A Girl Walks Into a Book

by Miranda K. Pennington

  But it cannot last—M. Paul is leaving Villette for a long sea voyage, a turn of events that at first seems random, but on rereading appears to be engineered by Madame Beck (who secretly wants to marry M. Paul) and M. Paul’s priest, Père Silas (who doesn’t want M. Paul to marry a Protestant).

  M. Paul sneaks a message to Lucy that he wishes to speak to her; she slips out of the pensionnat and finds herself in the midst of a town festival, where, of course, she sees everybody she knows, including M. Paul and a pretty ward of his, named for the departed nun who broke his heart (source of his tragic mystique). This leads Lucy to reconsider her faith in M. Paul’s feelings for her, while Charlotte delivers us a patented Heroine Accepts Romantic Rejection Based On Knee-Jerk Assumptions inner monologue.

  Lucy slinks home in the night armed with two companions, “Freedom” and “Renovation” (in the revitalized-self sense, not in the sense of household repair), that will help her be brave enough to face life without M. Paul. She tests them out the next day:

  They had boasted their strength loudly when they reclaimed me from love and its bondage, but upon my demanding deeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, some experience of a relieved life—Freedom excused himself, as for the present impoverished and disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had died in the night suddenly.9

  The way Charlotte Brontë exists in this tug-of-war between the grandiose and the dryly funny always amazes and delights me. The mixing of the earnest and the sarcastic, the noble and the exasperated. Our heroine is about to arise from her fainting couch and conquer the world when—whoops, sorry, Freedom is too poor and sickly and Renovation is dead. You’re on your own, kid.

  I was similarly occupied with my own hourly torment, and hoped to be free of it very soon. I had crammed all the knowledge of how well I knew Eric and how much I’d wanted him into a box and put it on a shelf. There was nothing to be gained by maintaining this obsession. I’d already given it a year of my life. He couldn’t possibly have been as funny and warm and good with dogs and generous as I remembered. He literally couldn’t make room for me, despite promising that he wanted to. There was nothing there—and could be nothing.

  At last, on the day M. Paul is supposed to leave, he bursts into Lucy’s classroom; he takes her hand, pushes back her bonnet (mon dieu!) and is about to speak—when Madame Beck intrudes, remonstrating with him and fussing over Lucy. M. Paul takes Lucy on a walk into the countryside, where he takes her hand and says, “All these weary days, I have not for one hour forgotten you.” Then I am pretty sure they kiss, or else I have no idea what Charlotte meant by, “He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer which silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied.” I’ve yet to have one myself that silenced or subdued, however satisfying it may have been, so it must have been a hell of a kiss.

  Since his voyage to Guadalupe is to last three years,* M. Paul asks Lucy what she will do in the interim; she’s been saving to open her own school and intends to continue teaching. Just then he stops in front of a clean, white doorstep, produces a key, and shows her into the vestibule of her very own pensionnat. Flabbergasted, she asks how and why and what and how, and laughingly he explains that he has been arranging this for her, that he even has pupils lined up, and that’s why he’s been so distant the last few weeks. And then, “For the moment of utmost mutiny, he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear: ‘Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.’”10

  And the next day, he is gone, and I am as forlorn as Lucy is. It shouldn’t be touching—none of it should. Their relationship isn’t heated or breathless, demonstrative or vividly romantic—I don’t even really know what’s going on half the time. But somehow, it is profoundly moving. Especially that line, “All these weary days, I have not for one hour forgotten you.” Charlotte Brontë doesn’t so much develop M. Paul’s character as pan back until we can see all of it clearly—he’s the same man he has always been, and Lucy knows it:

  Once—unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh and strange; the low stature, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, the manner, displeased me. Now, penetrated with his influence, and living by his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness by heart—I preferred him before all humanity.11

  In giving me Lucy Snowe, letting me accompany her on this search for self, by indulging her unrequited affection for Dr. John, then sneaking M. Paul Emanuel onto the scene and letting us grow to love his prickliness and his absurdity and his generosity, she unlocked what I had been trying to keep trapped underneath layers of resentment and hurt. All my boasts of independence and self-sufficiency were worth no more than Lucy’s because of one simple fact. I was still in love with Eric.

  And then, as I began to demand some suggestion of how my own personal prolonged unanswered question was to be resolved, Charlotte Brontë resolutely refuses to give it to me. Ignoring the fact that her readers are likely thirsting for a romantic conclusion to this odd nesting doll of a tale, Lucy undertakes her three years of work. Charlotte brings us nearly to the day of Lucy’s reunion with M. Paul. But then there’s this storm:

  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.…

  … 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.12

  I remember closing Villette’s back cover and immediately bursting into tears.

  If I could have dinner with one historical figure on Earth, it would be Charlotte. I’d take her somewhere really nice, tell her to order whatever she likes, and then put my hands flat on the table and look her dead in the eye. “Charlotte,” I’d say, “We need to talk. This girl starts out with no family, no friends, no work, and nearly no money—because of you. You gave her work, friends, a purpose, a home, and love, and just when you should be diving into the homestretch to tell me what to do with my life, there is probably a shipwreck that maybe destroys Lucy’s happiness!? You won’t tell me what exactly happened to M. Paul and Lucy Snowe because you don’t want to trouble my heart? This is not how we literature!” Imaginary-Dinner-Date-Charlotte would appreciate this mode of address because, let’s recall, this is how she treated Thackeray. I’m sure her response would be even further cynicism about the comparative benefits of shipwreck over marriage. In fact, this ending to Villette actually was Charlotte’s gentler approach. She acidly remarked to George Smith in a letter,

  It was designed that every reader should settle the catastrophe for himself, according to the quality of his disposition, the tender or remorseless impulse of his nature. Drowning and Matrimony are the fearful alternatives.… The Merciful… will of course choose the former and milder doom—drown him to put him out of pain. The cruel-hearted will on the contrary pitilessly impale him on the second horn of the dilemma—marrying him without ruth or compunction to that—person—that—that—individual—“Lucy Snowe.”13

  You’re damn right I’m marrying him “without ruth or compunction” to Lucy Snowe, because they are perfect together and when two people get along so well they make total strangers cry at the thought of their separation. They are supposed to be together! That is how this goes! I’m not crying, you’re crying! All these weary days, he has not for one hour forgotten her, Charlotte!!

  Critical attitudes toward the Brontës had shifted since Charlotte’s revealing introductions to the reissued editions of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. Rather than being appalled by the very narrative ground the sisters chose to tread, critics had become so sympathetic and condescen
ding that all their commentary was offered as humble suggestions to the woman who couldn’t be expected to write lucidly on account of her great personal tragedy. But even the maudlin press corps was irritated by this ambiguously tragic ending. My favorite is the critic from the Examiner who said,

  It was in the power of the disposing author of the book to close her story with a charming satisfying picture, which she really does elaborately paint—she daubs her brush across it, and upon the last page spoils it all for no artistic purpose whatsoever, and to the sure vexation of all lookers-on. In the next edition of Villette we should like very much to see the last page altered.14

  The Athenaeum saw Villette the most clearly: “A burning heart glows throughout it, and one brilliantly distinct character keeps it alive.”15 They were probably referring to M. Paul, but you and I both know the burning heart in Villette belongs to Charlotte.

  ULTIMATELY, M. Paul Emanuel and Lucy’s thwarted love shows us what love can grow to be, how it becomes deeper and larger over time, and contains a multitude of sweet and less savory feelings. Outside of thunderstruck-at-first-sight sorts of tales, that’s how it works for almost everyone. Nobody in the Brontë canon succumbs to a just-add-water flavor of romance anyway—even Cathy and Heathcliff only became so recklessly entwined because they got to know each other so well as children.

  As I read Villette, I felt like Charlotte had pried open a door in my heart to make room for an imperfect man with only a few larger-than-life qualities to recommend him. I was furious, because once she’d cleared a space for M. Paul, all my feelings for Eric rushed in alongside him. The Mr. Rochesters of this world are big and bold and decisive, and they catch us up in their wake and leave us giddy. But the Paul Emanuels see us. They don’t have a fantasy of us that we have to dispel, they help us become our ideals. They are supportive, and irritatingly insightful. Eric and M. Paul have a lot in common: they are brusque, and clever, and imperfect, and terrible at first impressions, but dear and warm and oh how I loved him.

  Back before our little apocalypse, Eric and I had planned to go to a comics symposium weekend at Columbia together. With my heart newly softened I thought we might attempt to go as friends. We spent a whole day sitting together, never fumbling for things to say. It was hard not to remember what had been so good about our partnership. It was impossible not to miss him. On the way home that afternoon, I felt deflated and bruised. We’d tentatively discussed going back for the second day of the symposium, but I emailed him to say it probably wasn’t a good idea. The previous day had been too difficult. “Let’s meet up anyway,” he said. “I’d like to see you.”

  The next day we took a walk on the Brooklyn Promenade. I felt like I was peering out at him from behind a locked screen door. He was sorry. I was sorry. I wished I hadn’t pushed, he wished he hadn’t dragged his feet. We both hoped to be able to behave better in the future. We hugged, and found neither of us wanted to let go. “I mean, I literally don’t want to move my face away from your face,” he said. “What would be different, if we tried again?” I asked. “I would do everything differently,” he replied. “I made a mistake.” Though it’s one of the more romantic moments of my life, I can’t recall much else.

  Eric asked for a few days to think it over. (… but this was your idea, I thought uncharitably). For once I didn’t try to rush him, because even I wasn’t completely certain that getting back together was the right step. I felt the warring impulses too—I actually gave it some thought instead of just waiting impatiently by the phone. Should I believe him? Were we setting ourselves up to fall apart again? Would we even last a few months this time? Was he really ready? Was I ready? Would things actually be different? Was Charlotte right—was a shipwreck actually more merciful?

  My feelings were still strong, but not as impetuous and insistent as they’d been before. I had lost my demanding “we will be together come hell or high water because I say so” attitude. But if, with all the disappointment and disillusionment and turbulence, I would still rather be with him than with anybody else, there was nothing to do but try again. A few days later, on Friday the 13th—let’s not dwell on it—we met up for a walk on Riverside Drive. He didn’t want me to give up when things got difficult (Why would they get difficult? I thought you said you were ready, I did not say aloud) and wanted to be sure we could hash things out in person instead of imploding over text. I reserved my right to bail if everything was terrible, but I knew it couldn’t all be dreamy walks on the High Line and sharing sundaes. I was ready to do the work, as long as it meant I could stop dancing around pretending to be casual.

  “And not that this means we really have to make it this time…” he began.

  “But yes, it does,” I said. I was impatient and he was talking in inexplicable circles again. I still hated inexplicable circles. If he was in, I was in. If he was out, I was already gone. Why was this taking so long? Eventually, he got me to sit still. He took my hand. We kissed and made up, again.

  A few weeks into our refurbished relationship, Eric’s father died—he’d been diagnosed with cancer the previous October, and after we’d broken up, I had lost track of how quickly his condition had been deteriorating. I felt out of my depth in Eric’s grief, which was complicated by family and father-son dynamics I wasn’t privy to. I did my best to show up when he needed me, to make sure he ate and slept and had room to talk if he wanted. It made him vulnerable. It made me feel needed. It drew us together.

  That spring we began taking trips—to DC to meet my family and tour the monuments, to Rehoboth Beach for ice cream and beachy arcades, to Philadelphia for ghost tours. We traveled well together, and these long weekends seemed like proof he was setting aside time for us. And besides our compatible road-trip dynamics, this time we had something more important: Eric’s willingness to let me in.

  I had a drawer in his apartment before I even asked for one. Months went by without me wondering if he wanted to hang out that weekend. He didn’t leave me guessing; he didn’t make me ask to be reassured. He told me how he felt, unprompted, and often gave me cards and little gestures of thoughtfulness. He lost that wary, cagey feeling. I don’t know what he’d been reading, but something had pried open a door in his heart too. A year after our reconciliation, with all of Manhattan as the backdrop, I moved into Eric’s Inwood apartment. His ex moved out of state and took the pug with her (for which I owe her a debt of gratitude). We adopted a beagle/collie puppy and named her Roxy. I was stuck with the ugly couch I had made him pick out, but it seemed like a small price to pay for at last fully inhabiting one another’s lives.

  That October, we made a trip up to Portland, Maine, for the wedding of my college roommate. There’s a fence on a dock in Old Port where couples put locks to celebrate their love, like a tiny New England version of the bridges in Paris (where the practice has recently been banned). Eric ran to CVS and purchased a lock and a Sharpie. We left our best and brightest hopes for the future padlocked alongside dozens of others, looking out over the harbor. Leslie’s wedding took place on an island off the coast; her family and friends crowded around holding candles while her brother officiated a ceremony in English and French. After a reception of good food and live music at the island’s inn, we took a romantic ferry ride back across Casco Bay under a big beautiful full moon. Eric held me close and whispered in my ear.

  “I want you to be my wife,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

  Before I had half done, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercing glance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calm nor to put me down;… he gathered me near his heart. I was full of faults; he took them and me all home.

  —Villette, Chapter XLI

  Arthur

  Faultless my husband is not—faultless no human being is; but as you well know—I did not expect perfection.

  —Charlotte Brontë to Margaret Wooler, August 22, 18541

  Of all the crossovers I wanted to see between the Brontës’ literat
ure and their lives, the one I most hoped for was Charlotte ending up in a blissful marriage with someone she loved as much as ever Jane loved Rochester. I wanted Jane Eyre to have become autobiography after the fact, essentially, as much for Charlotte as for myself. What I never anticipated was Charlotte becoming the wife of a safe, rational St. John type.

  By the time she accepted Arthur Bell Nicholls, Charlotte’s expectations for marriage had become very practical. In a letter announcing her engagement, she wrote to Elizabeth Gaskell,

  Things have progressed I don’t know how. It is of no use going into detail. After various visits and as the result of perseverance in one quarter and a gradual change of feeling in others, I find myself what people call engaged.… He is to become a resident in this house. I believe it is expected that I shall change my name in the course of summer—perhaps in July.2

  She wanted someone she could respect, and someone to keep her father company, and Nicholls suited. He had been Patrick Brontë’s curate for many years. He was never terribly popular with the parish, but he was efficient and performed his duties well. By 1846, rumors were already flying about his feelings for Charlotte—Ellen Nussey got firmly rebuffed in a letter for having the audacity to ask about them—but he didn’t propose until 1852. Initially Charlotte rejected him largely on the basis of her father’s objections (Patrick thought Nicholls wasn’t important enough, or able to support Charlotte, which is especially surprising since Charlotte was doing a dandy job of supporting herself), but she also had reservations about his “odd” and “brooding” temperament.