I've been reading Twilight these past couple of days, and I've noticed it's sitting in the same headspace that Charlotte Brontë's novels usually take up. That whole gothic-romance thing, the first-person narration, the inexperienced young woman and the strange and foreboding fear that her love will be unrequited - even if you know it's not the case - and that maybe it would be even more dangerous for her (emotionally) if it was...
You know, Jane Eyre was only 18 in her book. She's never been played "young" in any of the movies, so I don't think most people pick up on the fact that she's basically an inexperienced teenager who's never really spoken to a man (besides married clergymen) before being confronted with the strange and mysterious Rochester - a good twenty years her senior. She's not that far away from Bella, falling for her 100 year old mystery man. And Rochester? Trying desperately to recover from a past that has left him with a terrible secret, both wanting to be redeemed by Jane's love and struggling with the inevitability of ruining her life? He's not that far from Edward. Especially since his first name is Edward. I wonder how co-incidental that is?
There's a scene in Jane Eyre (if you've read the book, you'll know exactly which scene I'm talking about) where Rochester is clearly playing with Jane. You might not pick up on this at first, but on subsequent readings it's painfully obvious. He suspects what she feels for him. He knows she's inexperienced, unsure of her place in the world and desperately trying to keep in control of her reactions and her emotions. So he pushes her buttons - says things carefully calculated to dash what few hopes she may have and push her heart to breaking point - just to see what she'll do.
On the one hand, the guy's an absolute jerk and we should hate him. On the other hand, the scene is this massive exercise in catharsis. The fear of unrequited love reaches it's zenith, only to be rewarded by the fact that he does, indeed, love her and not the beautiful rich woman. Chapters' worth of longing looks quickly hidden, of the exquisite pain that comes from standing three inches away from someone you long to touch but can't, of the "could he possibly want me? No, I mustn't dare think it" self questioning... all of this is finally brought to a head in a way that is pure romantic fantasy.
It's all over. Hope is gone. He doesn't want me. But, wait! No, it's not! I'm wanted after all! O, frabjuous day! Callooh! Callay!
I've always thought it terribly interesting that the romantic novels (gothic or other wise) that we keep reading, selling and adapting for other media for over and over again for more than a hundred years were written by single women who never knew such love in real life. If what we know about Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen is correct, neither of them found that love of their own. Jane may have had a romance that never went anywhere. Charlotte eventually settled for a man who made her feel "comfortable" (and then she died about a year later). Sure, we're starting to see more of Mrs Gaskell's stuff working it's way back into public consciousness, but she doesn't really grip the heart quite the way that Charlotte and Jane's books do.
I mean, have you read Villette? That scene where Lucy suddenly realises on an instinctual level that she's in love with you-know-who* but her brain hasn't quite caught on yet, so she just bolts like a frightened rabbit and can't figure out why she's hiding from him? Oh. My. God. That book is just drenching with unrequited love. Stupid, stupid ending. Must have stern words with Charlotte next time I see her.
I had this theory for some time that only women who had never known requited love could write about romance with such power. This was, of course, completely blown out of the water by Elizabeth Barret Moulton-Barrett - aka, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Okay, so this sickly woman who almost never leaves her house, isn't terribly attractive and has an active intellectual life manages to catch the eye of a young handsome stud through her talent? A popular, pop-star of a poet engages in a secret courtship of an older woman who might not live for very long because he loves her mind? They get married in secret and runaway to Italy together, and he sticks with her right up to her death and then never remarries? The entire real-life story is one of the greatest romantic fantasies I've ever heard.
And out of that we get the Sonnets From the Portugese - her love for him expressed in poetry heart-wrenchingly gripping. When you don't know the story behind the poems, the poems are brilliant. When you do know it... It's enough to make your head spin.
So my grand theory about unrequited romance was dashed. I'm not even sure I care.
Sorry for the weird, rambling post. Gothic romances do that to my brain.
*Um, this isn't exactly a mystery book, but it doesn't finish with the same romantic lead it starts with. Can't tell you who, why, or what happens in the end, just in case you actually read the thing. Ah, Villette - the novel that makes us go through the heroine's romantic angst twice, and then decides to kick us in the head in the end. We don't read it because it makes us feel good - but because it makes us feel bad in a way that's hard to ignore...
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