A letter from Charlotte Brontë to Henry Nussey (5 March 1839), in which she turned down his marriage proposal.
"Before answering your letter, I might have spent a long time in consideration of its subject; but as from the first moment of its reception and perusal I determined on which course to pursue, it seemed to me that delay was wholly unnecessary. You are aware that I have many reasons to feel gratified to your family, that I have peculiar reasons for affection towards one at least of your sisters, and also that I highly esteem yourself. Do not therefore accuse me of wrong motives when I say that my answer to your proposal must be a decided negative. In forming this answer — I trust I have listened to the dictates of conscience more than to those of inclination; I have no personal repugnance to the idea of a union with you — but I feel convinced that mine is not the sort of disposition calculated to form the happiness of a man like you. It has always been my habit to study the character of those amongst whom I chance to be thrown, and I think I know yours and can imagine what description of woman would suit you for a wife. Her character should not be too marked, ardent and original — her temper should be mild, her piety undoubted, her spirits even and cheerful, and her 'personal attractions' sufficient to please your eye and gratify your just pride. As for me, you do not know me, I am not this serious, grave, cool-headed individual you suppose — You would think me romantic and eccentric — you would say I was satirical and severe. However, I scorn deceit and I will never for the sake of attaining the distinction of matrimony and escaping the stigma of an old maid take a worthy man whom I am conscious I cannot render happy.”
After becoming curate of the parish church of Earnley, near Chichester, Henry had begun to search for an appropriate wife. He had known Charlotte through her friendship with his younger sister, Ellen, from about 1835. Her polite demurral seemingly aroused no apparent resentment on the part of the Nusseys, nor does it seem to have weighed on Charlotte’s mind, for she remained on companiable terms with Henry for many years.
Leonard Sidney Woolf
by Vanessa Bell, 1940
She needed a confessor! Would she find it there, in the world of the artists? All over the world they had their meeting places, their affiliations, their rules of membership, their kingdoms, their chiefs, their secret channels of communication. They established common beliefs in certain painters, certain musicians, certain writers. They were the misplaced persons too, unwanted at home usually, or repudiated by their families. But they established new families, their own religions, their own doctors, their own communities.
She remembered someone asking Jay: “Can I be admitted if I show proofs of excellent taste?”
"That is not enough," said Jay. "Are you also willing to become an exile? Or a scapegoat? We are the notorious scapegoats, for living as others live only in their dreams at night, for confessing openly what others only confess to doctors under guarantee of professional secret. We are also underpaid: people feel that we are in love with our work, and that one should not be paid for doing what you most love to do."
In this world they had criminals too. Gangsters in the world of art, who produced corrosive works born of hatred, who killed and poisoned with their art. You can kill with a painting or a book too.
Was Sabina one of them? What had she destroyed?
Rhoda, with whom I shared silence when the others spoke, she who hung back and turned aside when the herd assembled and galloped with orderly, sleek backs over the rich pastures, has gone now like the desert heat. When the sun blisters the roofs of the city I think of her; when the dry leaves patter to the ground; when the old men come with pointed sticks and pierce little bits of paper as we pierced her—
O western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!
(‘Look, Rhoda,’ said Louis, ‘they have become nocturnal, rapt. Their eyes are like moths’ wings moving so quickly that they do not seem to move at all.’
‘Horns and trumpets,’ said Rhoda, ‘ring out. Leaves unfold; the stags blare in the thicket. There is a dancing and a drumming, like the dancing and the drumming of naked men with assegais.’
‘Like the dance of savages,’ said Louis, ‘round the camp-fire. They are savage; they are ruthless. They dance in a circle, flapping bladders. The flames leap over their painted faces, over the leopard skins and the bleeding limbs which they have torn from the living body.’
‘The flames of the festival rise high,’ said Rhoda. ‘The great procession passes, flinging green boughs and flowering branches. Their horns spill blue smoke; their skins are dappled red and yellow in the torchlight. They throw violets. They deck the beloved with garlands and with laurel leaves, there on the ring of turf where the steep-backed hills come down. The procession passes. And while it passes, Louis, we are aware of downfalling, we forebode decay. The shadow slants. We who are conspirators, withdrawn together to lean over some cold urn, note how the purple flame flows downwards.’
‘Death is woven in with the violets,’ said Louis. ‘Death and again death.’)
Naoko Takeuchi is an avid fan of fashion, the following are a few inspirations fukufashion has discovered.
Setsuna - Chanel 1992
Hotaru - Thierry Mugler Fashion Week 1992
Calaveras - Christian LaCroix Fashion Week 1992 and 1993
Koan - Christian LaCroix Fashion Week 1992
Black Lady - Yves Saint Laurent Opium perfume
Serenity - Christian Dior 1992
Naoko, my queen