I'll walk the floor over you. Justine Picardi, the author of the book about Daphne Dumourier, who, as is usual in too carried away biographers, entered into an uncharacteristic relationship with her subject, consistently proved that the fascination with Branwell Brontë, whose biography Dumourier considered her opus magnum, acquired from Daphne the character of a specific obsession: “It was almost unbearable to see how this very well-fed, very, despite the love of infernality, a woman tries, albeit and virtual, to deprive him of his early physiological exhaustion, who was not able to reveal himself through his poor life, through his weak age, through his poor life, through his poor phystrophystrophystrophysiology, who was not being able to revealing himself, through his poor, through his poor age. In general, it seems to me that those who see the Bronte family from the angle of the sensual, sexual deprivation that has shaped them do not understand anything about this family. Bronte created a famine. Hunger, coupled with the religious belief that earthly foods can be replaced by heavenly foods, and the revenge of their own physiology on this inhuman faith.
Andre Teshiné in the canonical film of the seventy-ninth year does not take the Freudian locks already familiar to us in pseudo-Victorian literature, in order to open Victorian cabinets for skeletons and Victorian crypts for post mortem tests for virginity, he honestly opens their doors, and there - with a ball of rolling. The bear corner of Hoert in west Yorkshire, among smoky, simultaneously damp and arid moorlands. The tiny vicar’s house with the windows of all bedrooms looking at the graves without exception (literally doll-sized, only for sad, decommissioned dolls from children’s games, “retirement doll house”, according to Dumorieux). Not even poverty is neat, but poverty, with rice grains counted and each lamb's foot measured in a line once a week (" When Brendwell became addicted to laudanum, Charlotte and I gradually reduced our daily portions of oatmeal and greens, and reached, almost without noticing it, in the end half of what we originally ate. It was not necessary to negotiate with Emilia - she always ate like a bird, Anna Brontë wrote shortly before her death. A permanent animal fear for the health of his father, a priest, since his death meant for the whole family the loss of a house going with load to the spiritual function, that is, a roof over his head (ironically, Patrick Brontë outlived all his six children, even a long-lived woman who died in incomplete thirty-nine). Charlotte, peacefully passing away at the venerable age of eighty-four. Living and terrible memories of the death of two older sisters of the concentration camp type boarding house in Cowan Bridge, described later by Charlotte under the name of Lowood orphanage in Jane Eyre. Confidence that any pleasures of the flesh and vanity - recognition, marriage, love that enriches friendship, even an ordinary but hearty dinner - are not for them, not for the disadvantaged. Humility before your share. And the need to tell their share to the possessors, in their arrogant language.
In general, the phenomenon of the Bronte family, their skinny, hungry greatness, is the rupture of the canon of unity between language and emotional tools on the one hand and the realities depicted on the other. Brontes are not simple poor people, who, with all their reflexes and hopes, are fictitious and synthesized in the laboratories of the lord’s living rooms, but lively, masterly educated and sensitive, but not in the Lord’s way suffering people, whose anger, rage, agony and tear from the most gross causes of hunger, cold, caused by severe living conditions of diseases, neglect, bullying in the course of action is not able to compensate for any happy ending (more often, however, in Bronte, mocking, kutsy, who swallows the bearer). Because of hunger, heart tears, teeth fall out, consumption opens, even go blind from hunger (like rat-bitten babies in Cowan Bridge). And from humiliation and neglect, the soul wears down into holes.
Branwell, the only one from the whole family who survived a twenty-five-year-old something like a carnal love passion in an affair with forty-year-old Lydia Robinson, the mistress of the house in which he served as a tutor, and thrown out by Lydia as unnecessary, when she was widowed (because she does not, in fact, marry a poor teacher) - somehow physiologically does not withstand the collapse of hopes, and stumbles, betrays the principles of his romantic, Walter Scott honed upbringing, throws away, blackmails, when she reaches a spiritual status of a woman herself, does not need much more money from him, than she herself, and does not need a letter to anyone else.34 Therefore, it is indecent for him to live on, he must erase himself from the self-portrait. This is what Paxal Greggori plays with his cheeky, fervent, lipstick face - self-absorption, self-elimination of himself as something indecent, born in the creative razha of a believing family, who did not know what to do with him next, carelessly, irresponsibly, unscrupulously, insufficiently equipped him for life in the big world. Pascal Greggori's Branwell should no longer burden the sisters who are chained to him, he thinks, not by love, but by a catocheon of the most vulgar interdependences. Wiping himself off of the painting, now in the National Portrait Gallery, he thinks he is freeing up the living space for the sisters, giving air to their tired, moved, lungs. And they understood it, as evidenced by Emilia's poem, the last one addressed to the barely buried Branwell: "Let everyone hate you and let them hurry to forget you, but I cherish in my heart the sadness of your broken life! For the condemnation of the word forgive me - I am wrong. Should there be shame in the heart of a deer that runs from predators? Is a wolf that lets out a mortal howl guilty of being thin? How do you judge a hare for screaming? He's not used to dying. They understood and followed his path, paying with their lives for talents and insights out of order.