
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte is a novel that delves into the life of Helen Graham, a mysterious widow who moves into Wildfell Hall with her young son, sparking curiosity and speculation among the neighbors. The story unfolds through a series of letters and diary entries, revealing Helen's past struggles with an abusive husband and her journey towards independence. The book explores themes of morality, independence, and the societal challenges faced by women in Victorian England, all while portraying a strong and principled female protagonist.
Genres:
Tropes/Plot Devices:
Topics:
Notes:
Sensitive Topics/Content Warnings
Content warnings include domestic abuse, addiction, and themes of moral and societal judgment.
Has Romance?
Romance is present but intertwined with heavy themes of abuse and personal growth.
From The Publisher:
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall challenged the prevailing morals of the Victorian era. Especially shocking, at the time, was Helen's slamming of her bedroom door in the face of her husband, thereby overturning the sexual politics. It is considered to be one of the first feminist novels. The main character, Helen, is spirited and forthright, unafraid to speak to the men in her life with frankness. Anne Brontë portrays this as desirable, compared to the meekness of Milicent, who is trampled and ignored by her unrepentant husband. Vice is not unique to the men, however; Lady Lowborough's adultery has a particularly devastating effect on her husband, and the malice of Eliza Millward is poisonous to the entire community.
Ratings (41)
Incredible (7) | |
Loved It (20) | |
Liked It (10) | |
It Was OK (2) | |
Did Not Like (2) |
Reader Stats (115):
Read It (44) | |
Want To Read (53) | |
Did Not Finish (1) | |
Not Interested (17) |
2 comment(s)
Lovely vocabulary
Actual rating: 4.5
This was wonderful—I think I've found my literary soulmates in the Brontë sisters.
Anne's prose is poetic and romantic and deeply moving where it was meant to be. The framing device of Helen's diary entries nestled within Gilbert's letters is brilliant and incredibly compelling. I
am a little disappointed that the Goodreads blurb spoiled that
Helen is not actually a widow
, as I imagine this revelation would have been quite shocking if I'd come upon it naturally (as Anne no doubt intended), but this was still a pretty fast read given the length, excepting a few miserable chapters in the middle when the writing was clearly on the wall but
Helen was in a state of denial
.
I'd didn't think I'd enjoy reading Gilbert's letters as I've recently been bored by male-oriented classics, but Gilbert is such a romantic, even if he is a bit childish in parts, that I almost immediately fell in love with him myself.
(His assault on Lawrence was troubling, but somewhat understandable given what he believed—and if Lawrence forgave him, then I shall too.)
The opening chapters, set against the wonderfully Gothic run-down Wildfell hall, turned out to be some of my favorites.
Helen herself is a noble and sympathetic character whose great mistake was to
marry a man in hopes that she could change him
. She is a stronger, more patient, more faithful woman than I could ever hope to be. In fact, this novel is filled with wonderful women, from Rachel to Millicent (and some truly horrible ones too). I'm delighted that
I believe all the likeable characters earned a happy ending—including little Helen and Arthur, who I'm absolutely delighted ended up marrying each other.
Arthur, of course,
is truly despicable in every way. He reaped what he sowed, and I'm not sorry about it.
Some favorite passages:
Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone, – venerable and picturesque to look at, but, doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten airholes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered situation, – only shielded from the war of wind and weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it lay a few desolate fields, and then, the brown heathclad summit of the hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate with large balls of grey granite – similar to those which decorated the roof and gables – surmounting the gateposts), was a garden, – once, stocked with such hardy plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give them, – now, having been left so many years, untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed. The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk, were two thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its neck and half its body; the castellated towers of laurel in the middle of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they presented all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonized well with the ghostly legends and dark traditions our old nurse had told us respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants.
His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.
There is such a thing as looking through a person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in one hour, than it might take you a life time to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it,—or if you had not the sense to understand it.
‘But smiles and tears are so alike with me; they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.’
‘Because, I imagine there must be only a very, very few men in the world, that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one, he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.’
Was it pride that made me so extremely anxious to appear satisfied with my lot,—or merely a just determination to bear my self-imposed burden alone, and preserve my best friend from the slightest participation in those sorrows from which she had striven so hard to save me?
My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, like blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within: I breathed more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the pure moon shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark sky; and then, I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to hear. ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,’ seemed whispered from above their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in spite of earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and win a glorious rest at last!
December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life.
I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you had a heart once, and you gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the treasure you reclaimed it;—and you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly minded profligate so deeply, so devotedly that you can never love another?
‘You too have suffered, I suppose.’ ‘I suffered much, at first.’ ‘When was that?’ ‘Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now,—and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as you please.’
You might as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike.
I do know that to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of Heaven, is as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups or basking in their sunny petals. […] And if that illustration will not move you, here is another:—We are children now; we feel as children, and we understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do not play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow up, our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less truly good for that,—while yet both we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before.
…she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own excited feelings or to relieve her embarrassment,—or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow, that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck it however, she did, and having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips and said,— ‘This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals.—Will you have it?’
About the Author:
Anne Bronte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, on January 17, 1820. She was the sixth and youngest child of Reverend Patrick Bronte, an Irishman by birth, and Maria Branwell Bronte, who was from a prosperous Cornish family. Following her mother's…
When you click the Amazon link and make a purchase, we may receive a small commision, at no cost to you.