This is very long, but I think it will be helpful. I will be recording it (with some ad-libs) for my podcast, Dialogues with Creators, which anyone coming to this page should search out at https://rss.com/podcasts/dialogues-with-creators/?_gl=1*1dnvopu*_gcl_au*MTM4MDA5MTYzMi4xNzg1NDYyOTA1
Several years ago, the daughter of a friend mentioned (she was a late teenager at the time) that she had been reading Pride and Prejudice but that it was so hard to read. I understood what she meant, and I reminded her it was written two hundred years before. Acceptable (for literature and general purposes) sentence structure, grammar, and vocabulary have changed a great deal. But I realized that she had been led astray, somewhat, by film adaptations of the novel. The Keira Knightley one is greatly edited down, and the 1995 one, (the Colin Firth, Jennifer Ehle one) which pretty much portrays every scene, is so well acted and filmed that it makes the plot and wit clear. I still think Jennifer Ehle is the perfect Lizzy Bennett. Interesting sidelight; her mother is Rosemary Harris, a British actress, and her father is a North Carolina novelist, John Ehle, so she understands both side of the “pond” as they say. Jennifer was raised in North Carolina.
But that’s a side note. I would say the same experience as caught my young friend happens when young readers go from film adaptations of Jane Eyre, the subject of this podcast essay, to the actual text. I recently went through the same adjustment as I listened to the audio book of and read the text of Jane Eyre, which I had read at least three times before, many years ago. Keep in mind I am in my eighth decade of life. In short, I’m old, as I often say. I have watched many adaptations and none of them can include all the scenes and nuances of the text; however, I am shocked by how much they either change/collapse/or omit key dialogic passages and totally omit some of the key scenes and portions related to the themes and arc of the novel, specifically, but not exclusively, about St. John Rivers and his sisters.
ST. John, pronounced SinJon by the Brits and I’ll do that although it sounds so weird to my American ears, is not an odd duck that shows up toward the end and wants to marry Jane Eyre. He is a counterpoint to the gothic Byronic personage of Rochester, whom she loves but cannot marry; whom she values but is betrayed by. In this last reading, and as an older woman, I saw very clearly that while this is a love story on the surface, it is really about something else. Partially it is about how men try to have power over women or do have that power even when it is not their first thought, and how women must decide to balance that power by their own strength of character.
Secondly, the book is far more Christian throughout. That might be why the St. John Rivers’ part is often downplayed, because there is so much Scripture and theology discussed and meditated on, by Jane herself in particular, that it would make secularists uncomfortable. Jane does not reject SinJon because of his faith and mission; she shares it, to a certain extent. She rejects him because of his personality and lack of love for her and people in general.
In this latest reading, I became so much more aware of the literary aspects rather than just the plot points of the book, and how the novel stands apart from other novels by females in that century, particularly Jane Austen’s “mannered comedies,” Wuthering Heights by Charlotte’s sister, Emily (which has no Christian spirituality whatsoever from my readings), and Middlemarch, which I am reading through now. Middlemarch is definitely the most difficult to read and probably is the better literary work because of its complexity and expansiveness (lots more plot, subplots, etc.). I will probably do a podcast on that one when I finish it, which will probably be months for now as it is very slow reading and very long. Jane Eyre is linear, only one point of view, and the main plot covers only a couple of years (excluding the early childhood parts).
In contrast to Jane Austen, there is no irony in Jane Eyre, unless I am too obtuse to see it. That is not to say there is no fictional deception; there is plenty. I just mean that Jane does not engage in witty dialogue; she is “plain,” in manner, looks, and speech. She says what she means, does not try to be clever, and only teases a bit right before her disastrous wedding ceremony with Rochester. Jane’s direct (although highly literate) speech gets her in trouble frequently, with Mr. Brocklehurst, her vicious Aunt Reed, her cousins, and with Rochester. Jane the character and her straightforwardness is one matter, however. Charlotte Bronte the writer is another.
In contrast to her sister’s work, Wuthering Heights, the Gothic elements, in this case the spookiness and secrets, the Byronic type hero, and the massive, mysterious house, are there but not as overwhelming and they do not “win” in the end, so to speak. The spooky element—that is, Bertha Mason, the powerful, anti-social rich man, Rochester, and the foreboding house—are transformed in the end to, well, a corpse (not really fair to her), to a blind man with one useful hand, and a pile of ruins. The people and their souls remained, to be redeemed spiritually; everything else burns. Definitely Biblical. No one in Wuthering Heights is worried about their soul’s salvation, except maybe Joseph the servant.
In regard to Middlemarch, which I am not in a position to review yet, I would say that we start with a very rich but idealistic young woman who desires to marry a much older cleric and scholar. Some similarity with Jane, but Jane is as poor as the literal church mouse and needs a job. She is not drawn to Rochester because of his great intellect which somewhat deceives her in the end. But she does find herself in power to him, so the power imbalance despite her money comes into play, by her own choice. Middlemarch also has a very intertwined plot, and I would say, is written in a prose style I do not prefer to Charlotte Bronte’s. In both cases they do some of that Victorian overwroughtness of language, say, “unclose the door” instead of “open it.” George Eliot’s tone is also more wry throughout, as if she’s saying behind her hand, Dorothea really is making a dumb choice. Eliot also uses a point of view stance that we might call “head hopping” if it weren’t acceptable back then. It’s omniscient third person narrator.
The title page says, “Jane Eyre, An Autobiography, Edited by Currer Bell.” We start with a lie. If fiction is the lie that tells the truth, this is really getting at it through the back door. First, I don’t buy that saying and have written about it elsewhere. Fiction is not a lie in the first place because the receivers walk into the act of fiction (that is, reading) knowing it’s not true, so there is no deception. Second, not all fiction tells the truth. Perhaps good fiction does; I hope mine does, but it is up to the reader again to discern that truth and process it. There is a sense, I suppose, in which the saying that fiction is a lie that tells the truth is correct, but it’s one of those statements that needs some pedantic definitions and exclusions and caveats that make me want to just discard it.
I would say that fiction is an act of the imagination that tells a certain kind of truth. Yes, a bit pedantic, but as a fiction writer I use my imagination, not my deceptive bent. So, anyway, back to the title page of Jane Eyre. First, it’s not an autobiography, although it has autobiographical elements. I think maybe more than we want to admit if we like Charlotte’s work.
You can watch some good videos on You Tube or read any number of sources if you want to know more about the Brontes, whom I find interesting. Don’t go too much by the old movie with Olivia deHavilland and Ida Lupino about them, Devotion. Although it’s well done, it’s not entirely truthful and leaves out what we know now about the terribly toxic water in their town of Haworth, which ended in their unhealthy and short lives, including blindness for their father and Charlotte. That movie is a lot about the jealousy between Emily and Charlotte, their lives in Belgium, and their brother Branwell, who was a frustrated, starving artist and addict and quite a bit of trouble for all of them. The title Devotion seems to be about their codependent relationship with him. Emily was as wild as Catherine Earnshaw, and a wonderful poet who did not want her poems published. I was quite surprised when I read them, because they are far more like Emily Dickinson and even more modern than that than like early Victorian poems. Sister Anne was a well know writer, too, although she has not gained Charlotte’s and Emily’s fame, and all of the sisters wrote more than one book.
However, as is known, women writers did not get the kind of acceptance they should have in the 1840s, so they chose to write under the names Currer Bell (Charlotte), Ellis Bell (Emily), and Acton Bell (Ann). Note that the title page of Jane Eyre says “edited by Currer Bell,” not written by, since it couldn’t be an autobiography of a woman if the author is male. As to the autobiographical elements, Emily and Charlotte went to Belgium to learn French and teach in a school; Charlotte fell in love with the headmaster, Constantin Heger, whose wife really ran the school (therefore, a governess falling in love with a “powerful” but unavailable man because of an existing wife. The wife in question was considered quite a difficult person, so Charlotte could get back at her by portraying her as mad and vicious in her imagination).
Despite the claim to be an autobiography, the first paragraph starts like a novel. First person is used as an autobiography would expect to, but there is often a lack of facts, such as real place names and dates, so the pretense of an autobiography falls away.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.
In the opening paragraph we also are introduced to a subtheme—the weather. The harsh weather conditions of Northern England (we presume, as it is not clearly stated) and the moors is a character in the story. I’ve always wondered about the moors, but we can think of them as land with few trees, good for shepherding but not growing crops, open and windswept places in more than one part of England. There are some near York (closer to Scottish border) and on the West side. The moors have been invested with a lot of creepiness and malevolence in the Brontes’ work and Sherlock Holmes because they are expansive, isolated, rugged, and not settled. Jane Eyre is a lot about the cold, the wind, the rain.
We encounter Mrs. Reed’s name—not aunt Reed or something else—who must have money because she calls the shots and the world of the house revolves around her. This is considered one of the best opening lines in literature because we are dunked right into the cold and loveless world of . . . somebody.
I am going to work through the plot because although many people may think they know it, they actually know the movies and BBC versions. Although I really like the Ruth Wilson/Toby Jackson one, it gets a lot wrong or leaves it out, even changing dialogue unnecessarily. The film adaptations are so focused on the “sexual tension” of the main couple that the bigger picture is missed.
We find out that the narrator is a little girl about ten who has lost both parents. Let’s stop here: This is probably the first book with a child narrator, although that is not entirely true. The narrator is writing as an adult, and saying it is a full story of her life. But a large part of it is from the perspective of a child, and that is unusual at that time. Nowadays we are used to it, and Dickens used it.
This little girl’s father was a poor clergyman and her mother came from a higher class. Jane Eyre is living with her aunt by marriage, Mrs. Reed, whose husband, Jane’s aunt, has also died. The Eyres don’t seem long-lived, which did happen in the Victorian era and in the Bronte’s household, since Charlotte’s mother and oldest two siblings were already dead by the time she was nine herself. Her uncle, Mr. Reed, had loved his sister and wanted her only child taken care of after his death, but his wife is not interested and literally hates the child because of jealousy and well, she’s just a terrible person. Her own three children are cruel, especially the son John, an abusive bully.
An excerpt:
All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still “her own darling.” I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.
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Jane depends on the servants for any emotional nourishment, although they could use some improvement in that area. She is put in “the red room” for punishment and traumatized; it is where her uncle died. Mrs. Reed wants to get rid of her and sends her to a charity school run by a Mr. Brocklehurst, also an abusive bully but able to do it under the guise of religion. What is interesting is that ten-year-old Jane says what she thinks. She has learned that good or bad, she is treated the same by the Reeds and she is being sent away, so she tells Mrs. Reed she will tell everyone how cruel they are.
Jane is swept up and taken to school one night without much preparation. Jane and the other girls are treated horribly and there is a epidemic that leads to the death of Jane’s only friend, Helen Burns, and others. After that, the school comes under scrutiny and conditions get better, so Jane is able to get a good education there and make friends despite great loneliness and no family connections. She is considered fit to be a teacher or governess, pretty much the only job other than shopkeeping for a woman of a higher but poorer class, better than service or mill work.
Helen Burns is a quiet, longsuffering child of deep Christian belief who patiently teaches Jane that she must undergo trials to perfect her character. Her death, I think, transform Jane from the passionate, I’ll tell you what I think to a model of decorum, quiet, studious, but with all her passions suppressed. Jane can play the part well but there is a war going on inside.
Jane is always described as “small,” my conclusion being that she is malnourished and her growth stunted. Toward the end of the book when she is contemplating going to India as a missionary, her cousins predict she would die in six months. But Jane has an iron will. The cruelty of her years with the Reeds and in the school do not destroy her will or spirit, although as Rochester says later, those years caused her to suppress herself, to act more humbly than she felt, to speak in a low voice. The ramrod strong will is tied to a strong moral compass. Jane is willing to suffer for her principles, even a bit excessively at times. Suffering isn’t a big deal for her; she’s used to it. This tension between suffering and pleasure is another theme.
An excerpt from the novel:
“Now,” thought I, “I can perhaps get her to talk.” I sat down by her on the floor.
“What is your name besides Burns?”
“Helen.”
“Do you come a long way from here?”
“I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland.”
“Will you ever go back?”
“I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future.”
“You must wish to leave Lowood?”
“No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it would be of no use going away until I have attained that object.”
“But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you?”
“Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults.”
“And if I were in your place I should dislike her; I should resist her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should break it under her nose.”
“Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school; that would be a great grief to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will extend to all connected with you; and besides, the Bible bids us return good for evil.”
“But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to stand in the middle of a room full of people; and you are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could not bear it.”
“Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear.”
I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance; and still less could I understand or sympathise with the forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season.
“You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very good.”
“Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss Scatcherd said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons; I have no method; and sometimes I say, like you, I cannot bear to be subjected to systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular.”
“And cross and cruel,” I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my addition: she kept silence.
“Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?”
At the utterance of Miss Temple’s name, a soft smile flitted over her grave face.
“Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one, even the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells me of them gently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my meed liberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that even her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influence to cure me of my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most highly, cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight.”
“That is curious,” said I, “it is so easy to be careful.”
“For you I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your class this morning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never seemed to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you. Now, mine continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss Scatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, often I lose the very sound of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream. Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland, and that the noises I hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook which runs through Deepden, near our house;—then, when it comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened; and having heard nothing of what was read for listening to the visionary brook, I have no answer ready.”
“Yet how well you replied this afternoon.”
“It was mere chance; the subject on which we had been reading had interested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I was wondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what a pity it was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had but been able to look to a distance, and see how what they call the spirit of the age was tending! Still, I like Charles—I respect him—I pity him, poor murdered king! Yes, his enemies were the worst: they shed blood they had no right to shed. How dared they kill him!”
Helen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not very well understand her—that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject she discussed. I recalled her to my level.
“And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then?”
“No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something to say which is newer than my own reflections; her language is singularly agreeable to me, and the information she communicates is often just what I wished to gain.”
“Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?”
“Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as inclination guides me. There is no merit in such goodness.”
“A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is all I ever desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who are cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own way: they would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow worse and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should—so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.”
“You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are but a little untaught girl.”
“But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do to please them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me unjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved.”
“Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and civilised nations disown it.”
“How? I don’t understand.”
“It is not violence that best overcomes hate—nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury.”
“What then?”
“Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He acts; make His word your rule, and His conduct your example.”
“What does He say?”
“Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that hate you and despitefully use you.”
“Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I should bless her son John, which is impossible.”
In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith to pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or softening.
Interestingly, in doing a little research on Charlotte Bronte, I found out that she herself was tiny, maybe 5’1” and underweight and quiet. She was not known for being sociable or witty once she became a well known author after she revealed herself as the author of Jane Eyre, which was incredibly well received when it came out. In her letters and diary-type writings she is not so much witty but brutally honest, even about her husband whom she married in the last year of her life at 38.
I see this in Jane, but Jane Eyre almost never speaks ill of anyone. She keeps her negative or critical opinions to herself for most of the book in terms of dialogue, and reveals them in her first person narrative only with humility and references to herself that are also critical. As to her looks, she is not proud or too concerned about being “plain,” and fair. The supposed rival from later in the book, Blanche Ingram, is almost always played by a statuesque blonde (think Elle McPherson) but she is not that way in the book. She is statuesque but dark, with jet black hair (as is Bertha Mason, the mad wife). Worse, Blanche, who takes up much more of the book than films, is not a nice person and mistreats Adele, Rochester’s ward, who is probably only 7, or 8 at the most but is often portrayed by an older child.
The early period at Lowood, what a name, is not defined. Jane only says that she is at Lowood for eight years, from ten to eighteen, six as a student and two as a teacher. It is dismal, cold, demoralizing, with no sense of Christian grace but plenty of religious guilt and punishment. Later Rochester remarks that it is amazing she survived it, so it had an abysmal reputation and is based on a bad boarding school the Bronte girls attended and where two of Charlotte sisters died.
Helen Burns is the suffering saint, whose death brings some redemption to Jane and the school. If Helen can get through it, Jane can. Charlotte herself did not spend much time at the boarding school but wanted, with her sisters, to start their own in the parsonage. Bringing more children into the toxic, polluted Haworth was not a good idea and maybe why the idea never really materialized. Or maybe the three Bronte sisters were not well liked. I can see why they wouldn’t have been. Biographers write of their living in literary fantasy worlds they created.
At eighteen, Jane knows she should leave Lowood, especially after her mentor Miss Temple is married, and she advertises to be a governess. Interesting how the English language demeans the female: a governor is a political figure with power; a governess takes care of the education of a couple of children. She accepts a job for one child at an estate in Yorkshire, which is the north of England. A little side note here. I went to England my first time in 1997. It’s a long story, but I ended up spending four days by myself, kicking around the island thanks to BritRail. I went from Cambridge to Yorkshire and back one long day, and Cambridge to Edinburgh then up to Aberdeen on a two-day trip. Again, long before smart phones. So I got to see that part of the world. It was cold and windy in late March I remember, with what seemed like a constant, haunted gale off the North Sea.
After a long carriage ride, she arrives at Thornfield Hall (what a name) and soon meets the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax. Her name is odd because the “master,” Mr. Rochester, has Fairfax as his middle name, but I don’t believe that connection is explained. She also meets Adele, the French child she is to take care of, and like any educated woman, Jane speaks French. So her new life starts. It seems Jane has found a home, of sorts, and pay, and a purpose. End of story.
Oh, no. Mr. Rochester is away, as usual, and is not expected. He can come and go as he pleases; he has like 30,000 pounds or some amount that is considered very wealthy and he has other homes even outside of the country. He wants for nothing, and lives that way. Later we learn his father was avaricious and money driven and that his older brother died, making him the heir. Secondly, Jane feels something strange is going on at the massive home, even though she loves the freedom she has, her student, access to the library, and the available land for walks and forays into nature.
In the winter she encounters a stranger on the road one evening (keep in mind evening is 4:00 in northern England in the winter) and frightens his horse. He is rude to her, she helps him get on his horse, and he goes on. He has, of course, a dog, Pilot. I like any story where a dog is a main character. Later, of course, she is called to meet the master and realizes they are the same person. Thus begins their relationship. He puts her down for her schoolgirl ways but likes to talk to her, as she is intelligent, reasonable for a woman, and responsible. His background with women has not been full of women like her. They are either rich society women or, well, something considered close to prostitutes at the time.
About one half of the book, I would say, is about her year or so at Thornfield Hall and their coming into love; there is no falling. There is passion, but no falling. It is about growing. Unfortunately, a shadow stretches over the house. There are wild laughs in the night. A figure comes into her room; someone sets Rochester’s bed on fire. This gets explained away, rather weakly, as the odd habits of a servant named Grace Poole, who is very good at what she does but has episodes. Whether Jane really believes this, well, we can’t know, but she goes with it.
Rochester is not the most pleasant of men, and this is where modern readers have some qualms with the book, as I do. I don’t know if Charlotte Bronte foresaw that her insistence on female equality would bring us to a time when her main love interest character is seen more as a brute than a Byronic hero, but there you are. Historian and critic Lord Macaulay described the character of the Byronic hero as "a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection".[2] This is a good way to start with Rochester. This is what we see at first and for quite a bit. He messes with Jane, saying he is going to marry eventually, meaning her, but giving no indication that he is attracted to her that way. It would be out of the question anyway. Rich men weren’t supposed to marry below their class, and the hope of marriage was love plus a good alliance. Either a title or more money and lands. Sometimes the alliance, at least in literature, overwhelmed the need for love. Jane feels more and more affection and desire for him but does not show anything except to be a friend. Rochester shows more interest in her than is socially acceptable and wants her around when company are there.
Because he is a wealthy landowner, Rochester is expected to entertain and be entertained, and he returns from an absence in the spring with a cadre of other gentry, the Ingrams and two other families. This is a time for parties, dinner, rides, games, and flirtations. Blanche Ingram, her mother, brother, and sister, are the stars of the show. The son gets the money, so the girls need to marry well. Everything seems to point to Rochester and Blanche. The guests and Rochester perform Tableaus that are a form of charades. They dress in wedding attire and Blanche is the bride to Rochester’s groom, and the others guess “Bride”. The second scene is Rachel providing water for Eleazar’s camels in Genesis, the answer being “well.” Which makes the final answer to the puzzle, Bridewell. That is odd, because it’s an historical prison in London. Why did Charlotte pick that, or have Rochester and friends pick it? Because marriage to Blanche would be a prison—for both of them.
Blanche reveals herself to be anti-governness, anti lower classes, anti-Adele, and anti being a decent person. Rochester plays the part. In a chapter that is usually left out, Rochester sets up a deception by pretending to be a gypsy who comes to the house to tell fortunes. The servant is in on it and plays his part, too, bringing the females in for their fortunes. Blanche comes out, in a major tiff, one might say, because clearly her fortune has not made her happy. Three other young women have fun with it, and since Rochester knows them, he can make them believe in his “fortunes.” Finally Jane is called in, although she is not a guest, and after messing with her some more, Rochester reveals himself. She is amused partly but annoyed partly, and wondering about Blanche. Jane has already assumed she will be leaving, Adele will be sent to school, and Rochester will marry. He has said as much, so Jane must advertise to get a new job, which is her main concern, understandably: a place to live and work as a governess. But he tells her to wait.
By now she is full in love with him but knows it’s pointless and she will live a life of unrequited love. This is where the reader is emotionally involved and in a sense deceived along with Jane, and then full of joy when Rochester, through a tortuously long conversation, asks her to marry him. This takes place a little while after the guests all leave. They are deliriously happy. Mrs. Fairfax is—not so much, but it’s because she can’t believe it and it’s a violation of class rules. Plus, Jane is not a great beauty. Actually, Rochester is not considered great looking either, and Jane implies he is not handsome when she first meets him.
They are to be married, but already things about the manor house have gotten weird and they are only going to get weirder. So we need to step back to before the engagement to set the scene.
First: A “stranger” shows up while the guests are there, the day that Rochester plays the gypsy. His name is Mason. Jane reveals his presence to Rochester after he stops playing the gypsy game. Rochester is not happy but doesn’t explain why. Later that evening, Rochester knocks on her door and needs her help. He takes Jane to the third floor tower where Grace Poole stays—she is a seamstress in her official job. Mason has been stabbed and is bleeding heavily. Jane has to stay with him and keep the bleeding compressed. She is forbidden to talk to Mason and does her job. Later she is told Grace Poole stabbed him and had had too much to drink and has episodes.
Jane is altogether too credulous about this but does question it. Her infatuation with Rochester seems to make her blind to the lack of logic here—why keep a servant who stabs people, gets drunk, and roams the halls making noises, setting fires? Jane’s spidey sense seems to be off, way off, for someone who is otherwise so logical and critically thinking. Rochester runs to town (well, on his horse) to get a “surgeon” who can take care of Mason, presumably sow him up, and take him away.
The next day or so Jane gets a letter that the horrible woman who sent her to Lowood, her Aunt Reed, is on her death bed. This is one of those Victorian diseases. The woman’s son, Jane’s horrible cousin John, had accidentally killed himself and Aunt Reed has gone off her noodle, presumably it is a stroke or nervous breakdown, and she is not long for this world. Jane will go there for as long as it takes, which ends up being a month. This takes a long time in the book and is often underplayed in films, but it is highly important. First, Jane is not giving this woman any undue mercy. The woman does want to confess something to Jane, a secret she has kept from her, but she is not interested in blubbering about how sorry she was for her ill treatment of a child. Jane tries to forgive. The secret is that Mrs. Reed’s husband had a brother, also the brother of Jane’s father, and he wanted to adopt Jane. He had ended up being successful in business in Spain and wanted to make amends to her. The truth was that he had gone into a business deal with her father and caused him to lose his money. John Eyre had written to Mrs. Reed, assuming Jane was there, and Mrs. Reed had never passed it on. Jane receives the letter, and this does not put her into any better feelings about the vicious aunt by marriage. Also, the two daughters are quite a pair. One is a socialite, the other extremely religious and wanted to become a nun in France, even though the family is not Catholic (it’s kind of a “I’m going to try it out). The socialite was involved with a wealthy man and looked like she would marry him and do well, but a rumor got started that ruined her chances. “come to find out” as they say in the South, the nun sister started the rumor. So those two were condemned to their sad ways. They are not as mean as their mother but do not treat Jane like a cousin. Their mother and wealth have been their downfall.
Jane returns to Rochester, they profess their love in a dramatic scene that does bring tears to eyes, and are engaged.
End of part 1.
Part 2:
I would like to read the scene where Rochester proposes.
An excerpt:
“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?—a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”
“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester—“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!”
“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married man—or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you—to one with whom you have no sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you—let me go!”
“Where, Jane? To Ireland?”
“Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”
“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”
Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.
“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”
“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”
“I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”
“For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.”
“Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too.”
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away—away—to an indefinite distance—it died. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said—
“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”
“I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.”
“But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry.”
I was silent: I thought he mocked me.
“Come, Jane—come hither.”
“Your bride stands between us.”
He rose, and with a stride reached me.
“My bride is here,” he said, again drawing me to him, “because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?”
Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous.
“Do you doubt me, Jane?”
“Entirely.”
“You have no faith in me?”
“Not a whit.”
“Am I a liar in your eyes?” he asked passionately. “Little sceptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not—I could not—marry Miss Ingram. You—you strange, you almost unearthly thing!—I love as my own flesh. You—poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are—I entreat to accept me as a husband.”
“What, me!” I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness—and especially in his incivility—to credit his sincerity: “me who have not a friend in the world but you—if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?”
“You, Jane, I must have you for my own—entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.”
“Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to read your countenance—turn!”
“There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.”
His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.
“Oh, Jane, you torture me!” he exclaimed. “With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!”
“How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion—they cannot torture.”
“Gratitude!” he ejaculated; and added wildly—“Jane accept me quickly. Say, Edward—give me my name—Edward—I will marry you.”
“Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?”
“I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”
“Then, sir, I will marry you.”
“Edward—my little wife!”
“Dear Edward!”
“Come to me—come to me entirely now,” said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, “Make my happiness—I will make yours.”
“God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.”
“There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.”
“No—that is the best of it,” he said. And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting—called to the paradise of union—I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, “Are you happy, Jane?” And again and again I answered, “Yes.” After which he murmured, “It will atone—it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God’s tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world’s judgment—I wash my hands thereof. For man’s opinion—I defy it.”
Jane gets weird about money. She doesn’t seem to get how rich Rochester is and that means she has to dress well, wear jewels, travel, and not be difficult about it. She also doesn’t want to step out with him before the marriage, but continue their way of life to that point and still be the governess. Reading that part, I got annoyed with her, thinking, Good grief, live it up! Your life has been so hard. Her rigidity despite her passion for Rochester is frustrating. He wants to lavish her with good clothes and fun, she wants to stay Puritanical. Why?
Jane does have a clear Christian belief, but she also insists on being a free soul, and an equal with Rochester. It doesn’t always seem so since she is so formal with him and calls him “the master,” which is very grating to our ears, but she is not going to kow tow or bend her principles. And that is probably good character development on Charlotte Bronte’s part, because of what comes next.
The night before their wedding, which will be a private affair in the parish church set for early morning—Rochester wants to beat it out of town as soon as the I dos are said, and get on the boat to Europe for a long, long time. The night before, someone comes in her room while she sleeps and tears her wedding veil. Well, that would spook me out, like the stabbing and the wild laughing and the bed put on fire! Still, it’s treated like another one of Grace Poole’s episodes and that’s why they need to go away, right?
This is why the book is called a Gothic novel. The morning comes, they go to the church, and when the pastor asks if anyone knows of an impediment, someone speaks up. It is not, as often shown in the films, Mason, but another man, Briggs, who is a lawyer. But Mason is lurking behind him and in on the procedure. Briggs says the impediment is that Rochester has a living wife who lives in the manor house.
When Richard Mason appears, it is assumed, from the movies, that he is protecting Bertha, his sister. But he is there with a lawyer who also works for John Eyre, and who is concerned about Jane’s marriage to a man who is married already. This is an interesting point: Jane is now no longer orphaned, no longer without family, no longer unconnected. She does not need Rochester for wealth and will receive a large inheritance at some point in her life, but she doesn’t understand everything involved in this. She also doesn’t want Rochester for his wealth (unlike Lizzy Bennet, who confesses that she fell in love fully with Darcy when she saw his estate Pemberly). Jane figures she can take care of herself, an assumption that may not always work out for her. Sort of like, “I got this job as a governess, I’ll get another.” But it’s not that easy.
Rochester says yes, he is married, and takes them to show what he is married to. In the room where Jane took care of Mason, Rochester pull back a tapestry and door where Grace Poole is sitting, watching a being crouched in the corner. It is clad in a white night dress, is quite tall, and has massive, tangled black hair. The woman attacks Rochester and he has to fight her off. They leave and there are long dialogues about what they are going to do, after Jane locks herself in her bedroom for most of the day and grieves without tears.
She is deeply betrayed by Rochester. The reader feels is deeply.
Once she is willing to talk to him, Rochester wants her to move to the south of France, live on an estate there. This is code word for mistress. Even though he says he wants her for her mind and soul, she knows it won’t stay with that and they will be lovers. This also is overlooked in the films. The scenes after the betrayal and the revelation of Bertha Mason is very long, a lot of talk. Rochester confesses to having had other mistresses before. So honestly, why should she expect better? But he also tells how he got roped into the marriage to a madwoman. His older brother and father worked it out, it was an arranged marriage, he barely spoke to her beforehand, she seemed to be beautiful, Rochester didn’t know her mother was a drunkard and mad herself, and a “Creole,” meaning she was not all white, of course a bad sign in itself.
From modern sensibilities, the whole Bertha Mason subplot is problematic. At one level, I find it embarrassing in such a good novel as this, but there are defenses for it. But first, why a problem?
It has racist and chauvinistic overtones. However, the whole book is anti-Catholic and anti-other than England. There are several, several references to “the purity of England” “the fresh, clean English soil and air”, how Adele will be better off in England than in France, and such. That is incredibly ironic when we know that all the Brontes were poisoned by the water in their town.
It also shows a lack of compassion toward mental illness. Although Rochester defends himself about keeping her there because it was better than any asylum available at the time, probably true. The madness supposedly comes from genetics, alcohol, and Bertha’s rapacious sexuality. That is a theme explored in a book I don’t plan to read any time soon but probably should, Wide Sargasso Sea, an alternate telling of the tale from Bertha’s point of view, with Rochester as a monstrous figure. That book is considered feminist and post colonial and well regarded. I can see why someone felt the story should be told.
Bertha is not a real character in Jane Eyre. She is a ghoul, an embodiment of evil, a curse on Rochester and the cause of Jane’s one more experience of unhappiness. But she is a plot device, not a human person. In Rochester’s telling of their background, Bertha doesn’t have a chance. She is a tool of her father to get at Rochester’s money; she has no agency. She has lived in the “tower” for fifteen years at that point, and Rochester is gone most of the time, feeling sorry for himself, trying to find a woman and a good time elsewhere.
Or, that is one reading. Charlotte is more compassionate toward him: She portrays him as a tortured soul because of the deception played on him and the prison of not being able to have a real wife and heirs and happy family life. Supposedly Jane is so far above other women that he is willing to risk being found out, although Grace and some of the servants aren’t as good as keeping secrets as he would think and there are rumors about what happened to his wife from Jamaica. . ..
In Charlotte Bronte’s world, Rochester still must suffer for what he has done, allowed to be done to himself, and has done to Jane.
Jane leaves. A day or two after the failed wedding, she slips out, takes a carriage 36 hours to another part of the country, She misplaces her belongings and spends all her money on the carriage fare. She ends up in Whitcross with nothing. That is the third act of the book, one often shortened in the films but I think very central to the novel and what Bronte is doing. Jane, who has been so about control to this point, has lost control and is reduced to wandering and begging the countryside for three days.
This is a love story, but it is a story about development of Christian virtue and about equality and power. Jane will not succumb to Rochester’s power, no matter what. And she pays for it.
Charlotte does not think much about human nature, based on this section. No one will help Jane. She’s reduced to sleeping on the moors, looks like she is about to fall over, and no one will even speak to her or give her something to eat. In typical Victorian fashion, and in accordance with the overdramatic Gothic nature of the book, she is suffering to extremes again, much like she did under the hands of the Reeds as a child. And also in somewhat melodramatic fashion, when someone finally does agree to help her, pages later we learn they are long-lost first cousins, the Rivers—Diana, Mary, and St. John. Their mother is Jane’s father and uncle’s sister. This is a little too close for comfort to a modern reader, but keep in mind that Charlotte is not dealing in a world of disconnection, but a world of Providence, a world under the sovereignty and justice of God, even when it does not seem so. They are to be her saviors and she theirs. She now truly has family. All this does not come out at first because she tells them her name is Jane Eliot when they take her in, and that only after the brother agrees. Why everyone is so afraid to help a starving nineteen years old woman is odd, other than their remoteness and fear of traveling robbers, and the women are alone with their old servant, who is particularly unyielding to helping Jane.
By the time they let her in, she is in great need of rest and spends six days in bed, finally eats and can get up, and starts to live. Although Diana and Mary do not know she is a relation, she fits in perfectly with them. They are both governesses in southern England and are only home because their father recently died. Unfortunately, there was a falling out in their families and they have no inheritance, so they have to work even though of a higher class. St. John is a clergyman in a nearby town. Jane starts to study German with the girls—they want to have a language to teach so they can get higher pay, but they will be going back to their jobs soon. And St. John is another matter.
St. John is of course good looking but he is not a Byronic hero, in fact the opposite. He is blond but with Greek features, and a strictly religious and austere twenty-seven-year old. He is passionate by nature and flows it all into religion. He is in love with the daughter of the local capitalist, the owner of the needle factory. She is beautiful and sweet but not very deep. Jane is deep, serious, and learned, if not beautiful. Jane is blunt with him about getting together with Rosamond, because Rosamond is in love with St. John, but he has another plan: to be a missionary to India, and there is no talking him out of it.
Jane needs a job, and the needle factor owner has sponsored a school for the village girls, so she becomes the teacher. She does this for almost a year, and all is well living with Rivers. St. John knows her name is not Jane Eliot and has heard of a missing governess and Rochester’s story. One thing I have not mentioned about Jane to this point is that she is gifted as an artist, and he happens to see a portrait she made of Rosamond, thinking he would want it. She signed it Jane Eyre, unthinking. He sees it and knows the truth, and tells her the whole story of their being cousins. This is joyous for her, but there is something else. The uncle has died—the one she never met—and left her 20,000 pounds. She is quite wealthy.
Since the Rivers were cut off from their inheritance because of a falling out in the preceding generation, Jane give them each an equal share, the girls can stay in their home, which was going to be sold, and all is well. Except.
First, there is Rochester. Although he has been looking for her, Jane has hid well. Second, St. John insists she should marry him and go to India with him. Diana and Mary are against it because they see her as too frail, and she probably is. She is against it because she does not love St. John other than as a kinsman and he doesn’t love her. And this is where the power theme really comes into play.
Jane will not give in to marriage. She agrees to go to India as an assistant, but not as a wife. St. John is adamant that will not do and would be inappropriate for a clergyman, even if she is a relative. For some reason he thinks he has power over her—as a cleric, as a male relative, as something—and she must follow it. She says no. And the reader is so glad.
Now, I have to say, if we know at the time of Rochester’s proposal what is going on, we would say, Run, girl, run as well. Because in many ways Rochester holds a power over her even though she loves him. Me Too movement not withstanding, there is a power imbalance and Jane is very aware of it even though she loves him in both a chaste and a sexual way.
For when, he violates her personal space at times, but she is all right with that. Keep in mind, she has had no dealings with men or boys other than a bullying cousin. She has lived among women solely. He knows this. He is the first male to give her attention. He is rich and a couple of class levels about her. He is her employer, which she reminds him of several times. She is a nobody. Does he fall for her because of her weakness, and at what level is he taking advantage of her? Also, he is over 35 years old, much older and he has led a pretty libertine life, although that is only discussed in wide outlines. He denies Adele is his child although Adele’s mother claimed it to be true. Jane really can’t know. He is willing to take care of Adele because of his past affair with her mother and because she was abandoned. Her mother, a French opera girl, had been his lover at one time but cheated on him. So he follows the obligations of the higher classes for the lower. Rochester is complex. He is not Mr. Darcy, even if he does on occasion act standoffish like him.
I want to take a little detour here on that point. Charlotte’s opinion of Pride and Prejudice, published before her life, was not all that favorable.
In her letter to literary critic George Lewes in 1848, she wrote:
Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point. What induced you to say that you would have rather written “Pride and Prejudice” or “Tom Jones”, than any of the Waverley Novels? I had not seen “Pride and Prejudice” till I read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.
Since Charlotte wrote a great book herself, she gets an opinion maybe some of us are not allowed, but I get it. Jane Austen was not interested in scenery, the outdoors, and passionate emotions. I imagine Jane Austen would have had an equally strong opinion of the Gothic-ness of Jane Eyre. You can read Northanger Abbey, which I think is quite funny but not her best novel (I think that is Persuasion, but that’s me). In Northanger Abbey she pokes fun at the extremes of the Gothic novels with big scary houses and insane inhabitants.
So Rochester is no Darcy. He is a gentleman by class but doesn’t always act like it. And really, isn’t he taking advantage of the fact that Jane, supposedly, has no family to protect her? He even says that
“God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.”
“There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.”
“No—that is the best of it,” he said.
Now that’s creepy, yet it’s intentional. We have to take everything in a work of fiction as intentional from the author, but that doesn’t mean the way we take it is the intended meaning. So perhaps he doesn’t mean that he knows that he can take advantage of Jane and commit bigamy because no one will interfere. But alas, they do.
Despite his flaws, Jane loves Rochester but she will not succumb to him on his terms that are not hers and against her moral compass. Just like she won’t dress like a woman of that class just because he has money. And she won’t marry St. John for the same reasons; her moral compass demands a husband who loves her and lives in equality, and St. John wants to control her. We as the readers don’t want her to go to India because like her cousins we know she will not survive there , because St. John is cold and harsh, and because maybe there is hope for Rochester. She has grown to accept that Rochester is not in her life. Until.
In an intense moment with St. John, she hears a voice calling her. She believes she must follow it and that it is Rochester. St. John leaves for India and she leaves to find Rochester. It is a long ride to the village by Thornfield Hall, and when she gets there she sees that it is burned to the ground. She consults someone in the village to learn what happened, and there is a sly hint that Rochester’s secret was not that well hidden but people let the rich be the rich. Somehow, and this is not believable, Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, did not know. But after Jane left she had been sent away, retired so to speak. One night Bertha got lose, etc, etc. and set the mansion afire and jumped from the top floor. Rochester tried to save her and ended up blind and losing one of his hands.
He is living with a couple of servants at a small house he owns on other property. Jane finds him and they are reunited. It is touching because Rochester is humbled and grateful and repentant. He tells her he had cried out to her at the exact moment she heard the voice during her row with St. John. That is like Wuthering Heights—the lovers can hear each other over time and space.
Jane and Rochester (his name is Edward, by the way) reunite in a very long scene that usually gets shortened too much. The film adaptations take out all religion, Christianity, and faith, and that is central to the book and central to the last scene of their reconciliation. The very last chapter starts, Reader, I married him. The narrator completes her story, how they quietly married one morning, lived together, had their first child and it is implied, others, how Rochester regained sight in one eye, and how her cousins founds husbands and they all lived happily ever after, except St. John.
And it is vital to see that the last two paragraphs are about St. John. Why? I think he deserves a book. Let me read that excerpt:
St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John’s last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this—
“My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond,—‘Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!’”
Why would a love story between Rochester and Jane end with this? Again, is is about power, and all human power is under God. I don’t think we can get away from it. Like Dickens often did, this Victorian writer “defaulted” to the Christian world view. Just as Rochester and Jane had found their place in God’s providence, so must all, like St. John, because “Even so come, Lord Jesus.”
Now, I can’t help but say here that, poor Bertha is the afterthought and victim here. In her madness, she brings about Rochester’s downfall—Bronte is clear that Rochester made sure all the servants were rescued and out of the house before he tries to save Bertha. But as she is a plot device, or barely more than that, and she has to be gotten rid of. St. John is much more than that, because he reveals much about Jane and about the author’s underlying motives, but he ends up being more a flat or static character than a round one. Rochester is dynamic and changes, but does Jane? Yes, but over her whole life. As a child she must constrain her temperament and passionate nature; in the long run, as she enters she restrains it too much and must find a way for her passion to re-assert itself as an adult.
Some final questions: Do I believe Jane Eyre deserves its place in the literary canon? Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have put this program together. Do I think it has problems? Yes, but me saying that is like an ant critiquing Empire State Building. The problems lie in some of the time period restraints, the Gothic elements, the prejudices of the author about England v. other countries. But the writing: Oh, the writing. Unlike Middlemarch which I am struggling through (at times), Jane Eyre is never unclear, never requires you to read a sentence five times to understand it. It is also not ironic; you don’t have to question the narrator (which is not the same as the writer’s) sincerity, even if the premise is a bit of a lie, as it’s not an autobiography edited by a man. (And of course the trope and conceit of all fiction of this sort, that she could remember the conversations.) And the psychological and spiritual complexity of the characters is remarkable. Despite there being lots of plot, the plot does not operate outside of their qualities and decisions and motives. Jane is so entirely sympathetic, too, is what I think makes it so endearing.
If you have only watch TV adaptations, even good ones, don’t watch another until you actually read the book. Read it slowly, savor Jane’s struggles and journey. I hope you have enjoyed this talk, which I have presented in two parts because of length, 10,000 words. Thank you for listening.
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