It’s been a hot minute since I read a classic—my last was the Victorian novel Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë two years ago—so when

Before diving in, I read a bit about Charlotte and the other Brontë sisters, learning about the moors they grew up in along with the gothic juvenilia they wrote with their brother Branwell, in an interconnected world the siblings called Glass Town. Wuthering Heights was an immersive read and I remember its world well, so when turning to Jane Eyre, I wondered how closely related they would be. The settings are similar—gothic landscapes, thick woods, grand old crumbling houses. There are supernatural elements in both. But this is where my comparison ends and my thoughts on Jane Eyre itself begin, as it deserves my full attention.

We meet Jane as a rather forlorn child who has known scant affection at best, with active animosity from those meant to be her family—her late uncle’s wife, Mrs Reed, and her three ill-mannered children. Jane has few sources of comfort, chiefly her love of books, and Bessie, the children’s nursemaid—’[w]hen thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do’. Bessie, however, is seldom kind to Jane, at least until the end of her time there.

I empathised with young Jane. She is villainised, even as a child, made to seem the aggressor and treated harshly on all fronts. Her aunt considers her an ugly burden, someone to be kept apart from her own children, lest Jane somehow taint them further. It is also this cruelty that provides her escape: a moment of purported insolence prompts Mrs Reed to lock her in a dreaded, remote red room where her uncle died alone for hours. Here, an encounter with her uncle’s ghost renders her quite ill—ill enough that even her aunt is alarmed. The doctor recommends for Jane Eyre to be sent out of the house, to school, and her aunt is only too happy to oblige.

Even as a child, Jane’s strength of character is apparent. She is miserable, friendless, and utterly dejected; yet, her will does not cave, and we see her indomitable character throughout the novel. What I admire most is that, despite being told repeatedly that she is not just unlovable but fundamentally bad, Jane refuses to believe it. She seeks the truth, and if she found anything abhorrent in herself, I think she would acknowledge it. But she does not, and that is the truth that upholds her.

We see this also right before Jane departs for Lowood School—when bidding her aunt farewell, Jane stands up for herself, asserting that despite the accusations, she is not deceitful, and reminding Mrs Reed of the ‘miserable cruelty’ she has suffered at her hands.

I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you. […] [I]f anyone asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty. […] You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity.

With that cathartic outburst, Jane leaves for the boarding school. At Lowood, she finds some solace: she befriends other students, discovers a beloved mentor, and eventually becomes a teacher herself. Still, something is missing. The passionate child we first met now has no real outlet; she is simply enduring. Lowood is a refuge for Jane and where she finds her first friends, but it is not a true home.

So, when she strikes out on her own, advertising herself as a governess for hire (slightly ill-advised, considering the dangers for a young woman, but effective—and, if I’m being honest, something I’d do myself), I was excited to see where she would go next. I knew from the book’s description that she would eventually meet a Mr Rochester and that there was a hidden-away wife, but didn’t otherwise know much about the plot.

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At Thornfield Hall, Jane is met with warmth and as an equal for the first time; not just respected, but welcomed, first by Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper, then by Adèle, her young charge over whom she is governess. Here is a place Jane is wanted; needed, even. And then, Mr Rochester, the master of the old manor, takes her by storm.

Their romance shows me what it means for a partner to make you feel comfortable being yourself; to allow you to be your very essence. Jane is always true to herself, but she is typically restrained—biding her time, unless the occasion calls for it. With Mr Rochester, every occasion allows her to unfurl. She does not need to hold back her sharp tongue, be mindful of her station, or dull her mind.

‘I don’t call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.’ […] ‘I am not an angel,’ I asserted; ‘and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will get not it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.’

Mr Rochester, however, I find to be rash and immature. I struggle with his possessive Victorian masculinity. The age gap itself—over twenty years—is contextual for their era, but at one point, he calls her ‘my good little girl’, and at another, says he loves her like a daughter, which… ick. Even if I accept these sayings as products of their time, I still find them hard to stomach. Further, I am a huge words of affirmation person (are we surprised? I have a book reviews newsletter, and last week my uncle sent me a full-on letter with a letterhead and signature, and my heart has been a puddle ever since), but he is so extravagant that I find it hard to believe. Like Jane, I wonder how long he can keep it up for. I do believe he would always love her, but wonder if that passion could just as easily curdle into jealousy or control. I also don’t care for how he talks about his past lovers; it is one thing to make his present amour feel she is the only one he ever truly loved, but it is another to disparage people he once pursued. Jane knows this as well, recognising that she has to be careful not to end up as one of those he now speaks scornfully of.

I do wonder how different my reading of the story would have been if I hadn’t known about Mr Rochester’s wife from the book’s description. Would I have been more open to their romance? Perhaps I wouldn’t have been looking for the other shoe to drop as much, but still, I don’t find Mr Rochester to be my kind of man.

No matter; he is clearly Jane’s. He is her intellectual equal; one who, like her, cares not for convention or society. He merely loves what he loves, proudly so. For that, and for celebrating Jane’s intellect and giving her the full breadth to be herself, I do appreciate him.

To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper.

[…]

I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me—you seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced—conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I win.

When we eventually learn about his ‘mad-woman’* wife, Jane exhibits her stubbornness, which I empathise with. There is only one thing Mrs Reed is right about: Jane is passionate, and she will not be conquered. Her sense of right and wrong overrides even her great love for Mr Rochester; she would sooner break her own heart and his than betray her spirit. It is this will that makes Jane Eyre such a feminist classic.

Still indomitable was the reply—’I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.’

And thus, she leaves him—not because she wants to, but because she cannot bear to betray her own principles. In her most desolate moments, Jane encompasses a feeling I know well: everything turns so cold. What once was ‘blooming and glowing’ now ‘lay stark, chill, livid’; the previous warmth now ‘shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle’. There is much in literature about heartbreak, but rarely have I seen this phenomenon of the entwinement of emotional and physical coldness expressed.

*My greatest gripe with Jane Eyre is the utter inhumanity with which Mr Rochester treats his wife, Bertha (because yes, she has a name). He talks about her with extreme cruelty and unkindness. He calls her unhuman (or subhuman, perhaps), amongst other things, and keeps her locked in a secret room with a jailer. I will spare you (and Bertha) the other indignities. I don’t begrudge him feeling defrauded (her family, and indeed his, had actively concealed her illness), but he has made no attempt at her wellbeing, only literally keeping her alive. In this regard, I can’t tell if he or Mrs Reed behaves more poorly. I have since learned of Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys from my friend R—it is written by a Dominican-British author as a postcolonial, feminist prequel to the book, and centres Bertha. I look forward to reading it.

Jane Eyre, I think, is less about the plot, and more a deep character study. The entire story I could tell you in about three minutes (which I shan’t, since I don’t want to spoil it for you), but the characters are endlessly fascinating. I have written much about Jane already, and there is more I will write still.

There is a particular moment that struck me. I recently changed careers, and have some skills and training with no clear utility now. It fills me with sadness. After a breakup, I ask myself: where do I put everything I know about him? In the aftermath of changing jobs, what happens to the institutional knowledge I slowly gathered? The first is more emotional, but the second, I think, is more difficult for me. Whereas letting go of an ex is a clear necessity, it does not feel wise to slowly empty my mind of hard-won knowledge and skills, letting them languish. Yet, to hold onto them when they don’t serve a purpose in my life now, and may in fact actually be holding me back, also seems like trapping myself in the past. I had been processing this for a while, with one point of healing being a long conversation with a friend(’s boyfriend—hi, Z and B) where we decided that we can keep these pieces in the dusty corners of our minds if we so choose; we may keep them there forever, or take them out occasionally. Miss Eyre gave me a further balm:

‘What will you do with […] the largest portion of your mind—sentiments—tastes?’

’Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.’

They will keep. Perhaps I can set my things down, and it doesn’t have to be forever. They will be there for me when I need them.

I am also fascinated by St John; or rather, Jane’s perception of him. We only meet him through Jane’s eyes, and through the chapters, her understanding of him evolves. He is at first reserved but benevolent; later, he is admirable, then feared, and finally, cold. St John, however, has always been as he is, which makes me think about how well we know the people in our lives. What instances or developments build our perception of them? What decisions will they make that change our understanding of them?

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed Jane Eyre. There is Jane herself, who is absolutely the main character here, and is a fantastic example of a Victorian feminist: self-assured, strong-willed, independent. There are vast psychological depths, set in gothic manors. There is a great romance, and though I found parts problematic, I also swoon at their all-encompassing love; how it is truly each other’s essence that Jane and her dear Edward love.

On a personal note, it will likely be a while before I read another Victorian-era book, not because I don’t like them, but because I read the bulk of this book over Easter weekend and my diction became a little… affected, and I daresay my friends would also prefer I focus on contemporary fiction for a little while…

Watch out for my friend

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Book club questions and an author deep dive

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Book information

Title: Jane Eyre

Author: Charlotte Brontë

Published: 1847

Length: 532 pages

Have you read Jane Eyre, or any novels by the Brontë sisters? Join the discussion in the comments—I would love to know your thoughts!

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