“Literature,” wrote the great poet, “cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be.”
Robert Southey, Britain’s poet laureate from 1813 to his death in 1843, was responding to a letter from a young correspondent seeking his advice on her early work. She wanted to know whether she might fashion a writer’s life for herself. It was 1837.
Southey continued, warming to his theme: “The more she is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure she will have for it, even as an accomplishment and a recreation. To those duties you have not yet been called, and when you are you will be less eager for celebrity.”
His correspondent was discouraged, but not entirely. Ten years later she wrote Jane Eyre, one of the greatest works of English literature. There was a reason why Charlotte submitted her manuscript under the male pseudonym of Currer Bell. Her sisters Emily and Anne Brontë used the masculine monikers Ellis and Acton. Mary-Ann Evans wrote as George Eliot. (...)
I can’t speak for other women, but my version of the Roman Empire is the Brontë sisters - their wild, isolated weirdness, the startling, it-will-out nature of their talent, and the enormous burdens they faced as women writers – are ceaselessly fascinating to me. How did they do it?
I thought of the Brontës again recently, when I read a story about the gender bias in the authors and poets studied by final year students in NSW.
While authorities have increased the number of female authors, out of 105 authors, poets and film directors on the set text list, 61 per cent are men and 39 per cent are women.
The English head of an all-girls school told the Herald her teachers often chose writers like Margaret Atwood and Emily Dickinson to “counterbalance the many male voices in the curriculum”.
Thank god for the Brontës - their unlikely incubation in the Yorkshire Moors has considerably boosted the female ranks of the canon.
But despite being a Brontë stan, I find the idea of a gender quota for literary texts profoundly silly. (...)
Charlotte Brontë’s work does reflect female experience in a more explicit way. Jane Eyre is universal in its themes but much of its originality comes from the candid interiority of its plain heroine. No character like Jane had ever been considered worthy of literature before, and her close first person narration made the modernists possible. Crucially, Jane rages against the strictures of her femininity and depicts what we would now call toxic masculinity with clear-eyed precision.
Speaking of which: Brontë’s reply to Southey skated elegantly the line between propriety and sarcasm. “In the evenings, I confess I do think,” she wrote to him. “But I never trouble anyone else with my thoughts. I carefully avoid any appearance of preoccupation and eccentricity, which might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits.”
Southey’s letter is now owned by the Brontë Parsonage Museum. His poems are not studied, and few outside academia remember his name.
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