Haworth parsonage, the Brontës' home in Yorkshire, England
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.” – Jane Eyre
Despite the holiday rush, I have unofficially allotted this month as the time to catch up on all the books I think I’ve read, should have read, or never properly read. All the Dickenses I’ve missed, all the Narnia Chronicles I never got around to (which is most of them), all the James Joyce stories that I’ve always been too intimidated to try (Joyce still scares me, just a bit). In the last week, though, thanks to a five-dollar sale on classics at Borders, I have finally conquered the literary demon that has so rancorously pricked my guilt for the last decade or so. I have fallen, perhaps ten years too late, for “Jane Eyre.”
My relationship with the Brontë classic was, for many years, slightly troubled. I blame in part the preponderance of miscast film adaptations (a tradition that I worry may continue in the new, forthcoming movie of “Jane Eyre”). Jane seemed to me meek and uninteresting, while Mr. Rochester never seemed to exude much romantic appeal (such is the danger of watching the films before reading the book). I felt a certain amount of posthumous sibling rivalry simmering from the ghosts of Haworth parsonage; as I had eagerly devoured both Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering Heights” and Anne Brontë’s “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall”, it troubled me that Charlotte alone was neglected.
Last week, however, I finally decided to brush away all this literary baggage and give poor Miss Eyre another chance. About a hundred pages into the story, the knotty, doubting clouds scattered at last and the uncertainty with which I had so often regarded this book cleared for good.
Charlotte Brontë
To say that I enjoyed reading “Jane Eyre” is a gross understatement — I fell in love with it, as deeply and wholeheartedly as it is possible to fall in love with a fictional world. How could I have so misjudged a book? The submissive, colorless Jane I remembered was swept away by a new vision of a strong, capable heroine with an unshakable sense of herself. This was a woman who resisted the controlling desires of not one, but two masterful men, who listened deeply to her heart but would not be ruled by it. She had the moral and personal strength to reject the prospect of happiness because it would have required a sacrifice of her most fundamental principles — not as a martyr, but simply as someone who would not undermine herself for any prize. Jane was courageous, even when wracked with fear, sensible, even when faced with the senseless, and fiercely intelligent, even when the contemporaneous view of women condemned her to ignorance. She is the role model of role models; I can only imagine the generations of young women that she has inspired in her wake, and am proud to finally join their ranks.
And then, Mr. Rochester: words cannot possibly express how mistakenly I judged the Byronic hero of “Jane Eyre.” In my feeble defense, I can only plead that I was never properly introduced to him, and thus decided on a weak and baseless knowledge that, in the canon of Great British Males, he was vastly inferior to, say, Mr. Darcy. But — without attempting to compare those two estimable literary gentlemen — I concede my former opinion of Edward Fairfax Rochester. He is neither sweet nor handsome – often described as an “ugly man” — and is often brutal in both temper and teasing. He spars intellectually with Jane, calls her a sprite and an imp who has “bewitched” him, and even toys cruelly with her affections by cavorting about with a beautiful heiress. He is by no means a perfect hero, with flawed judgment and dark demons, both emotional and corporeal. And yet, he is completely irresistible, to both Jane and the reader, perhaps because his love for the former redeems his less admirable qualities. While he growls to the rest of the world, he beams with Mediterranean warmth in the presence of his “Janet.” He is able to speak words of adoration that, on the lips of any other character, would smack of sentimental corniness. When he utters his offer to Jane to be his “second self, and best earthly companion” — in short, an equal in both mind and spirit — what else can the reader do but melt?
I could go on for pages about my newly kindled love for “Jane Eyre” — a love, I’m sure, that will last me a lifetime. I could expound on the raw sentiment of Charlotte Brontë’s writing, how she cuts to the emotional vein of both her characters and readers with remarkable precision. I could unleash my full theory about the book’s portrayal of love, and the implications it throws upon the shadowy details of Brontë’s own romantic history — but I will refrain from doing so, for the time being. I don’t want to spoil this book for anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of discovering it yet — and even if you have, I am an always an advocate of frequent re-readings.
One more note, in honor of this festive season: if you have the opportunity this holiday, I would recommend giving “Jane Eyre” to any recipient, young or old, impressionable or jaded, who has not yet (properly) read it. We all know that sometimes the best presents cost very little; in this case, the richness of the gift is not in the money spent but in the wealth of the experience it offers. The brief, golden hours I spent wandering the northern English moors with Charlotte Brontë’s characters constituted the best holiday gift (albeit to myself) that I could have imagined — all at the cost of large Starbucks coffee.
