와일드펠의 세입자 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (영문판)

앤 브론테 지음

아이보리잉크 2025년 06월 03일 출간

작품소개

책소개

* 이 도서는 영어만으로 구성되어 있습니다.
이 소설은 앤 브론테가 1848년에 발표한 소설로, 여성의 자립과 도덕적 주체성에 대한 강력한 메시지를 담고 있다. 이 작품은 당시 영국 사회의 결혼 제도와 여성 억압 문제를 정면으로 다루었다는 이유로 큰 논란을 불러일으켰으며, 오늘날에는 초기 페미니즘 문학의 선구적 작품으로 평가받는다.
이야기는 황폐한 저택 와일드펠 홀에 아들과 함께 홀로 이사 온 미망인 헬렌 그레이엄과, 그녀에게 점차 마음을 열어가는 젊은 농장주 길버트 마크햄을 중심으로 전개된다. 마을 사람들은 헬렌의 정체에 대해 갖가지 소문을 내지만, 그녀는 끝내 자신의 고통스러운 과거를 일기 형식으로 털어놓는다. 독자는 그 고백을 통해 한 여인이 부도덕한 남편과의 결혼생활을 벗어나기 위해 어떤 결단을 내렸는지를 알게 된다.
이 작품은 단순한 연애담을 넘어선다. 그것은 한 여성이 자신의 삶을 선택하고 지켜내려 했던 치열한 기록이며, 당대의 도덕과 위선을 비판한 용기 있는 선언이었다. 언니 샬럿 브론테조차 이 작품의 재출간을 꺼렸다는 사실은, 이 소설이 얼마나 급진적이고 충격적인 문제의식을 담고 있었는지를 보여준다.

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(참고) 분량: 약 8만자

책 속으로

You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.
My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in ——shire; and I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the same quiet occupation, not very willingly, for ambition urged me to higher aims, and self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding its voice, I was burying my talent in the earth, and hiding my light under a bushel. My mother had done her utmost to persuade me that I was capable of great achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was the surest road to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would listen to no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my fellow mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be to walk honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at least, as flourishing a condition as he left them to me.
"Well!—an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most useful members of society; and if I devote my talents to the cultivation of my farm, and the improvement of agriculture in general, I shall thereby benefit, not only my own immediate connections and dependants, but, in some degree, mankind at large:—hence I shall not have lived in vain."
With such reflections as these I was endeavouring to console myself, as I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy evening towards the close of October. But the gleam of a bright red fire through the parlour window had more effect in cheering my spirits, and rebuking my thankless repinings, than all the sage reflections and good resolutions I had forced my mind to frame;—for I was young then, remember—only four-and-twenty—and had not acquired half the rule over my own spirit that I now possess—trifling as that may be.
However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had exchanged my miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough surtout for a respectable coat, and made myself generally presentable before decent society; for my mother, with all her kindness, was vastly particular on certain points.
In ascending to my room I was met upon the stairs by a smart, pretty girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, bright, blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry brown eyes. I need not tell you this was my sister Rose. She is, I know, a comely matron still, and, doubtless, no less lovely—in your eyes—than on the happy day you first beheld her. Nothing told me then that she, a few years hence, would be the wife of one entirely unknown to me as yet, but destined hereafter to become a closer friend than even herself, more intimate than that unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was collared in the passage, on coming down, and well-nigh jerked off my equilibrium, and who, in correction for his impudence, received a resounding whack over the sconce, which, however, sustained no serious injury from the infliction; as, besides being more than commonly thick, it was protected by a redundant shock of short, reddish curls, that my mother called auburn.
On entering the parlour we found that honoured lady seated in her arm-chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting, according to her usual custom, when she had nothing else to do. She had swept the hearth, and made a bright blazing fire for our reception; the servant had just brought in the tea-tray; and Rose was producing the sugar-basin and tea-caddy from the cupboard in the black oak side-board, that shone like polished ebony, in the cheerful parlour twilight.
"Well! here they both are," cried my mother, looking round upon us without retarding the motion of her nimble fingers and glittering needles. "Now shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rose gets the tea ready; I’m sure you must be starved;—and tell me what you’ve been about all day;—I like to know what my children have been about."
"I’ve been breaking in the grey colt—no easy business that—directing the ploughing of the last wheat stubble—for the ploughboy has not the sense to direct himself—and carrying out a plan for the extensive and efficient draining of the low meadowlands."
"That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have you been doing?"
"Badger-baiting."
And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my mother pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his animated countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought highly disproportioned to its object.
"It’s time you should be doing something else, Fergus," said I, as soon as a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to get in a word.
"What can I do?" replied he; "my mother won’t let me go to sea or enter the army; and I’m determined to do nothing else—except make myself such a nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid of me on any terms."
Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He growled, and tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at the table, in obedience to the thrice-repeated summons of Rose.
"Now take your tea," said she; "and I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons; and it’s a thousand pities you didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was there!"
"Well! what of her?"
"Oh, nothing!—I’m not going to tell you about her;—only that she’s a nice, amusing little thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I shouldn’t mind calling her—"
"Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!" whispered my mother earnestly, holding up her finger.
"Well," resumed Rose; "I was going to tell you an important piece of news I heard there—I have been bursting with it ever since. You know it was reported a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell Hall—and—what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a week!—and we never knew!"
"Impossible!" cried my mother.
"Preposterous!!!" shrieked Fergus.
"It has indeed!—and by a single lady!"
"Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!"
"She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives, all alone—except an old woman for a servant!"
"Oh, dear! that spoils it—I’d hoped she was a witch," observed Fergus, while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter. "Nonsense, Fergus! But isn’t it strange, mamma?"
"Strange! I can hardly believe it."
"But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and got all she could out of her. She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in mourning—not widow’s weeds, but slightish mourning—and she is quite young, they say,—not above five or six and twenty,—but so reserved! They tried all they could to find out who she was and where she came from, and, all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with her pertinacious and impertinent home-thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her skilful manœuvring, could manage to elicit a single satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expression calculated to allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray of light upon her history, circumstances, or connections. Moreover, she was barely civil to them, and evidently better pleased to say "good-by," than "how do you do." But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as, though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week, she did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she—Eliza, that is—will beg to accompany him, and is sure she can succeed in wheedling something out of her—you know, Gilbert, she can do anything. And we should call some time, mamma; it’s only proper, you know."
"Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely she must feel!"
"And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and all about it; for I don’t know how I can live till I know," said Fergus, very gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit, he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and butter and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room; and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.

작가정보

저자(글) 앤 브론테

앤 브론테(Anne Brontë, 1820–1849)는 영국 빅토리아 시대의 소설가이자 시인으로, 브론테 자매 중 막내였다. 언니들인 샬럿 브론테(제인 에어), 에밀리 브론테(폭풍의 언덕)와 함께 19세기 영문학을 대표하는 작가로 꼽힌다.