Redécouvrir Anne Brontë

"What, then, remains for wretched man ? […] Thankful for all that God has given, Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven ; Knowing that earthly joys decay, But hoping through the darkest day"

Anne Brontë, "Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas"

Anne Brontë dessinée par sa soeur Charlotte, 1833

Céder au plaisir toujours renouvelé d’aller vers des voix oubliées, à contre-courant des modes et de ce que l’histoire littéraire a retenu, me mène à Anne Brontë, dont l’œuvre reste la moins considérée parmi celles de ses sœurs plus célébrées. Ses deux romans, Agnes Grey (1847) et The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848) occupent encore une place visible dans l’histoire littéraire, mais sa poésie reste en grande partie méconnue. En outre, les éditions récentes rassemblent souvent les poèmes d’Anne avec ceux de Charlotte et d’Emily, prolongeant la publication en 1846 des Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. Un regroupement qui a malheureusement contribué à laisser la voix d’Anne dans l’ombre. Elle mérite pourtant d'être entendue — pas seulement comme un écho de ses sœurs, et sans l’établissement de parallélismes systématiques avec celles de Charlotte et d'Emily. A plus forte raison quand la poésie d’Emily continue d’être régulièrement éditée (y compris dans des traductions reconnues, telle celle de Pierre Leyris en France, publiée chez Gallimard) tandis que celle d’Anne reste quasiment absente du paysage éditorial.

Anne Brontë semble souffrir, dès le départ, d’une forme d’incompréhension générale. Emily fascine par son imaginaire passionné et tourmenté. Charlotte, la soeur aînée, dotée d'un caractère plus affirmé, s’impose dans les mémoires avec Jane Eyre. Mais Anne, quant à elle, se fait oublier. Certes, Agnes Grey, beau roman, mais porté par une sensibilité morale nourrie de la formation religieuse d'Anne, peut sembler moins intemporel que le très célèbre Wuthering Heights. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, cependant, recèle une ampleur, une complexité et une grande liberté de ton, qu'Agnes Grey ne possédait pas encore. On peut penser que si Charlotte n'avait pas contribué à la méconnaissance, voire à la mésestime, du roman de sa soeur, en le jugeant trop cru, et sans doute trop réaliste dans sa peinture de la débauche, de l'alcoolisme et de la violence, il aurait connu une renommée plus importante. Mais Charlotte, après la mort d'Anne, s'opposa à sa réédition. Pour justifier ce choix, elle composa l'image publique de sa soeur en femme douce, effacée, et trop inexpérimentée pour avoir véritablement compris la portée de sa propre oeuvre... L'austère et discrète Anne était certes d'un tempérament plus réservé que ses deux sœurs, mais elle n'était nullement timorée. On en conviendra, justement, en lisant le roman.

Quant à sa poésie, celle d'Anne Brontë est une poésie de la mémoire, du passage du temps, de la foi, mais aussi de l’épreuve intérieure. Elle dit l’affliction, la perte, le deuil, avec une vive et poignante sensibilité, bien que sa manière demeure sobre et retenue. A l'image, finalement, de celle qui ne fut pas la moins mystérieuse des trois sœurs Brontë, morte à vingt-neuf ans de la tuberculose — comme Emily, dont elle était très proche. Découvrons ou redécouvrons cette voix singulière à travers les cinq poèmes proposés ici, d’après l’édition The Complete Poems of Anne Brontë, établie par Clement Shorter et publiée chez Hodder and Stoughton en 1920.

Anne Brontë

Dessin au crayon daté de 1839

Past days

'Tis strange to think there was a time

When mirth was not an empty name.

When laughter really cheered the heart.

And frequent smiles unbidden came,

And tears of grief would only flow

In sympathy for others' woe ;

When speech expressed the inward thought,

And heart to kindred heart was bare.

And summer days were far too short

For all the pleasures crowded there ;

And silence, solitude, and rest, —

Now welcome to the weary breast —

Were all unprized, uncourted then ;

And all the joy one spirit showed,

The other deeply felt again ;

And friendship like a river flowed.

Constant and strong its silent course,

For nought withstood its gentle force :

When night, the holy time of peace,

Was dreaded as the parting hour ;

When speech and mirth at once must cease,*

And silence must resume her power ;

Though ever free from pains and woes.

She only brought us calm repose.

And when the blessed dawn again

Brought daylight to the blushing skies,

We woke, and not reluctant then.

To joyless labour did we rise ;

But full of hope, and glad and gay,

We welcomed the returning day.

November 21, 1843

* Variation : 'When friendly intercourse must cease,'

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone

Green fields and waving woods upon,

And soft winds wandered by ;

Above, a sky of purest blue.

Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue.

Allured the gazer's eye.

But what were all these charms to me,

When one sweet breath of memory

Came gently wafting by ?

I closed my eyes against the day,

And called my willing soul away.

From earth, and air, and sky ;

That I might simply fancy there

One little flower— a primrose fair.

Just opening into sight ;

As in the days of infancy,

An opening primrose seemed to me

A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory ! ever smile on me ;

Nature's chief beauties spring from thee ;

Oh, still thy tribute bring!

Still make the golden crocus shine

Amongthe flowers the most divine,

The glory of the spring.

Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell

And hover round the slight bluebell.

My childhood's darling flower.

Smile on the little daisy still.

The buttercup's bright goblet fill

With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell

Round mountain-star and heather-bell.

And do not pass away

From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,

And whisper when the wild winds blow,

Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine ?

Or, Memory, is the glory thine.

That haloes thus the past ?

Not all divine ; its pangs of grief

(Although, perchance, their stay be brief)

Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,

For on our earliest joys alone

That holy light is cast.

With such a ray, no spell of thine

Can make our later pleasures shine.

Though long ago they passed.

May 19, 1844.

If this be all

O God ! if this indeed be all

That Life can show to me ;

If on my aching brow may fall

No freshening dew from Thee ;

If with no brighter light than this

The lamp of hope may glow

And I may only dream of bliss,

And wake to weary woe ;

If friendship's solace must decay.

When other joys are gone.

And love must keep so far away,

While I go wandering on, —

Wandering and toiling without gain.

The slave of others' will.

With constant care and frequent pain.

Despised, forgotten still ;

Grieving to look on vice and sin.

Yet powerless to quell

The silent current from within.

The outward torrent's swell ;

While all the good I would impart,

The feelings I would share.

Are driven backward to my heart.

And turned to wormwood there ;

If clouds must ever keep from sight

The glories of the Sun,

And I must suffer Winter's blight.

Ere Summer is begun :

If Life must be so full of care

Then call me soon to Thee

Or give me strength enough to bear

My load of misery.

May 20, 1845.

Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,

Is restless Toil and Vanity.

While yet the rolling earth abides.

Men come and go like ocean tides ;

And ere one generation dies.

Another in its place shall rise ;

That, sinking soon into the grave,

Others succeed, like wave on wave ;

And as they rise, they pass away.

The sun arises every day.

And hastening onward to the West,

He nightly sinks, but not to rest :

Returning to the eastern skies.

Again to light us, he must rise.

And still the restless wind comes forth.

Now blowing keenly from the North ;

Now from the South, the East, the West,

For ever changing, ne'er at rest.

The fountains, gushing from the hills,

Supply the ever-running rills ;

The thirsty rivers drink their store,

And bear it rolling to the shore,

But still the ocean craves for more.

'Tis endless labour everywhere!

Sound cannot satisfy the ear,

Light cannot fill the craving eye,

Nor riches half our wants supply, *

Pleasure but doubles future pain.

And joy brings sorrow in her train ;

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth —

What does she in this weary earth ?

Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ.

Death comes, our labour to destroy ;

To snatch the untasted cup away.

For which we toiled so many a day.

What, then, remains for wretched man ?

To use life's comforts while he can ;

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows ;

Assist his friends, forgive his foes ;

Trust God, and keep His statutes still.

Upright and firm, through good and ill

Thankful for all that God has given,

Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven ;

Knowing that earthly joys decay,

But hoping through the darkest day.

September 4, 1845.

* Variant : ' ' Nor riches happiness supply,"

Last lines

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,

My portioned task might lie ;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part.

And He has fixed it well

I said so with my bleeding heart.

When first the anguish fell.

A dreadful darkness closes in

On my bewildered mind ;

Oh, let me suffer and not sin.

Be tortured, yet resigned.

Shall I with joy thy blessings share

And not endure their loss ?

Or hope the martyr's crown to wear

And cast away the cross ?

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away ;

Thou bidst us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost.

Can I but turn to Thee.

Weak and weary though I lie,

Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,

I may lift to Heaven mine eye.

And strive to labour not in vain ;

That inward strife against the sins

That ever wait on suffering

To strike whatever first begins :

Each ill that would corruption bring ;

That secret labour to sustain

With humble patience every blow ;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er maybe my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.

If thou shouldst bring me back to life.

More humbled I should be ;

More wise, more strengthened for the strife.

More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow ;

But, Lord ! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now !

Finished, January 28, 1849.

"These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid aside — for ever."

Note de Charlotte Brontë.

Anne Brontë

What you please, 1840