Wordsworth Classics, $6.99, ISBN 978-1-85326-216-6
Romance, 1999 (Reissue)
Ah, Anne Brontë, the the Jan Brady of the Brontë clan. Forever overshadowed by sister Emily’s stormy Wuthering Heights and Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, Agnes Grey lacks the lurid melodrama and Gothic drama of her sisters’ works. No forbidden love on windswept moors here—just one young woman, a sea of terrible children, and more patience than a saint on Prozac. But while Ms Brontë’s tale isn’t exactly a rollercoaster of scandal and swoons, it’s an early prototype of the feminist romance, complete with a heroine determined to carve her own path.
Agnes Grey, our intrepid protagonist, decides that she will support herself as a governess, even if it means dealing with children so vile they make the Lord of the Flies crew look angelic. Her clients range from spoiled brats to moral vacuums disguised as parents, and the grim reality of her work drips off every page.
You can’t help but wonder how much of this is Ms Brontë venting about her own experience as a governess as surely no one can be this unlucky without divine interference. Between the bratty spawn and the morally bankrupt employers, the whole environment feels less like a household and more like a cesspit with occasional tea breaks.
Agnes herself is the poster child of martyrdom. She begins the story as a paragon of virtue, and by the end, she’s… well, still a paragon of virtue. There’s no character growth because, apparently, when you’re already perfect, there’s no need. Everyone else—whether cartoonishly evil or merely flawed—just needs to catch up to her moral superiority. It’s less a plot arc and more a slow grind until the other characters begrudgingly acknowledge her awesomeness. “We get it, Agnes,” you want to yell. “You’re perfect. Stop making the rest of us look bad!”
Ah, but not all is bleak! Agnes’s mother is a shining beacon of relatability. A proto-feminist, she rejects the notion that women must marry to be fulfilled, even as she genuinely loves her husband. Her balance of independence and affection makes her far more interesting than her daughter, who feels less like a person and more like an author-insert wish-fulfillment fantasy.
As for the romance, snoozeville. Agnes’s feelings for Mr Weston are so understated they might as well be on mute. Does she love him, or is she just impressed that he’s not another sociopath? The lack of emotional investment makes it hard to care. Meanwhile, the romantic rival is such a caricature of vanity and pettiness that you half-expect her to twirl a villainous mustache while tying Agnes to the railroad tracks.
In the end, Agnes Grey feels more like Anne Brontë’s personal therapy session than a gripping narrative. While you can sympathize with her desire to vent about bad bosses and the trials of life, the novel lacks the tension, drama, or character growth needed to keep it engaging. It’s a quiet, morally earnest book that often tips into tedium.
If you’re into understated feminist messaging, Victorian realism, or moral soapboxing, give it a shot. If you’re looking for swooning romance or Gothic thrills, stick with the Brontës who bring the drama, and leave Agnes Grey for when you’ve run out of options.
