Jane Eyre: The Final Reading

I admit it I’m a sucker for Victorian literature. If the women are repressed, the men ultra polite (with dirty minds and ulterior motives), and beautiful silk gowns are involved, well, I’m hooked.
Let me tell you my story and relationship with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

I’ve always been a book addict, even at a young age so it’s no wonder I was ecstatic when my mom announced she was volunteering at my rural Catholic school to be the librarian. Of course this meant I had access to "the" library and better yet unshelved books not yet touched by human hands. That was a delicious thought for me.

So every week Mom loaded up the car with books that needed to be catalogued and stamped and Dad would haul the books into our living room. Mom dragged a sickly green portable typewriter home to type the cards for the books, and stationed it at the kitchen table. That old rickety thing would cluh clunk at the shift keys and the keys would stick, but it served its purpose.

Every so often the books would escape from captivity and burrow their way into the cracks of our car seats. And if you had the uniseat—as in the old days—it was easy to lose one of them forever. Not so with Jane Eyre. She managed to stay right within reach so as never to be forgotten or lost from our grasp.

Each morning my dad drove me to school and often in our travels we found a loose book on the floor or the uniseat. One particular frosty morning, as I was tugging my coat close toward me while the defroster blasted the windshield, I found myself sitting on Jane Eyre. It was a small compact paperback with a red and blue cover. I pulled it out from the uniseat and inspected it, scrunching my eye-year-old eyes at the tiny print inside. As soon as I touched it I knew I had to read the book—it became my personal Moby Dick of sorts. I had to read it—it was challenge.

"Dad?" I yelled over the defroster, "How do you pronounce the last name?"

"I have no idea."

So it stuck with me the entire day. I couldn’t let it out of my mind, and when Mom picked me up after school I told her about the book.

"Mom, it’s Jane Ire or something."

"No, it’s Jane Aiir."

"Oh, what’s it about?"

"Well, you’re a little too young to read the book," she smirked and laughed. "In time."

"But I have to read this book!" I whined. So each day on the way to school I picked up Jane Eyre and tried trudging my way through the murky text. I sighed. I was vexed. I gave up.
I flung Jane Eyre back to its spot in the uniseat and only later did I take it inside and throw in the pile of books in the living room. Farewell friend. Maybe I’ll see you again.

And I did. It’s amazing what four years can do to a kid’s reading comprehension and mine had blossomed. I was reading the usual trashy teenage stuff with typical romantic plots, maligned friendships, and broken hearts. But I was bored, and lucky for me my teachers recognized this and made a list of "challenging books". Of course, wedged in between a myriad of selections was my beloved Jane Eyre. I squeezed my eyes in delight. My mom and I ventured to the public library (of course, the school library didn’t have these exotic books), and she proudly displayed the xeroxed book list to the librarian who was rather nonplussed with the importance of this mission. Armed with loads of library knowledge my mom and I weaved our way around the library to find the books. I would have taken all the books home, with my addiction and all, but instead I settled for two: Jane Eyre and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

Jane Eyre was my hero. She had all the elements of the perfect female hero: the nasty stepmother and cousins who wanted her abolished from the house, the lack of siblings, the self-righteous and uptight Mr. Brocklehurst, forced and unwanted lessons, nasty teachers, poor living and working conditions, the ache of loneliness, and love of books. Page after page I read the inner musings and opinions of a character (and writer) who shared my inner thoughts and feelings. I was amazed at this. And then came Mr. Rochester—I fell in love with him immediately. He was crusty, funny, sarcastic, smart, and amorous. At twelve, I thought he was a dream come true. (Only later did I realize this would precursor my love of older men). Of course, it also took me 27 years to figure out that Jane Eyre is pathetic and Mr. Rochester (Edward) is crazy.

You have to understand, reader, that I read Jane Eyre seven times. Once at 12, again in 10th grade, next in 12th grade, both as a freshman and senior in college, again during some dark days of my life, and lastly this past month. It took me seven times to realize that all these years I had idealized Mr. Rochester and honored Jane Eyre for the silliest things. Now it is time to move on.
Jane Eyre grew up unwanted and unloved, so it makes perfect sense that she would fall hopelessly in love the minute she was around a kind male figure. He was the only male figure she was around . . . other than her dopey cousin and the towering Mr. Brocklehurst.

Mr. Rochester is an experienced, spoiled man. While it is true he married a crazy woman and I guess we are to pity him (are we? She was akin to a mail order bride), and this brings humanity to his character. But how he describes Adele, the child who he denies fathering, is cruel and harsh. Wouldn’t a future mother or wife recognize his jealousy and possessiveness? He sounds like a crazy womanizer, scrounging the countryside for a pretty accoutrement to his collections and drawing room. Why does he settle with Jane Eyre—the plain and naïve girl with no dowry or connections?

First of all, as an experienced hunter, he knows she is naïve, young, and impressionable. Second he’s desperate, after all he’s getting quite old at the age of 34 not to be married in Victorian England. And finally, to his credit, I think he’s trying to find a sincere woman who is not interested in his money and land. He is also hiding a crazy wife in the attic . . . so Mr. Rochester has issues. And what better person to help him than a young, sweet thing cut off from humanity in an out of the way place like Thornfield?

But it was those exact qualities about him that drew me to him all these years. He tortures her with his wit and corners her into verbal battles. He parades Blanche Ingram around, making Jane think he is going to marry her when in fact he has no whatsoever of marrying Blanche Ingram. Mr. Rochester poses as a gypsy lady torturing Jane into thinking he is seeing her past and knows her future. Then he unveils himself. His crazy wife in the attic makes a guest appearance every so often . . . attempting to murder Jane or Mr. Rochester . . . and maybe both. Of course how could I forget that he actually tried to marry her when he was still married to his syphilitic wife in the attic. Any sane woman would run from this childish man. But not Jane. She’s a trooper.

She endures this treatment with aplomb . . . always enduring his torture quietly. That’s why I think she’s pathetic. Every single time he sets her up and she falls for it. He knows she is in love with him, and he watches her writhe in glee, yet Jane doesn’t think to fight back. Though when she finds out about his past, she does run . . . more out of sadness than revenge. My favorite pathetic part was when she was about to accept St. John’s marriage proposal and she claims to hear Rochester call her name in the night . . . and drops everything to run to him. As a diehard romantic, even I thought that scene was barfy and pathetic.

Don’t get me wrong—Charlotte Bronte created an early feminist character that voiced fresh ideas about women and society. And Mr. Rochester was a smart enough man to value a woman for those same sentiments. Yet, it was the Victorian era. Martyrs aren’t valued today and often their woes are pointless. It is time for me to close the pages of this book in hopes that I will find my own Mr. Rochester (without the sadism) and be the Jane Eyre I wanted her to be—without the martyrdom. Jane Erye will always be my hero, but now it is time to be my own.