The Bronte Story by Tim Vicary

The Bronte Story by Tim Vicary

This book is about the greatest English writers-sisters of the 19th century, whose novels were a sensation. Their books were admitted as the classic English literature. How do people get their talents? Some think that it is a gift from God. Other think that people are born with it. Somebody says that a talent can be developed due to hard work. Or it is simply a good luck. The Brontë family got an unordinary talent. They did not have any special education in this area, but still they achieved a huge success. But fate was not benevolent to them. Their lives were short and hard. Poverty made the sisters work since childhood. The diseases took them away one by one. The writers left immortal works. The biography of famous sisters Charlotte, Emily and Ann has a significant mark in the literature.

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The Bronte Story by Tim Vicary

There was a cold wind this afternoon, but the sun shone for an hour or two. I walked out on the moors behind the house. The sheep were hiding from the wind under the stone walls, and there were grey clouds over the hills to the west. It is only November, but I could smell snow in the air.

It will be a cold winter, this year of 1855.

My name is Patrick Bronte, and I am seventy-eight years old. I am the rector of the village of Haworth. Haworth is a village of small, grey stone houses on the side of a hill in the north of England, and I live in a house at the top of the hill, next to the church and the graveyard.

I walked through the graveyard to the church this afternoon.

The Bronte Story by Tim Vicary

All my family except Anne are buried there. The wind had blown some dead leaves through the door into the church, and I watched them dancing in the sunlight near the grave. Soon I shall be in that grave with my wife and children, under the cold grey stone and dancing leaves.

It is dark outside now, and it is very quiet in this house. Charlotte’s husband, Mr Nicholls, is reading in his room, and our servant is cooking in the kitchen. Only the three of us live here now. It is very quiet. I can hear the sounds of the wood burning in the fire, and the big clock on the stairs.

There is another sound too – the sound of the wind outside. The wind has many voices. It sings and laughs and shouts to itself all night long. Last night it cried like a little child, and I got out of bed and went to the window to listen.

There was no child, of course. Only the wind and the gravestones, cold in the pale moonlight. But I decided then that I would write the story of my children, today, before it is too late. Charlotte’s friend, Mrs Gaskell, is writing a book about her, and perhaps she will want to read my story.

It is a fine story. It began in April 1820, when we came to Haworth for the first time…

There was a strong wind blowing that day too, out of a dark, cloudy sky. We could see snow on the moors. The road to Haworth goes up a hill, and there was ice on the stones of the road. Maria, my wife, was afraid to ride up the hill in the carts.

‘We’ll walk, children,’ she said. ‘If one of those horses falls down, there’ll be a terrible accident. Come on, let’s go and see our new house…

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