The Professor by Charlotte Brontë

I set down to read The Professor by Charlotte Brontë with a clear mind lacking in any fully realised expectations. I did not expect it to be any Jane Eyre after reading reviews which spoke of its mediocrity and learning it to be her first novel, but perhaps I did in a way. Perhaps I did set down with expectations; but, if I did, I was unsuspecting of their existence when I passed to the first page. Besides, I suppose the only true thing I expected was to experience once more her - I lack an appropiate adjective here - style of writing.

The Professor is different in numerous ways; firstly, it is her first novel. Maybe this does not call it out as different to any other than I, but such a state certainly seems to assure that it cannot be the same. Another point of variation which is perhaps the most significant to realise is that it is from the male perspective, a practice not seen in any of her other novels. I think this is a fact that many readers of Brontë will be weary of and I, too, probably shared this uncertainty; after all, how could I learn to love a male lead as I had loved Jane Eyre? Past novels read and have made me almost accustomed to seeing the likes of Mr. Rochester and Mr. Darcy from the sidelines, rather than from viewing all else through their own eyes.

I was pleasantly surprised, then, to find I liked Crimsworth quite from the start. The tale is told from 'his' own hand, and a feeling of sympathy towards this "shy noodle" (I simply can't forget this line!) is essential to involvement in the tale. We learn of his character, his maturation, his loves, his woes and his eventual career as the titular "professor" - and what more can one expect? We learn of him essentially, as a young man who rejects his path and sets out on his own, firstly turning to trade in stubborness, then to foreign countries where he becomes the titular professor. There are, of course, other characters to the novel, andBront ë once more creates a marvellous cast of characters who we so earnestly want to learn more of.

It would be worthless to speak more of them, however, as individual taste certainly plays a factor in regards to the sympathy laid upon each. Even so, some of them are familiar, whether be it his loves or his friend - is that right? - Hunsden. It is not so drastically different as perhaps I first implied, as this is a tale enjoyed as well as Brontë's others. It is short, though, and perhaps we cannot delve in and explore as much, but it still displays to us an ample view of her development as a writer if nothing else.