TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL [ANNOTATED]

Editorial Reviews. Review. “A frighteningly up-to-date tale of single motherhood and The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall: (Annotated) - Kindle edition by Anne Brontë.
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Graham, though she said little to any purpose, and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable of reflection,—though she did not know where she had been all her life, poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points, and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it. I gave her some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent receipts, the value of which, she evidently could not appreciate, for she begged I would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain, quiet way, that she was sure she should never make use of them.

I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less interesting.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (dramatic reading) - part - 2

After that, Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and the very furniture of the room she inhabited, were all set before me, with rather more clearness and precision than I cared to see them; but, as I was not a very attentive listener, I could not repeat the description if I would. The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether or not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar's remonstrance, and come to church.


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I confess, I looked with some interest myself towards the old family pew, appertaining to Wildfell Hall, where the faded crimson cushions and lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many years, and the grim escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty black cloth, frowned so sternly from the wall above. And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. Her face was towards me, and there was something in it, which, once seen, invited me to look again.

Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy ringlets, a style of coiffure, rather unusual in those days, but always graceful and becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I could not see, for being bent upon her prayer-book they were concealed by their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows above were expressive and well defined, the forehead was lofty and intellectual, the nose, a perfect acquiline, and the features in general, unexceptionable—only there was a slight hollowness about the cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little too thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about them that betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; and I said in my heart— "I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be the partner of your home.

Previous, however, to directing my mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if any one had been observing me;—but no,—all, who were not attending to their prayer-books, were attending to the strange lady,—my good mother and sister among the rest, and Mrs.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Annotated)

Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza Millward was slyly glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the object of general attraction. Then, she glanced at me, simpered a little, and blushed,—modestly looked at her prayer-book, and endeavoured to compose her features. Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made sensible of it by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my pert brother.

For the present, I could only resent the insult by pressing my foot upon his toes, deferring further vengeance till we got out of church. Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I'll tell you who Eliza Millward was, she was the vicar's younger daughter, and a very engaging little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;—and she knew it, though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no definite intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was no one good enough for me, within twenty miles round, could not bear the thoughts of my marrying that insignificant, little thing, who, in addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds to call her own.

But her eyes—I must not forget those remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay—in outward aspect at least;—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black, or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, but always either preternaturally—I had almost said diabolically —wicked, or irresistibly bewitching—often both.

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Her voice was gentle and childish, her tread light and soft as that of a cat;—but her manners more frequently resembled those of a pretty, playful kitten, that is now pert and roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet will. Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and of a larger, coarser build—a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had patiently nursed their mother, through her last long, tedious illness, and been the housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present time.

She was trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by all dogs, cats, children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected by everybody else. The Reverend Michael Millward, himself, was a tall, ponderous, elderly gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his large, square, massive-featured face, carried a stout walking stick in his hand, and incased his still powerful limbs in knee breeches and gaiters, —or black silk stockings on state occasions.

He was a man of fixed principles, strong prejudices, and regular habits,—intolerant of dissent in any shape, acting under a firm conviction that his opinions were always right, and whoever differed from them, must be, either most deplorably ignorant, or wilfully blind. In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with a feeling of reverential awe—but lately, even now, surmounted, for, though he had a fatherly kindness for the well-behaved, he was a strict disciplinarian, and had often sternly reproved our juvenile failings and peccadillos; and moreover, in those days whenever he called upon our parents, we had to stand up before him, and say our catechism, or repeat "How doth the little busy bee," or some other hymn, or—worse than all—be questioned about his last text and the heads of the discourse, which we never could remember.

Sometimes, the worthy gentleman would reprove my mother for being over indulgent to her sons, with a reference to old Eli, or David and Absolom, which was particularly galling to her feelings; and, very highly as she respected him, and all his sayings, I once heard her exclaim, "I wish to goodness he had a son himself! He wouldn't be so ready with his advice to other people then;—he'd see what it is to have a couple of boys to keep in order. I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have mentioned, and then bring this long letter to a close. Wilson and her daughter. The former was the widow of a substantial farmer, a narrow-minded, tattling old gossip, whose character is not worth describing.

She had two sons, Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and Richard, a retiring, studious young man, who was studying the classics with the vicar's assistance, preparing for college, with a view to enter the church. Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents and more ambition. She had at her own desire, received a regular boarding-school education, superior to what any member of the family had obtained before. She had taken the polish well, acquired considerable elegance of manners, quite lost her provincial accent, and could boast of more accomplishments than the vicar's daughters.

She was considered a beauty besides; but never for a moment could she number me amongst her admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and very slender, her hair was neither chesnut nor auburne, but a most decided, bright, light red, her complexion was remarkably fair and brilliant, her head small, neck long, chin well turned, but very short, lips thin and red, eyes clear hazel, quick and penetrating, but entirely destitute of poetry or feeling.

She had, or might have had many suitors in her own rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for none but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none but a rich one could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there was, from whom she had lately received some rather pointed attentions, and upon whose heart, name, and fortune, it was whispered, she had serious designs. Lawrence, the young squire whose family had formerly occupied Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, for a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.

Now Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the first instalment of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, and I'll send you the rest at my leisure: Yours immutably, Gilbert Markham. It was first published in under the pseudonym Acton Bell. Today The Tenant is mainly considered to be one of the first sustained feminist novels.

The first chapter introduces the narrative through the framed narrative of the letter from Gilbert Markham to his friend and brother-in-law about the events leading to his meeting his wife.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Chap. 1)

My father, as you know Dear Halford, When we were together last, you gave me a very particular and interesting account of the most remarkable occurrences Everyone there is thrilled to have someone new to talk about, but infuriated by the mystery that surrounds her. I shall spare the rest of story for you. For a 21st century reader, the story may not be surprising.

Until then, the law in England followed Napoleonic code which said women basically were sub-human, in the same category as mentally incompetent people. Imagine what effect The Tenant had on Victorians!!!

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Consequently, it was assaulted from all sides. The Tenant completely sold out within just three months after its publication in No other Bronte novel had that privilege. Whether Charlotte buried the book along with her sister out of sisterly sentiments or pure jealousy is a matter of debate. There is even a theory that Charlotte poisoned and killed her siblings.

Nevertheless, Charlotte, as reported by her 'biographer' friend Elizabeth Gaskell, had vowed before her sisters to create success with a plain heroine and ugly hero [Jane Eyre]. Long story short - The Tenant is the complete opposite of everything that Jane Eyre stands for. Charlotte definitely had better talents of writing, but Anne had more refined and realistic imagination. If you read Anne first, it can be difficult to like Charlotte's romanticizing brooding bad masters. And who else than Charlotte knew it better?

Anne Brontë – The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Chap. 1) | Genius

Anne Bronte conceived The Tenant from what she observed in the lives of the upper class, while working as a governess. Much of what she wrote some years ago is prevalent and relevant today. The narration moves in a slow, witty manner in the first quarter, and then picks up speed and a kind of brutal beauty as the mystery around Helen unveils. After all, it is a Bronte novel - the writing is unparalleled! Anne not only adopted the courage of Lady Byron, but also her piety and self-righteous nature which might make some readers dislike the book.

Passages of The Tenant about God and morality are not pleasant to read. Let us overlook that small part for the greater good that The Tenant stands for! So I am removing that comparison from this review. All three were magical in their own way and judging each is equally difficult. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall was a masterpiece and I loved it.


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However, there was something in the story and the development of plots that didn't fascinate me as much as Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. Character of Mrs Graham is an epitome of highest morals, dutifulnesss. This is a genious work by the author Anne Bronte. This was my first time shopping on Amazon and it is surely not the last.

The courier arrived well within time 2 days and it was so neatly packed. The service was prompt. I do have an issue with the product though. The one I received looks quite worn out but I am not complaining because it's very affordable and I am not in the mood foe returns. When I first picked up the book, I did not know of the literary genius that Anne Bronte was. I had only heard of Charlotte Bronte and intensely admired Jane Eyre.

I'll put down my thoughts as they appeared while I was reading the classic, but now my opinion will be tempered by the fact that Bronte's work has been hailed as a literary gem. During my research, I learned that this book is considered as the first sustained feminist novel. But, without the context of the social situation in the s, a woman leaving her alcoholic husband did not seem quite path-breaking to me.

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It was much later, towards the end of the book, when I came across a passage that described the vicar's reaction after he found out the truth about Mrs. Graham, that I realized what people thought about a married woman and her duty towards her husband. The strength of Mrs. Graham's character in repelling the affectionate advances of the most dogged suitors when she could have easily taken their support and protection to pull her out of her miserable life is, too my mind, commendable. The way in which she sends Mr. Markham away, despite feeling no little tenderness for him, is poignant enough to break the reader's heart and hope, along with Gilbert, that the future may be different.

Such unimpeachable characters are rare now-a-days. I can easily identify with young Helen's infatuation with Mr. Huntingdon, with his charm and merriment. Even today, so many young women fall for the wrong man because they are swept away by smooth talk and smoother looks.