"The Three Brontës" by May Sinclair (1912)

At the moment I am slowly plowing trough one of those old, out-of-print books from beginning of the last century, that are easy available on Internet now as publishing rights have expired so they belonged to public domain. There is quite a lot of these titles around and amongst certificated classics like Shakespeare, Cervantes and Jane Austen, there are also some forgotten gems that for whatever reason appealed to me, so I eagerly added them on to my virtual library - one of these titles was 1912. biography of Brontë sisters, written by certain May Sinclair.

To be honest, I was curious to read about Brontë sisters because I know nothing about their lives besides some vague ideas about family growing up in the desolate, windy moors, writing under pseudonyms and dying young. Why exactly they died, what was their problem and what kind of life they led, I asked myself and this May Sinclair person. Alas, dear reader, May Sinclair (according to her photo, elegant, quite beautiful and dignified Edith Wharton-like figure) belongs to her time, which means she is here to correct all the previous Brontë biographers who had bad manners to turn the stones and gossip about family secrets - stern as some school master, firm in her belief that literary geniuses should be celebrated and not dragged trough mundane mud, Sinclair trashes quite a few names who preceded her at Brontë biography and frequently cites Elizabeth Gaskell's 1857. biography of Charlotte Brontë as the worst offender, since that particular book went beyond what Sinclair perceived as polite. Obviously, quite a few things changed with time because nowadays biographies are almost exclusively written as tell-all, no secrets laundry lists full of amateur psychoanalysis and guesswork who slept with whom. Not that I particularly wanted to find about about Brontë dirty laundry, but Sinclair sounds as a simply old prude who constantly waves her flag and fights to portrait sisters as martyrs of doom, gloom and loneliness. She is so determined to present them as spotless, immaculate poor governesses that women described here sound almost boring - contrary to the passion and heat I remember from their novels, Sinclair protects them from each raindrop and gust of wind until they almost disappear from the picture, just as their brother once re-painted himself out of the family portrait.

I have seen that famous portrait live, in London's National Portrait Gallery - not particularly successful picture, in fact quite amateurish but absolutely fascinating as the first hand account of sister's likeness. This is the closest we can ever get to find out what they looked like. May Sinclair, for all her efforts, is way too one-sided and adamant about her worshipping to really write their biography - everybody else is guilty, except Brontës. Sure, I do understand that sisters did not had it easy in society where restrictions of all sorts kept them under the check, impoverished, unmarried and without any prospects for better life except constant drudgery of working as governesses (while brother stayed at home, he was considered family genius and did not have to bother with work). But I don't except Sinclair's cult worshipping and in fact, very soon might even have a peek at Elizabeth Gaskell's book just to see what the fuss was all about. May Sinclair was a writer from another era and her perspective and outlook at the world are old-fashioned today, what she considered scandalous would not even raise an eyebrow today.