You sit patiently through ten pages of fractious argument between Helen and her feckless reprobate of a husband. Then you sit – still patiently – through another ten pages of enigmatic discourse with one of her husband’s friends. Your patience is beginning to wear a little thin as you sit through a further ten pages of Helen engaged in deep and meaningful discussion – all couched in that highly verbose style so beloved of 19th century writers – with her friend Milicent on the subject of matrimonial obligation. And so it goes on.
But finally it’s looking up. Dear upright Helen has witnessed a tryst between her husband and the local society belle, the amoral Lady Lowborough, in the shrubbery, and it’s obvious that they’re having an affair. She is somewhat downcast, degraded, and disgusted, poor thing, at having been so deceived, and confronts her husband in a manner which reveals her inner scorpion. (Fun at last!) She tells him that she intends to leave and take their son with her, but he refuses to allow it and Helen has no option but to submit to his will. (Because that’s how things were in those days. The presumption of male dominance was unquestioned, and women were required to undertake to obey their husbands in the marriage vows no matter what the consequences. No exceptions.)
And that brings me to my second difficulty with the novel. To Helen, the litmus test of rightness in all situations is the question of how the response accords with every individual’s first duty in life – to serve and glorify God. It crops up time and again, and is often couched in the most mawkish of language. It is said that Anne Brontë was by far the most devoutly Christian of the three sisters, and it shows a bit too much for my taste. I find her alter-ego, Helen Graham (if alter-ego she be), unacceptably sanctimonious at times.
Persevering (because I said I would.)
No comments:
Post a Comment