Bad Sisters

The power of ghosts

This is a painting of the three Brontë sisters. The 19th-century writers, left to right, are Anne, Emily, and Charlotte. The strange, glowing streak that divides the painting vertically is where their brother, Branwell, once was; a pillar was clunkily painted over him way back in 1834 even before the painting was complete. 

Now, the oils have faded. And Branwell’s presence is becoming more creepily obvious with every passing year. If you visit it at the National Portrait Gallery in London (floor 2, room 21), you might wonder if the mysterious figure is being beamed up to a waiting UFO. I assure you, he’s not. Because the artist who captured this moment — the only existing image of the three powerhouse sisters — is Branwell Brontë himself. And I believe he somehow orchestrated his apparitional appearance so that we could revisit his story all these years later.

It’s as if history is refusing — along with the paint itself —  to allow a man to be obscured for too long.

There are elite universities full of people dedicated to studying every curlicue ever written by these exceptionally talented ladies. I’m not attempting to out-do the overly woolen thinking of those academics — I’m merely an English major from a state school. But I like a period drama as much as the next nerd, and I find this image particularly exasperating on their behalf; can’t we get a moment of recognition without a man butting in?

I grew up in a family with a majority of sisters: there are four girls and two boys. While our mother was amazing — it must be said — she had obvious favorites. And her favorites were the boys. When I was pregnant with my fourth son, my mom (who was deep into a losing battle with Alzheimer’s at the time) said to me many times with assurance: “You know, Marce, boys are worth more on the open market.” There was no “double” standard in my family, there was only one standard: boys were better. Their prospects were better. And so, the girls in my family had to keep on calibrating to that reality, as painful as it was. It was preparation for, well, everything. Our mom probably knew that better than anyone.

The reality for the Brontë gals was considerably more painful — as it has been for untold billions of women. In the Brontë case, however, it was only by writing under male pseudonyms that they were able to be taken seriously. But what began as an innocent sleight of hand came back to bite them in the bustled ass once their lives were cut tragically short. When Emily (my favorite Brontë, and author of only one novel, Wuthering Heights) died at age 30, and then Anne died a few months later, their sister, Charlotte (the more prolific and longest living of the family) had to fight to prove that Emily and Anne actually wrote at all. At first, they were called “too good” to be women; later, their writing was thought to be Charlotte’s. There was no way a family could have one great female writer, and three was definitely out of the question. 

Charlotte had to step forward in 1850 and defend their work by saying, “If only you knew them, you’d see what they had to offer!” As if!

“I may sum up all by saying, that for strangers they were nothing, for superficial observers less than nothing; but for those who had known them all their lives in the intimacy of close relationship, they were genuinely good and truly great.”

— Charlotte Brontë

OK, so what does this have to do with Branwell, you say? 

Well, in the Brontë family, Branwell was a major fuck up. You can find all kinds of sappy crap in Googleland about how his sister’s talent overshadowed him, and drove him to despair. Yawn. The thing is, the one thing he did — besides dying young as a drifter and an addict — was this painting. At the time, his sisters were 14, 16, and 18 (left to right), making him about 20 when he painted it. I’m not particularly interested in his psychological state, but theirs certainly has a pinched quality, doesn’t it? Nonetheless, if the skill level isn’t astounding, the story behind the painting’s creases is: when Charlotte died in 1855, she left behind a widower named Reverend A.B. Nichols. Apparently, he was not a fan of the painting. So, he pulled it out of its frame, folded it up, and hid it on top of a cupboard for years and years. In 1914, his second wife found it (and the Rev probably had some explaining to do). They dutifully passed it along to the National Portrait Gallery and it caused a huge sensation. Now, Branwell is making his way back into the conversation, and you know the rest. 

The sad fact is, the Brontës were ahead of their time, and maybe even ahead of this time. Yes, we’ve had generations of women who have written truly great work. But that’s not nearly enough. The publishing industry is still dominated by mediocre men — as every industry is. And, even as I believe more and more in the vitality and necessity of billions of women to be taken seriously in positions of authority, at the very same time, I believe we’re going sideways. Every day, we’re faced with innumerable realities that tell us to stand down: don’t ask for too much. Don’t say too much. Step aside and let others take their turn. If you don’t do all this shit that needs to be done, who will? Babies come out of your body whether you like it or not. That dress makes you look fat. You are not worth as much on the open market.

I’m getting a little whiff of how hard it is to write about all this, just as the Brontës must have when they were slouching about in the moores around Haworth, the site of their father’s desolate house. For one, you’ve got to contend with your own inescapable point of view, narrow as it is; then, you’ve got to deal with everyone else’s. Admittedly, even though that is the job of a writer, it seems impossible to fathom how deep and wide this story goes — it can’t be captured in one thousand words, or a million. The margins are immeasurable; it’s cosmic in scale. But a story as undeniable as the struggle for women’s equality — which stretches into both past and future — can still be derailed when a brother shows up at the table. 

This creased and flawed painting says volumes and volumes, more than I could ever write with any level of articulation. And the shitty thing is, this painting is the work of a man.

I’ve got a pseudonym myself, by the way. I haven’t used it much yet, but I plan to. It’s Delicious Hamburger. It isn’t a “male” name per se, but it’s just confusing enough that perhaps some idiot somewhere will give me the credit that I have earned without wondering who and what I am — and whether or not I deserve a turn. Maybe someone, somewhere, will feel as I do when I say the words “delicious hamburger.” Which is, hungry for what I have to offer. If only there were an appetite for it.