Chapter XXXI – “The Dryad,” continued
“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to
see something and to tell what was seen.”
-
John Ruskin, English writer and art critic
(1819–1900)
“Wonder is a sudden surprise of the soul that
brings it about that the soul goes on to consider with attention the objects
that seem rare and extraordinary to it.”
-
Renè Descartes, French philosopher (1596–1650) Meteors
It was in reading William Wordsworth's Prelude that I first came to understand out-of-the-ordinary experiences to be the ones we may most vividly remember, something which I continue
to find confirmed in my own experience. For
him, a few of these extra-ordinary experiences were significant in his personal
and poetic development; he called them “spots of time.” This can play out in very ordinary situations. I do not usually remember what we had for
supper six nights ago, or what I bought at the grocery store the last time I was there. But, if the experience is
somehow different, or if something unusual or unexpected happened during that
supper or while grocery shopping, it gets ear-marked in my memory—and comes to
the fore more oft and easily than the routine things we experience day-to-day,
over and over again.
Friendships in which we have been involved in the past, as well as those we are still fortunate enough to have, are also given heft in recollecting experiences that stand-out from the ordinary, routine day-to-day of our lives. When I think back over a particular friendship, there will be memories of things we did together, things that we learned from one another, and the emotional and experiential milieu in which I subsisted with that friend. Specific memories of specific moments can also be called to the present in our mind. But then there are those 'spots of time' - if borrowing Wordsworth's term is appropriate here - that stand-out; because of some extra-ordinary, unusual or even strange element in the experience recollected. I find such moments to embellish a friendship; often fostering a deeper bonding between us because of such experiences. They can be poignant moments, revelatory or insightful reckonings, or even uncanny experiences that have never quite been reconciled with the more ordinary run of day-to-day life!
What happens in
the scene we are about to delve into would certainly be one such experience in Lucy and M Paul’s evolving friendship. In the previous blog we journeyed through the
first sequence of the dialogue in Chapter XXXI in which M Paul and Lucy become cautiously
yet willingly more open with one another; through dialogue, confession and enacted
humility, especially on M Paul’s part – seeking each other out, runing their way into true friendship. What happens next
provides the two friends with a common experience; one of Mystery and
Wonder.
They had been discussing M Paul’s surveillance of the Garden and
Lucy’s response to it; she now having been made aware that he does this! They have gone back-and-forth about its value
and whether what is gained by his surveilling the Garden has positive
consequences; for M Paul’s soul as much as for the students and teachers he
keeps an eye on. It is at this point in
their dialogue (¶ 57) that it moves into its third and final phase—toward a
revelation significant to each of them.
The subject here is of a “Something” that is sometimes seen in the
Garden—the Nun. I dealt with this
sequence in “The End of Villette, Again,” (20 June 2025), but there was focused
on the different ways in which John Bretton and M Paul treated Lucy in terms of
her seeing the Nun. Here, I would like to
look more closely at the exchange between M Paul and Lucy; what their say and
how they engage—moving toward the revelation M Paul wants to share with Lucy hoping
to confirm his suspicions that she has had the same experience. He, too, has seen the “Something” that Lucy
has twice seen by this point in the story.
Paying closer attention on my second and third reads of Villette to
the exchanges between them in this final scene of Chapter XXXI, I began to
wonder if M Paul did not have this concern about the “Something” appearing the
Garden in the back of his mind the whole time he was conversing with Lucy. How long has he wanted to speak with Lucy
about it? Or did it arise organically out
of their conversating?
By way of interested dialogue, each of them has learned a bit more
about the other through exchange of questions and answers in a close, intimate conversation
in the Forbidden Alley; one bodying forth revelations in self-disclosures,
affirmations and honest responses. If
so, this could parallel the structure of their dialogue in Chapter XV; which
ends in his offering the hand of friendship with “Miss Lucy,” as he oft calls
her, as I there suspected this theme being an undercurrent beneath his jealousy
regarding Lucy being allowed to give the English examinations. Here, M Paul has perhaps been opening up to
Lucy as a way of preparing her for the question of the “Something” that he has
seen, whether this was premeditated or arising organically.
On this night they had already been discussing things that had been seen
in the Garden; especially by M Paul; teachers, students_ even Lucy herself—from
his high vantage point; his room at the boy’s school. After a brief pause, during which M Paul
smoked a bit on his cigar, he then admits “I have seen other things.” (¶ 57),
meaning, during his surveillance of the Garden.
It is a potent moment; fecund of possible revelation. He is about to reveal something about what he
has experienced, suspecting – perhaps even knowing – that Lucy has also
experienced it.
Common experiences – experiences had in common with an-other – tend to
link people at various levels – emotional, intuitive, intellectual, spiritually
– and can foster connections between them as they wend their way into
friendship’s henge. A friendship gets
loaded with common experiences as it unfolds over months and years. These experiences allow those growing in
mutual knowing to participate in one another’s existence; bringing them to an
understanding – each of the other – via both differing and common
interpretations of their more significant experiences. Lucy and M Paul are here at the threshold of
such an experience.
Paul threw down the still-burning butt of his cigar, which he then treated
it as a kind of physical prop; a symbolic rune—for what he is about to reveal. He draws her attention to the burning butt, suggesting
it to be something which can be seen but which fades away_ Like a ghost? He then professes that — “I have seen, Miss
Lucy, things to me unaccountable, that have made me watch all night for a
solution, and I have not yet found it.” (¶ 61).
So here is another reason why he surveilles the Garden, that it is sometimes
at night, and now Lucy knows, it is sometimes all night. There are the human foibles and misadventures,
as well as revelations about the character of students and teachers – including
Lucy herself – that he has gleaned from his observations, but then_ there is
this thing “unaccountable.”
Lucy here notices the peculiar tone of M Paul’s voice, saying it “thrilled
her veins.” His words are on the verge
of lifting her out of the ordinary; at least for an open moment—and she wants
to know ‘why!’ Not quite ready to say
what he has seen, perhaps by way of preparing her – finding out where she
stands on such issues as he is going to venture into – he asks whether as a
Protestant she believes in “the supernatural” (¶ 67). This should certainly give her another hint
as to the kind of thing M Paul has on his mind!
She states very simply that
“there is a difference of opinion on that point, as there are in other
sects.” I find this a cold yet open
remark. It is open to possibilities; yet
it is stated ‘coldly,’ I mean – without passion or lilt of emotion. It is ‘statement of fact.’ There is no
certainty as to “the supernatural;’ no consensus—no truth boxed up neatly as an
answer to such a question. This reply is
then followed by a ‘cool’ question of her own, she asks: “Why, Monsieur, do you
ask such a question?” (¶ 68), the tension surely building between them as she
moves toward an anticipated revelation.
M Paul notices her “shrink” and speaking “faintly,” in this
request. She has not told him plainly
that she believes in the supernatural, so he now queries her whether she is
superstitious. This is a more loaded
term; it implies belief in things which cannot be proven—even more_ belief in
what has been disproven by experience, philosophy or the revelations of
science. She replies, simply, again not
directly answering the question, that “I am constitutionally nervous. I dislike
the discussion of such subjects. I dislike it the more because—” (¶ 70). Why, Lucy?
Why do you dislike it? As a
reader, I wish I knew …
To fill this lacuna, M Paul suggests again it may be that she
“believes?” In what? M Paul does not identify the object of
“belief,” yet I interpret this as a return to the first query, as she did not
answer it—he’s asking once more if she believes in the supernatural. She denies this, however – though what she denies
believing-in is not stated – but immediately admits that “…it has happened to
me to experience impressions—” (¶ 72). It’s
interesting to hear her refer to the apparitions of the Nun as
“impressions.” Impressions upon her
senses, perhaps, in John Locke’s terminology?
“Impressions” as in ghostly phenomena?
_though I am not sure that term was then in common use in reference to
spirits and ghosts. However you want to understand
the word in this context, in a sense the apparitions of the Nun have certainly ‘impressed’
her, in one way or another.
“Since you came here?” M Paul then asks, to which she replies in the
affirmative, “Yes; not many months ago.”
He then asks for clarification, “Here?—in this house?” and her answer is
“Yes.” They now know they are both on
the same page; or at least on pages in closest proximity to one another! This is a very ‘intimate’ conversation,
emotionally and intellectually, as it bears upon an important experience for
each of them. Most such revelations are
‘intimate’ in this way when we are discovering that someone else knows or feels
something we feel or understand; and as here – having seen something
unusual. The interlocutors ‘lock in’ to
one another, either gently or in stronger terms; expectant of what might be
about to be revealed.
She is speaking “faintly,” making this conversation more ‘private,’
just for herself and M Paul, possibly because of what he has told her about
Madame Beck also keeping an eye on her when she is in the Forbidden Alley? Are they really alone? No doubt she is also speaking quietly because
they are treading into a strange arena of experience in which Lucy herself has
been participant; and totally without anyone to talk with about it since Dr.
John’s dismissal of her first experience of being visited by the Nun; calling
it a result of her exhaustion and excitability.
I imagine she is sensing in this intimate exchange that she is coming
near to a resolution to her aloneness in this strange experience she has twice
had; that she may find, there in the Alley, a sympathetic person to share in
her uncanny experiences; perhaps even help her to decipher her “impressions.” Much to her assurance, and facilitating, I am
sure, a relief-into-closer-feeling with M Paul, he replies with confidence:
“Bon! I am glad of it. I knew it, somehow; before you told me.” Does he mean that he suspected what her
answer would be; knowing it by intuiting it?
Or is it possible that he may have actually witnessed – from his perch
way up in the boy’s school – the scene between her and the Nun on the night she
buried John’s letters? This could also be
the “somehow” that he knew it. As we are
not told, I hold each possibility out as at least plausible.
Either way, M Paul is liberated by her admission into a more open
discourse with Lucy. He then pauses to declare
what he thinks he sees in her, sharing with Lucy what he believes to be
true about them both, pointing to differences and then similarities in their character. What he unfolds for her is not something he
has come up with in the moment. I rather
think he has thought about these things for a while, reflecting on the woman he
has been observing—becoming appreciative of her with perhaps a fondness that eventually
led to his invitation to friendship. He
avers that “I was conscious of rapport between you and
myself.” But first he refers to ways
in which he sees them as contrasted with one another:
“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 between us. Do you
see it, Mademoiselle, when you look in the glass?” (¶ 77)
The
reference to “the glass” is polyvalent.
It has at least two objects inherent in it. Certainly, M Paul means when she looks into a
dressing- or vanity-mirror and sees her literal reflection. As we have now heard of the “glass” that M
Paul uses to surveille the Garden and its occupants, however, it may suggest the
way in which such a “glass” could enable you to see things much more
clearly. This valence would suggest that
Lucy has looked-into herself more deeply than at the surface level; contra the
metaphor of a ‘vanity’ mirror. Both
glasses, a mirror and his hand-held ‘telescope,’ imply looking-into the reality
of something. Like looking into a
crystal ball – a third kind of “glass,” M Paul is asking if she has discerned
the things he has seen about the two of them.
How they are different, and yet still having an “affinity.”
Wherein does that affinity reside?
He has contrasted them in regard to their character and
personality. Now he goes on to delineate
some of their similarities as he sees them, using characteristics of the then
popular, now long debunked, pseudo-science of phrenology as well as a celestial
referent—
“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.” (¶ 77)
M
Paul has been looking into the looking-glass at Lucy; seeing himself in her—in
various of her aspects; wondering if she – looking into him by such a ‘glass’ –
would see the same. He has been
‘observing’ Lucy, not just literally from the window above the Alley, but also
in their daily lives at the school, in psychological and spiritual terms;
seeing in her things he recognizes in himself—to the point where he believes they
were “born under the same star” – a meaningful reference metaphorically,
whether or not it is strictly a reference from astrology or a more general celestial
descriptor for the kindred dimension of two souls.
Note that he has to repeat this assertion; “Yes,
you were born under my star! Tremble! – probably because of some
perceived reaction in Lucy? A widening
of the eyes, perhaps, or a change of expression? Their fates, as he sees them, are woven
together and, he says, it may not be possible to ‘disentangle’ them without
damaging the “web.” The word “web” references
those complex “weavings” and “nettings” that constitute our existential and
social inter-relations within the world and in our own lived-in-worlds; inherent
in our relations with others and then within the wider social network in which
we live and breathe and have our being-in-becoming.
M Paul encourages Lucy to Tremble, as in, “yes, you are right to
tremble” – or, perhaps, you should tremble! _at the implications of what
he is suggesting. Does he also
tremble? Did he tremble when he first
realized this? He has just avowed that
they are linked because of these various common physical characteristics;
forehead, eyes, face, appearance. He has
been observing himself as well as her, in order to see this. His recognition of their similarities will lead
to his aspiration to a familial relation; he wants Lucy to be to him as a
“sister,” an assertion he will later make in Chapter XXXV (see the Epilogue to
this blog for the text).
The phrase “threads of destiny” references how people and their
‘fates’ may become and then are intertwined through the course of a life. Their destiny coming more or less into
concert; becoming singular and more or less unified. Though the one individual must not be
subsumed into the other if the relationship is to be a True Friendship, nevertheless
their choices, their actions and how they handle their life-situations – would
be woven together as they wayfared through this mortal vale. _Together as well individually.
It doesn’t take a symbolic system like astrology – useful as it may be
as a divinatory tool – or an ungrounded method of diagnosis of character like phrenology
to understand how the destiny of people having come together in one kind of
relationship or another must pay attention to these factors; at the risk of
wrecking their own relationship or, more drastically—even the lives of others in
the orbit of their relationship. While M
Paul’s assertion to her of their interwoven destinies could be the ploy
of someone trying to seduce another into a relationship, saying “oh we’re so
alike, let’s get together” M Paul is here sincere; I find no evidence in the
text that he is that kind of person—he is not trying to manipulate Lucy. His hope is to draw her into a degree of self-revelation
regarding their individual natures, so that she might see how this could inform
their going forward togethering as friends.
We do not hear Lucy respond to these comparisons between them; nor are
we told how she felt about the implications—but does she accept them? We do not know, though she does not deny
them. When M Paul then continues toward
what he wants to reveal, saying “But these ‘impressions,’ as you say, with
English caution, I, too, have had my ‘impressions.’” (¶ 77), she plainly and
directly asks to be told of them. She no
doubt hopes to hear something leading to a mutual understanding with someone whose
opinions she now values, relating to an experience that has surprised and
confuses her. There has been an element
of wonder in her experiences of the Nun.
She surely wants to compare what she has experienced with what her
friend may have experienced, and so insists: “Monsieur, tell me them.” (¶ 78)
Once again preparing their cognitive ground for the revelation, he asks
her if she knows the history and story of the Garden, to which she asserts that
she surely does, and relates the basic facts (¶ 80). Here he is beginning to establish common
ground with her; such as a revelation of this gravity would need to have. He then goes on, “And that in former days a
nun’s ghost used to come and go here.” (¶ 81).
Here he is raising the issue of the supernatural, taking another cautious
step toward what is to be revealed; wondering what Lucy will say in
response. Then comes the question on her
part that opens toward full disclosure of the issue being discussed: “Monsieur,
what if it comes and goes here still?” (¶ 82).
At this moment they have reached a dialogic apex; this deeply
significant admission prompting M Paul’s to admit that:
“Something comes and goes here: there is a
shape frequenting this house by night, different to any forms that show
themselves by day. I have indisputably seen a something, more than once; and to
me its conventual weeds were a strange sight, saying more than they can do to
any other living being. A nun!” (¶ 83)
Lucy
simply and honestly replies: “Monsieur, I, too, have seen it.”
Each time I read this reply, I feel the thrill of the revelation, as
surely as Lucy must have. How long has
she waited to say those words to someone with a sympathetic ear!? She first saw the Nun in the attic, on the
night that she was reading John’s initial epistle in solitude; in the privacy
she believed necessary to be able to savor the letter she had so long
awaited. She believed she was in
solitude; having a private moment—but then was rudely interrupted_ By the Nun!
After Dr. John cast a pall of doubt over her experience – telling her
it was an illusion brought on by a case of ‘nerves’ and that she needed to get
out and experience more of ‘life’ and be ‘happy,’ – she struggled within
herself for some time, until she saw the Nun again on the night she buried
John’s letters. (see “The End of
Villette, Again,” June 2025.) That night,
there was no one to tell her it wasn’t ‘real!’
Whatever it was! Now, she has
confirmation from another mortal person – someone with whom she has a chance of
becoming a true friend – that she may actually have seen whatever – or whomever
– it was on those two former occasions!
I can remember a few significant moments of such import with friends
over the years that stand-forth from my own memory as this moment would certainly
have done in their relationship. I
imagine Lucy feeling a rush of delight and affirmation when she confesses “Monsieur,
I, too, have seen it.” There can be a
mingling of souls and spirits at such a cross†roads when friends reveal things they thought were secret but
can now be shared. When what is revealed
is good and positive toward the building up of friendship and the honest deepening
of lives, it is something to be savored.
Here it is something mysterious that they find they have an experience
of in-common, surely lending itself to the strengthening of their deepening
soul-connection. Experiencing the
delight that is emergent in such moments, relieved that his intuitions – about
Lucy and the strange apparition frequenting the Garden – were true, M Paul then
avows:
“I anticipated that. Whether this nun be flesh
and blood, or something that remains when blood is dried, and flesh is wasted,
her business is as much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean to make it
out; it has baffled me so far, but I mean to follow up the mystery. I mean—” (¶
85)
If
you know the rest of the story, you will realize why M Paul believes the
visitation of this Nun may have business with him, though what he thinks its
business with Lucy may be, I would argue he is in the dark! He puts them both forward, however, as dual objects
of the visitation. At this point, Lucy is
as much in the dark about why the Nun would have something to do with him,
as he is in regard to her.
Up till now, Lucy has probably considered the Nun as something she
alone is experiencing; at least in the present time of the story—though there
is a tradition of supposed apparitions from before she came to the pensionnat. She was silenced after the first apparition; told
by Madame Beck and Dr John not to tell others in the school about what she had
seen in the attic. _Most likely because
of wanting to preserve Lucy’s reputation (they perhaps didn’t want her thought
of as someone who ‘sees things’?) as much as keeping the school from getting
caught up in stories of the ‘ghost nun,’ which they were afraid would cause a
certain amount of disruption. Now, she
has a confidante; someone who also knows there is a “Something” frequenting the
Garden. It is not a snake or serpent;
yet it could perhaps be called ‘stealthy’ and perhaps even ‘crafty’—so perhaps
in a way it is.[1] M Paul has not yet been able to make it out.
What does M Paul think of the Nun?
He ponders whether it could be something of flesh and blood – a live
person! – or “something that remains when
blood is dried, and flesh is wasted.”
Notice, he never says he wonders if it is a spirit or a ghost! He realizes that there seems to be something
substantial about the Nun; just as Lucy did in her previous encounter. Either it is a person of “flesh and blood” or
some kind of dried up and desiccated revenant!
More like a zombie than a ghost?
Why does he describe it this way?
The tradition about the Nun suggests a ghost; it is usually referenced
in such terms. This is an important clue
to the nature of the Nun; and – though I didn’t interpret it out on my first
read – it is right there in front of the reader’s eyes!
M
Paul’s pauses, at which Lucy tells us what happened next:
Instead of telling what he meant, he raised his
head suddenly; I made the same movement in the same instant; we both looked to
one point—the high tree shadowing the great berceau [arbor], and resting some
of its boughs on the roof of the first classe. There had been a strange and
inexplicable sound from that quarter, as if the arms of that tree had swayed of
their own motion, and its weight of foliage had rushed and crushed against the
massive trunk. Yes; there scarce stirred a breeze, and that heavy tree was
convulsed, whilst the feathery shrubs stood still. (¶ 86)
As with
what M Paul has just suggested of the Nun, the disturbance here is no doubt
caused by something with mass; physicality – bestirring this “high tree.” Branches are bending and swaying, though no
wind was blowing to disturb them. Not
seeing what was causing the movement of the branches, it seems the tree was
itself animated. I assume both Lucy and
M Paul are enrapt in attention, in a state of surprise and even wonder, togethered
in the experience, attempting to discern what is happening in that tree! Lucy continues:
For some minutes amongst the wood and leafage a
rending and heaving went on. Dark as it was, it seemed to me that something
more solid than either night-shadow, or branch-shadow, blackened out of the
boles. (¶86)
This
disturbance went on for “some minutes”—which reminds me of Lucy’s
previous encounter with the Nun, in which she and the Nun stared each other
down in the moonlit darkness of the Alley for “five minutes.” (Chapter XXVI, ¶
32; see the 2nd blog in this series)
Lucy gathers the impression from the evidence of her senses that there
is something more than ‘ghostly’ going on; whatever could move a tree in this
fashion had to have substance; some weight and girth! It is “more solid” than shadows! At this moment, they do not know that what
they are seeing has anything to do with the Nun_ And then:
At last the struggle ceased. What birth
succeeded this travail? What Dryad was
born of these throes? We watched fixedly. (¶86)
Lucy
compares whatever is disturbing the tree to a Dryad; a tree spirit. Surprise elevates the mind, often to the
mythic level; wonder enlivening the senses—preparing the observer of the
phenomenon for what may be coming! She is
trying to imagine what is happening up in that tree, as I am sure M Paul was as
well! I imagined on first read that it
was maybe some wild animal having gotten into the Garden by some mode of
egress! But I was quickly dissuaded of
that possibility, Lucy telling us that
A sudden bell rang in the house—the
prayer-bell. Instantly into our alley there came, out of the berceau [arbor],
an apparition, all black and white. With a sort of angry rush-close, close past
our faces—swept swiftly the very NUN herself! Never had I seen her so clearly.
She looked tall of stature, and fierce of gesture. As she went, the wind rose
sobbing; the rain poured wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her. (¶
86)
The
prayer-bell ringing plays into ghost-story tropes, as bells are sometimes said
to bring an end to hauntings – especially if they occur at dawn – or even to
fairy visitations (bells oft rung by the fairies themselves to signify dawn
coming and the need to return to their own realm!). This ringing of the prayer bell can be seen in
yet another way that seems relevant to the situation: the bell carries the import
of a ‘clearing of the air,’ as in various religious rituals. The sound of the bell being rung during such rituals
is said to create a ‘sympathy’ of powers; a cleansing of the air of confusion
and dissonant influences. What do M Paul
and Lucy see once the bell is rung?
Something rushing toward them; right out of the arbor which is close to
the tree that was being shaken and disturbed!
What was uncertain came to be suddenly identifiable. The Nun came – up-close and nearly personal—running
right past them! So close! Lucy says she had never seen the Nun so
clearly before![2]
Do they suspect that this figure rushing close by them along the Alley
is the cause of the tree being disturbed?
I would say so. It came from the
direction of the berceau, which is right beside the tall acacia tree
that was being so strangely disturbed, so it would seem logical to connect the
two phenomena. Lucy says it was “all
black and white,” just as in its two former appearances. And like the ‘visitation’ in Chapter XV – (See
the 2nd blog in this series) – she comes into the Alley, this time
going rushing close past M Paul and Lucy! I imagine they could have each reached out
and touched her – as Lucy had tried to do during the previous encounter
– had they not been so surprised by the visitation!? It is nighttime, and dark in the Alley. The rush-close I am sure would have been a genuinely
surprising experience! Did they perhaps
not reach out to touch her because they had to back away to let her pass?
If you have ever been out in a wood at night, in virtual darkness, and
had an animal – or jogger, as happened to me recently – rush past you, you have
an experiential reference-point for what M Paul and Lucy were surely
experiencing! This was sudden and
unexpected. In nocturnal darkness you
cannot always see what is approaching you until it is right on you!
I can imagine they had still been wondering about the movement in the
tree when their experience was punctuated by the prayer bell; they were just
about to go in, responding to the bell—when the Nun appeared, rushing right by
them! Did they notice that the tree
stopped writhing? They both see the
Nun, however; this is a shared experience, the first one for Lucy in relation
to the Nun. Lucy describes the Nun as
“Tall” and “fierce.” I have come to doubt
that she really thinks of it as a ghost or spirit after this encounter!
Then, however, the account ends with an old paranormal or supernatural
trope – that of a storm coming and breaking open over them. She tells us that “the wind rose sobbing;
the rain poured wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her.” (¶ 86). This happened as the Nun was going down the
Alley. This would cast the experience in paranormal terms as, according to the
trope, the natural elements would be ‘responding’ in some sense to the appearance
of this Nun or even being connected phenomenally with her as if, ‘when the Nun
appears a storm occurs.’
Of course, in neither of the previous apparitions did a storm occur.
Then we have a reference to the wind “sobbing,” a Gothic theme arising
from the oft supposed sadness behind the a ghost’s ongoing existence, here, per
the Nun being said to have been buried alive in a century long ago. It could also describe the loneliness in
having to roam about in the realms of the living? These are both common themes in ghost stories,
and may be implied here as possibilities—though the evidence of Lucy’s and M
Paul’s senses seems to cast such interpretations into doubt; as this Nun is
more substantial than any ghost.
Lucy interprets this response to the apparition as world-embracing, for
the “whole night” seemed to be aware of the Nun. This can be understood as a projection of a
limited and local yet sublime experience onto the fabric of one’s whole existence;
it is one of those experiences that seems to touch upon your very
being-in-the-world. Seen
naturalistically, however, the wind and storm – given the lack of storms
accompanying the previous two appearances of the Nun – can simply be understood
as a coincidence; the weather was changing and a sudden storm blew up and
rained down on the human experiencers at the fading-away – in the darkness – of
the Nun; like the fire from the tip of M Paul’s tossed-away cigar.
Having experienced this apparition would certainly lead to questions;
though we are not made privy to them or how they were expressed between M Paul
and Lucy. When friends have a profound,
common experience, they may well grapple with it as a way of deepening their
connection with one another; their common field of reference arising out of
such experiences. They might ask, what was
the Nun doing in the tall tree by the First Classe? Was it, in fact, the Nun? And if so, why would the Nun be climbing
around in a tree? Where did she go after
passing Lucy and M Paul in the Alley? We
can assume that she ran down past Old Methuselah; which is where the Alley ends—but
to where?
That this is supposed to be an apparition of the Nun buried beneath
the Old Pear Tree; her apparition rushing down the Alley toward that Tree might
be thought – in good ghost-lore fashion – to be her returning to her coffin in
the ground beneath the roots of the Old Tree.
Yet we are not told this.
And other, more naturalistic possibilities are certainly on offer within
the narrative. Once the reader is aware
of the door that communicates with the boy’s school – through which M Paul
comes and goes – could not this ‘ghost’ avail herself of that door – or some
other – as a means to come in and then get away again? Though if a ghost, why would she need
such a door?
We
will never know, as here the chapter ends abruptly.
It occurs to me that this ‘apparition’ has occurred once again when
(1) Lucy was thinking about the buried letters and whether or not she did right
in ‘setting them apart’ from herself in order to put her grief at arm’s length,
as well as when (2) she was speculating on attaining some more independent
situation of in life. Can some thematic connection
be made-out between these appearances of the Nun and Lucy’s relationship to
John Bretton and M Paul? Or is it, too,
simply coincidence?
Further, I would love to know what Lucy and M Paul did after the Nun
passed them? Did they attempt to follow
the Nun as Lucy did in her previous encounter?
Did they stand in the Alley, awestruck perhaps and surprised, discussing,
in a heightened state of surprise and wonder, what they had just witnessed? As it was raining, probably not. Perhaps they said a hasty goodnight and quickly
retreated inside; M Paul to his room high up in the boy’s school, and Lucy back
to her own room. But what might they have
said to each other in days to come? What
conclusions might they have come to about what they saw, especially after
sharing their former experiences with one another?[3] Such questioning between friends regarding unusual
or mysterious experiences oft adds heft and depth to their ongoing communion.
Conclusions:
The themes of the Garden—Tree—Alley Complex
At the conclusion of this extended analysis, it is now clear to me
that this complex is not any version, allegory or parody of the Biblical story
of Eden; nor does it rely on it for explication and interpretation. The Old Pear Tree is no “Tree of Life,” nor
is it a “Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,” though there may be some ways
in which it is akin to this latter Tree in terms of it being a place where
revelations happen, enabling the visitant to become wisened in some degree. Certainly knowledge is gained in the Alley
near the Tree; especially the ability to discern the value of one’s
relationships—as Lucy learns in regard to John Bretton and M Paul.
As we have seen in these
blogs, the temptation in the Garden in Villette is not connected to the
Tree and its fruit, but to the Alley that runs down to it along the wall of the
boy’s school. There are only a couple of
minor connections in Villette between the Garden—Tree—Alley complex and
temptation. Lucy is ‘tempted’ at first to
enter into the Alley herself, disobeying the sanction against it, but then
overcomes her qualms and becomes a regular visitant – Madame Beck soon giving
her permission to visit and occupy it whenever she wants. The Alley holds temptations for the female
students, but it is not an ontological ‘Fall’ that would take place. Rather, a girl temped into ‘indiscretions’
with a boy of the neighboring school might well experience a kind of personal
‘fall’ in consequence.
In many ways, I find that
Charlotte Brontë used the Garden—Tree—Alley complex in her final novel in
unique and intriguing ways; it is a specific manifestation of her Creative
Imagination and has a mythos about it particular to the author. I would suggest that it can easily join the
list of sacred and mythic gardens on its own terms, as a fictional
representation of the mythic theme, and be appreciated for how it functions –
in narratively specific and deeply relevant ways – in this complex and
intriguing novel. It is connected in
complex patterns with these themes:
1.
Revelation: Lucy has had revelations
about herself, John Graham Bretton and about M Paul in the Alley in the Garden,
near the Tree.
2.
Inspirations: She has experienced inspirations
via her connection with the Garden—Tree—Alley complex (e.g., the manner in
which she would deal with John’s letters while looking out into the Garden,
gazing down the Alley to the Old Tree).
She was inspired
by the Moon and Solitude while in the Alley to tarry and then recall mystical directionings
she had experienced earlier in her life. These inspirations helped guide her to
her new life at the pensionnat.
3.
Mysticism and Mystery: As these
directionings occurred in a heightened state, the Alley can be thought of as a
place of mysticism; in the sense of having an experience of Mystery; usually
self-transcending. Whenever she
encounters the Nun, she is in a liminal space with regard to ordinary daily
life; the experience being one of Mystery.
4.
Memory and Recollection are
facilitated by her sojourning in the Forbidden Alley. This can be seen in her experienced
remembering of events back in England (e.g., when she saw the Crescent Moon hanging
over the heath with the lone Thorn Tree atop it, as well as when she was
directed by the Aurora Borealis to leave England.) She later struggles there, in the Alley, with
the memory of John Graham Bretton and their friendship—eventually bidding him adieu.
5.
Friendship; conciliation and reconciliation:
She has dealt with her friendship with John while in the Alley, where
she buried his letters under the Tree, and is at last reconciled to
letting John Bretton go while standing near the Methuselah Tree. She was later invited into friendship
with M Paul in the Alley at the resolution of honest and open dialogues in
which their growing conciliation was ever more fully realized. In those moments of vivid transports that she
remembers while in the Alley near the Old Tree, she experiences – or remembers
experiencing – a re-conciliation with her true self; one in which she is
more evenly balanced between passion and her more quiet self; the self drawn to
solitude.
6.
Self-Discovery and Self-Realization: Having
experienced the mystery of the Nun; whatever or whoever it turns out to be!—the
horizons of her normal world were broadened.
Such experiences often contribute to self-discovery, lifting us
out of the merely ‘obvious’ and ‘ordinary’ dimensions of our everyday lives;
valuable as those are in themselves.
These experiences can be self-revelatory when not suppressed or denied
value (as in reductionist ‘explanations’ that try to merely ‘explain them
away.’) Self-discovery often contributes
to self-realization; which Lucy experiences in ongoing and fortuitous
ways as her story unfolds.
7.
Comfort and Connection: Lucy has
found comfort near the Tree (e.g., especially after burying John’s
letters and then ruminating on her burial of them later in Chapter XXXI). She experiences the comfort of mutual sharing
and self-revelations with M Paul in the Alley, and then a deepening of connection
with him via their mutual admission of having seen the Nun, and then seeing
it together!
These are the main themes I see at
this point connected to the Garden—Tree—Alley complex in Villette. If you see any others, please feel free to
enlighten me.
Thank you for reading and travelling
with me through these texts.
And so, at long last, Adieu, mes amis!
-
Montague Whitsel
finis
Epilogue
“Knowing me thoroughly now—all my antecedents, all my
responsibilities—having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?”
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?”
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answer
him; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_
friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit—a cold, distant hope—a
sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger I at once felt (or
_thought_ I felt) its support like that of some rock.
-
Charlotte Brontë Villette, Chapter XXXV,
“Fraternity”(¶s 89 – 92)
[1]
This is one of the few places where an allusion to there being a tempter in the
Garden – as in many mythic and sacred Gardens, including Eden – in Villette. Once you understand the nature and identity
of the Nun, it becomes a little more obvious how the Nun could be like the
Serpent in the Garden, but I have not analyzed this in the body of the blog as
it is an undeveloped theme. It may be a
reading-in on my part; not something present in the text. What do you think?
[2]
I can clearly see the ringing of the bell as bringing an end to the haunting by
the Nun. If you know the rest of the
story, perhaps you may understand why!
[3]
We will never know. I have not found these questions answered by Lucy anywhere
in the rest of her narrative. If you
have, I would be glad to know the ‘chapter and paragraph.’
