Suara GEA 1988 – 1992 (3)
From: Suara GEA, June 1988 edition
GEA English Corner
Emily Jane Bronte – The All Lonely Lady
Emily was born at July 30, 1818, in Thornton, Yorkshire, England. She was an English novelist and poet, who produced but one novel, Wuthering Heights (1847), a highly imaginative novel of passion and hate set on the Yorkshire moors. Emily was perhaps the greatest of the three Bronte sisters, but the record of her life is extremely meagre, for she was silent and reserved and left no correspondence of interest; and her single novel darkers rather than solves the mystery of her spiritual existence.
LIFE. Her father, Patrick Bronte (1777-1861), an Irishman, was educated at St. John’s College, Cambridge, taking a degree in 1806, and six years later married Maria Branwell from Penzance, Cornwall. He held a number of curacies: Harthsheadcum-Clifton, Yorkshire, was the birthplace of his elder daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, and nearby Thornton was the birthplace of Charlotte, Patrick Branwell, Emily, and Anne. In 1820 the father became rector of Haworth, where he remained for the rest of his life.
After the death of their mother in 1821, the children were left very much to themselves in the bleak moorland rectory. Most of their time was spent in reading and in composition. The children were educated, during their early life, at home, except for a single year that Maria, lizabeth, Charlotte, and Emily spent at the Clergy Daugther’s School at Cowan Bridge in Lancashire. In 1835, when Charlotte secured a teaching position at Miss Wooler’s school at Roe Head, Emily accompanied her as a pupil but suffered from homesickness and remained only three months. In 1838, Emily spent six exhausting months as a teacher in Miss Patchett’s school at Law Hill, near Halifax, and then resigned.
To keep the family together at home, Charlotte planned to keep a school for girls at Haworth. In February 1842 she and Emily went to Brussels to learn foreign languages and school management at the Pension He’ger. Although Emily pined for home and for the wild moorlands, it seemed clear that in Brussels, reserved as she was, she was better appreciated than Charlotte. Her passionate nature was more easily understood than Charlotte’s decorous temperament. In October, however, when her aunt died, Emily returned permanently to Haworth.
In 1845 Charlotte came across some poems by Emily, and this led to the discovery that all three sisters had written verse. A year later they published jointly a volume of verse, Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, the initials of these pseudonyms being those of the sisters; it contained 21 of Emily’s poems, and consensus of later criticism has accepted the fact that Emily’s verse alone reveals true poetic genius. The venture cost the sisters about 50 poundsterling in all, and only two copies were sold.
By midsummer of 1847 Emily’s Wuthering Heights and Anne’s Agnes Grey had eben accepted for joint publication by J. Cautley Newby of London, but publication of the three volumes was delayed until the appearance of their sister’s Jane Eyre, which was immediately and hugely successful. Wuthering Heights, when published in December 1847, did not fare well; critics were hostile, calling it too savage, too animal-like, and clumsy in construction. Only later did it come to be considered one of the finest novels in the English languages.
Soon after the publication of her novel, Emily’s health began to fail rapidly. She had been ill for some time, but now her breathing became difficult, and she suffered great pain. She died of tuberculosis in December 1848.
ASSESSMENT. Emily Bronte’s work on Wuthering Heights cannot be dated, and she may well have spent a long time on this intense, solidly imagined novel. It is distinguished from other novels of the period by its dramatic and poetic presentation, its abstention from all comment by the author, and its unusual structure. It recounts in the restropective narrative of an onlooker, which in turn includes shorter narratives, the impact of the waif Heathcliff on the two families of Earnshaw and Linton in a remote Yorkshire district at the end of the 18th century. Embittered by abuse and by the marriage of Cathy Earnshaw who shares his stormy nature and whom he loves — to the gentle and prosperous Edgar Linton, Heathcliff plans a revenge on both families, extending into the second generation. Cathy’s death in childbirth fails to set him free from his love-hate relationship with her, and the obsessive haunting persists until his death; the marriage of the surviving heirs of Earnshaw and Linton restore peace.
Sharing her sister’s dry humour and Charlotte’s violent imagination, Emily diverges from them in making no use of the events of her own life and showing no preoccupation with a spinster’s state or a governess’s position. Working, like them, within a confined scene and with a small group of characters, she constructs an action, based on profound and primitive energies of love and hate, which proceeds logically and economically, making no use of such coincidences as Charlotte relies on, requiring no rich romantic similarities or rhetorical patterns, and confining the superb dialogue to what is immediately relevant to the subject. The sombre power of the book and the elements of brutality in the characters affronted some 19th-century opinion. Its supposed masculine quality was adduced to support the claim, based on the memories of her brother Branwell’s friends long after his death, that he was author or part author of it. While it is not possible to clear up all the minor puzzles, neither the external nor the internal evidence offered is substantial enough to weigh against Charlotte’s plain statement that Emily was the author.
Here one of her best poems: Remembrance, that was published as a volume of verse Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, in 1846. There you could catch her immense feeling about the mystery of her spiritual existence,… Yes, Emily was all the lonely lady of her time!
Cold in the earth – and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary gra
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring
Faithful indeed is the spring that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the world’s tide is bearing me along:
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lighthened up my heaven;
No second morn has ever shone for me:
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy;
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
By: Elisabeth DMS