There is no inconsistency in this.  Women before now have hidden a soul like a furnace under coldness and unpleasantness, and smothered shrieking nerves under an appearance of apathy.  Lucy Snowe is one of them.  As far as she goes, Lucy at Bretton is profoundly consistent with Lucy in Villette.  It is not Lucy’s volcanic outbreaks in the Pensionnat that do violence to her creator’s original intention.  It is the debasement of Polly and the exaltation of Lucy to her tragic role, the endowment of Lucy with Polly’s rarest qualities, to the utter impoverishment of Pauline de Bassompierre.  Polly in Villette is a mere foil to Lucy.

Having lavished such care and love on Polly, Charlotte Bronte could not possibly have meant to debase her and efface her.  How then did it happen that Polly was debased and Lucy sublimely exalted?

It happened, I think, partly because for the first time Charlotte Bronte created a real living man.  The reality of M. Paul Emanuel was too strong both for Lucy and for Charlotte Bronte.  From the moment when he seized her and dragged her to the garret he made Lucy live as Charlotte Bronte had never contemplated her living.  He made her live to the utter exclusion and extinction of Pauline de Bassompierre.

And “the despotic little man” dominates the book to an extent that Charlotte never contemplated either.  Until the storm carried him out of her sight, she was, I think, unaware of his dominion.  Dr. John was her hero.  She told Mr. George Smith, his prototype, that she intended him for the most beautiful character in the book (which must have been very gratifying to Mr. George Smith).  He was the type she needed for her purpose.  But he does not “come off”, if only for the reason that she is consciously preoccupied with him.  Dr. John was far more of an obsession to her than this little man, Paul Emanuel, who was good enough for Lucy Snowe.  Pauline de Bassompierre was to be finished and perfected to match the high finish and perfection of Dr. John.  Yet neither Pauline nor Dr. John “came off”.  Charlotte Bronte cared too much for them.  But for Paul Emanuel she did not care.  He comes off in a triumph of the detached, divinely free “Creative Impulse”.

Charlotte, with all her schemes, is delivered over to her genius from the moment when Lucy settles in Villette.  To Charlotte’s inexperience Brussels was a perfect hotbed for the germs of the real.  That, I think, can be admitted without subscribing to the view that it was anything more.  Once in the Pensionnat, Lucy entered an atmosphere of the most intense reality.  From that point onward the book is literally inspired by the sense of atmosphere, that sense to which experience brings the stuff to work on.  All Charlotte’s experience and her suffering is there, changed, intensified, transmuted to an experience and a suffering which were not hers.

This matured sense of actuality is shown again in the drawing of the minor characters.  There is a certain vindictiveness about the portrait of Ginevra Fanshawe, a touch of that fierce, intolerant temper that caused Blanche Ingram to be strangled by the hands of her creator.  Ginevra is not strangled.  She lives splendidly; she flourishes in an opulence of detail.