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Posts Tagged ‘Charlotte Bronte’

I am reading Charlotte Bronte’s second novel, Shirley.

It is not, of course, as great as Jane Eyre.  I first read Bronte’s romantic classic after seeing the 1943 movie of Jane Eyre, starring Joan Fontaine and Orson Welles, in English class.  I still have my original paperback copy of the book (50 cents), which I rushed off to buy after seeing the movie and devoured in one day.  I have read it multiple times.

Villette is even better than Jane Eyre, of course, but I won’t write about that here.

On a gloomy autumn day, what can be more comforting than to draw the curtains and lose oneself in a Bronte novel?  Shirley is a Victorian Factory novel, which I added to my Factory Lit reading list after devouring Mrs. Gaskell’s North and South and Mary Barton last summer, two sociopolitical novels examining the conflicts between cotton mill owners and striking workers in England in the 1840s.  In Bronte’s  Shirley, one of the main characters is a mill owner, Robert Moore, who, in the beginning of the novel, loses his new machines when unemployed workers destroy them.

I haven’t read much of this yet, but I plan to post conscientiously on my progress.

And  here is Charlotte Bronte’s radical Gothic romantic poem “Apostasy,”  to get you in the Bronte mood.  (I’m not going to analyze it, but it reminds me of Emily’s Wuthering Heights.)

“Apostasy” by Charlotte Bronte

This last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,–
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
Wring one repentant moan.

Thou say’st, that when a sinless child,
I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble smiled
Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
I did. But listen! Children spring
Full soon to riper youth;
And, for Love’s vow and Wedlock’s ring,
I sold my early truth.

‘Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
Bent o’er me, when I said,
“That land and God and Faith are mine,
For which thy fathers bled.”
I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
But well I hear thee say,
“O daughter cease to think of him
Who led thy soul astray.

“Between you lies both space and time;
Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path of crime,
Back to the Church’s pale.”
And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell
What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
Where my loved Walter lies?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit pant
No more for what is past?
Priest–MUST I cease to think of him?
How hollow rings that word!
Can time, can tears, can distance dim
The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee,
Because, an hour agone,
Over my eyeballs, heavily,
The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit’s inward sight
Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
As some red planet’s gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven above,
Rave not of Hell’s alarms;
Give me but back my Walter’s love,
Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
Then will Hell shrink away,
As I have seen night’s terrors shun
The conquering steps of day.
‘Tis my religion thus to love,
My creed thus fixed to be;
Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
My rock-like constancy!

Now go; for at the door there waits
Another stranger guest;
He calls–I come–my pulse scarce beats,
My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice–how far away,
How dreary sounds that tone!
And I, methinks, am gone astray
In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while:
Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
And show some trodden way?
“I come! I come!” in haste she said,
“‘Twas Walter’s voice I heard!”
Then up she sprang–but fell back, dead,
His name her latest word.

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