Villette by Charlotte Bronte – A book review

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