#Lucy Snowe

[who-do-i-know-this-man]

⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️

[adobongsiopao]

Judy Parfitt as Lucy Snowe from "Villette" 1970 TV adaptation version on BBC.

[wolfliet]

DM will be for the copley girls who are the villette girls that understood m paul forcefeeding lucy coffee and cake was a marriage proposal

[must4rds33d]

villette by charlotte brontë / evening star by andré édouard marty / star by mitski / bright star by john keats

[coeurdeverre82]

[marlboroughmills]

i'm losing it bc the way everyone in m. paul's circle insists he will forever, in spirit, be married to justine marie, and will therefore go to his grave unmarried... and he proceeds to depart from lucy and die on a ship called paul et virginie, "paul and virginia." pure and virginal, you say? like a nun, perhaps?

[farosdaughter]

My favorite animal is Lucy when she realised she found M. Paul attractive while watching him help move furniture on the stage after the concert.

[cynosurus]

Hallo, my name is Lucy Snowe.

My hobbies are:

- unrequited love - hating Catholics - embroidery

[lover-praxis]

can't stop thinking ab the devastation and rage lucy feels when john graham misreads her character, how lonely it can be to not be seen

[montaguewhitsel]

I have been engaged in a re-reading of Villette for the last couple months, and hope to start posting blogs on the character of Lucy Snowe, from chapter to chapter, seeking clues to her personality and life-history. In the midst of this re-reading I started reading a book by Barry Qualles who indicates something very different about Lucy's state-of-life at the end of the novel than I had experienced. Here is a blog about Qualles' book -- The Secular Pilgrims of Victorian Literature -- and the end of Villette.

[who-do-i-know-this-man]

⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️

[adobongsiopao]

Photo op Judy Parfitt as Lucy and Mona Bruce as Madame Beck in the lost BBC TV adaptation of "Villette" 1970 version.

[must4rds33d]

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. 'May one trust her word?' 'Are you negotiating a matter of importance?' 'She wishes me to engage her as bonne or gouvernante; tells a tale full of integrity, but gives no reference.' 'She is a stranger?' 'An Englishwoman, as one may see.' 'She speaks French?' 'Not a word.' 'She understands it?' 'No.' 'One may then speak plainly in her presence?' 'Doubtless.' He gazed steadily. 'Do you need her services?' 'I could do with them. You know I am disgusted with Madame Svini.' Still he scrutinised. The judgment, when it at last came, was as indefinite as what had gone before it.

Villette, Chapter VII

[currer-bell-1816]

Jane Eyre 🤝 Jo March 🤝 Lucy Snowe 🤝 Mary Garth

[eversnark]

Was every Victorian incredibly faceblind or is Lucy Snowe just special

[mxcottonsocks]

"Wreck" in Villette:

[Below cut for spoilers]

Chapter 4:

On quitting Bretton, [...] 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?

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 overboard, 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.

Chapter 41:

Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does he purpose to come? Will this day—will the next hour bring him? or must I again assay that corroding pain of long attent—that rude agony of rupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at once uprooting hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does the violence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes her barrier!

It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boarders and teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a long walk into the country to take their goûter, or afternoon meal, at some farm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained ere the Paul et Virginie must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance, as the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.

Chapter 42:

And now the three years are past: M. Emanuel’s return is fixed. [...] [...] [...] The skies hang full and dark—a wrack 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. 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.