‘Very well,’ said the Marquis. ‘You may all give up then, and see that your desks are locked, and that not a scrap of paper is left to litter the office. Mr Rhymer, I shall expect you to take care that my directions are fulfilled.’ So saying, he assumed his hat and gloves, and with a stately tread was approaching the vestibule, when a slight bustle and whispering among the clerks arrested his steps.

‘What is the matter?’ asked he, turning round. ‘I hope these are not sounds of contention I hear.’

‘No,’ said a broad, carroty-locked young man of a most pugnacious aspect, ‘but – but – Your Lordship has forgotten that – that –’

‘That what?’ asked the Marquis, rather impatiently.

‘Oh! Merely that this afternoon is a half holiday – and – and –’

‘I understand,’ replied his superior, smiling, ‘you need not task your modesty with further explanation, Flannagan; the truth is, I suppose, you want your usual largesse. I am obliged to you for reminding me – will that do?’ he continued, as, opening his pocketbook, he took out a twenty-pound bank bill and laid it on the nearest desk.

‘My lord, you are too generous,’ Flannagan began; but the Chief Secretary laughingly laid his gloved hand on his lips, and, with a condescending nod to the other clerks, sprang down the steps of the portico and strode hastily away, in order to escape the noisy expression of gratitude which now hailed his liberality.

On the opposite side of the long and wide street to that on which the splendid Home Office stands, rises the no less splendid Colonial Office; and, just as Arthur, Marquis of Douro, left the former structure, Edward Stanley Sydney departed from the latter; they met in the centre of the street.

‘Well, Ned,’ said my brother⁠2, as they shook hands, ‘how are you today? I should think this bright sun and sky ought to enliven you if anything can.’

‘Why, my dear Douro,’ replied Mr Sydney, with a faint smile, ‘such lovely and genial weather may, and I have no doubt does, elevate the spirits of the free and healthy; but for me, whose mind and body are a continual prey to all the heaviest cares of public and private life, it signifies little whether sun cheer or rain damp the atmosphere.’

‘Fudge,’ replied Arthur, his features at the same time assuming that disagreeable expression which my landlord denominates by the term scorney. ‘Now don’t begin to bore me, Ned, with trash of that description, I’m tired of it, quite; pray have you recollected that today is a half holiday in all departments of the Treasury?’

‘Yes; and the circumstance has cost me some money; these silly old customs ought to be abolished, in my opinion – they are ruinous.’

‘Why, what have you given the poor fellows?’

‘Two sovereigns.’ An emphatic ‘hem’ formed Arthur’s reply to this communication.

They had now entered Hotel Street and were proceeding in silence past the line of magnificent shops which it contains, when the sound of wheels was heard behind them and a smooth-rolling chariot dashed up and stopped just where they stood. One of the window glasses now fell, a white hand was put out and beckoned them to draw near, while a silvery voice said, ‘Mr Sydney, Marquis of Douro, come hither a moment.’

Both the gentlemen obeyed the summons, Arthur with alacrity, Sydney with reluctance.

‘What are your commands, fair ladies?’ said the former, bowing respectfully to the inmates of the carriage, who were Lady Julia Sydney and Lady Maria Sneaky.

‘Our commands are principally for your companion, my lord, not for you,’ replied the daughter of Alexander the First. ‘Now Mr Sydney,’ she continued, smiling on the senator, ‘you must promise not to be disobedient.’

‘Let me first know what I am required to perform,’ was the cautious answer, accompanied by a fearful glance at the shops around.

‘Nothing of much consequence, Edward,’ said his wife, ‘but I hope you’ll not refuse to oblige me this once, love. I only want a few guineas to make out the price of a pair of earrings I have just seen in Mr Lapis’ shop.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ answered he. ‘Not a farthing will I give you: it is scarce three weeks since you received your quarter’s allowance, and if that is done already you may suffer for it.’

With this decisive reply, he instinctively thrust his hands into his breeches’ pockets and marched off with a hurried step.

‘Stingy little monkey!’ exclaimed Lady Julia, sinking back on the carriage seat, while the bright flush of anger and disappointment crimsoned her fair cheek. ‘This is the way he always treats me, but I’ll make him suffer for it!’

‘Do not discompose yourself so much, my dear,’ said her companion. ‘My purse is at your service, if you will accept it.’

‘I am sensible of your goodness, Maria, but of course I shall not take advantage of it: no, no, I can do without the earrings – it is only a fancy, though to be sure, I would rather have them.’

‘My pretty cousin,’ observed the Marquis, who, till now, had remained a quiet though much amused spectator of the whole scene, ‘you are certainly one of the most extravagant young ladies I know: why, what on earth can you possibly want with those trinkets? To my knowledge you have at least a dozen different sorts of ear ornaments.’

‘That is true, but then these are quite of another kind; they are so pretty and unique that I could not help wishing for them.’

‘Well, since your heart is so much set upon the baubles, I will see whether my purse can compass their price, if you will allow me to accompany you to Mr Lapis’.’

‘Oh! thank you, Arthur, you are very kind,’ said Lady Julia, and both the ladies quickly made room for him as he sprang in and seated himself between them.

‘I think,’ said Maria Sneaky, who has a touch of the romp about her, ‘I think when I marry I’ll have just such a husband as you, my lord Marquis, one who won’t deny me a pretty toy when I have a desire to possess it.’

‘Will you?’ said Arthur. ‘I really think the Turks are more sensible people than ourselves.’

In a few minutes they reached the jeweller’s shop. Mr Lapis received them with an obsequious bow, and proceeded to display his glittering stores. The pendants which had so fascinated Lady Julia were in the form of two brilliant little hummingbirds, whose jewelled plumage equalled if not surpassed the bright hues of nature. Whilst she was completing her purchase, a customer of a different calibre entered. This was a tall woman attired in a rather faded silk dress, a large bonnet, and a double veil of black lace which, as she lifted it on entering the shop, discovered a countenance which apparently had witnessed the vicissitudes of between thirty and forty summers. Her features might or might not have been handsome in youth, though they certainly exhibited slight traces of beauty now. On the contrary, a sharp nose, thin blue lips and flat eyebrows formed an assemblage of rather repulsive lineaments, even when aided by highly rouged cheeks and profusely frizzed dark locks.

One would have thought that such a person as I have described would have attracted but little attention from a young and gay nobleman like my brother. He, however, fixed his piercing eye upon her the moment she made her appearance. His gaze, nevertheless, did not indicate admiration, but rather curiosity and contempt; a keenly inquisitive expression, mingled with one of scorn, filled his countenance while he watched her.

With a slow and stiff movement she approached the counter, and addressing a shopman, desired to look at some rings. He instantly lifted the glass case and exposed to her view several hundreds of the articles she wanted. Deliberately the lady examined them all, but not one would suit her. Diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, topaz were each in their turn inspected and rejected. At length the shopman, who was a little out of patience at her extreme fastidiousness of choice, enquired what description of ring she could possibly want, since the first jeweller’s depot in Verdopolis did not contain it.

‘The ring I am in quest of,’ replied she, ‘should be very small, of plain gold with a crystal stone, containing a little braided chestnut-coloured hair and this name (taking a scrap of paper from her reticule) engraven on the inside.’

‘Well, madam,’ answered he, ‘we certainly have not just such an article as that in the shop at present, but we could very easily make one for you.’

‘Could you finish it today?’ asked she.

‘Yes.’

‘Then do so, and I will call for it this evening at nine o’clock.’

With these words she turned to leave the shop. Her eyes, as she lifted them from the counter, fell on the Marquis and met his scrutinising glance. For a moment she seemed to quail under its influence, but presently recovering herself, dropped him a low curtsey, which was returned by a very slight and haughty bow , and sailed into the street.

‘Who is that odd-looking woman?’ asked Lady Julia as she drew on her gloves, having finally completed her tedious bargain.

The Marquis made no answer; but Maria Sneaky said, with an arch look, ‘Some ci-devant chère amie⁠3 of Douro’s, I suppose; or perhaps a lady who will hereafter partake with me the benefits of a matrimonial dispensation.’

‘Is it so, Arthur?’ enquired his cousin.

‘Nay, Julia, I shall not tell you. You may draw your own inferences from the circumstances of the case.’

When he had assisted the ladies to their chariot, received his due tribute of parting smiles and thanks, and beheld the brilliant equipage roll merrily off, my brother turned down Hotel Street and directed his steps towards Victoria Square. A thoughtful and somewhat moody cloud darkened his brow as he entered Wellesley House, ascended the grand staircase, and proceeded through a succession of passages and chambers to the Marchioness’ apartment. On opening the door, and drawing aside the green damask curtain which hung within, he found her seated alone at a table and engaged in finishing a pencil sketch. She raised her head as he approached and welcomed him with a smile whose sweetness was more eloquent than words.

‘Well, Marian,’ said he, bending over her to look at the drawing, ‘what is this you are about?’

‘Only a little landscape, my lord, which I sketched in the valley yesterday.’

‘It is really very pretty, and most charmingly pencilled; I think I remember the view. Is it not from the gateway of York Villa?’

‘Yes, Arthur, and I have introduced Mr Sydney in the foreground with a book in his hand.’

The Marquis now sat down beside his wife and continued for some time silently watching the progress of her pencil. At length he recommenced the conversation by saying, ‘Whom do you think I have seen in the city today, Marian?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know; perhaps Julius. I desired Mina to take him out for an airing about half an hour since.’ ‘No, you are far wrong in your guess.’ ‘Who, then?’

‘No other than your old governess, Miss Foxley.’