vrijdag 27 september 2013
woensdag 25 september 2013
Dr Robert Barnard, a former chairman of the Bronte Society, author and compiler of the Bronte Encyclopaedia, has died.
The Telegraph and Argus has published an obituary of Robert Barnard:
A former chairman of the Bronte Society, author and compiler of the Bronte Encyclopaedia, has died.
Dr Robert Barnard was also a prolific crime writer as well as being a “mine of information” on Haworth’s most famous residents.
He died on Friday at Grove Court Nursing Home in Leeds, at 76.
Along with his wife Louise, he compiled The Bronte Encyclopaedia in 2007, referred to by the society as “a cornerstone for modern Bronte scholarship.”
He was chair of the society twice and also wrote a book on Emily Bronte’s life.
Essex born and Leeds based, Mr Barnard spent lots of time at the Bronte Parsonage and around Haworth.
He started writing crime novels in the 1970s, writing over 40 books and short stories and receiving the Cartier Diamond Dagger award in 2003 for services to crime fiction.
Marcel Berlins, critic at The Times, called Mr Barnard: “One of our most original and versatile bloodspillers.”
The Bronte Society’s Richard Wilcocks said: “Well known in the Bronte Society, he was a professor, a scholar and an award-winning crime writer.” bronteblog
dinsdag 24 september 2013
"After a struggle of twenty minutes... Branwell started convulsively, almost to his feet, and fell back dead into his father's arms..."
From the Treasure Trove: Branwell's funeral card.
"After a struggle of twenty minutes... Branwell started convulsively, almost to his feet, and fell back dead into his father's arms..."
(p.670, The Brontes, Juliet Barker) facebook/Bronte-Parsonage-Museum
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The cause of Branwell's death was stated in his death certificate as chronic bronchitis and marasmus (wasting of the body). Charlotte said of her brother "I seemed to receive an oppressive revelation of the feebleness of humanity; of the inadequacy of even genius to lead to true greatness if unaided by religion and principle. When the struggle was over.....all his errors, all his vices, seemed nothing to me in that moment....he is at rest, and that comforts us all. Long before he quitted this world, life had no happiness for him." bronte
maandag 23 september 2013
Emily’s paint box, Patrick’s glasses, the Exhibition Room In the 1970s
From the Treasure Trove: Emily’s paint box
From the Treasure Trove: Patrick’s glasses.
In her book about The Brontes, Juliet Barker writes:
“Charlotte was shocked on her return to Haworth at the beginning of 1844 to discover that, despite his activity, her father’s health had deteriorated rapidly in her absence. He was now sixty-six years of age: his eyesight was failing rapidly and he had to face the prospect that he might soon go blind”.
In the 1970s the Exhibition Room looked like THIS:
zondag 22 september 2013
But I am very very sorry that my inadvertent blunder should have made his name and affairs a subject for common gossip......
The dedication here referred to is that to Thackeray. People had been already suggesting that Jane Eyre might have been written by Thackeray under a pseudonym; others had implied, knowing that there was ‘something about a woman’ in Thackeray’s life, that it was written by a mistress of the great novelist. Indeed, the Quarterly had half hinted as much. Currer Bell, knowing nothing of the gossip of London, had dedicated her book in single-minded enthusiasm. Her distress was keen when it was revealed to her that the wife of Mr. Thackeray, like the wife of Rochester in Jane Eyre, was of unsound mind. However, a correspondence with him would seem to have ended amicably enough. [408]
‘Dear Sir,—I need not tell you that when I saw Mr. Thackeray’s letter inclosed under your cover, the sight made me very happy. It was some time before I dared open it, lest my pleasure in receiving it should be mixed with pain on learning its contents—lest, in short, the dedication should have been, in some way, unacceptable to him.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘Haworth, January 28th, 1848.
‘Dear Sir,—I need not tell you that when I saw Mr. Thackeray’s letter inclosed under your cover, the sight made me very happy. It was some time before I dared open it, lest my pleasure in receiving it should be mixed with pain on learning its contents—lest, in short, the dedication should have been, in some way, unacceptable to him.
‘And, to tell you the truth, I fear this must have been the case; he does not say so, his letter is most friendly in its noble simplicity, but he apprises me, at the commencement, of a circumstance which both surprised and dismayed me.
‘I suppose it is no indiscretion to tell you this circumstance, p. 409for you doubtless know it already. It appears that his private position is in some points similar to that I have ascribed to Mr. Rochester; that thence arose a report that Jane Eyre had been written by a governess in his family, and that the dedication coming now has confirmed everybody in the surmise.
‘Well may it be said that fact is often stranger than fiction! The coincidence struck me as equally unfortunate and extraordinary. Of course I knew nothing whatever of Mr. Thackeray’s domestic concerns, he existed for me only as an author. Of all regarding his personality, station, connections, private history, I was, and am still in a great measure, totally in the dark; but I am very very sorry that my inadvertent blunder should have made his name and affairs a subject for common gossip.
‘The very fact of his not complaining at all and addressing me with such kindness, notwithstanding the pain and annoyance I must have caused him, increases my chagrin. I could not half express my regret to him in my answer, for I was restrained by the consciousness that that regret was just worth nothing at all—quite valueless for healing the mischief I had done.
‘Can you tell me anything more on this subject? or can you guess in what degree the unlucky coincidence would affect him—whether it would pain him much and deeply; for he says so little himself on the topic, I am at a loss to divine the exact truth—but I fear.
‘Do not think, my dear sir, from my silence respecting the advice you have, at different times, given me for my future literary guidance, that I am heedless of, or indifferent to, your kindness. I keep your letters and not unfrequently refer to them. Circumstances may render it impracticable for me to act up to the letter of what you counsel, but I think I comprehend the spirit of your precepts, and trust I shall be able to profit thereby. Details, situations which I do not understand and cannot personally inspect, I would not for the world meddle with, lest I should make even a more ridiculous mess of the matter than Mrs. Trollope did in her Factory Boy. Besides, not one feeling on any subject, public or private, will I ever p. 410affect that I do not really experience. Yet though I must limit my sympathies; though my observation cannot penetrate where the very deepest political and social truths are to be learnt; though many doors of knowledge which are open for you are for ever shut for me; though I must guess and calculate and grope my way in the dark, and come to uncertain conclusions unaided and alone where such writers as Dickens and Thackeray, having access to the shrine and image of Truth, have only to go into the temple, lift the veil a moment, and come out and say what they have seen—yet with every disadvantage, I mean still, in my own contracted way, to do my best. Imperfect my best will be, and poor, and compared with the works of the true masters—of that greatest modern master Thackeray in especial (for it is him I at heart reverence with all my strength)—it will be trifling, but I trust not affected or counterfeit.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours with regard and respect,
Currer Bell.’