Recently, I was updating my Classics Club page with links to the reviews I posted while in Antarctica, and I realized that I never actually wrote up a review of Charlotte Bronte’s first novel, The Professor. This neglect could be due to one, or both, of two possible explanations: (1) I finished the book in December, and writing up a review got lost amid the general holiday hustle; or (2) it wasn’t very good.

Charlotte Bronte wrote The Professor alongside her sisters, Emily and Anne, who each produced a first novel of their own (Emily’s melodramatic and slightly racist Wuthering Heights and Anne’s superior Agnes Grey) and submitted them for publication around the same time. And while Charlotte went on to produce justly famous books like the remarkable Jane Eyre (one of my favorite novels of all time) and Shirley (which I read last year, and loved) – The Professor is very much a debut novel. The prose is clunky and overdone; the characters unsympathetic; the setting bland. It’s the shortest of Bronte’s novels, but still feels too long. And it’s not a very good story – really, the only reason to read The Professor is to compare it against Bronte’s other work for a complete picture of her evolution as a writer. If you’re just in it for a good yarn, skip.

The Professor tells the story of a young man, William Crimsworth, and his journey to find an income in the teaching profession. Young Crimsworth first considers going into business, and approaches his older brother, who owns a successful mill in the north of England. The elder Mr. Crimsworth agrees to take his brother on as a clerk, but warns him that he can expect no special treatment as a family member – and indeed, he works our young “hero” hard and mercilessly. When a rival mill owner starts to gossip about the perceived unfairness of Crimsworth elder to Crimsworth younger, the young man is unceremoniously fired. I think we’re supposed to feel badly for him and perceive the injustice of the older brother, etc., etc., but young Crimsworth is such a mealy-mouthed, sycophantic creep that sympathy is impossible.

The action of the story then moves to Brussels, where young Mr. Crimsworth flees in search of a better opportunity. He finds himself a role as an English teacher in a boys’ school, and supplements his income with teaching the young ladies in a neighboring sister school. He becomes infatuated with the girls’ headmistress, who leads him on mildly – but really, he reads much more into her behavior than he should – and then experiences a disappointment when he discovers that she’s, to borrow a contemporary phrase, just not that into him. Again, I think we’re supposed to feel sympathy for him, but – nope, can’t. In any event, he bounces back, starts up a creepy relationship with his star student at the girls’ school in which he is overly critical of her intellect and she seems to enjoy it (sorry, what?) and… nothing much else happens.

There ya go: I read The Professor so you don’t have to.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I… just don’t like the Brontes anymore? That feels like blasphemy, and upon reflection, I don’t think it’s accurate. While it does feel like I’ve grown out of Emily (I loved Wuthering Heights as a teenager, but as a rational adult who is allergic to drama, I can’t stand it), Anne’s novels grow more richly rewarding with every re-reading, and Charlotte’s other works are much, much better than this. It just boils down to: The Professor is a first attempt at writing a novel, and it reads like it.

Charlotte, I still love ya. But I’ll be sticking to Jane Eyre, Shirley, and Villette when I feel like re-reading your work.

Have you ever been disappointed by a favorite writer’s first lackluster effort?