Lucy Snowe, a plain -looking, quiet, 23-year- old, intelligent woman, in need of money, and help, ( stating it mildly) she has no family left in England, in an era, before Victoria, came to the throne, her godmother, Mrs. Bretton, who lived in a small town, ironically named Bretton, has moved to colossal London , with her handsome son John Graham, no way to find the widow there. Still Lucy is not without skill, she is a capable, resourceful, nevertheless almost destitute lady, gathering all her few pitiful coins , and decides boldly, to cross the English Channel , to seek fortune there, in a foreign land... mad or brilliant idea, the future will tell. Arriving in the exciting, prosperous, glamorous, capital city of Villette , (Brussels, Belgium) searching for lodging in a recommended inn, she stumbles among the thick dark , the black gloom, unlighted, ominous roads and shadows, agitated, lost...some unknown men following...coming to a rather peculiar house...knocking ...the door finally opens... This is Madame Beck's school, for girls, and the owner, very shrewd, an attractive widow, in her late 30's, wants an Englishwoman to take care of her three little, precious daughters, luckily Lucy gets the job, but first the unpleasant dismissal, of the current holder of the position, an alcoholic lady, who drank one too many bottles. In a short time, another great, unexpected opportunity, unfolds, the English teacher, doesn't show up for work, Madame Beck is not happy, this has occurred too often , the owner of the prestigious establishment, is strict, unforgiving, and the lazy teacher will be the same soon, (unhappy) dragging the petrified Lucy, into the classroom, full of young, intimidating , girls and says teach...sink or swim...she floats. The new teacher slowly begins to feel comfortable, a natural instructor, has ability, the students no longer are frightening. She begins to notice a professor, M.Paul Emanuel, Madame Beck's extremely knowledgeable cousin, a ferocious man , all around him , they are scared of, ( make that terrified ) little in stature, but big in power. Lucy becomes quite sick, the school's regular doctor is away, a young English physician treats her, at his home, and seems familiar, so does the furniture...yes, it's John Graham Bretton, and his mother, her godmother, the lonely woman has friends now. More acquaintances, from her youth, found in Villette, little, sweet, Polly Home, the six- year- old who lived in Mrs.Bretton's house, a short time, and her rich father, also, is now 17, a countess, with new names, de Bassompierre, inherited from aristocratic relatives on the continent...Love will complicate life, as it will do forever, these people fall , an arise , seek new partners , the eternal, bumpy journey in search of the unreachable, happiness, contentment is it an illusion?..Yet the trek will go on and on. Charlotte Bronte's, second best book, some heretics say her masterpiece, but they are in the minority...

I cry in anguish, "Oh Villette, Villette, Villette!"It was a feeling that came upon me as I read this novel; the palpable feeling ofThe cold grey storms of the fall and winter, the relentless building winds, the rain pounding against the windowthose dark and dreary days of lonelinessall of the losses have brought you a smothering and almost overwhelming mantle of grief. You see, and write of, the Love around you, but feel the throbbing ache, day after day, night after night, of never receiving Love in return.I lost count of the tears that fell as I read your account, Miss Lucy Snowe; or, should I call you, Miss Charlotte?This novel, this Villette, like an arrow fletched fair, flew true, oh so true, and pierced your beating heart; and from that mortal wound poured the secrets of your soul, your inner-most being; laid bare for all to see. The incalculable loss of your older sisters, then Branwell, your dearest Emily, and finally quiet little Anne. This towering testament to loneliness, to sorrow, swept me, your Reader, relentlessly through the unimagined torrent of your human emotionsyour grief, your fears, your reserved passion, your quiet grace, steadfast loyalty, and your resolute strength and faith.I felt guilty as I read, Little Woman, looking over my shoulder at every pause; afraid that you should find me picking the lock of your secret diary; spellbound as I turned the pages, one after the other, reading your most intimate, personal, and painful thoughts and the passionate feelings that poured forth onto the page. Intensely captivated by the dialog between your Passion and your Reason, the conversations between your Imagination and your Matter; but I read on. Until it became too much; I averted my eyes, and I wept.As I sit here, writing these words, I am absolutely overwhelmed. I dont know that I have ever read a book that has moved me quite like Charlotte Brontes final novel, Villette. A timeless and moving experience from its first words, to its final Farewell. I am without words, Little Woman. I know this though, Miss Lucy Snowe, Miss Charlotte Bronte, I shall Love you always.In tribute to the commitment you made to all who have read, or will read, this personal Testament of yours over the ages, may your own words prove propheticProof of a life to come must be given. In fire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and in blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins, look upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in friendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretches the way for most of us; equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our banner. For staff we have His promise, whose word is tried, whose way is perfect: for present hope His providence, who gives the shield of salvation, whose gentleness makes great; for final home His bosom, who dwells in the height of Heaven; for crowning prize a glory, exceeding and eternal.Farewell, Little Woman, fare thee well.

This book is better than Jane Eyre, guys. This is where Charlotte Bronte shows her real brilliance. I hovered between giving this two stars and four for about half the book because I really wasn't sure what was going on beneath the surface. But then I figured out that I was stupid and didn't see half of the things that Charlotte Bronte had done. She's brilliant. Her narrator is completely unreliable. She's a tease. She withholds. She doesn't tell us the lines we wish most to hear. She deals with feelings that should have fulsome paragaphs in oblique, obscuring half sentences. Fulsome paragraphs are written on subjects that one would not think of as half so important to a ladies' novel. The nature of God, the debate between Protestantism and Catholicism, Truth and Lies, the worst faults of humankind. These are all dealt with. She's also able to switch focuses, from far away observation, as if she is telling a fairy tale, to a prose that is close and intimately involved. Existentialist thoughts wind through here, religious rebellion against the existence of God, liberation of women.. a lot of things that a woman in 1853 probably shouldn't have been writing about.Lucy Snowe, the main character and narrator, has her faults. You will want to wring her neck. Not only for what she teases us with, but what she says. Her always forebearing attitude, her martyrdom. The sense of how impressed with herself she is at times, all her protestations to the contrary. Secretly holding herself rather above the company, to steal a line from another famous female. But let's also remember that Jane Eyre isn't all that likeable for most of the book either. Lucy is as difficult to like.The end is fascinating. To give away just a little bit of the book, she does not get the ending that one expects from Romantic books. The ending is a question mark. The reader can make of it what they will. She has no illusions, but we can have ours. Her happiness is completely different: solitary, alone, quiet... it provides a fascinating read though a feminist lens. I'd say the end has a bit of a message like 'A Room of One's Own,' but decades earlier, and with an appropriate veil. Interesting to note, the same male enabler is necessary, but it meets with a different end here.Happiness is not what one thinks it is. I really do have to warn that this novel is about repression and oppression and it reads like it too. The breaks out of this endless cycle are few and far between. It can be difficult to trudge through, as difficult as it is for Lucy to make it through. I made it by figuring out how Charlotte Bronte was playing with the reader, though. Pay attention to details. She will mention them and perhaps explain them chapters later, but not connect them for us. Victorian conventions are satirized gently and taken to task. I believe Charlotte Bronte is somewhat taking herself to task for believing the ridiculous things that women were encouraged to indulge in.... and I've just noticed that I wrote this review sounding rather like a silly victorian writer. Oops.