We have
friends. We had friends. And we’ve had friends. And known people – different
kinds, all kinds.
And one of
them most certainly has been the quiet one. An introvert. Probably an observer. The one of few words,
though not so few with the trusted ones or the ones liked and loved. A pupil in
a classroom the teacher hardly notices, inconspicuously blending with the
tables and chairs than with the mirth and melancholy of the living, not a
prominent colour, rather a fading shade in the continuum. Yet, not a chameleon,
not a manipulator but manipulated. Not there to hide, nevertheless remains
hidden; plainness and simplicity are hardly ornate conspicuous virtues.
Disdained by a
few, sympathized by others, they are always the ones expected to understand, yet
not worthy enough to be spent time on to be understood. A strong shoulder for
others’ woes, a cheek softened by others’ tears; not needing it, yet
sympathized. Not meant to love, to be loved, yet to be talked to about love,
yet to be asked to about love; their sensibility is accepted, their sensitivity
is ignored. They are probably the ones one would be most comfortable with,
would like to share with the most, but when a social event is to be organized, theirs
are the names easily forgotten or thought of the last. One would expect them to
comply, never say no to the many things hurled at them as a friend, but the
same ones would never have the time, effort and energy to remain and return the
favour when it is their turn.
Is it
diffidence then that moulds them? No, no, no! They are the tested, they have
endured and though they fight formidably the inexplicable battles of life that
once surprised them, but not any more owing to its regularity and familiarity,
they have long ago thrown down their arms and surrendered to Fate. The
resilience stems not from a weakness then, rather a solidity derived from the
lessons of an unprivileged life.
We pass so
many of them; they are the multitude; they seldom are granted a second look. But
they are needed, essential gifts for the privileged. And we need a Bronte to
tell us that they, not just survive but see, feel, cry and laugh like others;
at least they have the ability to. They do live too.
Charlotte
Bronte presents us the journey of Lucy - an English teacher in a French
establishment, hardened by the eccentricities of life, and still nurturing a
softness within; a candle which will burn a long time, inevitably changing
shape but not the intensity of the flame within; her strength is her character:
simple, pure, resilient. God bless Lucy. God bless M Paul Emanuel more for
seeing, recognizing and applauding with a sincere heart another one that others
couldn’t. But then which God – Lucy’s or M Paul’s?
This is the
first book I have read by Charlotte Bronte.
It hasn’t been quite an easy read; I’ve had to reread certain pages multiple
times. But then poetry has never been
easy to comprehend, the unseen lines between the printed ones, once scribbled, are
the ones that delight and carry the depth. And it is the unseen, the
unexplained, the implied that makes a thing, a person, a thought more
beautiful. Bronte’s words are a stamp of her genius.
One of my
favourite paragraphs from the book – Lucy, struggling by herself, trying to
write to Dr John Graham Bretton, an acquaintance from her childhood who’s
surfaced again in her troubled youth, and who has managed to invoke in her
feelings hitherto unfelt, unrecognized, unknown by the validation of a mere
letter written by him to her.
To begin with Feeling and I turned
Reason out of doors, drew against her bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread
our paper, dipped in the ink an eager pen, and with deep enjoyment, poured out
our sincere heart. ….. nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or
dreamed the rising of Hope’s star over Love’s troubled waters) – when , then, I
had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring attachment that
wanted to attract to itself and take into its own lot all that was painful in
the destiny of its object; that would if it could, have absorbed and conducted
away all storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of
solicitude – then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt
and bar would yield, Reason would leap in, vigorous and revengeful, snatch the
full sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and
send a terse, curt, missive of a page. She did right.
My rating: 5/5
Image copyrights:
Charlotte
Bronte: https://brontesisters.co.uk/Charlotte-Bronte.html
Book cover: https://www.amazon.in/Villette-Wordsworth-Classics-Charlotte-Bronte/dp/185326072X
