When I was eight years old, my parents presented me with a Great Illustrated Classics version of Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. I didn't read the unabridged version until I was twelve, and continue to discover new things each time I read it, but even at eight, I loved the story, especially the parts where Sidney Carton steps up to save the life of his look-alike, Charles Darnay. I quickly followed up with David Copperfield after A Tale of Two Cities, and read a handful of his other works throughout my teen years. A Tale of Two Cities remains far and away my favorite. I can honestly say I acquired my taste for dead authors through Dickens.
During the summers, I participated in our local library's reading programs. The grand prize was always picking a book off the shelf that had been curated for the occasion.
The first year, given my aforementioned taste for dead authors, I selected Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I'm not sure I completely understood it the first time I read it, but I enjoyed it enough that the next year I selected Wuthering Heights by Charlotte's sister, Emily Bronte.
I remember the librarian expressing surprise at my choice, thinking perhaps the content was "above me." Naturally, in order to prove her wrong, I stuck to my decision and read it anyway. By the time I'd finished it, I was convinced it was the most depressing story I'd ever read. Now, I tend to think the librarian was probably right and I simply might not have been old enough to appreciate it for what it was. I don't remember enough of it now to be certain.
This uncertainty found me in Half-Price books a few months ago perusing works by the Bronte sisters, and more particularly, those of Anne Bronte, whom I'd never read, because I'd entirely given up on the sisters after that unfortunate incident with Emily. I held in my hands a little volume by Anne Bronte, Agnes Grey, wavering: what if she disappointed me as Emily had?
Eventually, though, I decided for the purchase, and I'm glad I did.
Agnes Grey's adventurous spirit coupled with her natural reserve and the resulting experiences were thoroughly relatable to me, and, as I understand, rooted in the author's own life.
Upon entering a new governess position, Agnes remarks, "I awoke the next morning; feeling like one whirled away by enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the clouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated from all he had seen or known before; or like a thistle-seed borne on the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soul, where it must lie long enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature: if, indeed, it ever can."
I found her story decidedly more optimistic than that of Wuthering Heights, and even than that of Jane Eyre. Perhaps this had to do with the character's obvious relationship with the Heavenly Father, something decidedly Iacking in both Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre.
Agonizing over a matter of the heart in prayer, Agnes relates this: "I fell upon my knees and offered up a fervent but not impetuous prayer: 'Thy will be done,' I strove to say throughout; but, 'Father, all things are possible with Thee, and may it be Thy will,' was sure to follow. That wish - that prayer - both men and women would have scorned me for - 'But Father, thou wilt not despise!' I said, and felt that it was true. It seemed to me that another's welfare was at least as ardently implored for as my own; nay, even that was the principal object of my heart's desire. I might have been deceiving myself; but that idea gave me confidence to ask, and power to hope I did not ask in vain."
I found Agnes Grey brimming with insight as well, in spite of its narrator's claims of shelteredness. In one passage, detailing her lonely condition, Agnes seems to echo the Apostle Paul: "Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each other's minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit against our will, slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps to act and speak as they do."
In another place, she speaks of poetry as a haven to alleviate poetry: "When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long-oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry - and find it, too - whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonise with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart."
The plot of Jane Eyre, at least, is higher than that of Agnes Gray, but I can forgive that easily enough. Sometimes, those of us with more romantic sensibilities need a more romantic story without undue and agonizing hindrances, even if such do not particularly reflect reality. Though not entirely unmolested by isolation and doubt, the story ends happily, with Agnes receiving her heart's desire.
Still, I wonder about the differences of style between the Bronte sisters, and hope to delve into and analyze them in the coming months. Of course, that means I will have to give Emily Bronte and Wuthering Heights another opportunity.
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