Anne Bronte - Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Anne Bront (17 January 1820 28 May 1849) was a Britishnovelist and poet, the youngest member of the Bront literaryfamily. The daughter of a poor Irish clergyman in the Church ofEngland, Anne Bront lived most of her life with her family at theremote village of Haworth on the Yorkshire moors. For a couple ofyears she went to a boarding school. At the age of nineteen, sheleft Haworth working as a governess between 1839 and 1845. Afterleaving her teaching position, she fulfilled her literaryambitions. She wrote a volume of poetry with her sisters (Poems byCurrer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, 1846) and in short succession shewrote two novels: Agnes Grey, based upon her experiences as agoverness, was published in 1847; her second and last novel, TheTenant of Wildfell Hall appeared in 1848. Anne's creative life wascut short with her death of pulmonary tuberculosis when she wasonly twenty-nine years old. Anne Bront is often overshadowed byher more famous sisters, Charlotte, author of four novels includingJane Eyre, and Emily, author of Wuthering Heights. Anne's twonovels, written in a sharp and ironic style, are completelydifferent from the romanticism followed by her sisters. She wrotein a realistic, rather than a romantic style. Her novels, likethose of her sisters, have become classics of Englishliterature.

While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have beengreater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicitedfrom a few kind critics to have been greater than it deserved,I must also admit that from some other quarters it has beencensured with an asperity which I was as little prepared toexpect, and which my judgment, as well as my feelings, assuresme is more bitter than just. It is scarcely the province ofan author to refute the arguments of his censors and vindicatehis own productions; but I may be allowed to make here a fewobservations with which I would have prefaced the firstedition, had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions againstthe misapprehensions of those who would read it with aprejudiced mind or be content to judge it by a hastyglance.

My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amusethe Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet toingratiate myself with the Press and the Public: I wished totell the truth, for truth always conveys its own moral to thosewho are able to receive it. But as the priceless treasure toofrequently hides at the bottom of a well, it needs somecourage to dive for it, especially as he that does so will belikely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and waterinto which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for thejewel he procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes thecleansing of a careless bachelor's apartment will be liable to moreabuse for the dust she raises than commendation for theclearance she effects. Let it not be imagined, however, that Iconsider myself competent to reform the errors and abuses ofsociety, but only that I would fain contribute my humble quotatowards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear atall, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truthstherein than much soft nonsense.

As the story of 'Agnes Grey' was accused of extravagantover-colouring in those very parts that were carefully copiedfrom the life, with a most scrupulous avoidance ofall exaggeration, so, in the present work, I find myselfcensured for depicting con amore, with 'a morbid love of thecoarse, if not of the brutal,' those scenes which, I willventure to say, have not been more painful for the mostfastidious of my critics to read than they were for me todescribe. I may have gone too far; in which case I shall be carefulnot to trouble myself or my readers in the same way again; butwhen we have to do with vice and vicious characters, Imaintain it is better to depict them as they really are thanas they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing in itsleast offensive light is, doubtless, the most agreeable coursefor a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest,or the safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls oflife to the young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover themwith branches and flowers? Oh, reader! if there were less ofthis delicate concealment of facts - this whispering, 'Peace,peace,' when there is no peace, there would be less of sin andmisery to the young of both sexes who are left to wring theirbitter knowledge from experience.

I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of theunhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I havehere introduced, are a specimen of the common practices ofsociety - the case is an extreme one, as I trusted none would failto perceive; but I know that such characters do exist, and ifI have warned one rash youth from following in their steps, orprevented one thoughtless girl from falling into thevery natural error of my heroine, the book has not beenwritten in vain. But, at the same time, if any honest readershall have derived more pain than pleasure from itsperusal, and have closed the last volume with a disagreeableimpression on his mind, I humbly crave his pardon, for suchwas far from my intention; and I will endeavour to dobetter another time, for I love to give innocent pleasure.Yet, be it understood, I shall not limit my ambition to this -or even to producing 'a perfect work of art': time and talentsso spent, I should consider wasted and misapplied. Such humbletalents as God has given me I will endeavour to put to theirgreatest use; if I am able to amuse, I will try to benefittoo; and when I feel it my duty to speak an unpalatable truth, withthe help of God, I WILL speak it, though it be to theprejudice of my name and to the detriment of my reader'simmediate pleasure as well as my own.

One word more, and I have done. Respecting the author'sidentity, I would have it to he distinctly understood thatActon Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and thereforelet not his faults be attributed to them. As to whether thename be real or fictitious, it cannot greatly signify to thosewho know him only by his works. As little, I should think, canit matter whether the writer so designated is a man, or a woman, asone or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I takethe imputation in good part, as a compliment to the justdelineation of my female characters; and though I am boundto attribute much of the severity of my censors to thissuspicion, I make no effort to refute it, because, in my ownmind, I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is sowhatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, orshould be, written for both men and women to read, and I am ata loss to conceive how a man should permit himself towrite anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, orwhy a woman should be censured for writing anything that wouldbe proper and becoming for a man.

July 22nd, 1848.

TO J. HALFORD, ESQ.

Dear Halford,

When we were together last, you gave me a very particular andinteresting account of the most remarkable occurrences of yourearly life, previous to our acquaintance; and then yourequested a return of confidence from me. Not being in astory-telling humour at the time, I declined, under the pleaof having nothing to tell, and the like shuffling excuses,which were regarded as wholly inadmissible by you; for though youinstantly turned the conversation, it was with the air of anuncomplaining, but deeply injured man, and your face wasovershadowed with a cloud which darkened it to the end ofour interview, and, for what I know, darkens it still; foryour letters have, ever since, been distinguished by a certaindignified, semi-melancholy stiffness and reserve, thatwould have been very affecting, if my conscience had accusedme of deserving it.