Charlotte Brontë: a life (book review)

Published in the US as Charlotte Brontë: a fiery heart, this new biography by English writer Claire Harman surpassed all my expectations.

I've long possessed a keen interest in the Brontë sisters, not merely because of the unusual books they endowed to posterity. As a group of writers their ability to decipher human emotions and psychology is astonishingly acute for women whose lives offered very little in the way of human society. How did they grow into this and what influenced them? I was keen to find out and excited about reading this new book. 

Claire Harman has delved deeply into the entire Brontë catalogue of research, particularly the hundreds of surviving letters that passed between Charlotte Brontë and her closest friends. She spent hours at the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth, immersing herself as much as possible in the world of the Brontës, their home as well as the drearily beautiful surroundings of the rugged moor and the "strange uncivilized little place" in which they spent most of their short lives.

Charlotte Brontë and her sisters existed in a world --an entire culture of dependence-- that is almost completely forgotten in today's Western society. The reliance of women on the benevolence of their fathers and brothers was absolute, unless they were able to receive an education or marry. Fortunately for Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, their father was a Church of England vicar who was unusually well educated for a man who had been born into poverty in Ireland.  He made his way to England and never looked back, possessing a will to forge ahead and compartmentalise. This indomitable will kept him going through his wife's early death, pushed him to educate his children himself away from the "uncivilized" world of Haworth, and probably influenced his elderly manipulation of his surviving daughter Charlotte.

The pre-Jane Eyre part of Charlotte’s life makes for a dark preface to her future success. After being cocooned in a home environment that was marked by the oddly detailed creation of imaginary worlds with her siblings, she goes to Brussels with her sister Emily to round out her education. Experiences incurred here influence her writing for the rest of her life.

Upon her return home from Brussels, she and her sisters Anne and Emily embark on an almost feverishly intense quest to publish their writing. Here Jane Eyre comes into being, written in a fury. The three sisters finally publish their first books under gender-neutral aliases: Acton, Currer, and Elliot Bell.

One of my favourite scenes in this book is the one in which Charlotte reveals her true identity to her London publisher, Mr Smith. Chased by rumours that "all those Bells" were actually one and the same author, Anne and Charlotte set out to disprove the gossip by visiting London in person to prove their identity.  Wisely, Harman allows Charlotte to relate the story herself through a letter to a friend. After she tells Mr Smith she is Currer Bell, handing him a letter from himself to confirm it, he "looked at it-- then at me--again--yet again-- I laughed at his queer perplexity-- A recognition took place--. I gave my real name--Miss Brontë..."

What would pass for a cute "mistaken identity" anecdote in today's society was a profound shocker in early Victorian England.  What a triumph for these Brontë women who were so ahead of their time!

Any of us who have some familiarity with the Brontë saga are aware that their era was plagued by high mortality, caused by disease, lack of access to clean water, and poor nutrition. Anne, Emily, and Charlotte endured the sorrow of losing their mother when they were small children, and less than a year later their eldest two sisters died in short succession after virulent attacks of tuberculosis. Their one surviving sibling, Branwell, wrote brilliant poetry and attempted portrait painting but could not control his addiction to opium and alcohol. He died not long after his sisters' initial writing successes. Within months of his death Emily and Anne both died of tuberculosis, leaving Charlotte to care for her elderly father.

Claire Harman writes carefully and honestly about this time in Charlotte's life, adroitly avoiding a sense of melodrama that has pervaded other accounts of the Brontë family. The grief that controlled Charlotte's existence and the immutability of her beloved sisters' deaths is obvious without being overdone. Charlotte also had to endure critics who did not recognise her sisters' genius, in a total misunderstanding of the nature of their novels. In her newfound status as a bestselling author, she wrote biographical prefaces to new editions of Emily's Wuthering Heights and Anne's Agnes Grey in the hope that they would not be forgotten.

For Charlotte the next four years were marked by constant writing, most notably a rewrite of her first novel, The Professor (published posthumously) and her usual personal correspondence with friends. Shirley, published right after Anne's death, did not possess the brilliance of Charlotte's first novels. She was clearly feeling a profound sense of loss. I find this a telling clue that Charlotte's own creativity was fed and fanned into flame by the close proximity of her sisters, their ideas and intensity. I wonder what different novels we might be reading today if not for the fact that their writing burst from a creative bubble that collectively enveloped the three of them. 

In the final year of Charlotte's life, she married her father's curate after an intense period of emotional manipulation by her father, who preferred that she take care of him rather than marry. The marriage was finally agreed to under the condition that the newly married couple live with him in Haworth.  Just months after Charlotte's marriage, she died abruptly of what Claire Harman surmises was "hyperemesis gravidarum" --an unusual condition of pregnancy that causes the sufferer intense sickness: in the 1850's, virtually a death sentence.

As in the case of Jane Austen, I've always wondered: what would Charlotte have written had she lived into old age?  

"Of all the subjects I have written about, hers is the most unquiet ghost," Claire Harman says of Charlotte Brontë. 

And as much as I enjoyed this biography, indeed, I finish reading it with a sense of "unquiet".

Charlotte Brontë: a fiery heart —@ Barnes & Noble.com

Charlotte Brontë: a life — @ Waterstones.com


Related post: read my review of 2011 Jane Eyre film. 

Machynlleth (from 19 October 2013)

(The first in a series of posts from last autumn that were never published due to our move.  Enjoy!)

This is one of our favourite places in Wales.

Machynlleth is a historically significant town, nowadays full of unique shops, yummy cafes, the best fish and chips ever, and Mr J's favourite sweet shop.  The sweet shop owner remembered the boys from our trip in August and offered to send them sweets from Wales even after we've moved to the States!  They were beside themselves with gratitude.

It's always lovely to be back... a little bit like having one of those "going home" feelings.  At the local park, which looks out over hillsides dotted with faraway sheep, Coo learned to use the monkey bars.

Machynlleth was in the news last year for a difficult reason, but it's a place with an incredible sense of community; because of that I still think of it in a positive light rather than a negative one and hope that others do too.

We love the Quarry Cafe and all the treats it has to offer.

We even found a hobbit house door! Time for the hobbits to go on a great adventure, so we're saying goodbye to the Shire Machynlleth, for a while...

Leaving the Hobbit House

We're leaving our home here in less than three weeks, and my house is starting to look like it.  I rather wish it looked more like it, for that would mean that I've accomplished more! 

I'm feeling like Bilbo Baggins, happy in my hobbit dwelling and thinking with some trepidation about an as-of-yet-unknown adventure awaiting me.

Some of my favourite places in our house:

My little cooking corner, just the right size, with everything in easy reach.

Quiet time, bedtime, a perfect space for a small person who wants to snuggle or sleep --and I love her tiny place, too!

Chilled evenings with friends and family are the best here in our dark, fairy light-draped, red-painted living room, relaxing and enjoying each other's company. The kids love reading here during the day; it can be an oasis of calm in the midst of our noisy house.

Meals around this table, or card games late at night with friends. There's always a homemade candle burning at the centre of the table when we're sitting down together. 

Everyday vs Different

I push my way through the slog of normal everyday life.  Making breakfasts and lunches and dinners for a few of us or many, cleaning up messes both substantial and miniscule, washing clothes and dishes and small people's hair, reading aloud, thinking aloud, talking loudly, speaking softly. All these things I've done for so long, here in this place, standing still yet so busy.

But my thoughts are occupied in trudging through a long, slow goodbye to all I have known and grown to love in the last thirteen years of my life here in Britain. My normal is changing. Not just that gradual change of passing time, but the all-encompassing change that a move brings.  And not just a move down the hill, or across the city. This is a move to the other side of the Atlantic: a "big" move.  Culturally --yes-- but literally, too. This is going to be something Different.

I've written before about how it feels to think of returning to the culture in which I was born and raised. Today, I'm thinking about how it feels to be leaving this one.

So many thoughts, all sketchy but infused with feeling.  I remember the day I stepped from the plane onto British soil for the first time, sixteen years ago.  Late August sun blazed bright, but the air was fresh and crisp. I fell in love, totally enamoured, with the velvety purple colour of the heathered hillsides.  Blinking in that sunshine, watching the cloud shadows skim across the moors of the Borders, everything seemed new and invigorating but also somehow familiar. I felt as if I was returning to a place that had once been home. 

After that first year, I returned, this time to England, two years later.  I spent many years settling, easing, establishing, learning.  It was much easier than I'd imagined, as if I was slotting my self into a place that was waiting for me.  So much of it fitted with me, with who I was as a person, just as if I were returning to a faraway home.

But now, all feels different.  Different is not knowing when or if we will be back.  Will it be as a family, or one by one, or not at all?  Righty is already saving money to visit New Zealand someday, and Lefty is currently [this week] considering a future career with MI5 when he's not storm-chasing.  I have a feeling that my wandering feet have been gifted to my children, too.  

But someday I will return, even if alone, retracing steps to the places I love.  I will go back to Figsbury Ring, on the Salisbury Plain, and remember.  I will stand in the biting wind and look for my children, my friends, my father and mother, my sister and brother, my husband, there once more. The grassy mound will be empty, apart from myself, but I will see them as they were when we went there together.

I will return to this town, this grubby bustling Midlands city that so many seem to hate, and search for familiar faces.  They will have disappeared, but I will remember.  The familiar treks and paths will open again to me and the past will be there, waiting for me.

I'll go back to the north, to Scotland, where I first arrived.  I will see myself as I was then: seventeen, breathing in everything that was fresh as the cold sea-salt air, new and exciting, and wonder where the years have gone.

It's a weight, this responsibility as a parent.  Which culture to choose for our children?  Because, unlike many, we can choose. We take our own with us, I know, but as parents we're not everything to them.  They will soak up their environment with us, the beautiful as well as the ugly, but the further culture will wash over them too and become part of them. Their accents will change and their horizons increase. Their days of riding round in tiny muddy circles on little bikes in our pocket of a back garden will expand to include gravel roads and grassy fields and bigger bicycles, and something Different. Our car trips and adventures to National Trust homes, our train journeys, the hours spent walking around our town, will all be exchanged for something Different.  I'm capitalising Different because for me it is like the personification of the new.

I don't want to fear Different even though there is so much to fear, because in reality I have no idea what Different will look like.

I only know what I will miss right here, right now, in this Everyday.

Thirty-Six Hours in London

The entire purpose of this trip was to renew Lefty and Righty's American passports.  Each time one of our American passports needs renewal [every five years for under-16s] we make an almost ritualistic trip to the American Embassy in London.  We've also visited the embassy to register our children's births as American citizens born abroad, collect my American passport [lost by Royal Mail], pick up emergency passports, and most recently, Dan had his visa interview there. We've counted eleven trips so far, but this is definitely the last one to the embassy in Grosvenor Square.  We're leaving, obviously, and in 2017 they're packing up and moving to the new embassy building in Wandsworth. Judging from the design --the new building looks like a silver ice cube with giant hairpins sticking out of it-- I'm sure the security there will be boundlessly adequate. And to think we just walked in off the street when we went to register Lefty and Righty's births back in 2002!

Over the last two days, I've been reliving our last trip to renew these guys' passports.  They were five and a half, and Mr J was two.  We visited the Natural History Museum and enjoyed the dinosaur and earthquake exhibits, had bread and homemade stew for tea from our food thermos, and stayed in a hotel that hadn't been decorated since the 1970s. Mr J stuck his finger in an electrical outlet the next morning before our appointment at the embassy and fussed the entire time we stood in the security queue because he thought we were taking him to the hospital over his sore finger. He'd had two ambulance trips already that year [it was only March]; but that's a story for another post.

We stayed at a "boutique hostel" in Willesden Green this time.  It lacked the silence, retro decor, and fabric-covered mattresses --probably bedbug infested-- of our 2008 hotel. [Have you ever slept on a laminated mattress? My advice: don't. It's rather sweaty.]

However, the hostel was full of European tourists, mostly under the age of 25, so the atmosphere was noisy and friendly, and we definitely helped liven it up with our crew.  

Not long after arriving on Thursday afternoon, we took the Tube to the Science Museum.  Dan, Lefty, and Righty came here for a Christmas trip one year and they were looking forward to showing us some of their favourite things.  We saw a piece of the Moon, which has never been in contact with the Earth's atmosphere, permanently preserved in liquid nitrogen.  We viewed an exhibit on the history of flight, complete with remnants of flying apparatus and machines dating back a few centuries.  The kids played for a long time in "Launchpad", an interactive gallery.

Remembering the fun of the roaring mechanical dinosaurs and the "earthquake room" that really shook, we decided to move on to the Natural History Museum, which is right next door to the Science Museum.  However, both exhibits were closed for maintenance.  Disappointed, we decided to carry on, to our doom.

As we rode up the majestic escalator into the giant Earth sculpture to reach the first floor, Coo's tiny foot somehow became trapped between the moving step and the side of the escalator.  After lots of shouting on our part, we managed to get the attention of someone below, who stopped the escalator.  Dan held her while a helpful bystander and a designated First-Aider worked to free her foot. It was twisted at an odd angle, and though my memory of the experience is a blur, I remember thinking that we were definitely going to be making a trip to the hospital.  The three boys were terrified --mostly because Dan and I had shouted, but also because their little sister is their treasure.  She went off, carried by Dan, to have her foot examined once it was free.

To our surprise, they both joined us not long after.  Apart from a small bruise below her toes, she was fine.  I guess it pays to have her bendy foot joints; her little foot twisted quite far but not far enough to cause a sprain or a break.

Everyone was ready to call it a day after this, so we headed back to the hostel, via a long walk through Hyde Park where we saw a heron and herds of tame ducks, geese, and swans.  

Another visitor to the Park shared bread with the kids so they could feed the birds, who were clearly accustomed to being fed by the public.

We put together a tea of beans on toast with rocket salad, and I chatted with other hostel residents while preparing food in the communal kitchen.

We had an early start and were downstairs munching through breakfast by 7.45.  The boys enjoyed the free juice, unlimited toast and cereal, and jam packets. Yes... my kids eat jam from their tiny single-serving packets with a spoon. I guess it's too hard to spread it on the toast.

Our embassy appointment was mid-morning, and the sun was out, so we had a lovely, stress-free journey into the centre of London.

We negotiated the passport process at the embassy and went for lunch at Whole Foods in Picadilly.

Post-lunch, we spent the remaining hours of the afternoon in the British Museum.  Coo fell asleep in the mei-tai on my back, so missed everything!

We saw the Rosetta Stone, of course, and the Ancient Egyptian rooms, and four out of five portions of the Middle East exhibits, all Assyrian.  Coo woke up as we were leaving, just in time to catch a glimpse of the Rosetta Stone. Mr J was relieved; he had been disturbed that she was missing it!  My mother figured out that we saw about one-twentieth of the museum, in the three hours we spent there.  I think a week would have been more sufficient in order to fully appreciate the treasure trove of artefacts and history contained within this palatial space.

The three boys were totally exhausted inside the museum; however, back on the Tube they were rejuvenated enough to work out as the train sped through the Underground.

We returned to Roosevelt, and then Dan negotiated rush-hour London traffic all the way east to Shoreditch, so Mom, Coo and I could investigate the People Tree sample sale.  Dan and the lads stayed in the car and watched east London Friday night wildlife; apparently Shoreditch is the new Camden: a hipster's paradise.

Driving home to the Midlands, all was going well until we were stopped in a traffic quagmire not twelve miles from home.  As four lines attempted to merge into one, we travelled three miles in the space of an hour!  All seven of us were so relieved to step through the door at home, no matter that it was much later than we'd intended.  

Today, all four children have played quietly, subdued by their hectic travels.  

I like London, and have many happy memories of times spent there with family and friends --not just at the American Embassy!  It is diverse, fun, and full of all the things I love: quirky small shops, healthy restaurants and Whole Foods, theatres, enormous bookshops, super-easy Tube travel, never a dull moment.  

Yet Edinburgh still is, and always will be, my favourite.

Hadrian's Wall and Housesteads Roman Fort

Our last morning in Scotland started with a two-hour cleaning session, as we determined to leave the holiday let where we stayed the week in better condition than it had been when we arrived.  I made cinnamon rolls, using a stainless steel water bottle in lieu of a rolling pin!

There was enough for all fourteen of us.  And then a bit more.

Finally it was time to get on the road.  The sky seems enormous in Scotland; I really don't know why.  That's just an impression I've always had.

We had an entire day of travelling ahead of us, as we planned to take a scenic route through national parks and forests, ending up near Hadrian's Wall in Yorkshire before we finally found a motorway and headed home.  After three hours in the car, this was how things were looking.

Righty and Lefty.

Coo.  Yes, there are crumbs and food remnants all over her clothes.

And Mr J, like a puppy dog, window open.

As we crossed the English border, Mr J opened his window and shouted "Goodbye, Scotland!" at the top of his lungs, which is, believe me, very loud indeed.

Taking the sting out of saying goodbye was the long-promised visit to World Heritage site Hadrian's Wall, the ancient stone boundary that stretches seventy-three miles across the width of the United Kingdom.  It was built by the occupying Romans in a last-ditch attempt to fend off the fierce Pictish tribes living in the Scottish borderlands.

Before arriving anywhere near Hadrian's Wall, we had a long drive through Yorkshire.  It was beautiful.

We stopped at Carrawburgh and stomped around in the temple of Mithras, long-abandoned.  Coo fell into a squelchy sheep-pooey mud puddle, spoiling what she weepingly termed her "best clothes".  After an initial mini-breakdown, she recovered remarkably well and happily consented to continue her adventure wearing pyjamas, jumper, and wellies.

Our next stop was Housesteads, a National Trust/English Heritage site. It was past six o'clock at this point and too late to visit the museum, but we walked up the hill to the the actual fort.

We spent over an hour in this isolated spot, enjoying the wonderful landscape and stunning views that stretched for miles. The darkening sky was overcast and filled with billowing grey clouds, so I cannot imagine how incredible the view must be on a clear day!

We walked to the bottom of the hill, up an incline, and left Housesteads, ready to leave the chill wind behind for a cosy four-hour drive home along the motorway.  

It was wonderful to be back in the Midlands, in our own house, in our own beds.  Yet I don't think this trip to Scotland will ever be forgotten by any of us.  It was a lovely week, full of friends, fun, cold weather, sunshine, history, and adventures. 

Whitchester House

This is where I lived, once upon a time.

It really felt like "once upon a time".  I was an imaginative seventeen-year-old, steeped in historical novels by Scottish authors like Sir Walter Scott and George McDonald, and suddenly all my imaginings became visible in this, my home for a year.

Once upon a time, it was a Bible college. Here I met other students from various different countries and forged many life-long friendships of the sort that last.  The "I haven't seen you for ten years but let's start where we left off" kind.

Nowadays, it's a rehabilitation centre run by an organisation called Teen Challenge.  We had a quick tour of the house, though regretfully were unable to see the corner room I once shared with two roommates.  Our tour guide was a Glaswegian, an ex-heroin addict, who overflowed with happiness over the changes in his life and his discovery of Jesus.  

The perfect gardens and well-manicured lawns I remembered were looking a bit shabby, rather worse for the wear, and though still nice, just not lived in.  When we were here, it was a homely house, full of people, fun, games, chores, and noise.  

Now, it's a much quieter place, a healing house.  Good... just different.

The flawless landscape around the house, the sloping hills [the Lammermuirs] still etch their beauty onto the enormous sky. Much of it looked the same as I remembered, apart from the tell-tale hint of time passing: wind turbines along the skyline, creaking and circling. I saw few sheep, unlike the hordes I remembered.  I'm not sure if they were away for shearing, or just not around anymore.  It did change the feel of the place, adding to the sense of silence.

We left, and I really felt as if I was leaving. It was my third visit to this house since 1998, and this time, I said goodbye.  I won't be back.  It is not the same anymore; it truly has passed on to a new stage in its history; maybe, judging from the tiredness of its appearance, the last.

Much more cheerfully, the final part of this afternoon included a visit with fellow students Pete and Sal.  I haven't seen them for nearly twelve years but sometimes people change less than places and it felt like old times again for a few hours.