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    The Professor
    The Professor
    The Professor
    Ebook314 pages5 hours

    The Professor

    By Charlotte Bronte

    3.5/5

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    The first novel written by the author of "Jane Eyre," "The Professor" is a story about the life of the resilient William Crimsworth. An English orphan raised by coldly aristocratic uncles, he rejects a life as a clergyman to work in his brother's mill in Yorkshire. Treated abominably in his tedious clerkship, Crimsworth escapes to Belgium and begins teaching in a boys' school. There he eventually meets the headmistress of a neighboring girls' school, Zoraide Reuter, as well as one of the teachers in the girls' school, Francis Henri. Narrated from a convincing male perspective, Bronte exercised her skill as a writer in telling a tale based on her own experiences as a student in Brussels, challenging many of the assumptions of Victorian society in the process. Crimsworth matures, finds a fulfilling profession, and discovers love in this significant commencement to Charlotte Bronte's literary career.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9781596250970
    Author

    Charlotte Bronte

    Charlotte Brontë (1816–1855) was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sister authors. Her novels are considered masterpieces of English literature – the most famous of which is Jane Eyre.

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    Reviews for The Professor

    3.5/5

    422 ratings21 reviews

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    • 3/5
      This story seemed very slow and in my opinion didn't pick up until the last few chapters which I really enjoyed. I truly wanted to like this book more. Very lengthy descriptions that I normally I enjoy in novels left me bored and distracted.
    • 4/5
      A precursor to VilletteBy sally tarbox on 21 October 2017Format: Kindle EditionCharlotte Bronte's first novel; the reader familiar with her other works will soon recognize familiar themes - schools, Belgium, an exacting professor, an eager female pupil and cruel relatives.Here, however, the professor is the narrator; and while we recognise Monsieur Heger, Charlotte's adored teacher in Brussels, here the nationalities are transposed, and he is an Englishman, striving to make his way in the world. The pupil is an oppressed needlework teacher, French-speaking but likewise determined to better herself...The writing skills are all there, but it all seems a little shapeless - I kept waiting for the blunt-spoken but apparently well-meaning Mr Hunsdon to have some vital role to play, or for the dissimulating headteachers Pelet and Reuter (or the nasty elder brother) to feature significantly but it all kind of floats off into a happy ending.*3.5 - a fair but vastly weaker novel than the superlative 'Villette'.
    • 3/5
      The meat of the story was interesting as a study of character and of human interaction, although as far as novels go, "The Professor" read more like a sketch, with a very straight-forward plot and little development in characters. The last chapter felt unnecessary and rambling, and I also didn't really see much point in Mr. Hunsden, although I guess he was supposed to be a rather unusual friend. Nonetheless, I enjoyed reading this book because of the unexpected bonus that I felt like it gave me insight into Charlotte Bronte's idea of Mr. Rochester and his interactions with Jane Eyre in that novel. The way Mr. Rochester teased and toyed with Jane Eyre's affections always rather puzzled me, but I felt like I understood his perspective better, thanks to "The Professor".Altogether, I don't think I'll ever read it again, but am glad that I did.
    • 4/5
      Charlotte Bronte wrote this book before "Jane Eyre" or "Shirley" and states that it was the first of her writing attempts that she did not rip up. She writes believably from her male protagonist's point of view, though I found the lengthy assessments of his high school students to be a bit over-wrought. However, the story picked up after that point and was a worthwhile addition to the Bronte collection. (Eventually, I plan to read them all, but have completed only "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte and "Wuthering Heights" by Emily thus far.) Knowledge of French is extremely helpful - there are numerous untranslated lines in French. Even my high school/college French was useful though I could not understand all of it.
    • 4/5
      The Professor was Charlotte Bronte's first novel, and was not published during her lifetime. Though it does not provide the drama and juicier plot lines of her better known work, we do find realistic characters with human emotions, proportionate passions, and the ordinary troubles of employment, human interactions, and finding one's way in life. While it begins in the North of England, most of the book is set in Brussels, where our main characters are to be found teaching in an international girls' school. As Charlotte Bronte herself taught English in such an establishment in Brussels, as well as receiving lessons in other subjects, much of the detail is informed by personal experience. This includes her unrequited infatuation with one of the professors there, around which the plot of this novel is partly based. In this way, we learn almost as much about Charlotte Bronte from this novel as we do of its characters. We also see her strong notions of female capability and character here, and at a time when women's employment and position in society was frustrating to intelligent women such as the Brontes who did not want to be shut up at home with needlework and house chores, but rather finding work meaningful to them. Due to the similarities in plot to her better known novel Villette, this is sometimes considered a rough sketch of the later work. However, this work does stand on its own merits with well-developed characters with plausible interactions and a satisfactory progression and conclusion. Some readers might find it wanting in excitement and action, but it works quite well as a study on the workings, happiness, and challenges of ordinary life, due to the quality of Charlotte Bronte's style of writing and means of expression.
    • 2/5
      'The Professor' was not published in Bronte's lifetime - it was rejected by every publisher that it was shown to. I can understand why, as it is a very weak piece of fiction.The story follows the narrator, William Crimsworth, as he variously sheds his aristocratic family ties, works as a clerk in the North, and finally finds himself a living as a teacher in Brussels. He flirts with the mistress of a school, and eventually settles down with a student-teacher; they marry and live happily ever after. That's all - there's very little story here, very little for the characters to struggle against and overcome. By the end of the book I felt simply tired.The characters are drab affairs. William appears to have few attractive qualities, and yet his friends stand by him even though he rejects them; we never find out why Hunsden is so devoted to him. It is also a wonder why so many women fall in love with him.There are also many strange aspects to the story. Firstly, the narrator (and therefore, presumably, Bronte herself) takes a very racist aspect with regards to the native Belgians, describing them as lower-order lifeforms. And then there is the small matter of William's wife and her English skills: at times she struggles with the language, and at other times she excels to a degree that is unreasonably grand.Speaking of language, in this edition of the book a large portion of the dialog is still presented in French, which was hard to follow - warning is due to those unfamiliar with the tongue.So, what was the point of this novel? It read to me like some sort of a wish list - a lover who values his loved as an equal; a happy marriage and career; a family and friends. No real challenge, nothing worthy of the novel; perhaps this effort should have remained unpublished.
    • 3/5
      What is more important beauty, intelligence, or wealth when it concerns the heart?William Crimsworth seeks a job from his estranged brother but on discovering a hardened man, leaves England to go to Brussels at the advice of Mr Hunsden. Employed teaching English in two schools side by side, one run by M. Pelet and the other by Mlle Z. Reuter. The positions allow him to not only learn to speak Frech fluently while earning double the pay but teaches him importance of trust and love. I've read Jane Eyre and now starting to delve further into Charlotte Brontes novels and life. I have yet to read Villete but I found this book a bit slow. I could not find character to really sympathize with until the end, even then the book ended with more of a whimper instead of a bang. I understand that it was an early work, published after her death but it is worht a read for anyone interested in the life and works of Charlotte Bronte.
    • 5/5
      The first novel by Charlotte Brontë, though not published until her death. It has been reviewed as a simple, unimaginative portrait of an English teacher's life in Brussels, an early attempt to what her best known novel Villette would later become.I don't agree.This work shines in itself, it's the only story in which Charlotte dares to talk through a man's voice. She talks about responsibility, about earning your own success through effort and sacrifice, to defy the strict clichés and the hypocrisy of the English Society and to stand up to your ideals. In this novel, William Crimsworth can be seen as a mere strict teacher or as a revolutionary who chooses her wife-to-be because of her intellect and not because of her looks or her position. And later, he lets her grow professionally to work together as good companions, elbow by elbow, always treating her like an equal.I loved the message the book tries to convey, that work, perseverance and fair values lead you to a happy outcome. As worthy as any other of Charlotte's works, even more so, as I think this book talks more about the writer's own view of life than any other of her novels.
    • 5/5
      Is it crazy to say that I love all of the Bronte books more than I love any of Jane Austen's books? Of course, there are a couple I haven't read from the Bronte sisters and Austen. But I think the examples would prove the rule. I just love this book. Of course, it isn't as amazing as some of the other books, but there is so much here while also being a pretty straightforward plot. Though Charlotte fills the plot with much detail and life. Though Charlotte wrote this first, it was the last of the published novels (I think Branwell even helped with this one, possibly?) It's also interesting that Arthur decided to publish this after Charlotte's death, as it mirrors Charlotte's past. The book begins with a man not knowing what to do with his life, but coveting knowledge and intelligence above all else. He falls into teaching at a school in Brussels. He becomes entangled in a love triangle with the directors of his school and the neighboring school for girls, but soon has his eyes opened to their true character. I won't divulge more, but I found the degree of detail and pacing lovely, the main characters fully formed. And as usual I'm always in awe of Charlotte's way with words. I could especially appreciate the preface with Charlotte explaining the realistic plot "that no sudden turns should lift him in a moment to wealth and high station" which could be the only complaint of a book like 'Jane Eyre' (if I even had a complaint with that perfect book). There is no elevated unrealistic drama here. The Bronte sisters were geniuses and may their books live forever.
    • 2/5
      I did not like this book. That's my review in brief. I was curious to read more by Charlotte Bronte, but I guess I made a mistake by starting with The Professor. The main character was not likable at all, and the events in the book not very interesting. It was a short read, otherwise I wouldn't have finished it.
    • 4/5
      I originally rated “The Professor” (plus “Emma”) three stars when adding it to Goodreads but having read the book a second time I’ve upped it to four stars. Not sure if this is owing to it being more palatable second time round or that my initial rating was through remembering little of my first read.Anyway, although this volume does not come close to the three novels by Charlotte Brontë’s published during her lifetime it still has some goodness to offer. On the one hand we have a story of the less fortunate members of society trying to make a living, while on the other hand we have an original boy-meets-girl scenario.The character relationships are what appealed to me the most. William Crimsworth – the narrator of the piece – has a volatile relationship with his brother. This is lightly touched on, but more interesting is the most unusual friendship William has with Yorke Hunsden, who’s a man in living in better circumstances than himself.Even better are William’s interaction with the two main female characters. Zoraide, head of an all-girls’ school in Brussels, is a complete contrast to the poor lace-making student Frances Henri. Both are likeable in their own ways, though as the story progresses the reader learns that one of these women should be given a wide berth.I liked the contrasting ways that William relates to both these women and how they respond to him. I particularly like the tutor-student relationship he has with Frances and how it grows.I do have one minor gripe and one major dislike with this novel. The minor gripe is the amount of rambling passages, especially the opening and closing chapters. In fact the last chapter could’ve been summarised into a paragraph and placed at the end of what currently serves as the penultimate chapter. Too much description and explanation are apparent here, including a story about a boy and his dog, which seemed superfluous in every respect to me.The main story in my view ended early in the third-to-last chapter, at which point my curiosities were all settled, while my interest in the continuation of events had all but ceased. In short, the good bits are sandwiched between, say, Chapters 5 and 23.The major dislike I have towards this novel is this sort of thing:>“Comme vous avez l’air rayonnant!” said he. “Je ne vous ai jamais vu aussi gai. Que s’est-il donc passe?”“Apparemment que j’aime les changements,” replied I.“Ah! je comprends — c’est cela-soyez sage seulement. Vous etes bien jeune — trop jeune pour le role que vous allez jouer; il faut prendre garde — savez-vous?”“Mais quel danger y a-t-il?”“Je n’en sais rien — ne vous laissez pas aller a de vives impressions — voila tout.”“No need to have recourse to such extreme measures, I assure you. Allons, monsieur le professeur — asseyons-nous; je vais vous donner une petite lecon dans votre etat d’instituteur.” (I wish I might write all she said to me in French — it loses sadly by being translated into English.)”Vous prie de vouloir bien conduire la petite de Dorlodot chez elle, elle vous attend dans le cabinet de Rosalie la portiere — c’est que sa bonne n’est pas venue la chercher — voyez-vous.”“Eh bien! est-ce que je suis sa bonne — moi?”“Please kindly lead the small Dorlodot home, she awaits you in Rosalie's office the car door - is that his good is not picked her up—You see.""Well! Is what I 'm his good—me"
    • 4/5
      It seems that a lot of readers don't like this book, but I did. It's not as good Jane Eyre or Villette, but it is a readable story about characters I found I cared about, flaws and all. I think the point was that even nonprepossessing people (with unattractive prejudices against Belgians, women, and Catholics) need--and can find-- love too.I didn't really like the ending--it just sort of stopped.
    • 4/5
      In The Professor, one of Charlotte Bronte’s earliest novels, which despite many revisions wasn’t published until two years after her death, a Yorkshire mill clerk describes fleeing to Brussels where he takes up employment as an English teacher. He falls briefly under the spell of the older Directoress but ultimately builds a fruitful marriage with one of his pupils. The density of descriptive passages make this a difficult but rewarding read, its loose structure pre-figuring the post-modern. Bronte had in mind the buck the trends of that era’s novelists by providing a realistic approach to characterisation and narrative, which was too new for potential publishers who all rejected it outright. What they missed is how the novel captures the sheer fecklessness of the male heart, seeking acres of meaning in a girl’s otherwise innocuous glances and how we might think we’re in control, but we’re really not.
    • 2/5
      The concept of this story seems good and has the potential to be intriguing. From the start, however, the characters are dull and dry without much to recommend them to the reader. The plot plods on slowly, which further cements the complete lack of interest in the outcome of the already weak plot. I found very little to recommend this story to me, and only completed it by forcing myself to finish. I cannot recommend this book.
    • 4/5
      First of all, what I thought of this book was not influenced by "Villette," and neither is this review. I have not, as of now, read that particular Bronte volume yet (horrible, yes, I know...), so I will be reviewing this book without the comparison that everyone else places on it."The Professor" is about the young man William Crimsworth, who eradicates himself from a job working at his arrogant brother's business and goes to Belgium to become a professor. There, he meets Zoraide Reuter, the headmistress of the school, a woman who hides a conniving nature behind her charm. He also meets Frances Evans Henri, an intelligent young woman who is also one of his pupils. As he becomes closer to Frances, a jealous Zoraide schemes to remove her from the school.I loved the writing style of this book. It was delicate and precise, but not feminine of flowery. I appreciated the fact that it was told from a wholly male perspective, as I tend to find that books written during this period are a bit too laced with dramatic fainting and exclamations - something that this one kept to a minimum thanks to the stoic, practical nature of its main character. I found the male voice a refreshing change.I also loved the character of Zoraide, though I wish that she had been emphasized more thoroughly. She relies on her charm - which she is proudly all too aware of - to get her through her life. I also found it interesting that she apparently needs male attention in order to thrive, and enjoys having every man obsessed with her. Even while she has another lover, she cannot resist enticing William to fall in love with her. She offers up offended denial when the other man accuses her of flirting with William, and offers up further offended denial when William accuses her of being involved with someone else. Perhaps her need for attention and lust are attributed to her age, and fading beauty. Though Zoraide is an interesting character in this book, she isn't exactly a very large part of it. She is involved in the plot certainly, but she disappears shortly after William shifts his attentions to Frances. She is conveniently married off and swept out of the story, which disappointed me.That leads me to another point - the back cover of this book led me to believe that the story involved a love triangle of sorts. It does not. William's future love interest, Frances, does not enter the story until half-way through or more, and by then, Zoraide has been largely forgotten. Even though not completely eradicated from the plot (yet), William certainly has gotten over all traces of romantic interest in her.*Spoilers...*I also disliked the ending chapters, which describe life years, decades after William and Frances have married. They now have a son, are living pretty near happily ever after... And so on. Some scenes about William's son are given, but I wish that the book would have just ended with William and Frances marrying. I felt that the following scenes, which recounted mundane and very ordinary home life, took away from their love story.So, in short, while I loved some of the characters and the style that this book was written in, the plot simply had too many flaws for me to consider it anything beyond average.But at least I have Villette to look forward to!
    • 3/5
      First novels are either masterpieces or show pretty clearly that they are first novels. Especially the first novels that get published only after the author died. Charlotte Bronte wrote "The Professor" before any of the more popular novels and never managed to publish it. The topics are all there, the craft is emerging (but not yet there) and you can just see the storyteller to be under all the problems. But there is nothing really new here - it is the novel that served almost as a base later, all topics that are handled not-s-nicely here were handled a lot better in the later works. This novel is also the only one written from a male perspective even though there is way too many passages that are hard to reconcile with a Victorian man... and the woman behind shines through. Adding to this the almost caricatures which are some of the main characters and the guy that always shows up exactly when things just cannot be solved without external help and the book is away from the Bronte masterpieces. But despite all this, it is still an enjoyable novel - if you know what to expect. William is an interesting character although a lot of what happens to him is exaggerated to the point of a grotesque and that last chapter set 10 years later is so unnecessary and clumsy (and yet so familiar and expected) that even if everything else was perfect, it would have betrayed this novel as the work of a not fully developed author. The Setting in Belgium contrasted with the earlier setting in England is interesting and the continent in the beginning of the 19th century is an interesting place (and a lot of people ended up washing up there). The school systems as described in the novel are probably one of the best features of the novel - education is something we now take for granted but things back then were quite different.And then comes the French. I don't speak French so all the dialogue in French was complicating the book - and in more than one case they were unnecessary - the author was making weird choices of when just to mention that the dialogue is in French and when to keep it in French. Overall - if someone is interested in the Brontes or the Victorian novels, it is worth reading. But if someone looks for a good book and expect something similar to "Villette" (which in more than one way is the second version of this book) or any of the other Victorian classics, the book will be disappointing.
    • 4/5
      This novel appears to be the precursor to "Villette," using a similar plot, but using a male voice as the narrator. The male is William Crimsworth, orphaned by poor parents, but raised by wealthy relations with resentment on both sides. Soon as he is of age, William sets off to make it on his own, which neccessitates him going into - gasp!- trade, a horrifying word among the upper class. William seeks his long-lost older brother, who didn't have the benefit of their rich relatives' protection and made a fortune on his own. William, however, is eternally an outsider, treated badly by his resentful brother, and held at bay by his coworkers, except for Mr. Hunsden, who takes up a curious, trucculent fondness for the young man. Through Hunsden's help, William gets a job in Brussels as a professor. There, he becomes besotted with two women: first, the sensual, yet deceiving Zoraide, then, the more moral and humble, Anglo-Swiss Frances. The novel is peculier for its time, but not necessarily for a Bronte, in Frances' perserverance and sense of duty to the point where she must be only in debt to herself, even after she weds. She insists on working, even though William offers her a chance to "rest" after marraige. Even when she has a child, she still works hard and worries that her salary isn't significant enough to contribute to the household. She must be her husband's equal, and together they run a school together and earn an independant living, enabling her to fulfill her dream of moving to England. You can't help but admire her character and know that she is sensible enough to take care of herself.Crimsworth prides himself on his morality and sense of duty, but his personality makes things difficult for himself. He has an air of moral superiority, both at home in England and abroad in Brussels. In Brussels, his personality seems most cruel in his descriptions of the Flemish and their Catholicism. (I believe the phrase he uses is "popish wizardry.") This is a theme that pops up in "Villette," and a little bit in "Jane Eyre," so it must be the author's bias as well. Read with the eyes of a modern-day reader, Crimsworth's feelings about Flemish Catholics are quite vitriolic and shade him in a proud, bigoted light. Interesting that he looks down upon them, but has no scruples accepting jobs from them, or teaching them. He seems to feed off of being "better," as he is always espousing English superiority. His feelings are not muted after marriage: The last chapter tells of his domestic life with Frances, where he "punishes" her for being too "French" by reading Wordsworth for an hour. In fact, any quality of Frances's that irritates WIlliam is ascribed to her foreign birth.William's judgmental nature reigns throughout the novel and makes it difficult to feel for him, especially since other people seem to work out his problems for him. While Frances has that determined spirit to care for herself drawn from years of poverty, William understands thrift but never suffers for long. Hunsden interfers on his behalf several times, and a chance encounter saving a boy's life yields a job opportunity and a wealthy connection with the boy's father. He doesn't seem deserving of Frances, a point Hunsden brings up. Yet, throughout, William never wavers in his moral pride, and is seldom forgiving for seeing pride in others. He stares at everyone, noting every detail, describing it to excess, and passing (usually unfavorable) judgement.But one judgement on which he is spot-on is the schoolmistress he had a passing fancy for, Zoraide. She has a need to be adored and wooed. When she thinks she has William ensnared, she is triumphant. But when William learns of her true nature (and relationship with his boss, M. Pelet) he turns cold, rendering her almost frantic in the attempt to win back his affections. The two would not have suited, so it is a happier conclusion to find him in a superior match with Frances. The two females of the novel are meant to represent what is ultimately desirable (Frances) and undesirable (Zoraide) in women's behavior. Frances is rewarded with a happy marriage, fulfillment through work, and a child, while Zoraide's marriage to Pelet is rewarded with domestic unhappiness and the loss of her figure. Utlimately, the novel is an entertaining read, but not as imaginative as "Villette." While "Villette"'s Lucy and this novel's William are both highly judgemental of foreigners, William comes off as uptight, while Lucy appears to be self-denying as a protective measure. WIlliam, however, after always being treated as an outsider perhaps uses his judgemental nature to protect himself as well. Yet he seems to put up blocks against getting to know anyone close, except Frances, without strong effort on their part. The novel's reward is Frances, a pioneer woman who we almost want to describe as "before her time," if she wasn't a product of her time, and her actions the most wise responses to the situations she encounters. A wise decision of Bronte to switch the narrator to a woman for "Villette," as lectures on composure and morality may have felt less hypocritical coming from Frances's point-of-view.
    • 4/5
      Whenever the introduction to a classic suggests that I read the novel before I read the introduction, I shall do so. I was a little disappointed that my view of the novel was shaped by the introduction, nonetheless, this was my first Brontë novel so I am sure to recover! I found the story to be like a first-person biography (as opposed to an auto-biography), and indeed that was intended. Tainted as my view was by the introduction, I could not help but notice the effeminate nature of the protagonist, although I cannot be sure if this was a result of knowing beforehand that which I would not have taken into account without the introduction. An interesting feature is the pace of the climax - a long slow, undulating yet gentle slope upwards until a climax that engulfs a decade in a moment, only to stroll along the precipice with no real danger of excitement; yet an abrupt end that lingers tantalisingly so with even the introduction's gossipy lack of deference a pleasant enough experience.
    • 3/5
      Much less gripping than other books of this age. I felt little for the characters and never felt engaged by the plot.
    • 3/5
      Charlotte Bronte made several unsuccessful attempts to have "The Professor," her earliest work published. I can see why it was only published after her death (and numerous rewrites) as it really isn't a great novel.The story follows William Crimsworth, a man (like her female characters) who is thrown to the wild and forced to find his own fortune. He becomes a teacher in Brussels and the plot moves on from there.It really takes a long time for the book to get going -- her long blocks of descriptive passages become a grind fairly quickly. While there is an interesting story buried in the book, it just drags out at such a slow pace that it really wasn't an enjoyable read.Also disappointing that this edition does not have a translation of the French phrases in the back. While I could follow the general gist of the conversations in French, there is a crucial scene with Frances Henri that really needed to be translated (or read by someone who knows French, which I don't.)Overall, this is book for Charlotte Bronte completists only.
    • 3/5
      It’s clear this is Charlotte’s first effort at writing a novel. Yet I’m glad I read it, because you can see the seeds of her talent in the way she crafts sentences. I do think the story of a teacher in Brussels is stronger when she reworks it from the female point of view in Villette. The main character is a bit insufferable and annoying. The romance fell flat for me as I never understood what Frances saw in him. Regardless, it’s Brontë, so it’s worth reading. “In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man’s hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.”

    Book preview

    The Professor - Charlotte Bronte

    THE PROFESSOR

    BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE

    A Digireads.com Book

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    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3264-5

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    CONTENTS

    PREFACE

    CHAPTER I

    CHAPTER II

    CHAPTER III

    CHAPTER IV

    CHAPTER V

    CHAPTER VI

    CHAPTER VII

    CHAPTER VIII

    CHAPTER IX

    CHAPTER X

    CHAPTER XI

    CHAPTER XII

    CHAPTER XIII

    CHAPTER XIV

    CHAPTER XV

    CHAPTER XVI

    CHAPTER XVII

    CHAPTER XVIII

    CHAPTER XIX

    CHAPTER XX

    CHAPTER XXI

    CHAPTER XXII

    CHAPTER XXIII

    CHAPTER XXIV

    CHAPTER XXV

    PREFACE

    This little book was written before either Jane Eyre or Shirley, and yet no indulgence can be solicited for it on the plea of a first attempt. A first attempt it certainly was not, as the pen which wrote it had been previously worn a good deal in a practice of some years. I had not indeed published anything before I commenced The Professor, but in many a crude effort, destroyed almost as soon as composed, I had got over any such taste as I might once have had for ornamented and redundant composition, and come to prefer what was plain and homely. At the same time I had adopted a set of principles on the subject of incident, &c., such as would be generally approved in theory, but the result of which, when carried out into practice, often procures for an author more surprise than pleasure.

    I said to myself that my hero should work his way through life as I had seen real living men work theirs—that he should never get a shilling he had not earned—that no sudden turns should lift him in a moment to wealth and high station—that whatever small competency he might gain, should be won by the sweat of his brow—that before he could find so much as an arbour to sit down in, he should master at least half the ascent of the Hill of Difficulty;—that he should not even marry a beautiful girl or a lady of rank. As Adam's son he should share Adam's doom—Labour throughout life and a mixed and moderate cup of enjoyment.

    In the sequel, however, I find that Publishers in general scarcely approved of this system, but would have liked something more imaginative and poetical—something more consonant with a highly wrought fancy, with a taste for pathos—with sentiments more tender, elevated, unworldly. Indeed, until an author has tried to dispose of a manuscript of this kind, he can never know what stores of romance and sensibility lie hidden in breasts he would not have suspected of casketing such treasures. Men in business are usually thought to prefer the real; on trial the idea will be often found fallacious: a passionate preference for the wild, wonderful, and thrilling—the strange, startling, and harrowing—agitates divers souls that show a calm and sober surface.

    Such being the case, the reader will comprehend that to have reached him in the form of a printed book, this brief narrative must have gone through some struggles—which indeed it has—and after all its worst struggle and strongest ordeal is yet to come but it takes comfort—subdues fear—leans on the staff of a moderate expectation—and mutters under its breath—while lifting its eye to that of the Public,

    He that is low need fear no fall.

    The foregoing preface was written by my wife with a view to the publication of The Professor, shortly after the appearance of Shirley. Being dissuaded from her intention, the authoress made some use of the materials in a subsequent work—Villette. As, however, these two stories are in most respects unlike, it has been represented to me that I ought not to withhold The Professor from the public. I have therefore consented to its publication.

    A. B. NICHOLLS

    Haworth Parsonage,

    September 22nd, 1856.

    CHAPTER I

    INTRODUCTORY

    The other day, in looking over my papers, I found in my desk the following copy of a letter, sent by me a year since to an old school acquaintance:

    "Dear Charles,

    "I think when you and I were at Eton together, we were neither of us what could be called popular characters: you were a sarcastic, observant, shrewd, cold-blooded creature; my own portrait I will not attempt to draw, but I cannot recollect that it was a strikingly attractive one—can you? What animal magnetism drew thee and me together I know not; certainly I never experienced anything of the Pylades and Orestes sentiment for you, and I have reason to believe that you, on your part, were equally free from all romantic regard to me. Still, out of school hours we walked and talked continually together; when the theme of conversation was our companions or our masters we understood each other, and when I recurred to some sentiment of affection, some vague love of an excellent or beautiful object, whether in animate or inanimate nature, your sardonic coldness did not move me. I felt myself superior to that check then as I do now.

    "It is a long time since I wrote to you, and a still longer time since I saw you. Chancing to take up a newspaper of your County the other day, my eye fell upon your name. I began to think of old times; to run over the events which have transpired since we separated; and I sat down and commenced this letter. What you have been doing I know not; but you shall hear, if you choose to listen, how the world has wagged with me.

    "First, after leaving Eton, I had an interview with my maternal uncles, Lord Tynedale and the Hon. John Seacombe. They asked me if I would enter the Church, and my uncle the nobleman offered me the living of Seacombe, which is in his gift, if I would; then my other uncle, Mr. Seacombe, hinted that when I became rector of Seacombe-cum-Scaife, I might perhaps be allowed to take, as mistress of my house and head of my parish, one of my six cousins, his daughters, all of whom I greatly dislike.

    "I declined both the Church and matrimony. A good clergyman is a good thing, but I should have made a very bad one. As to the wife—oh how like a nightmare is the thought of being bound for life to one of my Cousins! No doubt they are accomplished and pretty; but not an accomplishment, not a charm of theirs, touches a chord in my bosom. To think of passing the winter evenings by the parlour-fireside of Seacombe Rectory alone with one of them—for instance, the large and well-modelled statue, Sarah—no; I should be a bad husband, under such circumstances, as well as a bad clergyman.

    "When I had declined my uncles' offers they asked me 'what I intended to do.' I said I should reflect. They reminded me that I had no fortune, and no expectation of any, and, after a considerable pause, Lord Tynedale demanded sternly 'Whether I had thoughts of following my father's steps and engaging in trade?' Now, I had had no thoughts of the sort. I do not think that my turn of mind qualifies me to make a good tradesman—my taste, my ambition does not lie in that way; but such was the scorn expressed in Lord Tynedale's countenance as he pronounced the word Trade—such the contemptuous sarcasm of his tone—that I was instantly decided. My father was but a name to me, yet that name I did not like to hear mentioned with a sneer to my very face. I answered then, with haste and warmth, 'I cannot do better than follow in my father's steps; yes, I will be a tradesman.' My uncles did not remonstrate; they and I parted with mutual disgust. In reviewing this transaction, I find that I was quite right to shake off the burden of Tynedale's patronage, but a fool to offer my shoulders instantly for the reception of another burden—one which might be more intolerable, and which certainly was yet untried.

    "I wrote instantly to Edward—you know Edward—my only brother, ten years my senior, married to a rich mill-owner's daughter, and now possessor of the mill and business which was my father's before he failed. You are aware that my father—once reckoned a Croesus of wealth—became bankrupt a short time previous to his death, and that my mother lived in destitution for some six months after him, unhelped by her aristocratical brothers, whom she had mortally offended by her union with Crimsworth, the ——shire manufacturer. At the end of the six months she brought me into the world, and then herself left it without, I should think, much regret, as it contained little hope or comfort for her.

    "My father's relations took charge of Edward, as they did of me, till I was nine years old. At that period it chanced that the representation of an important borough in our county fell vacant; Mr. Seacombe stood for it. My uncle Crimsworth, an astute mercantile man, took the opportunity of writing a fierce letter to the candidate, stating that if he and Lord Tynedale did not consent to do something towards the support of their sister's orphan children, he would expose their relentless and malignant conduct towards that sister, and do his best to turn the circumstances against Mr. Seacombe's election. That gentleman and Lord T—— knew well enough that the Crimsworths were an unscrupulous and determined race; they knew also that they had influence in the borough of X——; and, making a virtue of necessity, they consented to defray the expenses of my education. I was sent to Eton, where I remained ten years, during which space of time Edward and I never met. He, when he grew up, entered into trade, and pursued his calling with such diligence, ability, and success, that now, in his thirtieth year, he was fast making a fortune. Of this I was apprised by the occasional short letters I received from him, some three or four times a year; which said letters never concluded without some expression of determined enmity against the house of Seacombe, and some reproach to me for living, as he said, on the bounty of that house. At first, while still in boyhood, I could not understand why, as I had no parents, I should not be indebted to my uncles Tynedale and Seacombe for my education; but as I grew up, and heard by degrees of the persevering hostility, the hatred till death evinced by them against my father—of the sufferings of my mother—of all the wrongs, in short, of our house—then did I conceive shame of the dependence in which I lived, and form a resolution no more to take bread from hands which had refused to minister to the necessities of my dying mother. It was by these feelings I was influenced when I refused the Rectory of Seacombe, and the union with one of my patrician Cousins.

    "An irreparable breach thus being effected between my uncles and myself, I wrote to Edward, told him what had occurred, and informed him of my intention to follow his steps and be a tradesman. I asked, moreover, if he could give me employment. His answer expressed no approbation of my conduct, but he said I might come down to ——shire, if I liked, and he would 'see what could be done in the way of furnishing me with work.' I repressed all—even mental comment on his note—packed my trunk and carpet-bag, and started for the North directly.

    "After two days' travelling (railroads were not then in existence) I arrived, one wet October afternoon, in the town of X——. I had always understood that Edward lived in this town, but on inquiry I found that it was only Mr. Crimsworth's mill and warehouse which were situated in the smoky atmosphere of Bigben Close; his residence lay four miles out, in the country.

    "It was late in the evening when I alighted at the gates of the habitation designated to me as my brother's. As I advanced up the avenue, I could see through the shades of twilight, and the dark gloomy mists which deepened those shades, that the house was large, and the grounds surrounding it sufficiently spacious. I paused a moment on the lawn in front, and leaning my back against a tall tree which rose in the centre, I gazed with interest on the exterior of Crimsworth Hall.

    'Edward is rich, ' thought I to myself. 'I believed him to be doing well—but I did not know he was master of a mansion like this.' Cutting short all marvelling; speculation, conjecture, &c., I advanced to the front door and rang. A man-servant opened it—I announced myself—he relieved me of my wet cloak and carpet-bag, and ushered me into a room furnished as a library, where there was a bright fire and candles burning on the table; he informed me that his master was not yet returned from X——market, but that he would certainly be at home in the course of half an hour.

    "Being left to myself, I took the stuffed easy chair, covered with red morocco, which stood by the fireside, and while my eyes watched the flames dart from the glowing coals, and the cinders fall at intervals on the hearth, my mind busied itself in conjectures concerning the meeting about to take place. Amidst much that was doubtful in the subject of these conjectures, there was one thing tolerably certain—I was in no danger of encountering severe disappointment; from this, the moderation of my expectations guaranteed me. I anticipated no overflowings of fraternal tenderness; Edward's letters had always been such as to prevent the engendering or harbouring of delusions of this sort. Still, as I sat awaiting his arrival, I felt eager—very eager—I cannot tell you why; my hand, so utterly a stranger to the grasp of a kindred hand, clenched itself to repress the tremor with which impatience would fain have shaken it.

    "I thought of my uncles; and as I was engaged in wondering whether Edward's indifference would equal the cold disdain I had always experienced from them, I heard the avenue gates open: wheels approached the house; Mr. Crimsworth was arrived; and after the lapse of some minutes, and a brief dialogue between himself and his servant in the hall, his tread drew near the library door—that tread alone announced the master of the house.

    "I still retained some confused recollection of Edward as he was ten years ago—a tall, wiry, raw youth; now, as I rose from my seat and turned towards the library door, I saw a fine-looking and powerful man, light-complexioned, well-made, and of athletic proportions. The first glance made me aware of an air of promptitude and sharpness, shown as well in his movements as in his port, his eye, and the general expression of his face. He greeted me with brevity, and, in the moment of shaking hands, scanned me from head to foot; he took his seat in the morocco covered arm-chair, and motioned me to another seat.

    "'I expected you would have called at the counting-house in the Close,' said he; and his voice, I noticed, had an abrupt accent, probably habitual to him; he spoke also with a guttural northern tone, which sounded harsh in my ears, accustomed to the silvery utterance of the South.

    "'The landlord of the inn, where the coach stopped, directed me here,' said I. 'I doubted at first the accuracy of his information, not being aware that you had such a residence as this.'

    "'Oh, it is all right!' he replied, 'only I was kept half an hour behind time, waiting for you—that is all. I thought you must be coming by the eight o'clock coach.'

    "I expressed regret that he had had to wait; he made no answer, but stirred the fire, as if to cover a movement of impatience; then he scanned me again.

    "I felt an inward satisfaction that I had not, in the first moment of meeting, betrayed any warmth, any enthusiasm; that I had saluted this man with a quiet and steady phlegm.

    "'Have you quite broken with Tynedale and Seacombe?' he asked hastily.

    "'I do not think I shall have any further communication with them; my refusal of their proposals will, I fancy, operate as a barrier against all future intercourse.'

    'Why,' said he, 'I may as well remind you at the very outset of our connection, that no man can serve two masters." Acquaintance with Lord Tynedale will be incompatible with assistance from me.' There was a kind of gratuitous menace in his eye as he looked at me in finishing this observation.

    "Feeling no disposition to reply to him, I contented myself with an inward speculation on the differences which exist in the constitution of men's minds. I do not know what inference Mr. Crimsworth drew from my silence—whether he considered it a symptom of contumacity or an evidence of my being cowed by his peremptory manner. After a long and hard stare at me, he rose sharply from his seat.

    "'To-morrow,' said he, 'I shall call your attention to some other points; but now it is supper time, and Mrs. Crimsworth is probably waiting. Will you come?'

    "He strode from the room, and I followed. In crossing the hall, I wondered what Mrs. Crimsworth might be. 'Is she,' thought I, 'as alien to what I like as Tynedale, Seacombe, the Misses Seacombe—as the affectionate relative now striding before me? or is she better than these? Shall I, in conversing with her, feel free to show something of my real nature—or—' Further conjectures were arrested by my entrance into the dining-room.

    "A lamp, burning under a shade of ground-glass, showed a handsome apartment, wainscoted with oak; supper was laid on the table; by the fire-place, standing as if waiting our entrance, appeared a lady; she was young, tall, and well shaped; her dress was handsome and fashionable: so much my first glance sufficed to ascertain. A gay salutation passed between her and Mr. Crimsworth; she chid him, half playfully, half poutingly, for being late; her voice (I always take voices into the account in judging of character) was lively—it indicated, I thought, good animal spirits. Mr. Crimsworth soon checked her animated scolding with a kiss—a kiss that still told of the bridegroom (they had not yet been married a year). She took her seat at the supper-table in first-rate spirits. Perceiving me, she begged my pardon for not noticing me before, and then shook hands with me, as ladies do when a flow of good-humour disposes them to be cheerful to all, even the most indifferent of their acquaintance. It was now further obvious to me that she had a good complexion, and features sufficiently marked but agreeable; her hair was red—quite red. She and Edward talked much, always in a vein of playful contention; she was vexed, or pretended to be vexed, that he had that day driven a vicious horse in the gig, and he made light of her fears. Sometimes she appealed to me.

    'Now, Mr. William, isn't it absurd in Edward to talk so? He says he will drive Jack, and no other horse, and the brute has thrown him twice already.

    "She spoke with a kind of lisp, not disagreeable, but childish. I soon saw also that there was more than girlish—a somewhat infantine expression in her by-no-means small features; this lisp and expression were, I have no doubt, a charm in Edward's eyes, and would be so to those of most men, but they were not to mine. I sought her eye, desirous to read there the intelligence which I could not discern in her face or hear in her conversation. It was merry, rather small; by turns I saw vivacity, vanity, coquetry, look out through its irid, but I watched in vain for a glimpse of soul. I am no Oriental; white necks, carmine lips and cheeks, clusters of bright curls, do not suffice for me without that Promethean spark which will live after the roses and lilies are faded, the burnished hair grown grey. In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster—when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.

    "Having perused the fair page of Mrs. Crimsworth's face, a deep, involuntary sigh announced my disappointment; she took it as a homage to her beauty, and Edward, who was evidently proud of his rich and handsome young wife, threw on me a glance—half ridicule, half ire.

    "I turned from them both, and gazing wearily round the room, I saw two pictures set in the oak panelling—one on each side the mantel-piece. Ceasing to take part in the bantering conversation that flowed on between Mr. and Mrs. Crimsworth, I bent my thoughts to the examination of these pictures. They were portraits—a lady and a gentleman, both costumed in the fashion of twenty years ago. The gentleman was in the shade. I could not see him well. The lady had the benefit of a full beam from the softly shaded lamp. I presently recognised her; I had seen this picture before in childhood. It was my mother; that and the companion picture being the only heir-looms saved out of the sale of my father's property.

    "The face, I remembered, had pleased me as a boy, but then I did not understand it; now I knew how rare that class of face is in the world, and I appreciated keenly its thoughtful, yet gentle expression. The serious grey eye possessed for me a strong charm, as did certain lines in the features indicative of most true and tender feeling. I was sorry it was only a picture.

    "I soon left Mr. and Mrs. Crimsworth to themselves; a servant conducted me to my bed-room; in closing my chamber-door, I shut out all intruders—you, Charles, as well as the rest.

    Good-bye for the present,

    William Crimsworth."

    To this letter I never got an answer—before my old friend received it, he had accepted a Government appointment in one of the colonies, and was already on his way to the scene of his official labours. What has become of him since, I know not.

    The leisure time I have at command, and which I intended to employ for his private benefit, I shall now dedicate to that of the public at large. My narrative is not exciting, and above all, not marvellous; but it may interest some individuals, who, having toiled in the same vocation as myself, will find in my experience frequent reflections of their own. The above letter will serve as an introduction. I now proceed.

    CHAPTER II

    A fine October morning succeeded to the foggy evening that had witnessed my first introduction to Crimsworth Hall. I was early up and walking in the large park-like meadow surrounding the house. The autumn sun, rising over the ——shire hills, disclosed a pleasant country; woods brown and mellow varied the fields from which the harvest had been lately carried; a river, gliding between the woods, caught on its surface the somewhat cold gleam of the October sun and sky; at frequent intervals along the banks of the river, tall, cylindrical chimneys, almost like slender round towers, indicated the factories which the trees half concealed; here and there mansions, similar to Crimsworth Hall, occupied agreeable sites on the hill-side; the country wore, on the whole, a cheerful, active, fertile look. Steam, trade, machinery had long banished from it all romance and seclusion. At a distance of five miles, a valley, opening between the low hills, held in its cups the great town of X——. A dense, permanent vapour brooded over this locality—there lay Edward's Concern.

    I forced my eye to scrutinize this prospect, I forced my mind to dwell on it for a time, and when I found that it communicated no pleasurable emotion to my heart—that it stirred in me none of the hopes a man ought to feel, when he sees laid before him the scene of his life's career—I said to myself, William, you are a rebel against circumstances; you are a fool, and know not what you want; you have chosen trade and you shall be a tradesman. Look! I continued mentally—Look at the sooty smoke in that hollow, and know that there is your post! There you cannot dream, you cannot speculate and theorize—there you shall out and work!

    Thus self-schooled, I returned to the house. My brother was in the breakfast-room. I met him collectedly—I could not meet him cheerfully. He was standing on the rug, his back to the fire—how much did I read in the expression of his eye as my glance encountered his, when I advanced to bid him good morning; how much that was contradictory to my nature! He said Good morning abruptly and nodded, and then he snatched, rather than took, a newspaper from the table, and began to read it with the air of a master who seizes a pretext to escape the bore of conversing with an underling. It was well I had taken a resolution to endure for a time, or his manner would have gone far to render insupportable the disgust I had just been endeavouring to subdue. I looked at him: I measured his robust frame and powerful proportions; I saw my own reflection in the mirror over the mantel-piece; I amused myself with comparing the two pictures. In face I resembled him, though I was not so handsome—my features were less regular—I had a darker eye, and a broader brow—in form I was greatly inferior—thinner, slighter, not so tall. As an animal, Edward excelled me far—should he prove as paramount in mind as in person I must be a slave—for I must expect from him no lion-like generosity to one weaker than himself; his cold, avaricious eye, his stern, forbidding manner told me he would not spare. Had I then force of mind to cope with him? I did not know—I had never been tried.

    Mrs. Crimsworth's entrance diverted my thoughts for a moment. She looked well, dressed in white, her face and her attire shining in morning and bridal freshness. I addressed her with the degree of ease her last night's careless gaiety seemed to warrant,

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