On Sunday, I finally completed Anne Brontë’s ‘’The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” – all blessed 489 pages of it – successfully wrapping up my third consecutive, tormented year with the Brontës for Valentine’s Day.
First of all, let me say there doesn’t seem to have been a weak link between the Brontë sisters, in regard to their respective talents as writers. Indeed, since the sisters published under pseudonyms (Currer Bell for Charlotte, Ellis Bell for Emily, and Acton Bell for Anne), it was often speculated, early on, that the three were the same person. So perhaps there’s a powerful argument to be made for growing up in comparative isolation and having to make your own entertainment, with only your siblings, the moors, a good library, and a single, working father with progressive ideas about freedom and a sound education to sustain you. Being the offspring of a minister also ensured a fluency in recalled bible passages, which are alluded to frequently throughout the Brontës’ writings, not least in “Wildfell Hall.”
For me, the great weakness of Anne’s novel (her second, after “Agnes Grey”) is in its structure. So compelling is the book’s miserable second act, that it makes the framing device, especially the ending, seem almost precious by comparison. Loosely epistolary in nature (employing a narrative device of telling the story through letters and journal entries), the novel conveys its information to the reader through two of its central characters. And one of them, the panting George Markham, is as problematic in his way as the rakish Arthur Huntingdon. Is he really any more a fulfilling match for Helen than her husband (abusive S.O.B. that he is)?
To be fair, in the passages narrated by Markham, the character’s obsessive, frequently cloying, quasi-adolescent protestations of love for Helen are understandably central to his thoughts; but how often does he actually think about HER? Whereas Helen, with all her suffering, comes across as someone of much greater substance. She certainly displays more resilience in a society where the rules are stacked against women, whose fortunes, in all senses, are basically tied up with their husbands or fathers. If a woman winds up in a bad marriage, she’s stuck, and Helen marries a monster.
But face it, that’s why we love the Brontës, for the tempest-tossed heroines who can’t seem to resist the storm. Unfortunately, Arthur possesses neither the wounded nobility of Rochester nor the demonic fury of Heathcliff. Nor, sadly, does George. What compels is Helen’s degradation in an isolated, loveless, often empty mansion. I suppose it’s a metaphor to some extent for her unrequited love for a scoundrel who is in no way worthy of it.
The first act reads almost like a Jane Austen novel, with all the gossip and social maneuverings of a rural community of farmers, clergymen, and gentlefolk. The third is a pat, precious denouement. But it is in the long central portion, which doesn’t begin until about 150 pages in, in which Helen Huntingdon tells the tale of her harrowing marriage to the scapegrace Arthur (via her journal), that “Wildfell Hall” becomes so horribly compelling, as the narrator details the mounting degradation and hopelessness of her union.
This is my fourth Bronte novel, actually, having read Charlotte’s “Shirley” a little over 30 years ago, when taking a graduate course on the Victorian novel. In her way, Helen has been received as a cutting-edge feminist, within the strictures of the Victorian social order, as would be Charlotte’s heroine. (Formerly the name Shirley had had masculine associations; that changed largely with the success of Charlotte’s novel, which was published in 1849, the year after “Wildfell Hall.”) But Helen’s options are sadly few. The extent of her power is that she can close a door against her husband and harbor plans, with few resources, to escape in the night. Talk about you’ve come a long way, baby!
She’s more resourceful than that, actually, as she also figures out a way to earn her own meager living – for as unlikely a means of financial sustenance as it is.
Helen’s got courage and resolve to burn, but the depths of her strength are truly revealed in a decision she makes in the second half of the book that illustrates her extraordinary selflessness, forgiveness, and grace, especially after having been treated so poorly, and under conditions in which she essentially risks everything.
I hate to use such a trendy label as “toxic masculinity,” but all the “gentlemen” seem to do in this book is hunt, gamble, carouse, and intimidate. At one point, even Markham, the “nice” alternative to Arthur, jealously brains a rival (who later turns out to be more than he seems).
Am I glad I read it? Sure! I’d probably rank it below Emily’s “Wuthering Heights,” if only because of the insane twistedness of the latter’s characters and narrative. Anne certainly wants for nothing, in terms of writing ability and insight, but the character of Arthur never achieves the magnetic Byronism of Heathcliff – not that that was necessarily her aim. That said, for me, Charlotte’s “Jane Eyre” is still the champ, wholly satisfying as the quintessential gothic romance.
Of the three, “Wildfell Hall” is the most unflinching in its realism. The sisters had plenty of first-hand experience with the trials and tribulations of debauchery, through the dissipation of their brother, Branwell. What’s remarkable is that Anne so well understood the wider social and romantic intricacies of the world beyond the parsonage. If the Brontës are anything to go by, finding employment as a governess must be very good training for a writer.
Interestingly, Charlotte was not a big fan of “Wildfell Hall.” The siblings all died early: Emily in 1848 at 30, Anne in 1849 at 29, and Charlotte in 1855 at 38. Charlotte survived the longest, and she was not timid in her criticism of “Wildfell Hall.” She even went so far as to suppress its republication. When the book did appear again, the text was abridged and mutilated, and like the character of Helen herself, was subjected to even further indignities over the years. So do be cautious, if you’re shopping for a copy, even if it’s advertised as “complete and unabridged!”
According to an afternote in my edition, a clothbound hardcover from Penguin Classics, the author’s personal copy of the first edition, with her handwritten notes and annotations, is housed at Princeton University Library (although there is some question as to whether or not the marginalia is in fact hers).
Classic Ross Amico, reading the world’s classics, so you don’t have to!
Now it’s well past time for me to sit down with a pad of paper and a biography of one of the key, though largely unsung, American instrumentalists of the 20th century, for an upcoming project I’m supposed to participate in, in earnest, beginning next week…