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Haworth, November 24th 1824
Tomorrow I am to start a big adventure and join my sisters, Maria, Elizabeth and Charlotte at the big girls’ school at Cowan Bridge. I am a little fearful at this prospect – not because I think I will be regarded as stupid (I can read and write and do arithmetic, and I already know ‘être’ and ‘avoir’, thanks to my aunt’s tutelage) - but I am afraid of missing Branwell and Anne, my playfellows. I have asked Papa if I might not remain at home and share Branwell’s lessons, but he is resolute. I intend to keep a record of my time at school so that Anne will know what to expect when it is her turn, for she is but four as I write. I leave tomorrow!
Cowan Bridge, November 30th 1824
What a grievous mistake! I have now been six days in this hell hole, and I wish with all my heart that my Papa had not sent me here! The cold is constant and the food intolerable, but worse than all of that is the meanness of the girls. I have been called a prig and a know-it-all several times a day, and one of the teachers accused me of pride when I announced I knew my twelve times table. The headmaster, Reverend Wilson, has written an improving book of tales which are read to us every day – and each of these stories depicts naughty children being punished with death and fiery hell. I asked Charlotte why she did not tell me before now how terrible a place school is, but she merely smiled in that aggravating way she has and reminded me of St Paul’s words that suffering is a privilege and that we should heed our Lord’s words to “turn the other cheek”. Branwell would not think thus, I am sure – but it will be many months before I see my brother again. Would that I were a boy and could stay at home!
Cowan Bridge, December 20th 1824
My heart is breaking with the shame that I have endured. This morning, I dropped my slate and it broke, upon which Miss Jenkins seized me by the ear and yanked me to my feet. She then proceeded to shake me violently in front of the other girls, all the while declaring that I was wilful and had broken the slate on purpose. My blood boiled at this slander and I shrieked at her in a passion, calling her a cruel witch. I am not sorry I did so, for she was in the wrong to treat me thus, but I could see Charlotte, Maria and Elizabeth regarding me with shocked expressions from their own corners of the schoolroom. Miss Jenkins then raised her hand as if she would slap me – and perhaps she would have done so but for the entry of Reverend Wilson who demanded to know why I was behaving like such a heathen. Of course, Miss J gave a false account of the matter, omitting her own rudeness to me and claiming that I was an insolent child who had brought disgrace upon my family. I was then subjected to a most humiliating hour, forced to stand upon my stool in view of the whole schoolroom, with a dunce’s cap upon my head. The Reverend Wilson also paused the morning’s lesson to read to us a short tale entitle ‘Child in a Pet’ in which the little girl (and he looked long and hard at me at this point) was struck dead by God after being in a rage. I was tempted to reply and say I wished God would strike me dead that I might not have to listen to any more of these appalling stories! I had hoped that Charlotte at least would take my part, but she and my other sisters deserted me when lessons finished at noon, leaving me sobbing on my own. But only three more days until I return to Haworth for Christmas Day. I shall entreat Papa not to send me back again.
Haworth, January 1st 1825
I am utterly distraught. Tomorrow I return to school with my sisters. How shall I endure such a thing after nine wonderful days with my beloved Branwell? Aunt Elizabeth says we are all too pale and too thin – I told her it is because the school only allows us porridge for breakfast (and that is often burnt), an insubstantial dinner at three, and then a bowl of coffee and a half slice of bread for the evening meal, but she would not believe me, dismissing my words as “another one of Emily’s wild fancies”. It seems I must continue with the torture that is school – at least until Branwell is old enough to come and rescue me.
Cowan Bridge, May 10th 1825
Pestilence stalks our school! Since we returned in January, many of the girls here have fallen prey to fever, and now my sister, Maria, is ill too and there is talk of sending her home. I wonder, were I to crawl into her bed with her, would I catch her fever and then be sent back to Haworth?
Howarth, June 17th 1825
My joy at being once more within the walls of this parsonage are marred by the sad loss of Maria. I did not even have the chance to bid her farewell for she died shortly after returning here, and indeed, I suspect her death was the main reason for Papa withdrawing the rest of us from the school. I am now fearful for Elizabeth, whose coughing has recently grown worse. Please God that He does not take another one of us – I do repent me now of my wicked diary entry from last month when I wished to be ill myself if it would hasten my return home.
Howarth, February 5th 1826
A most splendid day! Papa has given Branwell a set of wooden soldiers, no doubt thinking that he would use them to re-enact the Siege of Troy or some other great battle from the annals of Livy and Tacitus, but my clever brother has used them to create a remarkable world for the “Young Men”, as he dubs them, most of it set in West Africa – a country which he has never seen yet describes in such vivid detail that I am spellbound.
Howarth, July 12th 1828
Charlotte and Branwell have created a new game. This one is set in a land named Angria and the four of us have spent most of our hours today devising sundry characters and scenarios. Branwell and Charlotte seem to be in constant competition over which of them will have the most interesting idea of all: he favours an earl named Alexander Percy whereas Charlotte has thought of a duke named Arthur. I aspire to a prince who will be better than both - a Romantic hero in the manner of Mr Byron who writes such wondrous poetry. My prince will not suffer fools gladly and his swordsmanship shall surpass that of mere dukes and earls!
Howarth, August 5th 1831
The realm is divided! Anne and I have set up a rival kingdom which we call Gondal. It is set on an island full of mythical creatures and legendary heroes – I fear Branwell’s obsessive attention to battles based on the Duke of Wellington’s latest campaigns were becoming rather tedious! Anne shares my love for adventure, and I am confident that together we can create stories that will satisfy our souls!
Howarth, January 13th 1833
Gondal continues to hold a fascination for Anne and myself. We have both devoured Mr Scott’s heroic tales set in the Scottish Highlands and now Gondal boasts a number of romantic outlaws whose feats make men tremble and women swoon with desire! She and I have expressed several of our characters’ thoughts and feelings in poetic form, but these must be kept hidden from Charlotte and Branwell who would only mock our efforts.
Howarth, September 1st 1835
“Dear Charlotte” has become a teacher – at Roe Head Girls’ School, no less. She has been there now a good six months and Papa thinks it meet to enrol me there as a pupil – at a reduced rate, naturally. I am in two minds about this: a part of me still remembers Cowan Bridge and all its horrors; yet if we are to open our own school – for how else can a young lady earn her living in these times? – then I must obtain a sufficient education in those areas which are still lacking. My trunk is packed; I leave tomorrow!
Mirfield, December 1st 1835
I can endure it no longer. Absence from Howarth is making me heart-sick and I fear I am unsuited to life as a pupil. I cannot abide the routines, the noise, the intrusions of the other girls ... All I want is to be able to find a quiet corner and scribble my private thoughts, but it seems that such a simple thing is disallowed. I shall write to Papa and beg him to send Anne in my stead – surely her spirit will not feel as faint as mine does so far from my beloved moorland?
Howarth, March 7th 1836
My heart still sings every morning that I open my eyes and behold my own bedroom here in the parsonage. I rise when I wish, take a dish of tea at whatever time suits me, and write for as long as I feel the Muse’s guidance. Having recently perused Mrs Shelley’s Gothic novel, I am now filled with the urge to create my own ‘monster’ – not a patched together specimen like Doctor Frankenstein’s creature, but a monster in human form: a man so wild and savage that he seems like the spawn of hell itself. (I must confess to once more taking inspiration from Mr Byron’s “mad, bad and dangerous” personality.) But a monster needs a mate! What if I were to model a female protagonist on Mrs Shelley herself? My Byronic hero will meet his match in a woman who is prepared to risk everything for love – even run away with him. Papa would be shocked, so I shall keep this project a secret.
Halifax, September 1838
I am finally a schoolteacher, although, alas, not in a school of our own but at Law Hill School, which is surrounded by beautiful moorland scenery so that I might almost fancy I am still at home. Miss Patchett, the school’s proprietress, seems pleasant enough and I am sure that my work here will be amply rewarded – as long as I am able to see the hills and to write my poetry, I will be happy.
Halifax, November 1838
I cannot believe how tired and ill I feel. Did I really complain as a girl about the early mornings and gruelling days at Cowan Bridge? I must now work for seventeen hours every day but the Sabbath – but that in itself is taxing since we attend both the morning and evening services in the Minster and the walk back up to the school afterwards makes my heart flutter in an alarming manner. And how I long to continue with my chronicles of Gondal, but I am so exhausted every evening that I simply fall into bed as soon as I am released from my duties.
Halifax, January 1839
Returning here after a few days’ leave for Christmas has made me weep uncontrollably. I had forgotten how much I miss Anne when I am not with her: she is my twin soul. The hours we spent together, discussing Gondal and our plans for its future, are some of the happiest moments I have spent in a long time. I tried to confide in Miss Patchett, but she stared at me coldly and remarked that she was granting me a great favour by allowing me to teach here despite the gaps in my education.
Haworth, April 1839
I am finally released! Never again will I complain about the tedium of cooking and cleaning – it is a small price to pay if it means I can stay at home. I intend to use my time wisely in the study of German – no doubt it will come in useful if Charlotte’s dream of a school of our own is ever realised – and in practising the piano.
Brussels, 1842
I am quite the cosmopolitan! Charlotte and I are perfecting our mastery of French and German here at the Pensionnat Heger. I thought I should die several times over on the crossing – the Ostend packet tossed terribly and even Papa looked a little green around the gills. My delicate stomach was not helped by the jarring stagecoach journey that followed, but since then, I have been recovering by degrees and my French pronunciation is vastly improved!
Haworth, October 13th 1845
Never have I been so furious with “Dear Charlotte”! Earlier today, she discovered my ‘Gondal’ notebooks and is now insisting that the poems be published. Naturally, I was distressed by the invasion of my privacy – Gondal is a private world for Anne and myself: it is not for general perusal! – but she will not be dissuaded. In vain did I plead my case – she answered that I was “afraid” that my poetry was “not good enough” for others to read. How dare she! No coward soul is mine! I shall never forgive her for treating me thus.
Haworth, October 15th 1845
Anne – my dear, sweet sister Anne – has come to my rescue: she showed Charlotte her own poems and has begged her to publish those instead of mine.
Haworth, October 18th 1845
Charlotte has the wild idea of publishing her own poems – stiff and wooden though they be – alongside 21 of mine and 21 of Anne’s. Furthermore, she has promised that our own names will not grace the frontispiece: instead, we are to take male pseudonyms, using our own initials. She has plumped for Currer Bell and Anne – in a moment of cleverness – suggested ‘Acton’ for herself (since, she whispered, we are supposed to “act on” everything that Charlotte decides). I favour ‘Ellis’ (as in “hell is where Charlotte is). She has already found a London publishing house, run by Messrs Aylott and Jones, which is eager to produce our girlish scribblings in a more sophisticated form. I will allow her this small triumph as I think she will soon find that her own writing is not as compelling as she thinks it is.
Haworth, June 1846
Since the publication of the slim volume of ‘Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell’ some three months ago, only two copies have been sold. Charlotte is mortified – and so she should be: this project was all her own doing. She confided in Anne the other day that she has sent the same publisher a copy of her manuscript, ‘The Professor’ – a tedious work indeed, focusing as it does upon the life of a singularly boring individual, one William Crimsworth, who takes a teaching post in Belgium. Meanwhile, I have almost finished my Gothic tale of passion and betrayal, but I do not intend to let any other than Anne read it.
Haworth, January 1847
Charlotte is still convinced that people will want to read her earnest meanderings. After no success with ‘The Professor’, she has produced a new story which purports to be the autobiography of a spirited young woman named Jane Eyre. She has faithfully reproduced our schooldays at Cowan Bridge but imagined Jane as an orphan – lucky her to have no interfering older sister! – who finds employment as a governess. Her hero is heavily modelled upon my Heathcliff – although not as handsome nor as cruel. I must grudgingly admit that there is more about it than her first novel.
Haworth, March 1847
‘Jane Eyre’ is a success! Charlotte has now begged Anne and me to send our manuscripts for publication too – but I am loath to share Cathy and Heathcliff with the world.
Haworth, May 1847
I have finally succumbed. ‘Wuthering Heights’ will be published next month by Thomas Cautley Newby, although I think there will be many who do not like Heathcliff’s Byronic habits.
Haworth, October 1847
I was right to think that the public would not take to Heathcliff! I think so far there is not one favourable review and some critics have condemned the “savage cruelty and outright barbarism” of my little tale. Charlotte pretends not to be smug, but I know her heart secretly rejoices that ‘Jane Eyre’ has been the more successful novel. Branwell told me privately that he much preferred my story – but he was in his cups when he said so. I worry that he is drinking too much but he no longer heeds anyone’s advice.
Haworth, September 24th 1848
My heart is broken: Branwell is dead. We have never been a healthy family, but he was only 31 – too young an age for one such as he.
Haworth, October 1st 1848
I looked across at my brother’s coffin in the church today and was reminded of the scene I wrote for Heathcliff, after Cathy’s death, when he wanted to climb inside her grave with her. My only brother is gone; but I cannot fling himself on his body and rail at God – all I am allowed to do is weep.
Haworth, October 2nd 1848
I have caught a slight cold after attending Branwell’s funeral but I want no poisoning doctors near me! Anne is dosing me with beef tea, but I do not have the heart to try and get better.
Haworth, December 19th 1848
The room darkens; my soul weakens. Charlotte sits by my side, praying constantly; but I know that God will not hear her. My grief is too great for me to remain on this earth – “I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”
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