by Nick Holland
A more favourable impression was left on the critic from Douglas Jerrolds’ Weekly, who stated that Agnes Grey was a tale ‘well worth the writing and the reading’.4 Nevertheless, it continued to be the wildness of Wuthering Heights that drove the success that the three volumes enjoyed.
Emily’s indignation was fired up by the scathing reviews of Wuthering Heights. She would throw the papers to the floor, unuttered curses seething away within her. Anne took reviews both indifferent and bad with her usual stoicism. Let the readers decide, she would say, not the critics; a good author never writes for the critics but from the courage of their own convictions.
There was one accusation, however, that did wound Anne, and it would be used against her again with her forthcoming novel. She could not countenance people saying that elements of her story that were based upon incidents she had seen at first hand were too fantastical, too monstrous to be true. People could accuse Anne of many things and she would bear the charges without complaint and unflinchingly, but she would never allow her honesty to be called into question. It is for this reason that she used the introduction to her second novel to also defend her first novel. She had not invented or embellished the incidents that some people found distasteful in Agnes Grey; that was something she would never do, as they were about to find out.
The Atlas review that had been so dismissive of Agnes Grey finished with a prediction: ‘We are not quite sure that the next novel will not efface it.’5 This was exactly what Anne intended, for by the time the review appeared she had already completed its successor, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
Just as her sister Charlotte had finished The Professor and then quickly commenced writing Jane Eyre, so Anne refused to rest on her laurels. In July 1847, the very month that she received an offer of publication from Thomas Cautley Newby for Agnes Grey, she began to work on her next offering, and her two novels were to be as different as they could be.
With Agnes Grey, Anne had written on a very personal theme. She opened up the heart that was usually locked so firmly shut and revealed her personal dreams of love and marriage, as well as exposing some of the harsh conditions that governesses of the time were having to endure. Anne’s attitude to marriage is also a theme of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, but this longer book, perfectly tailored to the prevailing three volume format, takes a much broader look at the problems affecting society as a whole.
To Anne, being a novelist was an extension of her duties as a governess and teacher. Just because the people reading her book would be in cities she would never see, leading lives she would never know about, did not mean that they would escape a lesson or two from her. This earned her great censure from some quarters of society, and some of those who were closest to her, but she refused to apologise if she had upset a proportion of her readers and clung courageously to her doctrine of pure and unadulterated truth, as she again espoused in her preface to the novel’s second edition:
When we have to do with vice and vicious characters, I maintain it is better to depict them as they really are than as they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing in its least offensive light, is doubtless the most agreeable course for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or the safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and flowers? O Reader! if there were less of this delicate concealment of facts – this whispering of ‘Peace, peace’ when there is no peace, there would be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes who are left to wring their bitter knowledge from experience.6
Some people have discerned in this preface, and in the book as a whole, an attack upon, or response to, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, but this is a false interpretation. Yes, the dangers of alcoholism, gambling and cruelty are exposed to the light in a much more honest and judgemental fashion by Anne’s book than by Emily’s, but could she really be referring to Wuthering Heights when she talks of books that have a ‘delicate concealment of facts’ or contain ‘much soft nonsense’? Wuthering Heights could surely never be described as ‘soft’ or as a book that conceals the harshness and brutality existing in the world.
Whilst the Anne and Emily of 1847 were not in the close twin-like accord that they had been as children, due in large part to Emily’s increasing retreat into her own isolationism, they were still full of love and respect for each other. Their relationship had not broken down but had merely evolved, just as relationships between sisters must always evolve as they grow older. Anne had been fully aware of the content of Emily’s book and would not have allowed her own Agnes Grey to be published alongside it if she had felt it immoral or damaging to its readers.
Anne saw Wuthering Heights for what it was: a brilliant piece of fiction. A fairy story, similar to those that Tabby Aykroyd had told them as young children or those that she and Emily had woven into their Gondal tales and poems. Emily did not share Anne’s religious fervour for teaching and improving her readers, all that she cared about was creating a great novel that was thrilling to read, much in the way that her literary hero Sir Walter Scott had done. Anne appreciated this and accepted that she and her sister were writing with different aims in mind, but she was determined that her second novel would be a work of fiction that held a mirror up to reality.
Although Anne’s novel is not a direct response to Wuthering Heights, and especially not an implicit criticism of it, there are some points of similarity that showed the influence Emily’s book had on her, just as Anne’s first book had influenced Jane Eyre. Both novels feature a large and imposing hall in a solitary moorland setting (revealing the use of Ponden Hall as a model for both buildings) and both centre on a mysterious newcomer with a hidden past. There is also, of course, the fact that both houses share the same initials, WH, and the superficial similarity between the names Heathcliff and Huntingdon. Even so, there are more points of difference than congruity between the two novels.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is a book that is centred upon big themes: the importance of love in marriage, how addiction can destroy both the addict and their family, society’s attitude to class, belief in a loving and redeeming God and equality of the sexes. On all these issues, Anne was often to find herself at variance with the prevailing thoughts of her day, and she was castigated for it. This would take its toll on Anne’s reputation and her health, but in the early period of writing the novel, at least, she was happy.
It is from this period that we have the first of five Anne Brontë letters that are currently known to survive. Charlotte had recently returned from Brookroyd at Birstall, and Ellen Nussey had sent back presents for all the family, even including a cap for Tabitha Aykroyd. For Anne she sent a jar of medicinal crab cheese, an object that may sound less than appetising today but one that shows how thoughtful Ellen could be and reveals the increasing closeness between the two. Ellen was aware that Anne had suffered a particularly severe asthma attack in late 1846 and that in October 1847 her health was still weakened as a result. Nevertheless, Anne’s letter by return to Ellen is cheery in its nature and begins by affirming that the recent spell of windy weather had not brought her the usual coughs and colds that she dreaded more than anything else. She also thanks Ellen for her gift, saying, ‘the crab cheese is excellent, and likely to be very useful, but I don’t intend to need it’.7 Anne later alludes to a wedding that Ellen was planning to attend and writes that ‘when the wedding fever reaches you I hope it will be to some good purpose and give you no cause to regret its advent’.8 This cheery and compact epistle finishes by passing on the best wishes of the Major, Emily’s nickname, and a profession that Anne is Ellen’s affectionate friend.
Writing the letter would have been the precursor to the evening’s work on her new novel. She would have licked a taster of crab cheese from the end of her finger and then pulled the sheet of paper closer to her, before continuing her work by candle light. She was finding the writing of the first section of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
to be no onerous task as the ending of Agnes Grey had been. Indeed her cheery disposition at the time is evident in this portion of the work itself, which is full of flashes of a vivacious humour, to an extent not seen in any other Brontë book.
The male hero of the novel, and narrator for large parts of it, is the gentleman farmer Gilbert Markham, and he is a beautifully rounded character. We see the serious, love struck side of him, but Anne is also unafraid to show the self-aggrandising, narcissistic, almost buffoonish side to him. This family trait is also carried down to Gilbert’s younger brother, Fergus, whose sole intention it is to annoy his family so much that they allow him to leave them and join the army. Fergus is sarcastic and sneering, and yet he often ends up the object of the humour, as in the first chapter of the novel, when he attempts to mock his sister Rose for wanting to know more about the new tenant who has arrived at Wildfell Hall:
‘Pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and all about it; for I don’t know how I can live till I know’, said Fergus, very gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit, he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and butter, and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room; and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.9
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall can be divided into three distinct parts. The first is narrated by Markham as he gets ever closer to the mysterious tenant herself, a woman known to the villagers of nearby Linden-Car as Helen Graham. The second section takes the form of a diary narrated by Helen herself, where we finally learn the truth about her past. Section three looks at the aftermath of Markham reading Helen’s diary, as he narrates the story of how they eventually come to be married.
The initial section of the book is conventionally nineteenth century, although as always with Anne, it is superbly written, full of little details and yet never bogged down by extraneous words. We learn that a woman has taken residence in a house that has long been abandoned, the Wildfell Hall of the title. We, and the villagers, soon learn that she is a widow with a young son and that she also lives with an ageing maid. She likes to paint, and indeed makes a living of sorts out of the sales of her paintings.
Anne has created a suspense-filled opening that will have her readers guessing: will this be a romance, a mystery novel or even a gothic horror? In fact it is none of the above: it is a revolutionary novel, completely different from anything that had preceded it. Before long we learn that Helen Graham isn’t a widow at all, and that Graham is an assumed name. The truth that Anne reveals about Helen would shock and delight her readers by equal measure, and scandalise the refined society it so scathingly depicted.
Markham has an arrangement of sorts with the vicar’s daughter Eliza Millward, although they have little real affection for each other. He has dismissed all the talk about the mysterious new neighbour until he happens to be walking past Wildfell Hall with his dog Sancho. A small boy, who we learn is called Arthur, tries to climb a wall to reach the dog but becomes fastened upon a tree branch. Markham catches the boy just as his mother, Mrs Graham, runs from the hall. On this first meeting he finds the woman intriguing yet aloof to the point of ingratitude. Later he sees her again in church, and once more finds her cold and distant, yet almost hypnotically beautiful.
Over the course of this first section, Markham sees more and more of Helen, and he falls inescapably in love with her, to the point where he desists in his regular visits to Eliza Millward. As his ardour is growing, however, Helen’s reputation with the villagers is plummeting.
We first see this when Helen and Arthur accept an invitation to visit the Markhams. Gilbert’s mother is scandalised by the way that Helen treats her son, and especially by the fact that she won’t let him touch alcohol. To society at this time it was not shocking that a child of around 5 years of age should drink wine but that he should be forbidden from doing so. Helen reveals that she has purposely made alcohol repugnant to her son, and she is laughed at by the assembled company, who then upbraid her for turning him into a ‘milksop’.
Rumours continue to circulate that Helen Graham is not all she should be. There is even talk that she has not been married at all and that she is having an affair with Mr Lawrence, the squire of the village, one of Gilbert’s friends. These vicious barbs are brought to a height at a party where Eliza points out the physical similarity between Arthur and Mr Lawrence. Markham is roused into a fury, and refuses to believe anything against the woman, but his faith is soon to be put to the test.
One evening Markham hears how the vicar has been to visit Mrs Graham to point out what he sees as reprehensible in her conduct. Markham rides quickly to Wildfell Hall and finds Helen in tears of anguish. They hold hands, and Helen explains that she has a dreadful secret and has wronged him, but if he meets her on the moors at midday on the morrow, she will reveal the truth to him. Markham agrees reluctantly to leave her, but then returns to the hall to ensure she is okay. Whilst approaching a window, he hears a voice and hides behind a holly bush. To his horror, he sees Mr Lawrence with his arm around Helen.
We have now reached a point where Markham’s indifference has turned to love and now to hate. He meets Lawrence on his horse and attacks him with a whip, nearly killing him in the process. The planned meeting doesn’t happen, yet although he attempts to avoid Helen at every opportunity, she eventually finds him and asks him to come to Wildfell Hall one last time. He does so, and Helen presents him with a diary, asking him to read it and then return it to her.
The first section of the novel is now completed. It had started with humour, a comedy of manners almost, but has ended with violence, hatred and anguish. These are themes that will be continued in the second section, the part of the novel that would become infamous in its day.
We now pass into Helen’s diary, beginning with her as an 18-year-old living with her aunt and uncle. Her mother is dead, and although her father and brother are still alive she lives apart from them. Her aunt begins by warning her against the perils of marrying unwisely. Love and looks should be discounted in a wise marriage she contends, and Helen is in agreement. It is not what is on the outside that matters she asserts but on the inside.
This resolution is put to the test when she meets a handsome young man at a ball. He is Arthur Huntingdon, and he soon asks for her hand in marriage. Helen’s aunt is strongly against the union: the man has already squandered much of the fortune he inherited through gambling and intemperate living. Helen, however, insists that she can change his behaviour and redeem him from any past sins: ‘If I hate the sins I love the sinner, and would do much for his salvation.’10
They are soon married, and Helen becomes Mrs Huntingdon of the grand Grassdale Manor. At first she is happy, although she finds fault in her husband’s self-conceit and in the control he exerts over her. She can never do anything without his permission and he calls upon her constantly as if he were her child rather than her husband.
The marriage rapidly worsens. Huntingdon travels to London for a week but is gone for months, returning dissipated and with a wild look in his eye. Every year his friends spend long periods at Grassdale, where Helen is forced to witness their orgiastic and drunken behaviour. Each character in the party is sketched impeccably by Anne. We have Lord Lowborough, the man who has gambled away his fortune. He has given up drink only to become hooked on laudanum, yet soon his friends hold him down and force him to drink again. Mr Hattersley is a violent, loud, drunken man, who abuses his friends and his wife, Helen’s friend Millicent, in the company of others. Mr Hargrave behaves more respectably than the others, but it becomes apparent that this is merely part of his scheme to attract Helen into having an adulterous relationship with h
im. Grimsby is a rank misogynist, always looking for ways to turn Huntingdon even further against his wife.
These are the characters that the virtuous Helen has to spend time with, and Anne does not flinch from revealing the depths of depravity they sink into. We see men unable to speak and walk, laughing helplessly on the floor. Others fight drunkenly with each other, until candles are held to their hands, and there is sexual depravity and infidelity too. Helen, by means of hiding in the shrubbery just as Gilbert had done in the book’s first section, finds that her husband has been having an affair with his friend’s wife, Lady Lowborough.
A crisis has been reached. Helen asks her husband if he will let her leave and take the young son that they now have with her. Huntingdon refuses, although he has said that he has no love for the son as Helen spends too much time doting upon it instead of him. To have a wife walk out on him would be too shocking for him to contemplate, and a slight on his reputation. An agreement is then reached whereupon they will live under the same roof as man and wife in name only, an act of keeping up appearances.
The next few years pass in this manner, with Huntingdon’s drunken debauches getting worse and Hargrave’s attempts to steal Helen for himself becoming more persistent, yet now the final betrayal is committed. Huntingdon is trying to corrupt their son as well, encouraging him to drink, swear and curse his mother. This Helen cannot abide, and she hatches a plan to escape Grassdale with her son, assume a new name and make a living through her painting.
This scheme is discovered, and Huntingdon destroys her painting equipment before confiscating her money and jewellery. He then brings a new governess for his son, but Helen soon realises that this is simply another of Huntingdon’s conquests. She makes a new plan to escape and writes in secret to her brother, asking him if he will prepare a wing of the house that they were born in, now abandoned, for her to live in. The brother is Frederick Lawrence, and the house is Wildfell Hall. The flight is successful, and the diary ends with her living under the assumed name of Helen Graham, which had been her mother’s maiden name.
