Villette

I am now making a conscious decision not to bang on about how long it’s been since I last posted anything; suffice it to say, that the entire blog has been in a serious coma and I have been struggling to decide whether or not to pull the plug.

Today, I say, let us limp on a little yet.

Rightly so or not, I do feel a little proud of myself for recently finishing the brilliant but painfully slow read that is Villette, by Charlotte Brontë. The novel itself is not especially toothsome but necessary French translations and classical allusions demand constant referencing to the notes. I will say upfront that I had never even heard of this book till it was referenced by the queen of obscure cool, Patti Smith, who said that she was so moved by the book she had to write an alternative ending of her own.

I have always loved the Brontës – especially Charlotte, since she was a self-deprecating champion for plain women everywhere and wrote with such earnest, rich, timeless sincerity. I have recently read too that Villette was and is, considered by many to be vastly superior to Jane Eyre (heresy! my favourite!) and is therefore an “important book.” But now that I have finished it, I am eerily missing being lowered into that atmospheric world each day and feel distinctly empty. What I noticed especially ( and perhaps this is my age) but I found it astounding that someone who lived over 150 years ago would be experiencing and documenting exact feelings I have had myself. Consider the following (only one of many examples) from Chapter 7, particularly the last few lines as she skillfully describes her own anxiety:

Of an artistic temperament, I deny that I am; yet I must possess something of the artist’s faculty of making the most of present pleasure: that is to say, when it is of the kind to my taste; I enjoyed that day, though we travelled slowly, though it was cold, though it rained. Somewhat bare, flat, and treeless was the route along which our journey lay; and slimy canals crept, like half-torpid green snakes, beside the road; and formal pollard willows edged level fields, tilled like kitchen-garden beds. The sky too was monotonously grey; the atmosphere was stagnant and humid; yet amidst all these deadening influences, my fancy budded fresh and my heart basked in sunshine. These feelings, however, were well kept in check by the secret but ceaseless consciousness of anxiety lying in wait on enjoyment, like a tiger crouched in a jungle. The breathing of that beast of prey was in my ear always; his fierce heart panted close against mine; he never stirred in his lair but I felt him: I knew he waited only for sundown to bound ravenous from his ambush.

I feel sure that she is describing the demons peculiar to 3 o’clock in the morning that arrive from nowhere to swirl and torment me till the early morning light in the room glows and I can focus on the cat’s steady breathing beside me and am suddenly able to sleep once more.

Such a brilliant, talented woman she was – and such a sad life. Villette is believed to be very autobiographical. One last thing – when I look at her portrait I do not understand how she considered herself to be plain.

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