Ambiguity in Charlotte Brontë’s Villette [1 ed.] 9783737011198, 9783847111191

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Close Reading Schriften zur britischen Literatur- und Kulturwissenschaft

Volume 3

General Editor Norbert Lennartz (University of Vechta)

Editorial Board Ralf Haekel (University of Göttingen), Sabine Coelsch-Foisner (University of Salzburg), Barbara Schaff (University of Göttingen) Advisory Board Fred Burwick (University of California, Los Angeles), Lilla Maria Crisafulli (Universit/ di Bologna), Ian Duncan (University of California, Berkeley), Holly Furneaux (University of Cardiff), Denise Gigante (Stanford University), Nicholas Halmi (University College, University of Oxford), Richard Lansdown (Cook University Cairns), Anne K. Mellor (University of California, Los Angeles), Tom Mole (University of Edinburgh), Michael O’Neill (University of Durham), Francesca Orestano (Universit/ degli Studi di Milano), Nicholas Roe (University of St. Andrews), Jeremy Tambling (University of Manchester), Richard Marggraf Turley (University of Aberystwyth), Nathalie Vanfasse (Universit8 Aix-Marseille), Duncan Wu (Georgetown University)

Olga Springer

Ambiguity in Charlotte Bront[’s Villette

V& R unipress

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet þber https://dnb.de abrufbar. Die vorliegende Arbeit wurde von der Philosophischen FakultÐt der Eberhard Karls UniversitÐt Tþbingen als Dissertation zur Erlangung des akademischen Grades eines Doktors der Philosophie (Dr. phil.) angenommen. Hauptberichterstatter : Prof. Dr. Matthias Bauer Mitberichterstatterin: Prof. Dr. Ingrid Hotz-Davies Tag der mþndlichen Prþfung: 28. April 2017  2020, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Gçttingen Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich gesch þtzt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen FÐllen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Umschlagabbildung: Caspar David Friedrich, Seestþck bei Mondschein auf dem Meer, 1827/28, Öl auf Leinwand, 25,2 ” 31,2 cm, Bildnachweis: ullstein bild – Imagno Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage j www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2198-9028 ISBN 978-3-7370-1119-8

Contents

Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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11 11 16 23 29 32

II. The Signature of Ambiguity : “I know not” . . . . . 1. “I know not” – An Ambiguous Phrase in Villette 2. Knowing in Lucy and M. Paul’s Relationship . . 3. The First Instances of “I know not” . . . . . . . 4. Uncertainty, Self-Reliance and the City . . . . . 5. The Uncertainty of Foreign Surroundings . . . 6. Self-Knowledge and Recognition . . . . . . . . 7. “I know not” and Surveillance . . . . . . . . . . 8. Despair and Hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. Uncertainty and Ambiguity . . . . . . . . . . . 10. Suspense: “a worse boon than despair” . . . . . 11. Light-Heartedness in Uncertainty . . . . . . . . 12. The Uncertainty of Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13. Scepticism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14. Fancying, Knowing and Believing . . . . . . . .

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37 37 43 46 48 51 52 58 60 64 67 72 74 81 83

III. Who Is Lucy Snowe? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Knowing Oneself and Knowing Others . . . . . . . 2. “‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’” . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The Dichotomy of Inside and Outside: The Mirror 4. Lucy in the Eyes of Others . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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89 89 91 98 102

I.

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Villette and Ambiguity : Starting Points . . . 2. Reading (the Chapter) “Villette” . . . . . . . 3. An Image of Ambiguity . . . . . . . . . . . 4. The Metamorphoses of Villette . . . . . . . 5. Critical Reflections on Ambiguity in Villette

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6

Contents

5. “I will permit the reader to picture me” – Lucy’s Relationship with the Reader . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Lucy’s Self-Characterizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. The Writing-Desk as a Metaphor of Lucy’s Mind . . . . . . . . 8. The Nun as Lucy’s Alter Ego . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. Independence: “I was no bright lady’s shadow” . . . . . . . . 10. The Onlooker at Life and the Theatricality of the Self . . . . . 10.1 Experiencing and narrating . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10.2 “I might have taken this discovery as a thunderclap”: The Mixing of Narrative Perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . 10.3 Lucy as Spectator : The “Cleopatra” and Vashti . . . . . . 11. “I believed myself self-betrayed” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12. A Later Instance of “Who are you?”: The Self in the Novel Fragment Emma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13. Self and Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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105 109 111 120 122 127 129

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130 135 143

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144 146

IV. “‘Bad or good?’” – Endeavours at Oracular Prediction . . . . . . . 1. The Ambiguity of Interpretation: Oracles . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The Oracles in Villette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.1 “‘Mais – bien des choses’”: The First Oracle . . . . . . . . 2.2 An Oracle About the Past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3 “[A] strange hum of oracles” – The Ambiguity of the Creative Impulse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4 “‘[Y]ou shall be what you shall be!’” . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5 Lucy and M. Paul: The Intimacy of Interpretation . . . . 2.6 The Deceptive Oracle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.7 The Final Oracle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Lucy Snowe’s Providence and Fate: Villette in the Tradition of the Spiritual Autobiography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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147 147 151 151 156

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187 192

V.

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193 193 195 202 203 210 217 219 224 227

“[C]overed with a cloud”: Allegory . . . 1. Between Revelation and Concealment 1.1 Allegory and Ambiguity . . . . 2. Shipwreck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.1 Lucy’s Shipwreck . . . . . . . . 2.2 M. Paul’s Shipwreck . . . . . . . 2.3 The Ambiguity of Catastrophe . 3. Lucy’s Dialogue with Reason . . . . . 3.1 Digression: The Battle Motif . . 3.2 Imagination . . . . . . . . . . .

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Contents

4. The Path as Metaphor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1 The Road not Taken – Lucy’s Confession and the Possibility of Becoming a Nun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2 The “trace of white” and the “dim path” – Path Allegories in Jane Eyre and Villette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3 Home and Telos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Inner and Outer Worlds: The Allegorisation of Lucy’s Surroundings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Conclusion: Allegory as Narrative Device and Artistic Self-Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

233 234 239 243 245 249

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251 251 253 256 260 263 266 267

VII. Works Cited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Primary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Secondary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

269 269 272

VI. Conclusion: The Treasure of Letters and the Ambiguity of Hope 1. The Letters of Villette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1 Graham’s Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The Burial of the Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Hope as a Literary Topos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Different Roles of Hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. The Hope of a Life After Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. The End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Acknowledgements

With heartfelt gratitude to the scholars who inspirationally and kindly supported and accompanied this work throughout, and made sure it did not end in shipwreck: Prof. Dr. Matthias Bauer (Tübingen University) and Prof. Dr. Angelika Zirker (Tübingen University). I would like to especially mention the late Prof. Dr. Inge Leimberg (Münster University), whose advice and support have been invaluable. A special thank you goes to Prof. Dr. Ingrid Hotz-Davies (Tübingen University), Prof. Dr. Joachim Knape (Tübingen University) and Prof. Dr. Burkhard Niederhoff (Bochum University). A very big thank you to the lecturers and doctoral students with whom I had the pleasure and privilege of working in the PhD network “Dimensions of Ambiguity” at Tübingen University, and to the university for supporting this thesis with a scholarship of the “Landesgraduiertenförderung Baden-Württemberg”: Prof. Dr. Matthias Bauer, Prof. Dr. Joachim Knape, Prof. Dr. Peter Koch, Prof. Dr. Susanne Winkler, Prof. Dr. Angelika Zirker, Prof. Dr. Esme Winter-Froemel, Felix Balmer, Melanie Feldhofer, Dr. Markus Ising, Dr. Thomas Susanka, and Dr. Nikola Wiegeler. I would moreover like to thank my colleagues from the School of Applied Language and Intercultural Studies at Dublin City University for their support: Dr. Angela Leahy, Dr. ]ine McGillicuddy, Mr Jean-Philippe Imbert, and Dr. Brigitte Le Juez. Many thanks to Ms. Marie-Carolin Vondracek of Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht and Prof. Dr. Norbert Lennartz, editor of the Close Reading series, as well as to Ms. Allison Hudson for proofreading. Last but not least, my parents for their continued support. Dublin, November 2019

I.

Introduction

1.

Villette and Ambiguity: Starting Points

Villette is famous for its ambiguous ending. Readers have felt it to be a tantalizing, even irritating conclusion to Charlotte Bront[’s final completed novel.1 Like Dickens’s Great Expectations (1860/61) and Trollope’s The Small House at Allington (1864), the ending leaves them wondering about the future of the protagonists.2 Does M. Paul return to Lucy Snowe or is he killed in a storm raging on the Atlantic?3 But even more than the question of whether the novel ends happily or sadly, the way in which this ending is achieved deserves critical attention. In a final gesture of self-control, the narrator admonishes herself: “Here pause. Pause at once. Trouble no quiet, kind heart: leave sunny imaginations hope” (42.496), paradoxically taking away hope while claiming to “leave” it to readers who are disposed to be hopeful (“sunny imaginations”). Ambiguity in Villette is not just a matter of alternative ways of reading its ending; it comes in many forms and is an all-pervasive feature, for it is inextricably linked with the narrator-protagonist’s attempt at coming to terms with her own life: Lucy Snowe, narrator and character of her own story, is simulta1 Cooper provides this annotation about the ending in the Penguin edition of the novel: “In a letter to W. S. Williams discussing how two women had written to her asking for ‘exact and authentic information respecting the fate of M. Paul Emanuel’, Bront[ wrote, ‘I have sent Lady Harriette an answer so worded as to leave the matter pretty much where it was. Since the little puzzle amuses the ladies, it would be a pity to spoil their sport by giving them the key.’” (546n9; for the full letter see Bront[, “To W. S. Williams, 23 March 1853” 139). 2 An earlier example of an open ending is Edgar Allan Poe’s novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (1838), the final outcome of which has been perceived as unclear. 3 The ending makes it difficult for the reader to formulate a “finalized hypothesis” (a term used in Rimmon’s study of ambiguity in Henry James’s novels (10f.)) about the outcome of the novel, i. e. to state with certainty either of the following propositions: (1) M. Paul returns to Lucy. (2) M. Paul does not return to Lucy. This is the central example of a ‘global’ ambiguity in the text – both statements cannot be true at the same time. In the context of her study of Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, Rimmon describes this persistent kind of ambiguity as “[…] a fact in the text – a double system of mutually exclusive clues.” (Rimmon 12).

12

Introduction

neously revealing her life and hiding it – from the reader, as well as from herself. This can be described as an ambiguous narrative technique, examples of which will be analysed in chapter III.4 Throughout the novel, Bront[ presents to her readers a narrator/self in dialogue (and sometimes even in battle) with herself, drawing on the Gothic novel’s concern with the dark side of human nature5 (Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886) is a (late) case in point) and anticipating modern literary representations of the self as a fluid construct characterised by contradictions and inconsistencies. To explore how this is done, and which kinds of ambiguity become manifest, are the aims of this thesis. The term ambiguity will be associated with a range of interrelated phenomena, which all reflect the impossibility and/or the unwillingness to know and tell something in a univocal, definite, and straightforward manner, especially if the communication concerns the self and the inner life. This begins with the names of characters, and even with the name of the author. Charlotte Bront[ called the way in which she hid her identity behind a pseudonym “ambiguous”: In her “Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell” (1850), she refers to her and her sisters’ use of gender-neutral pseudonyms as an “ambiguous choice” (xliv).6 The names of Ellis, Currer and Acton Bell were supposed to avoid the prejudice that female writers were likely to encounter, i. e. stereotyping and contemporary expectations toward ‘feminine’ writing.7 Bront[ significantly uses the word in the existential context of identity, foreshadowing one of the central themes of Villette. The mutually exclusive potential meanings of the pseudonyms function as protection against bias, and as protection of the writers’ artistic integrity.

4 The interplay of the perspectives of experiencing and narrating I is one of the literary ambiguities described by Bauer et al. as arising from the parameters of literary communication, of which the fictional autobiography presents a special case (31f.). 5 The most obvious Gothic echo in Villette is the nun; see ch. III. 6 “Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because – without at that time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called ‘feminine’ – we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we had noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise.” (xliv). 7 Despite publishing under the pseudonym and her explicit wish to be judged as a writer, not as a female writer, Bront[ faced criticism along such lines once her identity was publicly known. Even George Henry Lewes judged her novel Shirley based on its author’s gender in the Edinburgh Review, to which Bront[ reacted in a letter to him. Griffiths comments on her written response to this criticism: “Bront[ closes her letter to Lewes with an attempt to reinstate gender ambiguity, offering to ‘shake hands with [him]’, a traditionally male sign of colleagueship, and signing her letter Currer Bell.” (52).

Villette and Ambiguity: Starting Points

13

From literary pseudonyms to the speaking names of literary characters: Lucy Snowe’s name is a first indication of the psychological complexity of her character.8 Her name was created according to the lucus a non lucendo principle9, as Bront[ explains in one of her letters: “Lucy” is related to light (lux)10, “Snowe” evokes coldness. She writes about the choice of Lucy’s last name to her editor : “A cold name she must have – partly – perhaps – on the ‘lucus a non lucendo’ principle – partly on that of the ‘fitness of things’ – for she has about her an external coldness.” (Bront[, “To W. S. Williams, 6 November 1852” 80). While the quote clarifies that the name Lucy Snowe is based on both analogy (she appears externally cold) and contrast (she is internally passionate and fiery), it also tells us that Bront[ was intellectually engaged with concepts like contrast and similarity, which recur throughout the novel. The fact that the name, unlike in her earlier novels, does not serve as the text’s title, and that it is withheld by the narrator until the beginning of the second chapter, underlines its special meaning and suggests the close relationship between ‘covering’11, as implied in the connotations of snow, and revealing meaning, as implied in the connotations of light. This etymological ambiguity indicates an intricate relationship between exterior appearance and interior reality, and indeed Lucy’s self-references are often ambiguous, marking identity as one of the main themes of the novel: The very first time she mentions her own name is characterised by a contradiction when she “plead[s] guiltless of an overheated and discursive imagination” (2.12), yet compares the girl Polly to a ghost in the same breath, testifying to the very trait she denies to possess. A later reference to herself in the third person makes it indeed seem as though there are (at least) two separate identities attached to the “I” of the novel. Following a “strange and contradictory […] inner tumult” in response to Madame Beck’s suspicion that Dr. John might have a secret love affair with her, Lucy describes her upset in terms of becoming someone else:

8 The pupils Ang8lique, who is “vain, flirting,” and Blanche, who is “proud and handsome” (11.100), are clearly named ironically, underlining the point that exterior (in the form of the name) and interior (in terms of character) do not necessarily match. 9 “‘An etymological contradiction; a phrase used by etymologists who accounted for words by deriving them from their opposites. It means literally ‘a grove (called lucus) from not being lucent (lux, light, luceo, to shine).’’ (Brewer, qtd. in Smith, Letters 80n3). Angelika Zirker, referring to another Victorian instance of the principle, points out that lucus a non lucendo plays a role in making the mock turtle in Alice in Wonderland a melancholic character although there is the word “mock” in his name (Pilger als Kind 234). 10 Charlotte M. Yonge indicates the etymological relation of “Lucy” to light in the History of Christian Names of 1884 (132). 11 The connotation of snow as a cover is present in the novel when the aged narrator describes her now white hair as lying beneath a white cap “like snow beneath snow” (45).

14

Introduction

“Complicated, disquieting thoughts broke up the whole repose of my nature. However, that turmoil subsided: next day I was again Lucy Snowe.” (13.119).12 The names of the novel are moreover related to ambiguity because Lucy, as well as John Graham Bretton, has more than one name – Ginevra Fanshawe, depending on her mood, calls Lucy “Timon” (21.233; 236), “Crusty,” and “Diogenes” (9.89), which are but some of the “dozen names” (21.233) Ginevra bestows on her. Graham Bretton is known as “Graham” when he is a teenager in Bretton, and as “Dr. John” in Madame Beck’s school, but also as “Isidore” (a playful epithet given to him by Ginevra), a doubling made particularly apparent by the fact that two adjoining chapters are each named after one of these (chs. 9 and 10). The duality of English- and French-language cultures is reflected in the name Bretton. Apart from belonging to both a town and a family, it brings with it multiple associations: It is a near-homophone of “Britain” and “Breton”, linking this English village with the French region of Brittany. The English-French link is confirmed when Lucy believes herself transported to Bretton in the middle of the novel, but is in fact still in Villette, momentarily making both cities interchangeable (see ch. 16). This connection between the two principal towns of the novel, which at first sight seem to be contrasted with each other but turn out to be linked by both opposition and similarity, is symptomatic of the frequent oscillations and transformations of meaning occurring in the novel. The seemingly clear-cut dichotomy of nationalities is undermined in subtle ways. Thus the Bretton family appears to contain as much of the Continent as it does of England: the Celtic races belong to the Continent as much as to Britain; Mr. Home feels more at home “settled amongst his maternal kinsfolk on the Continent” (87); and it is not clear which home his daughter Paulina longs for : “no furrowed face of adult exile, longing for Europe at Europe’s antipodes, ever bore more legibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage” (Kent 69).13

The ambiguity of the town and family name “Bretton” suggests the problematic nature of the concepts of home and belonging in Villette (a theme again underlined by Paulina and her father’s last name, Home), especially for Lucy, for whom the term is connected with anxiety and uncertainty in girlhood (see 1.6, the dreaded arrival of a letter from “home”) and later only evokes feelings of alienation: “If I died far away from – home, I was going to say, but I had no home – from England, then, who would weep?” (6.50). The role of ambiguity in 12 Williams noted this: “‘Lucy Snowe’ is not quite the same as the protagonist. About a particularly bitter inner tumult, the latter can say, ‘Complicated, disquieting thoughts broke up the whole repose of my nature. However, that turmoil subsided: next day I was again Lucy Snowe.’” (82). 13 Quotes from Villette in the Kent article refer to the 1979 Penguin edition.

Villette and Ambiguity: Starting Points

15

the names shows its relevance for the theme of identity in the novel. This aspect underlies this entire study but is especially prominent in chapter 2 about the phrase “I know not”. A further prominent aspect of Villette that confronts the reader with a puzzle is its title.14 First of all, in contrast to the author’s earlier published novels, Jane Eyre (1847) and Shirley (1849), it does not bear the name of its protagonist, Lucy Snowe, although the text is a fictional autobiography like Jane Eyre. The feminine diminutive ending ‘-ette,’ however, makes it resemble a woman’s name at first glance, eroding the distinction between personal name and toponym. The diminutive moreover suggests that Villette is a small town. Yet this association is immediately questioned by the fact that it is a national capital, and Lucy (clearly ironically) refers to it as “the great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour” (6.55). Bront[ had Brussels in Belgium in mind when she wrote the novel, and clearly many details of Villette are based on Brussels, but she chose, significantly, not to give it this name. In the search for an interpretation of the multiple meanings of the title, the reader’s attention is drawn to the chapter of the same name (chapter seven, “Villette”). This chapter is preceded by “London,” in which the narrator describes in great detail the places she visits, and especially the City, which is her favourite part of town. Thus, before Lucy has arrived in Villette, a contrastive foil is introduced in the shape of London, a real city to be found on any map. Villette, on the other hand, is characterised by its name as a ‘small town’ in general, as the prototype of a town.15 An analysis of the chapter will provide an entryway into the text in its entirety and provide an outlook on the various kinds of ambiguity it features.

14 See for example Thomas, who claims that “Villette seems to be Bront[’s choice for the title, not Lucy Snowe’s […]” (567). He goes on to reflect on the consequences of the multiple names of some characters and concludes that “the text is partially concerned with […] the disguises and veils inherent in communication.” (568). 15 The name moreover suggests that Villette can be read allegorically in the tradition of Plato’s Republic and Bunyan’s tellingly named city Mansoul: “The humanists took from the ancients a vision of civilized life essentially urban: only a city enabled man to realize his highest earthly potential. Citizenship involved allegiance to an external order but, more important, to an ideal state of being, a city within (see Plato, Republic 592B).” (Kern Paster 167). The city is “set apart from natural landscape by the geometry of its forms;” “as New Jerusalem, it symbolizes the goal of a Christian’s earthly pilgrimage” (Kern Paster 167). This religious connotation of the city is both taken seriously and ironized in the portrayal of labyrinthine Villette with its street names referencing the muddy, low ground it is built on, a trait that symbolically represents uncertainty as lack of orientation and overview.

16

2.

Introduction

Reading (the Chapter) “Villette”

Lucy leaves her native country and its capital for unknown new shores, and travels from London toward an “uncertain future” (6.56) in Labassecour. She arrives in Boue-Marine16, a seaside town in Labassecour, and then continues to the capital. Throughout her journey and well after arriving, Lucy’s mood oscillates between hopefulness and despair. This is in keeping with the existential experience of a single, friendless woman travelling by herself in an unknown country, and it is also representative of Lucy’s entire life experience, characterised by ambiguity in the shape of uncertainty. This existential uncertainty is all-pervasive, beginning with the minutiae of everyday life when she does not know where breakfast is eaten in her hotel: “It cannot be denied that on entering this room I trembled somewhat; felt uncertain, solitary, wretched; wished to Heaven I knew whether I was doing right or wrong; felt convinced it was the last, but could not help myself.” (7.59f.). In her foreign surroundings, she feels uncertain where her place should be, both in this small matter of the breakfast room and in general: Where must she go? What could her employment be? What is her place in the world? During her passage across the channel by ship, Lucy meets an English girl, Ginevra Fanshawe, who casually mentions that she is a pupil at Madame Beck’s school in Villette, and that Madame Beck is looking for a governess to her children. This chance remark, carelessly dropped by Ginevra, directs Lucy’s next steps: “Breakfast over, I must again move – in what direction? ‘Go to Villette,’ said an inward voice; prompted doubtless by the recollection of this slight sentence uttered carelessly and at random by Miss Fanshawe, as she bid me good-bye’” (7.60). The question she asks herself, and the response of the “inward voice”, illustrate Lucy’s mode of taking action: Faced with uncertainty and in need of direction, she searches for an answer, and existential necessity (“I must again move”) and fate (here in the unlikely form of Ginevra Fanshawe, who prances through the novel like a careless little dame Fortune) steer her in a certain direction. Variations of the question “in what direction?” recur throughout the novel, underlining its urgency, and emphasizing the allegorical overtones of the search for a literal, physical way. The word “direction” in Lucy’s sentence can be understood both literally and figuratively – Lucy is implicitly asking for spiritual guidance as well as explicitly for geographical orientation, and this central doubleness occurs several times in the chapter. Lucy’s search for direction culminates in the desperate question “what shall I do?” (15.159), an echo of Christian’s cry “What shall I do?” (PP 11) at the beginning of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), and alludes less directly to Bunyan’s 16 Sea-mud. Like all names of places and persons in Labassecour, this is a speaking name.

Reading (the Chapter) “Villette”

17

spiritual autobiography Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners (1666): “On this word I mused, and could not tell what to do” (GA 17).17 These questions point to the underlying metaphor of the journey, evoking The Pilgrim’s Progress as an important allegorical intertext of Villette.18 This link is first made explicit when the protagonist compares her visits in Bretton to Christian and Hopeful’s rest by the river (see 1.6). Keeping this in mind and returning to the discussion of the meaning of the title,19 it is plausible to read Villette itself as a type of Vanity Fair,20 which besides the City of Destruction and the Celestial City, positioned as polar opposites at the beginning and the end of the text, is one of the three prominent cities of Bunyan’s text. In the later The Holy War (1682), we also find a prominent example of a city, Mansoul. In its portrayal of the soul as a city, this text is an important predecessor of one of the central metaphors of Villette. Ginevra’s “slight sentence,” which prompts Lucy’s inner voice to say “‘Go to Villette’” (7.60), contains a meaningful lexical ambiguity : A sentence is both a syntactical unit and a judgment pronounced by a court of law.21 A chance, “careless” remark by a stranger, a seemingly trivial piece of information, becomes a fateful ‘order’ to Lucy and a signpost on her path of life, which is in keeping with the power of the inward voice and with the roles fate and providence play in this chapter and in the text in general. Lucy’s orientation in the new, unknown world around her takes place step by step: The direction given by her inward voice, “‘Go to Villette,’” is by no means the solution to her dilemma. “Who Madame Beck was, where she lived, I knew not; I had asked, but the question passed unheard” (7.60). Here we encounter one of the equivalents of Ovid’s phrase “nescio”, “I knew not”, a signature of Villette’s narratorial voice:22 Lucy is confronted with an uncertainty – she does not know where Madame Beck’s school is.

17 “There are constant references to Bunyan, constant askings of ‘Whence did I come? Whither shall I go? What should I do?’ […]” (Qualls 75). 18 Qualls describes Villette’s “allegorical realism” (70) and underlines its connection with the narrator’s psyche: “[…] in the somber drama of Lucy Snowe, the romance world is reduced to the subterranean level of the novel; it becomes a part of the narrator’s inner self.” (70). 19 See above. 20 This reading is also suggested by the later transformation of the park into an actual carnival in chapters 38 and 39. 21 The language of the law, and the notion of justifying oneself before some judicial authority, appears in a conspicuous place when Lucy uses it the first time she mentions her own name: “I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of that curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever, opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in her pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.” (2.12). See also ch. II. 22 The relevance of Ovid’s Metamorphoses to Villette and to ambiguity in general is discussed below. Chapter II provides an analysis of the instances of “I know not” in the novel.

18

Introduction

The allegorical mode of speaking has already been introduced through the allusions to The Pilgrim’s Progress. It is a central mode of expression in the novel, and it enables Lucy to communicate her personal experience. The reader encounters the allegorical mode again, for example, when Lucy resorts to the image of “the wide and weltering deep”23 (7.60), where she finds herself when she decides to travel to Villette. The fact that she uses water imagery is significant since one of the central allegories of the novel takes the form of the shipwreck.24 The canals along which the road of the carriage lies are compared to “halftorpid green snakes.” In this case, the allegory portrays Lucy’s ambivalent state of mind: she enjoys the journey from Boue-Marine to Villette despite bad weather and the monotonous landscape – “[…] yet amidst all these deadening influences, my fancy budded fresh and my heart basked in sunshine.” (7.61). Her mood is contrasted with her actual circumstances, and the ensuing allegory adds another layer of complexity ; Lucy’s light-heartedness is kept in check by an underlying anxiety about what she may expect in Villette: These feelings [optimism despite unpropitious circumstances; OS], 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. (7.61)

The metaphorical phrase “kept in check” prepares the allegory, which presents the tiger not as an uncontrollable wild animal within but as a control mechanism – the wild animal lies in wait to keep enjoyment at bay. Light-heartedness and anxiety keep each other “in check” in Lucy’s soul; the opposing forces of her soul exist in mutual restraint. Thus, the tiger allegory illustrates Lucy’s inner, existential uncertainty. The text oscillates between realistic narration and allegory, and the literal level of the allegory, the image, is taken quite seriously. The allegorical passages also draw attention to the multifaceted nature of the text in its interplay of literal and figurative levels of meaning, forming another source of potential ambiguity. The allegorical passages representing the inner life remind the reader that Villette is a self-reflective text – the narrative is both part of the narrator-protagonist’s reflective process and its result. Even in moments of true enjoyment, the opposite of light-heartedness lurks in the back of Lucy’s mind; another example occurs when Lucy is on her way to the concert with the Brettons and, driving through the brightly-lit streets of Villette, must think back to the school, 23 As the editors of the Oxford World’s Classics edition note, this is an allusion to James Beattie’s poem The Minstrel (1771). 24 See ch. V.

Reading (the Chapter) “Villette”

19

“where, as at this very hour, it was my wont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high, blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in the refectory, monotonously exercised upon the ‘lecture pieuse’” (20.208).25 These gestures of retraction and of reconsideration characterise the narrative stance and contribute to the impression of Lucy’s double presence even beyond the context of the fictional autobiography : these thoughts not only occur to her while reflecting on her own role in retrospect (i. e., while narrating), but they are tied to the consciousness of the experiencing I. Moreover, the extremely detailed descriptions of Lucy’s inner life create some instances of ambiguity, often because her descriptions rely on negative formulations. Since the linguistic form of the negation invariably contains the positive as well (in the shape of ‘no/not/nor + positive formulation/aspect’), negations in general may be said to be ambiguous, evoking the opposite of what they state while negating it. An illuminating example is Lucy’s response to the peculiar power she sees in Madame Beck when the headmistress challenges her, while still in the role of nurse, to become a teacher : Power of a particular kind strongly limned itself in all her traits, and that power was not my kind of power : neither sympathy, nor congeniality, nor submission, were the emotions it awakened. I stood – not soothed, nor won, nor overwhelmed. It seemed as if a challenge of strength between opposing gifts was given, and I suddenly felt all the dishonour of my diffidence – all the pusillanimity of my slackness to aspire. (8.78)

The parallelisms outline Lucy’s emotions e negativo. In the confrontation with Madame Beck’s “particular” power, she feels challenged to action. The “opposing gifts” are especially relevant to ambiguity, and indeed, Lucy is spurned on instead of discouraged by the headmistress’s seeming opposition to trying her hand at teaching (Madame Beck’s strategy might be described by the anachronistic term “reverse psychology”; see 8.78 for the full dialogue). The “opposing gifts” may refer to the two tendencies contending within Lucy when she makes her decision, i. e. her ambition and her “pusillanimity.” In a subtle anticipation of later psychomachic scenes,26 both forces are embodied in the dialogue by Madame Beck and Lucy respectively, with an additional layer of complexity added by the fact that their roles change – first Lucy hesitates in the face of the challenge, then Madame Beck (seemingly) tries to deter Lucy from entering the classroom.

25 See also ch. II. Lucy and M. Paul’s final evening together is an exception – a moment when Lucy exists only in the “now” (41.492) of their final communion. 26 See ch. V.

20

Introduction

To return to the chapter “Villette”, the atmosphere around Lucy is marked by uncertainty : Arriving in the “unknown bourne”27 (7.61) of Villette in utter darkness, Lucy discovers that her trunk has been lost and that she lacks knowledge of spoken French to inquire after it.28 Both the darkness and her inability to communicate underline her position as a stranger in unfamiliar surroundings. She is literally unable to even try to resolve her uncertainty by simply asking after her luggage, resulting again in the desperate question “What should I do?” (7.62). Her effort at communicating nonverbally immediately results in a misunderstanding: the conductor takes the suitcase Lucy chose for her little pantomime and is about to put it back onto the carriage. The misunderstanding now proves fortunate because this suitcase belongs to a young gentleman, who promptly reacts to the conductor’s trespass. Lucy hears that he is English and asks him to inquire after her luggage, which as it turns out has been left behind in Boue-Marine. The seemingly slight incident with Lucy’s trunk foreshadows the important symbolical role that containers of all kinds play in her story, e. g. her writingdesk and the shell-encrusted box containing the watchguard she makes for M. Paul. Moreover, her luggage recalls the “great burden”29 on Christian’s back, which slows him down on his path to the Celestial City until it falls off. Yet losing the trunk is not a relief to Lucy ; on the contrary, it causes problems for her – the allusion is thus part of the ambiguity. Lucy’s possessions are lost and she arrives without them in Villette, signalling that a new phase of her life is beginning and that she may become someone else in the course of her time there. The text contains a cue for the interpretation of the box: “My first business was to get my trunk: a small matter enough, but important to me” (7.61). The statement gives a clue to the reader that the narrator may regard items as important that appear unremarkable, and that we should pay attention to them. The 27 The phrase alludes to Hamlet: “something after death, / The undiscovered country from whose bourn / No traveler returns” (3.1.78–80). The Oxford World’s Classics edition comments: “this echo of Hamlet […] hints that Lucy is entering on a kind of posthumous existence in Labassecour.” (Explanatory Notes 502). 28 “And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and the little pocket-book enclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they? I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could say nothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of speaking French: and it was French, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling round me” (7.61f.). 29 “He [Christian, OS] ran thus till he came at a place somewhat ascending; and upon that place stood a cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulchre. So I saw in my dream, that just as Christian came up with the cross, his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so continued to do till it came to the mouth of the sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw it no more.” (PP 32). The burden alludes to the Christian notion of deliverance from sin through Christ’s sacrifice (PP 25) and to the Psalter: “For mine iniquities are gone over mine head: as an heavy burden they are too heavy for me.” (38:4).

Reading (the Chapter) “Villette”

21

diminutive form of the title, Villette, has already made us aware that small things are significant in this novel. After the problem with her trunk has been settled, Lucy is again asking herself the question that can be called her signature in this chapter : “Meantime what should I do?” (7.62). As she tells the young Englishman who asks about her plans, “‘[…] I don’t know where to go’” (7.62). Now, for once, Lucy is not left to her own resources to find a way out of her situation, but is accompanied by a guide figure: the young man shows her the way to a “respectable inn” (7.62). Her guide leads her through the park and then describes the remainder of the way to her. The word “direction” is picked up again here, this time by the young man: “‘[…] with my direction you will easily find it [the inn, OS].’” (7.63) At this point, Lucy has had the chance to take a closer look at him and notices that he is handsome and that “[t]here was goodness in his countenance, and honour in his bright eyes” (7.63). Lucy obviously feels more than common gratitude to the young stranger (and possibly even falls in love with him a little) when she follows him without hesitation and mistrust through the darkness: “Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed that frank tread, through continual night, to the world’s end” (7.63).30 This blind trust in her guide is soon at an end, however, when he leaves her to finish the final part of her route by herself, and she loses her way in the dark and empty streets. Lucy is harassed by some ruffians, and she soon “no longer knew where [she] was” or “where to turn” (7.64). In the darkness, she has difficulty recognising anything around her : “On I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square, with the grandest houses round, and amidst them the huge outline of more than one overbearing pile; which might be palace, or church – I could not tell” (7.63f.) This is a stark contrast to the many moments of recognition in the equally unknown London, whose places are nevertheless familiar to Lucy by their names in a general way. In this state of puzzlement and disorientation, Lucy at last reaches a flight of stairs as described by her guide, and descends them. She believes to have finally found her inn, but the house in question turns out to be Madame Beck’s school. She is now directed by Providence and Fate: “About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a moment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time. Providence said, ‘Stop here; this is your inn.’ Fate took me in her strong hand, mastered my will; directed my actions: I rung the door-bell” (7.64). Lucy, alone and friendless in a foreign city, is counselled by these two allegorical companions, who literally show her which path to take and “direct” her actions. However, it is difficult to place a benign providence in the world presented in 30 A topos in love poetry. The OED quotes A new English dictionary on historical principles (N.E.D.): “I would go with him to the world’s end.” (“end,” n., I.1.a).

22

Introduction

Villette. Providence is evoked, but there is no certainty about any benign guidance in the novel, just as Bunyan’s text is evoked but there is no certainty about the applicability of its providential account. We encounter another ambiguity in the fact that Lucy’s weakness, her inability to speak French, is now the reason she is even permitted into Madame Beck’s school. “May I see Madame Beck?” I inquired. I believe if I had spoken French she [the servant answering the door ; OS] would not have admitted me; but, as I spoke English, she concluded I was a foreign teacher come on business connected with the pensionnat, and, even at that late hour, she let me in, without a word of reluctance or a moment of hesitation. (7.64)

Lucy’s arrival at the school is portrayed as a fateful event, in which the doors of the school open for her as if a higher power had interfered in her favour : she is meant to arrive at the school. Then the man who will become the man of Lucy’s life has his first appearance on the scene: M. Paul is summoned by his cousin and employer Madame Beck in order to read Lucy’s countenance. His “verdict”, too, is such that Lucy cannot fail but get her chance in the school: “Engage her.” (7.67). M. Paul argues that the action will bring its own reward if good predominates in Lucy, and if not, that it will still have been a good deed to take her in. The chapter thus ends on a temporary certainty for Lucy – she is saved from the “hostile street” for the time being and may find permanent employment in the school if she proves herself useful to Madame Beck.31 M. Paul’s clear statement “Engage her” is the third strong, short imperative the reader encounters in the chapter : her inward voice tells Lucy : “Go to Villette.” (7.60); Providence commands: “Stop here; this is your inn” (7.64), and M. Paul finally decrees: “Engage her” (7.67). The course is set for her future in Villette. The vague possibility initially hinted at in Ginevra’s utterance is now realised for Lucy – despite miscommunications and other difficulties, she arrives at her destination. In correspondence with the ambiguous nature of the power that made her seek and find Mme Beck’s school, Lucy has arrived at a destination that is both the end of her journey and a temporary abode on the road, an “inn.” The word suggests the biblical quote “here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come” (Heb. 13:14). Lucy’s arrival in Villette is thus presented in a framework of (partly literalised) biblical allusions, which are also ironised. Lucy has not found a “continuing city” in Villette, but literally “a small town,” bustling and mercantile. Yet her life there also holds the promise of real fulfilment, in the shape of her relationship with M. Paul. Complete uncertainty, expressed through various questions and refrain-like statements of not knowing, rules the pro31 The scene is discussed in ch. IV in the context of the oracle motif.

An Image of Ambiguity

23

tagonist’s experience of life side by side with an almost supernatural sense of certainty when it comes to some existential decisions. Like the protagonist-narrator herself, the reader cannot know yet where the path will take her, but s/he has received some clues as to which direction to look and where to find points of orientation. In this reading of the chapter “Villette”, several themes have become evident, which will each be treated in one section in the order suggested by their appearance in the novel: Lucy’s favourite expression, “I know not”, which can be found in this chapter as well, is traced throughout the text in the second section. In the third part, “Who is Lucy Snowe?”, the ways of asking this question in the text and its possible answers will be explored. The fourth section deals with the notion of the oracle, i. e. the (im)possibility of overcoming the uncertainty of the future. The fifth section is devoted to readings of the allegorical passages of the book and to a discussion of their relevance as expressions of Lucy’s inner life. Ambiguity is first and foremost considered a dynamic concept for the purpose of this study – dynamic both in the sense of taking into consideration its historically diverse nuances of meaning (adopting a diachronic perspective), and its association with changing and oscillating meanings in the novel (synchronic).32

3.

An Image of Ambiguity

The allegorical scenes and their link to self-reflection stress both the importance and the difficulty of representing the inner life in Lucy’s narrative. The paintings featured in the text, as visual artistic representations of reality, hold a comparable position as ‘readable’ objects. The novel features a number of paintings – the most remarkable ones are those Lucy sees in the gallery of Villette, and the portraits of Graham and Justine Marie. The latter “[falls] away with the wall and let[s] in phantoms” (34.391) in the shape of Madame Walravens, and the phantom also embodies Lucy’s jealousy of (the younger) Justine Marie, indicating the power of paintings to evoke an emotional response. These paintings and their significance to the theme of ambiguity will be discussed later ; for now I want to focus on a seemingly minor appearance of a painting, which is directly connected with ambiguity through one of its attributes: the “dreary religious painting darkening the wall”, which Lucy notices while waiting for Ginevra when she leaves the dinner-party at the Home de Bassompierres’ hotel (see ch. 27). The scene marks the moment when Lucy stands at a figurative crossroad: reacting to 32 The notion of hope is an example of this kind of ambiguity and will be discussed in detail in the Conclusion.

24

Introduction

Graham’s attempt at using her as the go-between to advance the budding love between himself and Paulina, she turns away from the young doctor : “With a now welcome force, I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a rile not mine” (27.318). Just as Lucy is about to reply decisively to his “soft, eager” (27.318) entreaty, M. Paul interrupts the dialogue with a “hiss” (27.318) into Lucy’s ear, claiming that he knows that Lucy’s calm exterior at this moment hides passionate emotions: “‘vous avez l’air bien triste, soumise, rÞveuse, mais vous ne l’Þtes pas; c’est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme / l’.me, l’8clair aux yeux!’” (27.318). While Graham misreads Lucy entirely, M. Paul observes her closely and unsparingly confronts her with his quite accurate findings, as Lucy admits herself.33 However, she is pained by the events of the evening, and when M. Paul makes a peace-offering by addressing her on her way out, she rebuffs him (see 27.319). He follows her into the vestibule and tries to make amends for his behaviour. He [M. Paul, OS] looked at my shawl and objected to its lightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Receding aloof, and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religious painting darkening the wall. (27.320)

The “dreary religious painting darkening the wall” may be a Catholic work of art – and thus, in Lucy’s mind, a falsehood trying to appear as the (spiritual) truth. The fact that the painting ‘darkens’ the wall suggests a type of ambiguity in classical rhetoric: obscuritas, or darkness, a vitium resulting from excessive brevity.34 Both obscuritas and its counterpart, perspicuitas, derive their names from dark and light respectively, and the scene plays with the notions of literally dark and dark in meaning.35 Obscuritas is a rhetorical device that occurs in two modes, according to Quintilian: unintentional obscuritas hinders the imparting of the speaker’s message, but intentionally used it may underline and strengthen his purpose. The former mode of obscuritas results from the disproportionate use of the 33 “‘Oui; j’ai la flamme / l’.me, et je dois l’avoir!’ retorted I, turning in just wrath; but Professor Emanuel had hissed his insult and was gone” (27.318). 34 “But we must be equally on our guard against the obscurity which results from excessive abridgement, and it is better to say a little more than is necessary than a little less” (Quintilian 4.2.44). 35 “[C]lassical Latin perspicuita¯s transparency, lucidity, […] perspicuus: clear, evident” (OED Online, “perspicuity” n.); “Anglo-Norman and Middle French obscurit8, obscuret8, obscurt8 absence of light; […] classical Latin obscu¯rita¯s darkness, dimness, lack of clarity, unintelligibility, the condition of being unknown or unnoticed” (OED Online, “obscurity” n.). The last part of the etymological information – “being unknown or unnoticed” is already relevant here in the context of Graham Bretton’s inability to know Lucy, and will be explored further in ch. II on the recurring phrase “I know not”.

An Image of Ambiguity

25

virtus of brevitas, which conflicts with the demands of perspicuitas.36 The definition of obscuritas itself is thus based on contrasting it with the concept of perspicuitas or clarity. The second mode also works by contrasting the true with the false, but also by mixing these two concepts: a falsehood is depicted as a truth. Obscuritas and the related/resulting ambiguitas move somewhere between the ‘poles’ of true and false, light and dark, clear and obscure, without being exclusively one or the other. The speaker who intentionally resorts to obscuritas presents the false as the true; he has to make his audience take an untruth for the truth to achieve persuasive impact. Consequently, there is no (intentional) obscuritas that does not employ some features of perspicuitas in order to heighten the effect of its sister device on the audience: Palpability, as far as I understand the term, is no doubt a great virtue, when a truth requires not merely to be told, but to some extent obtruded, still it may be included under lucidity [perspicuitati, OS]. Some, however, regard this quality as actually being injurious at times, on the ground that in certain cases it is desirable to obscure the truth. This contention is, however, absurd. For he who desires to obscure the situation, will state what is false in lieu of the truth, but must still strive to secure an appearance of palpability for the facts which he provides. (Quintilian 4.2.64–65)

In itself, obscuritas does not say anything about either the truth or untruth of a statement – it only refers to the form of the speech: the linguistic means used to express something.37 This aspect of obscuritas is reflected on two levels in the vestibule scene: the religious picture “darkening the wall” probably does so because it is a work of art painted to illustrate the Catholic doctrine, not unlike the four small paintings of a woman’s life by the name of “La vie d’une femme”, which Lucy describes with the same attribute, “dreary.”38 They displease Lucy first of all because of their lacking artistic value (“‘quels laids tableaux!’”) and because they show women as “insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless 36 “If the virtus of brevitas in the sense of intellectual-linguistic detractio […] is overdone, then the virtus has turned into the vitium of jajofgkom […]. ‘Too little’ conflicts with three ‘virtutes’: with narratio aperta […], narratio probabilis […], and narratio ornata […]” (Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric 146, § 309). 37 A present-day definition of obscurity associates the term “with the study of language and literature and the principles of reading and reception” (Mehtonen 9): “Marks of obscurity are: an elliptical style (loose syntax; anacoluthon; asyndeton qq.v.), recondite allusion and reference, archaic or ornate language, private and subjective imagery, and the use of the words and phrases from foreign languages.” (Cuddon’s Dictionary of Literary Terms, Penguin 1982; qtd. in Mehtonen 9). 38 “Setting down a chair with emphasis in a particularly dull corner, before a series of most specially dreary ‘cadres’. […] They were painted rather in a remarkable style – flat, dead, pale and formal. […] All these four ‘Anges’ were grim and gray as burglars, and cold and vapid as ghosts.” (my emphasis)

26

Introduction

nonentities” (19.202). Thus, to Lucy’s eyes, the painting tells a lie (mainly in the matter of what a woman’s life is supposed to look like). The fact that there is a painting keeps the emphasis on the visual aspect of the scene, evoking the realm from which the opposing metaphorical terms of obscuritas and perspicuitas are taken.39 This is exactly the rhetorical strategy Lucy employs in the scene in the vestibule: she tries to make her audience, M. Paul, believe that she is unaffected by his behaviour; i. e. she intends to make the false appear as true (and, in order to achieve this, expresses herself as briefly as possible in answer to his questions). Having sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emanuel stood there as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine. “Is it?” I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness and frostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properly act out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had been grieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successful effort. That “Is it?” sounded just like the manner of other people. I had heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, from the pursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficing misses and mesdemoiselles. That M. Paul would not stand any prolonged experience of this sort of dialogue I knew ; but he certainly merited a sample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for he took the dose quietly. (27.319)

Lucy’s reflections on her non-committal reply “Is it?” indicate the contradictoriness of her self-perception: she claims to have followed her “own resolution,” yet already in the following sentence she signals that this resolution is based on the “manner of other people.” Lucy achieves another “neat, frosty falsehood” (27.320) when she denies having been upset by either M. Paul or Graham Bretton.

39 The scepticism toward images present in Villette has been discussed, among others, by Brent: “Villette’s simultaneous preoccupation with and repudiation of visual experience reflects a central ambivalence evident throughout Bront[’s work. Although she was drawn to the power of the visual, her novels often convey a deep – and typically Protestant – mistrust of the image and a bias toward the plain-spoken word” (90). This critical attitude toward paintings is here combined with another significant image of Lucy’s life, the shadow (“darkening the wall” can be read as throwing a shadow upon it). In the combination of these two fields of meaning, a biblical topos is evoked: human life as “ein bloßer Schatt, ein totes Bild” (Paul Gerhardt, Der 73. Psalm: Sei wohlgemut, o Cristenseel); “Man is like to vanity : his days are as a shadow that passeth away” (Ps 144:4). (all quotations from Druegh, “Schatten”). Druegh moreover points out the ambiguity of the shadow as a symbol of the abject, the lifeless, and the alienated on the one hand, and on the other hand as a symbol of someone’s essence (“Symbol des Abkünftigen, Entfremdeten, Entseelten, aber auch des Wesens […]” (318)).

An Image of Ambiguity

27

The painting must not be counted among the “speaking pictures”40 Sidney mentions in his Apology for Poetry but must rather be imagined as the opposite of these.41 It is equally far removed from the metaphor of the Bible as a source of light used by Thomas Arnold in Christian Life (1841): “‘a lantern to our feet, and an enlightenment to our souls’” (408; qtd. in Thormählen, Religion 156).42 The painting is obscure because it does not impart its meaning to the audience; it does not elucidate its message. Considering the rhetorical virtus of perspicuitas, the painting fails: as we never even hear about the depicted subject matter, communication, let alone enlightenment, does not take place between the medium and its recipient. The darkness of meaning and the physical darkness caused by the painting are underlined by the adjective “dreary”,43 which contains both senses of ‘uninteresting’ or ‘dull.’ Quintilian refers to the contrast of light and dark in his Institutio Oratoria, and Hugh Blair quotes his metaphoric language in the Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres (1783): Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent hearer; so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study, not only that every hearer may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand us. (Quint. Inst. or. 8.2.23ff.; qtd. in Blair 100)44

The painting in Villette serves as a mere prop to Lucy, who only ‘fixes her eyes’ on it instead of really looking at it; it matches the “self-possessed, self-sufficing” (27.319) persona she adopts momentarily for M. Paul’s sake. 40 “Poesy therefore is an art of imitation, for so Aristotle termeth it in his word mimesis, that is to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth – to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture – with this end, to teach and delight” (Sidney 86). 41 Another relevant concept of a picture may be the topos of the “enthüllende[s] Gemälde,” the ‘revelatory painting,’ as Renate Brosch explores it in Krisen des Sehens: Henry James und die Veränderung der Wahrnehmung im 19. Jahrhundert (146–148) in the context of the short story “The Liar.” Looking at the painting leads to an anagnorisis, at least for the wife of the man who is portrayed in it, who reacts with shock and terror (see 146). Brosch calls this state ‘crisis of the spectator’ (“Krise des Betrachters,” 147). In Villette, paintings like the Cleopatra and the pictures showing “La vie d’une femme” (see ch. 19) may not bring about a ‘crisis’ of discovery in the sense of exposing moral depravity (as is the case in “The Liar”), but they are relevant as foils to Lucy’s personal development. 42 Arnold’s formulation alludes to the Psalter: “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” (119:105). 43 “Dismal, gloomy ; repulsively dull or uninteresting” (OED Online, “dreary”, 4). 44 Butler’s translation of the passage brings out the light/dark dichotomy even more: “For we must never forget that the attention of the judge is not always so keen that he will dispel obscurities without assistance, and bring the light of his intelligence to bear on the dark places of our speech. On the contrary, he will have many other thoughts to distract him unless what we say is so clear that our words will thrust themselves into his mind even when he is not giving us his attention, just as the sunlight forces itself upon the eyes” (209; 211).

28

Introduction

M. Paul’s response comes in an unexpected form: “Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur ; it is then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek, an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low kind whisper” (27.320). Lucy’s expectations are disappointed, but in a ‘positive’ way – instead of a “shriek” or “threat”, she hears conciliatory tones: “‘Friends,’ said he, ‘do not quarrel for a word’” (27.320). The passage is full of contrasts: the coo or murmur is paired with the cry of prey or pain; the piercing shriek is paired with an amicable greeting or a whisper. The contrasting word pairs draw attention to the fact that the terms “religious painting” and “darkening” can also be considered antithetical, especially if one considers, in addition to the Psalms passage quoted in the footnote above, Jesus’ words in the Gospel of John: “I am the light of the world” (8:12). M. Paul’s final argument to make peace with Lucy asks her not to interpret his words too strictly. However, their eventual consolation depends on the meaning of a word: when he insists on the less formal address “mon ami” instead of the usual “Monsieur Paul”, Lucy can say the words “My friend, I forgive you”, yet not the French “mon ami”, since “my friend” “did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate affection” (27.321). The difference between the two words, which ostensibly have the same meaning, lies in their connotations; in Quintilian’s terms, who names as one cause of obscuritas the use of “regionalisms” (Lausberg § 1068). M. Paul is unaware that the words may have two different meanings; to him, they are synonymous. Lucy, however, perceives a difference and therefore prefers one word to the other. The light-dark imagery attached to the obscuritas introduced by the painting remains present in the scene when Lucy and M. Paul have made peace with each other. He surprises her with a smile: “The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by what he called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmer feeling struck me as wholly new in his visage” (27.321). M. Paul’s “illuminated” face is contrasted with the dark religious painting. Throughout their relationship, the moments when he and Lucy come face to face are particularly emphasised, and this scene indicates why : because the human face (and mind) is capable of transformation.45

45 The scenes in which Lucy and M. Paul come face to face are analysed in ch. IV on the oracles of Villette.

The Metamorphoses of Villette

4.

29

The Metamorphoses of Villette

The notion of ambiguity underlying this study of Villette is shaped by the flexibility of the phenomena that have been subsumed under the umbrella term of ambiguity in its long history. Uncertainty, doubleness, processes of transition and metamorphoses, down to literal and metaphorical motifs linked to decisionmaking and change, such as storms46 and cross-roads, are included in this broad notion of ambiguity. The ontological status of the narrative elements of Villette tends to be ambiguous: Feelings or faculties become characters,47 and places become states of mind, and they keep oscillating between these states. The early scenes from Lucy and Graham’s youth and Paulina’s childhood stress the notion of development, of transformation, since the characters reappear as adults, changed in varying degrees.48 Over the course of the first three chapters alone, Lucy’s portrayal of Paulina changes: first, the little girl is referred to as an “object” (2.12) (“creature” (1.8); “it” (1.8); “a shawled bundle” (1.7)) and claims that calling her a child would not adequately sum up her existence.49 Lucy describes her as a ghost (see 1.12), and as a fairy as an adult (see 24.274: Paulina is “an airy, fairy thing […] a winter spirit;” her father calls her a “‘Highland fairy’” when she dances around the Brettons’ kitchen (25.280)), but the attribute of being diminutive always stays with her. Metamorphosis is moreover implied in the various contradictory aspects of Lucy’s character and her changeful relationship with M. Paul. On a more allegorical level, transformation is at the heart of the belief in a life to come, which shapes the apocalyptic ending (Lucy’s life is “wonderfully changed” (42.494) after M. Paul has left for Guadeloupe, and this change is an anticipation of the 46 Storm and transformation are associated in Ariel’s song in The Tempest: “Full fathom five thy father lies: / Of his bones are coral made: / Those are pearls that were his eyes: / Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange.” (1.2.397–402). See Classen, who explores the relevance of storm and sea-crossing as frameworks to the protagonist’s transformation in medieval and Renaissance literature. 47 Heilman, for example, notes that some personifications “[…] appear regularly enough to become almost minor characters […]” (225). 48 Paulina, however, is still portrayed as child-like even when she is an adult – an ambiguity that stresses the link between this character and the supernatural, for example when she is compared to a fairy and a spirit. 49 “When I say child I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term – a term suggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person in a mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a good-sized doll – perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon was her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands a shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at which she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemed almost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric with a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the perverse weapon – swerving from her control – inflicted a deeper stab than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly” (2.15f.).

30

Introduction

implied ultimate transformation suggested by the ending of the novel and its references to the earthly becoming transcendent). The volatile M. Paul, in whose “changeable” (38.459) face Lucy reads his moods, is the embodiment of a Protean kind of metamorphosis. For the exploration? of this theme, it makes sense to use Ovid’s Metamorphoses as a background text – it is the ‘standard’ text on transformations and states of being in-between that would have been familiar to Victorian readers.50 In the Metamorphoses, the word “ambiguity” and its derivatives occur in the following ways: “alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis” (M 1.537) – “in ambiguo esse”: to be uncertain “but she knows not whether or no she be already caught” (41) “ambiguum Clymene precibus Phaethontis an ira / mota magis dicti sibi criminis utraque caelo / bracchia porrexit spectansque ad lumina solis” (M 1.765–767) – it is questionable51 “Proteus est ambiguus” (M 2.9) – multiform, varied, polymorphic; “changeful Proteus” (61) “Vocibus ambiguis deceptam praebuit aurem / nescio quis nomenque aurae tam saepe vocatum / esse putat nymphae” (M 7.821)52

The concept “ambiguus” as it is used here is of great semantic flexibility, with meanings ranging from uncertainty, being questionable, being multiform or, in the last sentence, ambiguous in the sense of having two or more opposed meanings. These kinds of ambiguity, especially the sense of uncertainty, pervade Lucy’s perception of her life. The last and longest quotation contains additional topoi highly relevant to the notions of ambiguity that will guide this reading of Villette: not knowing (“nescio quis”) and double meaning (“ambiguis”). The 50 See Vance; Keller, “Evolutionary Art.” Keller underlines the relevance of the Ovidian metamorphosis to Jane Eyre, which indicates the relevance of the theme to Charlotte Bront[’s writing in general: “What I hope to show in this essay is that in Dickens’s Bleak House (1852– 53) the synchronous metamorphoses of two central characters effect an Ovidian metamorphosis on the poetological level, transforming in important ways the genre of the romance/governess novel, which draws heavily on the Ovidian poetics of abandonment and finds its most powerful and popular expression in the mid-nineteenth century in Charlotte Bront[’s ‘autobiographical’ novel Jane Eyre (1847)” (“Evolutionary Art” 311). See also Keller, “Exiled at Home.” 51 The context is that Pha[thon begs his mother Clymene for a “sure token” (1.764) that the Sun is his father : “Clymene, moved (it is uncertain whether by the prayers of Pha[thon, or more by anger at the insult to herself), stretched out both arms to heaven, and, turning her eyes on the bright sun […]” (Ovid 56f.). 52 “Some one overhearing these words was deceived by their double meaning; and thinking that the word ‘Aura’ so often on my lips was a nymph’s name, was convinced that I was in love with some nymph” (Ovid 399f.). In fact, the speaker addresses the dawn.

The Metamorphoses of Villette

31

“nescio quis” as an expression of uncertainty occurs frequently and in a variety of contexts in the novel as the formula “I know not”. In my reading of Bront[’s text, these types of ambiguity will be referenced throughout. The word “metamorphosis” occurs twice in Villette, both times in immediate association with M. Paul: No sooner was the play over, and well over, than the choleric and arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerial responsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterial austerity ; in a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, and social, shook hands with us all round, thanked us separately, and announced his determination that each of us should in turn be his partner in the coming ball. (14.141f.).

The schoolmaster is indeed Protean in his moods; yet here it is a change that an onlooker can understand and with which he can sympathise. In chapter 38, Lucy sees his half-brother’s face and remarks that it resembles M. Paul’s: “a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight” (38.459). The second instance, which is discussed in detail in the first chapter on the phrase “I know not”, occurs in the scene discussed above with respect to obscuritas: I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul’s lips, or in his eyes before. […] It changed it as from a mask to a face: the deep lines left his features; the very complexion seemed clearer and fresher; that swart, sallow, southern darkness which spoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. (27.321)

M. Paul’s smile changes his face completely, and the cause of the smile is Lucy’s calling him “my friend”, linking this instance of a metamorphosis to the emblem of obscuritas as another kind of ambiguity, which occurs in its immediate context.53 The transformation is intensely personal and emotional in that it bespeaks M. Paul’s nature and is absolutely genuine: “it changed it as from a mask to a face”. Eventually, Lucy’s friendship with and love for M. Paul also allows her to develop from not-knowing and being unknown to knowing and being known.

53 Just like the metamorphosis of M. Paul’s face is caused by Lucy professing her friendship to him, small Paulina’s eyes transform when she sees her father walk past the Brettons’ house from the window : “One afternoon Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station in a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way of occupying her attention, told her to watch the passengers and count how many ladies should go down the street in a given time. She had sat listlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when – my eye being fixed on hers – I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration” (2.12f.).

32

5.

Introduction

Critical Reflections on Ambiguity in Villette54

It seems that no matter what specific theme a study focuses on, the word “ambiguity,” or at the very least “ambivalence,” sooner or later makes its way into the critic’s efforts at capturing the meaning of the novel and the character of Lucy Snowe, demonstrating the pervasiveness of the concept and related notions. However, there has not yet been a book-length study making ambiguity the focal point of its interpretation.55 Numerous critics have noticed the relevance of ambiguity to Villette, describing it by various related terms such as doubt or uncertainty, and there are a number of essays mentioning ambiguity directly, at least in passing. Robbins, in her article “How do I look? Villette and Looking Differently”, speaks of Villette’s “Gothic uncertainty in its many levels of ambiguity” (215), reading the appearances of the nun as traces of the plot elements of the Gothic novel. The appearances of the nun are firstly ambiguous because it is initially uncertain whether she is really there (as a possibly supernatural being) or whether she is the product of Lucy’s imagination (as Dr. John suggests when she tells him about the apparition (ch. 22); her objective reality (whether she belongs to the realm of the natural or of the supernatural) remains doubtful until M. Paul and Lucy see her together (see ch. 31)). The nun, silently confronting Lucy in what might have been a harmless everyday situation, secondly introduces the notion of the alter ego or Doppelgänger, which is continued in Lucy’s various female counterparts, similar to her in some aspects and different in others. Williams finds that “Lucy Snowe’s story takes place in a world that is full of ambiguity, illusion, self-deception, deception of others (including us, the readers), spying, surveillance, wilful misunderstanding, conjuring tricks, and even black magic.” (79). Critics have moreover stressed the ambiguity produced by transitions and transgressions between opposites.56 54 For a recent interdisciplinary exploration of the notion of ambiguity, see Bauer et al.; for ambiguity in fictional texts, see especially 27–40. See also Winter-Froemel/Zirker for a discussion of “Ambiguity in speaker-hearer-interaction” from a joint perspective of linguistics and literary studies. 55 An example of an unpublished dissertation (to my knowledge) choosing ambiguity as one of its focal points is Sandra Ellen Lundy, “Charlotte Bront[’s Ambiguous Adventure: A Feminist Study of Villette.” Dissertation Abstracts International 45.10 (1985): 3136 A. MLA International Bibliography. Web. 20 Nov. 2014. “The Ambiguities of Villette” was published in 1974 by Roberta C. Schwartz, in which she works with a notion of ambiguity that could be translated as “complexity,” analysing Lucy as a character who enjoys wearing “masks”: “For Lucy, the wearing of various dramatic masks seems both a convenience and a social necessity, and she loves to think of herself as a ‘personage in disguise’ who observes others without making her own personality known” (44). According to the author, Villette embodies “a world of ambiguity, mystery, and endless complexity” (52). 56 See, for example, Melfi, Townsend, Cho, Cheng, Ciolkowski.

Critical Reflections on Ambiguity in Villette

33

The article “Confession as Cover-Up in Bront[’s Villette” indicates that gestures of revelation and of concealment often lie closely together and even merge in the context of Lucy’s confession. Critics moreover often remark that the narrative and Lucy’s character are fuelled by oppositions and contradictions, such as Catholicism and Protestantism, Labassecour and England, passion and reserve, seeming and being, outside and inside.57 The enigmatic character of Lucy Snowe is the source of an important, even omnipresent dimension of ambiguity in the novel58 that leaves traces in almost all of her utterances, be they made in her role as narrator or in her role as experiencing character. Lucy’s reticence and her sometimes contradictory narration draw attention to a phenomenon described by E. M. Forster for characters in prose generally : “[…] the plot, instead of finding human beings more or less cut to its requirements, as they are in the drama, finds them enormous, shadowy and intractable, and three-quarters hidden like an iceberg” (Forster 129). This sense of something remaining hidden is extremely strong in Villette, where the reader is confronted with lack of information right away, most conspicuously in the fact that the narrator and supposed protagonist is almost absent from the first three chapters of her story.59 Many critics have commented on the effects of the narrative gaps in the novel, for example on the fact that the reader does not learn what Lucy looks like or what happens to her family. Such gaps (a form of brevitas leading to obscuritas) invite speculation, leaving the reader with an irresolvable vagueness and the sense that the narrator Lucy is “hiding behind vague language, confused feelings, and changeable stances” (Lee 65). Another form of ambiguity consists in the statement that exactly the opposite of this is the case: that confusion about Lucy arises because she is almost too precise in

57 One of many examples is Gretchen Braun’s “‘A Great Break in the Common Course of Confession’: Narrating Loss in Charlotte Bront[’s Villette”, which locates the dynamic of the narrative in the contradiction between inner and outer reality : “The central narrative problem of Villette lies in Lucy’s inability to square psychic experience with material reality. The disjunction between her powerful desires and emotions and her socially limited means to act upon or express them provides narrative tension even as it produces a seemingly wandering, circular, and actionless plot” (197). 58 “Charlotte Bront[’s fictional autobiography Villette produces a ‘self ’ as a problematic text, a hidden puzzle, which invites the forces of imagination and resists the efforts of reason” (Lee 59). Lee reads Lucy as “an incomplete and fragmented story” (75). 59 Numerous critics have commented on this, among them Sonjeong Cho: “As though she [Lucy] intends to present someone else’s life story rather than her own, she exploits on numerous occasions a trope of doubling to intensify her evasive narration; […]. Her neurotic self-concealment is clearly staged from the outset of the novel” (125). Cho moreover remarks that Lucy’s narrative concealment itself requires at least a hint of information to be perceived by the reader, which might be called a textual strategy of ambiguity : “Concealment becomes legible as such only with the trace of revelation” (123). See Cho 99–150.

34

Introduction

capturing the reality of her inner life. Contemporary critic W. C. Roscoe writes in his review of Mrs Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Bront[ (1857): No artist can delineate the whole of the character of a human being; the most successful have been those who, having taken up their creations from a certain point of view, always look at them steadily from thence, throw the light on some side they wish to be prominent, and let the rest fade off into an obscurity, which the eye of the reader rounds dimly off, partly by the aid of his own imagination. They indicate a character, and dwell on one side of it. This gives the reader peace; he has time to gather a distinct image, which gains new clearness as he gazes at it. But Miss Bront[ gives him no peace, she must always see the reverse side, she is anxious if possible to see both sides at once; she is always making new discoveries in her characters, we never know when we have them. (from the review of Mrs Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Bront[ in National Review, July 1857; reprinted in W. C. Roscoe, Poems and Essays, vol. II (1860); qtd. in Allott 130f.)

Seeing “the reverse side” of a character, especially “both sides at once”, creates and emphasises psychological ambiguity. Interestingly, clearness in terms of character portrayal comes into being, according to the review, by leaving parts of a character in darkness, by allowing it “to fade off into an obscurity.” Following these aesthetic criteria, the reader is made to see too much at once, making a distinct vision impossible. The review moreover underlines the dynamic nature of character portrayal in Bront[’s texts: there is “no peace”, i. e. no stability of meaning; the reader is forced to “always mak[e] new discoveries”. While these attributes make the text sound almost modern, they simply describe the result of its various ambiguities.60 In Villette, the (retrospective) interpretation of characters and events takes place. Such acts of interpretation become a theme in themselves when Lucy has problems to define the child Paulina, to understand her identity, and in the continual problems other characters have of defining Lucy.61 Moreover, like every fictional autobiography, Villette is concerned with the retrospective in-

60 This feature makes the text resemble poetry : with reference to Jakobson, Attridge defines ambiguity as a central feature/potential of any self-referential piece of language: “It seems to me very helpful to think of poetic discourse – at least that which characterises one identifiable type of poetry – as a discourse in which the reader is encouraged, by the text itself and by the cultural matrix within which it is presented, to derive ‘meaning’ (let us leave that word as vague as we can) from a number of linguistic features over and above the usual operations of lexis and syntax. The notion of ambiguity, while it appears to signify to Jakobson multiple meanings which any reader will perceive, could also suggest a range of potential meanings, not all of them available to any single reader, and it would then be possible to agree with Jakobson that ‘ambiguity is an intrinsic, inalienable character of any self-focused message’ (pp. 370–1), since the diversion of attention away from the semantic content to other features of the text is bound to complicate the simple transmission of meaning” (22). 61 See ch. III. Lee goes so far as to compare Paulina to a “text” (66) that Lucy interprets.

Critical Reflections on Ambiguity in Villette

35

terpretation of the self, which inhabits the text in the double role of experiencing and narrating I.62 Lee elaborates on the inherent ambiguity of the narrative situation, and especially the use of pronouns in the novel, describing the process of changes in perspective as “shifting,” which he detects, for example, in Lucy’s self-directed words of caution when the Brettons have recognised her and she feels a strong friendship, even affection, for them (see 16.178): However, “I” can never be defined. It is a shifter, shifting from “I” as the initiator of the action in appealing for help (“I entreated Reason betimes to check”) to “you” as the recipient of the order (“take it to your Maker”). The split of the “I” into “I” (the authorial voice, the rational part of the self) and “you” (the voice of “madness”, the emotional part of the self, Lucy’s natural desire) corresponds to the dramatization of the mind as a site of conflict between Reason and Feeling. (Lee 91)

However, such a clear-cut ascription of traits to “I” and “you” does not do the complex nature of the pronouns (and the narrative constructs underlying them) justice. This will be illustrated by analysing a deliberately paradoxical, even ‘impossible’ sentence occurring in a central moment of both failed and successful recognition (see ch. III). Critical studies give testimony to the variety of ambiguities to be found in Villette. F.A.C. Wilson explores the concept of androgyny in Villette and Shirley, for example, which can be interpreted as a type of ambiguity or polyvalency related to gender roles.63 Robert Bernard Martin’s The Accents of Persuasion (1966) places Villette in the context of Bront[’s other novels and underlines its awareness of the “mixed lot” of man: […] the basic optimism of The Professor and Jane Eyre is followed by the bleakness of Shirley. As synthesis follows thesis and antithesis, Villette takes cognizance of both sorrow and joy, and integrates them into a grave, tragic, awareness of the mixed lot and 62 The protagonist’s role in the autobiography is necessarily ambiguous in the sense that s/he both experiences and narrates: on the one hand, s/he is the ‘hero’ and actor of his/her own story, on the other, the retrospective autobiographer and narrator (see Peterson 37ff.). Matthias Bauer comments on the ‘doubleness’ of life and the story of this life inherent in the fictional autobiography in the context of a scene from David Copperfield: “In diesem Medium des Erkennens, einer Kombination aus Fenster und Spiegel, kommt die fundamentale Doppelung zum Ausdruck, die bereits im ersten Satz des Romans in der Ambiguität von ‘life’ aufschien: Wie die Erkenntnis des eigenen Lebens zugleich die Formulierung seiner Geschichte bedeutet, gründet umgekehrt die Erzählung im Leben selbst” (Leben als Geschichte, 250f.). The narrative situation is characterised by the simultaneous identification and contrasting juxtaposition (“das eigentümliche Miteinander von Identifizierung und Gegenüberstellung” (251)). 63 “Extreme flexibility of role is surely the salient feature of Charlotte Bront[’s sexual code” (41).

36

Introduction

nature of man and accepts them with neither gladness nor rancour but a serenity that has no precedent in her work. (143)

Another important aspect of critical investigations of the novel is “repression”. John Kucich has read a number of Victorian novels with regard to this aspect and has described acts of repression in Villette as ambiguous.64 Lucy Snowe has often been analysed with a view to her tendency to repress and conceal, but the (narrative) complexity of her character only comes to light when her equally strong desire to be known is taken into account – an ambiguity permeating the novel in the shape of the phrase “I know not”.

64 One of Kucich’s conclusions about the nature of repression in Bront[’s writing centres on ambiguity : “Expression and reserve thus cooperate and enhance each other by being identical in their opposition to direct self-revelation. In numerous instances the two gestures are metaphorically collapsed. Reserve is often read as itself the sign of passion, as an idealized site of energy and fulfillment. […] That is to say, in Bront[’s novels, characters often focus on reserve itself, rather than on what lies ‘beneath’ it, as the expressive sign of desire’s potency” (919f.). See also Polhemus; Kreilkamp.

II.

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

1.

“I know not” – An Ambiguous Phrase in Villette

The expression “I know not” functions as a leitmotif in Villette and is one of the reflecting I’s central utterances.65 It stands out both quantitatively and qualitatively : its frequent occurrence produces coherence on the one hand; on the other hand, it draws attention to the wide range of meanings the phrase takes on in different contexts. This chapter deals with two vital aspects of ambiguity that are related to “I know not.” Firstly, the various meanings of the phrase are traced throughout 65 Lucy shares this phrase with a number of other literary characters, for example Antonio in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice: “In sooth, I know not why I am so sad, / It wearies me, you say it wearies you; / But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, / What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, / I am to learn: / And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, / That I have much ado to know myself” (1.1.1–6). These are the first words we hear from the character and they are even the opening words of the entire play. Another link between Villette and the Merchant is the theme of seeming and being, epitomised in the leaden casket that, despite its humble exterior, leads Bassanio to Portia. Lucy’s perpetual doubt moreover characterises her as a victim of melancholy, like Antonio and Hamlet. The Danish prince uses the phrase “I know not” when he describes his melancholy to Guildenstern and Rosencrantz (possibly with the intention of misleading them): “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why it appeareth nothing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours” (2.2.261– 269). Lucy’s perceptions in chs. 38 and 39 during the night in the park affirm the assumption that she shares some traits with a melancholic in the Renaissance sense of the word in so far as reality is transformed through her mental state and the “fancies” it produces, isolating not only the heart but also reason by means of “‘vglie illusions’” and thus disabling both: “Die ‘manie fearefull fancies’, die von der Melancholie ‘ausgebrütet’ werden, fügen sich nicht nur zu ‘a dungeon of obscurity’ zusammen, in dem das Herz isoliert ist, sondern sie bewirken auch, daß der Verstand ‘with vglie illusions’ getäuscht wird” (quotations from Timothy Bright, Treatise of Melancholie, Theatrum Orbis Terrarum 1586, 100; qtd. in Ahrends 5). The illusions to which Lucy falls victim in the above-mentioned chapters are not of a fantastic or monstrous nature, but so close to reality that they might actually be true.

38

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

the novel, showing its polyvalence in different contexts.66 Secondly, the sentiment expressed in the phrase forms a link to the notion of ambiguity as uncertainty or doubt and the search for insight and knowledge, central parameters of Lucy’s narrative stance.67 The semantic core of the phrase relates it to a lack of 66 In Seven Types of Ambiguity, William Empson defines ambiguity as “any verbal nuance, however slight, which gives room for alternative reactions to the same piece of language” (1), thus opening up a broad category of utterances that can be called ambiguous. In the case of “I know not,” both the varying contexts and the inherent polysemy of the verb “know” make the phrase ambiguous. As mentioned in the Introduction, a literal connection between not knowing and ambiguity is moreover established in the Metamorphoses: in the story of Cephalus and Procris, the adjective “ambiguis” occurs together with the verb “nescio,” translating as “I know not,” linking the notion of ambiguity as it occurs in the classical text with uncertainty : “Vocibus ambiguis deceptam praebuit aurem / nescio quis nomenque aurae” (M 7.821f.). The unknown listener mentioned in the quotation makes the fateful error of believing Cephalus’ words to be directed to a nymph by the name of “Aura,” while he is in fact speaking to the evening breeze. When Procris hears of her husband’s supposed infidelity, she is beside herself with grief, but cannot entirely believe the report until she has had visible proof. Hiding in the underwood, she makes a rustling sound, which Cephalus believes to be a wild animal, wounding her with his spear. She dies in her husband’s arms. Like Lucy watches M. Paul and his friends without being seen herself on the night of the national fÞte, Procris tries to verify the eavesdropper’s statement by watching her husband from a hiding place. Both are eventually mortally wounded (one literally, the other metaphorically): when Lucy believes to have found out “the TRUTH” (39.467), she portrays this moment as a soldier’s death on the battlefield. 67 For classical definitions of ambiguity as doubt and uncertainty, see Introduction. The notion that the expression of ignorance in the form of inquiry is the path to knowledge is Socratic: Lucy’s “I know not” echoes the sceptic saying “I know that I know nothing” ascribed to Socrates. Lucy’s questioning attitude toward everything she encounters is moreover the foundation of the ongoing process of making her observations more and more precise and differentiated (and, as a side effect of this, more complex), as can be seen in her selfcorrections. One example of this narrative technique occurs in the context of Lucy’s first reaction to the nun: “To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay” (23.253)). The correction produces ambiguity because Lucy states that she feels sadness (“I was left sadly and secretly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this world […]” (22.252), and that “sadness was held at bay” at the same time. Moreover, the implicit questions contained in Lucy’s “I know not” are likely to generate even more questions. Especially at the beginning of the narrative, she tends not to ask questions directly because of a lack of interlocutors. The relatively small number of dialogues in which she actively participates in the early chapters also indicates this. Socrates employed a method of examining the definitions proffered by his interlocutors known as the elenchus, which mostly resulted in a refutation of their notions (see Prior 3). Socrates’ method of elenchus always seems to have resulted in the contradictory of the primary answer (Robinson 9). Lucy applies her questioning and, frequently, negating methods to her own perceptions of the world rather than to her interlocutors’ statements. See also Seeskin. The pursuit of knowledge in the sense of receiving an education in order to earn her living, including learning to speak a new language, is one of the reasons Lucy travels to Villette in the first place, as she puts it in her first interview with Madame Beck: “I told her how I had left my own country, intent on extending my knowledge, and gaining my bread” (7.65).

“I know not” – An Ambiguous Phrase in Villette

39

knowledge, which constitutes one of the great themes of the novel: Lucy has experiences that are not readily interpretable, occurring both in statements about her everyday life and in statements concerning metaphysical aspects of existence. The phrase sheds light on the treatment of a classical topic of the Bildungsroman, the protagonist’s development from ignorance (about the world and oneself) to (self-)knowledge. The topic of knowledge, and particularly self-knowledge, has long been identified as a main theme of the nineteenth-century novel. Halperin mentions the development from ignorance to knowledge in Egoism and SelfDiscovery in the Victorian Novel (1974): “that [theme] of the moral and psychological expansion of protagonists who begin in self-absorption and move, through the course of a tortuous ordeal of education, to more complete knowledge” (Introduction viii). As opposed to Halperin’s understanding of the term egoism as selfishness, this study is not primarily interested in moral evaluations tied to the process of gaining self-knowledge. Moreover, the development from ignorance to knowledge is not linear in Villette (as opposed to Halperin’s description) – and this feature is part of its ambiguity, underlining the conditional and unstable status of knowledge, especially self-knowledge. Through the occurrence of “I know not”, Villette shows that trying to know oneself and others is an undertaking beset with many, possibly irresolvable uncertainties and even risks, summed up in Lucy’s hopelessness during the long vacation: “The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared not know” (15.156). Ironically, Lucy faces the uncertainties and doubts of her life more easily than she “dare[s]” to feel the “hopes of youth”. The reader’s attention is moreover drawn to the phrase because it omits the usual “do”-periphrasis – resulting in a formula-like, alliterative quality. While it can be found in a number of contemporary novels, the phrase has the air of an archaism.68

68 Critics have ascribed the marked presence of the phrase to Lucy’s deliberately contrived style as a narrator. Tromly writes: “To a much greater extent than with Jane Eyre or William Crimsworth, we also note the contrivance of Lucy’s narrative technique. Her language provides an example. By inverting sentence patterns (‘I know not’ [1]; “of what are these things the signs and tokens?” [2]; ‘whose shadow I scarce guessed’ [2]), by cultivating deliberately archaic expressions […], and by suddenly arresting her narrative with such pedantic devices as ‘Imprimis’ (72), Lucy attains a self-consciously formal idiom that makes Jane Eyre’s style seem almost unpremeditated” (64f.). Peters analyses CB’s “conspicuous use” of archaisms and poeticisms, identifying them as a distinctive feature of her prose, but focuses on individual words rather than archaic sentence structures (123f.). For historicallinguistic studies of the do-periphrasis, see Tieken-Boon van Ostade, Auxiliary Do in Eighteenth-Century English, and “The Origin and Development of Periphrastic Auxiliary Do.” See also Engblom, Elleg,rd, and Dahl.

40

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

An overview of some instances of “I know not” in Villette serves to demonstrate not only the number of its occurrences but also its great versatility of meaning, i. e. the first kind of ambiguity mentioned above:69 Her husband’s family had been residents there for generations, and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace – Bretton of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his neighbourhood, I know not. (1.5) I thought at first it [a letter, OS] was from home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication; to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass. (1.6) I know not that I was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides; […]. (4.36) Descending [from the dome of St Paul’s, OS], I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a still ecstasy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got – I know not how – I got into the heart of city life. (6.49) I know not to this day how I looked at him – […]. (10.98) I know not whether the signal was answered from some viewless quarter of our own dwelling; but immediately after there fluttered from the lattice a falling object, white and light – billet the second, of course. (13.123) I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted me to spend the evening-time of study and recreation, where I had spent it yesterday. (13.116) The cr8tin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I lacked courage to venture very far from the Rue Fossette, but by degrees I sought the city-gates, and passed them, and then went wandering away far along chauss8es, through fields, beyond cemeteries, Catholic and Protestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I know not where. (15.158) I know not how it would all have ended. (15.162) Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now ; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. (21.238) How I descended all the stairs I know not. (22.245) I know not whether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering solemnly that he “had his eye on me: he at least would discharge the duty of a friend and not leave me entirely to my own devices.” (26.302) I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. (27.321) 69 All instances of “I know not” have been italicised in the quotations that follow.

“I know not” – An Ambiguous Phrase in Villette

41

I was vaguely threatened with, I know not what doom, if I ever trespassed the limits proper to my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite for unfeminine knowledge. (30.351) Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones fell very musically from his lips – for he had a good voice – remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression), he would fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. (30.354) “I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.” (35.408) “It is your religion – your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed, whose influence seems to clothe you in, I know not what, unblessed panoply.” (36.417) What I should have done, I know not, when a little child – the least child in the school – broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict. (38.445) Deep into some of Madame’s secrets I had entered – I know not how ; by an intuition or an inspiration which came to me–I know not whence. (38.447) Was it a fact to warrant joy? I know not. (39.465) He [Miss Marchmont’s heir, OS] was just recovering from a dangerous illness; the money was a peace-offering to his conscience, reproaching him in the matter of, I know not what, papers or memoranda found after his kinswoman’s death – naming or recommending Lucy Snowe. (42.493)

Independently of the specific contexts in which the phrase occurs, its frequency70 characterises the narrator as sceptical and enquiring. It constitutes an identi70 The frequency of the phrase “I know not” in Villette is deliberate, as the comparison with Bront[’s earlier novels proves: in Jane Eyre, it occurs ten times, “I don’t know” is featured eleven times; in Shirley, “I know not” occurs merely three times, “I don’t know” 22 times. In Villette, the expression is used 44 times; “I don’t know” occurs seventeen times. The comparison with other fictional autobiographies confirms this observation: in Godwin’s Caleb Williams (1794), a novel very much concerned with the theme of knowledge, (narrative) reliability, and the fatal consequences of the protagonist’s unconquerable curiosity about his employer’s secret, the phrase occurs twelve times; it first appears at the beginning of the second volume. Caleb has heard the story of Mr Tyrrel and Miss Melvile, and his master’s involvement in it, and after first admiring the latter all the more for it, keeps turning events over in his mind until he begins to suspect Falkland as potential murderer: “My thoughts fluctuated from conjecture to conjecture, but this was the centre about which they revolved” (CW 104). Thus Caleb begins his investigation, made more pleasurable for him through the knowledge that it is forbidden. Always watching his master for signs of a guilty conscience, Caleb condemns the emperor Alexander for his violent rule in conversation with Falkland. Falkland, who identifies with Alexander, reacts emotionally to this theme. Caleb then mentions Clitus, a general murdered by Alexander, and Falkland, now aware that Caleb must know more than he has let on, involuntarily reacts to the insinuation: “I could perceive him seized with a convulsive shuddering, which, though strongly counteracted, and therefore scarcely visible, had I know not what of terrible in it” (CW 110). The attributive use of

42

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

fying feature of the narrator’s language, showing the semantic scope of the phrase far beyond its occurrence in attributive expressions such as “I know not what” as an adjective. The verb “know” (albeit negated) gives the process/problem of recognition itself71 a central place in the narrative and marks it as a central theme. The expression highlights certain scenes, functioning as an “attentum parare.” Another form of ambiguity related to “I know not” presents itself in the context of Lucy’s personal development from not knowing and being unknown toward knowing and being known by M. Paul. Her transition from a state of universal uncertainty and doubtfulness toward the true recognition of another person and toward being known by that person in turn is one of the central processes in Lucy’s story. The portrayal of this development is of course typical of the Bildungsroman, but the fact that Lucy as narrator still asserts “I know not” (in the present tense72) with such frequency counteracts the notion of a linear evolution from being unknown and unloved to being known and loved (the two states are almost equivalent in Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship). The continued presence of the sentiment comprised in the phrase “I know not” introduces an element of ambiguity and uncertainty as to the question of the protagonist’s personal development and hints at the fact that not every question in Lucy’s life is answered in the end. A prominent example of an emotionally unresolved “I know not” foreshadows the fateful consequences of Caleb’s probing into Falkland’s past for his entire life. The phrase occurs only four times in Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield (1850); two of its occurrences there are mentioned below. In Esther Summerson’s firstperson-narrative in Bleak House (1852/53), Esther uses the expression but once to describe her impression of Lady Dedlock, whom Mr. Jarndyce, Esther and Ada meet in the lodge during the rainstorm. Esther sees Lady Dedlock for the first time without knowing yet that she is her mother, but experiences a vague presentiment about her identity : “With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I know not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than children” (BH 18.230). 71 Considering that the main setting of the novel is a school and that Lucy is a teacher, the phrase moreover draws attention the process of learning something. 72 As Brinton shows in her article on “The Historical Present in Charlotte Bront[’s Novels: Some Discourse Functions” (1992), “Bront[ can be considered an innovator in the use of the historical present” (222). The writer introduces the following categories for present tense use in Bront[’s texts: 1. General truths; 2. Narrator’s addresses to the reader ; 3. Static descriptions. The phrase “I know not”, depending on specific context, reminding the reader of the narrator’s subjective point of view, falls somewhere between the first and second category. “I know not” is not technically an incident of the historical present as it is generally an isolated example of the present tense rather than occurring in a sequence of events all related in the present tense. She moreover points out that the English present tense is used for habitual or generic statements rather than describing the actual temporal present (see Brinton 225). The author summarizes the passages written in present tense in Villette: “present-tense descriptions include those of the opera star [sic] Vashti […], of the city of Villette during Lucy’s nocturnal walk […], of Justine Marie […], of Villette and Lucy’s return to the school […], and of Lucy’s awaiting of M. Emmanuel’s arrival […]” (233).

Knowing in Lucy and M. Paul’s Relationship

43

relationship is Lucy’s friendship with Graham Bretton, which she describes by a comparison with the “tent of Peri-Banou” from the Arabian Nights: “All my life long I carried it folded in the hollow of my hand – yet, released from that hold and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host” (38.457). While Lucy’s affections are transferred from Graham Bretton to M. Paul in the course of her stay in Villette, the quotation, occurring relatively late in the novel, indicates that the movement is not as straightforward as it might at first seem.73 The phrase indicates an ambiguity on the level of the protagonist’s emotional development. In the context of Lucy and M. Paul’s love relationship, the semantically versatile verb “know” is invested with additional dimensions of meaning, especially with undertones of the biblical notion of knowing someone sexually.74 Beyond referring to an intellectual kind of knowledge, the verb thus also has an emotional dimension and suggests intimate acquaintance.

2.

Knowing in Lucy and M. Paul’s Relationship

The significance of the phrase “I know not” is underlined by the role emotional and intellectual knowledge plays in Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship. Lucy gains entrance to Madame Beck’s school because M. Paul reads her face; i. e., he gathers knowledge of her character deduced from her physiognomy. This act of interpretation takes place during their very first encounter. When Lucy must conduct the year-end examinations in English, an undertaking that M. Paul sees as an encroachment on his place in the spotlight as master examiner, he tells her : “‘One ought to be ‘dur’ with you. You are one of those beings who must be kept down. I know you! I know you! Other people in this house see you pass, and think that a colourless shadow has gone by. As for me, I scrutinized your face once, and it sufficed’” (15.155). M. Paul’s exclamatory “‘I know you!’” has the air of a threat or a warning, but he is also proud to have fathomed Lucy’s nature at a glance, as he believes. Already here, he believes to have discovered something in

73 This movement is characteristic of the Bildungsroman. Villette’s relationship with the genre has been discussed by numerous critics: see Lanone, Ciolkowski, Komins, Klaver, Heiniger. Villette moreover varies the structural element of anagnorisis, the turn from ignorance to knowledge (see Leimberg, What May Words Say…? 27; “Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for good or bad fortune” (Poetics XI.2)). 74 “To be sexually intimate with; esp. to have sexual intercourse with. Now chiefly arch. or with explicit adverb, as carnally, physically, etc.” (OED, “know”, v., II.8). Especially in the usage of “know” in the context of Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship, this nuance of meaning is relevant.

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

Lucy that “[o]ther people” fail to perceive.75 In the rather harmless context of the examinations, his unfounded jealousy and his passion appear comically out of proportion.76 At the same time, and true of a number of interactions between Lucy and other characters, his claim of “knowing” Lucy is serious and touches the very core of her being and of their relationship.77 M. Paul is wrong about her wish to be in the spotlight, yet he is right in his assessment that she is not just a “colourless shadow.” The conflict is resolved for the time being when M. Paul realises that Lucy does indeed not have any ambitions of detracting from his lead role as examiner, and in a characteristic change of mood78 even offers her his friendship: “‘After all, you are solitary and a stranger, and have your way to make and your bread to earn; it may be well that you should become known. We will be friends: do you agree?’” (15.156). M. Paul’s words “‘you should become known’” must be read in the context of the impending examinations, in the sense of ‘become known to the public as a teacher at Madame Beck’s school’; however, it is also an instance of foreshadowing what will take place in the course of Lucy’s relationship with M. Paul: she will “become known”. This underlying serious aspect in interpersonal communication implies that even apparently light banter may carry a meaning pointing beyond the immediate context in which it occurs. M. Paul’s early claim of knowing Lucy is contrasted with her equally direct and deliberately provocative statement “‘I know nothing about you’” (35.403). After PHre Silas has revealed M. Paul’s long-past love story with Justine Marie and his loyalty to her family to Lucy, the following dialogue takes place between her and M. Paul: “[…] you know neither me, nor my position, nor my history.” His history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea. “No, monsieur,” I rejoined. “Of course, as you say, I know neither your history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your sorrows, or trials, or affections, or

75 The master of literature makes the same claim about the occupants of the school when he reveals to Lucy that he uses his room as a post of observation: “‘There I sit and read for hours together : it is my way – my taste. My book is this garden; its contents are human nature – female human nature. I know you all by heart. Ah! I know you well – […]’” (31.363). 76 When M. Paul sees that Lucy genuinely does not care for her role in the examinations, he is quickly appeased and even offers his friendship to her : “‘Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends;’ he pursued” (15.155). 77 Another example of this co-presence of the serious and the comic is Lucy’s exchange with Ginevra Fanshawe in which the latter asks her, “‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’” (27.307ff.). This scene is discussed in chapter III. 78 This change of mood is announced by a transformation in his face that anticipates the later metamorphosis “from a mask to a face” (27.321) Lucy witnesses when they once more become friends after a jealous altercation: “the spite and jealousy melted out of his face, and a generous kindliness shone there instead” (15.155). For a detailed discussion of the transformations in M. Paul’s face and their relationship with ambiguity, see ch. IV.

Knowing in Lucy and M. Paul’s Relationship

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fidelities. Oh, no! I know nothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger.” (35.403)

Lucy’s hyperbolical assertion is ironic; she has just learned the story of M. Paul’s past from his spiritual father figure, and has moreover had frequent exchanges with him for quite some time. It is characteristic of her communicative style that she uses the negative in order to tell M. Paul: “I know everything about you”. She hints at her implied meaning by enumerating minutely all the elements that pertain to his story in the abstract (“‘[…] position, […] sacrifices, […] sorrows, […] trials, […] affections, […] fidelities’”). The preceding scene is concluded with an offer of friendship, and this exchange ends in a more solemn pledge of fraternity : “If monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him.” “But a close friend I mean – intimate and real – kindred in all but blood? Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?” (35.406)

The tone of the dialogue, and also of the passages spoken by the narrator, is free of irony : beyond all secondary meanings and double-entendres, Lucy and M. Paul’s conversation now directly concerns and prepares the essence of their bond, which is supposed to be a “‘true friendship’” (M. Paul) and is expressed in “words so earnest” (narrator Lucy). Truth, earnestness, reality and substance are emphasised above all, and the direct mention of knowing each other preceding these declarations of friendship and fraternity show the central role that this shared knowledge of one another plays in Lucy and M. Paul’s developing love relationship.79 Both passages indicate that knowing a potential “true” friend is not a straightforward or simple matter, but a theme that can only be approached by means of a number of ambiguous communicative strategies, like hyperbole and irony.80 Knowledge of self and of another is linked to a process of negotiation,81 and this is what Villette is about. 79 “‘When I talk of friendship, I mean true friendship,’ he repeated emphatically ; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had blessed my ear ; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious look he gave. If he really wished for my confidence and regard, and really would give me his – why, it seemed to me that life could offer nothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in a moment I was made substantially happy” (35.407). 80 Lucy has no difficulties in seizing up the other teachers at the school when they make her offers of friendship: “Each of the teachers in turn made me overtures of special intimacy ; I tried them all. One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarse feeler, and an egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externally refined – at heart, corrupt – without a creed, without a principle, without an affection: having penetrated the outward crust of decorum in this character, you found a slough beneath. She had a wonderful passion for presents; and, in this point, the third teacher – a person otherwise characterless and insignificant – closely resembled her” (14.126). 81 The technique of negotiation is related to the legal language that is present in Villette to some extent (“I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of that curse, an overheated and discursive imagi-

46

3.

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

The First Instances of “I know not”

The manuscript of the novel shows how deliberately the phrase is placed in the published version. Here, the beginning of the novel reads as follows: My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Bretton. Her husband’s family had been residents there for generations, and bore, indeed, the name of their birth-place – Bretton of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because – [crossed out from here; OS] as the late Dr Bretton held but, as I have been told, failed to prove – some remote ancestor had been a personage of sufficient importance to leave to his neighbourhood the legacy of his name. (MSS, p. 1, ch. 1)

The first time Lucy refers to herself in the manuscript is as the recipient of information: “as I have been told.” There is already an indication that her level of informedness forms the basis of the text, but it is not as marked as in the later, published version, where the phrase “I know not” replaces the former “as I have been told” and occurs for the first time in the first paragraph of chapter 1, in an exposed position at the very end of the sentence and the paragraph. It is also the first time that the pronoun “I” is used. The printed version leaves out “the late Dr Bretton” entirely and puts the first self-reference of the narrator into a different context: […] whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his neighbourhood, I know not. (1.5)

The second, published version is characterised by a more succinct and rhythmical sentence structure depending on the main clause “I know not.” In the manuscript, the two options of explanation remain open as well (the identity of the names is a coincidence, or it is due to an actual link between family and town), but they do not depend as much on Lucy’s knowledge as narrator. Her ignorance at the beginning of the novel does not concern herself but the Brettons, which is in keeping with the fact that the focus in the first three chapters is on Graham and Paulina, not directly on Lucy herself (although her presence as observer is of course always implied). While the question of where the Brettons’ name comes from does not concern Lucy directly, it introduces the general theme of family origins and familial relationships, which remain a blank in her personal history (see ch. V).

nation; but whenever, opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in her pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted” (2.12)), and which can be found even more often in Jane Eyre (Peters has an entire chapter on “Courtroom Language in Jane Eyre”, 131–154). Especially the verb “plead” stands out since Lucy uses it when she mentions her own name for the first time; however, overall legal language is used more sparingly than in the earlier novel.

The First Instances of “I know not”

47

The construction “I know not” functions as a signature of Lucy’s narrative style; the present tense emphasises the perspective of the narrating I. In the final version, the insertion of the phrase restructures the whole sentence, introducing a main clause and placing it at the end of the entire sequence by inversion (the dependent clause precedes the main clause), placing it in a conspicuous position and underlining its special relevance. The conjunction “whether” introduces the subordinate clause as an indirect yes/no question that triggers her characteristic expression of doubt and uncertainty in the main clause.82 In this instance, her admission of “not knowing” is a sign of meticulousness rather than of ignorance: she is very precise in communicating her own degree of information.83 The question of the origin of the name also brings us back to the title of the novel: it introduces a connection between person and place. “Villette” as an emphatically feminine name (which might at first even be confused with a first name because of the diminutive, echoing common French women’s names like Lisette, Odette, Georgette etc.) underlines the ‘femaleness’ of the text and is at the same time the name of a city ; this important relationship between place and person is also relevant in the first occurrence of “I know not.” To return to the comparison of manuscript and printed text: the aspect of not knowing something is central to the first version as well (the two options are left open), but only the second one verbalizes it explicitly. Obviously, the context of the first mention of the personal pronoun is vital to the impression the reader has of Lucy, who remains ‘unknown’ in other aspects, such as the details of her outer appearance and especially the experiences of her childhood.84 Lucy’s signature expression reoccurs very soon after this first instance, and again it shows that a feeling of existential uncertainty already has a hold of her as a young girl in Bretton. 82 James Greenwood in his Royal English Grammar of 1737 directly links the conjunction with a state of doubtfulness: “The Conjunctions Suspensive or Dubitative, which serve to mark Suspension or Doubting in Discourse, are whether, & c. as, I do not know whether it be so or no” (103). The etymology of “whether” supports his description: “OS. hwe ar one of two, whether, OHG. hwedar, wedar which of two, neut. whether, either, (MHG. weder, surviving in G. weder neither), ON. hva arr, nom. pl. hv#rer (whence sing. hv#rr), which of two, each, neut. whether […]” (OED, “whether”). 83 This characteristic stands in contrast to Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield (1850), which begins with a dubitative conjunction, but which at the same time provides the perspective of eventually getting an answer : “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show” (DC 1.13). In another contrast with the narrative presented in Villette, David Copperfield continues with an account of his birth (“To begin my life with the beginning of my life […]”) – an event altogether missing from Lucy’s story. See Bauer, Das Leben als Geschichte, 21–33, on the beginning of Dickens’s fictional autobiography. 84 For a detailed discussion of the catastrophe of Lucy’s childhood, see chapter V.

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication; to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass. (1.6)

Two aspects are of interest here: Lucy lives in the vague dread of experiencing some disaster related to her family, which results in a pervasive feeling of uncertainty (“I thought at first it was from home and trembled”). Instead of asking her godmother about the letter in order to know whether it concerns her,85 she remains in a state of suspension, to such a degree that she only writes “the cloud seemed to pass” (my emphasis). The appearance of the letter underlines the significance of “I know not” as a formula representing uncertainty and doubt.

4.

Uncertainty, Self-Reliance and the City

When the reader is again arrested by the phrase, Lucy makes a statement about her own character. After her premonition of catastrophe in the previous passage has indeed come true, she finds herself without family or friends (she has lost touch with the Brettons) and is forced to practise self-reliance: I know not that I was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood, sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me some task I could undertake. (4.36)

Lucy introduces her reflections by a negative statement about her own nature and points out the opposition between her natural disposition and the need imposed by circumstances. The versatility of the phrase “I know not” is illustrated by the object clause following it: while an element of uncertainty is still palpable in the statement, it does not express the impossibility to decide between two alternatives, like the continuation with “whether” in its first occurrence. Here, it means ‘I cannot claim that I was of a self-reliant or active nature.’ The complicated matter of knowing oneself and of communicating this knowledge finds an expression in the linguistic indirectness of the phrase. The notion of self-reliance is connected with Lucy’s Protestantism – M. Paul calls it “‘your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed’” (36.417).86 Through 85 It turns out that the letter announces Paulina’s arrival at Bretton, and her appearance on the scene immediately commands Lucy’s whole attention. 86 Catholicism, on the other hand, is associated with the community of Madame Beck’s school and the relinquishing of one’s individual fate to this community, in an image that parodies the Eucharist: “There [in Madame Beck’s school, OS], as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove to bring up her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hale, joyous, ignorant,

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Emerson’s well-known essay “Self-Reliance” (first published in 1841), the notion was popular at the time.87 The principal maxim propagated by Emerson is “Trust thyself.” He advocates absolute trust of one’s inner voice and convictions, convinced that if everyone practised more self-reliance this would have a revolutionary effect on society (see Emerson n. p.). One of the mottoes of the essay, “Ne te quaesiveris extra” – “Do not seek outside of yourself” – is reversed in Villette, since Lucy gradually learns to trust and love M. Paul, which in turn leads her to self-knowledge. But while Emerson exuberantly celebrates self-reliance, Lucy’s self-reliance is immediately qualified and mixed with the opposite notion of dependence. Still, when Emerson formulates “[t]he individual is the world,” this rings true for Villette, especially with respect to the allegories portraying Lucy’s inner life as exterior to herself. In the course of the novel, Lucy learns to trust herself via the trust in M. Paul.88 In the essay, self-reliance stands in opposition to conforming to the intellectual mainstream; in Lucy’s case, the notion is presented ambiguously, in a practical context: she is “forced” to be self-reliant, and relies on Miss Marchmont unthinking, unquestioning. ‘Eat, drink, and live!’ she says. ‘Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. I hold their cure – guide their course: I guarantee their final fate.’ A bargain, in which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer” (14.127). The metaphor of commerce betrays this “bargain” as predestined to be a loss. The Catholic community of the school is thus portrayed as the opposite of self-reliant, thoughtlessly passing the responsibility for their spiritual welfare on. Most characters who are explicitly associated with self-reliance in the novel are female: Mrs. Bretton too is of a “self-reliant mood” (17.180). The opposition between Catholic and Protestant recurs in Lucy’s great crisis during the long vacation and in the confession scene in the same chapter. The opposition of Catholic and Protestant is connected strongly with the notion of the path, as evident in the above quote, which features a literal path, and eventually leads to the figurative crossroads of the confessional scene, in which Lucy is faced with the possibility of converting to Catholicism, even of becoming a nun. “Conversion”, apart from its usual meaning, also means “Theol. The Turning of Sinners to God […]” (OED, 9) (Leimberg, Heilig Öffentlich Geheimnis 185n4). The etymology of “conversion” is rooted in the spatial notion of turning around (“classical Latin converte˘re to turn about, turn in character or nature, transform, translate, etc., < contogether, altogether + verte˘re to turn.” (OED Online, convert, v.)). The road and cross-road allegory is discussed in detail in chapter V. Jasper records that in an ironic letter written to George Smith on 31 October 1850 after the consecration of Cardinal Wiseman as Archbishop of Westminster, “[…] Charlotte Bront[ pretended to attack Protestantism for ‘that presumptuous self-reliance – that audacious championship of Reason and Common-Sense which ought to have been crushed out of you all in your cradles – or at least during your school-days […]’ (Smith, Letters, vol. II, pp, 491–92)” (219). 87 Qtd. in Matthiessen 8 (also 5–14 on “Consciousness”). Blom explores Jane Eyre’s self-reliance in the context of her decision against marrying St John and becoming a missionary, claiming that “Jane’s conviction that the direction she derives from personal or ‘inward’ (II, 239) vision is superior to the direction of any and all external authority, be it social, sexual, or religious” (355). 88 “A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his” (Emerson n.p.).

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

to “assign [her] some task [she] could undertake.” In fact, accepting the position as Miss Marchmont’s companion results in a period of (exterior) inactivity and even “shrinking sloth and cowardly indolence” (4.38), contrasted with the self-reliance and exertion Lucy initially evokes: “For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action. I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy” (4.38). The “thousands” (4.36) who are forced to be self-reliant and active are soon associated with the masses Lucy sees thronging through the streets of London after Miss Marchmont has died, especially the city, and of course the inhabitants of the capital of Labassecour, Villette. Lucy thinks of herself in a social context, which is represented by the city. The urban environment is a crucial element of the novel’s atmosphere, and it is portrayed in a positive, invigorating light in chapter six, when Lucy travels to London in search of employment.89 Descending, I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a still ecstasy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got – I knew not how – I got into the heart of city life. I saw and felt London at last: I got into the Strand; I went up Cornhill; I mixed with the life passing along; I dared the perils of crossings. To do this, and to do it utterly alone, gave me, perhaps an irrational, but a real pleasure. (6.49)

This is one of the rare moments in the novel in which Lucy’s tone is light-hearted and even serene although she qualifies her statement by calling her pleasure “perhaps […] irrational”. In spite of her solitude and the uncertainty of her future, she “mix[es] with the life passing along”; she has found a way to be alone in the midst of the crowd and to enjoy the freedom afforded by anonymity. The expression “I knew not how” suggests a force other than a conscious, rational decision guiding Lucy’s steps and anticipates the role of fate in the way Lucy reaches Madame Beck’s school when she has arrived in Villette. Lucy associates the city of London in particular with self-reliance, and identifies with it: Since those days, I have seen the West-end, the parks, the fine squares; but I love the city far better. The city seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, and sounds. The city is getting its living – the West-end but enjoying its pleasure. At the West-end you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited. (6.49)

Lucy’s world has expanded – whereas before “[t]wo hot, close rooms […] became [her] world” (4.37), she now climbs up the dome of St Paul’s and literally widens her horizon (see 6.49). The phrase “I got – I knew not how – I got into the 89 In contrast to Jane Eyre or even Shirley, which are both set in rural surroundings (despite Shirley’s concern with emerging industrialism) and do not feature any larger cities.

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heart of city life” must in this context also be read as a sign of freedom; the unknown and uncertain perspective of “somewhere else” becomes a promise and a possibility waiting for Lucy. The city is the self-reliant part of London, the one that “is getting its living,” while the West-end only exists for pleasure. Lucy’s sympathies lie with the hardworking city, which she associates with her own way of living. The West-end also foreshadows Ginevra Fanshawe’s appearance, whose place is clearly there rather than in the city. In contrast to Ginevra, Lucy prefers ‘deep excitement’ to merely superficial amusement.

5.

The Uncertainty of Foreign Surroundings

The next time we encounter the phrase, Lucy’s world has changed profoundly – she has made the overseas voyage to Labassecour, has arrived at Madame Beck’s school and is employed by the directress on probation, so to speak, after M. Paul has read her physiognomy and pronounced his verdict about her. On the night of her arrival, Lucy is given something to eat: A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought my supper: to wit – some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd and acid, but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, I know not what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine, or slice of bread and butter, and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and was grateful. (8.68)

“I know not what” functions as a set phrase or idiom. That the phrase is used in its conventionalised form is proof of the variety of meaning pertaining to it. This kind of uncertainty, concerning a mundane, unimportant detail,90 is part and parcel of Lucy’s experience as a foreigner in Villette. The next instance of “I know not” occurs in a similar, at first sight trivial, context. It is used when Lucy describes Madame Beck’s appearance. After she has pointed out that the headmistress is “rather short and stout, yet still graceful,” she ponders the overall impression of her appearance: I know not what of harmony pervaded her whole person; and yet her face offered contrast, too: its features were by no means such as are usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness and repose: their outline was stern; her forehead was high but narrow ; it expressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nor did her peaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is kindled in the heart or the softness which flows thence. (8.71f.) 90 Carlisle has remarked of Villette that, when one takes a closer look at the text, “what has seemed perplexing or contradictory about [Lucy’s] story reveals a clarity and persuasive emotional logic that shine through even the most apparently trivial or irrelevant detail” (263).

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

The central word in connection with Lucy’s favourite phrase is “harmony”: her first impression of Madame Beck is positive, but she already notes a disjunctive quality in her appearance, and, by implication, her character : “its features [the features of Madame Beck’s face, OS] were by no means such as are usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness and repose.” Madame Beck’s overall appearance is harmonious, yet her features contrast with her complexion, pointing to a lack of compassion and affection (which even influences her behaviour toward her own children).

6.

Self-Knowledge and Recognition

The next occurrence of “I know not” takes the reader further into the story : Lucy has moved on from her post as governess to Madame Beck’s children and is now a teacher of English in the school. She has begun to settle into her new surroundings and to find a role that agrees more with her abilities than the post of nursery-maid. A young English doctor is a new regular visitor at the Rue Fossette, admired by pupils and teachers. Lucy has not spoken to him yet, although she too is intrigued by him and watches him a great deal from a distance. This young doctor turns out to be Lucy’s helpful guide on the night of her arrival in Villette – and her godmother’s son, Graham Bretton. The first time she makes direct contact with him is a crucial instance of recognition in the novel. Ironically, the phrase “I know not” marks the moment when on both sides, Bretton’s and Lucy’s, a partial recognition occurs. Lucy never tells the reader directly there and then that she has recognised him, but refers to her recognition openly only much later.91 While she is certain of her recognition, she expresses it in a way that leaves the reader uncertain as to what has happened. Lucy has an important (and wholly unambiguous) insight, but she veils this fact through her mode of narration. I know not to this day how I looked at him – the force of surprise, and also of conviction, made me forget myself – and I only recovered wonted consciousness when 91 “I first recognized him on that occasion, noted several chapters back, when my unguardedlyfixed attention had drawn on me the mortification of an implied rebuke. Subsequent observation confirmed, in every point, that early surmise. I traced in the gesture, the port, and the habits of his manhood, all his boy’s promise. I heard in his now deep tones the accent of former days. Certain turns of phrase, peculiar to him of old, were peculiar to him still; and so was many a trick of eye and lip, many a smile, many a sudden ray levelled from the iris, under his well-charactered brow. To say anything on the subject, to hint at my discovery, had not suited my habits of thought, or assimilated with my system of feeling. On the contrary, I had preferred to keep the matter to myself. I liked entering his presence covered with a cloud he had not seen through, while he stood before me under a ray of special illumination which shone all partial over his head, trembled about his feet, and cast light no farther” (16.175).

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I saw that his notice was arrested, and that it had caught my movement in a clear little oval mirror fixed in the side of the window recess – by the aid of which reflector madame often secretly spied persons walking in the garden below. (10.98)

The young English doctor is in the habit of regularly coming to the Rue Fossette, primarily to attend to Madame Beck’s daughter D8sir8e, who amuses herself by feigning an illness. But there must be something else that draws him to the school, as Lucy notices: he returns to it as if under a powerful attraction. Lucy is not sure what might have such a fascination for him there, and perceives his moods and behaviour as a “mystery” (10.98), which she would like to explain. She studies his countenance in an attempt at solving the puzzle of his intentions and motives. Dr. John hardly notices her when they are in a room together (which also explains his failure to recognise her as his mother’s god-daughter), which affords her an ideal position of observation.92 Lucy does her best to read Dr. John’s face and movements while he is wholly unaware of her presence: I, meantime, was free to puzzle over his countenance and movements, and wonder what could be the meaning of that peculiar interest and attachment – all mixed up with doubt and strangeness, and inexplicably ruled by some presiding spell – which wedded him to this demi-convent, secluded in the built-up core of a capital. (10.98)

This imbalance in attention (very much on Lucy’s part, very little on Dr. John’s) is upset in the episode of interest here: when Lucy contemplates Dr. John’s face through a small glass used by Madame Beck to spy on her pupils in the garden below, he encounters her eyes in that mirror. Graham first consciously sees Lucy through a mirror, an indirect medium of looking and a literary metaphor of (self-)reflection.93 The two look at one another without facing each other, and this literal indirectness is another form of ambiguity in the scene, complementing the uncertainty created by “I know not to this day how I looked at him”. The mirror is a symbol of the indirectness of Lucy’s behaviour, and also of her communication – she is curious about Dr. John, yet she has never even spoken to him. Her instrument of observation is then turned on her : Dr. John uses it to return Lucy’s gaze. The fact that he sees Lucy through the mirror is an early signal that his perception of her will remain on the surface – and that he will therefore never ‘see’ Lucy’s real character, since it is not of the kind which 92 “He laid himself open to my observation, according to my presence in the room just that degree of notice and consequence a person of my exterior habitually expects.” (10.98). To the modern reader, the use of “accord” as a main verb is slightly puzzling at first and might result in a ‘garden path’ effect. 93 The mirror is moreover a metaphor associated with the genre of autobiography : “For most literary historians, the history of autobiography as a genre begins with either a mirror or a book. Those who choose the mirror tend to see the genre as one of self-presentation; […]. Those literary historians who, in contrast, choose the book tend to treat the genre as one of self-interpretation; […]” (Peterson 2f.).

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

reveals itself through outward appearance. Graham’s eyes see only her reflection at this crucial moment, and he later describes Lucy as “a being inoffensive as a shadow” (27.317), as though he was always confronted with an effigy of her, but never the original.94 The play with the Platonic notion of the shadow or reflection as an inferior copy of the original is underlined by Lucy’s comparison of Dr. John with the “‘golden image’” that King Nebuchadnezzar has set up (10.98). The scene moreover ironically evokes the Neoplatonic conceit of the beloved’s reflection mirrored in the lover’s eyes95 : as opposed to Lucy and M. Paul’s love relationship, in which to be known and recognised eventually means to be loved, Graham fails to even perceive Lucy for a long time, and when he does, he does not recognise her. Even in retrospect, Lucy does not know how she looks at Dr. John. The expression “I know not” almost turns into the reversal of a narrative gesture to be found in David Copperfield: “I see myself”.96 The lack of a similar gesture in 94 On the relationship between mirror image and shadow, and especially the eye as mirror of the beloved, see Wickert 293. Freedman explores the relevance of reflections to Villette in the context of a reversal of Pauline theology, interpreting Lucy’s words “‘I lie in the shadow of St Paul’s’” (5.52) as symbolical of the setting of her story “in the shadow of Pauline theology and the darkness of Christian pilgrimage” (Freedman 408). Freedman links the imagery of light and dark in Villette with the rhetoric of light and dark in Paul, especially referring to Corinthians and Paul’s notion of divine grace. The reference to Pauline theology is especially relevant to the encounters between Lucy and M. Paul and their quasi-religious character (see chs. IV and VII). 95 Wickert analyses the conceit in the dauphin’s speech to his father King Philip in Shakespeare’s King John (288ff.). In the introduction to her essay on “Das Schattenmotiv bei Shakespeare,” the author points out that her underlying theme is the notion of reality and illusion as substance and shadow (274). Of particular relevance to Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship and the role the mirror plays as a central metaphor of the relationships in Villette is the following quote by Ficino: “was Ficino in aller Ausführlichkeit beschreibt: ‘Hier geschieht wahrlich ein Wunder. Wenn zwei (Menschen) sich in Liebe zugetan sind, lebt der eine im anderen. Denn solche Menschen vertauschen ihr Selbst, und einer schenkt sich dem anderen, um den anderen zum Geschenk zu erhalten. … Jeder besitzt sich, aber im anderen. Denn wenn ich dich, der du mich liebst, liebe, so finde ich mich in dir … wieder und gewinne mein Ich, von dir bewahrt, in dir zurück, nachdem es mir aus Unachtsamkeit verloren ging … Denn es stirbt der Liebende in sich selbst in dem Augenblick, da er sich selbst außer acht läßt … Er ersteht zu neuem Leben, wenn er sich im Geliebten wiedererkennt und gewiß sein darf, daß er geliebt wird.”’ (290). Wickert provides Ficino’s original: “Hic certe mira res fit: quotiens duo aliqui mutua se benevolentia complectuntur, hic in illo, ille in hoc vivit. Vicissim huius modi homines se commutant, et se ipsum uterque utrique tribuit, ut accipiant alterum … Hic quidem se habet, sed in illo. Ille quoque se possidet, sed in hoc. Equidem dum te amo me amantem, in te de me cogitante me reperio, et me a me ipso negligentia mea perditum in te conservante recupero … Moritur enim qui amat in se ipso, semel cum se negligit. Reviviscit, cum in amato se denique recognoscit, et amatum se esse non dubitat” (290f.n3). 96 “I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life” (DC 64.878). Bauer discusses this phrase and its narratological implications in Das Leben als Geschichte 125– 137; the reflections presented here are based on his observations. He argues that David

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Villette corresponds to Lucy’s narrative perspective, which is oriented inwards rather than outwards.97 The notion of looking back on oneself is thus modified insofar as Lucy’s gaze is introspective, which conflates the perspectives of the narrating and the experiencing I. Lucy’s search for meaning, for an interpretation of Dr. John’s behaviour, has partly been resolved: she knows who he is now. The mystery of his attraction to the Rue Fossette, however, remains. Lucy does not communicate her sudden insight: she lets Dr. John believe what he wants, although his reaction is half a “reproof”: “‘Mademoiselle does not spare me: I am not vain enough to fancy that it is my merits which attract her attention; it must then be some defect. Dare I ask – what?’” (10.99). Lucy’s silence in response to this question maintains the aura of uncertainty in which her acquaintance with Graham Bretton develops. She carefully avoids looking directly at him after this incident and settles down to her work, keeping her “head bent over it during the remainder of his stay” (10.99). Lucy feels that Bretton has misunderstood the meaning of her look but she does not choose to rectify his impression. On the contrary, she prefers to remain in obscurity as far as he is concerned: There is a perverse mood of the mind which is rather soothed than irritated by misconstruction; and in quarters where we can never be rightly known, we take pleasure, I think, in being consummately ignored. What honest man on being casually taken for a house-breaker, does not feel rather tickled than vexed at the mistake? (10.99)

Lucy’s narrative emphasises the misunderstanding occurring here and leaves out her recognition of Dr. John as Graham Bretton entirely. Eventually, after their eyes have met in the mirror, Dr. John turns around to face Lucy directly, but her guard is up again by then. The reversal of right and left found in the mirror reflection is echoed in her “perverse mood of the mind.” Just as Dr. John surprises Lucy’s mirror image with an uncommon expression on her face, but cannot interpret it correctly, she prefers to remain unknown in his presence, even finds “pleasure” in it. To sum up: The episode contains a misunderstanding Copperfield explores the problem of the relationship between self and narration and quotes the moments in which the narrator sees himself in his story as evidence, identifying them as formative traits of the novel. 97 Lucy uses the expression a single time, not with regard to herself, but her unsympathetic fellow teacher and sometime aspirant for M. Paul’s affections, Z8lie St Pierre: “What a cold, callous epicure she was in all things! I see her now” (14.127). Miss Marchmont in her retrospective narrative of her love relationship with Frank uses quite a few expressions indicating that she is transported back to past experiences: “‘Once more I see that moment – I see the snow-twilight stealing through the window over which the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up the white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own youthful figure in a glass’” (4.40).

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The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

on the part of Dr. John, of which Lucy approves and deliberately allows to persist. Lucy, for her part, does not solve the puzzle of Dr. John’s interest in the school. Thus, both are uncertain about each other’s motives and thoughts. In one sense, both of them remain in the dark about each other ; but in another, the experience gives each of them new information: Lucy has found out that Dr. John is her godmother’s son from Bretton, and he, who used to consider Lucy a non-entity, has noticed her as someone with eyes and “a brain behind them” (10.98) for the first time. Most importantly, the exchange brings about Lucy’s recognition that Bretton is a “quarter[…] where [she] can never be rightly known” (10.99). Her recognition of his ‘outward’ identity (as her godmother’s son) is thus tied to the simultaneous insight that he will never truly know her. Lucy’s final statement, the pleasure she takes in being misunderstood, is also a way of gaining control over a situation that concerns one of the central themes of the novel: the question of identity and how Lucy’s is shaped by her own and others’ perceptions of herself.98 The next scene featuring “I know not” underlines the link between knowledge and personal recognition, and counts among the instances of anagnorisis in Villette. M. Paul expects Lucy to display her scholarly achievements for two of his colleagues from the boys’ college, who have uttered the suspicion that M. Paul was forging his foreign colleague’s/student’s French essays.99 Lucy refuses to ‘perform’100 in front of her examiners, in whom she recognises the two men who harassed her after her arrival in the streets of Villette, and who caused her to lose the way pointed out by Graham Bretton. Lucy’s “unchanging ‘Je n’en sais rien’” (35.400), ‘I know nothing about that,’ in answer to their questions testing her knowledge of classics, French history and other subjects, functions as a shield to protect herself from a second assault of a different nature by the two men. Even 98 Mayer, in an essay linking Lucy Snowe and the speaker of some of Emily Dickinson’s poems as “Evasive Subjects,” (74) writes about Lucy : “the existential problem of the novel becomes the condition of loneliness, the tenuous hold this narrator has on a self whose existence is rarely confirmed by an accurate reflection in the eyes of those around her” (79). 99 Lucy has not mentioned yet that she shows any ability in her schoolwork with M. Paul. We only learn of her academic progress through this scene, which characteristically displays her inability rather than her actual ability : “I heard one of my examiners – he of the braided surtout – whisper to his co-professor, ‘Est-elle donc idiote?’ ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘an idiot she is, and always will be, for such as you’” (35.400). Lucy immediately denies any remarkable achievement on her part: “It seems that M. Paul had been rashly exhibiting something I had written – something he had never once praised, or even mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemed quite forgotten. The essay was not remarkable at all; it only seemed remarkable, compared with the average productions of foreign school-girls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarce noticed” (35.399). 100 “Grand ciel! Here was the show-trial, so long evaded, come on me like a thunder-clap” (35.399). Lucy instinctively recoils from scenes in which a public display of her skills or character is required, for example in the conflict with M. Paul over writing the annual examinations in French with the first division (30.356).

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concerning the most basic level of factual knowledge of school subjects, Lucy is unable and unwilling to show her inner life in front of these “judges” (35.400, 401) whom she recognizes as her “dreaded hunters” (7.64) who literally make her lose herself in the streets of Villette on the night of her arrival:101 she now sees that they are not only bullies but hypocrites and philistines. However, the recognition of the two men provides Lucy with the fuel she needs to write the essay on their topic of choice, “Human Justice” (35.401f.), an opportunity to both prove their suspicion of M. Paul’s forgery wrong and to comment on her examiners’ duplicitous character. As usual, she reveals her thoughts in an indirect way, understandable only to those who know how to decipher them. Lucy is unable to reveal her true self in “quarters where she can never be rightly known”. In both scenes demonstrating this, Lucy’s character is misconstrued by her interlocutors, but in the narrative portrayal of the events Lucy empowers herself by deliberately withholding justifications or explanations. From the intricate hidden recognition scene we now turn once more to Madame Beck, since Lucy uses “I know not” again to characterise her employer. Lucy describes how Madame Beck handles the parents’ reactions when they learn that the young English doctor will have the care of their daughters in the future: She met the alarmed parents with a good-humoured, easy grace: for nobody matched her in, I know not whether to say the possession or the assumption of a certain “rondeur et franchise de bonne femme,” which on various occasions gained the point aimed at with instant and complete success, where severe gravity and serious reasoning would probably have failed. (11.100)

While Lucy does not quite know how to interpret Madame Beck’s strategic handling of the parents, she admires her adroitness and effectiveness. The phrase “I know not whether to say […]” concerns both Lucy’s indecision regarding her opinion of Madame Beck’s character and her own choice of words to describe it, thus relating to both the experiencing and the narrating I’s perspective.

101 “I no longer knew where I was” (7.64).

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7.

The Signature of Ambiguity: “I know not”

“I know not” and Surveillance

The next quotation102 takes us back to Dr. John’s mysterious interest in the school, which puzzles Lucy when she recognises him, and which is partly the reason why she watches him so closely in the first place. After having found one love letter in the garden already, she sees a second letter thrown into the garden while Dr. John is in the same room, visiting a patient, one of Madame Beck’s daughters. Just as he took his hat, my eyes, fixed on the tall houses bounding the garden, saw the one lattice, already commemorated, cautiously open; forth from the aperture projected a hand and a white handkerchief; both waved. I know not whether the signal was answered from some viewless quarter of our own dwelling; but immediately after there fluttered from the lattice a falling object, white and light – billet the second, of course. (13.123)

Lucy involuntarily cries out when she sees this, and Dr. John immediately runs down into the garden to retrieve the message. The incident is surrounded by a number of unanswered questions: who loves whom? Who is the sender, who the receiver of these messages? The communication between the two lovers is supposed to remain secret in Madame Beck’s school, a place where this seems almost impossible. The incident is not of existential consequence to Lucy, but she uses her signature phrase to describe the atmosphere in the school, which is characterised by mutual spying and the (usually vain) attempt at keeping secrets (and she actually plays her own role in the network of supervision, since she takes and reads the letter not intended for her). The routine of spying practised in the school is mentioned again when M. Paul explains that he would rather send his letters from Guadeloupe to Lucy at another address, where there would be no risk of interception (see 41.484). A gesture stands out in the scene, that of the waving hand and the white handkerchief, giving a signal to someone who remains invisible to Lucy. This gesture is repeated when Ginevra Fanshawe, who is the intended recipient of the letter, elopes with Colonel de Hamal, and waves to Lucy from their carriage when it passes her in the street late at night. The waving or fluttering movement is symbolically associated with Ginevra’s light-hearted and thoughtless way of being in love, so unlike Lucy’s own. In its second appearance, it triggers ques102 There is one passage with “I know not” before this, which describes the effect that the arrival of the first letter has had on Lucy’s perception of her favourite spot in the garden: “I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted me to spend the evening-time of study and recreation, where I had spent it yesterday. My alley, and, indeed, all the walks and shrubs in the garden, had acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest; their seclusion was now become precarious; their calm – insecure” (13.116). “I know not that” expresses a clear negation here rather than an uncertainty.

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tions that touch the very heart of Lucy’s existence: “Surely something white fluttered from that window – surely a hand waved a handkerchief. Was that signal meant for me? Am I known? Who could recognize me?” (39.469). Lucy’s reaction is exemplary of her entire attitude toward life, even in terms of the syntactic form of the question: she is always watching and searching for a signal that someone has indeed recognised her for what she really is.103 After the festivities of Madame Beck’s birthday, the school returns to its routine, and soon the end-of-year examinations take place. M. Paul, who is in the habit of conducting these examinations by himself in front of an audience of parents and friends, jealously guards his special role as examiner, but since he hardly knows any English, he must accept Lucy by his side as co-examiner in that subject. He believes to have discovered a zest for public display in her (which he relates to her theatrical performance some months before104) and now attempts to keep down what he considers her unseemly ambition (thereby proving, at the same time, how much he relishes his own place in the spotlight). After he has sternly confronted Lucy with his unfavourable view of her part in the examinations, she explains to the reader that M. Paul is entirely mistaken in his estimate of the situation: I did not – could not – estimate the admiration or the good opinion of tomorrow’s audience at the same rate he did. Had that audience numbered as many personal friends and acquaintance for me, as for him, I know not how it might have been: I speak of the case as it stood. On me school-triumphs shed but a cold lustre. I had wondered often – and I wondered now – how it was that for him they seemed to shine as with hearthwarmth and hearth-glow. He cared for them perhaps too much; I, probably, too little. (15.154)

Lucy’s signature phrase occurs again in a quasi-theatrical context – she speaks of the importance of the audience to her ‘performance’ as English examiner. Since she has no friends or family among them, she does not care for it as M. Paul does. The phrase “I know not” serves to express that it might well have been important to her if there had been any friends among the audience. The second expression of uncertainty appears in the verb “wondered”: after expressing uncertainty about her own feelings if her personal situation was different, Lucy wonders 103 The next instance of “I know not” occurs in the context of the play put on in honour of Madame Beck’s birthday ; the scene is discussed in detail in ch. II and therefore omitted here. It is relevant to the present chapter that M. Paul here uses Lucy’s signature expression: “Between the acts M. Paul told us he knew not what possessed us […]” (14.141). Apart from Ginevra Fanshawe, he is the only character who uses it. 104 “‘Were you not gratified when you succeeded in that vaudeville? I watched you, and saw a passionate ardour for triumph in your physiognomy. What fire shot into the glance! Not mere light, but flame: je me tins pour averti’” (15.155). Again he finds out something about her by reading her face – as he does during their first encounter (see ch. IV).

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about M. Paul’s reasons for valuing his role as examiner so highly. The connection with the previous theatrical scene is maintained in Lucy’s playing another role in her subsequent dialogue with M. Paul: she lets him believe that she indeed sets great store by an appearance as examiner in order to provoke him (cf. 15.155).

8.

Despair and Hope

“I know not” occurs again in the same chapter, after Lucy has stayed at the school with the handicapped pupil Marie Broc as her sole companion. Lucy undergoes a terrible ordeal while alone with this pupil, and is driven to extremes by a sense of desolation and loss of hope.105 This lack of hope, which characterises almost her entire existence, is communicated by means of a variation of the phrase “I know not”: “The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared not know” (15.156). The doubled verb forms “knew/know” underlines its significance, and the phrase “which bear it up and lead it on” metaphorically anticipates the loss of direction and physical breakdown resulting from Lucy’s psychological crisis in this chapter. Fate is mentioned in the context of the great trial Lucy undergoes here. However, it is not in conjunction with uncertainty that Fate appears, but rather with an absolute certainty (at least as it appears to Lucy at that moment): “With what dread force the conviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent foe, never to be conciliated” (15.157). Again, Lucy is “grasped” by a personified power, echoing the notions of being “mastered” (7.64) and “possessed” (14.141) in previous chapters. But this is not the kind of mastery that gives Lucy’s life direction, or the kind of possession that leads to a self-revelatory experience: it is a paralysing grasp. Even when Marie Broc is at last taken away by a relative, Lucy is still in its grip and lives from then on in a paradoxical aimless freedom: The cr8tin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I lacked courage to venture very far from the Rue Fossette, but by degrees I sought the city-gates, and passed them, and then went wandering away far along chauss8es, through fields, beyond cemeteries, Catholic and Protestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I know not where. (15.158)

Lucy, attempting to get away from the school and her misery there, goes anywhere to escape from it. By degrees she widens the scope of her wanderings: venturing away from the heart of the city, which was portrayed so positively in 105 This experience anticipates the central role hope (in a new form) plays at the end of the novel (see Conclusion).

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the case of London,106 she leaves familiar places behind. This leaving behind is the sole purpose of her walks – she does not have a destination, only places to get away from. This is expressed in the sequence of phrases like “passed them”, “went wandering away”, “through fields”, “beyond cemeteries” and “beyond farmsteads” (my emphases), which are all oriented away from somewhere rather than toward a destination. The sequence ends in a generic phrase: “and I know not where.”107 The conventionalised phrase featuring an interrogative pronoun (I know not what/where/when/why etc.) is here revived to mean something beyond its conventionalised significance of “God knows where” – a re-literalisation of the phrase takes place in the context of Lucy’s existential crisis. Lucy’s wanderings end with her collapse in the street: the formulation “I know not where” anticipates her breakdown after her confession, in which her soul goes to an unknown place: “Where my soul went during that swoon I cannot tell” (16.165). The present tense indicates that the narrating I still does not know the answer to the indirect question, even so many years later, instilling a sense of uncertainty and vagueness into the narrative that reflects and complements the literal disorientation at the moment of crisis. The phrase “I cannot tell” is moreover ambiguous, either meaning that Lucy is unable to tell because she does not know or that she knows but is unwilling to share the information. The uncertainty is not restricted to a particular moment of experiencing, but is remembered throughout the protagonist’s life, accompanying her through her narrative. The phrase is closely followed by another cry of “what shall I do?” (15.159) – Lucy’s dreadful certainty of having no hope encumbers her ability to act. Act she does, however, driven by the immensity of her suffering and the uncertainty that is represented by her lack of direction during her crisis. Lucy experiences her suffering as a mystery, as a phenomenon whose nature remains unknown. When she has her nightmare, she describes its duration as “a brief 106 This example of “I know not where” forms a contrast to her usage of the formula in the context of her wanderings in London: “[…] I got – I knew not how – I got into the heart of city life” (6.49). While “I know not where” expresses Lucy’s utter desolation and literal and spiritual lack of direction, “I knew not how” resounds with wonder at the possibilities life might still hold in store for her (see above in this chapter). 107 After Dora’s death, David Copperfield experiences a similar crisis, expressed in his aimless wanderings: “When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and actually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At other times, I passed on farther away, from city to city, seeking I know not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind” (DC 58.820). The expression “I know not” occurs here in the context of grief as well, which results in physical and mental disorientation, and, as in the shipwreck allegory of Villette, the narrator compares this phase of his life to a dream: “There are some dreams that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I oblige myself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream” (DC 58.820).

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space, but sufficing to wring my whole frame with unknown anguish; to confer a nameless experience that had the hue, the mien, the terror, the very tone of a visitation from eternity” (15.159). The adjectives tell of her inability to recognise the source of her agony, and this quality is associated with Death a few lines later : “[…] the pitiless and haughty voice in which Death challenged me to engage in his unknown terrors” (15.160). The horror of her dream lies in not being recognised, not being known: “Methought the well-loved dead, who had loved me well in life, met me elsewhere, alienated: galled was my inmost spirit with an unutterable sense of despair about the future” (15.160). This occurrence of “I know not” concerns an existential aspect of Lucy’s life; without the distraction of the everyday activities of the school and its members, she is left to plunge into the deep depression brought on by her uncertainty about her place in life in general, and by the traumatic memories of her childhood. Lucy, who is always searching and doubting, has lost the one positive correlative of her uncertainty, hope, for she now suffers in the conviction that her situation is fundamentally hopeless – uncertainty has been replaced by despair.108 After her physical illness and the nightmare of meeting “the well-loved dead, who had loved me [Lucy, OS] well in life, met me elsewhere, alienated,” and the complete removal of all certainty (even to the point of the ‘posthumous’ revocation of love), a glimmer of hope makes itself felt at last: It seemed to me that at this hour there was affection and sorrow in Heaven above for all pain suffered on earth beneath; the weight of my dreadful dream became alleviated – that insufferable thought of being no more loved, no more owned, half-yielded to hope of the contrary – I was sure this hope would shine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof, which was crushing as the slab of a tomb, and went outside the city to a certain quiet hill, a long way distant in the fields. (15.160)

The stirrings of hope are immediately qualified and questioned (“seemed”; “half-yielded”) – the verbs instil a sense of uncertainty, of wavering into the passage. Lucy leaves the pensionnat and spontaneously enters a church because the bells are tolling, never reaching the hill she sets out for. Her aimless wandering and subsequent loss of the way form a spatial analogy to her uncertainty, which leads her halfway in one direction, and then makes her turn around again. 108 “That evening more firmly than ever fastened into my soul the conviction that Fate was of stone, and Hope a false idol – blind, bloodless, and of granite core” (15.160). A second reference to despair occurs in this chapter : “A sorrowful indifference to existence often pressed on me – a despairing resignation to reach betimes the end of all things earthly” (15.156). Despair is thus connected with a lack of hope about the future. Despair as the antagonist of heavenly hope is featured in The Pilgrim’s Progress in the shape of Giant Despair, who almost makes Christian and Hopeful lose their way and imprisons them in Doubting Castle (see PP 88–92). Despair is etymologically the opposite of hope: “de-prefix + spe¯ra¯re to hope” (OED Online, “despair”, v.).

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The hill outside the city gates, which is her reason for setting out and which is associated with incipient hope (“I was sure this hope would shine clearer if I […] went outside the city to a certain quiet hill […]”), is apparently forgotten when she hears the bells of the church. She attends the Catholic mass held there and then stays when only those wishing to confess remain. What exactly Lucy tells the priest the reader never learns (except for the rather vague information that there is a “pressure of affliction” (15.161) on her), but her confession makes the priest suggest that the English Protestant become a nun.109 This is the point at which Lucy has the choice between two courses of action that would lead her to two different lives.110 Had I gone to him, he would have shown me all that was tender, and comforting, and gentle, in the honest popish superstition. Then he would have tried to kindle, blow and stir up in me the zeal of good works. I know not how it would all have ended. We all think ourselves strong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many ; the probabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Cr8cy in Villette. (15.163)

The sentence “I know not how it would all have ended” is of course highly significant in relation to the possibility of becoming a nun (and contributes to another ambiguous relationship in the novel, Protestant Lucy’s fascination with Catholicism) and even seems to anticipate the outcome of the novel.111 Lucy’s crisis marks a turning point of both practical and spiritual dimensions in the novel. Having reached the very depth of despair, her collapse takes her back to old acquaintance.112 Lucy’s experience of crisis is a condition of recovering her sanity and will to live.113 Her uncertain existence leads in its last consequence to a 109 This topic is discussed in detail in ch. V. 110 In The Faerie Queene, the crossroad is associated with doubt: “Through thick and thin, through mountaines & through plains, / Those two great ch¼pions did attonce pursew / The fearefull damzell, with incessant paines: / Who from them fled, as light-foot hare from vew / Of hunter swift, and sent of houndes trew. / At last they came vnto a double way, / Where, doubtfull which to take, her to reskew, / Themselues they did dispart, each to assay, / Whether more happie were, to win so goodly pray” (3.3.46). 111 This crisis occurs almost at the same time of year as the season in which M. Paul’s ship is scheduled to return – in this scene it is October, in the second instance, November. 112 This experience has a prototype in religious thought (in the theology of Luther): sinning is a precondition for repenting; it enables the sinner to repent. Despair is a sin if a believer despairs over God, but he has to despair over himself to realise that his only final relief lies with God. 113 The speaker of In Memoriam doubtfully reflects on the experience of suffering: “I held it truth […] / That men may rise on stepping-stones / Of their dead selves to higher things” (Tennyson 1.3–4). Lucy experiences and even succumbs to true despair in this chapter in order to attain a new phase in her life. This is in keeping with her various ‘new’ underta-

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death-like state, in which Graham Bretton finds her and takes her to his house on the outskirts of Villette.

9.

Uncertainty and Ambiguity

The great crisis just discussed forms the climax of Lucy’s suffering at the end of the second volume – the uncompromising confrontation with despair. In order to explore the relevance of ambiguity to the nuanced portrayal of psychological reality in the novel, the notion of suspense will be considered as well because it has an immediate importance for the interpretation of uncertainty.114 The third great crisis occurs when Lucy believes M. Paul, with whom she has developed a strong bond, lost to her because he has been sent to Guadeloupe. While her despair in the crisis of the long vacation is related to an existential kind of suffering springing from loneliness and a complete lack of hope, the later instance shows a revaluation of despair as favourable to suspense caused by a vague kind of hope: “suspense – a worse boon than despair” (38.445f.). The most detailed and illustrative image of suspense occurs in the context of waiting for M. Paul’s promised but uncertain visit before he leaves for the colonies: I think if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, nor its nature, despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days which never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades – stood, shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled a doubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height and compass of his promise; spoke thus – then towering, became a star, and vanished into his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense – a worse boon than despair. (38.445f.)

The image epitomises the torment of uncertainty and doubt Lucy feels about her situation – she is waiting for the promised farewell meeting with M. Paul and for the possible revelation it might bring concerning their relationship (the phrase “His legacy was suspense – a worse boon than despair” alludes to a connection to an eventual, uncertain revelation), while at the same time fearing that it might not take place at all. Suspense is thus contrasted with the absolute certainty of being lost and no more loved in the earlier instance. This scenery of suspense is, however, in itself only a hypothetical construct – it is introduced by kings in the second volume, such as going to the concert, theatre and gallery with Bretton and his mother. Lucy’s crisis leads to her quasi-death in the street; she then experiences a kind of resurrection (especially in the context of her confession): “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise” (Psalm 51:17). 114 The reason this complex is mentioned in this chapter is that suspense can be seen as an embodiment of the state of ‘not knowing’.

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the subjective formulation “I think,” and then its meaning is once more removed by the conditional: “if Eternity held torment, its form would not be […]”. Lucy’s vision of suspense is thus located in the realm of hypothesis, contrasting with the actual, real pain it has caused her. The key word “suspense” again evokes the notion of ambiguity as uncertainty. Taking into account the two meanings of the word outlined below, either as “uncertainty or doubt” or “waiting; suspension of action”, we see that both states are closely related in this context. The feeling of doubt results in inaction for Lucy, and her inaction causes the continuation of her doubts (as illustrated when Lucy is unable to address M. Paul during his farewell visit to the school, even though they are in the same room). The word “boon” is used ironically : Neither suspense nor despair are boons in the positive sense; the word originally signified a request or prayer directed at God (a meaning long obsolete in Bront[’s time; OED online 1.a.) and in its current sense means a favour or gift (OED online 3.b.; 4). The vague hope of future happiness is equaled with suffering, which could be avoided if one’s desperate situation was just accepted without hope of improvement. Lucy imagines a soul in the underworld (mixing mythologies, she speaks of Hades being visited by an angel), who, instead of existing in the knowledge that eternal torment is all that can be expected, is given the vague promise of possible redemption (“a doubtful hope of bliss to come”).115 The idea of hope is thus transformed into an ambiguous feeling at best, if not an altogether negative one. Suspense, as an alternative to complete despair, is portrayed as a form of existential ambiguity. In order to further explore the notion of suspense throughout the text until ist oxymoronic definition (“worse boon”), the reader must look back toward the beginning of the third volume. The word occurs throughout the novel, especially when Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship is concerned. One of the prominent examples is its occurrence as a climax in the alliterative formulation “here was dead blank, dark doubt, and drear suspense” (33.385), after Lucy has evaded M. Paul despite her actual wish to hear what he has to say. The word “suspense” can here be read in two ways: It can mean uncertainty or doubt (this denotation evokes the classical definition of ambiguity) or refer to a cessation of action for a time, to a phase of waiting116, which Lucy is indeed facing after she has evaded M. Paul 115 In a religious context, the feeling of suspense might be associated with the second coming (although to the believer, of course, this is not a matter of doubt): the formulation “at a day and hour unlooked for” echoes the Gospel: “But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only” (Matt 24:36). 116 The OED lists the following meanings most relevant to this reading: “I.1.b. (a) Temporary cessation, intermission, abeyance […]. Obs.” “I.1.b. (b) Deferment, delay. Obs.” “2. The state of being suspended or kept undetermined (chiefly to hold, keep in suspense); hence, the action of suspending one’s judgement” (2) “A state of mental uncertainty, with ex-

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and his obvious intention to speak to her about something vital concerning both of them. The phrase moreover shows that suspense is associated with lack of information (“dead blank”) and uncertainty (“dark doubt”; the adjective alludes to the rhetorical (de-)vice of obscuritas, which is one of the classical definitions of ambiguity).117 The semantic feature common to these different definitions of suspense is that it denotes a condition in which different plot alternatives/routes of action might still be realised; it describes the state before a decision has been taken or before one of several possible outcomes has been realised. Lucy’s evasion of M. Paul suggests that she feels a need to maintain this state of suspense even though it tortures her. The word also occupies an important structural role, since the two chapters in which it features most prominently occur toward the end of the novel, with the reader presumably close to learning Lucy’s and M. Paul’s fate. The practical consequence of M. Paul’s departure is related to another kind of suspending: Madame Beck, when she first announces the news, adds that the lessons of literature will be “suspended for a week” (38.439). The notion of suspense/suspension plays a central role in Lucy’s relationship with M. Paul. From the first it is associated with (self-inflicted) torture and pain, most explicitly when Lucy evades M. Paul, who looks for her throughout the whole school (ch. 33). This episode also contains the first warning of M. Paul’s possible departure overseas: “Petite sœur,” said he, “how long could you remember me if we were separated?” “That, monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know how long it will be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly.” “If I were to go beyond seas for two – three – five years, should you welcome me on my return?” “Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?” (33.383)

In this dialogue, which almost amounts to a confession of love, the possibility of suspended fulfillment118, i. e. of a temporary interruption (“two – three – five years”) of their present harmonious state is foreshadowed. M. Paul raises the topic to sound out Lucy’s feelings, and he is clearly satisfied with her reaction. pectation of or desire for decision, and usually some apprehension or anxiety ; the condition of waiting, especially of being kept waiting, for an expected decision, assurance, or issue; less commonly, a state of uncertainty what to do, indecision” (OED online, “suspense”, 3.a). 117 This association is reiterated in chapter 38, when Lucy characterizes the period of waiting for news from M. Paul himself as follows: “As to that week of suspense, with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of explanation – I remember, but I cannot describe its passage” (38.442). The blankness is transferred from the way Lucy experiences the days without news from M. Paul to her own ability of recounting them. 118 This fulfillment is still imagined in the context of a brother-sister relationship, which is particularly meaningful considering Lucy’s orphanhood and lack of family, and moreover alludes to the Song of Solomon, in which the bride is repeatedly addressed as “sister” and which functions as an intertext of the entire episode.

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Lucy’s replies are her way of asking M. Paul not to stay away for too long, and one of her most straightforward confessions of attachment: “‘How could I live in the interval?’” Although the two utterances (she will remember M. Paul as long as she lives and she cannot live while he is gone) do not contradict each other, the former statement cancels the latter one, illustrating Lucy’s incapability to even imagine such a separation. M. Paul later tries to seek her out after their return to the school, but Lucy’s impulse, paradoxically, is to flee after watching him in the garden (while remaining unseen herself) and trying to fathom his thoughts: “‘He called me ‘petite sœur’ this morning. If he were really my brother, how I should like to go to him just now, and ask what it is that presses on his mind’” (33.384). But when M. Paul suddenly walks toward the first class where Lucy has set up her post of observation, she feels compelled to hide from him. Lucy herself thus creates suspense since M. Paul probably approaches with the intention of disclosing his more-than-brotherly feelings to her. This is another illustration of Lucy’s paradoxical stance toward M. Paul and her uncertainty concerning her own feelings: “Yearning to listen and console, while I thought audience and solace beyond hope’s reach – no sooner did opportunity suddenly and fully arrive, than I evaded it, as I would have evaded the leveled shaft of mortality” (33.385). This impulse to evade the beloved and avoid or suspend the confession of love moves it to a plane of high symbolical significance.

10.

Suspense: “a worse boon than despair”

The etymology of suspense suggests the physical punishment of being tied to or hung on a rack in torture (see OED, “suspend,” v.). Lucy associates suspense with torture: “After a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought back captive to the old rack of suspense, tied down and strained anew” (41.479). Suspense is thus associated not only with pain but also with the inability to move, to make decisions (“brought back captive;” “tied down”). This image of a suspension on the rack is supplemented by the metaphor of being impaled by spikes: “I invoked Conviction to nail upon me the certainty, abhorred while embraced, to fix it with the strongest spikes her strongest strokes could drive” (39.467). Both states, first suspense and then absolute certainty (or what Lucy convinces herself is certainty) result in mental torture for Lucy, which she portrays in strongly physical terms.119 Paradoxically, she finds similar metaphors for both states, which should be opposite. Lucy’s heightened suffering 119 This mode has a long tradition: one important example is George Herbert’s “Temper (I)” (“Stretch or contract me”), which also plays on the musical implications of the stretching of the strings of an instrument.

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culminates in the portrayal of jealousy as a vulture, digging into Lucy’s side in an image reminiscent of the eagle eating Prometheus’ liver.120 Apart from these occurrences of suspense as a physical condition portraying an inner state, suspense as a feeling of uncertainty is present in both chapters: “As to Happiness or Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now – I scorned despair” (38.454). This suspense from being either hopeful or in despair characterises Lucy’s state of mind, somewhere in-between the degrees of emotion. Nor did I pause till I had taken sanctuary in the oratory, now empty. Listening there with beating pulses, and an unaccountable, undefined apprehension, I heard him pass through all the school-rooms, clashing the doors impatiently as he went; I heard him invade the refectory which the ‘lecture pieuse’ was now holding under hallowed constraint; I heard him pronounce these words – “OF est Mademoiselle Lucie?” (33.385)

Characteristically, Lucy cannot bring herself to do “what [she] most wished to do in the world” (33.385) and go to M. Paul. The impulse to suspend the final confession that would bring her peace of mind is both caused by and sustains her inner ambivalence. Instead of facing M. Paul and articulating her feelings for him, she places the meaning of her and M. Paul’s bond in a “sanctuary” (33.385) (her choice of words is no coincidence), where it can be worshipped secretly but must not be brought into broad daylight.121 This notion is reinforced by the fact that Lucy chooses the oratory as a retreat, which is “[a] place of prayer; a room or building for private worship, esp., in the Christian Church, a small chapel or shrine in or attached to a house, monastery, church, etc. Also fig.” (OED online, “oratory”, 1.a.). Lucy and M. Paul’s love is thus linked to the realm of the sacred, and within that realm to the most exclusive, consecrated spaces. The language of the sacred spaces is characteristic of the religious in the novel in general, which is always linked with, and sometimes even transformed into, the private and personal. The spatial dimension linked with Lucy’s and M. Paul’s relationship allows conclusions about the concept of the self in general: it is portrayed as a secret, hidden inside the protagonist.122 PHre Silas refers to Lucy’s innermost thoughts, 120 The portrayal of jealousy is discussed below in this chapter. 121 The OED defines a sanctuary as “[t]he most sacred part of any temple; the ‘cella’, ‘adytum’” (I.2.c.). It is also the place where often an idol or a statue of the deity would be found. “A church or other sacred place in which, by the law of the mediæval church, a fugitive from justice, or a debtor, was entitled to immunity from arrest. Hence, in wider sense, applied to any place in which by law or established custom a similar immunity is secured to fugitives” (II.5.a). The notion of the sanctuary is thus associated with limited access granted only to those who are in need of protection or are given access on account of their special spiritual status (e. g. the priest). 122 Momberger writes about the symbols used in the Bront[ books, in particular in The Professor : “a secret, inner something which compensates in part for his [William Crimsworth’s,

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which she shares with him in her confession, as the revelation of “the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind” (34.394). In the chapter “Who is Lucy Snowe?”, the difficulty of speaking about the self at all has already been mentioned. In the chapters leading up to the park scene, the self is moreover associated with physical spaces of confinement and seclusion: Lucy perceives the school as a prison, filled with her own enchained memories. The idea of the school as a prison is reiterated when she has already broken out of it and still feels “too near old haunts; so close under the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan” (38.451). Lucy captures her own ambivalent behaviour when evading M. Paul in the terms “perverse proceeding” and “insane inconsistency” (33.385), acknowledging its contradictory quality.123 “Yearning to listen and console, while I thought audience and solace beyond hope’s reach – no sooner did opportunity suddenly and fully arrive, than I evaded it as I would have evaded the levelled shaft of mortality” (33.385). The image of the “shaft of mortality” is a premonition of the fate of their relationship: The commitment to love will bring the loss of the loved one when he dies, implying an ambiguity of love as life and love as death. While meaningful communication with M. Paul about matters of vital importance is just a wish or a fantasy, Lucy desires it. When it turns into a realistic possibility, however, she cannot face it. In the allegorical image of the angel coming to Hades, the expectation of salvation results in torture. The (self-)torture of suspense is contrasted with “the comfort, the certain satisfaction I might have won” (33.385) in the earlier scene. This ‘perverse’ reaction to the sudden occurrence of “opportunity” contrasts with Graham Bretton’s ability to use felicitous coincidences to his advantage.124 OS] social impoverishment and makes him aware of his basic individuality in the midst of indifferent or hostile surroundings. This ‘something’ is never defined; it is perhaps best understood as the essence of the protagonist’s uniqueness, the given center of his being – a sensed, inmost self existing and known prior to any encounter with the not-self” (355). Lucy possesses this sense of an “inmost self” as well but the narrative grants the reader more insight into its workings. 123 The OED online records the following etymology and meanings: perverse, adjective: “L. perversus turned the wrong way, awry, perverse, pa. ppl. of pervertere to turn about, subvert, pervert.” “1. Turned away from the right way or from what is right or good; perverted; wicked.” “perversely, adv.”: “In a perverse manner ; with perversity ; in a way obstinately contrary to what is proper, true, or good; untowardly, vexatiously, crossly.” Pervert, verb: “2.b. To turn from the proper use, purpose, or meaning; to misapply, misconstrue, wrest the purport of.” [e. g. to pervert a text by misunderstanding it]. These definitions show that “perverse” always contains the notion of the non-perverse, of its conceptual/logical opposite; the ‘norm’. Perverse behaviour can only be defined/understood against the idea of what is right/proper etc. 124 “Dr. John, throughout his whole life, was a man of luck – a man of success. And why? Because he had the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timed action, the

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The tension between dissatisfaction and the urge for satisfaction, which Lucy cannot address straightforwardly, results in an interesting symbolical ‘economy’: Lucy’s desire is to speak with M. Paul, but her behaviour indicates the opposite; in fact, she cannot help but act the way she does. It is moreover symptomatic that she cannot express why she is unable to face him. The various (empty) spaces of sanctuary, so numerous in the novel, come to represent Lucy’s desire for another person to share her life with. Her impulse to withdraw turns into a symbol of her wish to reveal herself to the one person she has found suitable to her character, and to be recognised and known by him in turn. The notion of the sanctuary is actualised in the all8e d8fendue, to which Lucy retires when she wants to evade the other members of the school. The forbidden alley is the setting of M. Paul’s other attempt to speak to Lucy about their future together, which occurs immediately before the night of the fÞte (38.442). The movement of penetration, which plays such a significant role in chapters 38 and 39, announces itself in the scene in which M. Paul almost reveals his love: “His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley broke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful forms – a woman’s and a priest’s – Madame Beck and PHre Silas” (38.442).125 The syntax of the last sentence mirrors the movement of ‘penetrating’ to a secret, the information about the two intruders becoming gradually more specific. The arrival of Madame Beck and PHre Silas means of course the postponement (or suspension) of the revelation of M. Paul’s ‘message’ to Lucy. The identity of the intruders, who have brutally entered Lucy’s favourite place, the all8e d8fendue, (“Here into the twilight alley broke an interruption: […]”) is only revealed at the very end of the hypotaxis. The deictics “forward”, “now”, and “here” lend an immediacy to the scene which emphasises the perspective of the experiencing I, but which at the same time evokes a narrative presence, a place and time of narration, which the deictics might refer to as well. Moreover, the temporal adverb “now,” which is accentuated by the spoken quality of the short sentences and the alliteration (“No. Not now.”), anticipates the meaning of this versatile signifier in the one-but-last chapter : “Once – unknown and unloved, I held him harsh and strange; […] Now, penetrated with his influence, and living by his affection, […] – I preferred him before all humanity.” (41.492, my emphasis). The letter combination “n-o-w” is moreover a part of the arguably most important verb in Villette, “know”, with which this whole chapter is concerned. Eventually, each “now” in nerve to consummate a perfect work. And no tyrant-passion dragged him back; no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way” (27.318f.). 125 “Here” is a deictic ambiguity : the juxtaposition with “now” suggests a temporal interpretation, but the sentence continues with “into the twilight alley”, which makes a spatial reading plausible as well.

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the text is an anticipation of the final, paradoxically eternal now, which can be imagined to be everlasting because it is immediately followed by a textual gesture of ending: the heading of chapter 42, the word “Finis”. After M. Paul and Lucy have become engaged, despite their immediate separation, suspense disappears from Lucy’s life altogether and is replaced by the positive idea of a promise as M. Paul’s legacy : At parting, I had been left a legacy ; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising, a patient and a brave course – I could not flag. Few things shook me now ; few things had importance to vex, intimidate, or depress me: most things pleased – mere trifles had a charm. (42.494)

M. Paul’s love has given Lucy’s life a purpose beyond that of living for herself only ; in knowing that she can depend on him and that he depends on her, she has become independent in the best sense of the word. In his letters, Lucy is “[…] spared all chill, all stint; I was not suffered to fear penury ; I was not tried with suspense” (42.494). The passage illustrates the deeply emotional meaning of “suspense”. Eventually, however, the whole novel ends in a state of suspense, since Lucy does not explicitly relate the fatal outcome of M. Paul’s journey. Therefore, her text leaves the reader as well as Lucy standing on the “waiting shore”, in a condition of irresolvable suspension.126 However, although the idea of suspension has been associated with torture in previous scenes, the final suspense, which cannot be undone because it marks the end of the novel, is a merciful state, and possibly a necessary one to enable Lucy to finish her narrative. In the first example from chapter 33, Lucy’s ambivalent and contradictory behaviour defers the moment of a mutual confession of love; in the second, the untimely appearance of Madame Beck and PHre Silas makes it impossible. Finally, M. Paul’s departure does not result in any kind of suspense, but brings Lucy peace because she is reassured of his love. The central example of Lucy’s almost pathological need for control, and an indication of her longing for genuine acceptance from M. Paul is her manic assumption that M. Paul plans to marry his young ward after his return from Guadeloupe in chapters 38 and 39. Both conjecture and pseudo-revelation are closely related to Lucy’s inability to endure suspense. Only when she has known love (i. e. the beloved), suspense comes to an end. Then, when M. Paul does not return from the colonies, waiting for his second coming is not as cruelly suspenseful as waiting for the first. 126 Shanyn Fiske points this out in the context of the shipwreck motif: “There is, of course, another shipwreck that haunts the pages of Villette – that which ends M. Paul’s life and leaves Lucy in a permanent state of suspended hope for his return” (Fiske 19).

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11.

Light-Heartedness in Uncertainty

After Lucy has woken up in the house of the Brettons, Mrs. Bretton soon recognises her as her goddaughter. A time of conviviality begins for Lucy, who is used to the convent-like routines of the school. In keeping with this change of atmosphere, the next passage provides a fairly unusual context for the phrase “I know not.” This time, Lucy’s uncertainty does not concern the grave aspect of her existence, but the sphere of evening entertainment, of which she enjoys her share in the company of the Brettons. The party of mother, son and goddaughter is on their way to a concert in Villette – Lucy not feeling quite like herself in the new pink dress Mrs. Bretton has ordered for her. […] all these small matters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiar exhilarating charm. How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I know not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood, contending animatedly with each other the whole way, and as frankly kind to me as if I had been of their kin. (20.208)

Lucy has gained the semblance of a family for the short period she spends at the Brettons’ house. Although the general tone of the passage is serene and lighthearted, Lucy’s “I know not” shows that even at a time of comparative safety and heart’s-ease she still questions and wonders, while also signalling a light-hearted indifference to the exact origins of the atmosphere. However, Lucy’s enjoyment is not so complete as to eliminate all doubts from her mind. The possible answers to the implicit question contained in the “I know not” sentence do this time not lead into dangerous, even deathly territory – either it is the fascination of the evening lying ahead of Lucy, or the atmosphere of friendship and the feeling of belonging to the Bretton family that cause her good humour. However, the continuation of the passage shows that Lucy’s “I know not” is followed by a more melancholy, if passing, thought. While Lucy contemplates the brightly lit shops and busy street, she suddenly thinks of the school and has a vision of herself as she wanders through the dark, empty classrooms, her usual occupation during the hour of the ‘lecture pieuse’: “Thus must I soon again listen and wander ; and this shadow of the future stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present” (20.208). The use of “timely” can be read as an indication that this melancholy thought occurs at exactly the right time,127 or that it is only a fleeting notion.128 It also functions as a self-addressed warning, reminding Lucy not to get carried 127 “Occurring, done, or made at a fitting, suitable, or favourable time; opportune, well-timed, seasonable” (OED, “timely”, adj., 1.a). 128 “Of, relating to, or existing in time, as opposed to eternity ; temporal; earthly, worldly ; (in later use) spec. temporary, transient.” The OED mentions that this use is much less common than sense 1. Considering the context, meaning 1 is more plausible in the passage discussed, but a trace of the less common meaning remains.

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away and to remember what her life is really like. The reminder to be sober is given by Lucy’s experiencing I, admonishing her to keep her distance to present enjoyment.129 The narrating I is hard to grasp in Villette, and part of the reason for this is the fact that, like at this moment, the act of looking back takes place across short temporal distances. Although she feels herself to be part of the “radiant present,” she still looks back (and simultaneously forward, anticipating many more evenings of loneliness in the school). Even in the midst of a harmless and diverting evening entertainment with friends, the reader is alerted to the fact that an undercurrent of sadness and caution runs through Lucy’s experience, a distancing from the present. Albeit in the midst of enjoyment, she suddenly thinks of the melancholy atmosphere of the empty classrooms in the school at night, tinting the episode with loneliness and forlornness.130 During the concert, Lucy sees the king of Labassecour and recognises him as a victim of “Hypochondria” (20.213) but the evening is marked by harmony and enjoyment, except for Ginevra Fanshawe’s ridiculing glances at Mrs. Bretton, which her son notes disapprovingly. During the interval, Graham Bretton and Lucy go out to take some fresh air, and on their way back they cross paths with M. Paul, who recognises Lucy in the crowd and looks at her new pink dress “gravely and intently” (20.221). She, in turn, does her best to ignore him. When M. Paul notices her unwillingness to acknowledge him, his initial mockery of the gaudy dress turns into anger. Graham Bretton notices the unspoken conflict between his companion and her “‘savage-looking friend’” (20.222) and questions Lucy : “‘Ah, Lucy, Lucy! Tell me the meaning of this.’ ‘No mystery, I assure you. M. Emanuel is very exigeant, and because I looked at your coat sleeve, instead of curtseying and dipping to him, he thinks I have failed in respect’” (20.222). Lucy’s behaviour is indeed a mystery at this point, at least with regard to the question why Lucy and M. Paul feel such a strong mutual attraction. “The little –” began Dr. John: I know not what more he would have added, for at that moment I was nearly thrown down amongst the feet of the crowd. M. Paul had rudely pushed past, and was elbowing his way with such utter disregard to the convenience

129 There is an echo of the “tiger crouched in a jungle,” (7.61) keeping Lucy’s light-heartedness upon arriving in Villette in check (see Introduction). 130 The metaphor of the path, which is of such importance in the confession scene, makes another appearance here in a rather practical context: the carriage passes the city-gates on its way to the evening’s amusement, a concert. The whole journey is characterised by the “tide of life” flowing along the streets. The setting, as in almost all scenes with the Brettons after the great crisis, is that of the social event and evening engagement, a world that is alien to Lucy before she meets them again. For a discussion of the allegory of the path in the novel, see ch. V.

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and security to all round him, that a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence. (20.222)

M. Paul interrupts Graham Bretton’s remark with his rudeness, as if he knew that Bretton was about to say something negative about him. In the exchange of glances preceding this incident, Lucy first determinedly looks away from M. Paul’s disapproving face, but she eventually cannot help herself and turns around once more: “I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence, mesmeric or otherwise – an influence unwelcome, displeasing, but effective – I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone” (20.222). Here the idea of being possessed occurs again in the context of M. Paul and Lucy’s relationship – he exercises an almost supernatural, magnetic “influence” over her.131 Again, the general atmosphere of not knowing is contrasted with the longing for an absolute certainty or necessity, represented by Lucy’s compulsion to look back at M. Paul.

12.

The Uncertainty of Love

After a time filled with unwonted diversions in the Brettons’ company, Lucy at last returns to Madame Beck’s school. She again experiences the overwhelming feeling of being drawn to something as if by mesmerism when she waits for the letter promised to her by Graham Bretton after her departure from La Terrasse. At this point, her mind has already been tried with painful speculations about what such a letter from Graham, if it came, would contain and mean. Two weeks later, the long-expected letter finally arrives: A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last night. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now ; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from Disappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp of her approach. (21.238)

131 “spec. in Astrol. The supposed flowing or streaming from the stars or heavens of an ethereal fluid acting upon the character and destiny of men, and affecting sublunary things generally. In later times gradually viewed less literally, as an exercise of power or ‘virtue’, or of an occult force, and in late use chiefly a poetical or humorous reflex of earlier notions” (OED, “influence”, n., 2.a). Cohn provides a useful overview of the associations with Mesmerism in Bront[’s day, underlining the sense of danger attached to the loss of control when being mesmerised, and the fear of sexual transgression when “the inert female patient was given over to the control of the male mesmerizer” (848). Both Graham Bretton and M. Paul exert this kind of influence over Lucy.

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Lucy’s reaction shows how much an element of uncertainty determines her relationship with Graham Bretton. The implicit question contained in the inverted sentence depending on “I know not” is answered immediately after it has been asked: “No”. The impossibility of stealing a glance at the letter is already expressed by the verbs before the reader has reached the end of the sentence: “whether I should have ventured to demand […].” The actual, decisive word only comes in the middle of this involved syntactic construction: “glance.” The option of even looking at the envelope is thus literally removed from Lucy and the reader. This is one of the rare instances in which an answer to the implicit alternatives of the “I know not” sentence is provided and the uncertainty expressed by it is immediately dissolved. The ambiguity of the passage consists in the conflict of ‘magnetic’ attraction and the “terror” of being confronted with reality, resulting in a painful inner conflict. Lucy describes her experience in terms of an almost supernatural attraction, as “magnetism,” which is already anticipated in the verb “haunted.” The formulation takes one back to the notion of being possessed, and of mesmeric influence that the reader has already encountered in the previous passages. On the one hand, Lucy wants to see clearly and to penetrate and know her world intellectually, but on the other hand she is sensitive to quite irrational influences. The emotional side of her expectation of the letter is hinted at in the word “core,” which is etymologically linked with “heart.”132 This attraction is matched with an equally strong aversion to looking at it for fear of disappointment. She passes Rosine without a word and eventually receives the letter from the hands of M. Paul, who has not hesitated to take it from the porteress? to deliver it personally. When M. Paul has put the letter into her hands, Lucy “knew it, felt it to be the letter of my hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom from my terror” (21.238). This is an emphatic contrast to the anticipation of disappointment that keeps Lucy from asking Rosine about the letter – there, it is the fear that her hopes might not materialise133 ; here, only a few sentences later, the immensity of this hope has prevailed and keeps the fear of disappointment in check. Lucy’s language subtly shows that the letter stands for much more than 132 OED reference “core”: “The central or innermost part, the ‘heart’ of anything” (OED, “core”, n.1, IV). “Used, with more or less conscious etymological reference, for ‘heart’” (OED, “core”, n.1, IV.15.a). The word “core” is also associated with a famous passage from Hamlet: “Give me that man / That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him / In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, / As I do thee. Something too much of this” (3.2.67–70). 133 The personification of disappointment is reminiscent of the tiger allegory in chapter seven, “Villette.” The anxiety represented by the tiger blights Lucy’s hopefulness when she arrives in Villette, and the terror of disappointment here keeps her from acting according to her wishes, i. e., from asking after the letter.

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her affection for Graham – the reader realises that this is not just a letter to her but the projection surface of all her hopes and wishes. The verbs “knew” and “felt” are emphatically affirmative here, as a counterpart of “I know not.” Lucy’s certainty is so strong now that it goes beyond rational knowledge and has become a matter of feeling. The dissolution of doubt and fruition is associated with (the irrational hope for) romantic fulfilment. This contrast between the perception of the letter at the moment of receiving it and the later, calmer reflection characterises the narrative voice(s) of the passage, relativising the elation Lucy feels: To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind; to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it was. So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fullness of delight in this taste of fruition – such, perhaps, as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing. The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air, a letter simply good-natured – nothing more: though that good-nature seemed to me god-like – was happier than most queens in palaces. (22.244)

What does Lucy do with her letter? She does not read it right away ; she saves this utmost enjoyment for a later time. When she finally finds a quiet place for its perusal in the attic, however, she is disturbed by the nun, and, leaving in a panic, loses the precious message from Graham’s hand. I cried out; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might have swooned. It receded: I made for the door. How I descended all the stairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory, and shaped my course to Madame’s sitting-room: I burst in. (22.245)

Lucy has lost all her usual self-possession – following the brief moment of fruition, she experiences an almost demonic force that is related in kind to her magnetic attraction to the letter when she first sees it. Her love for Graham Bretton is thus from the first associated with the rationally inexplicable, the supernatural, and Lucy’s susceptibility to that side of existence. The medical man Bretton himself, of course, does not believe in the nun for a second, but assumes her to be the result of Lucy’s nervous malady. Lucy falls prey to the superstition of the ghost of the nun haunting the school – and she clearly believes in it at this moment. Lucy’s distraction and her general feeling of being ‘beside’ herself continue after she has alerted Madame Beck and her guests, among whom is the sender of the letter, Graham Bretton. Again, she uses the formula “I know not” to show her utter loss of self-awareness at this moment – she is ‘possessed’ only by the thought of her letter. I don’t know what the others were doing; I could not watch them: they asked me questions I did not answer ; they ransacked all corners; they prattled about this and

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that, disarrangement of cloaks, a breach or crack in the sky-light – I know not what. “Something or somebody has been here,” was sagely averred. “Oh! they have taken my letter!” cried the grovelling, groping, monomaniac. (22.246)

The episode of the lost letter is doubly marked: first, Lucy uses the modern “I don’t know”, then a variant of her signature phrase: “I know not what”. Both expressions frame the passage, and “I know not what” appears as a heightened, intensified form of “I don’t know”. The next instance of “I know not” marks another vital moment in the story : Graham Bretton and Paulina first meet after a fire has broken out during a theatrical performance attended by Bretton and Lucy. The play is suddenly interrupted when the word spreads that the theatre is on fire (which later turns out to be a false alarm). In the crowd, a young girl is injured and rescued by the doctor. Once she is brought back home,134 he examines her : Her demeanour under the Doctor’s hands at first excited a smile: it was not puerile – rather, on the whole, patient and firm – but yet, once or twice she addressed him with suddenness and sharpness, saying that he hurt her, and must contrive to give her less pain; I saw her large eyes, too, settle on his face like the solemn eyes of some pretty, wondering child. I know not whether Graham felt this examination: if he did, he was cautious not to check or discomfit it by any retaliatory look. (23.264)

Not unlike the scenes between Lucy and M. Paul, the face and eyes are at the centre of attention. Lucy’s “I know not” stems here from her position of observer. The next scene confirms the turn of events already announcing itself in the previous one: the two families, Bretton and Home de Bassompierre, have rekindled their acquaintance and are now in the habit of paying visits to each other. Mrs. Bretton, Paulina and Lucy are waiting for Graham and Mr. Home: Father and son came at last to the ch.teau: for the Count de Bassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which of our trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of the weather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet the two riders as they came in; […]. (25.279)

Lucy’s fate is at this moment in suspension – she does not know if her hopes for Graham Bretton might still be fulfilled in light of his obvious interest in Paulina. The question of who heard the men first is also the question of whose inner connection to Graham is the strongest. This is a reminder of the inward voice, which might have spoken to Lucy again to tell her of Graham Bretton’s approach. 134 The return from the theatre to the Hitel Cr8cy, where the Home de Bassompierres live, brings with it another instance of “I know not”: “We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stopped at Num8ro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising the abode of I know not what ‘prince Russe,’ as Graham informed me. On ringing the bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suite of very handsome apartments” (23.262f.).

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Lucy’s uncertainty turns into an inkling of more certainty regarding Graham’s feelings when the special bond between Graham and Paulina is confirmed shortly after this incident. Lucy describes Paulina’s effect on him: Gradually, as they conversed, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conference have but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial: already to Paulina’s lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling smile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I know not how he changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer – no raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect – but his position seemed to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented comfort in readier language, in tones more suave. (25.288)

The old familiarity is easily revived between both; here Lucy’s phrase “I know not” may even be an indication that she is excluded from understanding the bond between Graham and Paulina, despite her close observation. His change goes beyond her knowledge of him. Consequently, Lucy buries Graham’s letters in the same chapter.135 As her social engagements become considerably more frequent in the course of her reacquaintance with the Home de Bassompierres, one of her closest observers is M. Paul: he has put in place a system of surveillance over Lucy. However, unlike Madame Beck, he is not very good at (or particularly interested in) hiding his spying. Never was a more undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He would analyze his own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith indulge in explanatory boasts of their skill. I know not whether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering solemnly that he “had his eye on me: he at least would discharge the duty of a friend and not leave me entirely to my own devices.” (26.302)

First of all, the contrast between the attributes ascribed to M. Paul here stands out: he schemes on the one hand, but is undisguised and frank on the other. Lucy’s ambivalent response to M. Paul’s rather insolent claims is located somewhere between amusement and provocation, and this feeling is characteristic of their entire relationship during this time. The passage is an example of Lucy’s retrospective analysis of her past feelings and reactions and her uncertainty as to how to react to him.

135 There is a parallel course of action in Bleak House, when Esther buries her old doll: “A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her – I am half ashamed to tell it – in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window” (3.36).

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The scene moreover illustrates M. Paul’s inability to deceive, planning his surveillance of Lucy and then proudly explaining his scheme.136 M. Paul stays true to his word that he will keep an eye on Lucy : During a dinner at the de Bassompierres’ hitel, he watches a conversation between her and Graham Bretton from a distance (Bretton urges Lucy to remind Paulina of the old Bretton days so that he can watch her reaction), and concludes that Lucy must have engaged in some frivolous form of flirtation with the young doctor. The jealous little man then whispers an insult into her ear, calling her “‘Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!’” Afterward, he tries to apologise to Lucy, but she is hurt both by Dr. Bretton’s and M. Paul’s behaviour and refuses to accept his apology : “I know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my reluctant acceptance of Dr. Bretton’s badinage, or whether he perceived that I was pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flow of exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure-loving, Mademoiselle Lucie; but, as I was leaving the room, he stepped up and inquired whether I had any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette” (27.319). “I know not” here enables Lucy to tell the reader how she really feels. However, instead of saying that she feels pained, and that the evening has not been enjoyable to her, she expresses uncertainty about whether M. Paul has noticed this, communicating her own state of mind in an indirect way and not confirming it directly. The emphasis therefore lies on the fact that Lucy desires to be known, to have her feelings recognised and understood by another person, while at the same time expressing her own uncertainty of ever experiencing this. The scene also draws attention to the two sides of M. Paul’s nature: after his savage verbal attack on Lucy, he treats her in a friendly and warm manner only a brief time afterwards, illustrating his volatile nature but also his empathy toward Lucy. Now she feels unable to acknowledge his friendliness right away : “but I could not recognise his civility at a word.” Eventually, she accepts his apology on her own terms, not calling him “ami,” as he demands, but settling on the (to her ears, not to M. Paul’s) more neutral-sounding address “friend” (27.321).137 The importance of this moment lies in the fact that it marks a final turning point in Lucy’s affections, away from Graham Bretton (even though his letters have been long buried), and toward M. Paul. The young doctor utterly fails to even notice that he has hurt Lucy, while M. Paul pays close attention to her state of mind as visible from her facial expressions, sometimes even over-interpreting them. In a parallel manner, the scene underlines the shift in Graham Bretton’s affections from Ginevra to Paulina (which has already been prepared in the scene 136 His profession to be Lucy’s friend evokes another scene featuring “I know not,” in which M. Paul first grudges Lucy her place by his side during the examinations, but grants it to her with a good grace when he sees that she honestly has no interest in stealing the limelight from him, and suggests that the two of them be friends. 137 The incident is discussed in the Introduction.

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at the concert), especially since both ladies are present at the dinner. In fact, all principal characters are assembled in this scene, and they will again all be present in the phantasmagoria episodes toward the end (see chapter VI). The structurally motivated assumption that this chapter marks a turning point is proven when Lucy and M. Paul’s encounter ends with a unique expression of affection: He smiled. […] I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul’s lips, or in his eyes before. […] I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. (27.321)

Lucy observes an astounding transformation of M. Paul’s face, underlining the Protean character of his facial expressions (and his mood). The use of “I know not” is truly striking: the signature of uncertainty is used to communicate absolute certainty when Lucy affirms that she has never seen anything like M. Paul’s smile, pointing out its uniqueness.138 A positive statement is communicated via a negative statement about herself, usually used to express doubt, but now expressing certainty. This rhetoric act is based on the ambiguity created in the interplay of the literal meaning of the words and the meaning of the utterance. The same principle underlies the sentence “I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure […].”139 Lucy’s wonder at the “metamorphosis” in M. Paul’s face can also be explained by the fact that she is the reason for it – while by some of her acquaintance she is sometimes hardly perceived as an actual presence in the room, she is the cause for this singular dramatic change in M. Paul’s face.140 The wonderful transformation does not last. Not long after this reconciliation, M. Paul and Lucy quarrel again when she does not give him a birthday gift, as is customary in the school. She has indeed prepared a present for M. Paul, a colourful watchguard in a box, but she refuses to hand it over when school custom requires it. M. Paul gets very angry, and the scene escalates in another outbreak in the shape of a public speech he makes about “les Anglaises,” obviously aimed at the one Englishwoman in his audience. 138 Graham Bretton undergoes a similar, yet less marked, transformation when he speaks with Paulina: “And Dr. John, I know not how he changed, but change he did” (25.288). While Lucy leaves open the exact nature of his change, she describes M. Paul’s changing face very specifically. 139 The subtle paradox of the formulation is already an indication that Lucy will fall in love with M. Paul. “Je ne sais quoi”, the French translation of “I know not”, is associated with Platonism and expresses “die ebenso unerklärbare wie unwiderstehliche Macht der Liebe” (Köhler 641). 140 The instance has been briefly mentioned in the Introduction and is also discussed in ch. IV.

Scepticism

13.

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Scepticism

The phrase “I know not” imparts an air of scepticism to the narrator’s voice, and indeed Lucy is once indirectly called a sceptic by M. Paul. When she seemingly fails to produce a birthday gift for the master of literature, he embarks on a tirade against Englishwomen – in his extensive list of the shortcomings of that group, he names “their impious scepticism (!),” a phrase that the narrator promptly comments on with an exclamation mark in parentheses (29.341). The exclamation mark, intended to highlight the statement as particularly ridiculous, functions ambiguously insofar as it also imparts special emphasis to the reproach of being a sceptic. In “A Summary of Scepticism,” Thomas Stanley claims that there are three schools of philosophers: those who “declare, they have found the truth; others hold it impossible to be found; others still enquire. […] they who still enquire, are the Scepticks” (475, Book I, ch. I). Lucy’s “I know not” can be read as an indirect form of inquiry ; she continually questions the appearances of the world around her. M. Paul’s claim, which is both ridiculed and emphasised by her exclamation mark, touches on a crucial aspect of Lucy’s existence. “I know not” is a linguistic gesture of scepticism and of the protagonist’s search for truth. At the same time, it implies the suspension141 of a final decision on the matter in question, “an equality as to Belief or Unbelief” (Stanley 476): “[…] the chief ground of Scepticism, is, that to every Reason there is an opposite Reason equivalent, which makes us forbear to dogmatize” (Stanley 476; Book I, ch. V). In her usage of “I know not,” Lucy seems to have internalised this sceptical attitude.142 Ironically, M. Paul exercises just the one-sided dogmatism mentioned by Stanley as a contrast to the sceptical attitude when he speaks of “les Anglaises” as a group in the passage quoted above, accuses them of “impious scepticism” and generalises Englishwomen’s appearance, behaviour and attitudes. In our context of ambiguity, Stanley’s definition of the sceptic’s confrontation with “equivalent Contrariety” is relevant: “For beginning to study Philosophy, that he may discern and comprehend which Phantasies are True, which false, and by that means not to be disquieted, he lights upon an equivalent Contrariety, of which not being able to judge, he suspends; […]” (477; Book I,

141 “Suspension is a settlement of the Intellect, whereby we neither affirm nor deny any thing” (Stanley 476, “A Summary of Scepticism”, The First Book, ch. IV). 142 The culmination of her scepticism occurs in chapters 38 and 39, when Lucy assumes that M. Paul intends to marry his young ward Justine Marie. This episode calls the absolute reliance on scepticism into question because it leads Lucy to a falsehood, which, ironically, she calls “the TRUTH” (V 39.467).

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ch. IX).143 The relationship between imagination and reality is of course one of the major themes of Villette, present for example in Lucy’s relationship with Graham Bretton (the letter), and of course in chapters 38 and 39, when she watches M. Paul and his young ward. The previous two passages are contrasted with each other because one is a scene of initial conflict that ends in a peace offering between Lucy and M. Paul, and the other is his attack on her in front of the whole school. The close juxtaposition of harmonious phases on the one hand and conflict on the other is characteristic of Lucy and M. Paul’s tempestuous relationship. Their interactions are often of a polemic nature: Sarcasms of which the severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed my ears; then flowed out the bitterest inuendoes against the “pride of intellect.” I was vaguely threatened with, I know not what doom, if I ever trespassed the limits proper to my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite for unfeminine knowledge. (30.351)

The passage concerns an aspect of ambiguity in Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship: It follows a description of M. Paul’s almost tender support while Lucy still struggles with some new area of knowledge she has engaged with under his guidance. When, however, she at last makes progress and begins to show signs of real understanding, the reaction above ensues. The more Lucy works and understands, the greater M. Paul’s opposition becomes. While his response might seem irrational, so is Lucy’s reaction to it (and, thus, they are perfectly fitted to each other): she is spurred on by his injustice and irascibility to strengthen her efforts. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc’s jailors tempted her with the warrior’s accoutrements, and lay in wait for the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones fell very musically from his lips – for he had a good voice – remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression), he would fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. (30.353f.)

Lucy’s use of “I know not” illustrates her ignorance of these authors and passages. M. Paul’s jealous nature goes so far as to ‘test’ the truth of Lucy’s claim that she really does not know any Greek or Latin. His “suspicion” of her learnedness shows that Lucy is in some points a riddle to M. Paul, a “Cipher” as she calls herself.144 The scene stands out because the context of the expression “I know not what” is a conversation about knowledge – Lucy’s habitual profession of ignorance (in the shape of her linguistic signature tune “I know not”) coincides with a literal lack of knowledge on her part. Her learnedness (respectively lack thereof) 143 Stanley’s usage of “Phantasy” is obsolete: “Mental apprehension of an object of perception; the faculty by which this is performed. Obs.” (OED Online, “fantasy j phantasy”, 1.a). 144 See ch. III.

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is the theme of the passage. In a later conversation with M. Paul revolving around the same topic, in which he asks Lucy whether she really believes herself to be ignorant, she answers: “‘Not exactly. I am ignorant, monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I sometimes, not always, feel a knowledge of my own’” (30.355). Although she immediately qualifies the extent of this knowledge “of [her] own” by adding that she only feels it “sometimes,” and is “ignorant” in many substantial ways, there is something inside of Lucy that guides her and that must provide some sense of certainty to her. Of course, the reader is bound to wonder what this special knowledge might consist of. It is clearly not a rational kind of recognition, and certainly not to be found in books – Lucy’s kind of knowledge is opposed to this conventional kind of knowing. Her knowledge exists on the emotional or even instinctual level; it is a kind of “feel[ing] knowledge”. Another one of these small occurrences of “I know not what” is to be found at the beginning of the chapter in which Lucy will meet Madame Walravens, the relative of M. Paul’s deceased fianc8e for whom he still feels responsible. Madame Beck has sent Lucy out into the city under the pretence of doing some errands for her, and as if as an afterthought asks her to take a basket with gifts to the house of an acquaintance of hers: […] Madame, running into the little salon, brought thence a pretty basket, filled with fine hothouse fruit, rosy, perfect, and tempting, reposing amongst the dark green, waxlike leaves, and pale yellow stars of, I know not what, exotic plant. (34.386)

Here the “I know not what” is again used in a somewhat trivial context, but it is also an indication that the seemingly harmless errand given to Lucy by Madame Beck is more than it might appear on the surface and will bring Lucy into domains that she has (literally and figuratively) never entered before. In fact, Lucy’s excursion to the house of Madame Walravens to deliver the basket described above will bring about a discovery about M. Paul’s life and character (the whole scene with its fairy tale elements and mystical atmosphere is an anticipation of Lucy’s drugged perceptions of chapters 38 and 39). Her former confessor, the old priest, tells Lucy about Justine Marie, whose portrait she sees in Madame Walravens’ house.

14.

Fancying, Knowing and Believing

From “I know not” as an expression of scepticism and of unanswered questions, we now move on to the possibility of answering the implicit questions contained in “I know not”. M. Paul wants to know whether Lucy believes that the ghost supposedly haunting the school might be Justine Marie come back from the

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grave to show her disapproval of their friendship and embeds this in a debate addressing the opposition of Catholicism and Protestantism: “You did not, nor will you fancy,” pursued he, “that a saint in Heaven perturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset you?” “I know not what to think of this matter ; but I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.” “Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good living woman – much less a pure, happy spirit – would trouble amity like ours – n’est-il pas vrai?” (35.408)

M. Paul uses “fancy” first as a verb and then as a noun, signalling that he rationally condemns the interpretation of the nun he is suggesting.145 The passage clearly shows what has already been mentioned in the context of Lucy’s “feeling” knowledge: while she thinks, i. e., while she tries to penetrate the mystery of the nun rationally, she is beset by uncertainty – “I know not what to think of this matter.” But when she turns to the realm of belief, she realises that “a perfectly natural solution”146 must exist and the whole matter of the nun only seems like a mystery. Rational argument, i. e. the knowledge that the nun is not a supernatural visitation, is transferred to the realm of believing. When thinking, Lucy is not quite safe from superstition, but her belief provides a firm ground. The phrase “I believe”, set off by the contrasting “fancies” in M. Paul’s utterance, resounds with religious connotations, and is possibly even associated with the Lutheran idea of sola fide. Belief, while it provides a firm ground for Lucy to stand on, is nothing that can be learned or attained in some other way, but can only be received by God’s grace. While the representatives of the Catholic Church claim to have the absolute “Truth” and to be able to communicate it to the faithful followers of their dogma, Lucy as a Protestant has no such securities. Yet, her belief enables her to overcome doubt in this exchange. M. Paul and PHre Silas’ attempts at converting Lucy to Catholicism must fail, for she does not look for ready-made answers. The actions of questioning and testing of herself and others (which are textually represented in various ways, “I know not” among them) form the basis of her whole existence. Even the example of Madame Beck offering the sleeping draught

145 “To believe without being able to prove; to have an idea that” (OED, “fancy”, v., I.2). In Bront[’s time, the noun “fancy” was itself ambiguous: it was used synonymously with imagination, yet it was also associated with a “supposition resting on no solid grounds; an arbitrary notion” (OED, “fancy”, n., 6) and even a “[c]aprice, changeful mood; an instance of this, a caprice, a whim” (OED, “fancy”, n., 7.a). 146 The “perfectly natural solution” might allude to one of the two books of God, the Book of Nature. The other one, the Book of Books, is God’s word, which directly guides the Protestant reader.

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to Lucy and her rejection of it can be read almost allegorically as her refusal to be guided by the soothing, pacifying authority of the Catholic church. Although Lucy as a Protestant should be immune to belief in supernatural occurrences in Villette (as M. Paul implies in the intonation of his question, “‘Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset you?’”), she is still doubtful here what to think of the nun, and shows an attraction toward supernatural phenomena at other times as well. This is one of the ambiguities governing her character. Rational thought cannot save Lucy from superstition, but her faith can. In the same dialogue, the topic of reliance and of being reliable is mentioned, showing Lucy’s development from her former “selfreliance” toward relying on another person. When M. Paul renews his offer of friendship in earnest tones after Lucy has learned all about his biography, she reflects: “If he would but prove reliable, and he looked reliable, what, beyond his friendship, could I ever covet?” (35.407). Again, Lucy directs her gaze toward M. Paul’s face to find an answer to the unspoken doubt she feels about their friendship. This is one of the rare occasions when Lucy uses the phrase “I know not” in dialogue with another character. The example reminds the reader that the formula is used by Lucy throughout her life: her 23-year-old self uses it in conversation with M. Paul as well as the old woman telling her own story. In the next passage, the opposition of Catholicism and Protestantism remains pertinent. M. Paul has left a small pamphlet with Catholic propaganda in Lucy’s desk in an attempt at converting her. “It is your religion – your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed, whose influence seems to clothe you in, I know not what, unblessed panoply. You are good – PHre Silas calls you good, and loves you – but your terrible, proud, earnest Protestantism, there is the danger. It expresses itself by your eye at times; and again, it gives you certain tones and certain gestures that make my flesh creep. You are not demonstrative, and yet, just now – when you handled that tract – my God! I thought Lucifer smiled.” (36.417)

The conversation underlines once more the importance of religion in M. Paul and Lucy’s relationship – they will eventually overcome this great obstacle by accepting the other as s/he is, including religious beliefs (after much discussion and an attempt at converting Lucy), and, relevant for the theme of ambiguity, by realising that their beliefs are founded on the same principles. It is therefore fitting that M. Paul uses Lucy’s formula himself here (for the first time). In the tract M. Paul mentions, the author (PHre Silas himself) aims to persuade readers of another religious belief to convert to Catholicism – it sounds as if the pamphlet wants to provide all the answers ready-made to Lucy’s urgent questions and her search for a direction in life also expressed through “I know not”: The arguments given in that little book are based on “the comfort, the indulgence, the tenderness Holy Church offered: far be it from her to threaten or

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to coerce; her wish was to guide and win” (36.413), i. e. an attitude wholly opposite to Lucy’s doubting and enquiring. It ensued that PHre Silas paid a visit to Madame Beck, and stirred by I know not what mixture of motives, persuaded her to let him undertake for a time the heretic Englishwoman’s spiritual direction. (36.419)

Here, the expression indicates Lucy’s rooted mistrust of the Catholic priest who has already tried to convert her after her confession. The role of the junta of which PHre Silas is a member is vital to the ending of Lucy and M. Paul’s story. At the bidding of his extended family, he decides to go overseas to tend to their property in the colonies for three years. After missing the chance to show herself when he takes his farewell of pupils and teachers (through her own passivity and Madame Beck’s intervention), waiting for their final encounter promised in a note, Lucy reflects on the torture of waiting, linking it to doubt and uncertainty. When Lucy learns that he has left and that she may not even have the opportunity to say goodbye, she feels the full force of the dreaded: What should I do; oh! what should I do; when all my life’s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart? What I should have done, I know not, when a little child – the least child in the school – broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict. (38.445)

Lucy’s urgent questions echo Christian’s famous question “‘What shall I do?’” before he sets out on his journey in The Pilgrim’s Progress, and her despair is further underlined by the immediately following “I know not” construction. The child brings a letter from M. Paul, relieving Lucy from her uncertainty, which has reached the level of utter despair. The receipt of this letter is contrasted with Graham Bretton’s letter, which Lucy could only read after waiting to be alone and which even then is associated with much trepidation (and the first appearance of the nun). Not so with M. Paul’s letter : “Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it seemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the whole throb of mine” (38.445). He helps her move from a state of uncertainty, of not knowing, to knowledge, or at least hopefulness. Before Lucy can be convinced of this hope, however, she must fall into the very depths of despair when she believes that M. Paul will marry Justine Marie. She ventures into the park under the reversed effect of Madame Beck’s sleeping draught, after she has experienced another revelation concerning the headmistress: Deep into some of Madame’s secrets I had entered – I know not how ; by an intuition or an inspiration which came to me–I know not whence. In the course of living with her, too, I had slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a rival. She was

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my rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the smoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself. (38.447)

The passage prepares the irrational element of Lucy’s perceptions in the park through the double occurrence of “I know not” (here in the sense of ‘I do not understand rationally’) and the mention of intuition and inspiration. The theme of knowledge plays a special role in this encounter between the two women: Madame Beck comes looking for Lucy because she wants to know and control (by means of a sedative) how the young English teacher reacts to M. Paul’s absence. When Lucy orders her to leave, the directress insists: “‘I must send another to watch you, meess; I must send Goton’” (38.447). Madame Beck strives for knowledge because it will give her power and influence: “she did not love, but she wanted to marry [M. Paul, OS], that she might bind him to her interest” (38.447). Lucy, on the other hand, searches for knowledge for its own sake, for the sake of understanding and interpreting herself and others. She even goes so far as to say that this is the only time she has a truthful exchange with Madame Beck – which moreover remains without visible consequences for their dealings with each other : “I do not know that she revenged it [the encounter, OS]. I do not know that she hated me the worse for my fell candour” (38.448). The phrase recurs in Lucy’s ensuing wanderings into the park. In a unique variant, it appears when she reflects on her feelings toward Graham Bretton: I kept a place for him, too – a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I carried it folded in the hollow of my hand – yet, released from that hold and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host. (38.457)

The passage is discussed in chapter 6; let it suffice here to draw attention to the association of the phrase with suspense – Lucy implies that the tent, symbolising her affections for Graham, might still have this great “capacity for expanse.” However, since it is always under restriction, the uncertainty of its true dimensions will prevail. When Lucy has entered even deeper into the scenes of the park and has discovered that M. Paul has in fact not left Villette, the phrase occurs for the last time in a context of the greatest import to Lucy’s life: “Was I glad? A huge load left me. Was it a fact to warrant joy? I know not. Ask first what were the circumstances attendant on this respite?” (39.465) The contrast between the past tense of the question and the present tense of Lucy’s signature phrase is striking, suggesting that, even at the moment of narrating, she is still not sure whether it actually was joyful to still see M. Paul in Labassecour. The single “I know not,”

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constituting a sentence by itself, announces the disorientation and mistaken belief to which Lucy falls prey when she sees Justine Marie. *** The phrase “I know not” is a linguistic gesture characterised by a two-fold ambiguity throughout the text: it occurs in all manners of contexts, sometimes functioning as a set phrase, sometimes deliberately re-literalising said phrase and investing its components with new meaning. It moreover draws attention to Lucy’s sceptical attitude toward life and her tendency to question her own reflective position and the essence of her being, the question of who she actually is. This characterisation of Lucy as narrator and protagonist will be explored in the context of ambiguity in the following chapter.

III.

Who Is Lucy Snowe?

1.

Knowing Oneself and Knowing Others

Villette is a book about an individual’s attempt at knowing herself and reflects on many themes related to the search for self-knowledge.147 The question “Who am I?” lies at the centre of everything Lucy narrates and especially her inner monologues implicitly revolve around it.148 Numerous other characters function as foils to the “I”, existing in a tension between similarity and difference to the protagonist-narrator. The difficulty of answering the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?” is related to ambiguity/ambiguous textual strategies. The first chapter has shown that the phrase “I know not” and its ambiguity play a central role in the way the narrator portrays herself. The constant assertion “I know not” begs the question whether the doubtful gesture extends to Lucy’s self-knowledge, and moreover whether she can be known by others and the reader at all.149 Lucy even sometimes uses the phrase “I know not” directly to refer to aspects of her own character.150 147 “In Charlotte Bront[’s Villette, acute attention is paid to the construction of female subjectivity, and in particular to the way in which female desire as quest aligns itself uneasily with the question of mastery (including, importantly, mastery of the French language), mastery and knowledge within an academy, and necessarily, in 1853, a female one” (Miller 112). 148 The allegories in which Lucy portrays the often conflicting inner forces at work within herself have an important function in Lucy’s self-characterization, and are discussed in detail in ch. 5. Matthias Bauer points out that Villette anticipates the modern genre of the psychogram (Bauer, “Einsamkeit des Individuums” 3). 149 Abstracting the phrase a little from its immediate context in the novel, it evokes the proverbial imperative “Know thyself,” which is believed to have been inscribed at Apollo’s oracle at Delphi (see below, chapter IV, “Oracle”). Inge Leimberg refers to a number of literary occurrences of the maxim in her discussion of The Merchant of Venice (which begins with Antonio’s “I know not why I am so sad” (see chapter 1, “I know not”)): John Donne writes in his sermon on Psalm 32:1–2: “No study is so necessary as to know our selves; no Schoole-master is so diligent, so vigilant, so assiduous, as Adversity.” She moreover mentions Ovid’s Narcissus, who will live a long life “Si se non noverit”, if he does not

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So who is Lucy Snowe?151 Lucy’s narrative of her own life revolves around this question, framed by the endeavours of other characters to find out who she is, or rather their assumptions about her ; the narrative thus becomes an attempt at pursuing the path from not-knowing to knowing, complicated by Lucy’s tendency to shy away from disclosing too much of herself.152 There are remarkably few straightforward statements about her own character – Lucy tends to evade making herself the explicit topic of discourse (in both her roles as narrator and protagonist) apart from some rare exceptions. Here the notion of ambiguity comes into play as a central characteristic of her self-expression: when Lucy speaks directly about herself, the psychological intricacies of her character and the uncertainty she feels are expressed by means of stylistic devices creating ambiguity, such as irony, evasions and questions, strategies of both saying and not saying something about herself. The characters she interacts with and the things she sees function as ‘mirrors’ or foils in Lucy’s search for self-knowledge; the artistic ones, such as the painting of the Cleopatra and Vashti’s performance, occupy a special place among these.153 These instances of the novel, which function

150

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know himself. Another literary source is John Davies’ didactic poem Nosce Teipsum (1599), in which self-knowledge is seen as the basis of all other knowledge while emphasizing the difficulty of attaining it: “For how may we to others’ things attaine, / When none of vs his owne soule vnderstands? / For which the Diuell mockes our curious braine, / When, ‘Know thy selfe’ his oracle commands. […] No, doubtlesse: for the minde can backward cast / Upon her selfe her understanding light; / But she is so corrupt, and so defac’t, / As her owne image doth her selfe affright” (ll. 81–85; 109–112; section “Of Humane Knowledge.”) (Leimberg, “What may words say…?” 23f.). In Past and Present (1843), Thomas Carlyle is more sceptical towards the notion of self-knowledge: “‘‘Know thyself:’ long enough has that poor ‘self ’ of thine tormented thee’ (PP: 196)” (qtd. in Qualls 47). For example: “I know not that I was of a self-reliant and active nature […]” (4.36). (see ch. II). Ambiguity of character is often discussed in a moral context – the chapter at hand, however, rather investigates the question how the text creates the impression of Lucy’s enigmatic qualities. Studies of moral ambiguity in character in nineteenth-century English novels include: Carlisle, Hijiya, Wenke, Wells, Conger, Frank. The question inevitably arises whenever the novel is critically discussed. These essays and monographs especially focus on the question of Lucy Snowe’s identity : Peeck; Breen; Bertrandias; Crider ; Crosby ; Mayer; Komins; Yaeger ; Salotto; Ferrari; Kosofsky Sedgwick, “Doubleness and the Unspeakable”; Easton; Lawrence; Carter, and Chase. In her book on the autobiographical voices in Bront[’s novels, Annette Tromly remarks of Lucy Snowe: “Unlike the enclosures of her predecessors, Lucy’s is a portable one; wherever she goes, she lurks mysteriously within the disguise of her cloak and hood. And with disdainful recalcitrance, she resists our attempts to clarify her nature” (62). Tromly then concedes that Lucy’s very disguise allows the interpreter a glimpse at who she is. As Gilbert and Gubar have pointed out, Lucy’s story itself is the product of her search for answers and for ways of expressing these answers: “The very erratic way Lucy tells the story of becoming the author of her own life illustrates how Bront[ produces not a literary object but a literature of consciousness” (439). The fact that reflections on (the representation of) an individual’s consciousness are at the centre of the novel is illustrated by the central importance of “know” and its different forms in the novel. Discussed below in section 11.1.

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as reflective surfaces of Lucy’s self, will be analysed in this chapter as well as the scenes that make the question of Lucy’s identity an explicit topic.

2.

“‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’” “Who are you, Miss Snowe?” she [Ginevra, OS] inquired, in a tone of such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn. “You used to call yourself a nursery-governess; when you first came here you really had the care of the children in this house: I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne – few governesses would have condescended so far – and now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and that proud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!” “Wonderful!” I agreed, much amused at her mystification. “Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don’t look the character.” (27.307f.)

Ginevra Fanshawe and Lucy prepare in the school for an evening out together – they will both attend a public festivity and are then invited to have dinner at M. de Bassompierre’s residence. Ginevra has the idea that Lucy must have an “incognito,” a secret identity that has enabled her to climb the social ladder to the degree she has done it in Villette, from nursemaid of Madame Beck’s children to English teacher and guest of a count (27.309), making her Ginevra’s equal socially. Moreover, all principal characters are assembled in this chapter in scenes of social encounter, underlining the relation between personal identity and “social position” (27.309) and between inner and outer life.154 The exchange touches on a number of vital themes relating to identity in Villette, which recur in the course of the novel: the notion of disguising one’s identity (“‘Perhaps a personage in disguise’”), the related dichotomy of seeming and being (“‘Pity I don’t look the character’”), and the production of ambiguity through evasive strategies such as irony. Moreover, the relationship between identity and social position occurs as a theme when Ginevra describes Lucy’s

154 This is a parallel to the scene in the park on the national holiday of Villette. The vital question “who are you?” is asked in chapter 27 in the context of encounters with others, not in seclusion (as opposed to the second time the question occurs, when Lucy encounters the nun by herself in the garden). There may be an allusion to Goethe’s Tasso: “Der Mensch erkennt sich nur im Menschen, nur / Das Leben lehret jeden, was er sei” (Tasso A II, Sz. 3). Schiller, whose poem “Des Mädchens Klage” is quoted in Villette, points out the reciprocity of self-knowledge in “Der Schlüssel”: “Willst du dich selber erkennen, sieh, wie die anderen es treiben. / Willst du die andern verstehen, blick in dein eigenes Herz.” The relationship between “inward” and “outward” life is analysed with a view to the situation of unmarried women in the Victorian era by Hunt.

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progress from “bonne” to “bosom-friend” of a countess, which clearly astonishes her.155 The words “personage” and “character”, besides providing a link to Lucy’s role as spectator and actor, furthermore draw attention to the fact that Villette is a fictional autobiography and thus necessarily an instance of staging of the self. Lucy’s reply, as an echo to Ginevra’s question, is emphasized by its occurrence at a structurally crucial moment of the novel, in the final chapter of the second volume, in which Lucy stands at the metaphorical crossroads between Graham Bretton and M. Paul, and has a vital insight about Graham Bretton: “With a now welcome force, I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a rile not mine. Nature and I opposed him” (27.318). Graham’s failure to give Lucy her own “rile” is the reason she cannot pursue the affection she feels for him. Lucy’s “[n]ature”, the essence of her character, is the reason she turns away from Graham and toward M. Paul, who sees and knows her. The conversation draws attention to the importance of Ginevra Fanshawe as a contrastive figure to Lucy throughout the novel. The fact that the role of asking this vital question falls to Ginevra instils it with a certain ambiguity, counteracting its seriousness simply because the giddy school-girl is not one to ask such a question seriously. However, she is a central if intermittent presence in Lucy’s story and functions as an important foil to her. Ginevra is the first person she knows in Villette: she mentions Madame Beck’s school to Lucy, in a “slight sentence uttered carelessly and at random” (7.60) on board the ship taking them across the Channel. The school is then pronounced by “Providence” and “Fate” (and, not in the least part, by M. Paul) to be the place where Lucy is to remain after her arrival. Ginevra moreover has a lasting interest in Lucy in some way, and has an intuitive way of understanding her mode of being, inventing a “dozen names” (21.233) for Lucy, and thus somehow capturing her ambiguity. After Lucy’s incognito excursion to the park, Ginevra gives her the final sign with her waving handkerchief when she drives by in a carriage after eloping with her lover, causing Lucy, who hastens through the midnight streets in disguise, to ask “Am I known? Who could recognise me?” (39.469). Again, her questions, triggered by Ginevra’s waving, touch upon the very essence of her being, considering the importance of being known and recognized to Lucy’s life story (see ch. II).

155 LuAnn McCracken Fletcher notes the ambiguity of Lucy’s reply : “Lucy’s response alerts us to Villette’s concern with surfaces, with roles, and, perhaps most importantly, with assumed identities – both in the sense of the theatrical (an identity assumed as a role) and in the sense of the hypothetical (an assumption made about identity)” (723).

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It is thus fitting that Ginevra should ask this question, since her very presence continually confronts Lucy with the difference between her own way of living and Ginevra’s and, consequently, the question of who she is and who she wants to be. Ginevra and Lucy reflect each other in their very difference and feel a certain kinship, as their habit of trading the coffee and rolls for breakfast indicates. When Ginevra drags Lucy in front of the mirror during Madame Beck’s fÞte and compares her own appearance and lot in life to Lucy’s, the scene symbolizes their difference, yet also their alliance (see 14.144–146).156 Both characters reflect each other in their very difference, a difference that has never led to profound alienation between them (moreover, there is the ‘common denominator’ that they both are and speak English in a foreign environment). Not directly and mimetically (it is asked but twice in the entire narrative), but indirectly and allegorically, the question “Who am I?” has thus long been of the utmost significance, in the context of the many different ‘foils’ in the shape of characters, which in both their otherness and similarity call into question the decisions Lucy makes and the way she lives her life, and of which Ginevra is one. Lucy’s echoing question, “Who am I indeed?”, can be read in three ways: it is ironic and intended to ridicule Ginevra’s sensationalist notion of Lucy as a mysterious “personage.” The second reading of her reply is rhetorical, turning it into a dry affirmation of Ginevra’s implication that Lucy is a “nobody” in regard to society,157 underlining her irrelevance. Thirdly, Lucy’s non-answer to Ginevra’s question points to the fact that she is not – neither as the narrating nor as the experiencing I – by any means open about her thoughts and feelings. Ginevra’s question may therefore be read in a literal, emphatic sense that extends to the reader of the novel who would like to know who Lucy Snowe really is. But it is not only the three possible readings of Lucy’s response that illustrate this: the question figures in two different shapes in Ginevra and Lucy’s conversation, which reflects on the difficulty of asking and answering the question “Who am I?” (when posed to oneself in an inner monologue), or “Who are you?” (in a dialogue with another person, i. e. in a social context). Both are related to the ambiguity or uncertainty involved in (speaking about) the self.158

156 The scene is discussed in this chapter below. 157 “‘I wonder you are not more flattered by all this,’ she went on: ‘you take it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand’” (27.308). 158 The mode of speaking, whether in interior colloquy or in a dialogue, is also related to Lucy’s “inward voice,” and the psychomachia scenes, which place the dialogue within her consciousness. The inward voice may be an allusion to the “still small voice” in 1 Kings 19:12 (see Jasper 221): “And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.” Jane Eyre hears Rochester’s cry like a “voice within” (JE ch. 27).

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The two versions of the question are by no means the same. When Lucy Snowe says “Who am I indeed?,” she echoes Ginevra’s question; but in fact the impetus of this question is utterly dissimilar from its apparent ‘mirror image’, as suggested by the two young women dressing themselves in front of a mirror.159 While Ginevra wishes to pry into Lucy’s assumed secret and incognito existence, Lucy’s echoing question is not only an ironic reaction to Ginevra’s character but also induces her (and her reader) to reflect seriously on her own role in the world.160 After all, Lucy does possess a secret existence – her inner life, forming such a decided contrast to her outward appearance and behaviour. The sentences “Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don’t look the character” cater to Ginevra’s longing for sensation and hint toward a discrepancy between appearance and reality, thereby possibly referring to stock plot elements of romances and Gothic novels, in which characters often assume false identities and in which appearances may be deceptive.161 There is thus a subtle allusion to Lucy’s identity as a fictional character (who exists within certain literary traditions), and to the different manners of disguises that she assumes, but also to the fact that there is indeed more to her than meets the eye, the contrast of seeming and being. The discrepancy between appearance and substance is alluded to in the third sentence: Lucy does not look like a heroine from a romance or Gothic novel; she is neither striking nor beautiful. Although Lucy may not have the exterior qualities of a heroine, she shares the trait of ‘being mysterious’ with such a character, with the difference, however, that her secrets relate to her inner life rather than to some spectacular revelation providing the wonderful d8nouement to a story (for example about an unknown family relationship between her and another character or about a secret inheritance).162 Eventually, Lucy’s happiness will depend on another person looking beyond her appearance and recognizing her inner qualities.

159 Their interaction begins when Ginevra stops dressing herself and looks at Lucy instead of (presumably) her own image in the mirror : “‘What now?’ I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arranging her attire, and was gazing at me” (27.307). 160 A question also relevant to Jane Eyre: Mrs. Reed asks Jane who she is after she has come to visit her on her deathbed. 161 Another genre in which apparent vs. true identity looms large is romance. For a discussion of the theme of disguised identity, see: Crane, Lemly, Gregorio, Grant, Sedinger, Flower. 162 As is for example the case in M. E. Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret. That these patterns subtly serve as a background to the plot of Villette is evident in their occurrence in somewhat altered form: M. Paul notices a resemblance between himself and Lucy right away and then confirms their ‘kinship’ of mind in their friendship, and leaves her with an inheritance that coincides with the less momentous material inheritance from Miss Marchmont: “At parting, I had been left a legacy ; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising, a patient and a brave course – I could not flag” (42.494).

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The second part of her reply, in which she speaks of the “personage in disguise” as a “character,” draws attention to Lucy’s role in her own story, and moreover, as the narrator of the text that the reader holds in his hands. The pervasive uncertainty of Villette originates in and extends to Lucy’s role as the writer of her autobiography as well. In the chapter “Villette,” she says: “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: […]” (7.60). The statement is characteristic of Lucy’s style of communicating something about herself since she first rejects the idea of being an artist to then admit that she does after all possess certain inclinations characteristic of an artistic mind, thus avoiding a direct statement. Moreover, her half-denial of artistic tendencies is followed almost immediately by the allegorical passage that portrays her anxiety as a tiger, throwing another ironical light on the statement that she is not “[o]f an artistic temperament.” Lucy’s mention of a “character,” which is both serious and ironical, also raises the question of whether an unambiguous (literary) portrayal of and through an individual mind is possible at all. Lucy’s story asks questions about her creative activity, and especially emphasizes that artistic creation cannot be forced. Surprised by Lucy’s unmovedness, Ginevra follows up her list of Lucy’s wondrous ascension of the social ladder with a further direct statement: “‘If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand’” (27.308). The conversation thus involves an underlying polysemy : Ginevra’s and Lucy’s respective understandings of being nobody and being somebody.163 Ginevra uses the term ‘somebody’ in the sense of having a high social standing and good connections; Lucy later defines it independently of those socially defined categories as being genuinely known and acknowledged by someone of personal importance, regardless of his/her wealth or social position, distancing herself from Ginevra’s notion of being ‘nobody : “of what importance was a school-girl’s crude use of the terms nobody and somebody? […] As for me, it quite sufficed to my mental tranquillity that I was known where it imported that known I should 163 The notion of being “somebody” is introduced by Ginevra in an earlier scene when she describes Lucy as “nobody’s daughter” in front of the mirror during Madame Beck’s birthday party : “I suppose you are nobody’s daughter, since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; you can’t call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractive accomplishments – no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are; you can’t even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the other teachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and never will be: you don’t know the feeling, and so much the better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn’t it all true?” (14.146). Ginevra’s judgment of Lucy in this instance forms the basis of her curious question after Lucy’s identity – she cannot imagine why someone of no social importance, without any connections and of unremarkable exterior, would move in the same circles as she does herself.

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be […]” (27.308f.). Lucy thus puts all the emphasis on the individual who really knows her instead of on the many who may have some superficial impression of her. Still, her reflection remains vague in so far as “where it imported” remains undefined. Lucy’s thought continues: “the rest sat on me easily : pedigree, social position, and recondite intellectual acquisition, occupied about the same space and place in my interests and thoughts; they were my third-class lodgers […]” (27.309). Her credo emphasizes the independence of the inner life and self from the validation by the world in general. However, there is one sense in which it does matter to Lucy to be “known” by another, and her manner of referring to this invites a closer look. Where the reader would expect a personal formulation or even the mention of a specific person, Lucy uses the quasi-passive, unusual construction “where it imported”.164 The verb is etymologically related to the words “important” and also “importunate”165, giving the phrase the character of a commandment or obligation. This association is supported by the later occurrence of a similar word expressing the notion of absolute necessity in conjunction with the vital question of being known. M. Paul says: “‘I scarcely know anyone, Miss Lucy, who needs a friend more absolutely than you; your very faults imperatively require it’” (31.363, my emphasis). When M. Paul speaks these words, he is of course referring to himself as her one faithful friend. The central verb “to know” moreover recalls Lucy’s signature expression “I know not” and links the whole passage more strongly to the theme of selfknowledge. The inversion in the latter part of the sentence “that known I should be”166 reinforces the importance of the verb by moving both instances of “known” closer together and gives the sentence (rhythmic and stylistic) significance and a character similar to an incantation. In conjunction with the etymological relation with “importunate” and the associative one with “imperative”, the sentence gains a commandment-like character in the sense of a ‘call’: ‘You must/shall be known!’ Of course, “being known” implies a subject, another person who will know Lucy in a deeply personal sense. Surely, it is no coincidence that the verb recurs when Lucy leaves the hall where M. Paul has just 164 Relevant meanings quoted in the OED are: “From literal senses of cl. Latin importare. To bring in; to introduce from a foreign or external source, or from one use, connection, or relation into another” (I.1). “From medieval Latin, Italian importare, French importer” (II). “To involve a considerable or weighty result (actual or possible); to be of consequence or significance; to be important, ‘signify’, matter. (Only in 3rd person; with various constructions, as in 7.) arch.” (II.6). “To be of consequence or importance to; to relate to, have to do with; to concern. (Only in third person.)” (II.7). “[W]ith subordinate clause as subject, the verb introduced by it as in b” (II.7.c). 165 “4. Persistent or pressing in solicitation; pertinacious” (OED online, “importunate”, adj. and n.). 166 The natural word order would be “that I was known where it imported that I should be known”.

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given his speech: “he saw and knew me” (27.311). In light of her later silent monologue just discussed, these acts of seeing and knowing acquire a deeper meaning: M. Paul perceives Lucy as a full person, and he recognizes her as (and demands her to be) a friend. Lucy reverses the social order in the personifications of “pedigree, social position, and recondite intellectual acquisition” as “third-class lodgers”: what is topmost to others (money, title) comes lowermost to her. The personification is linked to her conceptualization of her self as a railway carriage167, which implies that she is on a journey ; and then, in a more static spatial concept, as a house with a “small sitting-room and little back bed-room”, and “dining and drawingrooms” (27.309). Lucy’s reflections end with a statement acknowledging the diametral opposition of her views and those commonly held by “the World” (27.309) (embodied by Ginevra and Graham Bretton, for example), with the narrating I as focalizer. Lucy’s own comment on the meaning of money and social station, which follows immediately, appears like a comment on her own narrative strategies in dealing with her past: The longer we live, the more our experience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbour’s conduct, to question the world’s wisdom: wherever an accumulation of small defences is found, whether surrounding the prude’s virtue or the man of the world’s respectability, there, be sure, it is needed. (27.310)

The whole chapter shows central characters in light of the dichotomy of private and public ‘personas,’ since each appears in a public context at M. Home de Bassompierre’s reception and dinner. Yet the main point is not primarily the dichotomy between private and public selves, but the dichotomy expressed in Ginevra’s and Lucy’s differing views of the importance of social status and others’ recognition. Lucy’s reply to Ginevra’s curious query about her identity refers to the very core of her being, underlined by the added emphasis of “indeed.” Taking into account the fact that this direct question is asked rather late in the novel, it can be read as an invitation to the reader to take stock of what he has learnt about Lucy so far.

167 The OED provides the following definition for “third-class”: “The class next below the second; esp. of railway carriages; also in an examination list; hence, a place in the third class in an examination” (1).

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Who Is Lucy Snowe?

The Dichotomy of Inside and Outside: The Mirror

Ginevra’s curious question about Lucy’s ‘real’ identity forms a contrast to her previous evaluation of her as a ‘nobody’. She shows her view of Lucy very clearly during Madame Beck’s birthday celebration, when she drags Lucy in front of the big mirror in the dressing-room. Standing in front of the mirror together functions as a reminder of the social situation of seeing and being seen at the ball, in which appearance counts for everything (an aspect heightened by the fact that the young men present are literally reduced to the position of spectators, since they are only allowed to watch the girls of the school from a distance168). And appearance is the only criterion Ginevra knows in ‘evaluating’ Lucy’s life. Lucy is not a participant, but rather a bystander in the festive activities of the ball. It is not her sphere – she cannot please by appearance alone because it is not in her nature to do so, in contrast to Ginevra, who feels at home as the object of the male gaze and, of course, in front of the mirror. Ginevra of course basks in the light of all this male attention, transitioning seamlessly from her role in the play as flirtatious coquette. This transition from life to theatre and back to life (since Ginevra was a flirt to begin with) is underlined by Lucy’s description of the evening: “the ball, its splendours and its pleasures passed before me as a spectacle” (14.142). The word “spectacle” not only has a histrionic character, but also anticipates the ensuing scene in front of the mirror.169 During the ball, Lucy stays in her “quiet nook, whence unobserved [she] could observe” (14.142). But Ginevra Fanshawe finds Lucy and takes her out of her corner. A conversation ensues that is in many ways parallel to the one in chapter 27, which has given rise to investigating the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?” Ginevra’s need for attention is thrown into relief by her manner of approaching Lucy : when she falls into Lucy’s arms to take her to the mirror, she

168 “Others there were admitted as spectators – with (seeming) reluctance, through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special and difficult exercise of Madame Beck’s gracious good-nature, and whom she all the evening – with her own personal surveillance – kept far aloof at the remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carr8 – a small, forlorn, band of ‘jeunes gens;’ these being all of the best families, grown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the school” (14.143). 169 The OED gives as the etymology of “spectacle” the Latin verb spectare, to look. (OED, “spectacle”, n.1). The Latin “speculum” means mirror. The link between the theatre scene and the mirror scene is also provided in Hamlet. Hamlet tells the players how to act: “the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the / first and now, was and is, to hold, as ‘twere, the / mirror up to nature;” (Hamlet 3.2.). What happens during the vaudeville mirrors the love triangle between Ginevra, Graham Bretton and de Hamal. Moreover, the link between the theatre and a mirror goes back to Cicero’s definition of comedy as a speculum consuetudinis.

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seems almost intoxicated by the awareness of her own beauty, for which she nevertheless seeks external confirmation again and again: “Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!” she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half hysterical. “What in the world is the matter?” I drily said. “How do I look – how do I look to-night?” she demanded. “As usual,” said I; “preposterously vain.” “Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful: I feel it, I see it – for there is a great lookingglass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?” (14.144–45)

Ginevra’s exalted behaviour, her breathless exclamations and ruptured question, stand in contrast to Lucy’s dry manner of reacting even before Ginevra compares herself with Lucy and names their differences in terms of beauty and economic and social position. To Ginevra, the mirror is a vital source of information about her life; but Lucy only plays along with her vain antics because they vaguely amuse her and possibly because she appreciates Ginevra’s honesty about her intentions in bringing Lucy to the mirror – she wants a (less attractive) foil to her beauty. Ginevra will indeed find a sort of happiness in her life with this philosophy, and will be “on the whole, suffering as little as any human being I have ever known” (40.478). Turning to a mirror is a plausible starting point when searching for an answer to the question “Who am I?”.170 Lucy, however, does not choose to do this: she is rather ‘confronted’ by mirrors from time to time, instead of seeking them out herself, in this case, dragged there by Ginevra. While the latter openly enjoys the contrast between her own appearance, situation, financial prospects etc. and Lucy’s (“‘see how happy am I, and how miserable are you’” (14.145)), Lucy takes the opportunity to have a look at Ginevra’s inner qualities rather than her outward appearance: Without resistance, remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow – whether it was possible it could feed to satiety – whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vain-glorious exultation. (14.145)

The mirror functions as a medium in which Ginevra’s self-love can have a field day, but to Lucy it brings serious introspection, though not with regard to herself but to Ginevra. That the mirror does not give Lucy the insights about herself she is looking for can also be read as a rejection of ‘traditional’ femininity and its 170 Herbert Grabes calls the mirror a “self-evident metaphor for introspection” (228), and the scene of two very different persons standing together in front of the mirror is an interesting variation of the usually solitary business of studying oneself in the glass.

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representatives in the novel, Ginevra and Paulina.171 Lucy is not suited as a conventional projection surface to the male imagination – she is not diminutive and spirit-like, like Paulina (see the etymology of her name and the attributes ascribed to her in the passage), or a showy social butterfly, like Ginevra. However, in her enumeration of her own qualities and achievements, Ginevra is honest enough to include some of her weaker points as well, for example that she cannot spell. The scene demonstrates Ginevra’s need for assurance from her surroundings that she is beautiful – the dumb mirror and admiring looks from the young men at the ball alone are not enough to her ; she needs the direct contrast provided by a much less outwardly attractive individual than herself. However, the fact that she chooses Lucy also guarantees that she will get some well-deserved critical remarks and frankness, as she is well aware.172 Ginevra provides her view of Lucy : “I suppose you are nobody’s daughter, since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; you can’t call yourself young at twentythree; you have no attractive accomplishments – no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are […]. I believe you never were in love, and never will be […].” (14.146)

What to others might be a painful and humiliating moment, Lucy turns into a study of the human propensity for egotism, and even a recommendation of Ginevra’s honesty (“‘there must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly’” (14.146)). She is already in the habit of using a distancing, almost scientific gaze – consequently, she can calmly admit that Ginevra’s statements (which might easily be perceived as insults) are as “‘true as gospel’” (14.146). Taking on the position of a (supposedly objective) observer saves Lucy from feeling the humiliation too deeply. Lucy’s reaction can moreover be linked with the ambiguity of her character : she can admit that all the exterior facts are true because she knows that there are as or more important interior aspects that stand for themselves, and of which Ginevra has no inkling. The question “Do I want to be you?” is a sort of common thread in their conversation in front of the mirror. Ginevra first introduces the theme with a blunt statement: “‘I would not be you for a kingdom’” (14.145). Lucy and Gi171 Lucy meets Paulina again while the latter is dressing in front of the mirror : “Repairing to my own little sea-green room, there also I found a bright fire, and candles too were lit: a tall waxlight stood on each side the great looking glass; but between the candles, and before the glass, appeared something dressing itself – an airy, fairy thing – small, slight, white – a winter spirit” (24.274). 172 Ginevra knows Lucy well enough at this point to expect some “‘caustic’” (14.144) remarks to dampen her exhilaration.

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nevra stand opposite their mirror images and consider what it would be like to have the other one’s life. It is striking that Lucy never gives a description of their respective appearances. She describes Ginevra’s behaviour in front of the mirror, her gestures, movements and appearance, but leaves the portrayal of herself entirely to Ginevra, who simply says that Lucy has “no beauty”. Nevertheless, her quiet renunciation of her acquaintance’s judgment is rhetorically more powerful than the latter’s long-winding comparison, which exclusively deals with superficialities, the ‘outside’.173 Part of the answer to the question “Who am I?” lies indeed in the look into the mirror: We never learn what Lucy looks like as a young woman, only that her hair has turned white when she is older and telling her story in retrospect. She hints that she is not attractive, and clearly cares about the effect her appearance has on others (for a certain period, she wants to please Graham Bretton and anxiously looks for his approval of her new pink dress (20.208)): She asks M. Paul what he thinks of her appearance during their last encounter, and from his answer draws a final assurance of his affections.174 In her love for M. Paul, Lucy in a sense overcomes and confirms her self-sufficiency, since the knowledge that he is pleased with her exterior makes all other opinions irrelevant. After Ginevra has made Lucy stand in front of the mirror, she shows her two admirers to her, who are among the young male spectators at the ball. One of them is Colonel de Hamal, the other Graham Bretton, whom Lucy has hinted at recognising as her godmother’s son in chapter 10. Incidentally, this recognition takes place through a mirror as well, and again two persons are involved in looking into the glass. Both the topos of acting and of the mirror are reiterated in Lucy’s ensuing conversation with Graham Bretton. He enthuses about Ginevra, whom he has known in society for more than a year, and blatantly idealises her. When he raves to Lucy about his lady’s loveliness and childlike innocence, she cannot help but give him a taste of his own medicine by underlining his rival’s, Colonel de Hamal’s, exterior refinement and drawing conclusions about his character, just like Graham Bretton did before with Ginevra. De Hamal is the 173 Lucy and Ginevra are about to be rivals for Graham Bretton’s affection (a constellation that already announces itself in their respective roles in the play). He is in love with Ginevra at this point, while Lucy is about to realize that she wishes for more than his friendship. This mirror scene of two ‘rivals’ has a parallel in Jane Eyre, when Jane paints a miniature portrait of herself (with the help of a mirror) and an imaginary Blanche Ingram to remind herself that she has no right to claim Rochester’s affections (16.183f.). Both Jane and Lucy, however, clearly see the inferiority of their respective rival in all aspects but looks. 174 “‘Do I displease your eyes much?’ I took courage to urge: the point had its vital import for me. He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer – an answer which silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that, I knew what I was for him; and what I might be for the rest of the world, I ceased painfully to care” (41.483f.).

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alternative or opposite to Graham Bretton just as Lucy is the counterpoint to Ginevra in the mirror scene. The mirror scene thus indicates that ‘doubling’ plays a role in the whole novel and its constellations of characters as opposites/ mirror images of one another. The chapter ends with this conversation and with another instance (after her role in the vaudeville) of Lucy going “beyond” herself (14.152) when she gives advice to Graham Bretton on his infatuation with Ginevra, which she usually would not do. The mirror thus becomes a symbol not only of Ginevra’s reduction of Lucy to her exterior qualities, but of Lucy’s discovery of other sides of herself, first in the part she acts at M. Paul’s bidding, in her comparison with Ginevra, and then in her conversation with Graham Bretton.

4.

Lucy in the Eyes of Others

The scene in front of the mirror with Ginevra Fanshawe and the later “Who are you?” dialogue have already brought some insight as to how Ginevra sees Lucy – and certainly both passages read in conjunction show how her opinion of Lucy changes in the course of their acquaintance. After their year together at Madame Beck’s school, Ginevra writes a farewell letter to Lucy when she elopes with de Hamal, leaving the costume of the nun in Lucy’s bed. It contains another direct characterisation of Lucy : “Did you shriek when you saw her? I should have gone mad; but then you have such nerves! – real iron and bend-leather! I believe you feel nothing. You haven’t the same sensitiveness that a person of my constitution has. You seem to me insensible both to pain and fear and grief. You are a real old Diogenes.” (40.475)

The reader, who has witnessed Lucy’s intense sufferings during the long vacation and the fÞte in the park of Villette with her, perceives this as irony. Ginevra’s prattling comments show, however, how skilled Lucy is at hiding her innermost thoughts and feelings from the world in general (while conceding that Ginevra is probably not the most attentive observer), maintaining an unmoved faÅade while her inner life is in turmoil. A chapter on the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?” cannot be written without quoting the many differing perceptions of herself Lucy enumerates before Ginevra curiously inquires about her identity. The light in which M. de Bassompierre evidently regarded “Miss Snowe,” used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictory attributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according to the eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed me learned and blue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a model teacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhat conventional,

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perhaps, too strict, limited, and scrupulous, but still the pink and pattern of governesscorrectness; whilst another person, Professor Paul Emanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery and rash nature – adventurous, indocile, and audacious. I smiled at them all. If any one knew me it was little Paulina Mary. (26.301)

Paul Emanuel and Paulina stand out from this enumeration of Lucy’s traits: The schoolmaster because he sees Lucy in a completely different light compared to everyone else, and the little countess because Lucy marks her out as genuinely knowing her. For a long time after they have become reacquainted, she does not even know that Lucy is a schoolteacher (when she learns that her childhood friend must earn her living, she reacts like this: “‘But poor Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends’” (25.286)). Paulina’s knowledge thus extends to a different realm than the mere physical, exterior one, and might even touch on the “life of thought” quoted at the beginning of this discussion. The young women have known each other as children (the attribute “little” is a reminder of this): Paulina’s self-containment and her reservation toward Lucy and even sometimes toward Graham, her favourite, makes her seem akin to Lucy herself. Lucy describes Paulina’s behaviour as eccentric (see 3.32), and in her frankness toward the older girl little Polly seems to have detected a kindred spirit in Lucy : she realises that Lucy has her own share of eccentricities as well. While different in most exterior aspects, Paulina and Lucy resemble each other in terms of character.175 When Paulina asks Lucy about her view of Graham, she phrases her questions in order to make direct comparisons between her own and Lucy’s affections, underlining the similarity between them that will be confirmed by Lucy’s romantic feelings for Graham Bretton as an adult, echoing Paulina’s feelings as she expresses them here: “Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?” “Like him! Yes, a little.” “Only a little! Do you like him as I do?” “I think not. No. Not as you do.” […] “Have you no pain just here” (laying her elfish hand on her elfish breast), “when you think you shall have to leave Graham; for your home is not here?” (3.33f.)

Lucy never answers this question, but reminds Paulina that she will soon see her beloved father again and that this thought should cheer her up. Needless to say, such a rational admonition is quite lost on the girl at this moment. During Lucy and Paulina’s first meeting at La Terrasse, Paulina explains herself to Lucy by 175 Gilbert and Gubar point out the similarities between Polly and Lucy in their childhood despite their striking differences: “For, strangely, Lucy has discovered in Polly a representative of part of herself who ‘haunts’ her (chap. 2) like ‘a small ghost’ (chap. 3)” (404).

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paraphrasing a line from Wordsworth’s The Prelude: “The child of seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen” (Carlisle 286). Paulina has indeed preserved the child she used to be and the affection she then felt for Graham. The great difference between Lucy and Paulina, however, is the fact that Paulina is supported in life by her father’s love, to which is later added Graham’s, while Lucy only experiences love after many trials and desperate uncertainties. Read in light of later developments, little Polly’s infatuation is an anticipation of Lucy’s strong feelings for Graham in Villette. The conversation between the girls in Bretton shows some poignant similarities between both characters, and Lucy’s remark that “little Paulina Mary” is the only one who knows her is certainly based on her memory of their time together in Bretton. It is moreover striking that Paulina never attempts a direct characterisation of Lucy in the style of those listed in the one-but-last quotation. Lucy never seems to be a puzzle to Paulina.176 Like Ginevra, Paulina is a doppelgänger of Lucy’s – she bears a likeness to her despite all outward differences, and Lucy even calls her her “double” when Paulina speaks of the way she has intuitively recognized Graham Bretton as her childhood friend (24.278).177 Graham Bretton looks at Lucy from a completely different perspective, mostly as an interesting medical case of depression and monomania.178 While the enumeration of the different traits assigned to her by various acquaintances amuses Lucy (since she reads these portraits of herself as reflections on the observer rather than on herself), she cannot abide a misrepresentation of herself at the hands of Graham Bretton. Lucy sums up Graham Bretton’s view of her in the context of her discussion with M. Paul about her clothes: “Dr. John Bretton knows you only as ‘quiet Lucy’ – ‘a creature inoffensive as a shadow ;’ he has said, and you have heard him say it: ‘Lucy’s disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes and manner – want of colour in character and costume’” (28.334). Lucy contrasts his estimate of her as “grave” and “colourless” with M. Paul’s passionate reproaches that her dress is too gay. 176 “‘Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking: for me, you were always Lucy Snowe.’” “‘And what am I now?’” I could not forbear inquiring. “‘Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?’” (25.285) Paulina manages to give the “right” answers by avoiding interpretation altogether – “you were always Lucy Snowe” and “yourself” are statements that in their simplicity touch on the independence and integrity that are so important to Lucy. 177 “I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are certain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems a miracle when that chance befalls.” (24.278) 178 “In short, he regarded me scientifically in the light of a patient, and at once exercised his professional skill, and gratified his natural benevolence, by a course of cordial and attentive treatment.” (23.254)

“I will permit the reader to picture me” – Lucy’s Relationship with the Reader

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“I will permit the reader to picture me” – Lucy’s Relationship with the Reader179

In Lucy and Ginevra’s dialogue, the question “Who are you?” is answered with the question “Who am I?”, underlining the importance of perspective (who speaks and who is addressed?), and leading us from the question of who the narrator is to that of her reader. The formulation in the title of this section illustrates one of the strategies the narrator uses to both communicate and conceal her life story to her reader. In her ambiguous image of the shipwreck, the narrator says that she would “permit the reader to picture” (4.35) her as having a peaceful, happy life, which is simultaneously, by means of the formulation itself, revealed as an illusion. The sentence continues: “I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still as glass – the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer” (4.35). The gesture of only allowing the reader to believe something instead of presenting it unambiguously as the authoritative version of events continues in the formula “if you will”. While clearly communicating that she did not have a happy life, the narrating I still allegorically evokes this possibility, if only to negate it. She cannot hide from the reader what really happened: “However, it cannot be concealed that […]” (4.35). The entity Lucy addresses as “reader” is an important albeit only occasional presence in the novel.180 Her narratee serves as a reflecting surface to Lucy’s thoughts and mirrors what she believes the implied reader’s reaction or judgment to be. The reader allows Lucy to communicate beyond the direct exchanges with other characters in her text; he occupies a position between that of a character, of a psychological projection and the actual reader, holding the book in his/her hands – this status in between narrative levels constitutes the ambiguity of the reader figure, together with the fact that Lucy ascribes different roles to her reader. The reader addresses constitute an instance of metalepsis,181 a transgression of the intra- and extradiegetic levels, resulting in ambiguity. These addresses can 179 See Silver, O’Dea, Klaver, and Stewart (among others) for discussions of the reader figure in Villette. 180 “In Lucy Snowe, Bront[ has designed a voice that challenges the very essence of the reader/ narrator relationship” (O’Dea 41). The author goes on to argue that “Bront[ has developed the relationship to the point where it truly becomes the primary interest of the novel” (42). 181 “The transition from one narrative level to another can in principle be achieved only by the narrating, the act that consists precisely of introducing into one situation, by means of a discourse, the knowledge of another situation” (Genette 234). Rimmon-Kenan characterizes metalepsis as “undermining the separation between narration and story” (93). The

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be characterized as transgressions of “a boundary that is precisely the narrating or the performance itself: a shifting but sacred frontier between two worlds, the world in which one tells, the world of which one tells” (Genette 236). While Lucy exists both on the extradiegetic level and on the intradiegetic one, the character addressed as “reader” is a reminder that the extradiegetic level, in which an older Lucy, whose hair “lies now at last, white under a white cap, like snow beneath snow” (5.45) narrating of “a time gone by”, exists, and that there is a narratee to whom she addresses her story. The real reader, studying Villette, will moreover identify with the address as well. The word “reader” thus encompasses both the extradiegetic narratee, who does not correspond to a character on the intradiegetic level, and the real-life reader. The ending of Villette, however, may suggest that there will ultimately be an intradiegetic narratee: M. Paul, to whom Lucy addresses her letters from Villette before he returns from the colonies (or dies in the shipwreck). The implications of this ambiguity of the reader, depending on his position on the respective narrative level, run through the text – if the real reader considers him-/herself the addressee of a demand such as “Cancel the whole of that, if you please, reader – or rather let it stand, and draw thence a moral – an alliterative, text-hand copy ” (6.57), s/he will realize at the same time that s/he is unable to cancel anything since s/he has no influence over the narrative. A request to “cancel” a piece of information will rather make it stand out in the overall text than cause the reader to forget it – the gesture of telling the reader to “cancel” something remains a rhetorical one. The charge to “cancel” a statement just made will not erase it from the reader’s mind, but rather put another layer of meaning over it in the manner of a palimpsest – the statement just made, in this instance Lucy’s vision of Europe as a “wide dream-land” holding an “imperial promise” for her and the narrator’s request to cancel it, together with the admonition “Day-dreams are delusions of the demon”. The result of such a narrative act is ambiguity, the layering of one statement with its negation. Lucy’s hopeful vision of Europe, and, consequently, of her own future, is thus called into question as soon as it is pronounced.182 The question of whether the reader actually exerts an influence over the narrative is crucial to Villette, considering that the reader’s disposition is supposed to decide how the story ends: “Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope” (42.496). The reader as narratee, as a figure constructed by the addresses in the text, will now be discussed. He is often addressed as someone whose fancy or imagination is reader addresses introduce the act of narration into the story and remind the reader that a narrating I exists. 182 A similar instance occurs in the context of Lucy’s allegorical shipwreck as a young girl (see chapter V).

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at work while reading the text, especially in the ambiguous utterances marking two structural caesuras in the novel, the first shipwreck allegory (discussed at the beginning of this section and in detail in ch. 5) and the end, where the readers (or at least a part of that group) are metonymically reduced to their imagination (see above). The gesture of (attempted) concealment or interruption is repeated in the imperative “Here pause”, literally stopping the process of narration altogether some lines later, when the novel finishes. It is up to the reader to choose whether s/he belongs to the sunny imaginations or the other kind – s/he either belongs to those who believe in respectively hope for M. Paul’s return from the colonies with a subsequent “union and a happy succeeding life” (42.495), or s/he does not. The openness of the ending is thus transferred to the reader’s attitude toward the narrative – whether s/he accepts/expects a conventional happy ending or whether s/he reads the text in a way which renders such an outcome impossible in the context of the story. In both examples, the reader addresses during Lucy’s journey to Labassecour, and at the end of the narrative, the text offers two distinct and opposite possibilities of interpretation to the reader. Lucy posits her reader as an interlocutor, with changing attitudes toward her narrative, and addresses him in terms that suggest that she imagines an actual exchange with him, including not only her own but the reader’s utterances and reactions: she “plead[s] guiltless of an overheated and discursive imagination” as though her reader was her judge (2.12), and, moreover, indirectly characterizing him/her as a figure resembling strict Reason; she is certain that “[her] reader […] is one who would not thank [her] for an elaborate reproduction of poetic first impressions” (5.45), thus ascribing certain aesthetic sensibilities to him/her, and asks him/her to wait before s/he “pronounce[s]” on the rashness of going to Villette to look for Madame Beck’s school (7.60). She “request[s]” her reader to notice the seeming contradiction in the two sides of Graham’s character (19.197). The verbs of the utterances just listed indicate that Lucy imagines an interactive, even dialogic relationship with her reader; s/he may “pronounce”, she “requests” him or her to notice a detail about Graham. She also ascribes certain reactions to him or advises him how to react to her text: “The reader must not think too hardly of Rosine” (13.122). Lucy’s anticipation of the reader’s reactions lends her addresses to him the air of one of her interior dialogues. They are thus vital in characterizing Lucy. The discursive character of her communications with the reader is underlined by utterances like the following, when Lucy has just seen the nun for the first time: “Say what you will, reader – tell me I was nervous, or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter ; declare that I dreamed: this I vow – I saw there – in that room – on that night – an image like – a NUN” (22.245). Lucy treats the reader as an imaginary interlocutor, including his (imagined) responses to her narrative in the text.

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When describing the time leading up to her great crisis, in which she gradually loses hope183, Lucy anticipates the reactions of different types of readers: Religious reader, you will preach to me a long sermon about what I have just written, and so will you, moralist: and you, stern sage: you, stoic, will frown; you, cynic, sneer ; you, epicure, laugh. Well, each and all, take it your own way. I accept the sermon, frown, sneer, and laugh; perhaps you are all right: and perhaps, circumstanced like me, you would have been, like me, wrong. The first month was, indeed, a long, black, heavy month to me. (15.157)

As if to counteract in retrospect her utter loneliness at this time of her life, Lucy imagines not only one, but several reactions. The speculation about the readers’ reactions or judgments is a means of distancing herself from this most difficult phase of her life by introducing another perspective than her own, but it is also part of trying to avoid “the sin and weakness of presumption” (15.157) that Lucy is afraid of indulging.184 Her summary of possible reader reactions is also a way of contrasting the perspective of the narrating I with that of the experiencing I: “perhaps you are all right: and perhaps, circumstanced like me, you would have been, like me, wrong.” Her enumeration of possible reader reactions is also a tool of retrospective self-examination, merging with the perspective of the narrating I. The narrator’s relationship with the reader is characterized by a certain ambivalence: sometimes she pleads with him and sometimes she treats him/her as a confidante.185 There is a high number of reader-addresses, for example, 183 “The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared not know” (15.156). 184 “Für das Thema der Einsamkeit ist von Bedeutung, daß die einzelne Frau, die von ihrem Alleinsein und ihrer Liebe erzählt, ihren Dialogpartner in dem Einzelnen sucht, der ihren Text liest. Er wird zum Mit-Pilger an ihrer Seite” (Bauer, “Einsamkeit des Individuums” 10). 185 An example of Lucy pleading for her reader’s understanding can be found when she justifies her decision to find Madame Beck’s school in Villette on the unlikely chance to get employment there: “Before you pronounce on the rashness of the proceeding, reader, look back to the point whence I started; consider the desert I had left, note how little I perilled: mine was the game where the player cannot lose and may win” (7.60). While Lucy tries to win the reader’s approval of her actions in the preceding example, fearing his or her judgment, she often treats the reader as a sympathetic recipient of her ironic remarks, as in this example, when she comments on Ginevra’s habit of leaning on her when they walk together : “[…] (she continued in excellent case, and I can assure the reader it was no trifling business to bear the burden of her loveliness; many a time in the course of that warm day I wished to goodness there had been less of the charming commodity) […]” (33.379). This sense of community with her reader is also indicated when Lucy anticipates his reactions, as in the case of her first sighting of the nun: “Say what you will, reader – tell me I was nervous, or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter ; declare that I dreamed: this I vow – I saw there – in that room – on that night – an image like – a NUN” (22.245). O’Dea goes as far as to state that “most of Lucy’s outward actions and relations are weak and passive; it is only to the reader (and, at times, M. Paul) that she becomes resentful and

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when Lucy is by herself in the midst of hundreds in the park of Villette (the address occurs five times in those two chapters alone), and believes herself forsaken by everyone, even by M. Paul. Lucy’s claim on her reader goes even to the point of treating him/her as a companion through the pronoun “we” when she watches M. Paul’s arrival in the park: “Have we a stray glance to give to the third member of this company? Can we spare him a moment’s notice? We ought to distinguish him so far, reader ; he has claims on us; we do not now meet him for the first time” (39.465). At the same time, this use of the pronoun introduces an ironic tone to her utterance: to say of M. Paul that “we do not now meet him for the first time” is clearly a blatant understatement.

6.

Lucy’s Self-Characterizations

Lucy occasionally characterizes herself directly in the course of her narrative: […] I seemed to hold two lives – the life of thought, and that of reality ; and, provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter. (8.76)

The distinction between the realms of “thought” and “reality” captures a ‘doubleness’, or ambiguity, inherent to Lucy’s life (although the verb “seemed” leaves the truth of this observation uncertain): she has an existence where fancy reigns, taking precedence over the material aspect of her being, and a physical one.186 What she describes are the “worlds of spirit and of sense” (Tawney 105), but opinionated” (43). I agree that the reader is an important psychological construct, especially in light of Lucy’s loneliness, yet it is not the case that Lucy only reveals her ‘true’ feelings or reactions (as implied) to the reader or M. Paul – she moreover shows it to Ginevra, and, at times, to Madame Beck. 186 This dichotomy has been widely discussed in secondary literature, and critics have taken the inside-outside dichotomy in a wider sense to refer to different aspects of Lucy’s being: see Colby ; Hunt (this article takes its perspective from the situation of single women in the mid-nineteenth century, and reads Lucy as “a woman denied an official existence by Victorian culture” (23)). This kind of ‘doubled’ life is completely different to the two sides of Graham Bretton Lucy describes to illustrate the difference between his private and public selves: “The reader is requested to note a seeming contradiction in the two views which have been given of Graham Bretton – the public and private – the out-door and the in-door view. In the first, the public, he is shown oblivious of self; as modest in the display of his energies, as earnest in their exercise. In the second, the fireside picture, there is expressed consciousness of what he has and what he is; pleasure in homage, some recklessness in exciting, some vanity in receiving the same. Both portraits are correct” (19.197). The difference between these two “view[s]” is expressed in terms of the role he allows his own self to play in public or private situations. While he forgets himself when exercising his profession, the private sphere is determined by his personal needs and vanities.

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“spirit” is here replaced by “thought” and “fancy”, just as Lucy portrays Imagination as a deity. Both lives are portrayed as existentially necessary and related, as implied by the metaphorical notion of “nourishing” the life of thought, in which a predicate of the physical life crosses over into that of the mind. The reader knows that the realm of thought is the one that Lucy tends to hide from the people she encounters, and often from the reader as well, only communicating indirectly about it.187 Luc’s reflection occurs in the context of Madame Beck’s demand that she try her hand at teaching, evoking the duality of passivity and activity characterizing her existence in the metaphorical image of the shell, which not only connotes a space of withdrawal but also protection from outside access: “with my usual base habit of cowardice, I shrunk into my sloth, like a snail into its shell” (8.76). This mode of existence is all the more relevant since Lucy describes it in the immediate context of Madame Beck’s system of surveillance (and her intensified observation of Lucy when she tries to evaluate her ability as a teacher188), and before she herself has fully entered the school life she describes, observing everything from the distance of the nursery, her “watch-tower”, where she looks after Madame Beck’s children (see 8.75). The quote stresses the importance of Lucy’s inner being, the one where much of her life take place while she seems passive and quiet on the outside. The power of the world of the imagination is emphasized in other direct statements. When she is alone and unoccupied, she “think[s] […] her own thoughts, living [her] own life, in [her] own still shadow-world” (13.118). The repeated use of “my own” (“my” has been replaced in the quote by “her” for the sake of consistency) underlines that this aspect of her life is shared by no one, possibly because it is beyond communication. The reader only catches glimpses of it in the allegorical passages; and Lucy hints in conversation with M. Paul that she “‘sometimes, not always, feel[s] a knowledge of [her] own’” (30.355), a passage that is linked to the one just quoted through Lucy’s use of “my own.” Like this knowledge, “her own still shadow-world” is communicable only indirectly, in the guise of metaphor, hint, or negation. The idea of a ‘double life’, as Lucy outlines it, implies a sort of ‘built-in’ ambiguity of her existence, which consists of two levels, an outer and an inner 187 Lucy’s words seem at odds with some instances in the novel in which she shows a fondness for food: she particularly notices what is served to her on the first night at Madame Beck’s; she moreover has a partiality for the little cream cakes served at Madame Beck’s fÞte (see 14.136f.). 188 “[…] from that day, for the space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. She listened at the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; she followed me at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within ear-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevard afforded a sufficient screen […]” (8.76).

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way of being. Yet those two lives are not as separate as she presents them here. They coexist and influence each other (for example when the psychomachia of Reason and Imagination is triggered by Graham’s promise to write to Lucy (see 21.228ff.)). Lucy’s reticence concerning her inner life is highlighted by Madame Beck’s practice of spying, which Lucy condemns. M. Paul reveals his technique of spying in order to know teachers and pupils “thoroughly” (implication: as they really are, beyond pretence) (31.364), i. e. both their outer and their inner lives. He claims “‘I know you all by heart. Ah! I know you well’” (31.363). M. Paul credits his Jesuit upbringing for his techniques of unobserved observation: “‘to what discoveries, grand Dieu! have they not aided me!’” (31.364). He alludes particularly to getting to know the true character of Z8lie St. Pierre, a fellow teacher of Lucy’s, who once had the ambition to marry M. Paul. He moreover reveals that he has a secret entrance to the girls’ school through a door connecting it to the boys’ school next door, and thus contrives to be present without having to be admitted through the front door. In this context, Lucy openly expresses her wish that M. Paul was a Protestant, indirectly suggesting a conversion to him (see 31.366), as he suggests it to her (see 36.413). While Lucy refutes the ‘technique’ of spying so decidedly in conversation with M. Paul, she uses it frequently herself, for example when she tries to find out what attracts Dr. John to the Rue Fossette.

7.

The Writing-Desk as a Metaphor of Lucy’s Mind

The duality of the life of thought and of reality is based on the notion of inside and outside.189 Lucy often observes and interprets the inner character of others on the basis of their outward appearance and is herself judged on this premise: 189 Writing about the pervasive metaphor of depth in the Gothic novel, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick claims that the spatial metaphors of interiority occurring in the critical writing on this genre “trace a particular psychological model of the self, one with an inside and an outside and with certain material (‘the irrational’) on the inside that could or should pass to the outside” (255). In a characteristic reversal, M. Paul reproaches Lucy with judging people only by their appearance (he alludes to his rival Graham Bretton, of course): “He was sorry – he was very sorry : for my sake he grieved over the hapless peculiarity. This ‘emportement,’ this ‘chaleur’ – generous, perhaps, but excessive – would yet, he feared, do me a mischief. It was a pity : I was not – he believed, in his soul – wholly without good qualities; and would I but hear reason, and be more sedate, more sober, less ‘en l’air,’ less ‘coquette,’ less taken by show, less prone to set an undue value on outside excellence – to make much of the attentions of people remarkable chiefly for so many feet of stature, ‘des couleurs de poup8e,’ ‘un nez plus ou moins bien fait,’ and an enormous amount of fatuity – I might yet prove an [sic] useful, perhaps an exemplary character. But, as it was – And here, the little man’s voice was for a minute choked” (28.331f.).

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M. Paul reads Lucy’s face when she first arrives at the school and later ransacks (and adds objects to) Lucy’s desk without her permission; Ginevra drags Lucy in front of the mirror during the school fÞte to compare their lives (see above, section 2). Lucy herself is characterized by the contrast between her (ordinary) outward appearance and her (extraordinary) inner life and thoughts, which is also reflected in her name.190 But the dichotomy of inside and outside is not only relevant in the context of character evaluation but also with regard to actual containers and material objects that appear in the novel: Paulina’s arrival in Bretton, for example, is first announced by her “small crib” and “rosewood chest.”191 The example of Lucy’s desk, however, hints at the relatedness of character and objects with regard to this dichotomy of inside and outside as well as at the potential ambiguity that results from it. Leslie S. May has underlined the importance of space in the way interiority, the self, is portrayed in the novel: the most important of secrets for Lucy Snowe: her secret soul. The soul, which is spirit and hence supposedly intangible, is […] treated spatially by Bront[’s narrator: it is a secret place. Indeed, Lucy associates all of her secrets with the places in which she keeps them (May 46).192

Lucy’s writing-desk in the first classe is a space that is her sanctuary and place of withdrawal in Madame Beck’s school. In an atmosphere of constant surveillance, the desk functions as a space to keep “secrets,” her private belongings, she studies and corrects school exercises at her desk, eats and even sleeps there (cf. chs. 30 and 31) – while, at the same time, this writing-desk, like all places in the school, is not safe from intrusive hands and eyes: both Madame Beck and M. Paul are such intruders, though in very different ways. On the night of Lucy’s arrival, Madame Beck immediately makes copies of the three keys in her possession: those of her trunk, workbox and desk (8.69). Each of these containers represents a different aspect of Lucy’s life, and Madame Beck is ironically portrayed a little like a pragmatic, cautious fairy godmother, working in the dead of night to make sure that everything is in order under her roof.193 The third key gives access to Lucy’s writing-desk, of which M. Paul lifts the lid so frequently in order to look around in its contents and, of course, to add reading material and sweets to them. M. Paul not only looks into Lucy’s desk in order to put books there; he also wants to know her better. While this is quite an unorthodox 190 Lucy’s ‘cold’ name contrasts with her inner fire. 191 Some studies have focused on the presence of things in novels as witnesses to Victorian attitudes to material culture (see Pettitt, Shears and Harrison). 192 May does not analyse the writing-desk in detail. 193 Many critics have recognised fairy tales as important intertexts to Bront[’s writing (see Notsu, Sulivan, Nungesser).

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method of doing so, it shows how deeply he is concerned with Lucy’s life and her affairs; it is even more telling that M. Paul knows the contents of this desk and adds to them as much as he recognizes Lucy’s inner self.194 Of course it is no coincidence that M. Paul has picked Lucy’s writing-desk for his foraging activities – she is, after all, the writer of her own story, even if she does not address this role very often, and indeed prefers written to spoken expression.195 The writing-desk is thus a subtle symbol of the core of Lucy’s existence and of her chosen means of expression and communication. The meaning of the writing-desk as an emblem of Lucy’s inner life becomes particularly clear when she catches M. Paul in the act of rummaging through it: Now I knew, and had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel’s was on intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and lowered the lid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as my own. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he left signs of each visit palpable and unmistakeable; hitherto, however, I had never caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect the hours and moments of his coming. […] Now, as he sat bending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but with gentle and careful hand: disarranging indeed, but not harming. (29.343f.)

Lucy’s language is characterised by a mixture of religious allusion and a tone that marks the scene as an almost tender, intimate moment (“on intimate 194 While Cohen examines the body as a container of the self in The Professor, May reflects on the role of physical spaces representing interiority. She also mentions the dichotomy of inside and outside, which is a central category of how events and characters are perceived and presented in Villette and which is relevant to the spatial concepts of writing desk, workbox and boxes used for travelling. May’s reflections on the “secret space” of Lucy’s inner life underline the link to the etymology of Latin arcanum, box, which also means secret and thus strengthens the link between thing and concept. Of particular interest for the central theme of ambiguity are those instances in which the dichotomy of inside and outside is subverted or both levels converge and become identical. A prominent example is the psychomachia scene with Reason, in which Lucy’s inner state is portrayed as exterior to herself, and Vashti’s performance, in which Lucy perceives the theatrical display in terms of a psychomachia. It is striking, for example, that Vashti only seems to be alone on the stage; the reader never learns the plot of the play because it is practically irrelevant to Lucy’s perception. Everything relevant happens on the inside, and Vashti’s “wild gifts” (28.333) enable her to transport the inner workings of the psyche to the outside. This process is described in detail below in the section on Lucy’s perception of the “Cleopatra” and Vashti’s performance. 195 In her discussion with Reason, Lucy pleads for her right to send a letter rather than speak to Graham, to which Reason replies: “‘Talk for you is good discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority – no encouragement to delusion; pain, privation, penury stamp your language…’ ‘But,’ I again broke in, ‘where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve?’” (21.229). The relationship between written and spoken expression says much about Lucy’s relationship with both Graham and M. Paul, since her tale suddenly “stream[s] on [her] tongue” (41.490) when she reveals her experience in the park to M. Paul.

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terms”; “familiarly”).196 The uncertainty of M. Paul’s visits is expressed in words borrowed from the Gospel, alluding to the second coming of Christ with an almost verbatim quote from Matthew.197 The fact that Lucy has only had signs of M. Paul’s visits and no tangible proof humorously alludes to the search for the signs of salvation in the Puritan tradition of the spiritual autobiography but also indicates an earnest, profound aspect in her interpretation of M. Paul’s activities;198 he will indeed be a kind of saviour to her. The tone, as it often is when Lucy describes her and M. Paul’s interactions, is that of a ‘sacred parody,’ carrying religious undertones and even ascribing Christ-like attributes to the professor, yet also mocking him. This notion itself is ambiguous since it mixes religious feeling and an everyday, humorous tone. The mixing of the two spheres is characteristic of the passages describing the defining moments in their relationship and is especially palpable at the end of the novel. The raising and lowering of the lid in the passage quoted above evokes its homonym, underlining the importance of sight in the novel and in Lucy and M. Paul’s interactions.199 M. Paul has an educational intention (he brings Lucy books to improve her mind) in visiting her desk, and in fact the lid of the eye occurs allegorically in the context of the lessons he teaches Lucy, drawing once more a parallel between the self and a (closed) container. Lucy imagines the dawning of talents and intellectual capabilities in terms of a birth, and the progress in a specific field as a pilgrimage on a difficult path: And when at last he allowed a rest, before slumber might close the eyelids, he opened those same lids wide, with pitiless finger and thumb, and gazed deep through the pupil and the iris into the brain, into the heart, to search if Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood, in any of its subtlest forms, was discoverable in the furthest recess of existence. (30.350)

The search for the innermost – as well as hidden vices in the “furthest recess of existence”200 – is mirrored in the ransacking of the desk: M. Paul not only adds 196 In contrast to M. Paul’s forays into Lucy’s desk, Graham Bretton’s letters never gain entry to it. They only ever lie on top of it: “The first thing seen was a white object on my black desk, a white, flat object. […] That shining thing on the desk was indeed a letter, a real letter ; […]” (24.271). 197 “Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh” (Matthew 25:13). 198 Villette as a text indebted to the tradition of the spiritual autobiography is discussed in ch. IV. 199 The lid is as important as the container it belongs to – the casket with de Hamal’s love letter to Ginevra has a “loose lid” (12.110); Lucy carves M. Paul’s initials into the lid of the box in which she keeps the watchguard she has made for him (29.335; 29.342); Lucy looks “under the lid of [her] desk” in hopes of finding a present from M. Paul while he is absent for the day (36.412). 200 Bourne-Taylor and Shuttleworth underline the Victorians’ fascination with the “obscure recesses of the human mind” (67) in their introduction to the section “The Unconscious

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items to Lucy’s desk; he also is aware of what it contains. The suspicion that underneath all outer appearance of improvement there may still be hidden “Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood” is of course also a form of ambiguity, potentially revealing vice underneath all positive appearance, and underlining the ethical agenda of M. Paul’s educational activities.201 The discovery of M. Paul ransacking Lucy’s desk occurs just after a confrontation about his birthday present – when the whole school offers some small tokens to him, Lucy is the only one seemingly unprepared. But only seemingly – she cannot bring herself to present the watchguard in its coral box, which lies ready in her lap, and only gives it to him after her refusal to do so has already sparked conflict. It is the only time Lucy gives a gift to someone, and the fact that she puts it in a box for M. Paul to open is significant (decorated with shells, the symbol of interiority, no less). Their encounter after the quarrel brings about some clarification for Lucy – in spite of their recent altercation, she feels kindly toward the teacher : “I did not dislike Professor Emanuel” (29.344). Shielded by a double negation, yet in an unusually straightforward manner, Lucy professes her affection for the dark little man. The writing-desk becomes the site where the two meet and where sympathy is expressed indirectly – in M. Paul’s actual presence there, and in Lucy’s narrative discourse (which the reader perceives, but not M. Paul). Lucy then finally presents the watchguard to M. Paul (she has previously failed to do so when it would have been appropriate and socially expected) – and he accepts the gift on the condition that no part of it has been made with another recipient on Lucy’s mind. We see that the casket with the jewel inside of The Professor has been transformed into a symbolical plot element in Villette, embodying the complexities of Lucy’s psyche and her relationship with Paul Emanuel.202 M. Paul manages to bring together the inward and the outward life for Lucy in his tales: when he takes the entire school out to the countryside to celebrate his birthday. Close to their destination, a farm in the countryside surrounding Villette, the group stops by a well to hear one of M. Paul’s stories. His pupils gather around him: “those who liked him more than they feared, came close Mind and the Workings of Memory” in their collection of psychological texts from the Victorian era. The notion of a ‘double consciousness’ “formed part of a much wider discussion of hidden traces within the mind, and it is on the relationship between conscious and unconscious memory that debates on the nature of identity ultimately turned” (71). 201 The container as a closet-like structure has been associated with this ambiguity : see Kosofsky Sedgwick and Lyndon Gladden. See also Proske 180–186 on the casket in William Godwin’s novel Caleb Williams, which is a symbol of Falkland’s secrets and his inner life, which Caleb wants to access at all costs. 202 The casket and the opening of doors/lids in the context of the discovery/keeping of secrets provide a connection between Villette and three other texts: the myth of Pandora’s box, the fairy tale Blue Beard, and Caleb Williams.

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[…]; those who feared more than they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had given, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed the greatest distance” (33.380). The description contains indirect information about Lucy’s attitude toward M. Paul at this point – she clearly belongs to the last group, whose fear of M. Paul is tinted with a “pleasurable zest” that captures the atmosphere of the always contentious, sometimes precarious encounters Lucy has with M. Paul. The description moreover captures the remaining ambivalence of their relationship, but also its strength – her affection for M. Paul is so great that even fear of him feels pleasurable. Lucy is much impressed with the story he tells, or rather ‘paints’ for his audience: “He tinted a twilight scene – I hold it in memory still – such picture I have never looked on from artist’s pencil” (33.380). Lucy feels that M. Paul the narrator “lavish[es] […] mental wealth” (33.381) upon his listeners: “his mind was indeed my library, and whenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss” (33.381). M. Paul’s mind is open to Lucy in such moments; she can enter it. The metaphor of the mind as a library continues in the expression “tomes of thought” (33.381): mixes the solid form of knowledge with the fluid kind of inspiration that feeds M. Paul’s oral narrative. Like M. Paul enters Lucy’s mental space in gaining access to her writing-desk (the emphasis on writing provides a contrast to the scene at hand, which is concerned with oral narration), she enters his mind when he talks. The scene moreover contains another allusion to the eyes, which are etymologically linked to the “lid” of the desk – “his tomes of thought were collyrium to the spirit’s eyes” – the activities of thinking/telling and listening are presented as acts analogous to writing (“tomes”) and reading involving the “spirit’s eyes”. These acts of narration and perception are linked with Lucy and M. Paul’s romantic relationship: “I used to think what a delight it would be for one who loved him better than he loved himself, to gather and store up those handfuls of golddust, so recklessly flung to heaven’s reckless winds” (33.381). M. Paul’s uninhibited foraging through Lucy’s desk, and his opening of his own mind to her, is contrasted with Graham’s diagnosis of Lucy as a hypochondriac: “‘Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of Hypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but can neither say nor do much.’” (17.183). While Graham’s “art” is kept on the threshold, seeing only a chamber of torture, M. Paul (literally) dives in. Lucy’s hypochondriac tendencies are the reverse side of the “strange necromantic joys of fancy” populating her life of thought: while they may bring a certain inner wealth, they also bring a sickness, a “necromantic” tendency. After all, as the adjective indicates, this kind of fancy is rather oriented toward death than toward life. Lucy’s inner life is thus characterized by an ambiguity : it affords her a (deceptive) independence of the material world, and at the same time makes her susceptible to the nervous disease Graham Bretton diagnoses. Lucy’s experience

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during the long vacation moreover shows that she cannot live on the world of her imagination alone – she has a nervous breakdown when she is seemingly at liberty to indulge all her “fancy”. The box or casket is a complex and recurring cipher of Lucy’s inner life, implying both concealment and the possibility of disclosure.203 The idea of the self or essence of one’s character as a hidden treasure is already presented in The Professor (1845/1857), an obvious text of reference when studying Villette.204 The image occurs there in the context of the relationship between Crimsworth, the newly-arrived English teacher, and Zoraide Reuter, the headmistress of the school where he works. It is already clear from this brief passage that the attraction between William Crimsworth and Mademoiselle Reuter is not of a permanent kind; and he seems to be aware of this when he lets her believe that her efforts have been successful, just in order to rebut her advances at the next opportunity. However, Reuter eventually seems to reach the innermost essence 203 Margot Peters enumerates the instances of boxes and caskets representing the true, hidden self in Charlotte Bront[’s novels. She explores the notion of the “inward treasure” (JE, ch. 19) that gives the protagonists their particular strength and (desire for) independence and remarks that Lucy’s inner essence is not imagined as a jewel, but rather as consisting of “ore” that is “genuine” (30.350) (see Peters 106). However, the notion of the inner essence as ore is taken slightly out of context, since the passage refers to M. Paul’s lessons to Lucy, and therefore mainly concerns the development of her intellectual faculties. Peters comments: “True ore, flashy dross; gold, clay ; ‘the little cup of pure metal,’ ‘this gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic’: these figures appear again and again, mingled with the buried-treasure motif, as symbols of the inner and outer, the true and the false” (106). The relationship between container and inner life is made explicit in Villette, not only through M. Paul’s visits to Lucy’s writing-desk: PHre Silas reveals himself to Lucy and reminds her of her confession with these words: “‘I, daughter, am PHre Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you once honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith’” (34.394, my emphases). Augustine compares the process of making sense of a dark or ambiguous text to opening a box or another closed container : “Perhaps it has been set down more darkly, in order that it might generate many meanings, and that men might come away from it the more enriched, finding something enclosed that could be opened in many ways, more than if they had found it, already open, in one way only” (Ennar. In Ps. CXXVIII; qtd. in,Cook 186). One cannot help but think of the little tract M. Paul leaves for Lucy in her desk as an example of a text that is “already open, in one way only” in its dogmatic nature (cf. 36.412ff.) and therefore does not appeal to her at all. 204 “Through the voice of the male narrator as well as through the novel’s [The Professor’s, OS] imagery, Bront[ makes peculiarly vivid the taken-for-granted situation of human interiority – the idea that human subjects dwell in their bodies, and that bodies serve as vehicles or containers for invisible spiritual, psychological, or mental contents” (Cohen 445). Cohen has examined the relationship between inside and outside in The Professor (1845/1857) and illustrates how Bront[ “emphasises and disrupts the idea of the body as container of the self” (448): “She does so by describing human interiors as metaphorically enclosed within material structures, which thereby come to stand for bodies” (448). This statement about the representation of “human interiority” is helpful (in slightly altered form) for Villette as well.

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of Crimsworth’s being, albeit briefly. This is when the narrator introduces an image of the self that combines spatial and psychological dimensions similar to Villette: The self is something of great value, which is not displayed to just any curious observer : […] me, she still watched, still tried by the most ingenious tests – she roved round me, baffled, yet persevering; I believe she thought I was like a smooth and bare precipice, which offered neither jutting stone nor tree-root, nor tuft of grass to aid the climber. Now she flattered with exquisite tact, now she moralized, now she tried how far I was accessible to mercenary motives, then she disported on the brink of affection – knowing that some men are won by weakness – anon, she talked excellent sense, aware that others have the folly to admire judgment. I found it at once pleasant and easy to evade all these efforts; it was sweet, when she thought me nearly won, to turn round and to smile in her very eyes, half scornfully, and then to witness her scarcely veiled, though mute mortification. Still she persevered, and at last, I am bound to confess it, her finger, essaying, proving every atom of the casket, touched its secret spring, and for a moment the lid sprung open; she laid her hand on the jewel within; whether she stole and broke it, or whether the lid shut again with a snap on her fingers, read on, and you shall know. (P 12.134; my emphasis)

The passage offers two images describing the self: it is likened to a steep cliff or even an abyss (“like a smooth and bare precipice”), which the interlocutor, in this case Mademoiselle Reuter, tries to navigate (i. e., in her case, to conquer and dominate). The second image, which is introduced when the headmistress is indeed close to penetrating Crimsworth’s innermost self, is the “casket” and its contents in the shape of “the jewel within,” which Madame Reuter wants to take into her possession and would ultimately destroy. This figuration of the self as a casket with a jewel inside is absent from Villette in such explicit terms, but it does occur in more subtle ways in Bront[’s later reworking of the material The Professor is based on.205 While Crimsworth here rather presents Mademoiselle Reuter’s perspective of him – as the container of a metaphorical “jewel” she may lay her hands on – and thus gives this view of the innermost a negative connotation, in Villette, jewels are ambiguous (or even regarded as ambivalent): they figure as emblems of vanity and even falseness as much as figurative epithets of endearment. Jewels are Madame Walravens’s chief attributes and the symbol of her selfish greed,206 and they are associated with Ginevra Fanshawe’s unashamed 205 For studies of the connections between The Professor and Villette, see Falconer, Bruce, Bonfiglio, and Longmuir among others. 206 “But her chief points were her jewels: she had long, clear ear-rings, blazing with a lustre which could not be borrowed or false; she had rings on her skeleton hands, with thick gold hoops, and stones – purple, green, and blood-red. Hunchbacked, dwarfish, and doting, she was adorned like a barbarian queen” (34.389). Pearls, however, are notably missing from the witch-like creature’s ornaments – they are reserved for Paulina. They are specifically feminine attributes in Villette: the narrator ironically reflects on Ginevra’s character when

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exploitation of Dr. John’s infatuation with her (see 9.88ff.). Jewels are named among the expensive gifts that Madame Beck expects to be offered on her birthday, while trying to maintain the pretence that she expects nothing whatsoever (see 14.128). The jewel is thus, at least with regard to some characters, transformed into a symbol of vanity and falsehood, signalling the wearer’s depravity and emphasizing a purely superficial splendour. But Villette also provides positive images of jewels: Paulina is described as “‘[m]y little jewel’” (37.426) and “‘the only pearl I have’” (37.427) by her father ; Lucy compares Paulina to a pearl in a rich setting once, the setting representing her position as heiress to her father’s fortune, and the pearl referring to Paulina’s inner qualities. Moreover, Lucy observes that Graham’s and Paulina’s “thoughts often matched like carefully-chosen pearls” (37.423). Embodying Graham and Paulina’s union, the round pearl stands for perfection and purity, and moreover evokes the portrayal of the kingdom of Heaven in Gospel.207 The passage from The Professor contains two important conceptualizations of the self in terms of casket and jewel, and it underlines the notion that the self must be protected from unwanted intruders. Lucy, likewise, tends to evade others’ intrusions into her private sphere. An image of her evasive activities is provided in the “artful pin” that she puts into her girdle in an effort to keep Ginevra Fanshawe at a (physical) distance. Beyond its function as an illustration of Lucy’s conversational strategies, her trick moreover indicates how closely privacy and identity (i. e., keeping others at a distance) are linked in her mind. Villette thus offers a number of images that are based on the idea of containment, often in relation with Lucy’s self – a container with a lid that can be opened and closed stands for the option of concealment, but also of revelation. The jewel in the casket is in Villette replaced by more complex, mutable attributes of the self, which are often embodied by psychomachia and alter ego figures.208

she describes her puzzlement over which school inmate could attract Dr. John to the Rue Fossette: “And busily, in my own mind, I ran over the list of our inmates, seeking this paragon, this pearl of great price, this gem without flaw” (13.124). 207 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls: Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it” (Matthew 13:45–46). Graham and Paulina’s union is thus portrayed as paradisiac and divinely approved: “In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives of Graham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob’s favoured son, with ‘blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies under.’ It was so, for God saw that it was good’” (37.437). Another reference might be to George Herbert’s “The Pearl”. 208 The psychomachia characters are discussed in chapter V on allegory.

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Who Is Lucy Snowe?

The Nun as Lucy’s Alter Ego

The question “Who are you?” is asked only twice in Villette. One instance (in the chronology of the novel it comes second) has already been discussed at length. In the earlier instance, Lucy asks the mysterious nun who she is, after the burial of Graham Bretton’s letters and immediately before she turns toward M. Paul.209 Lucy dramatizes the moment of her inner severance in the allegorical mode: “If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. I pondered now how to break up my winter-quarters […]. Perhaps, to effect this change, another pitched battle must be fought with fortune” (26.297f.). Lucy imagines herself as a soldier fighting alone in the war of life. Reflecting on the new phase of her life free from the false hope about Graham Bretton, she chooses the syntactical mode of the question and the allegory of the path to express her search for direction: “But what road was open? – what plan available?” (26.297). As if in answer to Lucy’s thoughts, the moon brightens and she discovers the nun in the dark alley, gradually materializing out of the shadows.210 Lucy, who has encountered this specular figure twice already, then addresses it: “‘Who are you? and why do you come to me?’” (26.297). The nun never replies but flees when Lucy approaches her. The fact that this important question is addressed to the nun throws a new light on the theme of identity in the novel. Lucy addresses the apparition in earnest: she believes her to be a supernatural being at this moment. The contradiction between Lucy’s Protestantism and her superstition, expressed in her reaction toward the nun, has already been discussed (see chapter 2); the passage at hand underlines how important the nun and Lucy’s reaction toward her are. The nun, who never speaks but only gazes at Lucy, is enigmatic to her ; she tries to solve this enigma by addressing her directly. She looks for answers from a nonentity, however : true to the homophone of her name, “none,” the being has “no face – no features”, and eventually disappears into “nothing” (26.297).211 The

209 The burial, an ambiguous symbolic act of Lucy’s, stands both for the conclusion of her infatuation with Dr. John, and the conservation of her feelings for him in the shape of the letters, which she seals carefully in a glass bottle. 210 “On this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto, seemed to shine out somewhat brighter : a ray even gleamed white before me, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, to make out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a little suddenly in the obscure alley : whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: it took shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about three yards from a tall, sablerobed, snowy-veiled woman” (26.297). 211 “Having passed that obstacle, I looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said, – ‘If you have any errand to me, come back and deliver it.’ Nothing spoke or reappeared” (26.297, my emphasis).

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nun as Lucy’s alter ego thus also embodies the threat of being a nothing, a nonentity.212 The importance of the nun regarding Lucy’s identity is underlined by the fact that she keeps appearing to Lucy when she is alone: it is both an image of Lucy herself and of what she might have become had she chosen the path envisioned for her by PHre Silas (see ch. 5). Even the homophone “none” suggests an analogy with Lucy’s existence: she is often compared to a nobody, a nonentity or a shadow, for example when she speaks of “her own still shadow-world” (discussed above).213 Right after Lucy’s arrival at Madame Beck’s school, the connection is introduced in the style of Lucy’s ‘visiting card’, when in place of a reference she can just produce the homophone of “nun”: “‘It is true;’ said she [Mme Beck], ‘but at least you can give a reference?’ ‘None’” (7.66). To M. Paul, Lucy never is a non-entity ; even before they have been introduced he meets her in the all8e d8fendue to give her flowers, and later on he is anything but indifferent to her doings: “‘You need watching, and watching over,’ he pursued; ‘and it is well for you that I see this, and do my best to discharge both duties’” (31.363). This attitude stands in stark contrast with Graham’s complete over212 The nun always appears to Lucy when she is by herself, except for one encounter together with M. Paul. She even seems to single her out by appearing mostly to Lucy, and for Graham Bretton the nun is even a product of Lucy’s own mind. The lexical association of the nun with “none” and “nothing” evokes a contemporary context, the work Fear and Anxiety (1844) by the Danish philosopher Kierkegaard. In it, he relates the existence of anxiety to nothing (see Bauer, Leben als Geschichte 275–299). 213 Lucy sometimes portrays herself as a shadow, e. g. when she does not wear white for Madame Beck’s birthday celebration like all other inhabitants of the school, but a “gown of shadow”: “In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feeling myself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage was not in me to put on a transparent white dress […]” (14.131). Bernstein discusses the significance of dress and fashion in Villette. M. Paul does not accept that Lucy is a nonentity : “‘Other people in this house see you pass, and think that a colourless shadow has gone by. As for me, I scrutinized your face once, and it sufficed’” (15.155). When Lucy suffers through a long phase in which she has lost contact with the Brettons, only having Graham’s letters on which to ‘feed’ her starved need for friendly companionship, she states: “It did not nourish me: I pined on it, and got as thin as a shadow : otherwise I was not ill” (24.268). When Graham and Lucy speak about his character as a boy in Bretton, he offends Lucy deeply by referring to her as a shadow, and she subsequently heartily rejects this attribute (though not to Graham’s face): “‘Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a being inoffensive as a shadow’” (27.317). Lucy quips about Graham’s portrayal of her as an ‘inoffensive shadow’ during her excursion into the park of Villette, when she is in disguise and does not want to be recognized by Graham: “had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle of Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him […] should have kept her quite tame, or absolutely inoffensive and shadow-like” (38.457). The ambiguity of Lucy’s shadow-existence lies in her rejection of the term when Graham uses it and her adoption of it when describing her own appearance (her dress) or role in certain situations, for example when she confesses that she enjoys encountering Graham “covered with a cloud” (16.175) before he has recognized her as his mother’s god-daughter.

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looking of Lucy as a person (to the degree of actually suggesting that she is invisible) when he tells her to collect the love letter thrown into the garden of the school: “‘Go, at once; pick it up and bring it here,’ was his prompt direction; adding, ‘Nobody will take notice of you: I should be seen’” (13.123). Another proof of his attitude is the fact that he fails to recognise Lucy as his mother’s goddaughter after working alongside her in the school for a considerable time. To him, she is a “nobody” as he will never know her – just as much as the nun will turn out to be a “nobody,” a trick played on Lucy by de Hamal and Ginevra. But this is only once Lucy has found out who she is herself.

9.

Independence: “I was no bright lady’s shadow”

The question “‘Who are you?’”, addressed to the nun, occurs in close proximity to Paulina’s offer of employing Lucy as a lady’s companion and her decisive rejection of this idea, as well as Ginevra’s “Who are you, Miss Snowe?” in the following chapter. Lucy’s negative response to Paulina’s offer of employment provides an insight about how Lucy sees herself. We now re-enter the sphere of employment and social standing, which also plays a role in the context of Lucy’s conversation with Ginevra. The reason Lucy cannot accept Paulina’s offer is that she is unable to do anything against her nature: “I could teach; I could give lessons; but to be either a private governess or a companion was unnatural to me” (26.298).214 Again, Lucy is capable of selfrecognition, but only ex negativo (“unnatural to me”). Her “peace and independence” (26.298) are more valuable than money or social standing. A selfdescription follows, spoken from the perspective of the narrating I, which provides some information about the reasons why Lucy does not want to be Paulina’s companion, even though it would mean more money and lighter work: I was no bright lady’s shadow – not Miss de Bassompierre’s. Overcast enough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but the dimness and depression must both be voluntary – such as kept me docile at my desk, in the midst of my now wellaccustomed pupils in Madame Beck’s first classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, or in the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden; my qualifications were not convertible, not adaptable; they could not be made the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage of any greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating, understood each other well. I was not her 214 Lucy could, however, take on a life of isolation as Miss Marchmont’s companion. The clue to her inability to become Paulina’s companion lies in the term “bright lady”, which certainly does not describe Miss Marchmont’s way of life. But being in the old lady’s service, however restricting it may be, suits Lucy : “All within me became narrowed to my lot” (4.37).

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companion, nor her children’s governess; she left me free; she tied me to nothing – not to herself – not even to her interests […]. (26.298)

Lucy takes the expression “bright lady”215 as a starting point and then imagines her own role as the very opposite. The first sentence is ambiguous: it means that she was no shadow, and not that of a bright lady ; and it also means that she was a shadow, but not that of a bright lady. The second reading is supported by her self-descriptions as shadow-like in the course of the novel (see footnote 82 above), and moreover by the ensuing attributes with which she describes her nature: “[o]vercast”, “subdued”, “dimness”, “depression”. “Overcast” especially oscillates in meaning, primarily relating to the weather216 and, in an obsolete and rare meaning, evoking the notion of being “overthrown” or “overturned.”217 Both meanings point to something lying underneath a visible exterior that remains hidden from sight, thus implying a pervasive ‘doubleness’ to Lucy’s selfperception. “[S]ubdued” takes up the meaning of “[o]vercast”, which is directly related to character description; maybe also implying the power relationship between the lady and her companion as her “submissive”.218 In both these words, literal and figurative levels of meaning come together to make a statement about Lucy’s character, and in their figurative aspects allude to the catastrophe of Lucy’s youth. The antithetical prefixes “over” and “sub” respectively indicate that the adjectives have been chosen carefully and are deliberately paired. Lucy admits that she has some of the traits of a “shadow,” but the crucial difference is that she must have the choice of living in “dimness and depression,” rejecting the idea of being someone else’s shadow – unless voluntarily, she cannot make her qualities serviceable to anyone. They belong to her nature and define her individuality, in the same way that her first name attributes a “light” of her own to her.219 Lucy associates the classroom, the forbidden alley and the dormitory in Madame Beck’s school with her present position, underlining their suitability to her inclinations – all of these places are private ones, in which Lucy can be more or less certain to be left alone (the classroom, albeit a public space, contains her writing-desk, which can be locked, and must be counted as a private space of Lucy’s). 215 “Of persons: ‘Resplendent with charms’ (Johnson); beautiful, fair. arch.” (OED, “bright”, adj., 3) Although the use is already archaic in Bront[’s time, Coleridge still uses it in his 1816 poem “Christabel”: “A bright lady, surpassingly fair” (19; qtd. in OED). 216 “Of the sky or weather : clouded over, characterized by a covering of cloud; dull, gloomy” (OED, “overcast”, adj. 1). 217 “Overthrown, overturned; upset, spilt. Obs. rare” (OED, “overcast”, adj. 3). 218 “Reduced to subjection; characterized by submission; subjugated, overcome; submissive” (“subdued”, adj. A.1.). “Reduced in intensity, strength, or vividness; lacking vibrancy ; restrained; toned down; quiet” (“subdued”, adj. A.2.). 219 “Lucy” is etymologically related to Latin “lux”, light.

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Madame Beck rewards each of the teachers materially for their fidelity after she has been absent from her school for two weeks, everyone except for Lucy, whom she promises personal freedom instead, knowing that any other kind of reward would give rise to misunderstanding between them. The passage illustrates how important her integrity is to Lucy. She is an individual in the genuine sense of the word.220 The narrator’s comment does not show Lucy as searching and doubtful, but stresses her “nature” as the essential part of her character that acts as a compass in making the decision of rejecting Paulina’s offer of employment. Lucy knows her own “nature” quite well, at least at the time of narrating, and also at the time of experiencing she reacts without hesitation. In the same chapter in which this self-analysis occurs, M. Paul reproaches Lucy with a lack of “‘spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice, or self-abasement’” (26.301) in one of his outbreaks at discovering that Lucy goes out with the Brettons quite frequently. As in their conversation about Lucy’s difficulties while taking care of Marie Broc in the gallery, M. Paul again draws on the life of the nuns to set a counter-example to what he considers (or pretends to consider) Lucy’s pleasureloving ways: “‘He would recommend me to look at the Catholic ‘religieuses,’ and study their lives. They asked no change’” (26.302). With comments like these,221 M. Paul keeps imposing the life of a nun as a sort of ‘foil’ to Lucy’s life, showing an obsession with the idea on his part (or a subconscious association of Lucy with his first love, Justine-Marie, who eventually dies in a convent) and reminding the reader that Lucy’s existence indeed already resembles that of a nun in some points.222 However, the life of a nun would be a direct contrast to Lucy’s need for independence and freedom, which she asserts in response to Paulina. Living in a convent, in the knowledge that the church takes care of her spiritual fate and absorbed in the uniform religious community, she would be “absolved” from her individuality. This is not the only instance in which Lucy directly reflects on her position in life and the complex associations connected with the notion of independence. In the chapter “The Dryad”, which occurs five chapters after the one just discussed, Lucy indicates that a development has taken place in her ideas of herself and her life. She has fallen asleep at her desk to wake and find that some unknown friend has covered her in a warm shawl while she slept. Lucy wonders who this friend might be, but cannot guess that it was M. Paul – he tells her later, when they walk in the garden together before the nun appears to them. But first Lucy wanders 220 The OED online cites “post-classical Latin individualis relating to or existing as a separate entity (from 12th cent. in British sources)” and “classical Latin indı¯viduus indivisible, inseparable” as important etymological roots (“individual, adj. and n.”). 221 M. Paul introduces the comparison again in the gallery scene, which is discussed below. 222 This aspect is discussed in ch. V.

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along the all8e d8fendue by herself, developing in her mind the plan of opening a school to reach “an independent position” (31.360), which M. Paul will help her achieve eventually. After Lucy has considered some practical aspects of her project, her thoughts continue in an introspective strain: Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steady exertion by-andby, an object in life need not fail you. Venture not to complain that such an object is too selfish, too limited, and lacks interest; be content to labour for independence until you have proved, by winning that prize, your right to look higher. But afterwards, is there nothing more for me in life – no true home – nothing to be dearer to me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from me better things than I care to culture for myself only? Nothing, at whose feet I can willingly lay down the whole burden of human egotism, and gloriously take up the nobler charge of labouring and living for others? (31.361)

As though looking into a mirror and addressing her reflection, Lucy speaks to herself in the second person. The phrase introduced by “[b]ut afterwards” appears as the answer of her reflection in the mirror, spoken in an internalized dialogue.223 She wants to reach economic independence; but her goal in life is not limited to this, and we have seen that the personal need for independence (in a non-economic sense) is an integral part of Lucy’s nature. Her thoughts here begin with the necessity of “self-denial and economy” in the sense of saving money, but these terms quickly lead her to a more personal perspective: “But afterwards, is there nothing more for me in life – no true home – nothing to be dearer to me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from me better things than I care to culture for myself only?” (my emphases). After she has buried her affection for Graham Bretton with his letters, Lucy is still searching for love, for the experience of being recognized and accepted by another person. The comparative degree (“dearer”; “better”) indicates that Lucy wants to go beyond living by and for herself. Her plan consists of stages, of which the first is “an object in life” and economic independence, followed by the attainment of a “true home” (Lucy resorts to housing imagery to portray an emotional aspect, but there is also a religious connotation to this idea of a “true home”224), which will allow her to live for more than just herself. Lucy’s wish of laying down “the whole burden of human egotism” echoes M. Paul’s reproach that she is an egotist (see 19.203, discussed below). The voluntary denial of the self for the sake of someone else would provide her with the ultimate fulfilment. The literal notion of “economy” as the starting point of her reflections is developed: While self-denial is necessary to reach economic 223 This passage resembles a soliloquy spoken by a character alone on stage. 224 “Jesus answered and said unto him, If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him” (John 14:23).

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independence (e. g., to save enough money to open her own school), the selfdenial that follows this stage means to work and live for someone beside herself. Again, the key notion of voluntariness is stressed in the adverb “willingly”. The form of the soliloquy embodies the topic of the passage: Lucy speaks with herself about the need to practise self-denial and of living without the support of anyone else. For lack of an actual interlocutor, she resorts to this familiar mode of putting questions to herself. The inward dialogue is the form in which Lucy’s ambivalence and inner struggles, as well as her loneliness, find expression. It is also related to the inherent ambiguity of her personality. The direction her life will take from this point is announced by M. Paul’s appearance shortly after she has concluded her reflections: he starts a real dialogue with her. For the time being, however, it is up to Lucy to answer her own question: I suppose, Lucy Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be so rounded: for you, the crescentphase must suffice. Very good. I see a huge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I see that a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life on conditions of denial and privation. I find no reason why I should be of the few favoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep. (31.361)

The “conditions of denial and privation” Lucy mentions toward the end of her inward dialogue now do not stand for the lack of economic independence, but for the absence of a higher goal than that, for the lack of a sympathetic presence to dedicate one’s efforts to. Lucy realises that she can only speculate about the things in store for her in the future (“I suppose”; “I believe”) but that she can always believe in that which is to come; she portrays herself as part of the “huge mass,” only relying on her own belief that she will also experience happiness and fulfilment. Having passed from the economic perspective to the love of another person, Lucy’s thoughts then turn to the afterlife. If she cannot have her desires fulfilled on earth, they might come to fruition in heaven. The almost omnipresent uncertainty characterising her existence seasons this hope as well: Lucy’s spiritual uncertainty and the reality of her faith are compactly expressed in the contrastive parallelism of the last sentence: “I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.”

The Onlooker at Life and the Theatricality of the Self

10.

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This section deals with three aspects that are relevant to the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?” and further illustrate the ambiguity of her role in the text. The first aspect relates to the inherent ‘doubleness’ of her textual presence in the fictional autobiography as narrating and experiencing self. The second aspect concerns Lucy’s behaviour in and portrayal of herself in social situations. Both come together in the scenes in which Lucy appears as both observer and participant in interactions and it will be shown how the interplay between these aspects of her existence and the way they are portrayed by means of ‘mirror figures’, embodiments of and comments on social expectations of how a woman should live her life, informs her identity in a third aspect. The doubling of narrating and experiencing self is mirrored in Lucy’s portrayal of herself as a passive observer on numerous occasions, but it becomes more defined when Lucy leaves this role behind: She reluctantly gives up the role of passive observer225 in order to be an actress in the vaudeville put on by M. Paul. The unwonted part Lucy plays results in a moment of anagnorisis and plays with the notion of taking on a role in so far as Lucy has changed her usual behaviour by accepting a theatrical one, and the actual character she embodies on stage corresponds to that of Ginevra’s real-life suitor, Colonel de Hamal. The verb “reveal” emphasizes Lucy’s moment of anagnorisis: her first speech on stage “reveal[s] to [her] this fact, that it [is] not the crowd [she] fear[s], so much as [her] own voice” (14.140). This is the first insight Lucy gains in the context of her participation in the play : the main obstacle lies in her confrontation with herself (her voice), not with appearing before the strangers in the crowd. The second insight is related to her personal theatrical inclination, and the wish to perform (on stage): “A keen relish for dramatic expression had revealed itself as part of my nature” (14.141). The act of writing her autobiography is a way of expressing herself.226 Maybe even more telling than Lucy’s love of dramatic expression is her reaction to this discovery : she decides to ignore it, and, in a metaphor anticipating the burial of Graham Bretton’s letters, seals that part of her nature “with the lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has since picked.” The reason: “it would not do for a mere looker-on at life” (14.141).227 The theatrical 225 This characteristic sentence from the first chapter sums up her habitual attitude: “I stood still, gazed, and considered” (1.6). 226 See Rabinowitz, “‘Faithful Narrator’ or ‘Partial Eulogist’: First-Person Narration in Bront[’s Villette.”. 227 The OED’s definition of the term “looker on” stresses the element of passivity : “one who looks on; a beholder, spectator, eye-witness. Often, one who merely looks on, without taking part” (“looker”, n., 1.c). Annette Tromly dedicates a section on Lucy’s role as

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notion of an onlooker is transported into the realm of life, and the entire playacting episode confirms this link, calling to mind the ancient trope of the world as stage.228 The theatrical episode underlines the multi-facetedness and complexity of Lucy’s character. The theatrical scene is relevant to the notion of self-discovery in that it is an analogy to real life: The play and the actors anticipate what will happen on the stage of life, namely the love triangle between Ginevra, Colonel de Hamal, and Graham Bretton. The boundaries between fiction and reality have already been crossed during the performance, when Lucy notices that Ginevra addresses one spectator in particular, almost making him a participant in the play : “[…] it presently became evident she was acting at some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; […]” (14.140f.). Ginevra’s role becomes even double: she addresses Graham as in real life, like a participant in a psychodrama,229 and is seen by Lucy as an Amor-figure, who is aiming “shafts” at the man she wants to fall in love with her. At the same time, Lucy embodies Colonel de Hamal’s role in the triangle, who is also a spectator of Ginevra’s performance. Lucy is actor and spectator at the same time.230 onlooker at life in her study of Charlotte Bront[ as well, emphasising that Lucy has chosen not to be an ‘actor’ in life and firmly sticks to her resolution (66ff.). 228 See for example Proske 8–40 and Warnke for an overview of the history of the trope. That the theatre and artistic representation in general imitate reality is a classical idea of literary criticism. Aristotle introduces the idea of mimesis early on in his Poetics: “[e]pic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in their general conception modes of imitation” (I.2). To Cicero, comedy was “imitatio vitae, speculum consuetudinis, imago veritatis.” A literary example of the interplay between drama and reality is the mousetrap scene in Hamlet, in which the play presented by the actors mirrors the reality of Claudius’ murder of the king in order to expose his guilt (see Hamlet 3.2.134–262). Conversely, there is the idea of the world as a stage, the theatrum mundi (invoked by Pythagoras and Plato). Another Shakespearean source is Jaques’ famous speech in As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players” (2.7.139–140). “Consistently, men who watched a dramatic performance of any kind, or pondered a classical comedy in manuscript, seem to have been tempted to equate the real world with the imaginary kingdom of the stage, to describe Man as an actor and assign either to Fate or to God Himself the double position of dramatist and audience” (Righter 65). This doubling of real and dramatic world opens many possibilities for ambiguity, starting with the double role of actor and spectator that comes with it. 229 See Proske 120–124. 230 Manfred Wekwerth’s notion of theatrical doubling (“theatrale Dopplung”) is relevant here: “Theater besteht in der gleichzeitigen Anwesenheit von Produzierenden und Zuschauern, die beide zugleich Produzent und Produkt, Teil der Wirklichkeit und Abbildung der Wirklichkeit sind. Der Spieler, der die Spielfläche betritt, zeigt an, daß er sich verdoppelt. Er ist ein Mensch, der die Fläche betritt und etwas anderes als er ist” (qtd. in Greiner 285). Lucy, in her role as fop, is thus doubled, and this figure of doubling is underlined by the fact that her role has (to her mind) a real-life counterpart, the fop de Hamal.

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The role of onlooker goes hand in hand with Lucy’s artistic inclinations (the existence of which she equivocally denies in the chapter “Villette”).231 One of the questions belonging to the general one of “Who am I?” relates to Lucy’s existence as an artist. She is someone who tells the narrative of her own life, and within that narrative she portrays herself as a spectator (although her role also changes in the course of events). This is also related to her desire to know in general – by looking on, she gathers information.232

10.1

Experiencing and narrating

Closely related to Lucy’s double role as spectator and actor in life are the roles of narrating and experiencing in her own life story. The relationship between these two roles is epitomized in the nightly scene at the park. Lucy is literally beside herself with grief over M. Paul’s assumed departure, and the opiate she has taken is moreover causing a kind of ‘double vision’, looking at herself as at another person, mirroring the narrative perspective of the fictional autobiography, which is the precondition for a basic ambiguity when these perspectives start to overlap or even to interact with each other.233 The beginning of chapter 39 illustrates the special relationship between experiencing and narrating I: When Lucy has discovered the “secret junta” of Madame Beck, Madame Walravens and PHre Silas, she remains close to them, on a hidden seat underneath the trees, appointed to her as though by friendly spirits. In a brief narrative digression, Lucy then tells the story of how these three are involved with M. Paul’s journey overseas, summing up what she has gathered from rumour during the previous days: “Let me now briefly tell the reader all that, during the past dark fortnight, I have been silently gathering from Rumour, 231 “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; […]” (7.61). Lucy introduces the comparison of the canals to snakes right after stating that she lacks an “artistic temperament,” giving evidence to the contrary. 232 The detail of Lucy’s observations, which has its origin in her position as spectator, produces the figure of evidentia: “Before the speaker can talk the audience into participating as a fictional eyewitness, he has to produce an imagined experience of his own invention” (Lausberg 361; § 811). 233 Anne Reboul has examined the potential for ambiguity in the interplay between experiencing and narrating instances in fictional autobiography (see Bauer et al. 32). Anne Reboul, “Represented Speech and Thought and Auctorial Irony : Ambiguity and Metarepresentation in Literature”, in Bogaards, P., Rooryck, J. & Smith, P.J. (eds), Quitte ou double sens: articles sur l’ambigui¨te´ offerts a` Ronald Landheer, Rodopi, Amsterdam, 2001, 253–277.

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respecting the origin and the object of M. Paul’s departure. The tale is short, and not new : its alpha is Mammon, and its Omega, Interest” (39.461). In a sense, she tells this story based on hearsay, which is explicitly presented as a “tale”, and thus as a construct of questionable origins, while she sits there in the shadow, with “[her] head bent, and [her] forehead resting on [her] hands”, since, as she explains, “there was scarce motive to attend” to the group in front of her (39.462). The story sums up the experiencing I’s knowledge at the moment of sitting there in the park, and the fact that the narration suggests that Lucy is telling it to the reader there on the spot shows some intermixing of the perspectives of experiencing and narrating I.

10.2

“I might have taken this discovery as a thunderclap”: The Mixing of Narrative Perspectives

The only time a trauma is fully articulated in Villette, albeit under the guise of a vision or dream and while Lucy is under the influence of a drug, are the phantasmagoria scenes during her nightly wanderings through the park. The reader witnesses Lucy’s perceptions and thoughts at the moment when the events, which she perceives as a fateful turning point in her life, are unfolding. Her emotional upheaval in response to the scenes in the park is expressed by the frequent changes of tense, from the past, which is the tense of the whole novel (apart from individual sentences when the narrating I speaks directly, commenting on the act of narration or introducing a reflection that is directly related to the perspective of the narrating I, which happens rarely apart from “I know not”), to the present tense. The moments when the present tense are used show that Lucy, as an old woman remembering and narrating her life, has been transported back to her first years in Villette and has overcome the temporal distance between the moment of experiencing and that of narrating. The shift into the present tense characterizing the experience of the phantasmagoria occurs after Lucy has taken the opiate and looks for a way out of the school. The immediacy of her experience is further underlined by the direct question, reflecting Lucy’s thought at the moment of experiencing: “Will the dormitory planks sustain my tread untraiterous? Yes. I know wherever a board is loose, and will avoid it” (38.451). Under the influence of the drug, Lucy’s thoughts centre around one objective at this moment – leaving the school – and the use of the present tense underlines the ‘tunnel vision’ Lucy experiences, (seemingly) eliminating the perspective of the narrating I for the time being. The

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central verb “know” occurs here (albeit not in Lucy’s signature version, the negation), at the point of the first switch of tenses.234 Lucy then descends from the dormitory to the classrooms on the ground floor of the school: “The classes seem to my thought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares and for me, filled with spectral and intolerable memories, laid miserable amongst their straw and manacles” (38.451). The present tense here underlines Lucy’s feeling of entrapment, of being locked in the experience of this claustrophobic nightmare. The images of prison and grave are mixed, calling to mind the fate of the nun who is supposedly buried in the school garden, and once more forming a parallel between her and Lucy’s fate. Like the nun, Lucy feels buried in the classes and the school. The memories are personified, lying like prisoners in their cells. Again, Lucy’s inner life is portrayed in an allegory that crosses the boundary between the literal and figurative level when Lucy first compares the actual classes to jails and fills them with the prisoners of her memories. The association of memories and prisoners also throws light on the act of narration itself; it implies that Lucy is drawn back into the past (or at least that problematic part of her past) by her memories almost against her will, like a prisoner bound by manacles – this might also be an explanation of the present tense.235 The phantasmagoria scenes indeed comprise a climax of Lucy’s despair, as is indicated by her reflections after she has failed to see M. Paul (respectively to be seen by him) during his farewell visit to his pupils: “There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in some certain minutes I then passed alone – a grief inexpressible over a loss unendurable. What should I do; oh! what should I do; when all my life’s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?” (38.445). Lucy echoes Christian’s cry in The Pilgrim’s Progress, “What shall I do?” (PP 11), and again the dimension of experience seems to be in the foreground. Lucy’s “riven” heart anticipates her cry that her “‘heart will break’” in her unexpected meeting with M. Paul after she has returned from the park, 234 The narrative switches from being “subsequent” to “simultaneous” (Genette 217; 218f.). Genette captures the “ambivalence and reversibility” of the simultaneous narration: “So it is as if use of the present tense, bringing the instances [action and discourse, OS] together, had the effect of unbalancing their equilibrium and allowing the whole of the narrative to tip, according to the slightest shifting of emphasis, either onto the side of the story or onto the side of the narrating, that is, the discourse” (219). 235 Sally Shuttleworth has commented on this sentence: “Thus the classrooms which initially only ‘seem’ to Lucy to be like jails quickly become ‘filled with spectral and intolerable memories, laid miserable amongst their straw and their manacles’ […]. The controlling distance of ‘seems’ is collapsed, as ‘memories’, normally restricted to the realm of the mind, take on vivid physical form” (CB and Victorian Psychology, 240f.). William Blake envisions “mind-forg’d manacles” in his poem “London” (1794). Like Lucy’s memories, they are both immaterial and real.

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and fears that this chance to have an interview too might be disrupted by Madame Beck. The present tense, and the accompanying intensification of young Lucy’s perspective, also foregrounds the illusion to which young Lucy falls prey, weakening the distance of the older Lucy. When Lucy discovers Madame Beck’s young daughter at the fÞte of Villette, she reacts to this with the following, highly ambiguous sentence: “I might have taken this discovery as a thunderclap, but such hyperbole would have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one degree, ere it reached its climax” (38.458). The sentence interrupts the description of the scene as seen through the eyes of the experiencing I and introduces the voice of the narrating I, evaluating the discovery and her own reaction to it at the moment.236 The sentence draws attention to itself as a kind of ‘aside’237, spoken ‘in between’ the descriptions of the fÞte. The sentence is logically impossible and therefore invites reflection on how this effect is created and what its function is – how can the experiencing Lucy, from whose perspective the sentence seems to be spoken, know that an even greater discovery is still to come? The reader is thus challenged to find an explanation for (or to accommodate in his interpretation) this impossible sentence. The experiencing I evaluates both her own reaction and her way of narrating it. However, she refrains from communicating her actual reaction at the time. Lucy mentions one possible reaction, but we only learn that she does not react as if the discovery was a thunderclap. However, this is not the only way to read the sentence: She does not choose to represent the discovery as if it was a thunderclap. The sentence is an example of Lucy’s characteristic narrative reticence: She communicates via the negative, i. e., instead of describing her reaction, she tells her reader how she did not react. Her actual reaction therefore remains a

236 In Genettian terms, this is an alteration, more specifically a paralepsis: “Alterations take two forms: paralepsis, the inclusion of an event against the norm of a particular focalization; and paralipsis, a similarly transgressive omission of such an event” (Niederhoff, “Focalization”, paragraph 7). 237 Considering the numerous allusions to the experiences in the park as theatrical, calling the sentence an ‘aside’ is appropriate. The national holiday of Villette features “spectacles” (38.453), and Lucy herself is both an actress and a spectator, entering the scene in disguise. Justine Marie’s entrance has a dramatic quality and the terms Lucy uses to describe it are taken from the sphere of the theatre: “At this instant a torch chanced to be carried past; its blaze aided the pale moon in doing justice to the crisis, in lighting to perfect revelation the d8nouement pressing on” (39.464). She later on refers to this moment once more as “crisis” and “revelation” (39.464). After the supposed discovery of M. Paul’s attachment to Justine Marie, Lucy turns away from the scene, commenting: “The play was not yet indeed quite played out, I might have waited and watched longer that love scene under the trees, that sylvan courtship” (39.467). Lucy narrates and interprets her own (past) consciousness.

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matter of conjecture, further complicated by the uncertainty of the narrative perspective. The notion of dreaming/a distorted perception of reality, which is primarily linked to the fact that Lucy has been given a strong sleeping draught of opium, might provide an explanation of the sentence seeming to project (posterior) knowledge of the narrating I onto the experiencing I: This would result in the creation of a kind of ‘dream consciousness’, i. e., the experience of watching one’s own actions and feelings from a bird’s-eye perspective while at the same time experiencing them. Here the narrative perspective of the fictional autobiography becomes relevant: The content of the sentence must of course be attributed to the referent of the first person – the “I”. But more than one individual voice/perspective is associated with this “I”: There is the voice and perspective of the older Lucy, telling her story in retrospect (narrating I), and there are the voices and perspectives of Lucy’s younger selves (experiencing I(s)).238 The first part of the sentence, “I might have taken this discovery as a thunderclap”, must be taken to refer to the experience of the former self and the shock she experiences when discovering D8sir8e. But then the next phrase, surprisingly, calls this a “hyperbole” and “premature”: we arrive at the logically impossible statement that Lucy did not feel the shock of surprise at the discovery because a much greater discovery was to come. This is brought about by mingling the reference to the experience with a reference to the expression (calling it hyperbole). The aforementioned words introduce the perspective of the narrating I and its wide temporal horizon, which goes beyond the most recent events to include those which have not happened yet at this point of the story (i. e., from the experiencing I’s point of view). Lucy’s experience (or perception) and her retrospective expression of this experience are thus both relevant to the sentence. The sentence creates an amalgamation of two different consciousnesses (which belong to the same person, but at different points in time).239

238 Rimmon-Kenan writes: “Focalization and narration are also separate in first-person retrospective narratives” (74). 239 Ann Banfield takes into account Descartes’ thoughts on the human faculties when formulating her theory of the representation of speech and thought in narratives. Descartes distinguishes between the “passive faculty of perception, that is, of receiving and recognizing the ideas of sensible things,” (non-reflective) and “another active faculty capable of forming and producing these ideas” (reflective) (qtd. in Banfield 197; Descartes, Meditation VI, 1968, I, p. 191). The experiencing I would thus be more closely linked with the faculty of perception, the narrating I would be linked with the side of production and comment (Banfield 197). Banfield moreover points out the vital importance of language as an indicator of consciousness: “A request for linguistic information is the catalyst, for to speak of something always implies reflective consciousness of it” (198).

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The sentence clearly focuses on the nature of “discovery” itself and emphasises the word qua repetition: It is the direct object of the first phrase and the subject of the second phrase, almost becoming an agent in its own right. But, going a step beyond merely mentioning and evaluating this particular discovery, the utterance also calls attention to the very premise and definition of the act of discovering something: to the development from not-knowing to knowing.240 In the paragraph preceding the sentence, Lucy still uses the ‘ordinary’ perspective of the experiencing I to describe what she sees at the fÞte. The voice of the narrating I has come into play in the chapter before, but is always clearly identifiable as such, for example when Lucy’s narrating I comments on Louisa Bretton’s and M. de Bassompierre’s behaviour toward herself and explicitly speaks of the act of remembering (V 456; ch. 38: “Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their remembered benevolence”). In the context of the importance attributed to remembering beloved friends in the context of the “Auld Lang Syne” allusions, this is particularly relevant. But the epistemological intricacies of the sentence do not allow the interpretation that the experiencing I is the focaliser : How is the experiencing I to know at this moment that other, momentous discoveries are still to come, as the part of the sentence after the semicolon suggests? We take the “thunderclap” to refer to the experience of the former self, i.e the shock she felt at the moment. But then the next phrase, surprisingly, calls this a “hyperbole” and “premature”: we arrive at the logically impossible statement that Lucy did not feel the shock of surprise at the discovery because a much greater discovery was to come. This is brought about by mingling the reference to the experience with a reference to the expression (calling it hyperbole). The reader is thus asked to find an explanation for (or to accommodate) this impossible sentence. We still need to take into account the subjunctive mood of the first two verbs (especially the formulation with “might have” + past participle) and the diction of the sentence. The subjunctive seems to signal that the experiencing I is the focaliser, until the adversative continuation of the sentence: “[…] but such hyperbole would have been premature […]”. The very first part of the sentence may be spoken with either the experiencing or the narrating I as focaliser, but the second part contains knowledge not available to the experiencing I at this point. Therefore, the narrating I must be the focaliser of this second phrase. The subjunctive may be read as an “irrealis” or as a “potentialis”.241 The irrealis mode would signify that it is out of the question that Lucy could have 240 “The finding out or bringing to light of that which was previously unknown; making known: also with a and pl., an instance of this” (OED online 3.a, “discovery”). 241 Another example of the past tense subjunctive is clearly marked as an irrealis: “I might have paused longer upon what I saw ; I might have deliberated ere I drew inferences” (39.467). The reading suggested by the context is clear : ‘But I did not.’

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taken the discovery as a thunderclap; the potentialis would mean that taking the discovery as a thunderclap was at some point possible. The latter option is clearly linked to the perspective of the experiencing I. Only from the perspective of the narrating I can one of the possible ways of reacting be completely excluded. In terms of focalisation, the first part of the sentence is ambiguous: For a brief moment, the perspectives of the experiencing and the narrating I coexist, underlining the epistemological focus of the chapter : What can be known? What is the truth? The sentence illustrates that the perception of exterior/physical and interior/mental phenomena depends on the perspective. Experience is spoken of in terms of narration: The act of narration and of experiencing overlap. A second kind of ambiguity arises from the polysemy of the words “hyperbole”, “rise”, “climax”, and the verb “take”. “Hyperbole” and “climax” are names of rhetorical figures.242 They thus have connotations that remind the reader that s/he is dealing with a text of which the words are purposefully chosen in order to achieve an effect; they introduce a meta-level of meaning. Likewise the verb “rise”, which calls to mind another literary device, namely the rising action in a drama “which precedes the climax” (A Dictionary of Literary Terms, “rising action”). These origins and connotations result in a polysemy in which the literary/rhetorical meanings resonate in the words even though they are only used metaphorically here. The ambiguity of “take” is related to the open question of who is the focaliser in the first part of the sentence. The verb can be interpreted literally (from the perspective of the experiencing I) in the sense of “perceive”, “see” or “experience” (i. e., “I might have perceived/experienced this discovery as a thunderclap” / “I might have reacted to this discovery as to a thunderclap”). This reading underlines the interpretative activity of the experiencing I concerning her own experience.

10.3

Lucy as Spectator: The “Cleopatra” and Vashti

Lucy’s role as a looker-on at life is central to her conception and portrayal of herself in the text. That is why her comments regarding the objects she looks at, in particular the artistic ones, tell the reader much about her character.243 In a 242 “hyperbole (Gk ‘overcasting’) A figure of speech which contains an exaggeration for emphasis. […]”; “climax That part of a story or play (for that matter, many forms of narrative) at which a crisis (q.v.) is reached and resolution achieved” (both from J.A. Cuddon, A Dictionary of Literary Terms, 1979). 243 In her article “Arnold and Bront[ on Rachel,” Rachel M. Brownstein writes: “Her reactions to others, and their reflections of her, are all we have of Lucy, for her self, being reactive and critical, can find no other form” (8). I agree with the first statement but disagree with the

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manner of speaking, all objects, and especially the ones purposely made as representations of (female) life, ask Lucy the question Ginevra asks of her as well: “Who are you?” The fact that there are multiple meanings underlines the complexity of Lucy’s consciousness and her way of looking at life, in many ways the exact opposite of the stereotypes of a woman’s life offered by her surroundings. She will not be reduced to an easily decodable image of female life but instead follows her highly individual, complex path, which is reflected in the various instances of ambiguity of the text. The works of art function as figurative mirrors in which Lucy searches for reflections of her own personal experience. The following two scenes literalise Lucy’s self-ascribed role of spectator in life: she looks at various works of art in a gallery of Villette and attends a theatrical performance with a famous actress. Both contexts provide Lucy with the occasion of making statements about her idea of the purpose of art and to reflect on her response to the works of art she sees and their relationship to her own existence. The first scene occurs during Lucy’s recovery following her depression during the long vacation at La Terrasse, when her acquaintance with the Brettons has been renewed. After the great trial and crisis of the long vacation, a period of rest follows, which Lucy spends in happy company with Graham Bretton and his mother, exploring the city with her former playmate and discovering many of its attractions under his direction. Lucy explains her interest in art as “an ignorant, blind, fond instinct” (19.198), placing it on the level of emotional rather than intellectual response. She particularly likes to look at paintings alone, without being forced to make conversation or clever comments on them to some companion. This indicates that the perusal of paintings touches a side of her that she likes to keep private, and that her ‘reading’ of paintings is deeply personal. Before she describes her experience at the gallery, Lucy reflects on her own reaction to paintings that are admired by the general public: The former faculty [Will, OS] exacted approbation of that which it was considered orthodox to admire; the latter [Power, OS] groaned forth its utter inability to pay the tax; it was then self-sneered at, spurred up, goaded on to refine its taste, and whet its zest. The more it was chidden, however, the more it wouldn’t praise. (19.198f.)

Lucy’s reaction to most of the paintings that are presented in the gallery is negative: She cannot find herself, her own experience of life, in them, and she cannot change her judgment in accordance with popular opinion. Even here, the question “Who am I?” is indirectly addressed in the sense that Lucy cannot

reason for Lucy’s mode of expression given here. On theatricality in Villette, see also Litvak 82ff.

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change how she feels toward the paintings.244 Lucy finds herself unable to admire certain paintings with “great names” because convention dictates it; she must follow her own tastes and inclinations. She is looking for “truth” and “nature” (19.199) in the paintings, and she discovers it in certain small still-lifes, as opposed to the “well-executed and complacent-looking fat women [which] struck [Lucy] as by no means the goddesses they appeared to consider themselves” (19.199). The paintings do not speak to Lucy, and she will describe a particular example of such a work in detail in the “Cleopatra.” The exceptions to those paintings she calls “dear as friends” (19.199), indicating once more her personal involvement with the paintings. The “Cleopatra,” commonly considered the masterpiece of the collection, only alienates Lucy in its portrayal of an enormous woman lounging inexplicably on a couch in broad daylight. Lucy’s lightly sarcastic description is concluded with this straightforward verdict: “while some of the details […] were very prettily painted, it was on the whole an enormous piece of claptrap” (19.200). Some little pictures of still-life hanging underneath the big and showy “Cleopatra” painting are much more to Lucy’s taste, being more discreet and modest in comparison to “that coarse and preposterous canvas” (19.200). When M. Paul arrives on the scene, he discovers Lucy sitting by herself in front of the “Cleopatra.” He is shocked at her “‘astounding insular audacity’” to look at the erotically charged image, and immediately escorts her to another part of the gallery, where he commands her to look at four paintings representing “La Vie d’une Femme,” which Lucy finds even more provoking than the “Cleopatra” in their ugliness and dullness, let alone in their message about what a woman’s life should be like (19.201). She revolts against the portrayal of women as sensualist enormities, such as the “Cleopatra,” but also against their image as “insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless nonentities” (19.202), as in the four small paintings, which are badly executed to make matters worse. A sort of negative identification takes place: in rejecting the truth of the paintings, Lucy rejects their authority to tell spectators how to lead one’s life. These portrayals of women, in contrast to the carefully executed paintings of still life, do not lead to any kind of insight for Lucy ; they do not enable her to draw any positive lesson from them and to develop her knowledge of herself. The strain of negative images continues in Lucy’s ensuing conversation with M. Paul about her experiences during the long vacation, in which he reproaches her with a weak heart, lack of courage “‘and, perhaps, charity’” (19.203) when she mentions her unpleasant cohabitation with Marie Broc, the cretin. Lucy must hear that she is an egotist and that her own illness during the vacation was a sign 244 The reader is reminded of Polonius’ phrase “To thine own self be true” in this context (Hamlet 1.3.).

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of great weakness. M. Paul’s replies in the conversation are mostly formulated in the negative: he describes what he sees as her failures in terms of lack and limits, as well as by numerous negations (“‘Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy’ […] ‘You are not cast in an heroic mould: your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude […]’” (19.203f.)). Lucy’s negative experience of the paintings in the sense that she cannot identify with the women who are their subjects is continued in M. Paul’s utterances about her. While M. Paul’s words mainly sound reproachful, they become ambiguous when considering the ending of the novel: These characteristics of Lucy’s may be the reason that M. Paul can love her in all her ‘otherness’. Lucy’s role of spectator is underlined again when she starts looking at the visitors of the gallery who have assembled in front of the “Cleopatra.” M. Paul immediately notes her change of focus: “‘How! At what are you gazing now?’” (19.204). Lucy singles out Colonel de Hamal and Graham Bretton in the crowd and observes their reactions to the painting that move between unqualified admiration and cool appraisal respectively, putting off the moment when she signals to Graham (who is looking for her) with the words: “yet another minute I would watch” (19.205). In the second episode where Lucy appears as a spectator, she is part of an audience at the theatre. Here, she provides the reader with an insight about her perspective on herself. After Lucy has returned to the school and has started teaching again, the doctor makes a point of staying in touch with her (for example, by means of his letters; see ch. 5 on allegory) in order to keep her bouts of depression under control. In the chapters between her visit to the Cleopatra in the gallery and her visit to the theatre, Lucy is confronted with the nun for the first time while reading Bretton’s first, eagerly-awaited letter in the attic of the school. The chapter “Vashti” thus occurs when Lucy is somewhat doubtful of her own perceptions (and her sanity), but also at a time when she feels an unwonted optimism: “A new creed became mine – a belief in happiness” (23.253). In the midst of this active and busy period of her life, in which Graham Bretton and his mother pay Lucy much attention, he calls at the school unannounced to take her to the theatre, since a well-known actress performs there, “a name that thrilled [Lucy]” (23.255). The reader never learns this name; when Lucy sees her on the stage, she associates her with the biblical queen Vashti: “What I saw was the shadow of a royal Vashti […]” (23.257). The fact that she only thinks of this name instead of an actual one also speaks to the fact that she is someone whose role in actual life is determined by the ones she has played on the stage so far – Lucy portrays her as someone whose character is superimposed by her many

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theatrical appearances in different characters, and casts her in the perpetual role of rebellious woman.245 Before Lucy joins Graham Bretton to go to the theatre, she runs to the attic to find a certain cape she will wear – and there she sees again a sign of the nun, a light shining in the empty attic. The reappearance of Lucy’s ghostly alter ego, which Graham reads as a sign of her mental instability, thus sets the tone for Lucy’s experience of Vashti’s performance as “a mighty revelation” (23.258). From the beginning, Vashti is described in cosmic terms that go beyond the human: she is “a great and new planet,” a “star,” and “a chaos – hollow, halfconsumed,” “an orb perished or perishing” (23.257). She does not have a name beyond the biblical one given to her by Lucy, and she is someone only half of flesh and blood. Most importantly, she is already at the point of fading (the narrator Lucy informs the reader that Vashti has died many years ago when she tells her story, and has been forgotten). The idea of fading powers incorporated in Lucy’s initial description of Vashti is ambiguous: It might refer to her fame, but also to her physical condition. Vashti is certainly not a beautiful woman in conventional terms, unlike the “Cleopatra” – she is generally “termed ‘plain,’” but Lucy sees her as “a queen, fair as the day once, turned pale now like twilight, and wasted like wax in flame” (23.257). Vashti is compared to a fallen angel, and by extension to the bestknown of fallen angels, Lucifer : “Her hair, flung loose in revel or war, is still an angel’s hair, and glorious under a halo. Fallen, insurgent, banished, she remembers the heaven where she rebelled” (23.258). Vashti thus unites the attributes of a demon and an angel in her performance. Because she has once been in Heaven and has seen its light, the darkness surrounding her appears even more extreme by contrast. Concurrently, Vashti is also contrasted with the Cleopatra, who is the “‘type de voluptueux,’” and the epitome of sensual life and bodily strength.246 The actress, on the other hand, is portrayed as an almost 245 Vashti is King Ahasuerus’ wife in the Book of Esther. She refuses to show her beauty before his guests when he orders her to do so and is cast out by her husband for her disobedience (see Esther 1:9–19). Her historical model seems to have been the actress known by the name “Rachel”: “Though Bronte [sic] was recalling the great tragedian Rachel in this episode, there is a revealing substitution of one Biblical name for another. As the long-sought bride of Jacob, and the mother of Joseph and Benjamin, Rachel is not the fit Biblical prototype for the kind of power Lucy would emulate. Vashti is such a model. In the Book of Esther, Vashti appears as the first queen of King Ahasueras and as a nay-sayer. Defying the king, Vashti refuses to parade her beauty before the drunken king and his nobles. […] Lucy’s model is the defiant Vashti” (Plotz 82f.). 246 Vashti is explicitly compared to the Cleopatra here, and we only hear the painter who was most famous for his voluptuous women, Paul Peter Rubens. Another figure similar to the Cleopatra in style is the singer at the concert, who displays his “suffering” so much as to become ridiculous: “Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his white-gloved

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aphysical being, held up by pure energy and will power, all soul and hardly any body. Unlike the “Cleopatra,” who does nothing, Vashti is locked in struggle with forces greater than herself: watched by hundreds, the actress embodies the lonely struggle of the soul for survival, only barely physical on the great stage and in “conflict with abstractions” (23.258).247 This is a scenario in which Lucy recognises herself and which she will fully experience in the nightly park (chapters “Cloud” and “Old and New Acquaintance”); Vashti’s performance is a part of the phantasmagoric realm of the novel: I found upon her something neither of woman nor of man: in each of her eyes sat a devil. These evil forces bore her through the tragedy, kept up her feeble strength – for she was but a frail creature; and as the action rose and the stir deepened, how wildly they shook her with their passions of the Pit! (23.257)

The actress’s performance is described in terms of a demonic possession, and the “Pit” is both the dwelling-place of devils, a grave and the place where the audience sits.248 The realms of fiction and reality are thus mixed. Lucy’s diction betrays her emotional reaction to Vashti, which her response to seeing the Cleopatra does not equal. Lucy sees herself in this performance of a struggle, which is hardly described as a ‘performance’ in the sense of an artificial reproduction of feelings at all. Vashti is transformed on the stage: The “evil forces” “writhed her regal face to a demoniac mask” (23.257). As the numerous allusions to demons and evil forces indicate, Lucy’s reaction to Vashti’s performance is characterized by ambiguity : It was a marvellous sight: a mighty revelation. It was a spectacle low, horrible, immoral. (23.258)

The ambivalence of Lucy’s reaction indicates how strongly she feels about Vashti’s performance. The use of the word “revelation” evokes again the aspect of self-recognition or anagnorisis that has been stressed in the context of Lucy’s role as spectator. The theatrical performance, via the conflicting emotions it provokes, leads to an insight. Witnessing Vashti’s performance is like a revelation, but not a permanent one. Rather, the revelation flickers briefly and then hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry against a certain ”fausse Isabelle.” I thought he seemed especially to solicit the Queen’s sympathy ; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken, her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than the earnestness of interest. This gentleman’s state of mind was very harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of the same” (20.216). 247 Klaver points out the parallel between the description of Vashti’s performance with Lucy’s own struggle with inner forces (415). 248 “With the. The part of a theatre auditorium which is on the floor of the house; (now) esp. the part of this behind the stalls. Also: the people occupying this area” (OED online, “pit”, 10. a) Brownstein points out the polysemy of this word (11).

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leaves darkness behind. An image of this is provided in the sight of the theatre, which Lucy and Graham Bretton pass in their carriage after the doctor has taken care of Paulina, who has been hurt in the crowd. “All was silence and darkness: the roaring, rushing crowd all vanished and gone – the lamps, as well as the incipient fire, extinct and forgotten” (23.265). Lucy sees the presentation of Vashti on the stage in terms of a picture: she compares the actress to a sculpture, and describes her white dress and skin in contrast to the crimson decorations of the stage. This comparison leads Lucy’s thoughts to the Cleopatra, who does not mean anything to her (except negatively). Although they are not mentioned explicitly here, the four small paintings representing a woman’s life in their pseudo-pious, moralising quality, might come to mind when Lucy calls the “spectacle” of Vashti’s performance “immoral.” The impact of Vashti’s performance lies in its rejection of the very triviality of the series “La Vie d’une Femme”: The actress portrays a passionate sufferer, who does not take religious belief as an easy answer to an existential dilemma, and who also does not believe hypocritically that suffering as such must be positive: “Pain, for her, has no result in good; tears water no harvest of wisdom: on sickness, on death itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel” (23.258). In contrast to the “Cleopatra”, Vashti’s performance reveals what is usually hidden under a lid of outward show and conventions – she is a personification of inner life and conflict: “she stood locked in struggle, rigid in resistance. […] Scarcely a substance herself, she grapples to conflict with abstractions” (23.258). The effect of Vashti’s performance is described in terms of disclosure and uncovering: Lucy calls it a “mighty revelation” (23.258) and comments: “I had seen acting before, but never anything like this: never anything […] which […] disclosed power like a deep, swollen, winter river, thundering in cataract, and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on the steep and steely sweep of its descent” (23.259, my emphasis). While watching Vashti’s performance, Lucy imagines Cleopatra as an unworthy antagonist to her, who would immediately be extinguished in the encounter. If the Cleopatra embodies the physical and sensual, Vashti represents the essence and energy of the human soul, its disembodied power. The reader is of course reminded of Lucy’s psychomachia with Reason and Imagination (see chapter 5). Lucy’s struggle results in her composition of two letters, one dictated by her fullness of feeling toward Bretton, the other by stern Reason. Such compromise, in Lucy’s view, is unthinkable for Vashti. Maybe that is why Lucy describes her as a “Pythian inspiration” – although she places Vashti’s struggles consistently in the context of myth (the numerous allusions to the Bible show this), Lucy admires Vashti’s uncompromising expression and endurance of suffering. The conflict that dominates Vashti’s last moments at the centre of attention remains unresolved, even by death:

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[…] when, as it seemed, an inordinate will, convulsing a perishing mortal frame, bent it to battle with doom and death, fought every inch of ground, sold dear every drop of blood, resisted to the last the rape of every faculty, would see, would hear, would breathe, would live, up to, within, well nigh beyond the moment when death says to all sense and all being – “Thus far and no farther!” (23.260)

The spirit holds dominion over the body for a while: Vashti’s refusal to give in to the oblivion of death can be read as the refusal to evade suffering and the active decision to take on life’s trials: Like Vashti, Lucy does not want to take the easy path through life and avoid potential conflicts – she refuses the sweets and sedatives offered literally by Madame Beck to quieten her perturbed state of mind in ch. 38, and the spiritual “sedative” in the shape of the priest’s suggestion of becoming a nun. Vashti’s suffering on the stage illustrates a belief that Lucy holds and that stands in contrast to Christian, the protagonist of The Pilgrim’s Progress: he loses his “burden” relatively early in the story, when he sees the cross and the sepulchre (PP 41), but Lucy’s burden stays with her and is incorporated into her personal experience. While Vashti’s performance triggers Lucy’s wholly individual interpretation, it also allows her to feel a part of the multitude surrounding her in a rare moment of communal emotional experience (see ch. 7). The death scene of the tragedy symbolizes this: “[…] when the whole theatre was hushed, when the vision of all eyes centred in one point, when all ears listened toward one quarter – nothing being seen but the white form sunk on a seat […]” (23.260). Before the play reaches its conclusion, a small fire breaks out in the theatre and the audience throngs to the doors. The fire breaks in from the real world as a (seeming) drama and quenches Vashti’s powers in the panic among her audience. In the ensuing confusion, Graham Bretton and Paulina meet again without at first recognising each other. The final sentence of the chapter, explaining that the fire at the theatre has proved to be but a small one, quenched almost as soon as it began, literalizes the incendiary nature of Vashti’s performance, and also implies its ephemeral quality : “Next morning’s papers explained that it was but some loose drapery on which a spark had fallen, and which had blazed up and been quenched in a moment” (23.265). The image of the spark and its immediate extinction recalls what was said about Vashti’s career at the beginning of the chapter (“then her day – a day of Sirius – stood at its full height, light and fervour” (23.255)). Both Lucy’s experience with Vashti and with the “Cleopatra” bring her in contact with the world of art, and women who are artists (Vashti) or are the object of artistic representation (“Cleopatra”). In the case of her visit to the theatre, Lucy’s own existence as an artist, as the writer of her own life story, is implied by an ambiguity : “That night was already marked in my book of life, not

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with white, but with a deep-red cross. But I had not done with it yet; and other memoranda were destined to be set down in characters of tint indelible” (23.260). Lucy’s “book of life” is a metaphor, but it is also the actual book she is writing about her life.249 On the one hand, Lucy Snowe is drawn to Vashti and her unique embodiment of female independence and suffering, which reflect and anticipate her own experience; on the other hand, she distances herself from her uncompromising, transgressive performance.

11.

“I believed myself self-betrayed”

After M. Paul has, to Lucy’s knowledge, departed for the colonies without a final meeting, she believes that her grief must be obvious to everyone in the school: “On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me–my heart seemed discovered to them; I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired.” (38.448). Lucy tries to see herself through the eyes of her fellow teachers and the pupils, just as she has looked at herself in the mirror before to find her face terribly changed (see 38.448), and cannot believe that no one sees the reason for her devastation: “Hideously certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired” (38.448). Lucy believes herself “self-betrayed” by the signs of excessive grief plainly written on her face in the morning after word has spread in the school that M. Paul will leave. The fact that no one recognises their relationship for what it is underlines Ginevra’s one-time judgment of Lucy as a “nobody,” and Graham’s assessment of her as shadow-like. But maybe the very fact of being surrounded by a kind of invisibility allows Lucy to see herself all the more clearly. The formulation “myself self-betrayed” resembles a figura etymologica in its echo of the word “self” as part of the adjective, emphasising the knowledge that Lucy’s love for M. Paul has its source in her innermost being. The ‘betrayal’250 of her love would be equal to betraying her true character, her self, which Lucy has been content to hide from the common gaze, even that of her friends. Here, the 249 “Lucy here seems to speak in metaphor, of a figurative ‘book of [her] life’; but, given the context in which this image occurs, her phrase evokes also the literal autobiographical text she produces and in which this episode does form an ‘indelible’ mark” (Klaver 415). 250 The OED lists three definitions of “betrayal”: “1. A treacherous giving up to an enemy”; “2. A violation of trust or confidence, an abandonment of something committed to one’s charge” and “3. A revelation or divulging of something which it is desirable to keep secret.” The central notion of ‘revelation’ is inherently connected with the idea of betrayal according to the third meaning.

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ambiguity of “betrayed” is relevant to Lucy’s self-reflection: to Lucy’s nature and character, which consists in keeping secret what she feels most strongly, a betrayal of her love (in the sense of making it public) would be a betrayal of her self (in the sense of committing treason).

12.

A Later Instance of “Who are you?”: The Self in the Novel Fragment Emma

Charlotte Bront[’s fascination with the workings of an individual mind as well as with the portrayal of a consciousness in its double activity of experiencing and narrating, acting and watching, is evident in her entire body of work: three of her four completed novels feature a first-person narrator. The protagonists tend to be outsiders in society in some way ; almost all of them are orphans and/ or without connections and friends, at least at the outset of the narrative (cf. Momberger 351).251 This condition, along with its concomitant features of loneliness and social isolation, shapes their experience of life and makes it imperative for them to come to terms with themselves, to know themselves thoroughly. The importance of the question “Who am I?” can be traced in Charlotte Bront[’s writings after Villette and shows the relevance of the theme of identity to her entire oeuvre. A striking example can be found in the novel fragment “Emma”, in which a little girl is questioned about her real identity by the headmistress of the boarding school where she has spent the past months: “Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself ?” […] “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of Matilda Fitzgibbon.” She gave no answer. “I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or later. So you had better do it at once.” This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not competent to articulate. […] [Miss Wilcox continues to try and get information out of the girl, unsuccessfully ; OS.] The child dropped as she apoke [sic]. (Bront[, “Emma” 112f.) 251 “For Lucy and her fellows the outer world, both social and natural, is indeed ‘foreign.’ Strange, radically alien in character, the outer world can in no way be possessed by the protagonist. It denies him all possibility for participation in it” (Philip Momberger, “Self and World in the Works of Charlotte Bront[”, ELH 32.3 (Sep. 1965): 349–369; 351). The experience of being surrounded by a foreign environment is certainly central to Villette. This foreignness is set off by characters like Ginevra, who, while a foreigner, is well integrated into those parts of Villette society she cares about and participates in them constantly and almost excessively compared to Lucy.

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The girl has been brought to the school under the pretence that she is rich and of a good family ; but when the holidays approach and the man who has introduced himself as her father is sent a letter to ask whether his daughter will be taken home from school for the holidays, he cannot be found and the address and name given turn out to be non-existent. The questionable circumstances of the child’s family aside, the quotation shows the existential immensity, even the impossibility of knowing yourself (including one’s own name and background) and of communicating this knowledge to another person. The brief but powerful scene is also indicative of an inextricable link between psychological and physical states: the little girl’s ‘answer’ to the question is a bodily one instead of an articulate reply when she falls to the ground, senseless.252 This connection between physical and mental state is a link to Villette, epitomized in Lucy Snowe’s illness during the long vacation (see chapter 5 on allegory). However, as in the scene in Villette, the occurrence underlines the social element of selfknowledge – the little girl cannot tell her questioners who she is, and she must leave the boarding-school for it. The need for public explanation of the self creates tension in the scene from “Emma”, marking another aspect to be considered when thinking about the self (and the means available of communicating with others about it) in Bront[’s novels and Villette in particular. The little girl is made to stand in front of the two adults (the headmistress and her neighbour) in order to explain herself, the object of a more or less public examination. Lucy Snowe in Villette likewise has a contentious relationship with public appearances, and even feels that she cannot be herself or show her abilities at all when in public. When M. Paul suggests that Lucy write a French essay together with the pupils of the first classe during the annual exams, she energetically rejects the suggestion: “I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty ; who, in public, was by nature a cypher ; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun; […]” (30.356). However, Lucy has already made her appearance in the play put on by M. Paul at this point, thus proving that she is indeed capable (if reluctant) of appearing in public. The crucial difference lies in the fact that she does not stand on the stage as herself, but that she can use the cover of her role, embodying a character to whom she moreover feels indifferent and by no means akin. Lucy changes her stance, however, when she invests the unsympathetic “personage” (14.140) of her role with the (half-jealous) interest she takes in Ginevra and Graham Bretton’s dalliance: “Without heart, without 252 Philip Momberger has commented on the importance of the question “Who am I?” in Charlotte Bront[’s writings. In a 1965 article, he writes about the protagonist of “Emma”: “When her schoolmistress demands, ‘Who are you? What do you know of yourself ?’ the child can only gasp and collapse in a silent, deathlike fit […]” (353).

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interest, I could not play it at all” (14.141). Lucy cannot completely turn into another ; her “heart” must go into the performance and make it her own, even when she has taken on a role that seems to have no connection with her own personality. Lucy and the little girl in the fragment “Emma” share this fear of publicity : upon entering the room, the little girl instinctively wants to withdraw to the less exposed position by the fireplace, but she is forced to stand by the table in the centre of the room in the manner of a defendant before a court of law, where she can be scrutinized from all sides. As would be the case with almost all of Bront[’s protagonists (Shirley is an exception), this situation is acutely uncomfortable to her, and her fainting is as much a means of avoiding answering the headmistress’s question as it is a means of ‘leaving’ her exposed position in the room. The example from “Emma” shows that the question “Who are you?” respectively “Who am I?” is crucial in Bront[’s writing in general; it also illustrates that the answer cannot be given on the ground of appearances alone.

13.

Self and Interpretation

This chapter has traced the manifold answers the text of the novel provides to the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?”. We have encountered several characters who challenge Lucy’s image of herself (most notably Ginevra and M. Paul), and almost all of the female characters (including the nun) are actually part of the doppelgänger motif of the novel, surrounding Lucy with lives that stand as alternatives to her own path. We have commented briefly on three important figurations of Lucy’s identity : the shadow, the casket and the mirror. Shadow and mirror are related because they are reflections, recalling Lucy’s description of herself as leading a double life: in their quality of being reflections, they always depend on an original, a substance, in order to exist. The various answers (not) provided in the text to the question “Who is Lucy Snowe?” are all subject to Lucy’s interpretations, and these statements are generally based on some kind of interpretation of herself by someone else. As the box and casket symbolism of the text shows, Lucy is often portrayed as an enigma, and once refers to herself as “in public, by nature a cypher” (30.356). This metaphor underlines the importance of the act of interpretation in the context of personal identity, a topic that will be further explored in the chapter on the traditionally ambiguous nature of the oracular message and its appearances in Villette.

IV.

“‘Bad or good?’” – Endeavours at Oracular Prediction

1.

The Ambiguity of Interpretation: Oracles

The previous chapter analyses Lucy Snowe’s ambiguous self-description as a “cypher” in the context of the question of her identity. The narrator refers to herself as “I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty ; who, in public, was by nature a cypher” (30.356). The primary meaning here is that of the cypher as a person of no (social) relevance, a nonentity.253 In a secondary meaning, the word is associated with the number zero, and moreover with a secret way of writing, a code.254 Lucy portrays herself on the one hand as a nonentity in social contexts, i. e. someone who is not paid much attention by others, and at the same time as a person who is particularly difficult to interpret, like a text written in cipher. The word moreover draws attention to Lucy’s existence as a written sign on the page, a literary character made up of letters.255 The act of ‘deciphering’ a person, which is related to Lucy calling herself a cypher, is linked to physiognomy, popular in Bront[’s time,256 and its premise 253 “A person who fills a place, but is of no importance or worth, a nonentity, a ‘mere nothing’” (OED Online, “cypher”, n., 2.a). 254 “An arithmetical symbol or character (0) of no value by itself, but which increases or decreases the value of other figures according to its position.” (1.a); “A secret or disguised manner of writing” (5.a). 255 The double meaning of “character” is relevant as well: Lucy is a fictional character, i. e. she exists in the written characters on the page. In the plot of the novel, she moreover has a “character” as an individual with certain traits. 256 Bront[ was interested in physiognomic techniques and had a “surprisingly accurate” reading of her own features conducted in London (see Shuttleworth 57). However, Villette and the passage under discussion here are rather characterized by an undercurrent of physiognomic and phrenological notions than by their dominant, explicit presence. There are stronger traces of both pseudo-sciences in Lucy’s interpretation of Madame Beck’s face, for example: “I know not what of harmony pervaded her whole person; and yet her face offered contrast, too: its features were by no means such as are usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness and repose: their outline was stern: her forehead was high but narrow ; it expressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nor did her

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that human faces can be read like texts. Lucy, however, literally remains faceless: she never describes her own face and she is never described by another character. While she is an observant watcher of faces and their expressions, her own indistinct face and physical appearance leave a blank at the centre of the novel.257 The theme of interpreting signs is relevant to Lucy and M. Paul’s first encounter at Madame Beck’s school, in which he is asked to conduct a physiognomic reading of her face to find out whether the school can profit from the foreigner or not (see 7.66f.) – this moment foreshadows M. Paul’s interest in and deliberate observation of Lucy in the course of their acquaintance (as opposed to Graham Bretton, who literally fails to recognize her in Villette and who is moreover unable to see her outside of the roles of “god-sister”, patient etc. he ascribes to her258). The scene thus draws attention to the relevance of physiognomy, and the relationship between outer appearance and character, to the novel.259 It moreover invites an examination of the other occurrences in the novel in which she portrays herself and others as signs to be read and interpreted.260

257

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259 260

peaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is kindled in the heart or the softness which flows thence. Her mouth was hard: it could be a little grim; her lips were thin” (8.72). Werner Wolf explains the semiotic processes at work when reading faces as the interpretation of outer appearance as an indexical or even iconic signifier, allowing conclusions about an invisible, inner signified: “Semiotisch gesehen, werden bei der Gesichtswahrnehmung äußere, sichtbare Details als körpersprachliche Zeichen, d. h. als indexikalische oder gar ikonische Signifikanten, für unsichtbare, innere Signifikate aufgefasst: Gesichter werden so zu mehr oder weniger klar ‘lesbaren’, mehr oder weniger transparenten Zeichenkomplexen. Der verbreitete Hang, Gesichter zu dechiffrieren, speist sich von der wohl aus anthropologischen und psychologischen Tiefen stammenden uralten Hoffnung, so den Mitmenschen, dessen Wesen, Stimmung und Absichten besser zu erkennen” (301). The reason for her insight about Graham Bretton lies in his literal inability to read Lucy : “With a now welcome force, I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a rile not mine. Nature and I opposed him. He did not at all guess what I felt: he did not read my eyes, or face, or gestures; though, I doubt not, all spoke” (27.318). See Shuttleworth, “Reading the Mind: Physiognomy and Phrenology”; Dames; May. See also Zirker, “Physiognomy and the Reading of Character in Our Mutual Friend”; Kronshage, and Tytler. Sally Shuttleworth points out the “re-emergence of interest in the decoding of physical form” going together with physiognomy and phrenology. Lavater’s ideas of physiognomy were theological: “God had inscribed a language on the face of nature for all to read” (Shuttleworth 59). A vital difference between Lavater’s persuasion that the moral character was imprinted unambiguously on the face (cf. Shuttleworth 61) and the portrayal of physiognomic techniques in Villette is the question of what happens when the ‘underlying’ character is in itself ambiguous. Phrenology, not physiognomy, is the pseudo-science that conceptualizes man’s inner multiplicity and contradictoriness: “The individual was, for the phrenologist, the site of warring forces, the conflux of different flows of energy. Internal contradiction was not simply an occasional occurrence, but a necessary state of being” (62). And further : “While physiognomy merely recast in verbal terms the unambiguous statement imprinted in the features, phrenology delved below the surface, examining the secrets

The Ambiguity of Interpretation: Oracles

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Lucy’s fate is decided by words from M. Paul’s mouth. The question of ‘Who is Lucy Snowe?’ is linked from the beginning with the oracle: Lucy calls M. Paul’s statement about her face/character “oracular”, and, with a touch of irony, names him her “diviner” and “vague arbiter of [her] destiny”: “‘Et qu’en dites vous?’ ‘Mais – bien des choses,’ was the oracular answer” (7.67). However, unlike an oracle, M. Paul’s eventual “judgment” is based on practical sense: He asks his cousin “‘Do you need her services?’” and then refers to his own religious convictions: “‘[…] ce sera toujours une bonne œuvre’” (7.67). This scene brings together the realm of the cultic and of the personal, indicating that Lucy, despite an element of irony, perceives her arrival at the school as a fateful moment – it takes her to M. Paul (who grants her access to the school through his “judgment”) and to her professional vocation as a teacher. Lucy uses the term “oracle” in four other instances. “[O]racles” appear in the context of Lucy’s description of the Baal-like “Creative Impulse” to illustrate its mysterious, ungovernable workings, “rousing its priest, treacherously promising vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles” (30.356). Graham Bretton calls Lucy’s statement about his character as a boy an oracle: “‘In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day’” (27.316). She moreover uses it to characterize PHre Silas’ ‘prediction’ about her future, “‘Daughter, you shall be what you shall be!’” (34.395). Toward the end of the narrative, Lucy does not question the truth of her own conjectures about M. Paul and his supposed bride-to-be Justine Marie any more, and portrays her reevaluation of their relationship as the revised interpretation of an oracle: “Presentiment had not been mistaken in her impulse; […] not seeing the true bearing of the oracle, I had thought she muttered of vision when, in truth, her prediction touched reality” (39.467). However, this re-interpretation actually takes her away from reality. The lesson of this self-deception, which has resulted from the conviction of having discovered the absolute “truth”, is summed up in one of the mottoes with which the last chapter begins, after M. Paul and Lucy have said their goodbyes: “Love is no oracle” (42.493). It would be an exaggeration to say that Lucy’s usage of the word “oracle” indicates that she perceives the world around her as a riddle,261 but the presence of the concept certainly draws attention to the difficulty of reading signs and the impossibility of knowing her future. Traditionally associated with ambiguity, the oracle is part of the discourse of doubt and uncertainty concerning matters of personal identity and biography in Villette, and it is linked with the interpretation of of a psyche which was no longer figured as one uniform essence, but rather a contradictory, fragmented system” (69). 261 “‘He speaks like the oracles to puzzle the world,’ Dryden said. But oracles don’t puzzle the world, they mime the world’s puzzles, and they are likely to appear wherever and whenever the world feels like a puzzle to us” (Wood 111).

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(linguistic) signs and omens.262 The oracle provides information about the future only at first sight; in its literary form, it is primarily associated with deceptiveness and ambiguity.263 The oracles produced by the personification of the 262 The oracle is directly linked to ambiguity : “A response, decision, or message delivered by an oracle, especially one which is obscure or ambiguous in meaning” (OED, “oracle”, n., I. 2.). An inherent ambiguity of the word itself comes to light in its significance as “[a]n utterance of great wisdom, significance, or import; an opinion or declaration regarded as authoritative and infallible” (OED III. 7.). The tension between the two denotations derives from the characteristics ascribed to the oracular message: Obscure and ambiguous on the one hand, infallible on the other hand. While the two attributes are not mutually exclusive, a message that is both “ambiguous” and “infallible” seems paradoxical since its ambiguity would prevent it from ever being wrong. Depending on the context, “oracle” may refer to “the instrument, agency, or medium (usually a priest or a priestess) through which the gods were supposed to speak or prophesy ; the mouthpiece of the gods. Also: the place at which such advice or prophecy was sought” (OED 1.a.). These definitions provide three different meanings: the message (ambiguous and/or infallible), the medium through which the message is delivered, and the place where this happens. Stanford lists “cryptic oracles” among the “deliberative ambiguities” to be found in Greek poetry in his 1939 book Ambiguity in Greek Literature (Stanford 181f., qtd in Schüttpelz 338). For a detailed study of Greek oracles, see H. W. Parke, Greek Oracles, London: Hutchinson, 1967. 263 Two entries from the OED serve to exemplarily show the association of the (literary) oracle with ambiguity : “1600 Jonson Cynthia’s Revels III.iv.16 One that will speake More darke and doubtful than six oracles.” “1676 South Serm. (1715) 341 He only now-a-days speaks like an oracle, who speaks tricks and ambiguities.” Oracular messages are necessarily transported by words (Deborah Roberts, Apollo and His Oracle in the Oresteia 20). Roberts further explains that this leads to “the treatment of even straightforward messages as riddles” (Roberts 20). The consideration of oracles as riddles underlines their connection to ambiguity : Michael Wood writes that “[n]ot all oracles are ambiguous, far from it; but any of them could be, and this, it seems to me, transforms the whole question of their interpretation” (Wood 97). Similarly to Roberts, he emphasises that the association of oracles with ambiguity strongly influences the way they are interpreted: Even seemingly straightforward oracles are treated as potentially ambiguous. Hence, any questioner of an oracle ought to keep in mind “the possibilities of double meaning” (Wood 98). As Michael Wood has pointed out, the oracle itself is ambiguous in its promise of certainty and the continued doubt the one consulting it must feel: “Oracles offer not only interesting problems in interpretation, but also complicated models of interpretation, and what engages me most in them is the mixture of their supposed infallibility and their actual uncertainty ; or to put that from the point of view of those consulting the oracle, the hunger for infallibility combined with an almost stoic acceptance of the deepest doubt. The oracle is the surest thing in the world, and also the most ambiguous” (93). In his essay “Grundrisse einer philosophischen Begriffsgeschichte von Ambiguität,” Ullrich begins his outline of the terminological history of ambiguity with the oracle given to Croesus, that a great empire would be destroyed if he crossed the river Halys: “Das Orakel ist mehrdeutig. Und vielleicht führt gerade die Mehrdeutigkeit zur Berühmtheit dieses Orakelspruchs, schließlich dient er als Beleg für die Auffassung, daß die Pythia die Weissagungen von Apoll in grundsätzlich zweideutigen Aussagen erteilt hat. Und es ist wohl in vielen Fällen nicht nur so, daß man mit Orakel Mehrdeutigkeit assoziiert, sondern umgekehrt bei Mehr- und Zweideutigkeit zuerst an Orakel denkt” (121). Ullrich also points out, however, that the immediate association of oracle and ambiguity is somewhat problematic because there are only a few historical oracles that are ambiguous (121).

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Creative Impulse are “strange” and characterised by “treacherous[…]” intentions: The fickle deity makes “sure to give half the significance [of its oracles, OS] to fateful winds” (31.356). Lucy is indifferent to PHre Silas’ oracle, stating that his words “made [her] shrug [her] shoulders” (34.395), yet she ponders its meaning for some time afterwards (or, rather, her interpretation of it: She takes “‘You shall be what you shall be!’” to mean “You must become a Catholic!”). The final two instances of the oracle are linked with the mistakes Lucy makes in interpreting M. Paul’s meeting with his friends and his ward Justine Marie on the national holiday of Villette. The “vision” Lucy refers to is the possibility of finding romantic fulfilment with M. Paul; its counterpart, “reality”, is her assumption that he will marry the young girl. What Lucy believes to be the correct interpretation of the “oracle” is actually the confusion of illusion with reality.

2.

The Oracles in Villette

2.1

“‘Mais – bien des choses’”: The First Oracle

Upon her arrival in Villette, Lucy finds Madame Beck’s school in Villette, guided by providence and fate.264 Her future is then decided by M. Paul’s “oracular” words, convincing Madame Beck to take the foreigner on as nursemaid to her children. This scene turns out to be vital in the overall context of the story : Lucy has first set foot in Madame Beck’s school where she will later become a teacher (cf. ch. 7). M. Paul is asked to read the stranger’s face:265 264 The roles of providence and fate in Lucy’s life story are discussed below in the section on spiritual autobiography. 265 In Jane Eyre, Rochester disguises himself as an old gypsy woman, a “Sybil” (JE 19.221), and offers to read Jane’s fortune first from her hand and then from her face. In the earlier novel, this scene is given more space than in Villette, exploring the tension between Rochester’s disguise and how he uses what he already knows about Jane (mainly with regard to her feelings for himself), who has been in his employ for about three months. The ‘gypsy’ first asks Jane to hold out her palm for a reading, but then rejects it and asks instead to see her face: “‘It is too fine,’ said she. ‘I can make nothing of such a hand as that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not written there.’ ‘I believe you,’ said I. ‘No,’ she continued, ‘it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, in the eyes themselves, in the lines of the mouth’” (19.223). When the ‘gypsy’ hints about Jane’s prospects of romantic happiness, she drily replies: “‘I don’t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life’” (JE 19.222). The French noun “chose”, which M. Paul uses in his “oracular” reply, is a favourite expression of Ginevra’s, who uses it indifferently to fill gaps in her vocabulary : “[…] Miss Ginevra Fanshawe […] only substituted this word ‘chose’ in temporary oblivion of the real name. […] ‘chose’ came in at every turn in her conversation – the convenient substitute for any missing word in any language she might chance at the time to be speaking” (6.55). The usage of this frequent “substitute” in the passage is a humorous allusion on the one hand (Ginevra and M. Paul do not particularly like each other and certainly have

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M. Paul was summoned. He entered: a small, dark and spare man, in spectacles. “Mon cousin,” began Madame, “I want your opinion. We know your skill in physiognomy ; use it now. Read that countenance.” The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant to see through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him. “I read it,” he pronounced. “Et qu’en dites vous?” “Mais – bien des choses,” was the oracular answer. “Bad or good?” “Of each kind, without doubt,” pursued the diviner. (7.66f.)

Lucy interprets M. Paul’s judgment as an oracle because she does not find out the result of his physiognomic reading of her face. Two interpretations take place: Lucy is interpreted by M. Paul; and, as narrator of her own story, she retrospectively interprets his answer as “oracular”. By describing the scene as the pronouncement of an oracle, Lucy represents her first encounter with M. Paul in a fateful light. The adjective “oracular” qualifies M. Paul’s answer to Madame Beck’s question about his physiognomic interpretation266 of Lucy’s face. His reading is vague and unspecific – leaving room for a multitude of possible nothing in common); on the other hand, it suggests that in M. Paul’s case the decisive difference is that he does not use it for lack of other, more fitting words, but in a conscious attempt at being vague or obscure. While the word “chose” is always ‘decodable’ in Ginevra Fanshawe’s use of it (for example, standing for the word “Villette” the first time she uses it in Lucy’s presence (6.55: “‘Chose,’ however, I found, in this instance, stood for Villette – the great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour.”)), in M. Paul’s utterance it substitutes a multitude of significations that are either still unclear to the speaker himself or that he does not want to disclose to Madame Beck. Critic Karen Lawrence writes about Ginevra’s usage of “chose”: “She heaps her hazy impressions of the world into her favourite catch-all French word, ‘chose,’ as opposed to Lucy’s more strenuous attempt to cope with the difficulties of language” (“The Cypher : Disclosure and Reticence in Villette”, Tradition and the Talents of Women, ed. Florence Howe, Urbana, IL: U of Illinois P, 1991, 96). 266 The connection between fortune-telling and physiognomy is historically relevant: In his chapter on prophecy in the nineteenth century, Georges Minois refers to a French fortuneteller who describes her profession as a combination of doctor and confessor : “‘Wir sind Ärzte und Beichtiger zugleich: wir müssen alles hören, alles sehen und schweigen’” (qtd. in Minois. A. LeliHvre, Justification des Sciences Divinatoires, Pr8c8d8e du R8cit des Circonstances de sa Vie qui Ont D8cid8 de sa Vocation pour l’8tude de ces sciences et leur application, Paris 1847, p. 298.). Minois depicts the fortune tellers of the mid-nineteenth century as early-day psychologists skilled in the art of reading their customers and formulating their ‘predictions’ accordingly. He even refers to an 1815 treatise explicitly linking the two areas called L’Art de pr8voir l’avenir par une m8thode nouvelle fond8e sur la physiognomie (Minois 593). However, physiognomy plays a less central role in Villette than in Bront[’s previous novels. Although M. Paul supposedly conducts a physiognomic reading, the reader does not even learn what Lucy’s face looks like. It therefore remains a merely ‘nominal’ physiognomy ; and his judgment is rather based on a common sense estimation of the situation, especially of Madame Beck’s motives and interests.

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characteristics to be ascribed to Lucy. Both possible translations of “mais,” the particles “well” and “why,”267 impart a colloquial character to the phrase; they imply that the answer is evident – of course there are many (opposite) traits to be read in Lucy’s features, as in every human face. Most importantly, however, his answer emphasizes an inherent ambiguity in Lucy’s character, the coexistence of both good and bad traits. M. Paul moreover subtly communicates with this phrase that he is not to judge; he renounces the very purpose for which his employer has consulted him. Madame Beck asks for the detection of “bad or good” character traits to base her decision on. M. Paul’s answer ridicules this wish for non-existent clarity and, possibly, her unconditional reliance on his judgment. Still he scrutinized. The judgment, when it at last came, was as indefinite as what had gone before it. “Engage her. If good predominates in that nature, the action will bring its own reward; if evil – eh bien! ma cousine, ce sera toujours une bonne œuvre.” And with a bow and a “bon soir,” this vague arbiter of my destiny vanished. (7.67)

M. Paul advises Madame Beck to engage Lucy since employing Lucy will be of practical advantage to her if Lucy turns out to be trustworthy and industrious; and even if not, it will be of spiritual advantage to her since it is a good deed. M. Paul delineates two equally beneficial possible outcomes of the action he advocates. In his “judgment,” M. Paul has simply shifted the focus from Lucy to Madame Beck. Instead of making a statement about Lucy’s identity or personality, he concentrates on her potential usefulness for Madame Beck – and convinces her. The focus of Lucy’s attention, however, lies on the judgment, not the advice for action. To her, but not to Madame Beck, the judgment is indefinite, “vague,” despite recommending a concrete course of action. Judgment of character and action thus form a binary structure that pervades the scene. While there is some of the narrator’s wonted irony palpable in epithets like “oracular” and “arbiter of my destiny”, she also gives the first encounter between herself and M. Paul a fateful air through her choice of words, already detecting a likeness between herself and the unknown man: She is ambiguous, and M. Paul is vague. M. Paul’s ‘oracle’ relates to Lucy’s long-term personal future, beyond her immediate professional situation – it is a fatal encounter in more than one sense. M. Paul only reveals his interpretation of Lucy’s face much later. Lucy has put her infatuation with Graham Bretton behind her after seeing his love for Paulina 267 “As an emphasized call or summons, expressing some degree of impatience. Obs.” (OED IV. 7. c.).

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and realizing that he will never understand her (Lucy’s) mode of being, and M. Paul and Lucy enter a new phase of their relationship. One evening, while walking in the garden, M. Paul raises the subject of the alleged ghost of the nun haunting the premises of the school. He finds out that Lucy has indeed seen it before, like himself, and takes this to be a confirmation of their “affinity,” both inside and outside: “Bon! I am glad of it. I knew it somehow before you told me. I was conscious of rapport between you and myself. You are patient, and I am choleric; you are quiet and pale, and I am tanned and fiery ; you are a strict Protestant and I am a sort of lay-Jesuit: but we are alike – there is affinity. Do you see it, mademoiselle, when you look in the glass? Do you observe that your forehead is shaped like mine – that your eyes are cut like mine? Do you hear that you have some of my tones of voice? Do you know that you have many of my looks? I perceive all this, and believe that you were born under my star. Yes, you were born under my star! Tremble! for where that is the case with mortals, the threads of their destinies are difficult to disentangle; knottings and catchings occur – sudden breaks leave damage in the web.” (31.367)

M. Paul now provides an interpretation of his observation of Lucy’s face, first conducted many months back. He does not refer explicitly to this first encounter with her ; his statement is the result of continued and long-standing observation.268 However, his explicit reference to their similar facial features recalls the technique of a physiognomic reading, of taking the exterior as an expression of what is to be found inside. Moreover, the passage indirectly provides some information about Lucy’s face – but only through the comparison with M. Paul. M. Paul’s features, which are vividly described,269 thus act as a figurative mirror to Lucy’s, strengthening once more the notion that the characters are connected. The pronounced liveliness of M. Paul’s face moreover points to another ambiguity in Lucy’s character, since she tends to portray herself as self-effacing and almost irrelevant – her self-characterization as a cipher, discussed at the beginning of this chapter, is a case in point. If Lucy has some of his “tones of voice”

268 M. Paul has just before pointed out a room to Lucy from which he watches the garden of the school: “‘There I sit and read for hours together: it is my way – my taste. My book is this garden; its contents are human nature – female human nature. I know you all by heart’” (31.363). 269 There are numerous instances in which M. Paul’s appearance is described, beginning with the oracle scene (“a small, dark and spare man, in spectacles”). This initial description is later fleshed out: “Even to me he seemed a harsh apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad, sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, his thorough glance, and hurried bearing” (14.129). Another prominent feature of M. Paul’s face are his eyes, which have the power to speak, e. g. when he sees Lucy in her pink dress at the concert: “He was looking at me gravely and intently : at me, or rather, at my pink dress – sardonic comment on which gleamed in his eye” (20.221).

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and “many of [M. Paul’s] looks”, she must have elements of the fiery and lively in herself as well. M. Paul initially outlines the opposites he sees embodied in Lucy and himself: patient versus choleric; quiet and pale versus tanned and fiery ; Protestant as opposed to lay-Jesuit. It is relevant to the notion of ambiguity in the novel that he begins by citing their differences when his actual point is their likeness, making it sound as though their special connection would not exist if it were not for their fundamental difference. They are as alike as though there was indeed some kind of kinship between them – the terms “rapport” and “affinity” express this idea, and evoke the notion of sympathy and even of something preceding sympathy, a kind of natural kinship that incorporates an almost telepathic connectivity (“‘I knew it somehow before you told me.’”).270 The phrase “born under my star” and the mention of their entangled destinies evokes sooth-saying and fatal connections between individuals, the numinous realm to which the oracle belongs. The phrase “threads of their destinies” moreover allude to the three Fates, who spin the thread of life until its allotted length and then cut it.271 He expands the image by introducing the interweaving of different threads, forming a web, which may be destroyed when one thread is severed from the other. The overwhelming experience of being connected in such a way to another person is expressed in M. Paul’s “Tremble!”. M. Paul makes this observation when Lucy and he speak about the phantom of the nun haunting the school. The nun thus not only unites Lucy and M. Paul because they have both seen it; it also symbolises a moment of separation between them because M. Paul associates it with Justine Marie, who died as a novice in a convent. The similarity that M. Paul mentions here moreover includes the fact that both of them have already experienced love before they meet: M. Paul was engaged to Justine Marie, and Lucy, although her love is not reciprocated, has loved Graham Bretton. Both of them have to bury this first love: M. Paul has literally lost Justine Marie first to the convent and then to death, and Lucy has buried Bretton’s letters in a symbolic act of burying her attachment to him, which she knows will not be reciprocated. Both of them still mourn their losses and have trouble letting go: M. Paul, still obeying Justine Marie’s grandmother, Madame Walravens, whose every wish he considers himself honour-bound to obey ; and Lucy, burying her letters, embalmed and carefully 270 The notion of their kinship is also underlined by M. Paul’s asking Lucy to call him her friend (“‘Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends;’ he pursued” (15.155)) and then her brother (“‘Petite sœur,’ said he; ‘how long could you remember me if we were separated?’” (33.383)). 271 It is of particular relevance with a view to the ending of the novel and M. Paul’s eventual fate that the Fates or Moirai are imagined as “a group of goddesses who assign individual destinies to mortals at birth, particularly with regard to the timing of their death” (Hard 27).

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sealed in a glass bottle, so that she may retrieve them at any time. Still, only the second love is the fateful one, which brings with it a recognition of the kind they experience here – M. Paul sees himself in Lucy as though in a mirror, and asks her to do the same.

2.2

An Oracle About the Past

While attending a dinner party at the Home de Bassompierres, Graham is intent on talking about his and Paulina’s shared past in Bretton with Lucy : “Rather a peculiar child; was she [Paulina, OS] not? I wonder how I treated her. Was I fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindly about me – great, reckless, school-boy as I was? But you don’t recollect me, of course?” “You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like you personally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day.” “But, Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really whets my curiosity. What am I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?” “Gracious to whatever pleased you – unkindly or cruel to nothing.” “There you are wrong; I think I was almost a brute to you, for instance.” (27.316)

What is first of all striking about the “oracle” Lucy delivers here is that it refers to the past and present rather than the future; it is based on recollection, which at first sight appears as the opposite of prediction. Lucy, rather an unwilling oraclegiver, refers Graham Bretton to his own picture, avoiding a direct answer to his half-question: “‘But you don’t recollect me, of course?’” Lucy does not answer directly but moves the focus of the dialogue away from her own personal recollections toward the more ‘factual’ image of the painting of the young Graham.272 “‘It is like you personally.’” The adverb qualifies her utterance as referring to “[…] one’s person, body, or appearance […]” (OED online 3.a., personal, adj.). Lucy clearly speaks of Graham’s outward appearance and his lasting character, but the meaning of personal as “Having oneself as object; directed towards oneself” (OED online 4.c., personal, adj.), can be felt in her utterance as well. 272 Heinrich Lausberg describes this strategy of “dissimulatio”, a rhetorical concept related to “ironia”, as “Verheimlichung der eigenen Meinung” (446; § 902, Ziffer 1) in dialogue. “Die dissimulatio kommt vor: a) im Dialog […], wo sie im Ausweichen vor jeder eigenen Behauptung und im Stellen eigener, unwissend scheinender, aber für den als Aufschneider beurteilten Gesprächspartner verfänglicher Fragen besteht, die der nichtausgedrückten eigenen Meinung durch die Bloßstellung des Gesprächspartners schließlich zur Evidenz verhelfen sollen […]” (Lausberg 446f., § 902, Ziffer 1). Characteristically, Lucy never makes use of the related form of simulatio, which is defined as mostly “[…] eine heimtückische Heuchelung der Konformität [mit einem gegnerischen Standpunkt, OS]” (Lausberg 448; § 902, Ziff. 3.a).

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“What am I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?” Graham turns to the past in search of answers about himself, which mirrors Lucy’s turning toward her past in writing about her life.273 In Graham’s case, however, this is only a gesture in the course of securing Paulina’s affections, whereas Lucy is looking for an insight about herself that might well turn out to be a dangerous and unwanted revelation. There is a glimpse of such a revelation even in this scene, in Graham’s reply to Lucy’s assertion that he was “unkindly or cruel to nothing”. He disagrees with her, and points out that he did not always treat Lucy well. “‘In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as today.’” The second sentence of Lucy’s “oracle” introduces the aspect of manner to the comparison in addition to that of personal appearance and character. The word comprises two related meanings relevant to the interpretation of the utterance, one belonging to the physical, the other to the metaphysical or moral sphere. It is defined as the “[o]utward bearing, deportment; a person’s characteristic style of attitude, gesture, or speech” (OED online 5.a., manner, n.) and “[a] person’s habitual behaviour or conduct; morals” (OED online 4.a., manner, n.). Depending on which interpretation the listener and the reader choose, Graham Bretton either receives a commonplace and ‘inoffensive’ statement about his physical appearance as boy and man, or a rather critical judgment about his lack of character development – after all, he calls himself a “brute” as a schoolboy. Lucy thus adheres to the tradition of the oracular message as ambiguous; it is left to the reader to perceive its ambiguity. This scene, as well as the initial episode with M. Paul, presents an instance of a missing interpretation of the oracle at the time of its pronouncement. As in the first scene, it is not missing altogether, though. The reader is already acquainted with Graham’s portrait from the first chapter of the second volume, in which Lucy wakes up in the Brettons’ house in Villette after her nervous breakdown. When contemplating the unknown room containing strangely familiar objects, she discovers Graham’s schoolboy portrait hanging next to her bed and enters into a reminiscence of looking at it as a girl (see 16.170f.). She begins with some speculation about the future of the boy in the picture, followed by these observations: 273 His questions echo Ginevra’s remark to Lucy in the same chapter : “‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’” The relevance and omnipresence of ambiguity can be seen in the difference between Ginevra’s intention of her meaning as pertaining to social rank, and its taking on further-reaching implications in the course of the chapter. Lucy’s reply, “‘Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don’t look the character’” (27.308), evokes a conventional plot element of the Gothic novel and the 19th-century novel in general: the uncovering of a hidden (female) identity, for example in Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret (1862).

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Those eyes looked as if when somewhat older they would flash a lightning response to love: I cannot tell whether they kept in store the steady-beaming shine of faith. For whatever sentiment met him in form too facile, his lips menaced, beautifully but surely, caprice and light esteem. (16.170)

This is the ‘interpretation’ Graham asks for, but which Lucy does not pronounce directly in his presence – she voices her reticence by carefully restricting her comments to appearance (“personally”; “in manner”) and by implying another level of meaning only through the ambiguity of these adverbial constructions. Like Lucy’s, Graham’s character holds both “bad and good” aspects.274 The present tense of “I cannot tell” indicates that even at the point of recalling this retrospective estimate of character, Lucy is still uncertain whether it is accurate or not. The “steady-beaming shine of faith”, of which Lucy is unsure whether it is present in Graham’s character, is opposed to “caprice and light esteem” that his physiognomy threatens to hold. In the context of the speculation about Graham’s capacity to “flash a lightning response to love”, “faith” means “faithfulness” in the sense of a love that goes beyond the initial “lightning response”. Considering that M. Paul is a truly religious man who calls himself a “lay Jesuit” (31.367), “faith” also means religious faith in this context.

2.3

“[A] strange hum of oracles” – The Ambiguity of the Creative Impulse

When M. Paul, ever intent on drawing Lucy out of her shell, suggests that she take part in the annual examinations in French essay-writing together with the advanced pupils of the first form, Lucy energetically rejects the suggestion, characterizing herself as follows: I knew what the result of such an experiment would be. I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty ; who, in public, was by nature a cypher ; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters (him before me always excepted) – a deity, which sometimes, under circumstances apparently propi274 The superficial similarity to M. Paul’s analysis of Lucy’s character (cf. ch. 7) is further underlined by Lucy’s concluding retrospective reflection concerning Graham as a schoolboy : “All these things did I now think over, adding, ‘He had his faults, yet scarce ever was a finer nature; liberal, suave, impressive’” (16.170f.). Moreover, Graham believes to detect a more profound similarity between himself and Lucy : “‘I agree with you, Lucy : you and I do often agree in opinion, in taste, I think; or at least in judgment.’ ‘Do we?’ I said, somewhat doubtfully. ‘I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl – my mother’s god-son instead of her god-daughter, we should have been good friends: our opinions would have melted into each other’” (27.317).

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tious, would not speak when questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but would stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark Baal with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a perturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the hour – to its victim for some blood or some breath, whatever the circumstance or scene – rousing its priest, treacherously promising vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging to the desperate listener even a miserable remnant – yielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of its own dark veins. And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage and make it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and a Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure and to the inspiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour! (30.356f.)

As in the psychomachia scenes (see ch. 5 on allegory), Lucy portrays an impulse or faculty situated within her as exterior to herself. A sense of ambiguity is created right away in the fact that the allegorical scene, taking place within Lucy, features both “the most maddening of masters” and his “votary”. While Lucy apparently identifies with the position of the votary or “desperate listener”, the dark Baal is just as much a part of her inner life, while at the same time an antagonist (“And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage”). The passage thus underlines Lucy’s existential ambiguity, which encompasses her own inner life when she feels the “Creative Impulse” guiding her like an imperious and intractable deity. She chooses the realm of the numinous, including the indistinct “hum of oracles,” to portray the unpredictability of her creative activity. The Creative Impulse is a pseudo-god, a “dark Baal”, yet he is her “master”. The Creative Impulse transforms in the course of the passage from “deity” and “master” to an irresponsive “demon” when appealed to; and to a “Dagon” when not asked to speak but nevertheless making itself heard. The “Creative Impulse” is a false idol, capricious and unpredictable, yet imperious. The promise of “vaticination” to be expected from this false god is treacherous, and its oracles are of uncertain meaning. Lucy portrays her own role as “votary”, “victim” and “priest” simultaneously, but eventually she is simply a “desperate listener” to the hardly discernible messages of this Baal. The formative experience of Lucy’s life, the fact that her actions and decisions are influenced and sometimes even determined by inner forces that are portrayed as uncontrollable outer agents, finds expression in the very syntax of the sentence describing the workings of the speaker’s creative faculty. The passage consists of a single sentence that runs on for more than half a page before ending with a full stop after “as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor

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of its own dark veins”. One of the most telling aspects of this construction is the fact that the (apparent) main clause beginning “I, to whom nature had denied” is never completed, i. e. that there never follows a predicate, object etc. to go along with the “I”. The referent is initially modified by a number of relative clauses (“to whom”; “who”; “whose”; “who”; “with whom”), producing a sense of textual coherence; yet, the “I”, after being repeated once more, disappears altogether after a final relative clause (“with whom that Impulse was the most intractable […]”). The Creative Impulse then replaces the “I” altogether as central referent in the sentence: “a deity, which sometimes […] would not speak when questioned […].” Eventually, a main clause is introduced: “the irrational demon would wake unsolicited.” The “irrational demon” has taken over the place of the “I” as subject. The sentence is a perfect illustration of what it states – the irrationality of the creative act washes away even the agency of the “I,” the presence of the speaker herself, by introducing a garden path effect to the sentence; the latter easily goes unnoticed in the complexity of its construction and its length. The entire phrase could therefore be described as a camouflaged garden path sentence, an iconic representation of what it describes. The strength and wilfulness of the Creative Impulse are thus iconically reflected in the syntax. The sentence structure confirms Lucy’s observation that she is “in public, by nature a cypher”, since the energy and activity are all in the domain of the Creative Impulse, which more or less obliterates the “I” in the progress of the sentence, turning it indeed into a nonentity of sorts, and giving all agency to the Creative Impulse reigning her inner life. The subject of this sentence is fluid, an impression generated by the fact that the “I” is syntactically equated with the Creative Impulse by echoing the numerous relative clauses depending on the “I” in a line of gerunds describing the latter’s actions: “calling,” “rousing,” “promising,” “filling,” “grudging,” and “yielding.” This implied equation of the “I” and the Creative Impulse creates ambiguity, underlined by the following sentence, which almost paradoxically suggests: “And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage, and make it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and a Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure and to the inspiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour!” (30.357). The “I” surprisingly returns as the adversary of the creative faculty in a reversal of the preceding scenario: Lucy satirically contrasts the ungovernable nature of the Creative Impulse with the ‘bourgeois’ reality of Madame Beck’s school and of Villette, a world that has little interest in, let alone understanding for, the realities of the inner life. Lead by the syntactic inversion, “this tyrant” appears as the subject of the last sentence, but it turns out to be its object. The syntactic structure signals a reversion of what is described in the previous sentence: After the Creative Impulse has taken centre stage as an in-

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tractable and uncontrollable force, he is now to be tamed by the “I” in a public display of compositional skill. The personification of the creative faculty and M. Paul share a number of traits – swiftness, jealousy, and a certain wilful hostility. The action of rushing from the pedestal is reminiscent of the master of literature, whose abrupt and sudden movements reflect his passionate, short-tempered nature.275 In the same chapter, M. Paul is characterized as “apt to flash danger and discomfort around him” (30.348), and his wish to see Lucy “worsted” (30.357), once more associating him with rashness. In his (albeit well-meant) “despotism” of making the pupils and teachers put away their evening occupations in order to read to them, M. Paul indeed resembles the “most maddening of masters”, to whom Lucy compares him in the above passage: “him before me always excepted” (30.356). When Lucy writes that M. Paul’s “veins were dark with a livid bella-donna tincture” (30.348) in the context of his conflictual relationship with Madame Panache, she parallels them with the “dark veins” (30.357) of her personified creative faculty. The Creative Impulse only yields its fruits reluctantly (“yielding it [a miserable remnant of significance, OS] sordidly”); this almost jealous reluctance is similar to M. Paul’s jealousy of Lucy when she is to conduct the public examinations in English by his side (15.154ff.), his jealous inability to accept Madame Panache as a colleague (30.348f.), and his teaching methods (30.350f.). The ‘character’ of the Creative Impulse moreover resembles the role Lucy plays in her ensuing conflict with M. Paul, who argues that she should indeed take the public exam even if she fears to fail. “Would I speak now and be tractable?” “Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should not compel me. […]” “Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship’s sake?” 275 “He turned suddenly” (15.155); “[…] suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew above the crimson desk” (27.310). Further examples are M. Paul’s activity at the concert (he is “so energetic, so intent” (20.212), “comet-like” (20.212), “not tall but active, alive with the energy of three tall men” (20.219)); his way of bursting into the classroom after being announced by “the sharp bell-peal” and “the rapid step familiar to each ear”: “when the two-leaved door split (as split it always did for his admission – such a slow word as ‘open’ is inefficient to describe his movements), and he stood in the midst of us” (28.328). M. Paul’s abrupt movement is moreover paralleled with the effect he has on the mental life of the pupils and teachers: “It was his occasional custom – and a very laudable, acceptable custom, too – to arrive of an evening, always / l’improviste, unannounced, burst in on the silent hour of study, establish a sudden despotism over us and our occupations, cause books to be put away, work-bags to be brought out, and, draw[…] forth a single thick volume, […]. […] Or else he would flash through our conventual darkness a reflex of a brighter world, show us a glimpse of the current literature of the day, read us passages from some enchanting tale, or the last witty feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloons of Paris […]” (28.327, my emphases).

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“Not a whit, not a hair-breadth. […] No true friendship would harass me thus.” (30.357)

M. Paul’s question, “‘Would I speak now and be tractable?’”, brings to mind the Creative Impulse, who “would not speak when questioned” (30.356). The conflict between Lucy and M. Paul, with its “confused noise of demand and rejection, exaction and repulse” (30.357), almost takes on the character of an interior monologue, echoing a psychomachic exchange (see ch. 5 on allegory). The representation of the dialogue results in an ambiguity of perspectives: The inverted commas mark the sentences as direct utterances of M. Paul’s and Lucy’s respectively, yet the “I” signifies that Lucy’s perspective prevails, resulting in the impression of a soliloquy. Moreover, the subjunctive mood of the verbs (“would”; “was”; “was”; “could”) gives the utterances the character of free indirect speech (underlined by the lack of inquit formulae). Thus, the sentence incorporates elements of direct utterance, narrative discourse and free indirect speech. The main effect of this unconventional way of representing dialogue is that the focaliser of the text, Lucy, fuses with the persons making the direct utterances.276 In terms of the dichotomy of inside and outside, which always plays a role in Lucy’s narrative, one could state that utterances that are originally not made by Lucy herself are appropriated by her through this narrative device. Lucy and M. Paul seem to speak the sentences together.277 In their very adversity, the difference between Lucy and M. Paul is almost evened out through the narrative voice overlapping with the character’s utterance. How deliberately this device is employed is demonstrated by the fact that the dialogue suddenly reverts to a conventional use of pronouns (and to French) 276 Unconventional in other texts; in Villette and in Bront[’s other novels, it occurs quite regularly. The dialogue at hand is thus not the only time this fusion takes place, but it is particularly striking here in light of the earlier portrayal of the Creative Impulse. 277 The use of the pronoun “I” in conjunction with the inverted commas signalling direct discourse evens out the contrast between the “I” and the “you” of a linguistic transaction: “Consciousness of self is only possible if it is experienced by contrast. I use I only when I am speaking to someone who will be a you in my address. It is this condition of dialogue that is constitutive of person, for it implies that reciprocally I becomes you in the address of the one who in his turn designates himself as I. Here we see a principle whose consequences are to spread out in all directions. Language is possible only because each speaker sets himself up as a subject by referring to himself as I in his discourse. Because of this, I posits another person, the one who, being, as he is, completely exterior to ‘me,’ becomes my echo to whom I say you and who says you to me. This polarity of persons is the fundamental condition in language […]” (Benveniste 224f.). This polarity is not represented in the ‘dialogue’ at hand – Lucy and M. Paul have become one. A further dimension of ambiguity comes into play when considering that this moment of (linguistic) unity occurs during an altercation between them. Benveniste further remarks that the word “I,” as opposed to a word like “tree,” does not refer to a single concept: “I refers to the act of individual discourse in which it is pronounced, and by this it designates the speaker” (226).

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when M. Paul indirectly refers to his (imaginary) rival, Graham Bretton: “‘Under certain persuasions, from certain quarters, je vous vois d’ici,’ said he, ‘eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionately arming for the effort’” (30.357). On the one hand, M. Paul estimates Lucy’s powers as greater than she knows them to be (knowledge of Greek and Latin, public essay-writing in French, etc.). On the other hand, he wants to see her defeated: “Who was I that I should not fail like my betters?” Even while they have a difference of opinion, Lucy’s and M. Paul’s perspectives are portrayed as being intertwined through the narrative representation of their dialogue. The episode ends with Lucy’s escape from the stiflingly hot room and her ‘intertwined’ dialogue with M. Paul alias the Creative Impulse alias the “I.” The pretext Lucy uses to flee the room is to fetch a glass of water, and the interrelation and near-fusion of M. Paul’s and Lucy’s perspectives is once more underlined when he offers to “‘do my [Lucy’s, OS] errand.’” Lucy ends the chapter on an ambiguous note: “Ere his return, his half-worried prey had escaped” (30.358).278

2.4

“‘[Y]ou shall be what you shall be!’”

After M. Paul has revealed this insight about his and Lucy’s similarities, he continues to be at the centre of Lucy’s narrative during the third volume. Lucy now hears an “oracle” about herself, again pronounced by one of the Catholic characters in the novel. It is pronounced during her visit to the old “Basse-Ville,” the underworld of Villette, on an errand for Madame Beck. Lucy here encounters a witch-like character, Madame Walravens, who is part of the group that will send M. Paul abroad to their estate in the colonies. At this point, Lucy knows very little about M. Paul’s personal history although she is already well acquainted with his character. The meeting with Madame Walravens and PHre Silas, the old priest to whom Lucy confessed, set in a Gothic atmosphere of superstition, will bring her insights about the professor’s life as a young man. Not the witch-like Madame Walravens, the embodiment of malevolence, speaks in oracles to Lucy, but the priest, who also tells her about M. Paul’s youth and his love for Justine Marie, whose family (among them Madame Walravens) opposed the marriage. As in the previous passage, though indirectly, the oracle is related to M. Paul 278 The term “half-worried” occurs in Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe’s correspondence of 1825 in the sense of “[k]illed or mangled by biting, etc.; maltreated, harassed; troubled or distressed in mind” (OED, “worried”, adj.): “I am now better – but a good deal shaken, as they say of half-worried kittens” (II. 347). Bront[ could not have read the Correspondence, but the usage here is illuminating, especially in the context of Lucy’s word “prey”. It does not seem to have been used in other literary texts of the era besides Villette.

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because it occurs in the chapter in which his and Justine Marie’s story is revealed to Lucy. After her encounter with Madame Walravens and the conversation with the old priest during a violent thunderstorm, Lucy prepares to walk the long way back to the school: And now the sun broke out pallid and waterish; the rain yet fell, but there was no more tempest; that hot firmament had cloven and poured out its lightnings. A longer delay would scarce leave daylight for my return, so I rose, thanked the father for his hospitality and his tale, was benignantly answered by a “pax vobiscum,” which I made kindly welcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence; but I liked less the mystic phrase accompanying it: “Daughter, you shall be what you shall be!” an oracle that made me shrug my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door. Few of us know what we are to come to certainly, but for all that had happened yet, I had good hopes of living and dying a sober-minded protestant: there was a hollowness within, and a flourish around ‘Holy Church’ which tempted me but moderately. (34.395f.; my emphasis)

This oracle occurs in the context of a revelation about M. Paul’s past, but its import for Lucy herself remains open for the time being. The story told by Lucy’s former confessor in fact resembles an indirect confession: The old priest tells Lucy the story of M. Paul and his beloved Justine Marie, whom he intended to marry, but was not allowed to do so when his own formerly rich family fell into debt. Justine Marie then became a nun and died soon afterwards (see 34.395). A few years after her death, her family lost their fortune as well, and M. Paul has been supporting them like a son ever since. The prophecy therefore occurs at a moment of anagnorisis for Lucy. It seems surprising that the old priest ends his relation of M. Paul’s story by a ‘prediction’ aimed at Lucy, his listener, to whom he has never spoken before (except in the confession). His oracle is ambiguous because the verb “shall” is polysemous.279 The tautological phrasing280 reinforces the ambiguity of the ut279 The OED lists a wide range of meanings for “shall”: It can have the character of a commandment, especially when used with the second person singular (“In commands or instructions. In the second person, equivalent to an imperative” (5.a.) “Chiefly in Biblical language, of Divine commandments, rendering the jussive future of the Hebrew and Vulgate. (In Old English the imperative is used in the ten commandments” (5.a.(a)) On a few occasions, this usage occurs in Villette, for example in the following exchange between Paulina and Lucy : “‘But ours [Paulina and Graham’s, OS], Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shall share it.’ ‘I shall share no man’s or woman’s life in this world, as you understand sharing’” (37.425). Paulina’s utterance retains a sense of the commandment, but in Lucy’s reply, “shall” has changed its character and is simply a statement about the future. Further relevant meanings are: “As a mere auxiliary, forming (with present infinitive) the future, and (with perfect infinitive) the future perfect tense” (8). Of particular relevance is the relationship with the oracle: “In Old English sceal, while retaining its primary sense, served as a tense-sign in announcing a future event as fated or divinely decreed. Hence shall has always been the auxiliary used, in all persons, for prophetic or

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terance: It creates a redundancy that does not seem to provide any additional information, drawing the reader’s eye to the ‘word material’ itself.281 Here, the lexical ambiguity of “shall” produces even four possible readings of the phrase: 1. You will be what you should be. 2. You should be what you should be. 3. You will be what you will be. 4. You should be what you will be. Each variant of the phrase puts a different kind of emphasis on the notions of predestination and providence: The first one would mean that she will eventually become the person she is supposed to be, possibly implying the notion of predestination. The second reading is in itself ambiguous (“should” may refer to the future, but it also expresses a moral obligation), including the first and fourth reading above. The third reading “You will be what you will be” has fatalist undertones in the manner of Dr. Faustus’ opening soliloquy in Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus: “What doctrine call you this? Che sar/, sar/: What will be, shall be! Divinity, adieu!” (1.1.46–48). The phrase is part of Dr Faustus’ reasoning for rejecting divinity as a field of study, his inability to believe that everything happens according to God’s plan. This allusion possibly gives the statement a hint of irony, considering that it is spoken by a priest. oracular announcements of the future, and for solemn assertions of the certainty of a future event” (8.a.). This aspect of the verb comes into play when M. Paul tells Lucy about her future in the school he has prepared for her : “‘Now,’ he pursued, ‘you shall live here and have a school; you shall employ yourself while I am away ; you shall think of me sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for my sake, and when I come back –’ Here he left a blank” (41.487). In Jane Eyre, the verb is used to communicate a sense of determination in the speaker : When Jane proves unwilling to take Rochester’s profession of love and proposal of marriage seriously, he tells her : “‘Little sceptic, you shall be convinced’” (JE 23.285; bold emphasis mine). St John Rivers commands Jane to come with him on his mission to India: “‘A missionary’s wife you must – shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you – not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service’” (JE 34.448; bold emphasis mine). 280 In his examination of the rhetorical figures of ambiguity and the tests for the detection of ambiguity devised by Lakoff and Cresswell, Erhard Schüttpelz writes on tautology : “Die alltägliche Verwendung von Tautologien läuft daher fast immer auf eine Figur hinaus, eine Figur, die traditionell ebenfalls ‘Tautologie’ heißen konnte, und die ihre Bedeutung verschiebt, qua Emphase, qua Insinuation, qua Bedeutungsverschiebung (was mit einem anderen Wort hieße: qua ‘Trope’). […] Die entstehende Figuralität gibt den Ausdrücken einen gewissen Vexiercharakter, einen ‘superficial character of paradox’.” (Schüttpelz 366). Tautology can be a rhetorical vitium, violating the rule of brevitas (“Besteht die adiectio in der ungeschickten Wiederholung […] des gleichen Wortes oder der gleichen Wortgruppe, so heißt der Fehler tautologia […].” (Lausberg 268; § 502)). 281 In the context of the oracle in the Oresteia, Deborah Roberts draws attention to the role of the interpretation of signs, and to the importance of verbal signs in particular (cf. Wood 100).

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The fourth reading states that what Lucy will be is the right path for her, implying that a divine providence will look after her whether she becomes a Catholic or remains a Protestant. On some level, the oracle “you shall be what you shall be” complies specifically with Lucy’s character and mode of being: It seems to grasp the fact that she must live and act according to her own nature – she must be herself and act without violating her personal integrity. This notion is taken up at various points in the novel, for example when Lucy, suspected by M. Paul of knowing Greek and Latin, replies: “I am ignorant, monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I sometimes, not always, feel a knowledge of my own” (30.355).282 PHre Silas’ words stand in a literary tradition that revolves around selfknowledge and are therefore connected with the theme “I know not” (see ch. 2): If Lucy does not know herself, the priest’s prediction tells her nothing. Literary contexts of predictions and self-knowledge are the final prediction to Macbeth in Shakespeare’s play,283 as well as Polonius’s advice “to thine own self be true” when parting with his son Laertes.284 However, in contrast to Polonius’ fatherly advice, whose relevance he immediately indicates by mentioning the positive effect it will have on Laertes’ dealings with others if he follows it, PHre Silas’ words are rather cryptic and circular, containing no practical advice for Lucy at 282 Another allusion might be to Pindar’s Second Pythian Ode and its now proverbial phrase: “Become who you are”. Interestingly, this translation is claimed to be faulty by Dieter Bremer’s 1992 translation: “Es gibt Pindarworte, die ihre Berühmtheit nicht zuletzt einer falschen Übersetzung verdanken. So das: ‘Werde, der Du bist!’ (Pyth. 2, 72). Eine Schlüsselstelle des poetologischen Selbstverständnisses Pindars ist aufgrund unzutreffender Übersetzung und Deutung bislang nur unzulänglich aufgeschlossen worden. Sie lautet in neuer Übersetzung: ‘Reichlich habe ich / unter dem Arm schnelle Geschosse / drinnen im Köcher, / sprechend Verständigen; doch für das Vollkommen-Ganze bedürfen / sie der Deuter. Weise, wer vieles weiß aus dem, wie er ist; / die Gelernten aber mögen ungehemmt / in ihrer Allgeschwätzigkeit wie Krähen Unvollendetes krächzen / gegen den göttlichen Vogel des Zeus. / Halt nun auf das Ziel den Bogen, auf, mein Mut! Wen treffen wir, / wenn wir aus sanftem Sinn von neuem / Ruhmespfeile senden?’ (Ol. 2, 83–91)” (Bremer 402). Bront[ might have known William Tasker’s Select Odes of Horace and Pindar (1790), in which the Pindarian ode in question is unfortunately not included. However, there might be a deeper meaning linking the passage from Pindar and Villette: Bremer interprets the passage as poetological: “Die dichterische Herstellung des vollkommenen Ganzen gelingt nur dem ‘Weisen’, der seine Meisterschaft ‘aus dem, wie er ist’, herleitet, modern gesprochen: aus seiner naturwüchsigen Begabung” (Bremer 403). Pindar introduces a distinction between wisdom arrived at through self-knowledge and the acquired, ‘external’ knowledge of learning. This notion is taken up in Villette when Lucy, suspected by M. Paul of knowing Greek and Latin, replies: “I am ignorant, monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I sometimes, not always, feel a knowledge of my own” (30.355). 283 “Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be, until / Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsinane Hill / Shall come against him.” “That will never bee […]” (Macbeth 4.1.110–113). 284 “This above all: to thine own self be true, / And it must follow as the night the day / Thou canst not then be false to any man” (Hamlet 1.3.78–90).

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all.285 Far from providing any sort of insight about herself or her own future to Lucy (at least at the moment of hearing them), the priest’s words only make her shrug her shoulders. Lucy connects the oracle to her Protestantism: She immediately interprets the “mystic phrase” as referring to her spiritual future, assuming that the Catholic priest wants her to convert, as he tells her after her confession: “‘It is my own conviction that these impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the true church. You were made for our faith: depend upon it our faith alone could heal and help you – Protestantism is altogether too dry, cold, prosaic for you’” (15.162). She immediately takes on the priest’s perspective in her interpretation of the oracle without telling the reader what her reading of it is. The tautology of “you shall be what you shall be” seems to imply that there is really just one way for Lucy to live her life, which is why she reads the sentence as a reiteration of the priest’s advice after her confession. Lucy’s assumption may be right, since the oracle occurs in the context of a strategic “sage plan” (35.397) on the part of the priest and Madame Beck, which is meant to eliminate Lucy’s expectations toward M. Paul.286 This interpretation 285 PHre Silas’ oracle resembles the homophone of its central verb (“shall” – shell) in that it is almost closed off against interpretation in its circularity. The homonymy suggests a connection to this ‘shell’, too, and recalls the “ruddy little shell-box” (29.340) in which Lucy stores the watch-guard she has made for M. Paul and which causes controversy between them (cf. 29.335 and 29.340). Moreover, the shell is symbolically representative of Lucy’s passivity : “[…] I shrank into my sloth like a snail into its shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as a pretext to escape action” (8.76). 286 She connects the manipulativeness of such a plan to Catholicism: “These Romanists are strange beings. Such a one among them – whom you know no more than the last Inca of Peru, or the first Emperor of China – knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying to you so and so, when you simply thought the communication sprang impromptu from the instant’s impulse: his plan in bringing it about that you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such and such circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crude apprehension the ordinance of chance, or the sequel of exigency” (34.393). The chapter suggests a relation with the Gothic novel, which is typically set in a foreign, Catholic country (e. g. Italy in The Castle of Otranto; Spain and Germany in The Monk), where the boundaries of ‘proper’ British/Protestant behaviour may be transgressed. The relationship between the rational and the irrational, reality and appearance, truth and perception, are major themes of the Gothic novel. Since the human psyche is often at the centre of the narrative, Gothic buildings/landscapes and other outward phenomena may be read and have been interpreted as representations of a character’s inner world. This is one of the features that makes the genre so relevant to Villette. Examples of ‘typical’ Gothic landscapes are the subterraneous labyrinth in The Castle of Otranto (1765), caves and gloomy forests; Frankenstein’s (1818) many thunderstorms are examples of ‘Gothic weather’. Some of these features may be found in “Malevola”: The old age and architecture of the Basse-Ville (“Antiquity brooded above this region” (34.387)) and Madame Walravens’ house; the moving picture disguising the entrance to an “arched passage” through which Madame Walravens enters the room (34.388), and of course the thunderstorm forcing Lucy to prolong her stay at Madame Walravens’ house. The dramatic structure of the

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is corroborated by Madame Beck’s reception of Lucy when she returns from her errand to the Basse-Ville, summing up the ‘lesson’ Lucy was supposed to learn that afternoon: “‘if he wanted to marry ever so much – soit moi, soit une autre – he could not do it’” (34.396). By telling Lucy the story of M. Paul’s deceased love and his unfailing attachment to her, PHre Silas lets her know that his pupil is unavailable for any new romantic involvement. The oracle can therefore be read in its emphasis on Lucy’s solitary existence, in which she is an ‘I’ by herself, without a partner. Lucy receives the priest’s “tale” and his oracular “mystic phrase” in an unreal, uncanny atmosphere,287 sustained by allusions to fairy tales and myths, and distinctly associated with the Catholic.288 Madame Beck’s errand involves carrying a basket filled with fruit and flowers to an old woman in a remote part of the town, not unlike the premise of the fairy tale “Little Red Riding Hood”. When Lucy approaches the ominous Basse-Ville, a storm is gathering over the city, dramatizing her entry into an unknown realm and lending a Gothic undertone to the events following it. The house is inhabited by witch-like289 Madame Walravens: She is “Cun8gonde, the sorceress”,290 her ivory staff is “wand-like” and, like the witches in Gothic Novel often features an element of discovery (something that was supposed to be one thing turns out to be different) or anagnorisis, and the chapter “Malevola” of course contains just such an anagnorisis about M. Paul’s true character for Lucy. 287 Apart from portraying Madame Walravens as a witch-like character, Lucy alludes to the events in “Malevola” as follows: “The tale of magic seemed to proceed with due accompaniment of the elements. The wanderer, decoyed into the enchanted castle, heard rising, outside, the spell-wakened tempest” (34.390). The “spell-wakened tempest” is a clear reference to Shakespeare’s The Tempest, in which Prospero commands Ariel to engineer the storm that causes the travellers’ shipwreck. In her later references to her visit to the Rue des Mages to M. Paul, Lucy underlines the dream-like, surreal nature of her experiences there: “‘Where did you pick up all that? Who told you?’ he asked. ‘Nobody told me. Did I dream it, monsieur, do you think?’ ‘Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman’s waking thoughts, much less her sleeping fantasies?’ ‘If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. I saw a priest, old, bent, and gray […]’” (35.404). The comparison of her experiences to a dream recalls the full title and incipit of The Pilgrim’s Progress: In the Similitude of a Dream: “As I walk’d through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where was a Den; And I laid me down in that place to sleep: And as I slept I dreamed a Dream” (11). 288 This unreal atmosphere is a precursor to the sense of unreality surrounding Lucy’s visit to the park on the national holiday of Villette (chs. 38 and 39; discussed here in ch. 6). 289 She is described thus when Lucy sees her for the second time in the park of Villette, connecting her again with the witches of Macbeth through the apostrophe: “Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more witch-like than ever” (38.460). The turrets of the church foreshadow the appearance of a winding stair in Madame Walravens’ house: “A small or subordinate tower, usually one forming part of a larger structure; esp. a rounded addition to an angle of a building, sometimes commencing at some height above the ground, and freq. containing a spiral staircase” (OED, “turret”, 1.a).

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Macbeth, “a silver beard bristled her chin” (34.389). Her costly clothes and ornaments stand in contrast to her decaying body : “[…] she had rings on her skeleton hands, with thick gold hoops, and stones – purple, green, and bloodred” (34.389). Her first name, Magloire, associates her with the Rue des Mages, where she lives, and with its ‘oriental’ connotations, since their first three letters are identical: Mages – Magloire (and possibly also with the bird “magpie”), and she shares the attributes of her dwelling place, which are passed on to the denomination she represents. However, of all representatives of Catholicism in the novel, Madame Walravens is the least sympathetic, while Lucy clearly feels a certain sympathy for a character like PHre Silas.291 The atmosphere in the Basse-Ville is repeatedly described as “mystic”.292 The adjective suggests a connection to the context of magic or superstition and the 290 The name Lucy gives to Madame Walravens is highly evocative and underlines once more the importance of knowledge as a theme of the novel: Charlotte M. Yonge offers some information on the interrelation of “knowledge and action” (Yonge 423), which can be traced in the etymological roots of names containing forms of “ken” and “can” (Yonge 422): “‘Knowledge is power,’ is an idea deeply rooted in our languages, for the difference between I ken and I can is well-nigh imperceptible. The Sanskrit gna […] reappears in the Latin nosco, and the Anglo-Saxon cnawan. Another Anglo-Saxon form is cunnan, answering to the Danish kjende, Iceland kunna, German kennan. Thence our word cunning, knowing, and cuth, the past participle, known, noted, or dexterous, whence came several NorthAnglian names […]” (Yonge 422). Especially the relation to ‘cunning’ is significant since it already indicates how Lucy interprets Madame Walravens’ character. The meaning of ‘noted’ is of importance as well since she is one of the powerful characters of the book in a worldly sense, yielding influence over M. Paul’s benevolence and obviously also influencing Madame Beck. Moreover, her curtness towards Lucy is reflected in the name: Yonge gives the meaning of “Kunigund” as “Bold war.” The name also links her to her continental origins: “Kunigund, or Bold war, was the name of a daughter of the counts of Luxemburg, who was wife to Henry of Bavaria, the sainted emperor, and shared in his canonization, rendering her name national in Bavaria” (Yonge 423). In an interesting afterthought, Yonge also points out that the first syllable may derive from “[…] cyn, kin, or kind, meaning, of course, kindred or lineage” (Yonge 424). Considering the power that Madame Walravens exerts over M. Paul on account of their almost-kinship, the second explanation is relevant, too. 291 “PHre Silas (himself, I must repeat, not a bad man, though the advocate of a bad cause)” (36.418). 292 All instances but one of “mystic” in the novel occur in this chapter : Madame Walravens descends from a “mystic winding stair” (34.388), the three towers of the quarter “own for godfathers three mystic sages of a dead and dark art” (34.389), and the boudoir in Madame Walravens’ house has “its half-mystic interest” (34.391). The word occurs for the last time in the context of the surveillance Lucy finds herself and M. Paul subjected to: “We were under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jealously her son through that mystic lattice at which I had knelt once, and to which M. Emanuel drew nigh month by month – the sliding panel of the confessional” (36.409). The adjective is applied both to objects, such as the winding stair or the lattice, which makes the obsolete meaning “[s]ecret, concealed” (OED, mystic, 3.) or the more recent sense of “[i]nspiring an awed sense of mystery” (OED, mystic, 5.b.) probable, but also, as it is applied to the sages, the meaning of “[s]piritually

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occult; this connotation is underlined in Lucy’s visit to the Rue des Mages.293 Her epithet for Madame Walravens, “Malevola,” which provides the title of the chapter, evokes the evil fairy and, etymologically, portrays the character as an “embodiment of ill-will” (Notes to the Oxford World’s Classics Edition, 531). The sense of a venture into an uncanny realm is emphasized by the storm about to arrive, transforming the whole city and turning it into a ghostly, surreal and Gothic setting.294 Besides its association with the supernatural, the “old and grim Basse-Ville” (34.387) of Villette which Lucy visits is characterized by its association with the past295 – but contrary to the past of Bretton, which is linked to Graham’s and Paulina’s childhood and youth and is ‘reproduced’ in the Brettons’ Labassecourien house La Terrasse, it is associated with ruin and decay, especially in the description of the church standing there: “That church whose dark, half-ruinous turrets overlooked the square, was the venerable and formerly opulent shrine of the Magi” (34.387). Keeping in mind the Christian and Oriental significance of ‘magus’, the eastern occult is thus strongly linked with the decrepit insignia of Catholicism dominating the square where Madame Walravens lives, and the verb allegorical or symbolical; of the nature of, or characteristic of, a sacred mystery ; pertaining to the mysteries of the faith. […]” (OED, mystic, 1.a.), as well as “[p]ertaining to the ancient religious mysteries or to other occult rites or practices; occult, esoteric” (OED, mystic, 2.) or “[o]f hidden meaning or nature; enigmatical, mysterious” (OED, mystic, 5.a.). In the case of Madame Walravens’ chamber, then, and the restriction “half” before the adjective, we find a mixture of the spiritual sense and the more material meaning of “secret” quoted above. The chamber resembles an oratory or nun’s cell, but is of course not part of an actual church or convent, which is why it is only “half-mystic”. 293 The name of the street points to both a Christian and an oriental context: It refers to the “three ‘wise men’ who came from the East, bearing offerings to the infant Christ” (OED, magus, 2.). The name ironically underlines the parallels between this episode and the biblical story : Lucy, the foreigner, visits Madame Walravens bearing the expensive fruit and flowers Madame Beck has given her as a gift for the old woman’s birthday. In another ironic allusion to the star that guides the wise men from the East, the flowers Lucy carries in her basket look like “pale yellow stars”. A magus is moreover defined as “[a] member of the ancient Persian priestly caste, said by ancient historians to have been originally a Median tribe. Hence, in wider sense, one skilled in Oriental magic and astrology, an ancient magician or sorcerer” (OED, magus, 1.). 294 “In return, it [a dark rush of rain, OS] sweeps a great capital clean before you; it makes you a quiet path through broad, grand streets; it petrifies a living city, as if by eastern enchantment; it transforms a Villette into a Tadmor” (34.387). The transformation of bourgeois Villette into the Syrian city of Tadmor emphasizes the exotic, alien atmosphere of the BasseVille. 295 When Lucy first mentions this part of the town, it is characterized by its great age and its association with (literal and mental) darkness: “Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoar and overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholy moods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed a half-deserted ‘place’ or square, I found myself before a sort of broker’s shop; an ancient place, full of ancient things” (26.295).

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“overlooked” reminds the reader of the spying, manipulative characters of old woman and ancient priest296 and their practice of deception and surveillance in the name of Catholicism. Madame Walravens’ house resembles a church: It has “church-like windows of coloured glass” (34.388), and the old priest shows Lucy into a room which “seemed more like an oratory than a boudoir, a very solemn little chamber, looking as if it were a place rather dedicated to relics and remembrance, than designed for present use and comfort” (34.390). The Catholic church and Madame Walravens’ existence both have an air of outdatedness; “dedicated” to an eternal, mystic past in which the present (and, consequently, the future) have little relevance. In the light of the numerous fairy tale allusions, Madame Walravens and the entire Basse-Ville seem to exist in a (spell-induced) vacuum of things past.297 This is also associated with M. Paul’s worship of his dead beloved as PHre Silas describes it.298 The air of unreality created by the allusions to Gothic traditions and fairy tales surrounds the priest’s story about M. Paul: Lucy calls his tale “quite a little romantic narrative,” the dramatic effect of which is heightened by “the ac-

296 Madame Walravens is repeatedly associated with great, even superhuman, age: “[…] I should have said there were a hundred years in her features, and more perhaps in her eyes” (34.389); “[…] she seemed also to have outlived the common years of humanity, and to have attained those which are only labour and sorrow” (35.405). The association is first introduced by Lucy calling her “Cun8gonde”, after the figure in Voltaire’s Candide who was once beautiful, but declines in old age and turns into a withered hag (Notes to Oxford World’s Classics, 531). PHre Silas is described as “an infirm old priest, who went past, bending and propped on a staff, the type of eld and decay” (34.387). Their age connects both these characters to the sibyl of classical mythology : “Bezeichnend ist ihr hohes Alter, das dann sogar in die Wunschfloskel eingeht (Ovid, Fast. 3,534; vgl. Prop. 2,2,15–16; Mart. 9,26,3–4) und das durch ihren Wunsch zu sterben unterstrichen wird (Petron. Satyr. 48,8: ‘Die Sibylle habe ich nämlich in Cumae mit eigenen Augen gesehen. Sie hing in einer Flasche, und als sie die Knaben fragten: ‘Sibylle, was willst du?’ antwortete sie: ‘Sterben will ich’; dazu die Geschichte bei Ovid, Met. 14,130ff. […]’)” (Gauger 347). This relation is ironic and even comical, since Lucy is unwilling to accept anything Madame Walravens and PHre Silas tell her. Madame Beck’s ostentatious reason for sending Lucy to the Rue des Mages is Madame Walravens “fÞte” (34.386), her birthday, calling attention once more to her sibylline age. It moreover suggests a connection between Madame Walravens, PHre Silas and death. 297 Madame Walravens is associated with the supernatural from the moment of her appearance from the secret passage behind the painting (cf. 34.388), and both she and the nun haunting the school are called “phantom[s]” (cf. 34.391 and 39.470). 298 Lucy initially believes the picture of Justine Marie to be a Madonna (“Imperfectly seen, I had taken it for a Madonna […]” (34.391)). In answer to Lucy’s question whether M. Paul lives in the house in the Basse-Ville: “No; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved saint, to make his confession to me, and to pay his respects to her he calls his mother” (34.395). Lucy later makes her own comment on this: “I own I did not reckon amongst the proofs of his [M. Paul’s, OS] greatness, either the act of confession, or the saint-worship” (34.395).

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companiment of the now subsiding storm” (34.392), creating the impression that even the weather has been orchestrated to support the effect of his narrative. The priest imparts his tale to her when he notices Lucy’s almost hypnotic fascination with the portrait of Justine Marie in her nun’s habit: “[…] I looked long at that picture, and could not choose but look. […] he [the priest, OS] perceived the point towards which my attention was drawn, and, in a slow, distinct voice, dropped concerning it, these four observations. “She was much beloved. “She gave herself to God. “She died young. “She is still remembered, still wept.” (34.391)

The anaphora and parataxis, as well as the fact that each sentence stands by itself, each beginning a new line of text, impart a particular emphasis to every sentence, while also lending the beginning of the priest’s story an air of artificiality and stylization. Lucy interprets the story as an attempt at manipulating her because of a glance from the story-teller : “The father had wiped away his tears before he uttered these last words, and in pronouncing them, he for one instant raised his eyes to mine. I caught that glance, despite its veiled character ; the momentary gleam shot a meaning which struck me” (34.393). Now she begins to connect the seemingly isolated and coincidental events that have led her to the Rue des Mages: “a handful of loose beads; but threaded through by that quick-shot and crafty glance of a Jesuit-eye, they dropped pendant in a long string, like that rosary on the prie-dieu” (34.393f.). The idea of PHre Silas’ glance as a weapon, but also as an ‘instrument’ producing meaning and coherence, is reiterated here (“quick-shot”)299 and prepares the revelation of M. Paul’s true affections that will

299 There is an interesting ambiguity, though, in the polysemy of the verb, one meaning being related to craftsmanship, and the other to warfare. The meaning of the verb “shoot” is associated with weaving (“To pass (the shuttle, the weft) between the threads of the warp. Also in figurative context” (OED, “shoot”, 14.a)), and “crafty” is obviously etymologically related to the noun “craft”. In the association with weaving moreover lies an allusion to the fairy tale Frau Holle (see Gitter 936). The second set of meaning moreover recalls Lucy’s work on M. Paul’s watchguard: “[…] being now more than ever interested in my work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched my bread and sipped my beverage […]” (28.330). Significantly, Lucy uses her best materials to finish the present: “All my materials – my whole stock of beads and silk – were used up before the chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought it double, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to suit the particular taste whose gratification was in view, an effective appearance was indispensable” (29.335). The ‘doubleness’ of the watchguard symbolises Lucy’s and M. Paul’s interwoven destinies, the “threads of their destinies” (31.367) M. Paul alludes to. Moreover, the activity of joining strands of fabric links Lucy to the moirai or an Ariadne-like figure, but also underlines her role as story-teller (see Heininger). According

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follow soon.300 The re-interpretation and connection of the single events by means of a figurative rosary is linked to the emblem of a nun’s life after her confession.301 In this episode as in the earlier confession scene, the priest tries to influence Lucy’s life decisions (becoming a nun, ending her friendship with M. Paul). The manner in which Lucy describes her deductions about the incidents of the chapter – being sent to the Basse-Ville by Madame Beck, the old priest appearing seemingly by chance and helping her gain entrance into Madame Walravens’ house, and re-encountering him when she is about to leave – reminds the reader that her project of telling the reader her life story, or at least the story of the first half of her life (until she is about twenty-four or twenty-five), is similar : It is an act of construction as well. Lucy realizes that all the events around the relation of M. Paul’s story have somehow been arranged for her, that nothing has happened by coincidence. M. Paul as the young(er) representative of Catholicism in the novel is characterized as a man who “seemed of the best; touched with superstition, influenced by priest-craft, yet wondrous for fond faith, for pious devotion, for sacrifice of self, for charity unbounded” (34.396). Thus Lucy’s experience of Catholicism finds a more differentiated portrayal in its various representatives; apart from learning about M. Paul’s past and his sacrifice, Lucy sees the positive and negative aspects of Catholicism, and indeed even briefly considers the possibility of becoming a nun after her confession. In particular, her estimate of the priest reflects the mixture of attraction and repulsion she feels toward Catholicism: “[…] he was a true son of Rome; when he did lift his eyes, he looked at me out of their corners, with more and sharper subtlety than, one would have thought, could survive the wear and tear of seventy years. Yet, I believe, he was a good old man” (34.392). Beyond the mere opposition of Catholic and Protestant, and despite the aversion which Lucy displays in her portrayal of these main representatives of the Catholic church in the novel (barring M. Paul), the encounter further enlightens Lucy’s path to her recognition of M. Paul’s character – of his generosity and unfailing loyalty. It is significant that this episode is placed between two chapters centring on M. Paul and Lucy – the harmonic scenes of his to Heininger, Elisabeth Gitter “identifies a connection between women’s hair, weaving, and the female storyteller throughout Victorian literature (936–39)” (Heininger 3). 300 “I gathered it to me with a sort of rage of haste, and folded it round me, as the soldier struck on the field folds his colours about his breast” (39.467). The sentence is part of a longer passage in battlefield metaphor. 301 “We all think ourselves strong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many ; the probabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Cr8cy, in Villette” (15.163). Counting the beads of the rosary is here portrayed as the prototypical activity of a nun. Lucy moreover implies that her voice would have been silenced had she become a nun.

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birthday celebration in the countryside (which nevertheless end with Lucy’s compulsive evasion of her ‘brother’ (cf. 33.385)), and the mortifying experience of having to display her learning in an examination conducted by the teachers from the neighbouring boys’ school, who question the capabilities of M. Paul’s English pupil (and his word about them) (see 35.399f.; see ch. II), followed by a foray into the topic of M. Paul’s past in conversation with him (cf. 35.403f.). In chapter 35, the oracle of Lucy and M. Paul’s first encounter is evoked once more in Lucy’s teasing account of the story PHre Silas has told her : After many playful allusions and ironic remarks,302 Lucy eventually reveals that the title of the priest’s tale ought to be: “The Priest’s Pupil” (35.405). “Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the midst. But I will tell him the title – ‘The Priest’s Pupil.” “Bah!” said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. “The good old father could not have chosen a worse subject: it is his weak point. But what of ‘The Priest’s Pupil’?” “Oh! many things.” “You may as well at once define what things. I mean to know.” (35.405)

Lucy’s deliberately vague reply “many things” is a (translated) echo of M. Paul’s “oracular” sentence “‘Mais – bien des choses’” (7.67), in which the oracle is first mentioned; and it builds a bridge between the initial oracle, concerning Lucy’s future, and this second verdict, which Lucy presents in ‘upside down’ form, reporting the exact opposite of what PHre Silas told her : “‘There was the pupil’s youth, the pupil’s manhood – his avarice, his ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil, monsieur! – so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!’” (35.405). Thus Lucy gives M. Paul an inverted account of the story he knows best because it is his own, and they understand each other perfectly.

2.5

Lucy and M. Paul: The Intimacy of Interpretation

The use of the word “oracle”, and the likening of their interactions to an oracle and its votary, play a central role in the course of M. Paul and Lucy’s relationship and underlines the ambiguity of their relationship. The first oracle, delivered by 302 “‘No, monsieur,’ I rejoined. ‘Of course, as you say, I know neither your history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your sorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities. Oh, no! I know nothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger.’” And later in the same dialogue: “‘You are a philosopher, monsieur ; a cynic philosopher’ (and I looked at his paletot, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with his hand), ‘despising the foibles of humanity – above its luxuries – independent of its comforts’” (35.403).

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M. Paul as a physiognomic reading of Lucy’s face and providing her with a future at Madame Beck’s school, is contrasted with a short scene in which M. Paul and Lucy are interrupted in their walk in the all8e d8fendue, when Lucy as narrator first expresses deeper feelings for M. Paul: “He took my hand. I looked up in his face; I thought he meant to arrest my attention. […] His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now.” (38.442). The intimate moment is interrupted by the appearance of Madame Beck and PHre Silas. Lucy is about to read M. Paul’s full meaning in his face, which is of course linked to her own future – the fact that he “drew [her] forward” resonates with a temporal, even mantic significance. The phrases “eloquent look” and “interpreting lips”303 give the scene the character of a cultic event; at this moment M. Paul is Lucy’s oracle, and, unlike the fickle Baal of her creativity, wordlessly communicating a profound truth to her.304 The polysemy of “interpret” allows the sentence to be read both as referring to M. Paul’s role as professor, who explains school subjects to Lucy,305 but also to his ability to understand and to know Lucy’s character. The verb “stirred” moreover recalls the relief promised by the moving waters in one of the allegorical passages: Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir ; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend, the cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the possessed will be led to bathe. (17.179)306

303 The verb “interpret” carries both the meaning of “[t]o expound the meaning of (something abstruse or mysterious); to render (words, writings, an author, etc.) clear or explicit; to elucidate; to explain. †Formerly, also, To translate (now only contextually, as included in the general sense)” (OED, interpret, v. 1.a.) and the sense of “[t]o make an explanation; to give an exposition; spec. to act as an interpreter or dragoman. †Formerly, also, in general sense, To translate” (OED, “interpret”, v. 3.). M. Paul reads Lucy and ‘interprets’ her correctly ; at the same time, he can be said to be an interpreter because he is the professor of literature in Madame Beck’s school. 304 Lucy has before described their growing mutual trust: “The jar was over ; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection and deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond” (38.441). 305 “Till the date at which the last chapter closes, M. Paul had not been my professor – he had not given me lessons, but about that time, accidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an ignorance of some branch of education (I think it was arithmetic) which would have disgraced a charity-schoolboy, as he very truly remarked, he took me in hand, examined me first, found me, I need not say, abundantly deficient, gave me some books and appointed me some tasks” (30.350f.). 306 The passage alludes to John 5:4: “For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water : whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.”

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M. Paul’s lips and their movement have the power to relieve Lucy from her uncertainty ; yet their promise remains unarticulated for the time being. She must still wait for her “healing herald” to fully reveal himself. The enumeration of the afflicted (“the cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the possessed”) evokes Lucy’s mental crisis during the summer holidays and the fact that she is prone to depression in general. There is a subtle parallel of the qualities of the “healing herald” with those of M. Paul, underlining his likeness to Christ upon his return to earth on Judgment Day. Lucy’s focus on M. Paul’s lips moreover evokes the possibility of a kiss in the seclusion of the hidden garden path where they are walking. Lucy plays a double role as both reader and text, both interpreting her surroundings and being interpreted.307 Lucy’s life is characterised by uncertainty, and she looks for ways of dissolving (or at least of dealing with) her existential doubts. The oracle belongs to the realm of soothsaying and prophecy, of the cultic and of the irrational. The protagonist, who has an “artistic temperament” (7.60), is highly susceptible to traces of those aspects of reality around her, often treating details of her surroundings as “‘signs and tokens’” (1.6) of coming events. Young Lucy reads the “signs of home sickness” (2.12) on Paulina’s face after the small girl has arrived at Bretton and (falsely) deduces from the arrival of a letter for Mrs. Bretton that a calamity must have befallen her family (see 1.6). Once Lucy has travelled to Labassecour, the significance of her interpretative activities is heightened because she is surrounded by a foreign language and culture, and more dependent on her own skills of deciphering nonverbal signs.308 She closely observes Madame Beck’s face, appearance, and methods of running her school, and discovers the traces of “hypochondria” in the king’s face during a concert. Lucy describes the interaction between king and queen as a “full mournful and significant […] spectacle” (20.214), which is of more interest to her than the display on stage. In Lucy and M. Paul’s relationship, the reading of signs plays an important role – after all, M. Paul is the one who does not misinterpret Lucy but accepts that in order to be understood she must choose her own appropriate context. As ever, 307 Lawrence calls Lucy’s double existence as both reader and text an “ambiguity” (97). 308 “In Labassecour, Lucy’s habitual sense of powerlessness and inarticulateness is intensified. As an Englishwoman in Belgium, Lucy is literally deprived of her language. Her situation is emblematic: she is the image of the powerless female, without the keys to the culture or the power of its privileged discourse. […] However, travel for Lucy alters the terms of both Lucy’s anonymity and ambiguity, her roles as both reader and text. On the one hand, her silence and anonymity are increased in this strange land as is the threat of annihilating loneliness; on the other hand, the semiotic stakes increase: Lucy as decoder and as sign becomes more active. Lucy, the foreigner, is likely to be scrutinized, to be ‘read’ by others and to impress them with her foreign ‘character.’ She quickly becomes an enigma to Madame Beck’s watchful eyes, even a secret code” (Lawrence 96f.).

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the interpretative gaze goes in both directions: Lucy is in the habit of reading M. Paul’s face just as much as he reads hers.309 The most important ‘display’ of signs is the face. In M. Paul’s half-brother’s face, Lucy reads the signs of family resemblance: Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled a face – mobile, fervent, feeling – a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight – a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow – that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of genius – that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the thing, the spirit, and the secret itself – I could never tell. Yes – this Josef Emanuel – this man of peace – reminded me of his ardent brother. (38.459)

The anaphora underlines the importance of the face in all its variable complexity. As so often in Lucy’s reflections, her train of thought is characterized by dichotomies: she begins with the aspects of Josef Emanuel’s face which do not resemble his half-brother’s, and from there moves to M. Paul’s absent face, where she has seen “movements so near the signs of genius” – yet not “fully.” Lucy’s associations with his face are directly related to her own fate: it almost functions like a mirror of their shared past, in which Lucy’s positive and negative memories are inscribed. She underlines the changeable, almost Protean quality of his features (“a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight”) and reminds the reader of the moment when she first witnesses its complete transformation by means of a smile, “as from a mask to a face” (27.321). Continuing the metaphor of reading the face; Lucy compares M. Paul’s face to a “page” that has become “more lucid, more interesting than ever” (35.398) after she has learned of his past love story with Justine Marie. The facial transformations, which are a special characteristic of M. Paul’s, act as a counterpoint to the physiognomic notion that the face is a more or less static surface, the individual elements of which can be read to identify specific character traits. Lucy still ‘reads’ M. Paul’s face, but its capacity for change indicates that neither outside nor, consequently, inside are static or unambiguously decodable (see Tressler, who argues that Bront[ questions the “decipherability of the inner self” through outward physical properties (3)). Lucy witnesses an entirely different transformation in Madame Beck’s face when the headmistress discards the joviality she has put on in the presence of Dr. John, whom she may, as Lucy speculates, consider as her prospective husband at this point: “When he was gone, Madame dropped into the chair he had just left; 309 “I lifted my happy eyes: they were happy now, or they would have been no interpreters of my heart. ‘Well,’ said he [M. Paul, OS], after some seconds’ scrutiny, ‘there is no denying that signature: Constancy wrote it; her pen is of iron. Was the record painful?’” (41.483).

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she rested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiable vanished from her face: she looked stony and stern, almost mortified and morose” (11.104). Lucy tries to read Madame Beck’s stony face (which is in fact the exact opposite to M. Paul’s changeable, almost Protean features) when the headmistress looks through her things on Lucy’s first night at the school: “Of what nature were the conclusions deduced from this scrutiny? Were they favourable or otherwise? Vain question. Madame’s face of stone (for of stone in its present night aspect it looked: it had been human and, as I said before, motherly, in the salon) betrayed no response” (8.69f.). The theme of reading a face is related to the dichotomy of seeming and being in the novel (Peters (102) identifies it as one of the major themes of CB’s writing). Madame Beck changes her face at will to make a favourable impression on others or to manipulate them: her joviality and vivacity are put on for the sake of her ‘audience’; in contrast, M. Paul’s facial metamorphoses are involuntary and bespeak his true character.

2.6

The Deceptive Oracle

Madame Beck has played a role in the context of her participation in the plan of persuading Lucy against a marriage with M. Paul by sending her to Madame Walravens’ house. Lucy’s suspicions concerning her intentions toward M. Paul are confirmed at a climactic encounter, during which the headmistress tries to distract Lucy from M. Paul’s imminent departure from Villette, of course to no avail. Lucy spends a sleepless night in the classroom, believing M. Paul to have left Villette for the colonies: “That night passed: all nights – even the starless night before dissolution – must wear away” (38.448). As her choice of words indicates, M. Paul’s (supposed) wordless departure has left Lucy feeling that the end of the world has arrived.310 The following night, under the reversed influence of a sleeping potion (an anticipation of other reversals still to come), Lucy secretly watches M. Paul and his friends on the national holiday of Villette. Lucy mistakenly concludes from the conversation of the group, their hints and jokes, that M. Paul plans to marry his young, rich ward when he comes back from his errand in the colonies. Lucy reacts to her discovery with a fatalist acceptance seeming to take up PHre Silas’ phrase “You shall be what you shall be”: Thus it must be. The revelation was indeed come. Presentiment had not been mistaken in her impulse; there is a kind of presentiment which never is mistaken; it was I who had for a moment miscalculated; not seeing the true bearing of the oracle, I had thought she muttered of vision when, in truth, her prediction touched reality. (39.467) 310 The expression alludes to Joel 3:15: “when the sun and the moon shall be darkened, and the stars shall withdraw their shining”.

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The notion of the “true bearing of the oracle” is accompanied by other words and ideas related to the realm of the fateful and the fantastic: The reader has already encountered the notion of “presentiment” (which implies an intuitive, subjective foreknowledge of the imminent future311) in the same chapter, when Lucy describes her reaction toward Justine Marie’s appearance at the fÞte, accompanied by M. Paul.312 The fateful atmosphere is further enhanced by the words “vision”, “prediction”, and “reality.” Lucy’s reference to an oracle is puzzling, however, since there is no oracle in the chapter. It can be assumed that Lucy is harking back to the priest’s words “You shall be what you shall be” – which she has understood to refer to her destiny to become a nun and live without a partner. The “vision” that is mentioned here is Lucy’s hope that she might have a future with M. Paul, and the “reality” that PHre Silas was right to ‘predict’ a life of solitude for Lucy. The ambiguity of the passage lies in the fact that the words turn out to mean their opposite: “vision” is reality, and reality is delusion. Yet, just as M. Paul’s and Lucy’s differences make their special likeness possible, this mixing of meanings is the condition of Lucy’s insight about herself. There is an intricate relationship between the notions of “vision” (a word that has distinctly prophetic undertones313) and “reality” in the passage, even more complicated by the fact that they turn out to be the very opposite of what Lucy thinks them to be. The noun “vision” is etymologically related to the act of seeing, linking it with the seeing of the future in prophesies.314 At the very moment when Lucy is convinced that she has found out the truth, she is profoundly mistaken: She misinterprets what she sees. The scene paints a dramatic image of truth and thus makes the misapprehension even more apparent: “To see and know the worst is to take from Fear her main advantage” (39.465). What Lucy believes to find out here is actually the opposite of “the real truth” (39.465) which she apostrophises just a page before as “Titaness amongst 311 “An intuitive feeling about the future; an expectation or mental impression of something about to happen, esp. one with no apparent or definite foundation; a foreboding, esp. of misfortune or something evil” (OED online, “presentiment”, 1. n.). 312 “[…] I underwent a presentiment of discovery, a strong conviction of coming disclosure. Ah! when imagination once runs riot where do we stop? […] With solemn force pressed on my heart the expectation of mystery breaking up: hitherto I had seen this spectre only through a glass darkly ; now was I to behold it face to face. I leaned forward: I looked” (39.39.463f.). 313 “Something which is apparently seen otherwise than by ordinary sight; esp. an appearance of a prophetic or mystical character, or having the nature of a revelation, supernaturally presented to the mind either in sleep or in an abnormal state” (OED online, “vision”, n., 1.a). 314 “Something which is apparently seen otherwise than by ordinary sight; esp. an appearance of a prophetic or mystical character, or having the nature of a revelation, supernaturally presented to the mind either in sleep or in an abnormal state” (OED, “vision”, n., 1.a).

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Deities” (39.465). In an entire passage, Lucy laments the dreadfulness of uncertainty as opposed to the sobering realisation of truth, no matter of what nature it may be (see 39.465). This speech takes on almost ironic overtones when considering that what appears as the truth to Lucy moments later is in fact the result of a faulty conclusion. Maybe this error in judgment functions as a kind of catharsis315 which reveals Lucy’s own feelings to her. The psychological complexity of Lucy’s perceptions results in a temporary ambiguity, which supplements the traditional ambiguity of oracles, which is alluded to in the passage just analysed. Lucy’s eagerness to accept the scene as it might appear on the surface is tantamount to masochism. Instead of longer facing the suspense of maybe having M. Paul’s love, she jumps to the painful but also freeing conclusion that he has already promised to marry someone else. Her obsession with the truth resembles the worship of a false idol, and is moreover ironised by the fact that her interpretation of events is not the truth at all. The phrase “The revelation was indeed come” takes on an ironical colouring: if spoken by Lucy at the moment of experiencing, she means that she has now understood that M. Paul and Justine Marie will marry ; if read as an utterance by the narrator, it foreshadows the greater insight that follows her jealous delusion. Each of the vital terms of the quoted passage takes on its opposite meaning: the revelation is a misinterpretation on Lucy’s part, but it is also the revelation of her own feelings when she is jealous of M. Paul’s supposed fianc8e.316 Her presentiment concerning the (one-sided) encounter with Justine Marie is true in so far as it does reveal a vital truth about Lucy’s life. What she here terms “vision”, the possibility of a life with M. Paul, is in fact reality.317 The noun moreover

315 See Robert A. Colby’s article “Villette and the Life of the Mind”, in which he suggests that memory is a catharsis for Lucy (Colby 415). 316 A comparison of Lucy’s reaction to her supposed rival with Jane Eyre’s reaction to Blanche Ingram is elucidating: the scene is reminiscent of Jane’s observation of the (literal and figurative) ‘charade’ played out between Mr. Rochester and Blanche Ingram. Unlike Lucy, Jane analyses the supposed lovers’ interactions with a cool mind and finds comfort in the knowledge that Miss Ingram cannot have Rochester’s love: “I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. This was the point – this was where the nerve was touched and teased – this was where the fever was sustained and fed: she could not charm him” (JE 18.211). Based on a few days’ observation of the pair, Jane professes not to feel jealous of Blanche (but grieved at the thought that Rochester might marry a woman he does not love), as opposed to Lucy, who plunges into an uncharacteristic jealousy at the mere sight of Justine Marie. Especially when compared to Jane’s reaction, Lucy’s response seems to be dictated wholly by the fire or light within her (as suggested by her first name). 317 The word is presumably used in the sense of “[s]omething which is apparently seen otherwise than by ordinary sight; esp. an appearance of a prophetic or mystical character, or having the nature of a revelation, supernaturally presented to the mind either in sleep or in

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recalls the importance of seeing and the deceitfulness of (mere) visual perception – Lucy takes seeming for being. This is already apparent in the denotations connected with the word, since one of its usages simply refers to the physical faculty of sight. All Lucy would have to do is look to perceive the truth, but: “I would not look” (39.468). The fact that central notions are turned into their opposites is moreover foreshadowed in the expression “a worse boon than despair”. The same principle applies to the idea of truth in this passage: In my infatuation, I said, “Truth, you are a good mistress to your faithful servants! While a Lie pressed me, how I suffered! Even when the Falsehood was still sweet, still flattering to the fancy, and warm to the feelings, it wasted me with hourly torment. The persuasion that affection was won could not be divorced from the dread that, by another turn of the wheel, it might be lost. Truth stripped away Falsehood, and Flattery, and Expectancy, and here I stand – free!” (39.467)

This spirited appeal to the goddess Truth is immediately put into perspective by the introductory phrase “in my infatuation,”318 showing the presence of the narrating I and announcing to the reader that what follows must not be accepted blindly. The expression shows that Lucy’s love of truth is an imperfect one and might lead her in the wrong direction (it is an infatuation). True love replaces it.319 Truth is here portrayed as a strict and unyielding mistress, who expects complete obedience from her followers.320 Taking into account the image of Truth as a non-Christian deity, Lucy’s relationship to her might be described by the contemporaneous, pre-Freudian notion of a fetish: the fetish as “ein peripherer Term zur Bezeichnung von unverstandenen und, im christlichen Sinn, anstößigen religiösen Praktiken, welche Missionaren, Kaufleuten und Reisenden in zentralafrikanischen Stammesgesellschaften auffielen” (Böhme 19).321 While

318

319 320

321

an abnormal state” (OED 1.a.). The importance of “vision” to the episode is also announced by the numerous allusions to the Revelation of St John. The word “infatuation” is related to “fate” and indicates a certain inevitability of Lucy’s reaction. “The action of infatuating, or condition of being infatuated; a making or becoming fatuous; possession with extravagant folly ; an extravagantly foolish or unreasoning passion” (OED Online, “infatuation”, n.). Cf. Shakespeare, The Phoenix and Turtle: “Love has reason, reason none, / If what parts can so remain.” Thormählen points out that the image of truth presented here is static and has nothing to do with the process of seeking truth through intellectual endeavour : “[…] the dread titaness is revered as a dispenser of strength (in that she imparts knowledge of the worst), not as a stimulator of the brain. As this study [The Bront[s and Religion, OS] repeatedly points out, however, the novels reveal a thorough-going quest for spiritual truths – primarily as regards the nature of Divine love and forgiveness – which draws on the concentrated application of the mental faculties in ways reminiscent of Coleridge’s explorations of reason and understanding in a religious context” (151–152). Accordingly, the first two OED definitions of the noun “fetish” are: “Originally : any of the objects used by the indigenous peoples of the Guinea coast and the neighbouring regions as amulets or means of enchantment, or regarded by them with superstitious dread” (1.a.) and

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the Juggernaut is a Hindu effigy and not an African one, it is linked with an exoticised (and yet appropriated) notion of otherness. Böhme describes how the fetish as a term, starting with the meaning just quoted, has evolved into an omnipresent pattern of interpretation of European society (“Deutungsmuster der europäischen Gesellschaft” (20)) by the end of the nineteenth century : “Alles konnte als Fetisch und alle als Fetischisten verdächtigt werden, egal ob es sich um religiöse Gläubige, um sexuell Perverse, um Psychopathen, um obsessive Sammler aller Art, um besinnungslose Warenkonsumenten oder um werkbesessene Künstler […] handelte” (Böhme 19). Lucy’s feverish acceptance of the destruction of all her hopes, bordering on relish, makes it seem like she has indeed abandoned her fate into the hands of an omnipotent, despotic idol. The final sentence of the passage, “Truth stripped away Falsehood, and Flattery, and Expectancy, and here I stand – free!”, again allows a play of contradictory notions: Lucy is either freed from the delusion that M. Paul loves her, or she is freed from the (self-)delusion that he does not mean more to her than a brotherly friend. The irony that has exemplarily been shown for this sentence is present in the entire speech if we consider that, what she regards as truth and the freedom she gains from Truth stripping away all kinds of fanciful aspects, is in fact the opposite of the truth. The construct of “truth” that Lucy devises is not just a replacement of reality ; it is its opposite, a misconception. In her narrative discourse, this misconception is called “the TRUTH” (38.467), indicating the instability of such absolute concepts. We are thus dealing with a construction that is called “the truth” by the narrator, but which must be read as referring to a falsehood. The technique of enriching a single, supposedly unambiguous word (such as the truth) with meanings which include its opposite does not stop here. The truth turned misconception eventually results in a more fundamental, personal truth: namely the fact that Lucy loves M. Paul and feels jealousy when she sees him with Justine Marie and imagines the pair to be engaged. We thus arrive at a conceptual ambiguity of the word “truth” as it is used in the chapter : it comes to mean both misconception/misunderstanding and truth. The doubtful quality of her own perceptions has already been mentioned before Lucy draws the faulty conclusion about M. Paul and Justine Marie: the narrator mentions the transformative powers of the imagination, introducing another perspective in addition to that of the experiencing I. […] I underwent a presentiment of discovery, a strong conviction of coming disclosure. Ah! when imagination once runs riot where do we stop? What winter tree so bare and branchless – what way-side, hedge-munching animal so humble, that Fancy, a “By writers on anthropology (following C. de Brosses, Le Culte des Dieux F8tiches, 1760) used in wider sense: an inanimate object worshipped by preliterate peoples on account of its supposed inherent magical powers, or as being animated by a spirit” (1.b.).

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passing cloud, and a struggling moonbeam, will not clothe it in spirituality, and make of it a phantom? (39.463)

This emphasis on discovery and disclosure prepares the final, faulty discovery of M. Paul’s amorous attachment to Justine Marie. Going beyond merely foreshadowing a discovery, the rhetorical question, which here ostentatively relates to Justine Marie and her possible identity with the dead nun, anticipates not only the discovery, but its potential deceitfulness as well. The reader is already alerted to the vital role that imagination will play in Lucy’s interpretation of the scene, and thus to the potential fallibility of the reading she will offer. Lucy arrives at the wrong conclusion, which she embraces as the painful but liberating truth. She forcibly ends the suspense by jumping to the conclusion that M. Paul is engaged to Justine Marie. The “real truth” (39.465) has qualities of an idol, whose weight is enough to crush Lucy : I always, through my whole life, liked to penetrate to the real truth; I like seeking the goddess in her temple, and handling the veil, and daring the dread glance. O Titaness amongst deities! The covered outline of thine aspect sickens often through its uncertainty, but define to us one trait, show us one lineament, clear in awful sincerity ; we may gasp in untold terror, but with that gasp we drink in a breath of thy divinity ; our heart shakes, and its currents sway like rivers lifted by earthquake, but we have swallowed strength. To see and know the worst is to take from Fear her main advantage. (39.465)

The uncertainty of ignorance, like the doubt of suspense, is portrayed as the worst suffering. At the same time, terror evoked by certainty is transformed into strength. The veiled visage of the goddess “truth” resembles the Egyptian goddess Isis in her temple at Sais.322 Even though “daring the dread glance” (again the emphasis lies on visual perception) does not bring the truth, the action itself has a strengthening effect and is associated with freedom. The allegorical scene is set in the inner sanctum of a place of worship, recalling Lucy’s retreat to the oratory in the scene discussed above.323 The park can be read as a symbolic space: Its centre is both the adytum of the temple where goddess Truth is worshipped, but also a carnivalesque, upside-down world (which already suggests the possibility of the ‘mutation’ of notions like the truth

322 It is significant that Lucy imagines the Truth as a deity in a polytheistic religion. This fact might provide a link to the movement from ‘goddess’ to ‘idol’. 323 The schoolroom at Thornfield is likewise perceived as a sanctum in Jane Eyre, as Robert James Merrett points out in his article on “The Conduct of Spiritual Autobiography in Jane Eyre”: “Having been excluded from the house party at Thornfield, she finds the schoolroom a ‘sanctum,’ and using the words of Psalm 46, she intensifies the religious reference by describing it as ‘a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble’” (4).

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into their very opposite).324 The actions of “drinking in” and “swallowing” Truth’s divinity also create a subtle link to Lucy’s “passionate thirst of unconscious fever” (38.454) and the fountain that Lucy never reaches. The passage is also a passionate plea against all deceit and falsehood in order to ‘cover up’ unpleasant realities, to practise self-deception.325 The first sentence makes a general statement about Lucy’s whole life in the past tense (while the remaining passage is written in the present tense) and is therefore probably spoken from the perspective of the narrating I. The sketch introduces personified abstractions (Truth and Fear) and generalises the experience Lucy has had not only at this point, but at other moments in her life (“I always, through my whole life, liked to penetrate to the real truth; […]”). As in many other allegorical passages, Lucy portrays herself at the level of such personifications, when she speaks of her most personal experiences: “[…] I like seeking the goddess in her temple, and handling the veil, and daring the dread glance.” Moreover, she introduces the pronoun “us” (“show us one lineament”), possibly evoking the “[p]ilgrims and brother mourners” (38.438) and mankind in general of the initial allegorical passage. Moreover, the veiled face of the imaginary deity “Truth” recalls the veiled features of the nun, who wears a white cloth over most of her face (22.245). The allusion is underlined by the fact that Lucy later in the chapter discovers the real identity of the nun as Ginevra Fanshawe’s lover, who has used the garment as a disguise to enter the pensionnat. Lucy’s violent reaction to the effigy wearing nun’s garments that she finds in her bed almost literally echoes Vashti’s conflict with the devils during her performance: “To her [Vashti, OS], what hurts becomes immediately embodied: she looks on it as a thing that can be attacked, worried down, torn in shreds” (23.258). Ironically, though, what Lucy attacks is exactly the opposite of a disembodied demon – rather, it is proof that there never was a supernatural creature haunting the school. In light of Lucy’s uncompromising pledge to the truth, her violent attack on the puppet in her bed at the end of the night seems like an intensification of the will to penetrate to the core of things, even with violence, and even resulting in their utter destruction: “I tore her up – the incubus! I held her on high – the goblin! I shook her loose – the 324 Lucy is quick to discover the artificial, unreal nature of the appearance of the park: “No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine – the key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled – no matter that I quickly recognized the material of these solemn fragments – the timber, the paint, and the paste-board – these inevitable discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night” (38.453). 325 In her discussion of the passage, McCracken Fletcher underlines its representational ambiguity : “Like the passage which presents her reverie of Europe as both a fiction and a narrated ‘fact’, this response to Lucy’s belief that Paul has forsaken her for another insists that she writes the truth and allows us – given her later experience – to cancel this narrative as a fiction” (736).

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mystery! And down she fell – down all around me – down in shreds and fragments – and I trode upon her” (39.470). The word “revelation” is moreover ambiguous: it refers to both a sudden insight, as has been discussed in this section, and to the book of the Bible. One of the numerous allusions to the latter is the narrator’s white hair and the fact that she has “‘la flamme / l’.me, l’8clair aux yeux’” (27.318), as M. Paul claims. “His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow ; and his eyes were as a flame of fire” (Rev. 1:14). Allusions to Revelation are particularly frequent in the final chapter, and there are a number of references to it in chs. 38 and 39. But Lucy’s false revelation is not sustained by reality for very long: M. Paul comes to her himself, and presents her with her own school and his heart. Lucy reads the words “Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe” (41.486) in the prospectus that M. Paul presents to her and understands that she will from now on give direction to her own life. Then, when M. Paul gives her the more precious gift of his love, she remembers the fateful moment when he advised Madame Beck to employ her, the stranger, in the school: “At this hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at my side bent before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered my destiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed. How different the look – how far otherwise the fate!” (41.491f.). The passage underlines the connection between M. Paul’s first ‘judgment’ of Lucy upon her arrival at the school and the choice he has made now. The first oracle scene is a type of the second one.326

2.7

The Final Oracle

The oracle makes its last appearance in the final chapter, “Finis”, after M. Paul has given Lucy the promise of his love, and has sailed to the colonies: Man cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines a vain thing. Those years of absence! How had I sickened over their anticipation! The woe they must bring seemed certain as death. I knew the nature of their course: I never had doubt how it would harrow as it went. The Juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load. Seeing him draw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed soil – I, the prostrate votary – felt beforehand the annihilating craunch. (42.493)

The three initial sentences seem to draw the final conclusion about oracles in the world of Villette: Man-made oracles do not exist independently of human 326 George P. Landow in Victorian Types, Victorian Shadows quotes Thomas Hartwell Horne: “Our definition of a type includes also that the OBJECT REPRESENTED BY IT IS SOMETHING FUTURE.” (Landow 46) Landow moreover points out how central “[…] a belief in the idea that types are fulfilled in individual lives […]” (51) is to Victorian art.

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“‘Bad or good?’” – Endeavours at Oracular Prediction

motives, feelings and plans; the future as such is unknowable and its prediction a divine prerogative. “Love is no oracle” at the same time shows that love lies beyond the ambiguity of an oracle, which will always have multiple interpretations. The phrase allows another reading, though: In the context of the sentences surrounding it, it may refer to Lucy’s assumption that the three years before M. Paul’s return will be filled with suffering for her – a conjecture that proves to be untrue. Lucy is convinced that M. Paul’s absence will bring great pain to her, but the opposite is the case. As in the episode in which Lucy sees M. Paul and Justine Marie in the park, her anticipation of suffering turns out to be false. The passage contains almost all expressions of certainty, which have been primarily used in negated form so far : “certain,” “knew,” “never had doubt”. There are signals, however, that indicate that the presentiments might be wrong: The pain only “seemed” certain, and Lucy feels the force of the juggernaut “beforehand.” The three sentences, which read a little like aphorisms spoken by the narrator, at first sight seem to refer to Lucy’s assumption that the separation from M. Paul will be very painful. This turns out to be wrong: “Man cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines a vain thing.”327 Lucy’s expectations toward the future turn out to be faulty. Although the result of this error in trying to know the future is positive at first glance – Lucy spends three happy years instead of three miserable ones – the deeper reasons of this happiness announce a kind of disaster. The reader, while learning that those years were “the happiest three years of my [Lucy’s, OS] life” (42.493), realises, by combining the information of the first three sentences, of the juggernaut image, and this statement, that happiness in this context might well signify a catastrophe on a greater scale, resulting in a reinterpretation of the three sentences. Her love for M. Paul makes Lucy anticipate terrible suffering during the time of their separation – but his subsequent death makes the time when they are separated, but both alive, appear happy.

327 The multiple meanings and enigmatic quality of these sentences are striking. Jane Eyre, before relating her prophetic dream and the summons she receives to come to her dying aunt Reed, reflects on presentiments and omens in the opening lines of the chapter : “Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key” (JE 21.248). The brief quote illustrates forcefully the difference between the two narrators – Jane, before narrating her personal experience, underlines the commonality of it shared by all men (“to which humanity has not yet found the key”); Lucy’s reflections in contrast often appear enigmatic, for example at the beginning of the final chapter – almost spoken toward the inside and soliloquy-like.

Lucy Snowe’s Providence and Fate

3.

187

Lucy Snowe’s Providence and Fate: Villette in the Tradition of the Spiritual Autobiography

An illustration of how Lucy is influenced by her interpretation of her surroundings as an indication of which direction to take is found in her decision to leave England. Thinking about her impending unemployment and want of a place to live after Miss Marchmont’s death, Lucy visits a former servant of her family, apparently the only person somewhat like a friend she has left, to consult with her on her course of action. The old servant “comforted, but knew not how to advise” (5.43) Lucy, and so she sets out on the walk back to her abode full of doubt: Still all inward darkness, I left her about twilight; a walk of two miles lay before me; it was a clear, frosty night. In spite of my solitude, my poverty, and my perplexity, my heart, nourished and nerved with the vigour of a youth that had not yet counted twentythree summers, beat light and not feebly. Not feebly, I am sure, or I should have trembled in that lonely walk, which lay through still fields, and passed neither village nor farm-house, nor cottage; I should have quailed in the absence of moonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only I traced the dim path; I should have quailed still more in the unwonted presence of that which to-night shone in the north, a moving mystery – the Aurora Borealis. But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through my fears. Some new power it seemed to bring. I drew in energy with the keen, low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thought was sent to my mind; my mind was made strong to receive it. “Leave this wilderness,” it was said to me, “and go out hence.” (5.43f.)

The epiphanic scene anticipates the voice of providence telling Lucy to knock on the door of Madame Beck’s school,328 only that the force speaking to Lucy here remains unnamed: the stars lead her on a “lonely walk” and “dim path” through the “wilderness” of an allegorically tinted landscape, recalling the use of path allegories in the Bible and in The Pilgrim’s Progress.329 Lucy holds the

328 It is moreover an allusion to the famous scene in Grace Abounding, in which the narrator hears the voice of God: “But the same day, as I was in the midst of a game at Cat, and having struck it one blow from the hole; just as I was about to strike it the second time, a voice did suddenly dart from Heaven into my Soul, which said, Wilt thou leave thy sins, and go to Heaven? or have thy sins, and go to Hell?” (22.10). 329 “Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat: Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it” (Matthew 7:13 and 14). A similar allegorical passage with strong eschatological undertones can be found in The Professor upon Crimsworth’s approach to Brussels: “Yes, at that epoch I felt like a morning traveller who doubts not that from the hill he is ascending he shall behold a glorious sunrise; what if the track be strait, steep, and stony? he sees it not; his eyes are fixed on that summit, flushed already, flushed and gilded, and having gained it he is certain of the scene

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mysterious presence of the northern lights responsible for guiding her toward London, as the starlight guides her on her way through the fields on her nightly walk home. The rareness of such a phenomenon as the northern lights moreover seems to announce the dimension of the change Lucy will experience: she will not only travel to London, but leave her home country altogether. A “moving mystery” and “solemn stranger”, the meaning of the northern lights is by no means clear, but the message Lucy “receives” is.330 In the absence of advice from an experienced and knowledgeable counsellor, her decision is made with the help of the fortifying and providential, yet mysterious, influence of the Aurora Borealis. Apart from bringing her power, the signs of the sky speak to Lucy without ambiguity : “Leave this wilderness,” it was said to me, “and go out hence.” The Aurora and the stars are thus associated closely with one of Lucy’s central life decisions.331 Lucy’s reliance on these forces is an attempt at understanding an uncertain and unknowable future (and present).332 Since the text is narrated retrospectively, any idea of the future the experiencing Lucy has already lies in the past at the moment of narrating, resulting in a double perspective that remains implicit most of the time.333

330

331

332

333

beyond” (P 7.87). The scene anticipates Lucy’s vision of the embossed outline of Europe on board the ship to Labassecour. The thought of leaving her present home for London emanates from the northern lights (“But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through my fears. Some new power it seemed to bring.”) – this might be an allusion to the belief that stars exert an influence over earthly life by emanating a fluid (cf. Ferber, “Star”, 204f.). See also OED, etymology of “influence”, n., as “emanation from the stars”. The stars are consulted to tell the future (see Ferber 203). Chaucer writes on their prophetic capacity : “For in the sterres, clerer than is glas, / Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede, / The deethe of every man, withouten drede” (Chaucer, Man of Law’s Tale 194–196; qtd. in Ferber 205). In the Book of Revelation, Jesus is the “bright and morning star” (22.16). Although the passage stops short of being an instance of consulting an oracle, it is linked to the mantic realm through the importance of the signs of the sky. Philipp Theisohn explains the difference between both terms: “Die Prophetie hat das Ganze gesehen, sie spricht von einem Ort aus, an dem keine Zweifel mehr bestehen, nämlich vom Pschaton. […] Während die Prophetie durch den irdischen Schleier klar auf die Vorsehung blickt, hat es die Mantik mit einer fragmentierten Zukunftsrede zu tun, die sie aus dem Strom einer verdunkelten Gegenwart zu bergen versucht: aus der Entrückung der Pythia, den Eingeweiden eines Opfertiers, der Konstellation der Gestirne, einem Kartenspiel oder auch einem blossen Gefühl” (16). According to this definition, all dealings with the future belong in the category of manticism, not prophecy. Theisohn explores the interrelatedness of the art of foretelling the future and poetry and its relevance to understanding (the literature of) modernity. He points out the problematic idea of pronoia as a verbal event (‘fore-telling’) and continues: “Die Denktraditionen der metaphysischen Ontologie haben diese Frage mit einer Vorstellung beantwortet, derzufolge es sich bei der Zukunft um eine verborgene Syntax, ein ›futurum perfectum‹ handeln müsse, also um eine Struktur, die – in ideeller Form – schon abgeschlossen vorliegt, obwohl sie eben noch nicht im Sein ist. Eine solche Struktur lässt sich aufdecken, ausbuchstabieren

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189

Lucy’s arrival in Villette is accompanied by signs that indicate the workings of a higher power : Fate and Providence, which appear as personifications, make her stop at Madame Beck’s door. I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a moment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time. Providence said, “Stop here; this is your inn.” Fate took me in her strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rung the door-bell. (7.64)

The literary form that epitomizes the intense reflection of this relationship between man and the things that are beyond his control is the spiritual autobiography of the seventeenth century ; best-known in this genre is John Bunyan’s Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners (1666).334 Lucy tends to invoke the notions of “fate” and “lot” even in seemingly banal contexts, giving her narrative an ominous and sometimes an ironic note, and emphasising how much her existence depends on apparently insignificant tokens of kindness and attention.335 The notion of a benign providence is especially relevant in the context of Graham and Paulina’s final union (ch. 40), and it is linked with the Brettons’ life in general, the course of which is characterized by a providential element despite adversities they encounter. Mrs. Bretton loses her “handsome property” in the years after her acquaintance with Lucy has ceased (4.35); however, Mrs. Bretton and her son are “well fitted to fight a good fight with the world” (16.177), and

und auf die Gegenwart beziehen, indem man etwa die Welt der Erscheinungen mit einer Schicksalsteleologie überzieht” (Theisohn 15). The Victorian novel, and especially the fictional autobiography, appear as fruitful subjects to examine the literary construction of such a teleology (and the reflection of this act of construction in the text), especially keeping in mind that Thomas Carlyle published his influential typological treatise The Signs of the Times in 1829. 334 The spiritual autobiography is related to the confessional narrative. Studies investigating Villette’s and other novels’ indebtedness to the genre include Carlisle, “Villette and the Conventions of Autobiography”; Merrett, “The Conduct of Spiritual Autobiography in Jane Eyre”; Hunter, The Reluctant Pilgrim; Starr, Defoe and Spiritual Autobiography. 335 The following quotation underlines how much importance Lucy attributes to Graham’s letters, and how sharp her disappointment is when she sees that the letter has not come from him: “Drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but almost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, on the contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown – a pale female scrawl, instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thought fate was too hard for me, and I said, audibly, ‘This is cruel’” (24.271). Examples of an ironic invocation of fatefulness are often to be found in Lucy’s comments on her interactions with M. Paul: “It was never my lot to be present at the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I often saw him as he crossed the carr8 (a square hall between the dwellinghouse and school-house). I heard him, too, in the warm evenings, lecturing with open doors, and his name, with anecdotes of him, resounded in one’s ears from all sides” (14.129).

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“‘Bad or good?’” – Endeavours at Oracular Prediction

their ability to confront the blows of fate is described in terms evoking the realm of the fateful: Dr. John himself was one of those on whose birth benign planets have certainly smiled. Adversity might set against him her most sullen front: he was the man to beat her down with smiles. Strong and cheerful, and firm and courteous; not rash, yet valiant; he was the aspirant to woo Destiny herself, and to win from her stone eyeballs a beam almost loving. (16.77)

The long-standing (literary) tradition of the Puritan spiritual autobiography, reading inner and outer signs in order to know whether one has been chosen by God, has left its traces in the novel. Lucy’s language is imbued with the rhetoric of Puritan self-searching: “‘Of what are these things the signs and tokens?’” (1.6), young Lucy asks herself when she discovers some unknown furniture in her room. Lucy’s questioning concerns the nature of personal relationships and earthly fate. Lucy calls herself an “on-looker at life”, and always looks for signs which might answer her urgent (both practical and spiritual) questions of “What should I do?” and “Whither should I go?” (5.46), and, toward the end of the novel, this type of question is repeated with a more dramatic inflection because now indeed Lucy’s whole happiness is at stake: “What should I do; oh! what should I do; […]?” (38.445). These questions, which at first sight concern Lucy’s concrete situation in the here and now (in the first instance, she is literally confronted with the decision where to go next and what to do in London), echo Christian’s cries at the beginning of The Pilgrim’s Progress: “What shall I do?” (11), and later : “‘What shall I do to be saved?’” (12). Like The Pilgrim’s Progress, though less explicitly outlined, Villette has an allegorical dimension that is chiefly created by literary allusions like the ones at hand and the personifications of inner forces. Although Lucy’s questions pertain to very earthly matters, their phrasing evokes the “torture of the search and the real torture of finding”336 portrayed in Christian’s pilgrimage, which he undertakes to find himself. Asking questions about one’s salvation is also an important part of the self-interrogation of Grace Abounding.337 The mode of questioning is transposed from the religious 336 My translation of Luk#cs’ phrase “wirkliche Qual des Suchens und die wirkliche Gefahr des Findens” (Georg von Luk#cs, ”Die Theorie des Romans”, Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und Allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft, 11 (1916), p. 226f.; qtd. in Iser 20). 337 One of many examples of a number of direct questions about the narrator’s doubtful salvation: “There was nothing now that I longed for more then to be put out of doubt as to this thing in question, and as I was vehemently desiring to know if there was hope, these words came rowling into my mind, will the Lord cast off forever? and will he be favourable no more? Is his mercie clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore? Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies? Psal. 77. 7, 8, 9. and all the while they run in my minde, methought I had still this as the answer, ’Tis a question whether He hath or no; […]” (GA 202.63f.).

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to the secular. The questions of GA occur in almost the same phrasing in Villette, but they have been transferred to the realm of the secular rather than the spiritual. Spiritual autobiographies moreover document the uncertainty of finding the right interpretation of the signs their authors perceive – and, consequently, of knowing whether they belong to God’s elect. In Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, a perpetual feeling of doubt accompanies the narrator, and the sense of certainty and consolation derived from a passage of Scripture may be obliterated the next day. Eventually, the question of whether he belongs to the elect must remain unanswered; he must investigate his own soul anew every day and hope for a confirmation of his salvation, resulting in an infinite interpretative activity.338 The wavering between the extremes of salvation and doom is echoed in Lucy’s representation of her thoughts and feelings, expressing her ambivalent attitude toward many of her acquaintances. In a gentle parody of the conventions of the spiritual autobiography, the real nature of Lucy’s attitude toward Graham Bretton, for example, remains unresolved, and is memorably expressed in the psychomachia of Reason after Graham has promised to write to her (see ch. 21). The inner fight which takes place within Lucy is triggered by a direct question: “‘And will Graham really write?’” (21.228). Judging from the ensuing intense inner discussion, the question indeed seems to bear almost the same weight as the central one of the spiritual autobiography : “Am I saved?” Lucy’s focus, while it also includes questions of life after death, lies mostly on her earthly fate. However, also the way she reflects about earthly questions is mixed with religious overtones. This feature of Lucy’s narrative is especially evident in the figure of Paul Emanuel, who is associated with Christ-like traits of forgiveness and sacrifice. The spiritual autobiography is such a relevant genre to Villette because it concentrates on the inner life, “the soul-experiences” (Starr 4) rather than the outer life, and underlines the connections between both. Lucy’s questions are a part of this allegorical dimension, applying both to her actual situation and the wider, spiritual dimension of her existence. When she has arrived at Madame Beck’s school, Lucy habitually reads the signs of the sky and notes their familiarity in otherwise strange surroundings: A moon was in the sky, not a full moon but a young crescent. I saw her through a space in the boughs over-head. She and the stars, visible beside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood knew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an old field, in

338 After the author has quoted some passages from the Bible that have given him a feeling of hope, he retracts the consolation he has experienced: “But these were but hints, touches, and short visits, though very sweet when present, only they lasted not; but, like to Peters sheet, of a sudden were caught up from me to Heaven again, Act. 10. 16” (GA 113.36).

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“‘Bad or good?’” – Endeavours at Oracular Prediction

Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned back beside a stately spire in this continental capital. (12.109)

In her portrayal of anthropomorphised nature (here, it is the personified moon, and the stars who are no strangers), Lucy even uses the vitally important verb “know” to illustrate the connection she feels with nature. The moon is a “golden sign” signifying something deeply personal about Lucy’s childhood, reminding her that she “could feel” (12.109). This kind of communication is out of the question with her colleagues and the pupils at the school, let alone the masses in the “wide streets” (12.108) so near the quiet school. Lucy’s communion with natural phenomena concerns the very “quick of [her] nature”: “As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny : I was roughly roused and obliged to live” (12.109). Lucy’s intimate relationship with the signs of nature is evoked for the last time in the context of M. Paul’s imminent return from Guadeloupe: “[…] the clouds cast themselves into strange forms […] I know some signs of the sky ; I have noted them ever since childhood. God, watch that sail! Oh! guard it!” (42.495). Now the signs indeed have a prophetic potential.

4.

Conclusion

The oracle and the interpretation of signs, be they an interlocutor’s face or the stars, are inextricably linked. The oracle is moreover traditionally linked with ambiguity, and thus the difficulty of interpretation. In Villette, the notion of an oracle is mostly evoked in the context of personal relationships, transferring a notion that originates in the numinous and cultic to Lucy’s everyday experience. The oracle thus becomes the emblem of the difficulty of communicating anything about one’s interiority or one’s ‘true’ character. Revelation of the inner self is only possible via ambiguities or oracles. The ambiguity of the oracle is moreover contrasted with the medical discourses of the day, represented by Graham Bretton, which claim the ‘decipherability’ of character from outward signs.

V.

“[C]overed with a cloud”: Allegory

1.

Between Revelation and Concealment

Lucy’s ambiguous self-characterisation as a cypher connects the themes of interpretation and character, as addressed in the Oracle chapter, and the difficulty of portraying the reality of the inner life. Although the word “cypher” is mentioned only once, it constitutes a central allegory of the protagonist herself: she consistently portrays herself as someone who is overlooked or who is perceived as a nonentity by others, and, at the same time, as someone who requires a special interpretative effort that goes beyond appearances to be understood.339 Lucy’s feelings of friendship and possibly even love for Graham will never materialise because he cannot read her ; this fact is foreshadowed in his failure to recognise her as an old acquaintance in Villette. But Lucy does not resent her anonymity, on the contrary : “I liked entering his presence covered with a cloud he had not seen through, while he stood before me under a ray of special illumination, which shone all partial over his head, trembled about his feet, and cast light no farther” (16.175). The metaphors of cloud and sunshine do not only illustrate Lucy’s hidden identity in these moments but portray Graham as someone who walks in life’s sunshine, as “blessed” (32.377). Moreover, the expression “covered with a cloud” is both an allegory and a description of one of that device’s key features: of wrapping one meaning in the guise of another – the cypher wrapped in a cloud.340 The metaphorical “ray of special illumination” is literalised when Lucy recognises Graham “while he sat in the sunshine” (10.98). The metaphor is taken up yet again in the chapter relating Paulina and Graham’s engagement and their 339 The “cypher” is discussed in detail in chapter III, “Who is Lucy Snowe?”. 340 Many studies accentuate the function of allegory as some kind of (translucent) ‘cover’, as their titles show (most often, the term veil is used): Murrin, The Veil of Allegory : Some Notes toward a Theory of Allegorical Rhetoric in the English Renaissance; Seitschek, Schöne Lüge und verhüllte Wahrheit: Theologische und poetische Allegorie in mittelalterlichen Dichtungen; Conklin Akbari, Seeing through the Veil: Optical Theory and Medieval Allegory.

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“[C]overed with a cloud”: Allegory

subsequent happy marriage (“Sunshine”, ch. 37), and the contrastive heading “Cloud” (ch. 38), portraying Lucy’s despair at the thought of losing M. Paul. Villette features a number of allegorical passages as a central type of (self-)utterance belonging to Lucy’s technique of “cover[ing]” herself with a “cloud”, of both concealing and revealing herself in her narrative.341 The light metaphor moreover links allegory with the notion of intellectual and emotional clarity and the difficulty of reaching such clarity. Allegories are traditionally considered ‘veiled’, or “oblique”342 language, and have historically even been placed in the same class as enigmas.343 Lucy’s choice of allegories, however, the shipwreck, the psychomachia with Reason and the allegory of the path, are so familiar to readers that they can be ‘decoded’ easily : every reader must understand that the shipwreck stands for a great crisis or catastrophe in Lucy’s life, even if the biographical details remain obscure.344 That allegory is one of Lucy’s chosen modes of self-expression emphasises the relevance of ambiguity to Villette. Whitman records the etymological ambiguity of the term “allegory,” which derives from agora, a word which is itself ambiguous: it means both an official assembly and, consequently, public speaking in a political or legal context, and it is also associated with speaking in the open

341 “Allegory, if we may use the expression, is outspokenly reticent, proclaiming that it has a secret, while other techniques tend to conceal the fact. From the beginning, the practitioners of allegory have claimed that it provides an initiation into a mystery” (Whitman 2). Gilbert and Gubar comment on the water imagery of the novel, which is an important part of its allegorical framework: “The very problematic quality of the water imagery, then, reflects Lucy’s ambivalence. It is as confusing as it is illuminating, as much a camouflage as a disclosure” (418). 342 “From its beginnings, allegory has been known as an oblique way of writing. […] All fiction – the very word confesses its exile from the truth – tries to express a truth by departing from it in some way. It may embellish its subject, rearrange it, or simply verbalize it, but in every case, that ancient dislocation of words from their objects will keep the language at one remove from what it claims to present. Allegory is the extreme case of this divergence” (Whitman 1f.). 343 Hugh Blair, following Quintilian, defines enigma as a kind of allegory in the Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres: “An Ænigma or Riddle is also a species of Allegory ; one thing presented or imaged by another ; but purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as to be rendered obscure. Where a Riddle is not intended, it is always a fault in Allegory to be too dark” (Lecture XV, 398f.). “The aenigma is a non-ironical […] allegory, whose relationship to the serious idea in question is particularly opaque: Quint. Inst. 8.6.52 allegoria, quae est obscurior, aenigma dicitur, eqs.; Cic. de Orat. 3.167 est hoc magnum ornamentum orationis, in quo obscuritas fugienda est; et enim hoc fere genere fiunt ea, quae dicuntur aenigmata […]” (Lausberg 400, § 899). 344 The readership would already be familiar with the image of the shipwreck from David Copperfield (1850), published three years earlier (see Bauer, Leben als Geschichte 242–299), and of course from a variety of older texts featuring shipwrecks, such as Homer’s Odyssey, Shakespeare’s Tempest and of course Stevenson’s Robinson Crusoe.

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market, to everyone, with connotations of low or common speaking.345 This mode of expression, which is at the same time veiled and ‘clear’ in its meaning, has its roots in Lucy’s need to follow her very own individual path in life, but also to communicate the ‘invisible’ aspects of her existence and to be understood.

1.1

Allegory and Ambiguity

Allegory creates meaning in the tension between its literal and its figurative levels, and is therefore fundamentally linked with ambiguity.346 Rimmon Kenan calls allegory “[t]he most classical device for conveying two meanings at the same time” (Ambiguity 13). Fletcher points out that the literal level of allegory can indeed exist on its own: “The whole point of allegory is that it does not need to be read exegetically ; it often has a literal level that makes good enough sense all by itself” (7). He immediately concedes, however, that “somehow this literal surface suggests a peculiar doubleness of intention, and while it can, as it were, get along without interpretation, it becomes much richer and more interesting if given interpretation” (7). 345 “Alle¯goria has two component parts in Greek. The first of these parts, coming from the word allos, means ‘other’; it inverts the sense of the second component. This second component is the verb agoreuein, originally meaning ‘to speak in the assembly,’ in the agora. Though already in Homer this verb has the general meaning ‘to speak,’ throughout its history it retained the original sense of discoursing in public, speaking in the open. The ‘open assembly,’ or agora, however, which lies at the heart of the verb, developed at an early stage two quite different connotations. On the one hand, it referred to an official assembly. Thus, the verb agoreuein, in its simple form, is found above all in political and legal contexts […]. On the other hand, the word agora also referred to the open market. Accordingly, its derivatives sometimes had the sense of ‘common’ or ‘low,’ […]. The second component of the word ‘allegory’ thus had historical connections both with official, political address and with everyday, common speech. When this component was combined with the inverting word allos, the resulting composite connoted both that which was said in secret, and that which was unworthy of the crowd. These two connotations of the word ‘allegory’ – guarded language and elite language – became explicit parts of allegorical theory and practice” (Whitman 263; Appendix I, “On the History of the Term ‘Allegory’”, 263–268). 346 Allegory is consistently associated with plurality of meaning in the critical debate: “Nichts bestätigt so sehr wie die Allegorie, daß das Dichterwort das Mehrfache seines scheinbaren Inhalts birgt” (Schäfer 130). This multiplicity of meaning is perceived as an essential trait of literary texts, for example by Christoph Bode, who especially considers it a trait of modern literature. Roland Hagenbüchle observes about the referentiality of symbolic language: “To say that something is something else and not what it seems to be on the face of it is a contradictio in adiecto made necessary by the very structure of and nature of language, which uses deixis as one of its fundamental devices. All symbolism, however, is in a sense non-deictic and consciously gives up the element of reference; it only uses reference to point beyond the merely referential world, namely, to the inwardness of experience” (Hagenbüchle 221).

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“[C]overed with a cloud”: Allegory

The term allegory itself is moreover ambiguous because it denotes both a stylistic device, i. e. the representation of one meaning through another, and a mode of interpretation, a specific way of reading a text.347 All figurative language is potentially ambiguous348 because it consists of different levels of meaning: the literal and the figurative. Therefore, through allegory, certain things that cannot be said for various reasons may be expressed nevertheless. This makes the device a fitting mode of portraying the elusiveness of Lucy’s inner life, not directly, but “covered with a cloud” (16.175). Allegory moreover lends itself to solving the artistic difficulty of how to portray the invisible side of reality, of finding an authentic representation of feelings and thoughts. It is relevant for the relationship between allegory and ambiguity that allegory is seen as a linguistic expression opposed to clarity.349 While raising this point, Whitman concedes: If allegory intriguingly suggests its own promise, it also revealingly displays its own problems. The basis for the technique is obliquity – the separation between what a text says, the ‘fiction,’ and what it means, the ‘truth.’ This very obliquity, however, relies upon an assumed correspondence between the fiction and the truth. The apparent

347 Haworth observes about Prudentius’ Psychomachia: “Prudentian criticism has come to distinguish two kinds of allegory in the poem. The first is usually termed ‘scriptural allegory,’ […]. Typology is the essence of this kind of allegory, specifically the attempt to see Old Testament characters as prefiguring those of the new. In the Psychomachia, this process is exemplified where Abraham prefigures Fides; Judith, Pudicitia; or Job, Patientia” (3). And he concludes: “Thus allegory, though it may be a method of creation in fictional, or semi-historical writings, is in origin a method of interpretation. But this method of interpretation presupposes a corresponding method of creation, at least theoretically” (3f.). In the system of fourfold scriptural meaning, Allegoria also figures as an interpretational practice: besides Historia, Tropologia, and Anagoge, this reading provides the “main allegorical meaning, namely the Christological/ecclesiological meaning: PL 108, p. 148 allegoria est, cum verbis sive rebus mysticis praesentia Christi et Ecclesiae sacramenta signantur […]” (Lausberg 401; § 900). On fourfold interpretation and ambiguity, see Koch/ Landmesser. 348 Erhard Schüttpelz points out the general ambiguity of any rhetorical figure by quoting Zoilus: “Figure is to pretend one thing, and to mean the other” (Schenkeveld 1991:152, qtd. in Schüttpelz 339). (D. M. van Schenkeveld, “Figures and Tropes: A Bordercase between Grammar and Rhetoric,” Rhetorik zwischen den Wissenschaften, ed. Gert Ueding, Tübingen 1991, 149–157). Schüttpelz comments: “Selbst wenn man davon ausgeht, daß hier nur eine besondere Art der Figurenführung gemeint ist – das, was später als ‘sermo figuratus’ (‘verblümte Rede’, ‘durch die Blume gesagt’) bezeichnet wird – , ist es bezeichnend genug, daß eine ‘Figur’ so definiert sein sollte. Denn diese Definition setzt voraus, daß es zwei Sinnmöglichkeiten gibt, eine ‘vorgetäuschte’ und eine ‘gemeinte’; und wie läßt sich die Möglichkeit dieser zwei Möglichkeiten erklären, außer durch die offiziell in diesem Zusammenhang nur selten genannte ‘Ambiguität’?” (Schüttpelz 339). Commenting on Zoilus’ definition of figure, Schüttpelz points out that it presumes the existence of two possibilities of meaning, a ‘pretend’ one (“eine ‘vorgetäuschte’”) and one that is actually meant (“eine ‘gemeinte’”), and he points out that this can only be explained with the notion of ambiguity. 349 See Introduction.

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meaning, after all, only diverges from the actual one insofar as they are compared with each other. (2)

We will see how Villette interrogates this divergence by negotiating the two levels of “‘fiction’” and “‘truth’” (in the quotation, both concepts are tellingly clad in inverted commas to suggest critical distance). Indeed, in Villette, the “separation” into the two levels of allegory proves problematic – “‘fiction’” and “‘truth’” in fact become inseparable: fiction can be more accurate than truth350 and truth can be a fiction. Villette is not a full allegory, yet it has allegorical traits.351 Its explicitly allegorical passages, however, raise the question in how far its ‘realist’ elements may be read allegorically as well. The overall allegorical quality of the text is related to its generic roots in the spiritual autobiography of the seventeenth century, which typically considers the world as a system of signs352 and revolves around the self-reflexive account of an individual’s spiritual life.353 Villette’s indebtedness to the spiritual autobiography as a literary predecessor underlines the allegorical impulse present in the allusions to Bunyan’s Grace Abounding and the Bible. Moreover, the link to the spiritual autobiography is strengthened by the recurring allegory of reading one’s own life, which in the former occurs both allegorically and literally, in the search of signs of divine salvation or damnation.354 As mentioned in ch. IV on the oracle, a famous example is John 350 See Dickens’ Preface to Bleak House (1853): “But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know what has been doing, and still is doing, in this connexion, I mention here that everything set forth in these pages concerning the Court of Chancery is substantially true, and within the truth” (5). 351 Robert Lamberton writes of allegory that it can be “‘of the piecemeal, eclectic type … dealing not with the global meaning of the work, but more often with specific elements within that work’ […]” (Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition, Berkeley : U of California P, 1986, 270; qtd. in Cook, “Figure of Enigma” 350.). 352 The relevance of the spiritual autobiography to Bront[’s writing and thinking has been investigated numerous times: Merrett provides a critical account of Bront[’s use of religious allusions and emblematic modes of depiction, arguing that she ultimately does not reach a serious treatment of religious themes in Jane Eyre; see also Jenkins 119–157 on typology in Villette. Qualls comments on Villette in relation to Jane Eyre and Shirley : “Bront[ carries over only one element from her past work: the Puritan autobiographical form with its depiction of life as a stern pilgrimage and its allegorical treatment of experience” (74). Heady explores Villette’s generic background, which she reads as the fusion of Realist and Gothic modes, and also relates it to typology. 353 Another relevant ‘predecessor’ genre is the epistolary novel of the eighteenth century, but while it has an emphasis on self-reflexivity, it is weaker because the ambiguity of experiencing and narrating I is missing: the speaker narrates the events almost immediately after experiencing them, sometimes more or less at the same time. 354 Qualls has demonstrated the importance of the seventeenth-century religious tradition to the poetics of the Victorian novel, including the influence of allegory on its techniques of writing and relating inner and outer worlds. He refers to Carlyle, who claims in his essay

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Bunyan’s Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners (1666). Roger Pooley links the allegorical tradition and the world view of the spiritual autobiography : “Allegory is particularly suited to religious writing. It springs from a sense that the world is not the whole case. On the contrary, there is a reality beyond this world, and this world is best interpreted as a sign system of spiritual truth” (xxvi). In Villette, allegory also serves to maintain the tension between self-revelation and concealment, but the “spiritual truth” is replaced by the truth/knowledge about Lucy herself. Villette is characterised by a number of allegories fleshed out much more than the sunshine/cloud dichotomy, for example its speaking place names. The novel has been described in terms of “an allegory of the imagination coping with the world outside itself” (Colby, Fiction with a Purpose 203; qtd. in Qualls 74). Qualls continues this thought: Villette is indeed an allegory very much in the tradition of Pilgrim’s Progress and of Sartor Resartus. The use of names, both of places and characters, recalls Bunyan and Carlyle: Villette, small town; Labassecour, the farmyard; Rue Fossette, Ditch Street. This rather patent allegorical device provides Bront[, curiously, a means of exploring with more subtlety and suggestiveness than she had ever displayed the issues of the place of a woman and her Romantic imagination in a harsh daylight world from which God seems totally absent. (Qualls 75)

The speaking character names are moreover vital allegorical elements of the text, first and foremost among them Lucy’s own name. The titular city, Villette, provides a link to allegory because of its speaking name – Lucy’s allusions to Babylon355 and the town Vanity strengthen the association with allegorical cities “On History” that “‘Art also and Literature’ remain ‘intimately blended with Religion’ because their concern is ‘our inward world’ and the ways it connects itself with the life around us” (Carlyle XXVII: 88–9, 83, 94; qtd. in Qualls 1f.). 355 The allusion is present in several references to Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon (Daniel 3:1 (10.98); Daniel 3:26–27 (19.204); Daniel 4:5–7 (24.274)). The first allusion occurs at the crucial moment when Lucy recognises Dr John, the English doctor who comes to the school, as her godmother’s son, Graham Bretton: “indeed I recollect I was driven to compare his beamy head in my thoughts to that of the ‘golden image’ which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up” (10.98); M. Paul alludes to Nebuchadnezzar when he catches Lucy observing the painting of the Cleopatra: “‘You nurslings of Protestantism astonish me. You unguarded Englishwomen walk calmly amidst red-hot ploughshares and escape burning. I believe, if some of you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s hottest furnace, you would issue forth untraversed by the smell of fire’” (19.204); and, finally, when Lucy has received a letter from her godmother after weeks of silence, she reflects on the impossibility of communicating the reality of her inner suffering: “Speak of it! you might almost as well stand up in an European market-place, and propound dark sayings in the language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperial hypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans” (24.273f.). This final quote moreover motivates the presence of allegory in Lucy’s life story psychologically – she feels that her most personal experiences are essentially incommunicable to the majority of people.

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of the Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress.356 At the same time, it is clearly a ‘material’ place and bears a strong resemblance to Brussels. Thus, the town of Villette oscillates between the status of an allegory and a mimetic city.357 However, they also embody, in their ascription of certain traits to the places they belong to, a feature typical of an allegory like The Pilgrim’s Progress: the name is the thing.358 London, on the other hand, through which Lucy passes on her way to Villette, is given its real name, and so are several of the sights Lucy visits there. The allegorical qualities of Villette are thus set off: while the British capital is portrayed as a ‘historical’ site, Villette exists in the space between the fictional city its name announces it to be, an archetype like one of Bunyan’s cities,359 and its model in the real world, Brussels. The main function of the allegories of Villette is to portray Lucy’s inner life. The use of allegorical language shows that some aspects of her experience lie beyond direct expression, or at least that she is unable to express them.360 The 356 Vanity Fair is mentioned explicitly only once, in the park episode, which indeed has the character of a fair with its many fantastic sights and masses of people. When Lucy sees that PHre Silas, the priest, participates in the gay nightly festivities in the park, she comments: “Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the priest’s presence at this fÞte. This was not considered a show of Vanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church patronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in the park that night” (38.460). Lucy points out a culturally caused ambiguity here: her reader, presumably hailing from the same culture as she, will condemn the presence of a religious man at the fÞte. So does Lucy, but she draws the reader’s attention to this difference in cultural practice with subtle irony. Villette, as represented by the “junta” of Madame Beck, Madame Walravens and PHre Silas, is indeed Vanity. 357 Smith and Rosengarten write in their annotation: “all the fictional place-names Bront[ invents for the Belgium of Villette are derisive, and reflect the long-standing mutual enmity of the English and the Belgians […]. The names emphasize provinciality and inferiority, and animality and baseness. ‘Labassecour’ means ‘the farmyard’, and the diminutive suffix ‘-ette’ in ‘Villette’ (‘little town’) denotes its insignificance even as a capital city (it is modelled on Brussels). In line with ‘Labassecour’, however, Bront[ was probably also thinking of the district of ‘La Villette’ in Paris, once well-known for its livestock markets and abattoirs. The tenor of these names echoes Bront[’s own description of the ‘Belgian national character’, as ‘singularly cold, selfish, animal, and inferior’ (Letters of Charlotte Bront[, i.289)” (501). 358 In The Pilgrim’s Progress, Christian is every Christian, Hopeful is hopeful, Mr. Worldly Wiseman is wise in worldly matters, and the Slough of Despond signifies a phase of despair. 359 With the exception of The Professor, Villette is the only one of Bront[’s novels set in a city ; the other novels are set in the country. 360 Having reminded the reader that allegory is defined by Peacham in The Garden of Eloqvence (1577; 1593) as a “‘forme of speech which expresseth one thing in words, and another in sense’” (55), Murrin identifies the raison d’Þtre of allegory in the basic relationship between language and world: “The poverty of language in part necessitates this figure, for there are many things for which no words exist. To refer to them a speaker resorts to analogy, signifying an unnameable B by an A which has a name. Generally this consists in applying the names of external objects or physical experiences to the invisible aspects of human passion, thought, or action. But in a wider sense allegory depends upon the wealth of

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three most notable occurrences of allegory in Villette are the shipwreck episodes, loosely framing the narrative361, the psychomachia involving Reason, and the extended metaphor362 of the path and the journey of life,363 sustained by numerous allusions to The Pilgrim’s Progress and the Bible throughout the text.364

361 362 363 364

language as well as upon its poverty. Language has many words for one thing as well as things for which it has no words. Ralph Lever in his preface to his Arte of Reason makes of this fact a formula: many words can have the same meaning and one word can have several meanings” (Murrin 55f.). In the case of Villette, the aspect of lack of words for things is not that relevant; the allegorical mode is rather tied to the narrative voice and the problem of relating one’s innermost thoughts and feelings. The notion that allegory may be used to “signify an unnameable B” echoes Schlegel’s idea of allegory as an aspiration to express the “‘inexpressible’” (F. Schlegel, Gespräch über die Poesie, 1800; qtd. in “Allegory”, Preminger and Brogan 31). Another early observer of the ambiguity that is the result of allegorical writing and reading is Dante, who formulates this in his letter to Can Grande: “you must know that the sense of this work is not simple, rather it may be called polysemantic, that is, of many senses; the first sense is that which comes from the letter, the second is that of that which is signified by the letter. And the first is called the literal, the second allegorical or moral or anagogical. Which method of treatment, that it may be clearer, can be considered through these words: ‘When Israel went out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from a barbarous people, Judea was made his sanctuary, Israel his dominion’ (Douay-Rheims, Ps. 113.1–2). If we look at it from the letter alone it means to us the exit of the Children of Israel from Egypt at the time of Moses; if from allegory, it means for us our redemption done by Christ; if from the moral sense, it means to us the conversion of the soul from the struggle and misery of sin to the status of grace; if from the anagogical, it means the leave taking of the blessed soul from the slavery of this corruption to the freedom of eternal glory. And though these mystical senses are called by various names, in general all can be called allegorical, because they are different from the literal or the historical” (“Dante to Cangrande”). The shipwrecks only loosely frame the narrative because Villette does not begin with a shipwreck; only chapter 4, the account of the time after Lucy has left Bretton, starts with an allegorical shipwreck. Quintilian defines allegory as a continued metaphor: “!kkgcoq_am facit continua leta¦oq\” (Inst. 9.2.46; qtd. in Lausberg 399, § 895). The allegory of the world as stage also plays an important role; this will be discussed in the context of the scenes in the park of Villette. Lucy echoes Christian’s question “What shall I do?” several times, as has been shown in the Introduction and the third chapter, “Who is Lucy Snowe?”. There are moreover direct, literal allusions to the text; at the beginning of her narrative Lucy even quotes directly from the well-known Christian allegory, comparing her stays in Bretton to “the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with ‘green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round’” (1.6). The quotation also introduces the image of the path of life. Qualls writes about Bront[’s preface to Jane Eyre: “The allusions to Bunyan and the Bible which figure so prominently in this Preface pervade all of Bront[’s novels, which are structured around the journeys of their protagonists through the ‘dreary wilderness’ (JE:II:10:354) of this world. Thus, with these allusions, and with the idea that the task of fallen man is to work unceasingly towards some goal, Bront[ places herself within the religious tradition of life-writing, a tradition whose central characteristic was the report of how the individual responded to God’s calling” (51). See also Dessner 98–119, and Wheeler, who points out that beside the Bible, The Pilgrim’s Progress and Paradise Lost were

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The shipwrecks in Villette and their respective occurrences as an allegorical and as an actual shipwreck make the relationship between the figurative and literal levels an explicit topic.365 The presence of the two shipwrecks at structurally central moments in the narrative suggests a close relationship, even an almost typological reciprocity, between them: the allegorical shipwreck is imbued with aspects of a literal event;366 the literal shipwreck at the end is invested with an allegorical dimension, a meaning going beyond the literal. Thus, the reciprocal relationship between the allegorical and the literal level of speaking becomes a theme in the context of the two shipwrecks. Moreover, it is present on a smaller scale in the individual allegorical shipwreck, since tropes such as allegories consist of (at least) two levels of meaning: the literal and the figurative. Not only the coexistence but the interplay of those levels is capable of producing ambiguity.367 In the case of the shipwreck allegory, Lucy chooses an outer event, the shipwreck, to portray a psychological reality ‘inside’ of her (however, the boundaries become blurred in the course of her allegory ; see below). In the case of her psychomachia with Reason, the process is reversed: here, an inner faculty is presented as exterior to Lucy. Furthermore, both allegorical instances are related because they are closely connected with or even caused by Lucy’s loneliness: in the first instance, she describes the experience of losing her family ; in the second one, Reason appears because there is literally no one else with whom to speak about her troubles. sources of allusion or quotation that almost every Victorian reader would recognise (17; see also 9–26). 365 Eva Horn and Manfred Weinberg define allegory as a structure of reference, coordinating text and image, materiality and meaning, the reality of signs and that of history. They moreover point out the fact that allegory has been the master trope of poetological reflection since its appearance in antique rhetoric since it embodies the structure of representation in the aesthetical object: “Allegorie ist der Name für eine Struktur des Verweisens, in der Text und Bild, Materialität und Bedeutung, Zeichenhaftigkeit und Geschichtlichkeit in eine gemeinsame Konfiguration gebracht werden. Von ihren frühen Versionen in der antiken Rhetorik bis zu ihrer Renaissance in der modernen Ästhetik ist sie darum immer wieder zur master trope poetologischer Reflexionen geworden. Denn die Allegorie erschöpft sich nicht im bloßen Akt des Verweisens, sondern sie führt zugleich die Struktur der Repräsentation am ästhetischen Gegenstand mit vor” (Horn and Weinberg 7). 366 As the following analysis will show, these literal traits also play a special role in the first allegorical shipwreck. 367 Quintilian differentiates between two kinds of allegory : “If irony is first excluded […], two ways of effecting allegory may be distinguished: complete allegory (tota allegoria), in which no lexical trace of the serious idea is to be found, and incomplete allegory (permixta apertis allegoria), in which part of the expression is lexically on the level of the serious idea […]” (Lausberg 399; § 897). See Quintilian: “Allegory, which is translated in Latin by inversio, either presents one thing in words and another in meaning, or else something absolutely opposed to the meaning of the words” (8.6.44). The author then gives examples of the different kinds of allegory, which almost all derive from seafaring.

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Shipwreck

Shipwrecks appear twice in the novel: the first one occurs in chapter four, the second one in the final chapter.368 The first shipwreck happens before Lucy Snowe travels to Labassecour and the main part of her story begins. The shipwrecks stand out not only through their positions in the text but also through their stylistic and thematic relation. Together, they create an impression of Lucy’s “homeless, anchorless, unsupported mind” (6.51). The other nautical images related to Lucy’s inner life stress the importance of the shipwreck in representing her personal and, arguably, her artistic development. It is worth underlining the seemingly obvious fact that the basis of these allegorical passages is the shipwreck, and not so much the related semantic realm of seafaring in the sense of making progress in a ship over the ‘sea of life’, one of the oldest examples of allegory.369 The notion of seafaring is evoked only later in the novel, in the context of Louisa Bretton. Lucy’s journey of life has not even properly begun when the shipwreck happens (the ship never leaves the harbour).

368 The various occurrences of shipwreck and nautical imagery emphasize the importance of the motif. Thomas Heywood in his Apology for Actors (1612) takes up Donatus’s commentary on Terence and defines the dramatic genres: “Tragedies and Comedies, faith Donatus, had their beginning a rebus divinis, from divine sacrifices; they differ thus: in comedies, turbulenta prima, tranquilla ultima; in tragedies, tranquilla prima, turbulenta ultima, e. g. Comedies begin in trouble, and end in peace; tragedies begin in calms, and end in tempest” (An Apology for Actors Fv.). According to these standards, Villette may be said to have characteristics of both comedy and tragedy since shipwrecks (“trouble” and “tempest”) occur both relatively early in the novel and at its very end. See Donatus: “inter tragoediam autem et comoediam cum multa tum inprimis hoc distat, quod in comoedia mediocres fortunae hominum, parui impetus periculorum laetique sunt exitus actionum, at in tragoedia omnia contra, ingentes personae, magni timores, exitus funesti habentur ; et illic prima turbulenta, tranquilla ultima, in tragoedia contrario ordine res aguntur” (1:21). Following Heywood’s definition, the initial shipwreck (representing “turbulenta prima”) would suggest that the story will end happily for Lucy and M. Paul according to the conventions of comedy ; the final shipwreck, however, evokes the structure of a tragedy. This ambiguity contributes to creating the particular tension that exists between the two shipwrecks. 369 Whitman mentions this in a footnote: “The parallel between living and seafaring is one of the earliest examples of allegorical composition. In the form of the ‘ship of state,’ where the ship corresponds to the state, the storms to civil wars, the haven to peace, etc., it has a special place in allegorical practice and theory” (7n5).

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Lucy’s Shipwreck

The first shipwreck occurs when Lucy has just left Mrs. Bretton, Graham Bretton, and Paulina Home, who have been the protagonists of the episodes set in Bretton. The beginning of the new chapter prepares the image of the shipwreck: On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina’s departure – little thinking then I was never again to visit it: never more to tread its calm old streets – I betook myself home, having been absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to return to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does no harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still as glass – the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great many women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that fashion; why not I with the rest? (4.35)

Lucy creates a “picture” for the reader – the image underlines her role as maker and animator370 of the text – she is introduced as an artist, as someone shaping the world presented to the reader. The passage takes its energy from the interplay of biographical reality and allegory. The “picture” of the bark is inserted into framing sentences that refer to Lucy’s personal experience after leaving Bretton. Her autobiographical account is tinged with ominousness from the first sentence: She does not know that she has visited Bretton for the last time when she leaves it (“[…] little thinking then […]”). The narrating I alone is in a position to provide this information; the retrospective narrative gesture lends a certain distance to the episode – it belongs irreversibly to the past. The parenthesis that she will never return there bodes ill, since Bretton has been presented as a place of rest and respite in Lucy’s life (“a place where holidays seemed always to abide” (1.6)). The rather complex process of the narrator’s speculation about what the reader might think of her relationship to her family is concisely put into the phrase: “It will be conjectured that […].” The ‘realistic’ biographical narrative loses its authority when the reader’s supposed “amiable conjecture” is allowed to co-exist with its opposite by means of paralipsis (“may be safely left uncontradicted”; “Far from saying nay”). The reader may believe that both alternatives – happy and unhappy years – are possibilities in Lucy’s biographical reality. The steersman is “stretched” on the deck with his eyes closed – whether he is dead or “buried in a long prayer” (the adjective emphasizes once more the 370 In the sense of “[h]e who, or that which, animates, quickens, enlivens, or inspires” (OED, “animator” 1.). Lucy as narrator gives life to the story by creating the allegory ; she makes her inner experience communicable by turning it into a living image.

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sepulchral overtones371) is left to the reader’s imagination (“if you will”). The atmosphere is quiet and static, almost death-like.372 The “harbour still as glass” alludes to S.T. Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1798), in which the mariner returns to his home country to see that “[t]he harbour-bay was clear as glass” (Part VI, l. 233) – the change of adjective emphasizes stillness over clarity in Lucy’s version.373 The image of the harbour, which in Coleridge’s poem marks the mariner’s return home as a changed man after the ghostly events of his voyage, and the beginning of his existence as storyteller, is transported to the beginning of Lucy’s own life journey. The allusion might therefore be read as an indication that the shipwreck episode represents the moment in which Lucy becomes the narrator of her own story, in which she (painfully) awakens from the ‘slumber’ in which women and girls “are supposed to pass their lives,”374 stagnantly and passively. The picture of the steersman stretched out in his boat in the harbour, in its excessive emphasis on stillness, is ambiguous; it subtly raises the question whether a ‘typical’ female life even exists, and, if so, whether it would be desirable at all. The mention of the “great many women and girls” takes the reader back to the literal, biographical level of utterance. The verb “suppose” is meaningful in this 371 There might even be an allusion to Charon’s bark, which he uses to row souls over the Styx into the underworld according to Greek mythology. The image is therefore foreshadowing the allegorical shipwreck immediately following. 372 Stasis is conventionally portrayed as immediately preceding the shipwreck (cf. Landow, “Into the Moment of Crisis and Equivalent Structures”). This holds true for the biographical reality described in the first three chapters and the first part of the nautical image. The death-like stillness of the image gives it a negative connotation, which the ensuing shipwreck might be said to break up. “Those whom an excess of prosperity has rendered sluggish may justly be called unfortunate; a dead calm holds them fast, as it were, on a motionless sea. […] All excesses are injurious, but immoderate prosperity is the most dangerous of all. It affects the brain. […] What is the duty of the good man? To offer himself to Fate. […] He must be wave-tossed and steer his craft through troubled waters, he must maintain his course in the face of Fortune. Much that is hard and rough will befall him, but he will himself soften it and smooth it down. Gold is tried by fire, brave men by misfortune” (Seneca, On Providence. Why any Misfortunes Befall Good Men When a Providence Exists, trans. Moses Hadas, qtd. in Landow, “The Advantages of the Castaway”). The passage can therefore also be read as a criticism of people who are “idle, basking, plump, and happy” all their lives. Lucy’s critical (Protestant) attitude toward idleness is also reflected in her portrayal of London’s City and her identification with it: as opposed to the idle West-end, it “is getting its living” (6.49) (see Introduction). 373 The reference to the Ancient Mariner moreover underlines the central notion of loneliness: “Alone, alone, all, all alone, / Alone on a wide wide sea!” (Coleridge 429; ll. 232f.). 374 The verb “pass” brings with it a range of interesting connotations: it implies the ‘passing’ of time, stressing the ending of a certain time period rather than the duration. Apart from this temporal dimension, there is moreover a spatial one, which recalls the meaning of “To go on, move onward, proceed; to make one’s way” (OED I.1.a). The latter meaning brings to mind the topos of life as a voyage or path, which is then varied in the shipwreck image.

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context: it leaves the reality of the assumption open – do women really spend their lives in this way, or is it just assumed they do? The verb moreover refers to the realm of creating a fictional account.375 The succeeding question “why not I with the rest?” is also ambiguous: it can be read rhetorically, taking the negative presupposition, “I did not spend my life in this fashion”, for granted (resorting to the perspective of the narrating I again); or as a genuine question asked by the experiencing I, looking forward to the years yet to come: “Why should I not spend my life in that fashion?” The presence of the verb “suppose” even suggests a third reading: “Why can’t I tell a story of that (conventional) kind?” Furthermore, the mention of the “rest” as a contrast to the unique experience of the individual evokes the notion of Lucy’s ‘predestination’ to suffering, which is a theme of the novel. The question, expressive of Lucy’s search for her own role in life, remains unanswered for the time being since the allegory takes the reader back to the harbour scene: Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I must somehow have fallen over-board, or that there must have been wreck at last. I too well remember a time – a long time, of cold, of danger, of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour nor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared; we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished. (4.35)

The previous image is initially taken up again, now with friendlier attributes (cushioned deck, sunshine, soft rocking breezes). Its still and death-like atmosphere, however, is at variance with the attributes ascribed to it here: “idle, basking, plump and happy.” The deadly still bark has been transformed into a child’s crib (suggested by its semantic connection with the phrase “rocked by breezes”), superimposing the attributes of the second image onto the first. The association with movement is sustained by the rhythmic quality of the 375 A corresponding meaning already archaic at the time when the book was written is quoted in the OED: “To form an idea of, conceive, imagine; to apprehend, guess” (2.) The last quotation with this meaning of the verb occurs in 1781. The more conventional and current meaning “To entertain as an idea or notion sufficiently probable to be practically assumed as true, or to be at least admitted as possibly true, on account of consistency with the known facts of the case; to infer hypothetically ; to incline to think: sometimes implying mistaken belief” (8) is present as well. In Our Mutual Friend, the verb is used almost in the same sense as ‘speculate’: “Do you suppose there has been much violence and robbery, beforehand, among these cases?” “I don’t suppose at all about it,’ returned the Gaffer. ‘I ain’t one of the supposing sort. If you’d got your living to haul out of the river every day of your life, you mightn’t be much given to supposing. Am I to show the way?’” (3.23).

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trochees in the enumeration of the adjectives quoted above and the succeeding parallel phrases (“[…] stretched […], warmed […], rocked […]”), which continue mostly in the same rhythm. However, the harmony is too perfect to be true – form and content are too well matched and serve to keep the reader apparently safe and assured in his “conjecture” to then make the disruption of this imagery of calm even more brutal and abrupt. It is also striking that the ship’s voyage is not mentioned explicitly : the shipwreck takes place in the harbour. This is in keeping with the fact that it occurs during Lucy’s (later) childhood, when the journey of her life has hardly begun.376 Another paradox related to the shipwreck consists in the fact that the description of her (metaphorical) death brings Lucy to life in the sense that, following it, she enters the text as the protagonist of her own story ; the shipwreck allegory is her introduction into the text. The phrase “that I must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck at last,” draws attention both to the uncertain meaning of the individual elements of the allegory (the steersman would be falling overboard, the bark would suffer shipwreck377) and to its temporality : it is seemingly timeless in its first, still manifestation – a state ended by the words “at last.” Eventually and inevitably,378 like water into a sinking ship, “time” rushes in, and with it temporal perspective and memory (“I too well remember a time […]”).379 376 See Caspar David Friedrich’s painting “Die Lebensstufen” (c. 1835), in which he portrays the different phases of man’s life by means of ships in closer or greater distance to the shore. Friedrich moreover shows a shipwreck in the allegorical painting “Das Eismeer” (1823/24), in which the ship’s wood seemingly transforms into the ice in which it is embedded, creating a visual ambiguity in the painting. 377 The uncertainty of which element of the allegory corresponds to Lucy is another argument that the entire image somehow corresponds to her character in all its complexity and its contradictions. 378 Lucy indirectly explains this inability to maintain a false but softer version of her childhood experiences: “It is right to look our life-accounts bravely in the face now and then, and settle them honestly. And he is a poor self-swindler who lies to himself while he reckons the items, and sets down under the head – happiness that which is misery. Call anguish – anguish, and despair – despair ; write both down in strong characters with a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt to Doom. Falsify : insert ‘privilege’ where you should have written “pain”; and see if your mighty creditor will allow the fraud to pass, or accept the coin with which you would cheat him. Offer to the strongest – if the darkest angel of God’s host – water, when he has asked blood – will he take it? Not a whole pale sea for one red drop” (31.361f.). The representation of an undefined childhood catastrophe by a storm (and the imaging of his past as a succession of “pictures”: “Three – nay four – pictures line the fourwalled cell where are stored for me the records of the past” (7.86)) can already be found in The Professor: “First, Eton. All in that picture is in far perspective, receding, diminutive; but freshly coloured, green, dewy, with a spring sky, piled with glittering yet showery clouds; for my childhood was not all sunshine – it had its overcast, its cold, its stormy hours” (7.86). 379 This temporal disruption is topical: “[…] whereas the Christian life journey emphasises meaningful continuity, connection, and duration, the shipwreck communicates an experience of discontinuity, for the shipwrecked voyager, like the inhabitant of Pompeii or that

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The nature of this period in Lucy’s life is described first by abstractions – “cold, […] danger, […] contention […],” which serve to characterise the experience of a shipwreck, but which might also refer metaphorically to a hardship Lucy endures. At this point, the figurative aspect of the allegory and the biographical reality begin to overlap.380 Lucy then goes on to describe the effect of this experience: “To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm”. The use of the cognitive verbs “remember,” “have the nightmare” and “know” in conjunction with the allegorical nature of the shipwreck impart to it the status of biographical reality. While the first image of quiet and static happiness gives way, the second image takes on a life of its own, leaving behind a physical memory of drowning, which is then only accessible through a recurring nightmare.381 The configuration of the allegory changes to such a degree that it either ceases to exist or turns everything else into an allegory : the levels of trope and of biographical reality coincide – referring turns into being. It corresponds to the nature of allegory that the transgression of the boundary between ship and sea is realised in the image itself: “I must somehow have fallen overboard”. The phrase marks the transition from (supposed) sunshine to tempest in the allegory, and from (superficial) calm to catastrophe in biographical reality. It also marks the transition from figurative mode to biographical reality. The surface of the allegory, which is mirrored and represented by the surface of the water, gives access to deeper levels of meaning beneath it. The shipwreck replaces the image of the bark in the calm harbour; Lucy’s retrospective allegorical representation

Alpine cottage [in Turner’s painting, OS], is suddenly cut off from his past and thrust into a terrifying new existence” (Landow, “Pre-Modern Images of Crisis; or Shipwrecked in the Sight of God”, acc. 7 Jan. 2013.). 380 Margot Peters has drawn attention to this ‘merging’ in the context of analysing the figure of antithesis in Bront[’s novels: “While a careful distinction has been drawn here between these three sets of antitheses [appearance/reality ; privation/plenty ; fetters/freedom; OS], ultimately they are not discrete at all, but are merged in the author’s mind. Appearance, privation, and fetters on the one hand, reality, plenty, and freedom on the other, can be reduced to an ultimate antithesis: life, or death-in–life. Besides the obvious thematic affinity of these antitheses, the evidence for connecting them is verbal, based on the principle that if one assigns the same word to two different objects, these objects are somehow linked in one’s mind” (116). In the context of my analysis, this merging is seen as a type of ambiguity. 381 In Jane Eyre, Jane’s state of mind after finding out about Bertha Mason is described in similar terms, using a quotation from Psalms (69:2) and an allusion to Christian’s experience in the River of Death (PP 120–121): “That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, ‘the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me’” (JE 26.331).

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of her experience as shipwreck merges with, or takes the place of, the biographical memory.382 The allegorical nature of the passage invites reflection about the relationship between words and meaning as the basis of allegory. Quintilian defines it in the 382 Lichtenberg has found an expression of this phenomenon in the context of the metaphor : “Die Metapher ist weit klüger als ihr Verfasser und so sind es viele Dinge” (Lichtenberg, Sudelbücher : F 369; qtd. in Schüttpelz 14). The idea of combining the levels of narrative and allegory as in the shipwreck passages may have been inspired by William Cowper’s poem “The Castaway” (published 1803), which is quoted and commented on in Bront[’s earlier novel Shirley (1849), when Caroline Helstone recites it on a stormy evening. The most important parallel for this discussion is the fact that the speaker of “The Castaway” refers to the shipwreck to speak of his own fate in figurative terms (“But misery still delights to trace / Its semblance in another’s case” (ll. 59–60)): The wild sea, the drowning mariner, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realized by her ; and more vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep for ‘The Castaway’, but who, in an hour of tearless anguish, traced a semblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled: ‘No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatch’d from all effectual aid, We perish’d – each alone! But I – beneath a rougher sea, And whelm’d in deeper gulfs than he’” (S 12.253). Apart from the similarity in motif, the passage in Shirley provides another notion that is also relevant to Villette. Shirley comments: “‘[…] in hearing that poem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship – an impulse which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve the whole with consummate perfection’” (S 12.254). The wind, which causes the castaway to be thrown overboard and the ship to be pushed forward, is compared to the forces at work in the poet’s mind when composing the poem. This comparison chimes in with the likening of the composition of a work to a ship’s journey. The tradition goes back to Pindar, as Ferber’s Dictionary of Literary Symbols records: “Pindar likens the composition of a work to a nautical voyage (Nem. 3.27) and asks the muse to send the ‘wind of song’ (Pyth. 4.3) or ‘wind of words’ (Nem. 6.28)” (Ferber 194). The notion of the surface of water is also reminiscent of the description of the small room in La Terrasse, the Brettons’ home in Villette, where Lucy is put up after losing consciousness on the steps of the church, and which she imagines to be situated underneath the sea: “My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea.” (17.181). The striking overlap between allegory and biographical reality can be linked to Bercovitch’s observations on the effect of Puritanism on the conception of the self. He asserts that the Victorians have a “need for an infallible correlative to the self”: “To this end, they turned to scripture as the safest way also to regulate conscience … And to this end, every Puritan biographer wrote, in one degree or another, as though he were bringing the scriptures up to date through his subject’s life. The result is a conventionalized rhetoric that blurs the difference between metaphor and experience” (Sacvan Bercovitch, The Puritan Origins of the American Self, New Haven: Yale, 1975, 30f.; qtd. in Qualls, Pilgrims 75). In Richard III, Richard voices his intentions of being “subtle, false and treacherous” (1.1.37) aloud in his opening soliloquy, and is silenced by Clarence’s arrival: “Dive, thoughts, down to my soul; here Clarence comes” (1.1.41). The soul is here imagined as lying under water.

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Institutio Oratoria: “Allegory, which is translated in Latin by inversio, either presents one thing in words and another in meaning, or else something absolutely opposed to the meaning of the words. The first type is generally produced by a series of metaphors” (327; Book VIII.6.44). The fact that in the allegorical representation at hand the “meaning” is not unequivocally identifiable is of little consequence for the understanding of the text. The reader comprehends that a catastrophe has happened in Lucy’s childhood; that is enough. He does not learn about her personal, concrete experience. The lack of details on the nature of the calamity does not result in a ‘gap’ of information, however, because the information is provided on the allegorical level. The boundary between the two senses is blurred, and therefore they become interchangeable. This is where the ambiguity of the passage lies: a figure of speech that traditionally consists of two elements, of which the signifier is transcended in recognizing the ‘real’ signified, is changed by uniting both of these elements. However, in being united, neither of them is obliterated. If we think of allegory as a coin with two distinct images engraved on each side, which can be looked at separately and compared to each other, the passage gives us the optical illusion of the coin spinning so that the two images overlap and create a new, meaningful image383 ; a characteristic of the shipwreck allegory that causes this effect is moreover that the figurative elements are very detailed, while the side of biographical reality remains underspecified. This ambiguity can be read as an indirect poetological statement on allegory : Is it a coincidence that this (partly) allegorical passage of Villette contains a quotation from a work by one of the contemporary thinkers about the forms of literature, S. T. Coleridge? He associated allegory with the alterity between signifier and signified and saw its origins in a process of disintegration of these two senses (see Bloomfield 161–163). Coleridge therefore preferred the symbol as a more accessible and immediate mode of poetic communication.384 The ship383 Hugh Blair in his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres condemns the mixing of the figurative and the literal level as bad style. As one of the rules of employing figurative language, he sets down “[…] never to jumble metaphorical and plain language together ; never to construct a period so, that part of it must be understood metaphorically, part literally : which always produces a most disagreeable confusion. […] Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct; leaving it to waver, in our conception, between the figurative and the literal sense” (Blair 162). Bront[ creates just such an image, and its ‘wavering’ (we might say its ambiguity) makes it more powerful and more memorable. Lucy herself uses an image similar to the spinning coin to describe the difficulty of expressing strong emotions: “Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun” (41.486). 384 See Moser 118f. Goethe and de Man (the latter is an anachronistic point of reference for Villette) saw allegory as contrasted with the symbol (see Geisenhanslüke 9; 87–88). Ullrich points to Hegel’s description of the two levels of the symbol, meaning and expression, as

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wreck passage undermines the clear-cut differentiation of signifier and signified and creates a hybrid of figurative and literal meaning, a rhetorical figure which in the coincidence of its two levels of meaning approaches the symbol in its synecdochic functioning (for Coleridge, the symbol is based on the relationship between part and whole) (see Geisenhanslüke 88). The allegory is then continued by means of an almost verbatim biblical quotation: “And the third day we cast out with our own hands the tackling of the ship. And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, and no small tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved was then taken away” (Acts 27:19 and 20).385 Activity and exertion continue to be emphasised, in contrast to the first, still and sunny version of the picture: “[…] we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship […].” The change of pronoun – from I to we – is required by faithfulness to the biblical quotation, but it is moreover an example of the merging of the two levels: the unnamed catastrophe does not only concern Lucy, but her relatives as well: “the crew perished.” Only Lucy lives to tell her story, another parallel to Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner.

2.2

M. Paul’s Shipwreck

In its final shipwreck, the text presents a scene that is linked with the first one in manifold ways – most importantly, the allegorical version becomes literal; moreover, the final variation of the shipwreck motif, although portraying a biographical event, is infused with allegorical traits. The relationship between biographical reality and literary image, which features so prominently in the first shipwreck, is therefore also relevant to the last shipwreck of the novel: the storm in the final chapter entails a figurative shipwreck of Lucy’s hopes in M. Paul’s literal shipwreck, and their transformation into another kind of hope. Apart from the similarity in motif, a comparison suggests itself through the related technique of offering two coexisting alternatives of interpretation to the reader:

ambiguous in his concise “Grundrisse einer philosophischen Begriffsgeschichte von Ambiguität”: “Hegel sieht nämlich im Symbol zwei Elemente, die Bedeutung und den Ausdruck, und vergleicht diese Zweiheit mit der entsprechenden Duplizität von Wortgestalt und Wortbedeutung in der Sprache” (144). While Hegel did not consider allegory in the context of his symbol theory, he represents an important change in Western interpretations of ambiguity as he does not consider it as a deficit and relates it to literary production (see Ullrich 145f.). 385 The mention of the stars in conjunction with the noun “bark” might also be an allusion to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116: “O no, it [love, OS] is an ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wand’ring bark, / Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken” (343; ll. 5–8).

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The skies hang full and dark – a rack sails from the west; the clouds cast themselves into strange forms – arches and broad radiations; there rise resplendent mornings – glorious, royal, purple as monarch in his state; the heavens are one flame; so wild are they, they rival battle at its thickest – so bloody, they shame Victory in her pride. I know some signs of the sky ; I have noted them ever since childhood. God, watch that sail! Oh! guard it! The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee – “keening” at every window! It will rise – it will swell – it shrieks out long: wander as I may through the house this night, I cannot lull the blast. The advancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchers hear and fear a wild south-west storm. (42.495)

The scene begins with a prelude in the present tense, centred on Lucy’s childhood habit of reading the signs of the sky, foreshadowing M. Paul’s fate and tying the scene back to the first shipwreck during her childhood. The homophone “rack”/“wreck” (suggested by the verb “sails”) hints at M. Paul’s shipwreck. Personifications abound – mornings resemble monarchs, the heavens are “wild” and “bloody” like battlegrounds. Each natural occurrence is interpreted with an intensely personal significance, to such an extent that almost every element of the storm is personified. This personal dimension is underlined not only by the prayer-like exclamation to God, but by the speaker’s attempts at influencing personified nature, for example when addressing the Banshee.386 The past tense is reintroduced to tell of the duration of the storm. The fate of M. Paul’s ship is not mentioned specifically, yet the general description of the effects of the storm leaves the reader to draw his/her own conclusions. That storm roared frenzied for seven days. It did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks: it did not lull till the deeps had gorged their full of sustenance. Not till the destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfect work, would he fold the wings whose waft was thunder – the tremor of whose plumes was storm. 386 “A supernatural being supposed by the peasantry of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands to wail under the windows of a house where one of the inmates is about to die” (OED, “banshee”). The banshee is associated with the wind blowing around the house as an omen of misfortune in the context of Miss Marchmont’s death: “One February night – I remember it well – there came a voice near Miss Marchmont’s house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only by one. […] The wind was wailing at the windows: it had wailed all day ; but, as night deepened, it took a new tone – an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the ear ; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every gust. […] these strange accents in the storm – this restless, hopeless cry – denote a coming state of the atmosphere unpropitious to life” (4.38). The personified wind is presented as a sign to be interpreted; the fact that it is described as a “voice” indicates a parallel with the inward voice, to which Lucy proves receptive as well when it tells her to leave her present place of abode after Miss Marchmont’s death. The ‘wuther’ of the elements is of course also immensely important to Emily Bront[’s Wuthering Heights: “‘Wuthering’ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.” For a detailed discussion of ambiguity in Wuthering Heights with a focus on perception and narration, see Lisa Ebert’s study.

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Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered – not uttered till, when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some! (42.495)

The catastrophe is a gap in the narrative. While the first shipwreck covers a period of eight years, the second storm significantly lasts seven days. The mythical number presents the event as the undoing of creation, taking the same amount of time it took the God of Genesis to make the world. That part of creation which is the most important to Lucy, M. Paul, is ‘undone’ in the storm. The repetition of “till” together with the parallel sentence structure stresses the effects of the tempest while keeping its most important outcome undisclosed: what happens to M. Paul? Again, the shipwreck is portrayed by means of a marked textual strategy and is heavily laden with biblical allusions, predominantly to the apocalypse.387 The conjunction stresses duration (Lucy is waiting for news of M. Paul’s ship), temporality and finality.388 “Till” draws attention to the “ultimate result” (OED, “till”, B.1.e), while at the same time concealing it, stopping just before it. The apostrophe “Peace, be still!” echoes Jesus’ address of the waters in Mark (4:39).389 The phrase presents an interesting ambiguity, since the injunction is uttered when the storm has already ceased. “Peace, be still!” can be read as a quotation from the bible (“that voice”), which marks the end of the tempest. However, since the attribution of the phrase to “that voice” only follows it (identifying it as a quotation), the words are also spoken by Lucy, addressing the storm and possibly even pleading with herself to end her own narrative – the 387 “Raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame; wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever” (Rev. 1:13); “But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up. Seeing then that all these things shall be dissolved, what manner of persons ought ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness, Looking for and hasting unto the coming of the day of God, wherein the heavens being on fire shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat?” (Rev 3:10–12); “And the angel took the censer, and filled it with fire of the altar, and cast it into the earth: and there were voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake” (Rev 8:5). 388 “Till” in the OED: “Onward to (a specified time); up to the time of (an event); during the whole time before; until. (Denoting continuance up to a particular time, and usually implying cessation or change at that time […])” (II.5.a.). “Indicating the ultimate result or outcome of a continued action expressed by the principal clause: So long or so far that; so that at length” (III.1.e.). 389 The phrase alludes to Jesus’ calming of the waters after he has set out in a ship with the disciples: “And when they had sent away the multitude, they took him even as he was in the ship. And there were also with him other little ships. And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full. And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow : and they awake him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not that we perish? And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm” (4:36–39).

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unspeakable cannot be represented by words.390 The elegiac tone of the passage continues in the following lines: “Oh! a thousand weepers, […] some could not feel it: till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!” The homonym of “sun” leads on to another interpretation of the event in the light of Christ’s second coming. ‘When the son returned’ alludes to the return of Christ to earth on the Day of Judgment (as prophesied in Revelation). The ambiguity of this conceit-like formulation with its internal rhyme of opposite concepts (light/ night) points to the undoing of the speaker’s world through the loss of the beloved (i. e., the cosmic dimension of the personal loss).391 The narrative gesture imploring both herself and the storm to finally stop (speaking/blowing) is equally ambiguously repeated and re-enforced in the penultimate passage of the text: Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs to conceive the delight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, the rapture of rescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, the fruition of return. Let them picture union and a happy succeeding life. (42.496)

The diction used here is reminiscent of the first shipwreck passage. The verb “conceive,” referring to an act of the imagination, which takes the place of the “amiable conjecture” of the first passage, carries with it connotations of ‘conceiving’ a child, a hint at the unconsummated marriage of Lucy and M. Paul. “[B]orn again,” “fruition” and “union” also belong to this field of imagery. An ambiguity concerning the communicative situation arises from the passage:392 the imperatives (“pause”; “trouble”; “let”) are targeted at Lucy as narrator, urging her to stop telling her story at this point, but they are also addressed to the reader, asking him to refrain from interpreting the ominous portrayal of the storm with regard to M. Paul’s fate, and its only plausible outcome. The imperative “[t]rouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope” indicates that it is up to the reader to position him- or herself either among the “sunny imaginations” or among the likes of the speaker, who clearly sees herself elsewhere. The decision about the ending of the novel is thus left to the reader – it 390 When Miss Marchmont tells Lucy of her loss, she expresses a similar feeling: “‘How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? or how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?’” (4.41). 391 The phrase “his light was night to some” contains allusions to Renaissance literature, specifically to the poetry of Vaughan and Donne: in “The Night”, the speaker says, “There is in God, some say, / A deep but dazzling darkness”; in John Donne’s “A Lecture Upon the Shadow”: “Love is a growing, or full constant light, / And his first minute, after noon, is night.” Both use a conceit-like formulation focusing on the reversal of night and day. Moreover, the sun/son homophone is at the centre of George Herbert’s poem “The Son” (1633): “How neatly do we give one only name / To parents’ issue and the sun’s bright star!” (ll. 5f.; Herbert 158). 392 See Winter-Froemel and Zirker, “Speaker-Hearer Interaction”.

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is his responsibility to either believe that M. Paul is dead or that he lives. Words such as “return” and “rapture” have a strongly religious character, referring to the second coming of Christ. These allusions introduce another ambiguity to the ending of the novel, combining the double perspective on this life and that to come of the Christian into one: they may underline once more M. Paul’s Christlike attributes and allude to the wonder which his return to Lucy would be, or they may evoke the second coming in an eschatological sense, i. e. implying that he will in fact not return in this life, but in the next. As in the first shipwreck scene, the reader is “permitted” (or invited?) to speculate about the meaning of the words. The parallel is emphasised by the verb “picture,” which echoes the phrases “I will permit the reader to picture me […]”; “Picture me then […]” (4.35). The first passage is an instance of foreshadowing the novel’s ending: An archaic meaning of “conjecture” comprises the realm of sooth-saying, especially on the basis of signs or omens.393 This assumption may lead to a disambiguation of the ending: If the first shipwreck foreshadows the final one, then it might as well anticipate its fatal outcome.394 However, the happy, sunny alternative is evoked, even if the reader decides not to believe it. The “quiet, kind heart” echoes the supposedly “idle, basking, plump, and happy” women and girls of the first shipwreck scene (which do not endure in that first image, though).395 The “rapture of rescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, the fruition of return […]” point to stories which ‘deliver’ a happy ending no matter whether it is plausible or not, the dominance of fantasy over reality. The (presumably) literal shipwreck is turned into an allegorical one, an image rather than a reality. The personifications and allusions to other figurative passages396 transport it into the realm of allegory and recall the first shipwreck, in the representation of which the boundary between poetic image and reality is crossed in the opposite direction. A vital difference lies in the outcome of the respective scenes. The concluding sentence of the first shipwreck: “In fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished” (4.35) is never pronounced. Rather, the two 393 “The interpretation of signs or omens; interpretation of dreams; divining; a conclusion as to coming events drawn from signs or omens; a forecast, a prognostication. Obsolete” (OED 1). 394 Following the shipwreck topos through the text, John Sutherland has arrived at the same conclusion. He reads the first passage as an indication of how to interpret the final one. 395 Of whom Louisa Bretton would be an example: “No, the ‘Louisa Bretton’ never was out of harbour on such a night, and in such a scene: her crew could not conceive it; so the halfdrowned life-boat man keeps his own counsel, and spins no yarns” (17.180f.). 396 For example, the correspondence between the “waiting shores” and the “waiting waters” (17.179), moreover the allusion present in “a thousand weepers”: “Thousands lie round the pool, weeping and despairing, to see it, through slow years, stagnant” (17.179). Another allusion lies in the “destroying angel of tempest”, who is similar to Azrael, the angel of death: “To how many maimed and mourning millions is the first and sole angel visitant, him easterns call Azrael” (17.179).

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passages seem to complement each other in the elements they represent: the first shipwreck not only foreshadows M. Paul’s (probable) fate; it is its only representation in the novel, subtly hinting at the connection of Lucy and M. Paul’s destinies. While the final chapter maintains the perspective of the person standing on the “waiting shores,” the first shipwreck portrays the immediate experience of the castaway. The reality of M. Paul’s fate explains why the first shipwreck does not and cannot remain a mere image. The anticipation of M. Paul’s destiny underlines the ‘fatal’ connection between Lucy and him. It is moreover a conscious stylistic device employed by the narrator to underline their similarity in retrospect. The shipwreck is the symbol of M. Paul’s and Lucy’s contrasting, yet identical characters and destinies coinciding.397 An additional passage relevant here, which illuminates the special status of the shipwreck allegory in Villette, occurs during the time of mental and physical hardship, during the long vacation. The instance moreover functions as a transition between the shipwreck and the path allegories since in it both occur together and are even combined to form a new pattern of expression. After her confession, Lucy wanders through the old town and cannot find her way back to the school among the unfamiliar streets. The fact that this happens after her confession is of course symbolic of the spiritual ‘loss of the way’ a conversion to Catholicism would mean for Lucy. She wanders aimlessly through the old part of the town, presumably close to Madame Walravens’ house, which Lucy is to visit much later. Lucy’s experience is characterized by a loss of orientation which can be read both spatially and as a symbol of mental confusion: “I grew embarrassed; I got immeshed in a net-work of turns unknown” (15.163). Like a fish in a net, Lucy is trapped in the unfamiliar part of the foreign town. The image of the “net-work” of streets anticipates the final storm at sea: If the storm had lulled a little at sunset, it made up now for lost time. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind from north-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes, a sharp hail, like shot; it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. I bent my head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail at all in this conflict; I only wished that I had wings and could ascend the gale, spread and repose my pinions on its strength, career in its course, sweep where it swept. While wishing this, I suddenly felt colder where before I was cold, and more powerless where before I was weak. I tried to reach the porch of a great building near, but the mass of frontage and the giant-spire turned black and vanished from my eyes. Instead of sinking on the steps as I intended, I seemed to pitch headlong down an abyss. I remember no more. (15.163f.)

This storm provides a link to the shipwreck scenes. The wind is described by means of attributes associated with water : it moves horizontally, in the manner 397 See ch. IV on the Oracle for a discussion of Lucy and M. Paul’s likeness.

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of a “current.” The rain resembles spray ; the wind is a gale. The increasing coldness is evocative of the time “of cold” associated with the first shipwreck. The buildings surrounding Lucy with their “mass of frontage and the giantspire” are like a ship’s sails and mast, and moreover (ironically?) evoke the topos of the “ship of church.”398 Eventually, the sensation of falling overboard is echoed in the experience of “pitch[ing] headlong down an abyss,”399 an association reinforced by the polysemous verb “sinking.” While the storm in this passage can be read as a metaphor of Lucy’s spiritual and physical crisis, it also represents the poet’s inspiration and is therefore linked to her imagination and the creation of images. The story is Lucy’s return from the water ; despite all suffering, it is an account of survival. Lucy’s wish to have wings recalls the ancient mariner and his albatross in the first shipwreck, and reiterates the topos of the soul or spirit as bird: “[…] my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose; […]” (6.48). Her loss of consciousness can be interpreted as her soul taking flight away from her body in a near-death experience, which is how she describes it in retrospect: “Where my soul went during that swoon I cannot tell […]” (16.165). Both images, path and shipwreck, are connected here: the loss of the way is followed by a shipwreck. This passage also stands out in so far as both images are associated with a clearly spiritual dimension in the context of the confession.400 398 Graham Bretton later tells Lucy where he found her : “‘Near the B8guinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had swooned and fallen’” (17.186). The spire therefore is likely to belong to the church on the nunnery grounds. 399 The abyss moreover recalls the Slough of Despond in The Pilgrim’s Progress. Christian struggles to leave it until Help comes to his rescue, not unlike Graham Bretton when he finds Lucy in the streets and takes her home (PP 16). The Slough of Despond is the result of the believer’s doubts: “for still as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and set in this place: and this is the reason of the badness of this ground” (16). This textual background implies that Lucy’s crisis may be spiritual as well as psychological. The use of the shipwreck as a symbol of loss of faith or a crisis of faith in emblems points in the same direction (see footnote below). The term “abyss” is also associated with uncertainty : “A bottomless chasm; any unfathomable cavity or void space” (OED Online, “abyss”, n., 2.). There is moreover an allusion to “[t]he dark unbottomed infinite abyss” and “the palpable obscure” (II.405f.) in Paradise Lost (129), as well as to the “dark backward and abysm of time” (1.2.50) in The Tempest. 400 The spiritual dimension of the shipwreck is present in its early use in emblem books like Quarles’ Emblems. Examples are the emblem of Psalm 69:15 (Quarles 169; 3.XI), which is quoted in the first shipwreck, and the emblem “Spes in proxima”. Moreover, one of the seminal sources for Villette, The Pilgrim’s Progress, is strongly influenced by emblems. Roger Sharrock writes in an essay on this topic: “In discussing Bunyan’s debt to that vast and curious phenomenon, Renaissance emblem literature, we may be able to bring home the fact that the author of The Pilgrim’s Progress was not just a sum total of literary influences and old wives’ tales, but a man with strong visual imagination and a mind that delighted in pictures and ‘similitudes’” (Sharrock, “Bunyan” 105f.).

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Lucy’s biographical experience merges with and is to a certain degree even replaced by the allegory – literary form thus takes the place of the ‘content’ it is supposed to communicate. While both shipwrecks are linked with moments of deep personal crisis and may appear purely negative, the experience appears in a positive light later on, creating ambiguity.

2.3

The Ambiguity of Catastrophe

Lucy reintroduces the image of the ship in order to refer to the fundamental difference between her and Mrs. Bretton’s experience of life: Lucy portrays herself as a lifeboat401 and Mrs. Bretton as a stately ship: Into what a new region would such a confidence have led that hale, serene nature! The difference between her and me might be figured by that between the stately ship, cruising safe on smooth seas, with its full complement of crew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident; and the life-boat, which most days of the year lies dry and solitary in an old, dark boat-house, only putting to sea when the billows run high in rough weather, when cloud encounters water, when danger and death divide between them the rule of the great deep. No, the “Louisa Bretton” never was out of harbour on such a night, and in such a scene: her crew could not conceive it; so the half-drowned life-boat man keeps his own counsel, and spins no yarns. (17.181)

The lifeboat enters dimensions of experience that must remain closed off to the “stately ship” even in terms of just imagining such a crisis (“her crew could not conceive it”). While Lucy is generally portrayed as an unhappy character, one cannot help but perceive a certain pride of calamity in this image – she has entered realms of existence that are not available to the average man, let alone woman. There is an exultant note to Lucy’s alliterative, rhythmical phrase “when danger and death divide between them the rule of the great deep.” While the lifeboat is exposed to “danger and death,” it also symbolises an extraordinary, borderline experience of life not open to everyone, and, moreover, of saving the shipwrecked, resulting in an ambiguous image of Lucy in the shipwreck allegory as simultaneously the victim and the means of saving herself. Mrs. Bretton’s

401 While the half-drowned lifeboat man may be inspired by Coleridge’s ancient mariner, the image is reminiscent of Petrarch’s Secretum: “Et ego, in mari magno sevoque ac turbido iactatus, tremulam cimbam fatiscentemque et rimosam ventis obluctantibus per tumidos fluctus ago. Hanc diu durare non posse certe scio nullamque spem salutis superesse michi video, nisi miseratus Omnipotens prebeat ut gubernaculum summa vi flectens antequam peream litus apprehendam, qui in pelago vixerim moriturus in portu” (Petrarch, Secretum 1.13.4; qtd. in Rawski 397, vol. 2).

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“hale, serene nature” (17.181)402 would not allow her to comprehend Lucy’s utter despair during the long vacation, which has driven her beyond common range both spatially and mentally.403 McLarren Caldwell analyses Lucy’s sense of a “reverse election in which some are specially chosen to suffer” (488), expressed for example in her great crisis during the summer holidays.404 The concept of “‘inverted election’” (Vargish 84; qtd. in McLarren Caldwell 488) contributes to the ambiguity of Villette. If suffering is considered a sign of election, then there is something positive to it, an existential “certainty” to be gained from it after all (15.157). Lucy’s suffering thus singles her out and sets her apart from the masses, and even from her closest acquaintances. At first sight it seems as if the lifeboat is another image to drive home the notion that Lucy is fatefully unhappy, but ultimately her trials define her experience as an individual and bring about a widening of her horizons as well. In contrast, Mrs. Bretton is in many ways the embodiment of the “common range”, of what is expected and normal, which Lucy mentions in the context of her reaction to M. Paul’s presumed wordless departure (see ch. 38).405 Both shipwrecks appear at moments of crisis, and so does the instance of allegory to be discussed next, the psychomachia with Reason.406

402 The adjective “hale” is now only used in Scottish and northern dialect and links Mrs. Home with M. de Bassompierre (whose family is Scottish and who still likes to speak it) and, by implication, to a “‘whole’” home-country (“Free from injury ; safe, sound, unhurt. Now only Sc. and north. dial.” (OED Online, “hale”, adj., A.I.1); “Free from disease, healthy, in good health, well; recovered from disease, healed, ‘whole’. Now Sc. and north. dial.” (A.I.2.a)). 403 The allegory, reminiscent of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress in its use of space and landscape to communicate inner experience, already announces itself before she speaks in actually allegorical terms. 404 “How I used to pray to Heaven for consolation and support! With what dread force the conviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent foe, never to be conciliated. I did not, in my heart, arraign the mercy or justice of God for this; I concluded it to be a part of his great plan that some must deeply suffer while they live, and I thrilled in the certainty that of this number, I was one” (15.157; see Mc Larren Caldwell 488). The belief that much suffering will be met with “peculiar blessings” (Bront[’s phrase from her farewell letter to M. Heger in November 1845: “Farewell my dear Master – may God protect you with special care and crown you with peculiar blessings” (G8rin 293; qtd. in Mc Larren Caldwell 488). 405 See also Lucy’s description of Madame Beck: “Instead of at once addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to seek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long. She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; driven beyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted respects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual circumstances, no yoke could now be borne – no curb obeyed” (38.446). 406 Lewis identifies internal war or bellum intestinum as “the root of all allegory” (68).

Lucy’s Dialogue with Reason

3.

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Exactly halfway through the novel, in chapter 21, complementing and counterpointing the two principal shipwrecks that frame the narrative, Lucy experiences another crisis, this time presented as a psychomachia featuring Reason in interaction with the protagonist.407 The psychomachia is structurally important because it is associated with the peripety marked by Lucy’s collapse after her confession. The three allegorical instances thus signal the dramatic structure of the narrative: the tempest and shipwreck in the beginning, the peripety with Lucy’s collapse and the subsequent debate with Reason, as well as the final shipwreck.408 The psychomachia occurs at a crucial point in Lucy’s life, when Graham Bretton has taken her back to the school after her stay at La Terrasse. The moment signifies a new beginning for Lucy, who returns to the school after her collapse in the streets of Villette and her recovery with the Brettons, whom she has recognised as her godmother and her son from England. Her stay with them has brought unusual excitement to Lucy, such as visits to the gallery and the concert, activities that contrast with her retired life at Madame Beck’s and counteract her acute loneliness, at least superficially (see above, ch. III). With the return to Madame Beck’s, however, Lucy knows that this phase of her life is at an end. The scene echoes Lucy’s first night in Villette and her arrival at the school, just as her waking up in the Brettons’ house in Villette seems to transport her back to former stays in Bretton:409 “Just such a night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped on this very threshold: just similar was the scene” (21.227). Of the eighteen months covered by the narrative of her life in Villette, her second arrival at the school occurs approximately in the middle; again, Lucy arrives at the school in darkness, which symbolises her 407 Psychomachia is a personification allegory, of which Prudentius’ Christian poem Psychomachia (5th century A.D.) is the first extensive example. The text portrays the battle between personified virtues and vices. Gurr writes on the wider meaning of psychomachia: “[…] the opposing forces in the dualist field of tension are variously represented as fully allegorical personifications of vices and virtues in the tradition of the Psychomachia, as independent external figures with merely symbolic value, as rivalling higher and lower faculties within the self, as sides of a split personality represented in the image of the double, or as the fully psychologized Ego with its multiplicity of contradictory impulses and motivations” (12). The concrete intertextual relevance of the Psychomachia to Villette is discussed below. 408 See footnote above on Heywood and the generic ambiguity resulting from the fact that a shipwreck in the beginning suggests or anticipates a comedy ending, a shipwreck at the end a tragedy. 409 A prominent example of this seeming ‘going back’ in time is Lucy’s waking up in the Brettons’ house in Villette after she has lost consciousness in the streets of the old town, and believes herself to be transported backwards in time and space: “Where was I? Not only in what spot of the world, but in what year of our Lord?” (16.166f.).

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uncertainty about what to expect from her life there. But now, her uncertainty is of a different kind than the existential doubt about her imminent future she feels when first arriving as a stranger without connections or acquaintance: she does not wait by herself for the door to be answered, but in the company of a friend, and she knows that she will be allowed in and made welcome. She also remembers that Graham was her temporary guide on the night of her first arrival. She still loses her way, though, and arrives not at an inn, but at the place appointed to her by providence, Madame Beck’s school.410 Graham notices that Lucy is distressed at parting (and at being forgotten (again)) when they wait together in the vestibule: “‘Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true friends. We will not forget you’” (21.228).411 As a doctor, Graham is concerned about the psychological causes of Lucy’s previous breakdown and tries to alleviate her dread at being alone again: he promises to write letters to her. Lucy rejects this idea, claiming he must be too busy etc. However, her subsequent obsessive reflections about whether or not he will write and how she should reply if he does show that she actually wishes nothing more. This is already a symptom of the doubling that takes place in the context of her relationship with Graham: she wishes that he write, yet at the same time she forbids herself any hope. It is obvious that she has fallen in love with the young doctor, and it becomes clear in the following scene that she has already attached all her hopes to his promise of sending letters despite her inner struggle over it. “‘And will Graham really write?’ I questioned, as I sank tired on the edge of the bed” (21.228). This is the cue for the appearance of Reason, who approaches Lucy in the shape of a personification, and who illustrates Lucy’s inner struggle over her feelings for Graham, and the fact that she knows they will be unanswered.412

410 Lucy arrives at Madame Beck’s school after losing her way in Villette: “Providence said, ‘Stop here; this is your inn.’ Fate took me in her strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rung the door-bell” (7.64). For a discussion of the roles of Fate and Providence, see ch. IV. 411 The use of the word “courage” anticipates Lucy addressing herself with the words “Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steady exertion by-and-by, an object in life need not fail you” (31.361). The soliloquy is discussed in ch. III. 412 The subsequent psychomachic struggle between Reason and Imagination is consistent with Bront[’s phrenological notion of the faculties that almost have a will of their own: “Faculties possess their own energies which can clearly be disruptive if not rigidly controlled. […] Bront[ defends her artistic practice to G. H. Lewes on the grounds not of personal choice, but rather of impotence: ‘imagination is a strong, restless faculty, which claims to be heard and exercised’” (Shuttleworth 66), quotation from a letter to Lewes, 6 November 1847. The autonomy of the individual faculties is also strongly underlined in the characterization of the “Creative Impulse”: “I, […] who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof

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Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long, dim chamber, whispered sedately, – “He may write once. So kind is his nature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it cannot be continued – it may not be repeated. Great were that folly which should build on such a promise – insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons.” (21.228f.)

Reason approaches Lucy “stealthily”; she cannot control the autonomously acting personification.413 Reason cautions Lucy not to invest too much hope into Graham’s promise in the anaphoric, insistent style of a preacher (“Great were that folly […] – insane that credulity […]”). At the same time, the style of address is completely impersonal, enumerating rules in the passive voice instead of addressing Lucy directly : still, it is clear that “that folly” and “that credulity” belong to Lucy. Reason introduces the metaphor of nourishment (“the supply of seasons”) to describe the possibility of Graham’s letters/his feelings for Lucy. Apart from speaking to her in a whisper (indicating the absence of all emotion), Reason, who is portrayed as a stepmother-like old woman, also touches Lucy, as though asserting her sway over her : “Reason still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear with the chill blue lips of eld” (21.229). The central ambiguity of the passage first of all lies in the fact that Lucy is confronted with one of her own faculties, which appears as exterior to her. This externalised faculty emphasises the function of the exchange as Lucy’s “assertion of self-existence” (Stock 6; qtd. in Zirker 203n86414) of Lucy’s ambivalence toward her own expectations concerning Graham Bretton is reflected in this exteriorisation of a part of her own mind, which is contrasted with her feelings. Lucy, immediately preoccupied with the question of whether Graham will “‘really write’” (21.228), hoping in her soul that a letter will arrive the very next day, is given reasons not to expect that she will receive any letter at all.415 of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters” (30.356). 413 Stewart notes in the context of the personifications of Will and Exertion that the personifications of Villette tend to occupy “the same ontological plane as the ‘me’” (62). 414 “In one of his earliest compositions in dialogue form, the Soliloquia, he draws attention to the connection between the form of his discourse, which is carried on in the first person within himself, and the product of that interchange, which is the assertion of self-existence” (Stock 6; qtd. in Zirker 203n86). 415 Things are complicated here because Reason is of course part of Lucy’s soul. Watkins (Puritan Experience) comments on the “faculties of the rational soul”, “the reason, the will, and the affections”, in his discussion of a Puritan personal religion: “Reason, as the king of the faculties, should be in control, acting with the will to rule the affections; but in fallen man both the will and the affections are in revolt, while reason itself is imperfect” (6). Zirker investigates the literary tradition of the “dialogue of one”, a phrase coined by Donne in his poem “The Extasie” (see Zirker 198). Augustine introduced the Latin word “soliloquium” as the title of his Soliloquia (see Zirker 201–206). Zirker observes about the Augustinian

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“If,” muttered she, “if he should write, what then? Do you meditate pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart – no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling – give holiday to no single faculty : dally with no friendly exchange: foster no genial intercommunion. …” “But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,” I pleaded. “No,” said she, “I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority – no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp your language …” “But,” I again broke in, “where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve?” Reason only answered, “At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer its influence to animate any writing of yours!” “But if I feel, may I never express?” “Never!” declared Reason. I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never – never – oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination – her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage: her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. (21.229f.)

Lucy’s ambivalence toward her relationship with Graham Bretton is expressed in this exchange: it portrays her reflections on how she should react to a letter that has not even been written yet. While the impulse of feeling is to wait eagerly for a letter and write back a long and grateful reply, Reason forbids Lucy just such an expectation and reaction, even threatening her (“‘At your peril’”).416 The emotional ‘starvation’ represented by Reason is literalised in the attributes associated with her : “her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed”; “flinging for soliloquies: “The self-inquiry is based on the division of man into ‘himself ’ and some other instance, namely the Soul or Reason (as part of the Soul); but the interlocutors are not really to be separated from each other” (202). We find the same principle in Lucy’s encounter with Reason, and she also “question[s] and answer[s] [her]self” (Watson 89; qtd. in Zirker 202). Lucy’s internalised dialogue thus can be seen in the tradition of the Augustinian soliloquium. 416 The undated poem “Reason” portrays the personified faculty as a “[s]tern sovereign” (l.26). The poem portrays the struggle between the speaker, who still feels a “flame / […] inly, deeply burn” (ll. 11–12) and Reason, with the speaker oscillating between giving in to Reason’s crushing force and the unwillingness to abandon the inner flame, and the search for hope and love (see Tressler 7).

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sustenance the gnawed bones dogs had forsaken.” The metaphor of nourishment underlines the fact that the personifications are utterly real to Lucy, that the life of the mind equals that of the body or even supersedes it (and may therefore just as likely cause extreme consequences, such as death). Of particular relevance is the fact that Lucy, who lacks a family and a mother in her ‘exterior’ life, imagines Reason as “envenomed as a step-mother”417 and as resembling an old hag from fairy tales with demonic traits (“This hag, this Reason […]. Reason is vindictive as a devil […]” (21.229)). Reason speaks in paratactic imperatives and negations underlining her claim to speak absolutely : “‘Hope no delight of heart – no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling – give holiday to no single faculty : dally with no friendly exchange: foster no genial intercommunion’” (21.229). This downright denial of any hope for Graham’s affection is summed up in Reason’s cruelly definitive answer of “‘Never!’” (21.229). Reason is hardly open to any arguments Lucy brings forth; its portrayal as an almost irrationally negative and destructive force is almost ironic.418 Among traditional allegorical portrayals of Reason is Plato’s the chariot of the soul, showing Reason as the driver and sovereign over inferior powers. Plato considers an inner life governed by Reason as desirable. In Bront[’s version of the image, however, Reason appears in a wholly different light. For Plato, Reason is the decisive moderator and restrainer of all forces at work in the soul; in Lucy’s psychomachia, however, no other forces appear to act as moderators – she is confronted with Reason herself. Orth remarks about the psychomachia in the English realist novel that both literary forms seem to be alien to one another :419 the psychomachia does not 417 CB may have the Queen’s poisoned apple for Snow White in mind when she associates the stepmother with venom. 418 Reason appears as a destructive counsellor to Constance in King John, advising him to commit suicide: “Preach some philosophy to make me mad, / And thou shalt be canoniz’d, Cardinal; / For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, / My reasonable part produces reason / How I may be deliver’d of these woes, / And teaches me to kill or hang myself. / If I were mad, I should forget my son, / Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. / I am not mad; too well, too well I feel / The different plague of each calamity” (King John 3.3.51–60). The parallel to the representation of Reason in the scene from Villette consists in the fact that Reason suggests something unreasonable to Constance, i. e. suicide. Another pertinent literary occurrence of Reason is found in Shakespeare’s sonnet 147: “My reason, the physician to my love, / Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, / Hath left me, and I desperate now approve / Desire is death, which physic did except” (411; ll. 5–8). The lover’s reason and his feelings are here contrasted, as they are in Villette. Ultimately, the speaker is driven into “madness” because he has lost the ability to judge his beloved objectively ; this extreme consequence is tempered in Lucy’s case because she is present twice in her text, once as the experiencing, once as the narrating I. Heilman points out that Reason “for Lucy means not logical processes but the conviction of disappointment” (“Style,” 225). 419 “Dem realistischen Erzählen, das die Gattungsgeschichte in England prägt, ist das Allegorische in der Tradition der Psychomachie eigentlich wesensfremd, denn charakteristisch

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seem like a literary form conducive to psychological realism, since it portrays directly what happens in Lucy’s consciousness, in the form of a dialogue that is actually a soliloquy. This extensive use of psychomachia in a realist novel is rare (see Orth 203).

3.1

Digression: The Battle Motif

The appearance of Reason evokes two contexts: first, that of Prudentius’ Psychomachia, which describes the battle of sins and virtues in the soul.420 Its English title is The Fight for Mansoul, and it accordingly portrays the battle of a number of contrasting passions (e. g. Chastity and Lust) for the human soul. While Lucy’s psychomachia takes the form of a dialogue, Prudentius’ allegory is fiercely physical in its literal aspect, describing the deaths of the vices in great detail. A number of characters in Villette bear resemblance to some of the vices portrayed in the Psychomachia: most relevant is the dissembler Greed, who pretends to be Thrifty to trick the army of the Virtues into following her as their für den realistischen Roman ist das Gestalten einer Wirklichkeit in Analogie zur konkreten Welt und das Interesse an der Welterfahrung ‘realistischer’ Helden, deren Erleben die herkömmliche Allegorisierung zunächst nicht gerecht zu werden scheint. […] Konflikte werden nur selten als regelrechter Kampf von Personifikationen um die Seele veranschaulicht” (Gurr 201). 420 Petrarch’s 14th century psychomachia Remedies for Fortunes Foul and Fair is moreover a relevant intertext to Villette, with its “stress on individual choice and responsibility”. The text consists of dialogues between the passions born from Prosperity or Adversity (Joy, Hope, Sorrow, and Fear) and Reason with the help of virtue and its corollaries (see Rawski xxiii). The text is moreover interesting in the context of ambiguity because Reason reacts to the statements made by its adversaries by juxtaposing contraries to each one. Rawski explores the effects of this debating strategy : “Reason adheres rigidly to this quasi-Academic method of disputation and offers a sharp-edged argument which seems designed to arouse doubt and critical side-taking in the reader/audience. As the double face of Fortune is explored, paradoxical situations emerge, since Reason, countering with opposites, is often reduced to binary choices, as it were, and, consequently, forced to adopt and to advocate in one argument what was condemned in another. This ambiguity points to a paramount objective akin to Abelard’s dubitando quippe ad inquisitionem venimus; inquirendo veritatem percipimus – doubt, naturally, leads to inquiry, and through inquiry we obtain the truth” (Petrarch’s Remedies for Fortune Fair and Foul, Bk. I, xxiv). Rawski observes about the nature of the dialogue in Petrarch (Rawski): “Most of the dialogues are not explicitly argued, self-contained exchanges between two discussants confronting each other – they present, often in starkly schematic form, a topic, thesis, and antithesis for the benefit of a third party, the reader/listener/patient. There is no dramatic confrontation. Georg Misch, referring to Augustine’s Soliloquies (e. g., ii, 14), speaks of a Form des Dialoges als ein verkleidetes Selbstgespraech [sic] […]” (Commentary to Book I, lii [xxiiin8]). This notion of dialogue as a ‘soliloquy in disguise’ is present in the conversations between Lucy and M. Paul as discussed in ch. IV, in which the pronouns indeed suggest an identity of speaker and addressee – and thus introduce ambiguity.

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leader. Ambiguity thus finds entry into this world of seemingly easily distinguishable Virtues and Vices: With a delicate covering of motherly devotion she hides her snaky tresses so that the white mantle shall disguise the raging that lurks beneath and screen the fearful fury, and so display the plundering and thieving and greedy storing of her gains under the pleasing name of care for her children. […] Their leaders bewildered, their companies confounded, the Virtues’ line is faltering; for they are misled by the monster’s twofold figure and know not where to see a friend in her and where to mark a foe. The deadly creature’s changing, double form makes their sight unsteady and dubious, not knowing what to make of her appearance. (Psychomachia 319)

Greed in disguise is an ambiguous figure because she pretends to be something she is not; her “changing, double form” destabilises her opponents’ view of her by making it impossible to recognise her true being. The calculating greed and fury hidden underneath a motherly exterior (“covering of motherly devotion”; “the pleasing name of care for her children”) may have been the model for the “motherly” (7.65; 8.70; 11.101; 13.118) figure of Madame Beck, who is ultimately portrayed as wholly ‘unmotherly,’ even toward her own children, and whose main motive is “interest.” Her last direct confrontation with Lucy is indeed portrayed in terms of a battle and a final unmasking: Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my power, because in some moods, such as the present – in some stimulated states of perception, like that of this instant – her habitual disguise, her mask and her domino, were to me a mere network reticulated with holes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, selfindulgent, and ignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, though very uneasy, she said, “If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she must reluctantly leave me.” (38.447, my emphases)

Like the reader of the Psychomachia, who is let in on the secret of Thrift’s true identity as Greed from the beginning, Lucy has not been fooled by Madame Beck’s displays of benevolence, and has been constantly suspecting her of wearing a mask.421 The allusion to the Psychomachia is moreover a reminder that the notion of life as battle is present throughout the text: After burying John Graham’s letters, Lucy introduces her reflections on the eternal question ‘What shall I do?’ with what seems to be a basic condition of her life: “If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed” (26.296). Lucy’s identification with Vashti is based on this view of life – on the stage, the actress in character “grapples to conflict with abstractions” and enacts “a battle with doom 421 As opposed to M. Paul’s always-speaking features, Madame Beck’s face is “of stone” when she believes herself unobserved: “Madame’s face of stone (for of stone in its present night aspect it looked: it had been human, and, as I said before, motherly, in the salon) betrayed no response” (8.70).

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and death” (23.258). Toward the end of her narrative, Lucy observes that Ginevra is “fighting the battle of life by proxy” (40.478), i. e. in a manner directly opposed to Lucy’s “single-handed” fight. An allegorical combat is evoked again in another context, casting Madame Beck in the role of antagonist when Lucy speculates about whether she will have the chance to say farewell to M. Paul: […] could that longed-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the schemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of access appeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm – Apollyon straddled across it, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide reach me? (38.445)

The passage alludes to the encounter of Christian and Apollyon in the “Valley of Humiliation” (PP 46)422 in the context of Lucy’s final meeting with M. Paul – she has just experienced the power of the “schemers” first-hand when Madame Beck prevents her from giving the master of literature a sign of her presence when he has come to say goodbye to all of his pupils. Christian and Apollyon’s confrontation is moreover evoked in the biblical phrase “reliant in the issue to come off more than conquerors” (38.438) in the prelude to the chapter just quoted, in which Lucy fears to lose M. Paul forever.423 Apollyon, like Greed pretending to be Thrift, is a dissembler as well, e. g. when he pretends to be merciful if Christian will only leave his path and return to his old master’s servitude, as the marginal gloss tells the reader : “Apollyon pretends to be merciful” (PP 47). We thus find in Villette an emphasis on confrontation and (inner) struggle on the one hand; on the other hand, Lucy lives outwardly quietly and passively – she sometimes even betrays a fatalistic attitude: “[…] I would have crawled on with her [Miss Marchmont, OS] for twenty years, if for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But another decree was written. It seemed 422 “Then Apollyon strodled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter, prepare thy self to dye, for I swear by my Infernal Den, thou shalt go no further, here will I spill thy soul; […]. Then Apollyon espying his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall; and with that, Christians [sic] Sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollion, I am sure of thee now ; and with that, he had almost prest him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life. But as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good Man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for his Sword, and caught it, saying, Rejoyce not against me, O mine Enemy! when I fall, I shall arise; and with that, gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound: […]” (PP 48–49). 423 The allusion to Rom. 8:37 concludes their encounter and effectively drives Apollyon off: “Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying, Nay, in all these things we are more then Conquerours, through him that loved us. And with that, Apollyon spread forth his Dragons wings, and sped him away, that Christian saw him no more” (PP 49).

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I must be stimulated into action. I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy” (4.38). This energy can be felt most clearly in Lucy’s spirited confrontations with M. Paul. “Like the Jacob story, Bront[’s novels present conflict not as a mere preliminary to a final, transcendent synthesis, but as a revelation in and of itself” (McLarren Caldwell 490). Lucy’s final struggle with Madame Beck has an allegorical quality, as has been shown by tracing the allusions to the figure of Thrift/Greed in Prudentius’ Psychomachia and the battle between Christian and Apollyon in The Pilgrim’s Progress.

3.2

Imagination

The psychomachia indicates an inner division.424 In Lucy’s case, her dialogue with Reason is cut short by the appearance of her “soft, bright foe” Imagination – the conclusions she draws from it (expressed in the composition of the two replies to Graham Bretton) are only revealed later. Lucy feels ambivalent toward Reason: “If I have obeyed her [Reason, OS] it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love” (21.229). The expression “obedience of fear” hints at a slavish relationship; its opposite, the “obedience of love,” moreover echoes “the service that is perfect freedom” of the Book of Common Prayer.425 The sentence forms the transition from Reason to “that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance” (21.229). The comparison between these two antagonists begins with a metaphor of nourishment, which Lucy uses in numerous variations in her narrative: Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more for me – harshly denied my right to ask better things. … Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent. (21.229f.)

This power is initially called “Imagination,” but this name is not mentioned again in the course of its description, and its significance seems to erode and be replaced by another meaning.426 424 Orth quotes Sidney’s Arcadia in this context: “I am divided in myself; how can I stand? I am overthrown in myself; who shall raise me?” (Sidney 161; qtd. in Orth 204). 425 “O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord, in knowledge of whom standeth our eternal life, whose service is perfect freedom; Defend us thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies” (Book of Common Prayer, “A Collect for Peace”, section for Easter). 426 This reading is sustained by the fact that the instance of “Imagination” here is at variance with other occurrences of imagination in the text, for example the first time it is used: “I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of that curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but

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A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended with quiet flight to the waste – bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer ; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade – fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day ; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable tears which weep away life itself – kindly given rest to deadly weariness – generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun – altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate; but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome – a temple whose floors are space – rites whose mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds! (21.230)

The spirit is associated with a guiding star ; it descends downwards, existing above and beyond the material world. It is moreover associated with nature, but with a kind of nature that is not commanded by natural laws: “a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it” – this may allude to the familiar pun on the homonym sun/son, which hints at the greater significance of this power. The spirit is then called “good angel” and “greater glory.” The apostrophe “[d]ivine, compassionate, succourable influence” also draws a parallel with God, and compassion, of course, is one of Jesus’ characteristic virtues in the New Testament.427 Since Bront[ knew Schiller’s writings, there might also be a connection to his Ode an die Freude, which mentions a “Tochter aus Elysium,” like the whenever, opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in her pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted” (2.12). The contrast of reason and imagination is evoked moreover in Lucy’s description of the Catholic rites: “Many people – men and women – no doubt far my superiors in a thousand ways, have felt this display impressive, have declared that though their Reason protested, their Imagination was subjugated. I cannot say the same” (36.420f.). Johnson defines “Imagination” as follows in his Dictionary : “Fancy ; the power of forming ideal pictures; the power of representing things absent to one’s self and others. Imagination I understand to be the representation of an individual thought. Imagination is of three kinds: joined with belief of that which is to come; joined with memory of that which is past; and of things present, or as if they were present: for I comprehend in this imagination feigned and at pleasure, as if one should imagine such a man to be in the vestments of a pope, or to have wings. Bacon.” 427 Some examples from the Gospel are: “So Jesus had compassion on them, and touched their eyes: and immediately their eyes received sight, and they followed him” (Matt 20:34); “And Jesus, moved with compassion, put forth his hand, and touched him, and saith unto him, I will; be thou clean” (Mark 1:41); “In those days the multitude being very great, and having nothing to eat, Jesus called his disciples unto him, and saith unto them, I have compassion on the multitude, because they have now been with me three days, and have nothing to eat: And if I send them away fasting to their own houses, they will faint by the way : for divers of them came from far” (Mark 8:1–3).

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epithet “daughter of Heaven” given to Imagination. The allusion to Ode an die Freude introduces the notion of happiness, which is reiterated when Lucy, after having indeed received five letters from Graham Bretton, writes: “A new creed became mine – a belief in happiness” (23.253). Contrary to Reason’s warnings, Lucy will find (a temporary) happiness in the letters and the hope she attaches to them. On a psychological level, the allegories in Villette testify to the protagonist’s mind penetrating and animating all she experiences. The text is characterised by an almost manic sense of animation, even in phases of Lucy’s life in which nothing happens at all. The allegorical passages, while they sometimes take the place of ‘action’ on the plot level, often mean that outside activity has ceased and that it instead takes place within Lucy’s psyche. Both personifications, Reason and Imagination, play unconventional roles since one would expect Imagination or ‘Fancy’ to be the dangerous or ‘unruly’ element unsettling the speaker with unrealistic notions, as implied for example in Robinson Crusoe’s statement that “I […] obeyed blindly the dictates of my fancy rather than my reason” (Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe (1719), Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965, 60; qtd. in Orth 205). Reason and Imagination would thus traditionally play opposite roles to the ones they have in Lucy’s psychomachia. The characteristics ascribed to Imagination here can already be found in Emily’s poem “To Imagination,” written in 1844 and published in the 1846 collection Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. It features a predecessor to the portrayal of Imagination in Villette. In Emily’s poem, Imagination is addressed first as a friend and then as a deity : “I welcome thee benignant power / Sure Solacer of human cares, / And sweeter hope when hope despairs –” (ll. 33–35). This is echoed in Villette when Lucy addresses Imagination as “our sweet Help, our divine Hope” (21.229). The Imagination of the poem moreover has a godlike capability of bringing dreams and visions back to life when they are blighted by “Reason” (l. 19) or “Truth” (l. 23): “And call a lovlier [sic] Life from Death” (l. 28). However, in the final stanza, the speaker confesses to an inability to believe in the “phantom bliss” Imagination brings, while still welcoming it as a “sweeter hope when hope despairs” (l. 36). Lucy’s response to Imagination lacks any kind of scepticism, at least at the moment when she experiences the psychomachia. Jane Eyre provides another predecessor to the portrayal of Imagination in Villette: in an allegory, Jane also juxtaposes “imagination” and “common sense” when she tries to keep herself from putting any hopes on Mr Rochester’s affection for her :

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When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense. (JE 16.182)

The role of Imagination is similar to that in Robinson Crusoe: giving in to imagination means losing control, while following common sense means safety. This notion of imagination is underlined when Jane in her final “judgment” reprimands herself inwardly as a “fantastic idiot” (16.183) should she further indulge the thought of being Mr Rochester’s favourite. When Jane struggles with the question whether or not to become Rochester’s mistress, an inner battle occurs about the moral decision whether she should stay with him or not: I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly she had yet but dipped her dainty feet in the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony. (JE 27.335)428

Conscience and Passion are antagonistic personifications here, ultimately to be conquered by Jane’s resolution to leave Rochester if they cannot lawfully be together (see Orth 207). A later instance, in the context of the same moral decision, portrays reason and conscience as usually positive forces: This was true [Rochester’s argument that nobody would be hurt if Jane became his mistress, OS]: and while he spoke my very Conscience and Reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. ‘Oh, comply!’ it said. ‘Think of his misery ; think of his danger – look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair – soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and you will be his. Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?’” (JE 27.356)

But while Jane’s psychomachia, which is by far not as extensive as Lucy’s dialogue with Reason, occurs when she is at a crossroads in her life, confronted with the choice between living as a mistress or leading a life of independence but marked by loneliness, Lucy’s psychomachia occurs when there is nowhere near as existential a decision to be made as in Jane Eyre. Moreover, Jane’s allegory is embedded into a real conflict with Rochester ; Lucy’s occurs while she is utterly alone and has not yet found M. Paul, who will love her enough to quarrel with her in real life (paradoxical as it sounds). Additionally, Jane’s psychomachia results 428 See Orth 206–211; the author links the occurrences of psychomachia in Jane Eyre with the influence of physiognomy and phrenology.

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in personal clarity and a final decision based on and affirming her sense of self: “‘I care for myself ’” (JE 27.356). In Lucy’s case, Reason is only interrupted by the appearance of Imagination, a higher power, not by her ‘I.’429 Lucy’s psychomachia is ambivalent because it features both herself and a personification of her reason. A second ambivalent aspect consists in the question of whether Reason or Imagination/Feeling will lead her in the right direction. On one hand, the passage suggests through its negative portrayal of Reason that rational thought, when used as the absolute and sole standard of decisions, must end in desperation and destruction.430 On the other hand, the narrating I, though not the experiencing Lucy, is aware at this point that Feeling (i. e. her infatuation with Graham) will not lead her to a fulfilling relationship with him. The scene transitions from an inward dialogue with Reason to the allegorical portrayal of a higher power. Simultaneously, the focus shifts from Lucy’s concrete reality and her emotional concerns at this very moment – the anxious question whether she means enough to Graham for him to send her some letters – to a more spiritual concern, one that literally transcends earthly dimensions, being “too wide for walls, too high for dome” (21.230). Lucy finds comfort in the knowledge that she worships the deity called “Imagination” in the same spirit as generations before her : “but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship” (21.230). These existential reflections, which strongly resemble a confession of faith, are triggered by the hope of possibly receiving messages from Graham. When she reflects on the happiness of the past weeks, Lucy again resorts to an allegory to refer to her newly-made resolution: My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying through the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith – a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe while they illumine – hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo. (21.231)

Again, the allegory portrays an ambivalence within Lucy in terms of a “doubling”: Lucy’s mind is imagined as separate from her, as acting independently (“My mind […] made for itself some imperious rules, prohibiting […], commanding […], enjoining […], hushing […], checking […].”). Reason is trans429 Stephen Prickett reads Jane’s resolute answer to the doubts raised by the psychomachic forces within her as the affirmation of her inalienable individuality (229). 430 Since “Reason” would usually be the faculty associated with rational thinking, we are also reminded of Lucy’s use of “think” and “believe” in conversation with M. Paul about the ghost of the nun: “‘I know not what to think of this matter ; but I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at’” (35.408).

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formed into a firm resolution necessary for survival in the here and now of everyday reality, and Imagination’s visions have turned into delusions. Now the “hushing” and “checking” of Reason is perceived more positively, as a necessary measure that allows Lucy to continue her life, while the visions of Imagination have turned into illusions. Idolised as a “deity unquestioned” in the preceding passage, she is now associated with weakness and “fond idolatry.” Both faculties, Reason and Imagination, are thus portrayed as ambiguous personifications, neither being wholly negative or positive.431 When Lucy formulates the “rules” she has made for herself, she uses religious language, evoking the metaphorical “wilderness” known from the beginning of The Pilgrim’s Progress432 and the “cloud and pillar”, the guises under which God shows himself to the Israelites in Exodus,433 as well as, in another allusion to Exodus, comparing her attachment to Graham Bretton to “fond idolatry”.434 The “rivers” and “sweet pastures” recall Christian and Hopeful’s sojourn in the pleasant meadow. It is doubtful, however, whether Lucy will ever reach these visionary places. The reader is reminded that even in its first occurrence during the narrative of Lucy’s childhood, the allegory stands only for a temporary respite from Lucy’s ‘real’ life (the details of which remain obscure to the reader). Even in the childhood episodes in Bretton, Lucy’s participation in those pleasant scenes entails just a ‘borrowed,’ temporary happiness; rather than a participant and owner, she is an observer of the domestic idylls and the friendship between Paulina and Graham. The “far-off promised land”, reminiscent of Lucy’s vision of Europe, must like it be renounced as dreams not belonging to her earthly reality.

431 Imagination appears again when it drives Lucy to get up and go into the park of Villette: “Imagination was roused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. With scorn she looked on Matter, her mate –‘Rise!’ she said. ‘Sluggard! this night I will have my will; nor shalt thou prevail’” (38.450). 432 The narrator begins his story with these words, echoing the wanderings of the people of Israel in the wilderness in Exodus and Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness (Matt 4:1): “As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a Den: and I laid me down in that place to sleep: and as I slept I dreamed a dream” (PP 11). 433 “And the LORD went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way ; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light; to go by day and night: He took not away the pillar of the cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, from before the people” (Exodus 13:21– 22). 434 While Moses receives the commandments from God on the mountain, the people of Israel ask Aaron to make them an idol to worship, and he makes the golden calf (Exodus 32).

The Path as Metaphor

4.

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The Path as Metaphor

The Pilgrim’s Progress is an obvious model of the allegorical instances of Villette.435 The most prominent allegorical figure creating a parallel between both texts is the path: Christian travels from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, passing many tellingly-named places like the Slough of Despond and Vanity Fair.436 The motifs of path and journey underline the fact that Lucy searches for something – be it a “true home” (31.361), or an answer to the related question “‘Who are you, Miss Snowe?’” (27.307). That Villette departs from the established textual patterns of the pilgrimage is evident from the very fact that there is no consistent teleology in Lucy’s movements. This becomes particularly clear when comparing the role of the path allegory in Villette with that in Jane Eyre. Lucy’s pilgrimage has been transferred to the inside; Jane passes through different stations in her life, starting in Gateshead Hall, going on to Lowood School and then Thornfield Hall and eventually living in Ferndean with a detour by Moor House. Lucy, except for her voyage to Labassecour, largely remains in Villette. Additionally, the linearity implied in the motif of the journey and path is undermined by the fact that she loses her way often, and that her wanderings are the expression of a search for direction437 rather than of a continual, goal-oriented movement from A to B, with a clearly-defined starting and finishing point. The shipwreck is also related to the discontinued journey, representing the divergence of the vehicle from its intended course, i. e. a kind of loss of the way. While the loss of way implies a lack of direction, there are some instances in which Lucy is provided with direction from other characters, and, most importantly, from “Fate” and “Providence”. The path allegory is therefore characterised by a dichotomy of contingency and teleology. After Lucy has arrived in Villette, she meets a young Englishman who guides her on her first steps through the unknown, nightly city. He knows of an inn where English is spoken: “‘with my direction you will easily find it’” (7.63). He then accompanies her on the first part of the way, and Lucy’s strong feelings for him already announce themselves in her blind reliance on his guidance: “I believe I would have followed that frank tread, through continual night, to the world’s end” (7.63). His 435 See Introduction and ch. III. 436 In his seminal study The Secular Pilgrims of Victorian Fiction, Barry V. Qualls examines the transformations of the metaphor of the pilgrimage in a number of Victorian novels, among them Jane Eyre, Shirley and Villette. 437 During her journey to Labassecour, this search finds direct expression again and again: “Breakfast over, I must again move – in what direction?” (7.60). These slight phrases, while of course applicable to her concrete personal situation as a foreigner in a strange country at that moment, give the narrative a strong allegorical impetus.

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direction, however, does not take Lucy where she wants to go: after he has left her, she is harassed by two men and, confused and scared, fails to follow her guide’s instructions: “[…] I no longer knew where I was; the staircase I must long since have passed; puzzled, out of breath, all my pulses throbbing in inevitable agitation, I knew not where to turn” (7.64). The episode anticipates the fact that Graham Bretton is ultimately not the right partner for Lucy. Her loss of the way nevertheless proves providential since it leads her to Madame Beck’s school and to M. Paul.

4.1

The Road not Taken – Lucy’s Confession and the Possibility of Becoming a Nun

Jane and Lucy must both rely on their own enterprise to make their way in life, both economically and socially. Lucy portrays herself as naturally passive, only goaded into action by exterior events and forces she calls “Fate” and “Providence” (4.38), for example when Miss Marchmont dies and she is forced to look for other employment. The personifications of Fate and Providence thus allow Lucy to portray herself as passive, characterised by “shrinking sloth and cowardly indolence” (4.38), and active by necessity at the same time.438 Lucy’s path through life is characterised by a number of instances when she loses her way. A prominent example of a loss of the way occurs in the context of Lucy’s mental and physical crisis during the long vacation, which she spends alone in the school, her only companions a “cr8tin” (15.156ff.) and the cook. Lucy suffers much from her isolation, as well as from the utter lack of an interlocutor and mental employment. She falls prey to her depressive tendencies and, after the pupil has been taken away by a relative, takes to long and aimless wanderings in the surroundings of Villette, leading her “I know not where” (15.158), which are contrasted with her roaming the streets of London during her journey to Labassecour “in a still ecstacy [sic] of freedom and enjoyment” (6.49). At the climax of her crisis, Lucy enters a Catholic church she happens to pass; called in by the bells, she attends mass and then goes to confession. What exactly Lucy tells the priest the reader never learns, except for the rather vague information that there is a “pressure of affliction on [her] mind,” resulting from “long pent-up, long accumulating pain” on her (15.161f.), but her confession 438 Eagleton traces the occasions when Lucy is “prompted to significant decisions by an involuntary power” (62); among these are the end of her employment with Miss Marchmont, her decision to go to London, and her decision to ring the doorbell of Madame Beck’s pensionnat.

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makes the priest suggest that his Protestant confessor become a nun. This is the point at which Lucy has the choice between two courses of action, two lives, in fact: the priest, intrigued by the qualities that in his eyes make Lucy so suitable for the life of a nun, asks her to return the next day in order to persuade her of her vocation: “Must I go, father?” I asked of him, as he sat silent. “My daughter,” he said kindly, – and I am sure he was a kind man: he had a compassionate eye – “for the present you had better go; but I assure you your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is apt to become formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured your heart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, and take it with me to my oratory. Were you of our faith I should know what to say – a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of retreat, and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well known, has no satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents like you to hasten their path upward by penance, self-denial, and difficult good works. Tears are given them here for meat and drink – bread of affliction and waters of affliction – their recompense comes hereafter. It is my own conviction that these impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the true church. You were made for our faith: depend upon it our faith alone could heal and help you – Protestantism is altogether too dry, cold, prosaic for you. The further I look into this matter, the more plainly I see it is entirely out of the common order of things. On no account would I lose sight of you. Go, my daughter, for the present; but return to me again.” (15.162)

The priest suggests the only way that is open to Lucy in his eyes in answer to her question “‘Must I go?’”: he first answers her question literally, but then replies to her as though her question had a more far-reaching scope, in the sense of “In which direction must my life go?” Moreover, Lucy’s question can be read as implying “Can’t I stay here?”, which makes her rejection of the priest’s suggestion appear in a somewhat ambiguous light. The confessor conducts an interpretation of Lucy’s character based on her confession and reads her inner crisis as a sign of her predestination for a nun’s life (“‘these impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the true church. You were made for our faith […]’”). The priest is clearly impressed with Lucy : what strikes him is her straightforwardness and sincerity in confessing – this evidently differs from those of other confessors439 : that is why he cannot at first decide what advice to give to her. She is here, as in Villette in general, a stranger, someone to whom the ‘normal’ rules do not apply.

439 The reason for the unconventionality of her confession is Lucy’s ignorance of the formulas of the ritual: “I hesitated; of the formula of confession, I was ignorant: instead of commencing with the prelude usual, I said: – ‘Mon pHre, je suis Protestante’” (15.161).

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The priest’s puzzlement at Lucy’s unwonted kind of confession is only momentary : while he expresses his uncertainty how to counsel someone like her, he proceeds to categorise her character : “a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of retreat, and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well known, has no satisfaction for that class of natures” (15.162). His answer to Lucy applies to a whole “class of natures.” But what Lucy looks for is to be perceived not as part of a “class,” one of a multitude, but as an individual. As becomes obvious even in the priest’s response, the life of a nun would make her a small part of a larger community440 – the priest’s watchword “self-denial” here occurs in a way that is directly opposed to how Lucy uses it in her soliloquy about her future: “Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steady exertion by-and-by, an object in life need not fail you” (31.361). The word “selfdenial” takes on a completely different meaning in Lucy’s usage of it. Lucy indeed wants to practise self-denial and use her life for “better things than [she] care[s] to culture for [her]self only” (31.361). However, she must do it on her own terms, i. e., without denying herself entirely, as the priest describes it here. The central term “self-denial” thus becomes ambiguous in the two different ways it is used here. The term occurs for the third time when M. Paul first questions Lucy about how she spent the long vacation, and when he hears of her suffering from being left by herself with the “cr8tin,” Marie Broc, reproaches her with her lack of selfdenial: “How did you get on with Marie Broc?” he asked, after some minutes’ silence. “Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!” “You have then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity. Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy.” [He was a religious little man, in his way : the self-denying and self-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of his soul.] (19.203)

M. Paul too seems to have in his mind the ‘standard’ of a nun’s life by which he judges Lucy’s behaviour toward the pupil: “‘Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy.’” Unlike the priest, however, he immediately rejects the possibility that Lucy might actually take the veil. Yet whether or not Lucy is ‘fit’ to take the veil is not the main point of interest in the confession episode: More generally speaking, it closely concerns her search for an “object in life” (31.361). The passage moreover reminds the reader that the very moment in which Lucy is confronted by the priest with the possibility of a life behind the walls of a convent, she has just discovered without a doubt (in her experience with Marie Broc) that this kind of self-denial, even self-sacrifice, would go 440 The role she plays (and is ascribed) within a community of others is a central theme of Lucy’s narrative.

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against the grain of her nature and, rather than instilling meaning into her life, would equal a final giving up of all hope.441 The notion of bringing Lucy back to the “true church” evokes the parable of the stray sheep that has lost its fold.442 The priest thus stylises the existence of a nun as Lucy’s true vocation, the only way of giving ‘meaning’ to her life. Moreover, he characterises the life of a nun by certain keywords in his speech: “retreat,” “punctual practice of piety,” and finally “penance, self-denial and difficult good works.” Especially the final part rings ironic when considering that Lucy’s despair has partly been caused by her completely isolated existence over the past weeks, with only the “cr8tin” to keep her company and demanding her to perform “personal attentions […] which required the nerve of a hospital nurse” (15.157f.) – “difficult good works” indeed. The notion of retreat does not only evoke Madame Beck’s school, a former convent,443 but the Rue des Mages,444 where the priest lives, and where he asks Lucy to come the next day. The scene is connected to one almost twenty chapters later, when Lucy ‘returns’ to him, though unintentionally. The school directress sends her to the Rue des Mages on an errand – ostensibly to deliver a present to a certain old lady of her acquaintance. Lucy is sent into a part of Villette she has not seen before: “[…] I reached that street and house whereof Madame Beck had given me the address. It was no street at all; it seemed rather to be part of a square; it was quiet, grass grew between the broad gray flags, the houses were large and very old […]” (34.387). Whereas a street usually denotes a passageway between two points (and, implicitly, direction), the square, which does not lead anywhere, here connotes stagnation – the life of a nun would be a dead end for Lucy. The quietness (evoking the notion of a “retreat”, which the priest uses to describe a

441 The notion of self-denial is associated with St John Rivers and his missionary work in Jane Eyre: in his last letter to Jane from India, foreseeing his own death, he quotes the Gospel of Matthew : “Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me” (16:24). St John in fact gives up his earthly happiness with Rosamond Oliver for the hope of eternal happiness. 442 “How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray” (Matt 18:12–13). The allusion to the parable is also a subtle foreshadowing of the notion of ‘homecoming’, which is the central telos of Lucy’s life. St John Rivers, when he makes a final attempt at convincing Jane to accompany him to India, gives Jane the look “of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep” (35.465). 443 Lucy reminds the reader of this fact: “we were sitting silent as nuns in a ‘retreat’” (28.328); “the stilly hum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page” (14.132). 444 The name of the street refers to magic and the occult arts, foreshadowing Lucy’s visit to Madame Walravens in ch. 34.

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nun’s existence) and great age of this part of the town imply that the Catholic church is outdated, a thing of the past. The full significance of Lucy’s visit to the Rue des Mages lies in the anagnorisis that takes place there: the same priest who listens to her confession reveals the story of M. Paul’s past, of his love for Justine Marie and his loyalty to her family, whom he still supports financially after her death. The scene, recalling the confession in terms of place and characters involved, brings about Lucy’s final insight into M. Paul’s true merit, also concerning his religion: “Whatever Romanism may be, there are good Romanists: this man, Emanuel, seemed of the best; touched with superstition, influenced by priestcraft, yet wondrous for fond faith, for pious devotion, for sacrifice of self, for charity unbounded” (34.396). It becomes clear that his earlier judgment concerning Lucy’s capacity for “selfdenial” is not wholly made from an observer’s perspective – he knows what it is to live and to love. Looking back on the scene of her confession, Lucy portrays it as at least likely that she would indeed have taken the path of the nun suggested by the priest. She uses the characteristic phrase “I know not” to express this possibility : Had I gone to him, he would have shown me all that was tender, and comforting, and gentle, in the honest popish superstition. Then he would have tried to kindle, blow and stir up in me the zeal of good works. I know not how it would all have ended. We all think ourselves strong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many ; the probabilities are that had I visited Num8ro 3, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Cr8cy in Villette. (15.163)

In the context of the ‘road not taken,’ the possibility of becoming a nun, Lucy reflects on her own role as storyteller : if she had taken the veil she would not have written “this heretic narrative,” as Lucy ironically calls her own life story in the passage quoted above. While following the path of the never unambiguous individual fate, Lucy suffers but also finds ways of communicating her personal experience. The fork in the road leads either to a celibate and secluded life as a nun,445 or to knowing, loving, and then potentially losing M. Paul, and to writing her own life. While she rejects the priest’s suggestion, Lucy’s life actually passes in some regards similarly to that of a nun, as is indicated by her immediate nonverbal response to the priest’s invitation to come to his house: “In reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil, and gathering round me my cloak, I glided away” (15.162). Her gestures of silence, the veiling and covering of 445 Justine Marie has already taken this path before Lucy, albeit without the necessity for conversion.

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herself, resemble a nun’s habitual actions, foreshadowing that Lucy’s life will indeed have certain traits of a nun’s. The ‘road not taken’, the life alternative that she does not choose, thus appears in an ambiguous light. The final indirect comment on the possibility of becoming a nun, however, occurs at the end of the chapter (which also concludes the first volume of the novel). After her confession, Lucy loses her way in the streets of Villette and loses consciousness: […] I turned, as I thought, to the Rue Fossette. But I had become involved in a part of the city with which I was not familiar ; it was the old part, and full of narrow streets of picturesque, ancient, and mouldering houses. […] I grew embarrassed; I got immeshed in a net-work of turns unkown. I was lost, and had no resolution to ask guidance of any passenger. (15.163)446

The loss of the way is inextricably linked with the path allegory in Villette. In this instance, it signifies a spiritual loss of the way associated with the possibility of conversion to Catholicism and of becoming a nun. The ending of the novel again subtly utilizes the path allegory to leave the reader at a (narrative) crossroads: will M. Paul come back after absence of three years? “[S]unny imaginations” are allowed to hope, but the other option remains a possibility, even a probability. “[W]hen the sun returned his light was night to some!” (42.495) Does this include Lucy? There is no direct answer ; Lucy remains standing on the “waiting shore” (42.496).

4.2

The “trace of white” and the “dim path” – Path Allegories in Jane Eyre and Villette

In order to describe the precise nature of the path allegory in Villette in the wider context of Charlotte Bront[’s literary imagination, and especially in its role in introducing a note of ambiguity to Villette, Jane Eyre (1847), published six years earlier, is a useful text of reference. In the earlier novel, the path allegory and allusions to The Pilgrim’s Progress, the Bible, etc. play an important role as well in reminding the reader of the text’s generic indebtedness and the origin of its metaphors (in allegory, in biblical parables etc.), including the path. However, the concrete role of the respective protagonist’s literal and metaphorical path is quite different in the two novels. The main difference concerns linearity : Jane’s physical and her inner progress447 are symmetrical and her path is mostly 446 The scene is discussed in detail in the context of the shipwreck allegory above. 447 “These works [the travel narratives Bront[ refers to in Jane Eyre, among them The Pilgrim’s Progress, Gulliver’s Travels, Rasselas, The Arabian Nights and various fairy tales and ballads, OS] are invoked in Jane Eyre not to provide a close analogical framework, but to serve as a

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linear, most obviously so in her progression from Gateshead via Lowood and Thornfield, to Marsh End and ultimately to Ferndean (although she returns once to Gateshead and twice to Thornfield), and her simultaneous personal development.448 The linearity of Jane’s inner and outer progress is closely related to her integrity, the sense that her innermost core of self cannot be changed.449 Her integrity, which characterises everything Jane does, is of course most evident in her decision to leave Rochester after learning about his wife, Bertha, although he asks her to stay and become his mistress. The allegory of the path or way is thus strongly associated with life alternatives450 : a connection (between the path allegory and life alternatives) that is confirmed when Jane refuses St John Rivers’ demand that she come with him to India as his wife to do missionary work. In both episodes, Jane stands at a figurative (and, in the first case, a literal) crossroads. She decides against one path or possibility of taking on a new role in life (that of mistress to Rochester, and that of wife to St John Rivers the missionary, respectively) and chooses the other. Both times, her decision is reflected in her movement on the (literal and allegorical) path of life. After deciding to leave Rochester, Jane sets out on a new path away from Thornfield and the closest town; she takes “a road [she] had never travelled” (JE 27.360) and reaches the symbolically named Whitcross, which is “no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet” (JE 28.362), with arms on top, each of which points in another direction. There the coach leaves her, and there she roams through the countryside and a small adjacent hamlet in search of shelter and food, mostly to no avail (see 28.363– 370). Even in “the total prostration of hope” after she has refused to become Rochester’s mistress, friendless and starving, Jane is able to say : “Oh Providence! pool of established, familiar metaphor and symbol which can be drawn upon in order to keep constantly before us the physical and moral pattern of a journey, and to indicate, by a kind of referential shorthand, certain moral, spiritual, and intellectual values of strenuous endeavour” (xxii). While I do not agree with Millgate’s claim that the specific context of the individual allusion is not all that relevant (rather forming a homogeneous “pool of established, familiar metaphor and symbol”), her observation about the overall structural function of the allusions is valid. 448 Millgate points out that “[s]ometimes Jane retraces her steps, returning once to Gateshead, twice to Thornfield, and each of these occasions provides a means of testing just how far she has come in terms of personal maturity” (Millgate xxiii). 449 This has been demonstrated above in the context of the psychomachia. 450 The prototype of this association is Hercules’ decision at the crossroads: The possibility of becoming a nun is also associated with the choice of Hercules as narrated by the Greek historian Xenophon. “In this story, Hercules is faced with a decision about his future between Voluptas (Pleasure), who tries to lure him into a life of luxury, and Virtue, who describes the moral satisfaction gained by hardship and gallantry. Hercules wisely opts for Virtue and goes on to kill the Nemean lion” (website of The National Gallery of Canada, acc. 13 Jan. 2015).

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sustain me a little longer! Aid – direct me!” (JE 28.370). Such a gesture is altogether absent from Villette. Her plea for help, significantly formulated in the pilgrim’s double language of both spatial and spiritual dimensions (“direct me!”), is almost immediately answered by the light that springs up suddenly in the desolate marshland: “at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. ‘That is an ignis fatuus,’ was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily ; neither receding nor advancing.” (JE 28.370f.). The light, which might potentially be deceptive, is genuine and leads Jane across the hills toward her cousins’ house: “This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it” (JE 28.371). Moreover, “a trace of white over the moor,” which turns out to be a “road or track,” leads her “straight up to the light” (JE 28.371).451 The scene is emblematic of Jane’s certainty even in despair – despite obstacles, her inner integrity and the assurance of having known genuine love in her relationship with Mr. Rochester guide her steadfastly on her way.452 During the crisis in which St John Rivers urges Jane to come with him to India, pressing his hand on her head in a gesture rather suppressive than protective, Jane appeals to a higher power, like when she was lost in the wilderness in allegorical language: “‘Shew me, shew me the path!’ I entreated Heaven” (35.466). A response comes in the form of Rochester’s call. Jane then firmly turns away once and for all from the possibility of a life as St John’s wife453 – while wavering and hesitating before, she is now liberated: “It 451 The entire passage reads as follows: “Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees – firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near : some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me; I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall – above it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate – a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it” (JE 28.371). 452 Jane, almost surprised at her own will to live despite her hopeless situation before she reaches the Rivers’ house, says in soliloquy : “‘Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe Mr Rochester is still living: and then, to die of want and cold, is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively’” (28.370). The providential white path leading her in the right direction is foreshadowed in Jane’s fateful first encounter with Rochester in a small, quiet lane: “If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path” (JE 12.127). 453 Like Lucy, who is uncertain of what might have happened if she had indeed gone to see the priest the next day, Jane was on the brink of accepting St John’s suggestion: “I felt veneration for St John – veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at one to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him – to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have

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was my time to assume ascendancy” (35.467). She prays and takes a resolve, namely to look for Rochester. His voice guides her in the right direction. Jane’s rejection of Rivers’ plans for her is an affirmation of her “unblighted self,”454 as she calls it. Like Jane decides that she cannot marry St John Rivers and spend the rest of her days as a missionary by his side,455 Lucy rejects the possibility of devoting her life to religion in a community of nuns – it would mean to be buried alive, a fate represented by the myth of the young nun from the middle ages supposedly haunting the school. Lucy’s physical journey ends in chapter 7, when she arrives in Madame Beck’s school in Villette. Unlike Jane, Lucy is not guided by a luminous white path, even though there are instances when the voice of Providence guides her. An example is the moment when she decides to leave her present place of residence after Miss Marchmont’s death: […] I should have quailed in the absence of moonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only I traced the dim path; I should have quailed still more in the unwonted presence of that which to-night shone in the north, a moving mystery – the Aurora Borealis. But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through my fears. Some new power it seemed to bring. I drew in energy with the keen, low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thought was sent to my mind; my mind was made strong to receive it. “Leave this wilderness,” it was said to me, “and go out hence.” (5.43f.)

Nature is not Lucy’s companion and solace, as it is to Jane Eyre – the Aurora Borealis instils a sense of strength into her, yet it remains a “solemn stranger”, half-frightening her. In contrast to Jane, Lucy is actually by herself – Jane can never be, since she loves and is loved by Rochester when she wanders through been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant” (JE 35.465). Jane reflects on her own reactions when looking back at the scene from the narrator’s distance, “through the quiet medium of time”. She moreover draws a direct parallel here between her earlier decision not to become Rochester’s mistress and the decision she must now make regarding a life with St John. 454 In the debate with St John Rivers, Jane thinks about the impossibility of becoming his wife because it would mean giving up her self. Only unmarried can she accompany him to India: “I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he never came; and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered, which his austerity could never blight […]” (JE 34.453). 455 Wilks draws particular attention to the gesture that St John Rivers uses when he speaks to Jane about his plans for her : “he resorts to the ‘laying on of hands’, not holding her tightly as many commentators have suggested: as he tells Jane, ‘“God give you strength to choose that better part”. […] he [St John Rivers, OS] laid his hand on [her] head [my emphasis]’. The ritual is the same one whereby he was ordained as a priest, and it is a direct reference to the doctrine of Apostolic Succession, a doctrine Charlotte Bront[ refers to more than once in private letters” (332f.).

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the moor. The impetus for action comes from outside of Lucy, sending her on her path first to London and then to Labassecour. In conclusion, the main difference between the use of the allegory of the path in these two novels concerns teleology ; the path of life Jane Eyre walks on has a clear point of departure456 and the sense of a force driving it toward a certain point of arrival. The notions of direction and progression imply the knowledge of what one’s objects and goals are, i. e. an inner teleology. The roads Jane takes may not all have an already known destination, but she mostly arrives somewhere anyway by travelling them – not so in Villette. Lucy’s beginnings are and remain uncertain, and so is M. Paul’s eventual fate. This lack of a conventional telos, or rather, the fruition that has only got a short moment of (earthly) fulfilment before M. Paul sails for the colonies, characterises Villette. Lucy herself, with her questioning and testing, may be said to look for a direction in her life, and this search for direction is metaphorically present in the various images of the path.

4.3

Home and Telos

Another important aspect of the path metaphor with strong allegorical overtones is Lucy’s homelessness457: the reader never sees Lucy in the home of her childhood, and does not know whether there has even been one – she only appears in the role of guest in her godmother’s house. The path of her life has an uncertain starting point. In addition to her uncertain origins, the uncertainty characterising much of Lucy’s narrative also concerns her direction: she does not have a clear notion of where she is going when she crosses over to Labassecour, as becomes clear in this exchange with Ginevra Fanshawe on board the ship: “‘Where are you going?’ ‘I have not the least idea – beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine’” (6.54). This central motif of homelessness458 and lack of direction is emphasised in Lucy’s life as a foreigner in Labassecour.459 Lucy’s search for her place in the world is literalised not only in her journey to Labassecour, but also in her continual wanderings through the streets of Villette 456 In Lucy’s case, one might argue that even her point of departure is missing since the reader never learns who her parents or family are or how her teenage years are spent. 457 Interpreting the omnipresent theme of homelessness in Victorian literature, Qualls notes that mid-century novelists “[…] represented, indeed articulated, the psychological experiences of metaphysical homelessness which they shared with their readers […]” (11). 458 The concept of “home” echoes throughout the text simply because it is Paulina and her father’s last name. 459 In an exchange with M. Paul, Lucy proclaims herself homeless: “‘You looked pale in your slumbers: are you home-sick?’ both ‘To be home-sick, one must have a home; which I have not’” (31.363).

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once she has arrived there (e. g. during the long vacation). When she walks toward the Faubourg Clotilde with M. Paul, however, the happiness to come is anticipated by their path: “Our walk was long, yet seemed short; the path was pleasant, the day lovely” (41.484). After M. Paul has told Lucy that he loves her, they walk back to the Rue Fossette. Lucy perceives their surroundings as edenic: “We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight – such moonlight as fell on Eden – shining through the shades of the Great Garden, and haply gilding a path glorious, for a step divine – a Presence nameless” (41.491). M. Paul’s present, her own school, introduces real purpose to her life: it symbolises both the fulfilment of Lucy’s professional aspirations and M. Paul’s affection. Lucy gains a physical home in the shape of the school and an emotional, even spiritual home in M. Paul. He literally enfolds her in his arms: “he gathered me near his heart. I was full of faults; he took them and me all home” (41.491). Along with this literal movement comes a material home in the form of the school, and a more lasting home in M. Paul’s love (which is related to the previous allusions to the role space, the sanctuary, and the adytum play in their developing relationship). M. Paul’s heart becomes Lucy’s home. This idea of a physical and emotional home is related to a religious one: in the allegorical passage before she learns that M. Paul will leave the school and Labassecour for Guadeloupe, Lucy invokes the foundations of her belief, imagined as stations on the metaphorical pilgrimage through the wilderness of the world: “For staff we have His promise, whose ‘word is tried, whose way perfect:’ […] for final home His bosom, who ‘dwells in the height of Heaven’” (38.438). The telos that remains in Lucy’s life is her new role as “directress” of her own life. When M. Paul tells her that the school belongs to her, he does so by showing her the card that says “‘Externat de demoiselles. Num8ro 7, Faubourg Clotilde. Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.’” He literally enables Lucy to choose her own direction in life from that moment on, financially independent, yet indebted to him in a positive sense, which Lucy has envisioned in one of her soliloquies: “But afterwards, is there nothing more for me in life – no true home – nothing to be dearer to me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from me better things than I care to culture for myself only?” (31.361). The “true home” thus becomes symbolically linked to the presence of someone or something to whom to dedicate Lucy’s life.

Inner and Outer Worlds: The Allegorisation of Lucy’s Surroundings

5.

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Inner and Outer Worlds: The Allegorisation of Lucy’s Surroundings

Villette features some allegorical elements, for example the place names. Other spatial elements also function allegorically in the novel: the layout of the school, its rooms and grounds, reflect Lucy’s multifaceted inner world: resembling so many Chinese boxes, each room and structure again contains box-like spaces. The first classe in particular is associated with Lucy since it is the space where she spends most of her time in the school, and where her writing desk is.460 The school and its garden lie at the very centre of Villette461: the garden is “large, considering that it lay in the heart of a city” (12.106). The school and garden are thus located in close proximity to city life, yet at the same time secluded and isolated from it, a trait that is another symbolical link with Lucy, who observes rather than participates in this life. The garden is important to Lucy because it seems to offer privacy, which is hard to find in Madame Beck’s bustling school, governed by her system of surveillance. Yet later M. Paul tells Lucy that he regularly observes the garden from a room in the neighbouring boys’ school, turning the garden into an ambiguous space that instead of providing seclusion is more like a theatre. Lucy likes to frequent the garden at dawn or dusk, not quite by day, not quite by night, which characterises it as a realm where boundaries are crossed. There was a large berceau, above which spread the shade of an acacia; there was a smaller, more sequestered bower, nestled in the vines which ran all along a high and gray wall, and gathered their tendrils in a knot of beauty, and hung their clusters in loving profusion about the favoured spot where jasmine and ivy met and married them. (12.107)

The language of the passage ascribes human feelings to the plants of the garden (“nestled”; “gathered”; “in loving profusion”; “favoured spot”; “met and married them”). Moreover, the nun is allegedly buried in the all8e, under the oldest tree of the garden, “for some sin against her vow,” implying a sexual transgression. In a way, the garden is already associated with the passions before it is invaded by the casket with the love letter, thrown from one of the windows of the neighbouring boys’ school.462 Lucy goes into the garden on summer evenings to “linger solitary, to keep tryste with the rising moon, or taste one kiss of the evening breeze” (12.106). The diction evokes lovers’ meetings; it is a place of organic union and seems to make 460 See ch. III for a discussion of the writing-desk as a representation of Lucy’s psyche. 461 “[…] this school was in the city’s centre; hence, it was but five minutes’ walk to the park, scarce ten to buildings of palatial splendour” (12.108). 462 Margot Peters writes of Lucy’s “animistic love affair with nature” (87) in this context.

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up for the lack of an actual romantic relationship in Lucy’s life. The garden is in this scene explicitly linked with the “longing” Lucy feels to move “upwards and onwards” (12.109). The innermost space of the garden is the all8e d8fendue that Lucy seeks out so frequently, and where she not only finds the casket with the love letter, but where she also meets the ghost of the nun and sometimes walks with M. Paul. While the garden and the school are meant to be protected spaces without any unsolicited (male) visitors, they are also sites of just such intrusions. Lucy finds out in the course of the novel that M. Paul is in fact a habitual observer of the garden, and has watched her often when she believed herself quite alone.463 The all8e d8fendue is from its first appearance associated with the “strait and narrow path” of the Gospel of Matthew464 – the biblical allusion lends allegorical overtones to the all8e d8fendue, Lucy’s favourite place in the garden: For a long time the fear of seeming singular scared me away ; but by degrees, as people became accustomed to me and my habits, and to such shades of peculiarity as were engrained in my nature – shades, certainly not striking enough to interest, and perhaps not prominent enough to offend, but born in and with me, and no more to be parted with than my identity – by slow degrees I became a frequenter of this strait and narrow path. (12.108)

The path is inextricably linked with Lucy’s identity, even to the point that her decision to ‘frequent’ it represents her true character somehow (“shades […] no more to be parted with than my identity”). The all8e exists somewhat apart from the rest of the garden – “any girl setting foot there would have rendered herself liable to as severe a penalty as the mild rules of Madame Beck’s establishment permitted” (12.108). The path is characterised by enclosure – “the neglected shrubs were grown very thick and close on each side, weaving overhead a roof of branch and leaf which the sun’s rays penetrated but in rare chequers” (12.108), forming an additional sequestered space within the walled-in garden. Lucy first visits the all8e because she feels attracted to its isolation; however, the path soon becomes linked with some central events of Lucy’s emotional life, namely when its very isolation is disturbed. Lucy describes how she appropriates 463 These instances of intrusions upon private spaces occur frequently : Lucy’s favourite dwelling place, the first classe, with her locked writing-desk, is visited by M. Paul; the dormitory with its white beds in which Lucy has “[her] own quarter” (13.118), from which she likes to open “[her] own casement” to look out over the city, and where she keeps her locked boxes and drawers, is invaded several times by Madame Beck. 464 “Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat: Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it” (Matt 7:13–14). In its close relationship with The Pilgrim’s Progress (the quote describes the plot of Bunyan’s text in a nutshell), the allusion confirms once more the status of Villette as a text with strong allegorical undertones.

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the all8e d8fendue, and expresses a sense of identification with the forlorn, neglected place: “I made myself gardener of some tintless flowers that grew between its closely-ranked shrubs; I cleared away the relics of past autumns, choking up a rustic seat at the far end” (12.108). Lucy’s activities can be read as her attempt at creating a fresh beginning for herself in the Rue Fossette and to leave her own desolate past behind. She “reclaims” the right to happiness by “reclaiming” the all8e from decay.465 A little box containing a love letter is thrown into Lucy’s all8e, addressed to one of its members, yet not disclosing the addressee’s identity (who will later turn out to be Ginevra Fanshawe, the sender Colonel de Hamal). Yet the person who receives the casket is not Ginevra but Lucy, who happens to be walking in her favourite alley at the time, clad in the same kind of grey dress mentioned in the letter as its recipient’s clothing. Ironically, however, when Lucy opens the casket, it turns out to contain a personal insult to her (she is called a “‘v8ritable b8gueule Britannique’” (12.111)). The invasion of the “sanctity” (as Dr. John calls it) of the school garden is preceded by the allegorical image of Jael and Sisera,466 representing Lucy’s inner sufferings and her way of dealing with her vague longing “for something to fetch [her] out of [her] present existence, and lead [her] upwards and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it was necessary to knock on the head […]” (12.109f.). Lucy portrays the violent handling of her longing by means of a tableau inspired by the biblical narrative: My Sisera lay quiet in the tent, slumbering; and if his pain ached through his slumbers, something like an angel – the Ideal – knelt near, dropping balm on the soothed temples, holding before the sealed eyes a magic glass, of which the sweet, solemn visions were repeated in dreams, and shedding a reflex from her moonlight wings and robe over the transfixed sleeper, over the tent threshold, over all the landscape lying without. (12.110)

Sisera, representing Lucy’s “longing” for something beyond her present existence, does not die from Jael’s nail, but survives the impalement, merely “transiently stunned,” even sleeping peacefully.467 The image thus becomes ambiguous: while Lucy’s longing is stunned, it is not eradicated. On the night when the casket with the love letter is thrown into the garden, Lucy’s inner suffering is alleviated a little by the presence of a rare companion – hope. She provides the interpretation of her allegory : 465 “On the night in question, I was sitting on the hidden seat reclaimed from fungi and mould, listening to what seemed the far-off sounds of the city” (12.108). 466 See Wallhead. 467 The original story ends with Sisera’s death: “Then Jael Heber’s wife took a nail of the tent, and took an hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died” (Judges 4:21).

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By which words I mean that the cool peace and dewy sweetness of the night filled me with a mood of hope: not hope on any definite point, but a general sense of encouragement and heart’s-ease. Should not such a mood, so sweet, so tranquil, so unwonted, have been the harbinger of good? Alas, no good came of it! Presently the rude Real burst coarsely in – all evil, grovelling, and repellent as she too often is. (12.110)

The initial brutal notion of driving a nail through Sisera’s temple is thus transformed into a peaceful allegory representing a peaceful state of mind. Lucy’s serenity comes to an end when the casket is thrown into the garden. The “Real” bursting in indicates that the state of peace is associated with imagination, not reality, a notion that returns in the psychomachia with Reason. After Lucy has found the box, she does not feel safe anymore in her alley – the very plants of the garden have become listeners to her inmost thoughts: “The casement which rained billets, had vulgarized the once dear nook it overlooked; and elsewhere, the eyes of the flowers had gained vision, and the knots in the tree-boles listened like secret ears” (13.116).468 Like spreading an infection, the casket has animated the plants of the all8e, giving them the anthropomorphic qualities of seeing and hearing. Lucy’s sacred spot, the all8e d8fendue, has been invaded, not only by the as yet unknown writer of the billet, but by Dr. John also, who has entered the garden in search for the missile.469 After these invasions, the spot has been transformed from a sanctum of privacy to a spot of only seeming calm and seclusion: “[…] their seclusion was now become precarious; their calm – insecure” (13.116). The garden and the rooms of the school are both enclosed spaces, and images of enclosure abound in directly allegorical contexts as well. An example of this is the image of the dormouse locked in a hole. When Graham’s letters cease to come, Lucy is once more confronted with her existential loneliness, which she experiences as de-humanising: Lucy compares herself to a starving animal kept in a cage, desperately waiting for a fresh letter from Graham.470 She expresses her plight in an allegory : the dormouse enclosed in ice and snow anticipates the later burial of Lucy’s hope (in the shape of Graham’s letters) in a similar image of entombment. The creature buried alive is a symbol of loneliness and of the sense of being forgotten by the world:

468 The anthropomorphized portrayal of the flowers and trees recalls Ovid’s Metamorphoses, e. g. the story of Apollo and Daphne, who is transformed into a laurel tree. 469 The letter that ends up in Lucy’s hands by coincidence and the connection with Graham Bretton it affords her can also be seen as an ironical reflection of the fact that Lucy longs to receive just such a love letter from Graham Bretton, but never gets one. 470 “I suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily fed as to be always upon the verge of famine, await their food as I awaited a letter” (24.268).

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The hermit – if he be a sensible hermit – will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life’s wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. […] And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring’s softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him […]. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. (24.266)

The “inward winter” is another example of the dynamic transformation and mixing of the literal and allegorical levels. The passage starts out on the literal level – Lucy compares herself to a hermit. He “will swallow his own thoughts and lock up his emotions,” and endure the “inward winter.” In this expression, the crossing of the threshold between the literal and the allegorical takes place, and is then gradually transformed into its full allegorical form in the shape of the dormouse locked in a “snow-sepulchre”. The two levels are by no means separate, of course, and the allegorical image of being locked up is anticipated literally in the locked up emotions of the hermit. The “inward winter” takes on a life of its own and turns into an actual, palpable condition when the snow “blocks […] up” the dormouse in its place of retreat – an image of submission to circumstances, and of resignation. The dormouse may survive the winter period without great harm, but it also may not wake up when spring returns.

6.

Conclusion: Allegory as Narrative Device and Artistic Self-Reflection

Allegory is used to portray Lucy’s emotional state, for example when her inner uncertainty connected with Graham Bretton’s letters is played out by the appearance of Reason and another force, influencing Lucy, or when sustained biblical imagery ‘visualizes’ her existential doubts and questions. This is meaningful psychologically and for the general atmosphere of the text: the narrator chooses the indirect way of allegory to communicate her inner life. The allegories represent aspects of Lucy’s inner life as something exterior to her – this is one general aspect of ambiguity relating to allegory. It is not only a narrative device that Lucy uses to create distance from her own feelings and actions, but also a characteristic manner of speaking to reflect her artistic activity.471 The most 471 In one of her rare direct comments on the theme, Lucy first denies that she is of an “artistic temperament” (while conceding that she possesses elements of the artist’s faculty) and then uses the metaphor of the tiger crouching in the jungle to express her fear that habitual anxiety about the future might destroy her present enjoyment (7.61).

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personal, traumatic and unutterable experience is portrayed in a way that makes it appear exterior to Lucy’s psyche, as in the example of the shipwreck. The allegorical mode becomes the vehicle of a psychological reality the complexities and conflicts of which it might be impossible to express directly. Recalling the psychomachia with Reason, its brief attempt to establish itself as absolute before being repelled by another power, my analysis now turns to a scene concerned with the opposite pole on the scale between the rational and the irrational, and Lucy’s concomitant inability to distinguish between true and false, real and doubtful.

VI.

Conclusion: The Treasure of Letters and the Ambiguity of Hope

The oscillation of the literal and figurative levels in the allegorical passages of Villette draws attention to the way the text is constructed; its realism turns into a psychological realism whose vehicle (paradoxically) is the allegorical mode. The shifting images of inner experience produced by the allegories of Villette represent a (fictional) subjectivity in the making, which finds its expression in a narrative of development that emphasizes doubts and uncertainties, lending a modern quality to the representational strategies of this mid-Victorian novel.472 While the shipwreck and the psychomachia are identifiable as allegories immediately, there are elements of the text that only turn out to have an allegorical dimension under closer scrutiny because they start out as ‘literal’ plot elements and then transform gradually into allegories, changing and enriching their meaning, and gaining an ambiguous quality through their oscillation between the literal and the allegorical. Graham Bretton’s letters, and their function as Lucy’s “treasure,” are the principal instance of such a transformation, which is moreover closely linked to the (inherently ambivalent) role of hope in the narrative and its significance for the novel’s ending, which was the starting point of this study. This conclusion is dedicated to analysing the relationship between these themes and to tracing their literary context.

1.

The Letters of Villette

Letters occur throughout Lucy’s narrative: During her stay in Bretton as a girl, Mrs. Bretton receives a letter announcing Polly’s arrival (Lucy first misinterprets the appearance of this letter, believing it to bring bad news from her family); Lucy finds and reads the love letter that was thrown into the garden of the 472 See for example Bode, who posits ambiguity as the defining feature of modernist writing in Ästhetik der Ambiguität. Zur Funktion und Bedeutung von Mehrdeutigkeit in der Literatur der Moderne.

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pensionnat, which is addressed to another ; after her prolonged stay at the Brettons’ house, the possibility of receiving a letter from Graham triggers a violent inner struggle between Reason and an antagonistic divine power ; Lucy rejoices when a letter from Graham arrives and savours reading it, a moment that is immediately qualified by the first appearance of the nun (see 22.244f.). Lucy carefully collects all further letters from Graham but they cease to arrive, ‘suspending’ her contact with the Brettons for a time,473 and causing her to undergo “strange inward trials, miserable defections of hope, intolerable encroachments of despair” (24.267), lesser echoes of her great crisis of loneliness during the long vacation. From the first, Graham’s letters are associated with feelings of hopefulness, their cessation resulting in existential “doubts,” “despair” and a “sick dread of entire desertion” (24.267). In the context of Lucy’s loneliness, the letters become synonymous with being remembered by absent friends (characteristically formulated in the negative): “The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur ; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more” (24.266).474 The next letter reaches Lucy from Mrs. Bretton, re-establishing the contact with her god-daughter and ending the latter’s phase of social isolation. The nun costume left on Lucy’s bed is accompanied by a brief note; after Ginevra’s elopement with de Hamal, she sends a letter to Lucy and keeps writing to her through the course of her marriage with him;475 the note from M. Paul telling Lucy to wait for a sign from him before he sails for Guadeloupe is followed by the

473 The formulation is Lucy’s: “[…] some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication […]” (24.266). 474 The letters have been given much critical attention. Rachel Jackson interprets Lucy’s response to letters in the context of M. Paul’s “uncertain death” (95) and links them with the appearances of the ‘ghost’, explaining Lucy’s obsessive response to letters and the ghostly nun: “Throughout the work, she repeatedly shows an ambiguous response to those objects which she ostensibly desires.” (96) Lucy desires the return and subsequent union with her flesh and blood lover, while she also has an “erotic fixation with non-bodies” (97), such as letters. Jackson interprets the ambiguous ending (which denies real closure) as a necessity : “For Lucy, it would have been the finality of definitiveness which would have heralded a truly tragic ending: knowing, either way, would have indicated the loss of one of her objects of desire.” (97). Jackson persuasively traces the ambiguity attached to the reception of Dr. John’s first letter in the interplay of the corporeal and the phantasmal, and the “replacement of the erotic body with the semiotic one” (102). Hope, like desire, can only exist as long as it remains unfulfilled and thus both concepts have a paradoxical quality. They moreover both depend on the suspension of action. Hope is more closely linked with doubt – it can be faltering, while desire has an element of absoluteness. 475 “For many years, she kept up a capricious, fitful sort of correspondence.” (40.477).

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numerous letters he writes after he has left Labassecour. Graham and Paulina communicate via letters before they are engaged.476

1.1

Graham’s Letters

Graham’s letters to Lucy stand out from among the other letters of the novel: before they have even been written, Lucy invests them with a heightened meaning beyond what their material reality suggests.477 Lucy’s thoughts on the possibility of receiving a letter from Graham are presented in a psychomachia featuring Reason and another power, initially called Imagination. This power, which transforms into something beyond what is classically associated with it, contains a hint at the meaning that Lucy ascribes to the letters: Divine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. […] Sovereign complete! thou hast, for endurance, thy great army of martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity unquestioned, thine essence foils decay! (21.230)

The diction is informed by the context of the psychomachia: Imagination is a “sovereign” with an “army”, “foiling” her enemies. The quasi-religious character of the allegorical figure becomes clear in the apostrophe of the “influence” as “divine” and “compassionate”, and in the direct comparison with God (“when I bend the knee to other than God”). Moreover, the personification is a “daughter of Heaven” (21.230). The notion that this entity is the personification of a human faculty is soon discarded: indeed the name “Imagination” occurs only once to describe “that kinder Power” than human reason (21.229) to then disappear completely from the passage.478 The link between the personification 476 Graham’s courtship of Paulina begins with his letters to her, which allow the pair to communicate privately. The peculiar power of the written word is evident in Paulina’s letters, which communicate her feelings for Graham Bretton while she tries to conceal them: “For her there was influence unspeakable in all he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessed confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to adieu.” (37.426). Paulina’s letters are imbued with a sense of her personality to such a degree that they seem almost like personifications; they ‘glow’ and are “animated.” 477 That the meaning of the letters goes beyond their function in the plot in the context of Lucy’s infatuation with Graham is moreover indicated by the fact that the reader never even learns what the letters say, which words Graham addresses to Lucy (as opposed to Mrs. Bretton’s letter, which is reproduced in full) (see 24.272f.). Graham himself calls his letters, which become so meaningful to Lucy, “‘cheerful nonsense’” (21.228). 478 When abstracta like reason, imagination and hope appear as personifications (like Reason and Imagination in the context of the psychomachia), Lucy’s ambivalent attitude towards them is often translated into the psychological ambivalence characterising these personifications.

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and Graham’s letters infuses them with a quasi-religious significance, while at the same time questioning the meaning Lucy ascribes to them – Imagination’s comforting influence only stays with Lucy for one night.479 The letters’ meaning appears reduced in retrospect: “Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years: they were kind letters enough – pleasing letters, because composed by one well-pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, ‘by feeling touched, but not subdued’” (23.253). While the actual feeling the experiencing I believes to trace in the letters at the time of receiving them may be a creation of her imagination, the comfort they give her at least for a brief period of her life is real.480 The letters function as a projection surface of her psychological needs even before she has received any, investing them with a significance that clearly lies beyond the letter writer’s actual influence. The arrival of the actual letter is embedded in the scene in which the nun first appears, linking it with the Gothic possibility of a haunting as well as that of mental illness. Lucy is drawn to Graham’s first letter with “strong magnetism,” (21.238) recognising it instinctively even before reading it: “I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom from my terror” (21.238). The climactic sentence, culminating in the phrase “ransom from my terror,” evokes the theological connotation of ransom as Christ’s sacrifice of his life for humankind and prepares the letters’ connection with hope beyond earthly happiness.481 For once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy : not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot live; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized a while ago – which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with a preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely loathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food […]. (21.239)

479 Next morning, Imagination’s visions have disappeared: “She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn Reason relieved the guard.” (21.230). 480 Lucy’s phase of (near-)happiness and an active social life is directly associated with the letters in her narrative: “To wonder sadly [about the appearance of the nun, OS], did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. […] A new creed became mine – a belief in happiness. It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed in that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort.” (23.253). Later, when Graham’s letters cease to come, Lucy experiences another phase of depression. 481 “The action of obtaining or paying for redemption; (hence) deliverance from damnation; redemption. Esp. with reference to the Passion of Christ” (OED Online, “ransom”, n. 3); also: “Christ or his blood, as the price paid for mankind’s redemption.” (5.b).

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The letter is described as the realisation of a hope: the emphatic adjectives “real solid” underline Lucy’s effort to disambiguate her experience: the letters provide real joy, as opposed to the vision of Imagination appearing to Lucy, and providing her with temporary solace lasting only for one night. While Imagination is portrayed as a deity granting a suffering Lucy relief from the stern rule of Reason in the psychomachia scenes, this passage makes Imagination’s power appear in another light. The “imagination” named here, providing only “shadowy chances” and insubstantial “images of the brain” is clearly different from the god-like power addressed as a “[s]overeign complete” (21.230). Two opposite sides of imagination appear and make it ambiguous: one god-like and all-powerful, the other firmly linked to the seat of Lucy’s own imaginative powers, her brain, and unable to provide her with substance. The ‘human’ version of imagination, which is contrasted in the quotation with the “real solid joy” of the letter, can only offer her food that does not have any substance, while the “manna” provided by its god-like incarnation stills her hunger at least temporarily.482 When M. Paul confronts Lucy about her visibly altered appearance after the night of the psychomachia, his shrewd remark that Lucy looks “‘like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust’” (21.232) echoes these metaphors of spiritual nourishment. Not only this prophetic remark of M. Paul’s, but also Lucy’s own language, rich with biblical allusions, imparts an ambiguous quality to her reaction, which seems to revalue her portrayal of imagination in the psychomachia. Lucy jubilantly greets the letter as a “godsend” (21.239): “It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising him in requital the blessing of his last breath” (21.239). The allusion to the story of Isaac, Esau and Jacob introduces a discord since Jacob tricks Isaac into thinking he is Esau, robbing his brother of their dying father’s last blessing (Genesis 27). The title of the chapter, “Reaction,” which underlines Lucy’s passivity (not ‘action’, but ‘re-action’), is ambiguous as well: the title might refer to her reaction to parting from the Brettons and the ensuing psychomachia, or it might signify her reaction to Graham’s first letter and the nun. This ambiguity stresses the importance of the letter, raising it to the status of a central event. Like Graham’s, M. Paul’s letters from Guadeloupe are portrayed as nourishing food, “real food that nourished, living water that refreshed” (42.494). The metaphors of nourishment, and especially of the “living water” allude to the 482 “My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day” (21.230). The manna evokes the Exodus episodes in which God sends manna to the Israelites on their way through the desert (see Ex. 16:14–31).

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story of Jesus and the woman from Samaria by Jacob’s well, who refuses to give him a drink of water.483 The “living water” (4:10) in the parable is a metaphor of the Christian faith, affirming the quasi-religious status of their love. From a position clearly marked as belonging to the narrating I, Lucy describes the letters as “‘by feeling touched, but not subdued’” (23.253) when she reads them in later years,484 while stressing that she used to read them in a different light when she had just received them. The letters are thus associated with a change in perception.

2.

The Burial of the Letters

The (as yet non-existent) letters come to mean something beyond their literal, immediate significance as letters in the plot because Lucy reads a special meaning into them, calling the first letter, after it has arrived, her “treasure” and “hope” (“For once a hope was realized.” (21.239)), and later the whole collection of her five letters is repeatedly referred to as a “treasure” (chs. 24 and 26).485 They undergo a semantic transformation: They first represent Lucy’s hope of gaining Graham’s affection, then, when she buries them, they stand for the loss of this same hope, and eventually they come to stand for a hope that focuses on a life beyond the earthly. This transformation is achieved through a number of allusions imparting a heightened allegorical meaning to the “documents, in [Lucy’s] eyes most sacred” (26.294). 483 “But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.” (John 4:14). 484 “It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed in that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters enough – pleasing letters, because composed by one well-pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, ‘by feeling touched, but not subdued.’ Time, dear reader, mellowed them to a beverage of this mild quality ; but when I first tasted their elixir, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juice of a divine vintage: a draught which Hebe might fill, and the very gods approve” (23.253). 485 The letters themselves are indeed kind, but ordinary, and intended by Bretton as a therapeutic measure to keep the nun away, whom he interprets as a sign of depression: “It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed in that case, box, drawer upstairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters enough – pleasing letters, because composed by one well-pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, ‘by feeling touched, but not subdued.’” (23.253).

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The highly symbolical act of the burial has already been discussed in its ambiguous significance as both a means of forcefully severing Lucy’s attachment to Dr. John and of conserving it in chapter III, “Who is Lucy Snowe?”. Beyond these psychological, character-oriented implications of the burial, however, lies an allegorical level of meaning suggested by the burial, which posits the letters as treasure. The burial of the letters alludes to the man in Matthew who buries his treasure in a field. It is linked with giving up hope: “my dear letters (most dear still, though Ichabod was written on their covers)” (26.295).486 The shifting status of the letters between literal and allegorical meaning is confirmed by the fact that Lucy is so intent on preserving their material integrity when she considers hiding them in the attic and decides against this possibility because “my dear letters […] might be consumed by vermin; certainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp” (26.295). Their burial makes the material letters disappear from the text, but, paradoxically, their intricately planned interment only underlines their importance, giving them an ambiguous textual existence between literal plot element and allegorically charged presence. Moreover, Lucy buries the letters by the old tree in the garden, which is both the (supposed) burial place of the nun and the centre of the city and the school (see 12.106f.). The buried letters remain invisibly at the symbolical and geographical centre of the story. As the attribute “dear” in the quote above indicates, the letters are ascribed anthropomorphic traits: “I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, and composed its limbs with great calm” (26.294). Lucy buries both her love for Dr John and her hope because she suspects that Madame Beck has not only taken them away once for the sake of ‘surveillance’, but has come back for them and has even shown them to M. Paul (see 26.294). The incident with Lucy’s stolen (if returned) letters (to which she refers as her “treasure” in this context numerous times) alludes to the Gospel of Matthew and thus indirectly introduces the dichotomy of an earthly and a heavenly reality : Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. (Matthew 6:19–21)

The relevance of the biblical passage is not only suggested by the mention of thieves but by the beetles and decay of the attic, the place where Lucy takes her first letter in order to read it. The burial marks the beginning of a new phase of Lucy’s life, allegorised as a change in location: 486 Ichabod means “The glory has departed from Israel” (see Jenkins 133).

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Conclusion: The Treasure of Letters and the Ambiguity of Hope

I pondered now how to break up my winter-quarters – to leave an encampment where food and forage failed. Perhaps, to effect this change, another pitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to the encounter : too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain. But what road was open? – what plan available? (26.297)

Again, Lucy portrays herself at a crossroads in life, echoing her earlier question of “I must again move – in what direction?” (7.60)487: She knows that such letters will not come to her again.488 This insight is associated with the knowledge that Graham’s affections belong to Paulina. Lucy soon rationalises her disappointment: “But soon I said to myself, ‘The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and made me suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following an agony so lingering, death ought to be welcome’” (26.294). The hope Lucy mentions is obviously the hope for a future (or at least a meaningful relationship beyond friendly banter and brotherly teasing) with Graham Bretton. After Lucy buries the letters, they transform into another kind of hope, directed toward a life after death that is already present in the fact that Lucy calls them her “treasure” and that her reflections on a possible letter from Graham end with a quasi-religious portrayal of personified Imagination (see 21.228ff.). The letters have to be interpreted with both perspectives in mind in order to explain the seemingly disproportionate importance Lucy ascribes to them. The ‘covert’ allusion to Matthew the very first time that The Pilgrim’s Progress is explicitly mentioned in the context of Lucy’s stays in Bretton (1.6), anticipates the allegorical meaning of Graham’s letters, which Lucy associates with the “goodly river on whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had trickled to my lips” (26.293). The connection, spanning twenty-five chapters, does not only illustrate the highly economic way in which the author places these allusions. Both instances point the reader to a passage of The Pilgrim’s Progress that contains a reference to the parable of the man who sells all his possessions in order to gain the “kingdom of heaven,” which is compared to a “treasure hid in a field” (Matthew 13:44): “My visits to her [Mrs. Bretton, OS] resembled the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with ‘green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.’” (1.6).489 The quotation guides 487 This is discussed in the Introduction. 488 “[…] never more would letters, such as she [Madame Beck, OS] had read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river on whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had trickled to my lips, was bending to another course […]” (26.293). 489 Bront[’s 1849 preface to The Professor shows that she was thinking of her protagonist’s ventures very much in terms of a pilgrimage as it is portrayed in The Pilgrim’s Progress: “I said to myself that my hero should work his way through life as I had seen real living men work theirs – that he should never get a shilling he had not earned – that no sudden turns should lift him in a moment to wealth and high station; that whatever small competency he

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the reader to Christian and Hopeful’s restful stay on the meadow by the river, where they sing: Behold ye how these Crystal Streams do glide, (To comfort Pilgrims) by the High-way side. The Meadows green; besides their fragrance smell, Yield dainties for them: and he that can tell What pleasant Fruit, yea, Leaves, these Trees do yield, Will soon sell all, that he may buy this Field. (PP 87)

The final line of Christian and Hopeful’s song alludes to the treasure parable in the Gospel of Matthew : “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field” (Matt 13:44). The word “treasure” functions as a signal of the figurative meaning of Graham’s letters in chapters 21, 24, and 26. The fact that the reference to the treasure indirectly occurs here, in the very first allusion to The Pilgrim’s Progress as a central allegorical intertext of Villette and Lucy’s first encounter with Graham, underlines the importance of this notion to the interpretation of Lucy’s life story. The notion of hiding a treasure is evoked numerous times. When she has just received Graham’s first letter, her impulse is to hide it from Madame Beck: “I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair and inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box and drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream” (21.239f.). The letter is again associated with nourishment; even looking at the envelope and seal is “bounty and abundance” (21.239) for Lucy. The immediate locking away of the letters suggests that they are moreover associated with the withholding and controlling of (potential) pleasure. Moreover, the association of the letter with the realm of fairies, while positive at first sight, implies that imagination plays a vital part in Lucy’s interpretation of the letters, and that the joy they bring might not be substantial and lasting.490 The letters affirm the self-referentiality of the novel: they are the written word placed at the centre of a text that has the act of narration itself as a topic (through might gain, should be won by the sweat of his brow ; that, before he could find so much as an arbour to sit down in, he should master at least half the ascent of ‘the Hill of Difficulty’; that he should not even marry a beautiful girl or a lady of rank” (P 37). The passage makes a seamless transition from a literal to an allegorical manner of speaking. 490 The OED defines the term “fairy gift” as follows: “a wonderful or valuable gift that arrives unexpectedly or in a seemingly magical way ; a boon, a godsend; (also, with allusion to some traditional fairy tales) something which at first appears to be attractive or valuable but later vanishes or changes into something bad” (“fairy”, n. and adj.). In a letter of 1851, Bront[ wrote of the parcels of books she received from her publisher : “These Cornhill-parcels have something of the magic charm of a fairy-gift about them” (II.667).

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the genre of the fictional autobiography).491 The letters evoke St Paul’s biblical letters, e. g. the “Epistle to the Corinthians”, “Epistle to the Romans” etc. The presence of the letters also puts the act of writing into focus (as opposed to speaking492), and the novel itself as a writer’s attempt at communicating with an addressee via letters, i. e. characters of the alphabet.

3.

Hope as a Literary Topos

This interpretation suggests that through their association with treasure and hope, the letters can be read as revealing “a mystic or ultimate or eschatological meaning or purpose” (“Exegesis”, Princeton Encyclopedia 468).493 The transcendental kind of hope contained in the letters is hinted at in the earlier scene featuring Reason and Imagination. While stern Reason provides only the moral interpretation of how Lucy should react to the letters if any should arrive, i. e. provides a tropological reading of the letters,494 the spirit initially called “Imagination” soon transforms them into something else. 491 Mary Jacobus reads the “buried letter” and the nun as signs of an “incompletely repressed Romanticism” (228) invading the ostensible realism of the novel. She moreover argues that, through the buried letters, the reader is reminded that “fiction is the peculiar reserve both of repression and of the Unheimliche” (Jacobus 229). 492 The dichotomy of speaking and writing is a theme in the dialogue between Reason and Lucy : “‘But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,’ I pleaded. ‘No,’ said she, ‘I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority – no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp your language…’” (21.229). M. Paul is a gifted story-teller but incapable of conserving his oral accounts in writing: “M. Emanuel was not a man to write books; but I have heard him lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mental wealth as books seldom boast […]. I used to think what a delight it would be for one who loved him better than he loved himself, to gather and store up those handfuls of gold-dust, so recklessly flung to heaven’s reckless winds.” (33.381). 493 The “double motion” (Coloss. 3.3) of life implied in the two kinds of hope and in the evolving meaning of the letters has an intertext in George Herbert’s poem “Coloss. 3.3” which takes as its starting point Colossians 3.3: “For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God.” “MY words & thoughts do both expresse this notion, / That Life hath with the sun a double motion. / The first Is straight, and our diurnall friend, / The other Hid and doth obliquely bend. / One life is wrapt In flesh, and tends to earth: / The other winds towards Him, whose happie birth / Taught me to live here so, That still one eye / Should aim and shoot at that which Is on high: / Quitting with daily labour all My pleasure, / To gain at harvest an eternall Treasure.” The italicised and capitalised words form the sentence “My Life Is Hid In Him That Is My Treasure”, running “obliquely” through the text of the poem and showing its meaning as well as telling it. Another example of this doubling is found in Hamlet, in which Claudius is unable to send his thoughts ‘upwards’ after his words in prayer: “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below : / Words without thoughts never to heaven go.“ (3.3.ll). 494 The term is borrowed from the fourfold interpretation of scripture: “[…] in the Convivio, Dante says this sense ‘is the one that lecturers should go intently noting throughout the

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The personifications of Reason and Imagination are defined in terms of their attitude toward hope: Reason will not let Lucy hope (see 21.229) and tells her to “[h]ope no delight of heart” (21.229) but Imagination is identified as “our divine Hope” (21.229).495 Moreover, the idea of hope is central to the outcome of the novel – Lucy’s hope for M. Paul’s love has met with a brief moment of fulfilment, yet her hope for a life with him may be thwarted.496 The double nature of hope that has been underlined early on in the novel in the context of the letters is central to the ambiguity of the ending, which depends on the double meaning of earthly and heavenly fulfilment: “Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope” (42.496). Hope is moreover associated with the feeling of suspense (invoked by the “pause”), which has been discussed in the context of Lucy’s ambiguous “revelation” in chapters 38 and 39. The first ambiguity of hope consists in the fact that it can be positive and negative at the same time, as illustrated in Petrarca’s psychomachic dialogue about “Hopefulness:” Reason tells his interlocutor Hope that “[…] hoping means to be on tenterhooks, to be burdened, to be tormented; and thus long-range hope means long-range suffering. […] A wise man often regards his lost hopes as a blessing, and is pleased to have been freed from endless desires and vain expectations, and forced to enjoy what little he has.” (295)

Reason claims that hope is a kind of suspense, and is mainly associated with uncertainty (calling it “‘misleading, doubtful, and troublesome’” (295)), thus corresponding with the motif of uncertainty and suspense in Villette. However, there is a positive side to hope because it is a motor for action. The dialogue ends with a plea for the “‘true hope’”, which is related to the “‘true good’” (296). In Spenser’s Faerie Queene, two personifications embody two kinds of hope, one earthly, the other heavenly : Speranza, heavenly hope, and sister to Fidelia and Charissa, is focused on the afterlife, symbolised by her eyes, which are raised to heaven (“And euer vp to heuen, as she did pray, / Her stedfast eyes were bent, ne swarued other way.”). The action of looking up is likewise associated with the hope for better things, in this case Lucy’s hope of having Graham return her scriptures for their own behoof and that of their disciples’: that is, this sense was the basis for sermons and homilies instructing congregations and communicants in how to conduct their lives.” (“Exegesis”, Princeton Encyclopedia 468). 495 Hope is one of the three theological graces, alongside Faith and Love; Hope is the weaker sister (see Nohrnberg 725). 496 Blumenberg comments on one of Schopenhauer’s notes: “Die eine von 1816 wirft die Frage auf, weshalb epische oder dramatische Dichtung in Darstellung des Lebens niemals vollendetes oder bleibendes Glück schildern kann, sondern nur werdendes und erstrebtes” (Blumenberg 60). Villette’s ending underlines this quality of ‘becoming’, which Schopenhauer has identified as constitutive of fictional texts, and hope is inherently associated with the desire for something that has not yet come to pass.

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affection. While Reason does not allow her to look up,497 Imagination appears in the sky, so that Lucy must look up in order to see her.498 Her [Fidelia’s, OS] younger Sister, that Speranza hight, Was clad in blew, that her beseemed well; Not all so chearefull seemed she of sight, As was her sister ; whether dread did dwell, Or anguish in her hart, is hard to tell: Vpon her arme a siluer anchor lay, Whereon she leaned euer, as befell: And euer vp to heuen, as she did pray, Her stedfast eyes were bent, ne swarued other way. (Book I, Canto 10, Stanza 14)

Speranza leans on an anchor, a sign of steadfastness.499 Speranza’s anchor moreover creates a link to Villette’s shipwreck motif, which also appears as a central pictorial symbol in the emblem tradition of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as well as the New Testament.500 The personification of earthly Hope, a fickle maid in Cupid’s Masque and companion of “Feare”, is contrasted with Speranza in various ways:

497 “This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down.” (21.229). 498 The action of looking up is associated with the etymology of anagoge: “!m\ceim to lead up, lift up, elevate” (OED, “anagoge”, n.). 499 The anchor is associated with hope in Hebrews: “to holde fast the hope that is set before vs, which we haue, as an ancre of the soule, both sure and stedfast” (6:18–19). 500 Tempest and hope are associated in the episode of the Gospel of Matthew in which Jesus calms the waters: “And when he was entered into a ship, his disciples followed him. And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves: but he was asleep. And his disciples came to him, and awoke him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish. And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm” (8:23–26). Faith, of course, is a sister grace of hope (“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” (1 Cor. 13:13)). In Mark’s account of the incident, Jesus calms the storm with the words “‘Peace, be still’” (4:39), which are quoted directly in the final chapter of Villette (see 42.495), strengthening the intertextual link. A number of emblems associate hope with the sea voyage (and, potentially, the shipwreck): the picture of the emblem “Spes Proxima” features an anchor, which is pulled up by the side of the ship in the storm: “Et spes uenturae sola salutis adest.” The unpredictable situation at sea is an analogy to the individual’s experience of being at the mercy of God in life. The emblem “Quem Timebo” portrays man’s life as a ship voyage, which will end in safety and absolution if it follows the right star : “Doch folget es [das Schifflein, OS] dem rechten Stern / Der jhm den Weg weist weit vnd fern: / Ein rechter Christ soll gleicher weiß / Der Warheit folgen nach mit fleiß” (Henkel/Schöne 1462). In the eighteenth century, the motif is present in Cowper, for example, whose works Bront[ knew well: “Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast / The Christian vessel, and defies the blast” (“Hope,” l. 167f.).

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With him went Hope in rancke, a handsome Mayd, Of chearefull looke and louely to behold; In silken samite she was light arayd, And her fayre lockes were wouen vp in gold; She always smyld, and in her hand did hold An holy water Sprinckle, dipt in deowe, With which she sprinckled fauours manifold, On whom she list, and did great liking sheowe, Great liking vnto many, but true loue to feowe. (Book III, Canto 12, Stanza 13)

Hope is cheerful and beautiful, her smiles and “fauours manifold” indicate that she gives false hope to anyone, without reason,501 as opposed to Speranza, whose focus is turned in- and upward. The aspect of hope represented by the second personification is paradoxical and unstable: “Hope, whose weake being ruin’d is / Alike, if it succeed and if it misse.” (Crashaw & Cowley, “On Hope” 1f.). The personification of Hope in The Faerie Queene resembles Ginevra, who is “louely to behold” and careless with her admirers’ affections. Paulina is in many ways Ginevra’s opposite, thoughtful and sometimes melancholy, not bestowing her affections lightly on anyone. Both female characters bear traits of Speranza resp. Hope: Paulina and Graham are united in a “blessed” union (40.437); Ginevra and de Hamal stand for a match based entirely on sensuality and appearances. On the one hand, the letters are associated with an ‘earthly’ hope that remains unfulfilled – Lucy never has a romantic relationship with Graham. The conservation of the letters in burial does not only document loss, however, but also the reality of Lucy’s feelings. This ambiguity is ultimately what makes them a treasure and associates them with hope.

4.

Different Roles of Hope

Lucy’s life, especially before her arrival in Labassecour, is characterised by calamities and catastrophes that would justify a complete lack of hope in her perception of life. However, she often feels hope even though there might be no rational reason for it. Lucy wonders at her safe arrival at Madame Beck’s school: Scarcely could I believe that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I left London, under no other guardianship than that which protects the passenger-bird – with no prospect but the dubious cloud-tracery of hope. (8.69) 501 “When thy false beames o’re Reasons light prevaile, / By ignes fatui, not North starres we sayle.” (Crashaw/Cowley, “Hope”, ll. 59/60).

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On the evening before she finds the love-letter sent to Ginevra, Lucy feels hopeful too, “not hope on any definite point, but a general sense of encouragement and heart’s-ease.” (12.110). But the hope is ambiguous as well because Sisera, representing Lucy’s longing for transcendence502 in another allegory of her inner life, is only “transiently stunned” (12.110).503 Hope and expectations are differentiated in Lucy’s outlook on life: expectations concern the practical, material side of life; they are invoked, e. g., in the context of her first attempt at teaching.504 Lucy’s expectations are clearly based on her experience of life so far and what reason tells her is likely to happen in the future; hope, however, is something not tied to reason.505 The uncertainty of Lucy’s existence, expressed in the recurring phrase “I know not”, often causes her to despair, for example during the long vacation. Here, Lucy experiences the utter absence of hope,506 resulting in a phase of despair : Even to look forward was not to hope: the dumb future spoke no comfort, offered no promise, gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance on future good. A sorrowful indifference to existence often pressed on me – a despairing resignation to reach betimes the end of all things earthly. Alas! When I had full leisure to look on life as life must be looked on by such as me, I found it but a hopeless desert: tawny sands, with no green field, no palm-tree, no well in view. The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared not know. (15.156)

Hope is associated with a risk, as expressed in the verb “dare”; to hope means risking disappointment and “presumption” (15.157). When the climax of Lucy’s “trial” (15.160) approaches, her attitude toward hope changes: she perceives it “as a false idol – blind, bloodless, and of granite core” (15.160), a hope without mercy. When she sets out away from the school, however, she does so following the impulse of hope: “that insufferable thought of being no more loved, no more owned, half-yielded to hope of the contrary – I was sure this hope would shine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof” (15.160). The scene ends with 502 “for something to fetch me out of my present existence, to lead me upwards and onwards” (12.109). 503 The Jael and Sisera allegory is discussed in chapter V. 504 “it seemed to me a great thing to be without heavy anxiety, and relieved from intimate trial; the negation of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know” (8.77). 505 “When thy false beams o’re Reasons light prevaile, / By ignes fatui, not North starres we sayle.” (ll. 49f.) Crashaw and Cowley, “Hope”. 506 Jane Eyre experiences a similar loss of hope: “My hopes were all dead – struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive.” (JE, 26.330).

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Lucy’s confession and a storm, which evokes the connection between hope and the shipwrecks of the novel. The catastrophe of Lucy’s youth, portrayed in terms of an allegorical shipwreck, is associated with the complete loss of hope: “a heavy tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away” (4.35). The unwonted presence of hope rather puzzles Lucy : “‘Methinks I am animated and alert, instead of being depressed and apprehensive?’ I could not tell how it was.” (6.51). In some of the situations in which her uncertainty is greatest, however, she feels hope despite ostensibly hopeless circumstances: especially during Lucy’s stay in London and her ensuing travel to Labassecour, hope plays an important role. In the moments in which she is apparently fully at the mercy of fate, Lucy feels most hopeful. Her reflections during the passage to Labassecour without knowing the country, its inhabitants or their language, are a case in point: I feel that, as – “Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars – a cage.” so peril, loneliness, an uncertain future, are not oppressive evils, so long as the frame is healthy and the faculties are employed; so long, especially, as Liberty lends us her wings, and Hope guides us by her star. (6.56)

It remains open whether this statement on the persistence of hope is included in the later ‘cancellation’ with which Lucy negates her vision of Europe as a “wide dream-land” (6.56), but it certainly includes the rainbow she pictures spanning this country as an “arch of hope”: “Cancel the whole of that, if you please, reader” (6.57). Lucy’s hope despite a highly uncertain situation illustrates that her inner life is not wholly dependent on outer circumstances but has an autonomous existence.507 Eventually, Lucy can claim: “I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.” (31.361). Her hope is directed toward a dimension beyond earthly despair and fulfilment (e. g. with M. Paul) and stresses the importance of a life to come.

507 “I seemed to hold two lives – the life of thought, and that of reality ; and, provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.” (8.77). The novel also contains examples that prove this statement untrue, however, for example during the long vacation, during which Lucy does not suffer physically but is driven to (physical and mental) breakdown through her depression.

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Conclusion: The Treasure of Letters and the Ambiguity of Hope

The Hope of a Life After Death

After Lucy has made her confession, PHre Silas dogmatically sums up what the future holds for Lucy. His advice of converting to Catholicism and of becoming a nun is made in light of what she may expect after death: “Were you of our faith I should know what to say – a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of retreat, and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well known, has no satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents like you to hasten their path upwards by penance, self-denial, and difficult good works. Tears are given them here for meat and drink – bread of affliction and waters of affliction – their recompense comes hereafter.” (15.162)

This vague promise of a recompense, which is supposed to give Lucy hope, does not help her in the state of despair that has led her to enter the church. It is the human contact with the priest, who listens to Lucy and is kind to her, which actually helps her situation. The hope the priest offers to Lucy here, however, is but a sterile and unsatisfying kind of hope. One of the reasons this ‘formulaic’ kind of hope does not offer relief to Lucy is that it does not address her individual situation and character but rather a whole “class of natures”. For the same reason, the option of becoming a nun is out of the question for Lucy because she would have to leave behind her individual existence and disappear in a community of “penitents like [her]”. What Lucy looks for, however, is not the kind of self-negation the priest describes here – she is not prepared to accept PHre Silas’ assumption that the world cannot satisfy her, and to concentrate all her hopes entirely on a life after death although it continues to play a role in her philosophy, as we have seen.508 The novel provides an example in which life seems like an anticipation of heavenly bliss, in the spiritually and intellectually fulfilling love of Graham Bretton and Paulina: Yes; it is so. Without any colouring of romance, or any exaggeration of fancy, it is so. Some real lives do – for some certain days or years – actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, if such perfect happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked it never comes), its sweet effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trials follow, whatever pains of sickness or shades of death, the glory precedent still shines through, cheering the keen anguish, and tinging the deep cloud. (37.436)

The mention of “perfect happiness” might also apply to the fleeting moment of fulfilment Lucy experiences with M. Paul. However, in light of the numerous biblical allusions to the second coming of Christ throughout the novel, there is a 508 In Crashaw and Cowley’s poem “Hope”, the subject is portrayed as an anticipation of heaven: “Faire Hope! our earlier Heaven! by thee / Young Time is taster to Eternity.” (ll. 41– 42)

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possibility that Lucy and M. Paul may meet again in Heaven: “The works, in poetry and fiction, of all three Bront[ sisters reflect the conviction that the passion of love is never simply bounded by the span of human life on earth.” (Thormählen, Religion 90).

6.

The End

Lucy expects M. Paul’s years of absence to be a painful period of her life, but they turn out to be the happiest in retrospect: “M. Emanuel was away three years. Reader, they were the three happiest years of my life.” (42.493). Lucy anticipates or imagines torture, but it is not realised. She experiences the opposite of hopelessness and despair : “At parting, I had been left a legacy ; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising, a patient and a brave course – I could not flag.” (42.494). Following his promise and departure, Lucy has “a wonderfully changed life” (42.494). This transformation is the result of M. Paul’s love. The leitmotif-like function of the letters is underlined by the fact that the final communication Lucy receives from M. Paul are his letters – unlike Graham’s, they do not cause Lucy any suffering from uncertainty : I was spared all chill, all stint; I was not suffered to fear penury ; I was not tried with suspense. By every vessel he wrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in full-handed, full-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did not abridge, because he cared not to abridge. (42.494)

Like Graham’s, yet in more affirmative tones, M. Paul’s letters are described in terms of (spiritual) nourishment: “his letters were real food that nourished, living water that refreshed.” (42.494).509 The letters are the source that maintains Lucy’s hope during the three years of M. Paul’s absence. The notion of the letters as food provides a bridge to the theological notion of hope, and an anagogical reading of the ending is suggested moreover by the allusions to the second coming, especially in the repeated phrase “but – he is coming” (42.495), and the phrase “wondrous return”. The final passage is ambiguous in so far as Lucy both

509 Lucy’s hope transforms from an earthly into a heavenly one: “Lucy’s personal search for affection and friendship is displaced by the biblical allusion for [sic] salvation. Under the arrangement of Lucy the writer, Lucy the character loses her own story of a possible love affair with Dr. John but gains another story, the story of God’s love.” (Lee 91).

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waits for the man M. Paul, but also for the saviour Emanuel whose name he bears.510 Lucy experiences a brief moment of fruition with M. Paul, which is followed by a phase of hopeful waiting, which does not find an earthly fulfilment. However, the question whether there will indeed be no fulfilment at all is left open because of the ambiguity of the novel’s ending: even if an earthly fulfilment does not take place, Lucy’s hope for a reunion with M. Paul/her saviour in Heaven remains.511 The novel leaves the reader to experience the existential ambiguities with which Lucy has been grappling, the “mighty hope and measureless doubt of the future ar[ising] in view” (36.421).

510 However, the novel does not end on this note. The one-but-last sentence is dedicated to the characters of Madame Beck, PHre Silas and Madame Walravens. While the portrayal of the storm in elegiac tones has both a physical and a metaphysical meaning, the text now laconically portrays the fate of unsympathetic characters like Madame Beck: “Madame Beck prospered all the days of her life; so did PHre Silas; Madame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth year before she died.” (42.496). Their fate (at least in the cases of Madame Beck and Madame Walravens) seems to allude to Psalms: “For I was envious at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.” (Ps. 73:3). While Madame Walravens indeed has some ‘wicked’ traits, Madame Beck is simply pragmatic and devoid of sympathy for others. Their life is moreover characterised by unchanging prosperity, underlining once more the contrast to Lucy and M. Paul’s life. 511 “The question of whether the joys of Heaven include meeting and associating with loved ones was one that engaged several writers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and to the Victorians that prospect had come to seem so likely as to be virtually certain.” (Thormählen, Religion 95).

VII. Works Cited

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