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A review by jenna_le
Villette by Charlotte Brontë
5.0
Critics rightly give Lucy Snowe, Villette's protagonist, a hard time for the sneakiness that makes her an "unreliable narrator," as well as her many other character flaws -- e.g., her neurotic passivity or, to phrase it more accurately, the self-avowed "perversity" that often makes her unable to defend herself or stand up for her own interests. Yet I'm inclined to look leniently on these shortcomings, largely thanks to Lucy's hilarious sense of humor. When Lucy dresses in male clothing for the school play and gets sneered at by her snooty Parisian co-worker Zelie St. Pierre, it's hard not to laugh at how Lucy shuts down Zelie with the unexpected retort, "If you were not a lady and I a gentleman, I should feel disposed to call you out [i.e., challenge you to a duel]." It's impossible not to grin when Lucy responds to Monsieur Paul's saying she deserves to be hanged by straight-facedly presenting him with the world's tiniest noose made out of embroidery thread. And her wit is irresistible when she complains that Paul's schoolroom is too hot by saying, "I know nothing of the natural history of salamanders. For my own part, sitting in an oven does not agree with me...." Even as she criticizes Ginevra for being a conniving flirt, Lucy acknowledges that she herself enjoys winding up Paul on purpose, and the dialogues that result can be outrageously amusing. Rereading this book for the umpteenth time, I can easily see how Paul, aided by his jealousy of John Bretton, comes to be fascinated by Lucy: she is funny, she has a talent for theater (although, once the school play is over, she suppresses it), she is crafty (she gifts him a bodacious handmade watch-chain on his fete day, whereas others merely give him flowers), and her impromptu essay on the theme of "Human Justice" gives a hint of the powerfully imaginative author she might have become under other circumstances (she is, after all, a stand-in for Charlotte Bronte). Conversely, I can see why, despite her clear-eyed awareness of his chauvinism and innumerable other flaws, Lucy falls for Paul: for one thing, his capacity for love is so great that he remains self-sacrificingly devoted to the memory of a dead woman for many years (in this, he might be seen as a clear antecedent of a professor character in the Harry Potter series). Also, he is the only person who sees the passionate side of Lucy's nature that she so arduously represses, and no experience is more rattling than being really, truly seen. Penetrative seeing, whether through a window or a spyglass, is the most repeated motif in this book, and at one point, Lucy says of Paul: "A veil would be no veil for him." When a character is described this way, it's inevitable that the protagonist is going to fall for him, like a rock.
Although Villette winks at the gothic tradition, it would be a mistake to pigeonhole it as a "gothic novel." It is not subservient to any literary genre: neither a bildungsroman like Jane Eyre, nor a "social novel" like Shirley, nor a "local color" novel (although it nods knowingly at the conventions of all these genres). It is an admixture of so many diverse tropes, including a number of my favorites (e.g., the trope where the protagonist is accused of not being a good-enough writer to have written the piece she purports to have written and must stand trial on charges of plagiarism, but is ultimately vindicated). I know some readers complain about Bronte's liberal sprinkling-in of French phrases, but on rereading, this stylistic choice makes sense to me: Lucy is proud of her skill at written French, which will always exceed her skill at spoken French, and in the end she cherishes French as the language of the man she has come to love. Overall, Villette's dialogues are spikily alive: the offhand remarks of even a minor character like crotchety old Mr. Home are more lifelike and funny to me than the more intentionally comic speeches of, say, Jane Austen's Mr. Woodhouse, the banter between John Bretton and his mother more delightfully natural-sounding than its counterpart in any other novel. Other comic novels' dialogue can read like listening to a cleverly staged comedy, but reading Villette's dialogues is like overhearing real flesh-and-blood people chatting ever so interestingly. I first read this book as an teen, and what I loved most about it then was its painfully realistic portrayal of how an unbeautiful woman with an imperfect soul falls in love: it's no smooth sail, especially when compared to the tamer romantic journey of Jane Eyre (a woman who, for all the privations she suffers, has a whole and healthy soul) or Elizabeth Bennet (a woman whose character flaws, such as they are, are superficial and not impossible to overcome). There is something so nourishing about seeing a hot mess of a character like Lucy Snowe centered the way this book centers her. After all these years, I still absolutely love it.
Although Villette winks at the gothic tradition, it would be a mistake to pigeonhole it as a "gothic novel." It is not subservient to any literary genre: neither a bildungsroman like Jane Eyre, nor a "social novel" like Shirley, nor a "local color" novel (although it nods knowingly at the conventions of all these genres). It is an admixture of so many diverse tropes, including a number of my favorites (e.g., the trope where the protagonist is accused of not being a good-enough writer to have written the piece she purports to have written and must stand trial on charges of plagiarism, but is ultimately vindicated). I know some readers complain about Bronte's liberal sprinkling-in of French phrases, but on rereading, this stylistic choice makes sense to me: Lucy is proud of her skill at written French, which will always exceed her skill at spoken French, and in the end she cherishes French as the language of the man she has come to love. Overall, Villette's dialogues are spikily alive: the offhand remarks of even a minor character like crotchety old Mr. Home are more lifelike and funny to me than the more intentionally comic speeches of, say, Jane Austen's Mr. Woodhouse, the banter between John Bretton and his mother more delightfully natural-sounding than its counterpart in any other novel. Other comic novels' dialogue can read like listening to a cleverly staged comedy, but reading Villette's dialogues is like overhearing real flesh-and-blood people chatting ever so interestingly. I first read this book as an teen, and what I loved most about it then was its painfully realistic portrayal of how an unbeautiful woman with an imperfect soul falls in love: it's no smooth sail, especially when compared to the tamer romantic journey of Jane Eyre (a woman who, for all the privations she suffers, has a whole and healthy soul) or Elizabeth Bennet (a woman whose character flaws, such as they are, are superficial and not impossible to overcome). There is something so nourishing about seeing a hot mess of a character like Lucy Snowe centered the way this book centers her. After all these years, I still absolutely love it.