The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne BrontĂ« (sci fi books to read TXT) đ
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The Tenant of Wildfell Hall was the second novel written by Anne BrontĂ«, the youngest of the BrontĂ« sisters. First released in 1848 under the pseudonym Acton Bell, it was considered shocking by the standards of the time due to its themes of domestic disharmony, drunkenness and adultery. Perhaps this was why it quickly became a publishing success. However, when Anne died from tuberculosis her sister Charlotte prevented its republication until 1854, perhaps fearing for her sisterâs reputation, though some attributed her actions to jealousy.
The story is framed as a series of letters by the protagonist Gilbert Markham to his friend Halford. Markham tells of the arrival of a young widow, Mrs. Graham, in his rural neighborhood. She brings with her her five year old son Arthur and takes up residence in the partly-ruined Wildfell Hall. Gossip soon begins to swirl around her, questioning her mysterious background and the closeness of her relationship with her landlord Frederick Lawrence. Dismissing these concerns, Gilbert Markham becomes deeply enamored of Helen Graham, and she seems to return his affection strongly. He however becomes increasingly suspicious and jealous of Lawrence, who makes frequent visits to the Hall. He secretly espies them walking together one night, apparently in a romantic relationship. After he confronts Helen over this, she gives him her diary of the last few years and tells him to read it to understand everything. Much of the rest of the novel is made up of extracts from Helenâs diary, which tells the story of her unhappy marriage.
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- Author: Anne Brontë
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âOn what points, mother?â asked I.
âOn household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be required to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. 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. âNo matter, my dear,â said I; âit is what every respectable female ought to know;â âand besides, though you are alone now, you will not be always so; you have been married, and probablyâ âI might say almost certainlyâ âwill be again.â âYou are mistaken there, maâam,â said she, almost haughtily; âI am certain I never shall.ââ âBut I told her I knew better.â
âSome romantic young widow, I suppose,â said I, âcome there to end her days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departedâ âbut it wonât last long.â
âNo, I think not,â observed Rose; âfor she didnât seem very disconsolate after all; and sheâs excessively prettyâ âhandsome ratherâ âyou must see her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her and Eliza Millward.â
âWell, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Elizaâs, though not more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less interesting.â
âAnd so you prefer her faults to other peopleâs perfections?â
âJust soâ âsaving my motherâs presence.â
âOh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk!â âI know you donât mean it; itâs quite out of the question,â said my mother, getting up, and bustling out of the room, under pretence of household business, in order to escape the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue.
After that Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs. Graham. 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 vicarâs remonstrance, and come to church. 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, ladylike 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 prayerbook, 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 aquiline and the features, in general, unexceptionableâ âonly 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 heartâ ââI would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be the partner of your home.â
Just then she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I did not choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her book, but with a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn, that was inexpressibly provoking to me.
âShe thinks me an impudent puppy,â thought I. âHumph!â âshe shall change her mind before long, if I think it worth while.â
But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if anyone had been observing me;â âbut noâ âall, who were not attending to their prayerbooks, were attending to the strange ladyâ âmy good mother and sister among the rest, and Mrs. 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 prayerbook, 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, Iâll tell you who Eliza Millward was: she was the vicarâs younger daughter, and a very engaging little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;â âand 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
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