Mr Markham inadvertently witnesses Mrs Graham behaving in a – let’s call it an unusually friendly rather than ‘intimate’ manner with another man, because I mustn’t pre-judge the unfolding melodrama – and finds it an extremely distressing experience. Why? Because he’s heard all the gossip about her, but the strength of his romantic affection and uncompromising faith in her virtue has led him to dismiss everything as no more than idle tittle-tattle. And now he feels like an abandoned puppy that’s been taken in and then kicked out again (my words, not Anne Brontë’s.)
Dear Anne then goes on to describe Mr Markham’s feelings (in his words because he’s narrating the story.)
It reminded me of a night in 1995 and an incident involving a young woman with whom a romantic connection was developing. Markham’s reaction was eerily and disturbingly familiar, so much so that I was greatly impressed with Anne Brontë’s intimate knowledge of the male psyche. That’s unusual for a female writer (and the converse is also generally true.) So how did she come by this knowledge, having been the baby of the family and coming from such a sheltered environment? But it soon went further than that when I found myself questioning how she could know me so well…
Just an odd coincidence? I suppose so, but I’ve felt a strong sense of connection with the Brontës for a very long time.
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