Okay, this really isn’t about cake at all. It’s just, well, we’ve seen lots of reports lately that the ship called Jane’s Popularity has sailed. Apparently, the well has run dry—we’re fresh out of original texts to adapt, reinterpretations and new ideas to build on, and embarrassing Colin Firth memorabilia to buy. So…I guess that’s it! We’re moving on! Who’s up for paintball? Pottery? Roller derby?
But hark! Who are these magical sisters called Bronte, sent to save us from our delusions about snappy dialogue and sexy Regency necklines?
Complete & Unabridged has some good things to say on the subject today, but this isn’t the first we’ve heard of the masses moving on to Bronte territory: with the coming of next year’s adaptations of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, rumor has it that Haworth and the moors are the new place to be, literarily speaking. Cue midnight Thornfield attic tours, Team Rochester t-shirts, and a sudden interest in that severe center part in five, four, three…
Trust us. We know how these literary fandom things go. If you need some pointers, Bronteites, we’d be happy to help.
Here’s the awesome thing about books, though: You don’t have to choose. This isn’t a competition, and it isn’t a comment on your character. You can love Austen and the Brontes! You’re allowed to love the sparkling wit and domestic wisdom of Austen even as you sweat over Jane Eyre’s impending homelessness in the north country! You can long for a ball while also pondering therapeutic options for the residents of Thrushcross Grange! The only one who cares is probably Charlotte Bronte, and—I do hate to be the bearer of bad news—she’s dead.
Furthermore, readership—even new readership—is not a zero-sum game. A rise in Bronte popularity does not equal an Austenian fall from grace. Even if nobody ever adapts another Austen novel (oh, IMDB rumor snap!), Jane probably has more fans—dedicated, passionate fans—at this point in history than ever before. Nobody here is in danger of losing much of anything, except maybe a bit of the spotlight and a puzzling spot on the chick lit shelf. Whatever happens, the work isn’t diminished; we can afford to be generous. After all, how amazing would it be if everybody read Austen and the Brontes? And Eliot and Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell and all the rest of the greats, right down the line? Surely a revived reading culture, whether it begins with a truth universally acknowledged or with a little girl hiding in the library, is worth a little getting along?
Seriously, people. You should hear my “Kum ba ya.”
Well, Charlotte, you’ve won.
The Brits—who, of course, invented romance, what with all that sweeping around the moors, plus Charles/Diana and the classy trysts we see in Hello! magazine—have voted Jane Eyre‘s Mr. Rochester the most romantic man in literature, bumping our Mr. Darcy down to number-three status. In an impressive display of gracious victory, Andrew McCarthy of the Bronte Parsonage Museum at Haworth called Darcy (and everybody else in Jane’s world, which is a nice touch) “irritating.” We love you, too, Bronteites!
They’re not wrong, of course. As a romantic hero—and especially as a Romantic hero—Rochester’s brooding and breathy ways wipe the floor with Darcy, who is only awkward and devoted and does not lie about keeping a crazy wife locked in the attic. Rochester, after all, has the choice of wealthy and accomplished ladies, and turns his back on all of them to marry the plain and earnest governess—and acts as if she’s everything he’s ever wanted, singlehandedly turning her from dreary and dutiful orphan to love-story heroine. Darcy comes around eventually, but the grand gesture and love for the sake of love (flying in the face of social convention) isn’t what he’s about—and I’d propose that Jane (Austen, not Eyre; this is getting confusing) wouldn’t have him any other way, not being one for the Brontes’ brand of gushiness in the first place. In any case, does Lizzy hear Darcy’s supernatural voice echoing through the Lake Country, calling her back to her true love when she’s homeless and sleeping under a bush? No. No, she does not. So case closed, really.
Incidentally, Jane Austen’s contemporary Lord Byron comes up a lot in these conversations, which I suppose is all well and good if you want a “mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know” Sixth Baron poking about in your love life. Personally, I’m on the fence about this.
What I’m not sure about is whether they should be asking us about romance at all—if this list is any indication, we sure know how to pick ‘em. Clearly, we like the bad boys, and not without—let’s just say it—a bit of a masochistic bent. Rhett Butler? Heathcliff? I’m almost surprised Darcy’s ranked so highly–the good guys, the ones you’d eventually take home to meet your parents, are most definitely towards the bottom of the list (this, of course, being the crux of the issue—if they’d do okay at brunch with Mom and Dad, to paraphrase Harry Burns, perhaps “humpin’ and pumpin’ is not [their] strong suit”). What do we think about this, readers? Does romance generally equal a certain sense of choosing to be dominated? Is our love of exotic literary men our safe way of indulging the desire for a romantic (but not particularly kind or respectful) hero in our lives? Do we really think Heathcliff is that hot?
In any case, Bronte fans, congratulations—truly. But if we catch you outside our windows, moaning our names in the night, we’re taking the trophy back. You’ve been warned.
