Rating: ****
Okay, so the summer so far has turned out to be a hell of a lot busier than anticipated; I've quite rarely had the time and the energy even to focus on reading, let alone reviewing. I finished and reviewed Tales of Angria a while ago, and more recently have also finished and reviewed Farmageddon - so, yes, the reading project is still going ahead, albeit a little (a lot) later than anticipated. So here is the Tales of Angria review, and Farmageddon should be up within the next few days. Only...er, just over a month later than planned! It's a good thing I didn't actually tell anyone/post anywhere about this blog beforehand; I feel like a part of me must have just known I couldn't be trusted to follow through...
ANYWAY. The review.
Tales of Angria is a collection of previously unpublished short stories by Charlotte, written in 1838-1839 and all set in the fictional kingdom of Angria dreamed up by her and her brother, Branwell, in 1834. It's an intriguing premise for a book, and there is certainly something very charming, almost magical, about two siblings bonded in that way. The concept sounds sort of childish, whimsical; perhaps in many ways it is, but Charlotte's writing is anything but childish - beautifully descriptive, subtly ironic and always surprisingly layered, never failing to convey the extent of her immersion in both her whole imagined world and the individual and inner worlds of her created characters. Besides: there are undoubtedly worse things in this world than a bit of harmless whimsicality.
What makes Angria even more special is the fact that it was not confined to their childhood. Though the first seeds were sown when both siblings were very young, through games with a set of Branwell's soldiers, the actual writing did not begin until 1834 - the year that Charlotte turned eighteen, and just one year before she was to leave the family home to work as a live-in teacher at Roe Head School. The Angrian saga continued well into Charlotte's twenties, and appears to have provided her with a consolation for homesickness, not to mention some much-needed escapism from the tedious predictability of her everyday life. This becomes particularly touchingly apparent in the final section of the book, an assortment of fragments from Charlotte's journal in the period of 1835-1837 - ingeniously subtitled 'The Roe Head Journal Fragments' -, in which she describes with great passion her struggles with finding the time and energy to write (sounds familiar...), her excitement when inspiration does strike and her frustration at often not being able to carry her ideas to fruition. The peak of her excitement seems to occur on receiving an Angrian extract from Branwell - a 'most exquisitely characteristic epistle from Northangerland to his daughter' -, which inspires a detailed follow-up scene to develop in her mind. The way in which she describes said scene - and the world of Angria in general - is almost frantic; she seems at serious risk of being totally swept away by the activity of her own mind, and obstinately reluctant to resist the tide despite the surrounding stability and responsibilities that weigh her down. It's fascinating and captivating and actually kind of adorable.
So, I hear you theoretical reader ask, what, exactly, is/was my problem?
I loved the concept from the offset; it was the actual content I was a little more wary about.
The vast majority of fiction I read is realistic - to as great an extent as fiction ever can be, I suppose, without becoming all too tediously similar to Real Life. I don’t have any principled objection to fantasy – Harry Potter was a massive part of my childhood, I loved what I have read and seen of the Narnia books, went through an embarrassing Twilight phase, etc etc. – but when description and development of the fantastical world take precedence over description and development of the characters I do tend to lose interest. Similarly, anything detailed description of fighting/military matters that doesn’t directly tie into individual motivations I find tedious beyond belief. From the initial descriptions I read of civil wars, great military men and aristocracy, I was afraid the stories would be focused too much on matters of state and not enough on ‘matters of the mind’ for my liking – not an inherent fault of the book itself, perhaps, but certainly a potential obstacle to my enjoying and even having the motivation to finish it.
These worries were quelled somewhat by the fact that I knew this was the same writer responsible for the creation of my much loved Jane Eyre; implicitly, I trusted her, and as the stories progressed (and even moreso after I finished it, when I went back and actually bothered to read the introduction) I grew increasingly aware of what it was that she was doing, or trying to do.
Charlotte was essentially mocking her brother – in the gentlest, most respectful way possible, of course.
While Branwell’s contributions to the Angrian world centred on dramatic military accounts and the ‘Lives’ of ‘great men’, Charlotte’s – at least the selection of Charlotte’s available in this text – were humorous and romantic, self-parodying and sometimes downright ridiculous. Through loveable roguish narrator Henry Townshend – whose own roles in the stories he tells range from fairly active participant to detached spectator –, she turns Branwell’s heroes on their heads and makes them painfully, embarrassingly human – so human, in fact, that they are often almost caricatures of themselves and the so-called greater purpose they were initially supposed to represent. In a tale of the same name, Henry Hastings – apparently one of Branwell’s favourite narrators, a heroic young soldier and poet – is portrayed as a disgraced drunkard, pursued and ultimately captured by a team of the ruling Duke of Zamorna’s supporters. The Duke himself is portrayed little better, with a great deal more splendour but arguably no more dignity than the aforementioned. He is a pompous, hypocritical love-rat, weak-willed and self-absorbed, while his old friend, rival and father-in-law, the Earl of Northangerland, is a loathed and embittered old man. Such characters may not be especially likeable, but they are certainly interesting and entertaining – a lot moreso, for me at least, than dashing military men and dazzling leaders without such glaring flaws.
While Branwell’s contributions to the Angrian world centred on dramatic military accounts and the ‘Lives’ of ‘great men’, Charlotte’s – at least the selection of Charlotte’s available in this text – were humorous and romantic, self-parodying and sometimes downright ridiculous. Through loveable roguish narrator Henry Townshend – whose own roles in the stories he tells range from fairly active participant to detached spectator –, she turns Branwell’s heroes on their heads and makes them painfully, embarrassingly human – so human, in fact, that they are often almost caricatures of themselves and the so-called greater purpose they were initially supposed to represent. In a tale of the same name, Henry Hastings – apparently one of Branwell’s favourite narrators, a heroic young soldier and poet – is portrayed as a disgraced drunkard, pursued and ultimately captured by a team of the ruling Duke of Zamorna’s supporters. The Duke himself is portrayed little better, with a great deal more splendour but arguably no more dignity than the aforementioned. He is a pompous, hypocritical love-rat, weak-willed and self-absorbed, while his old friend, rival and father-in-law, the Earl of Northangerland, is a loathed and embittered old man. Such characters may not be especially likeable, but they are certainly interesting and entertaining – a lot moreso, for me at least, than dashing military men and dazzling leaders without such glaring flaws.
As somebody who knows almost literally nothing about mid-nineteenth century literature, Heather Glen’s introduction to the book helped me to better place it into its contemporary context, and to understand a lot more about what Charlotte was doing and why. Glen refers to the stories in the context of three popular literature genres of the time – gothic, ‘Newgate’ and ‘silver fork’. The first of the three is probably the best known (or, at least, the only one I had heard of!) – associated with vast, dramatic landscapes and structures, its masculine figures exciting and imposing men who threaten to corrupt the innocence of their pathetically passive and naïve female counterparts; the second centred upon the controversial glamourisation of crime, the third upon the extravagant lives of the aristocracy. Brontë’s writings of Angria certainly incorporated aspects of all three of these genres – but, as with her humorous take on Branwell’s great men, there is always an element of satire, an awareness of the superficiality and melodrama of her characters and tales, that makes it all the more appealing. There’s not a lot I can say on the subject that isn’t covered in the introduction, but – even as a chronic skimmer, who would probably never have given the introduction the time of day had I not been writing this review – I would definitely recommend giving it a read, especially if you’re interested in the study of literature and its different eras. Or if, like me, you’re far from a literary expert, but just at least as interested in the stories behind the stories as in Angria itself; the very beginning of the book includes a timeline pinpointing key events in Brontë’s life and showing where the stories fit into that, while the introduction as a whole gives a really strong impression of the stories’ origins in the Brontës’ (at least ostensibly!) idyllic childhood.
Much as I enjoyed and admired the book, there were a few minor things that kept me from bestowing it with the ultimate five star rating. There is the aforementioned issue – I am inexplicably, almost aggressively apathetic when it comes to pretty much all things military and fight-related – and, on a more general note, there are the characters. Caricatures or not, these are rarely likeable and occasionally problematic.
Pretty much from the offset I was painfully aware of the male and female archetypes. While the men were admittedly not especially likeable, they were undeniably powerful, and strong, influential and commanding characters in their own right. At least for the first few tales of Angria, I searched in vain for a female character who could measure up to this - not a nice or a good character, per se, nor even one that was necessarily especially likeable, but just one with the same character and some of the same sense of self-determination that the vast majority of the male characters possessed. As all books are, this is to a certain extent a product of its time, and of course I knew really that my expectations should not be set too high. Still, I was initially disappointed - especially knowing that Brontë was more than capable of creating strong female characters, and of course seeing her as one herself. There is Zenobia, the wife of Northangerland, who, though not a major character, does seem at least to be a humorous and spirited one. Aside from this, however, the vast majority of females seem weak and passive creatures - defined, to a great extent, by their male counterparts or at best by their appearance, emotionally driven to a fault and altogether just not especially interesting.
However, there is one important exception to Brontë’s usually weak, self-effacing female Angrians; Elizabeth Hastings, the passionate but pragmatic governess to a range of high-ranking women without half her sense, talents and intellects. Sometimes viewed as a sort of forerunner to Jane Eyre, Elizabeth is described as having consciously worked to better herself, and is in many ways amongst the most authentic and most likeable of the Angrians; loyal, determined and intelligent, filled with intense emotion but with far too much self-respect to fit the pathetic prototype of the majority. Despite her lower rank, and regardless of her femininity, it is she who ultimately holds all the cards in what is to come of a potential relationship with Sir William Percy, son of Northangerland and also occasional narrator due to his association with Townshend. The air of irony and parody that comes with Townshend’s narration is not absent from his descriptions of Elizabeth – and the mocking, detached tone of Charlotte’s Angrian tales in general is a million miles away from the earnestness of Jane Eyre. Still, her mere existence does perhaps give some indication of the way Brontë’s creative vision re: the female hero was going – and is certainly a hell of a lot more indicative of her true standing on womankind than the views of her brutish male leaders on their caricature mistresses and wives.
Glen also tackles the gender issue briefly, and, in doing so, paints a very interesting and convincing picture of Charlotte’s tales as a critique of the ‘rampant masculinity’ of the day – both in literature and in life. I’m aware that this isn’t actually supposed to be a Feminist Rants blog (and, also, painfully aware that this review has already dragged on for far longer than intended…), so I won’t go on about that for long – just to say that, while all she and her brother’s creations were treated as caricatures to a certain extent, and the female characters were, overwhelmingly, portrayed as weakest, this makes most sense when viewed not as a slight to the female sex but to the demeaning ways in which they were conceived of and portrayed – and the simple fact that, in the face of all-pervading male dominance, they were quite rarely thought of at all. Besides which, even the most apparently male-dominated of Charlotte’s female characters – even Charlotte Vernon, the idealistic fifteen-year old whose primary concern seems to be the idolisation and romanticism of her guardian the Duke of Zamorna – is endowed with a sexuality, and with a sense of self and personal entitlement, that would have been considered controversial for the time. In short, the women of Angria are not half as problematic as they first appear, and it is certainly not too difficult to see how the Jane Eyres of the fictional world – fiery, passionate, intelligent and struggling through the pursuit of independence – could ultimately emerge from the same creative mind as they.
This collection of Angrian tales was published in 2006, the first as long ago as 1933. For many years, however, the tales have been ignored, dismissed by Gaskell (author of the Life of Charlotte Brontë) as coherent only to the ‘bright little minds for whom it was intended’ – in plain speak, as childish rubbish. It has also been dismissively referred to as automatic or ‘trance’ writing, in which an author essentially lets their subconscious run free and is not consciously aware of what they are going to write until the words are already down on paper. Neither claim is entirely without basis; the tales had their roots in childhood games and are therefore somewhat fantastical (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), and it is clear from the Roe Head Journal Fragments that scenes, or their foundations, often did come to Charlotte less as coherently constructed ideas than as intensely involving visions. But, for me personally, at least, I find that both of these factors add to rather than negate from the charm and appeal of the stories, the glimpse of both Brontë’s outer family life and dynamics and inner creative process more fascinating than any more ‘sophisticated’ crafting. And any simplicity and immaturity that may originally have been present in the Angrian world is more than compensated for by Charlotte’s development of the land, its politics and its characters – all of which show an awareness and understanding of the people and literature of the time, more sophisticated than both children and most adults could accomplish.
Tl;dr: If you have any interest in the Brontës, fantastical worlds, 19th century satire, and/or just appreciate damn good writing, I would highly recommend this book.
