Although it’s far too often identified as such, Jane Eyre is most definitely not a “girls’” book, much less a “little girls” book. That’s not to say that those two venerable categories of Maurice Chevalier-preferred persons are in any way excluded. Of course not. Rather, girls, young girls, boys, young boys, and men and women both young and old (and, O.K., in between — have I left anybody out?) can all most certainly come to love Jane, both the heroine and the masterwork.
The only prerequisite is a heart, although for those of you at the younger end of the spectrum it might be wise to keep a dictionary handy (unless, that is, you happen to have chatty English relatives upwards of 150 years old, such that you are already accustomed to the way people spoke in England in 1847, the year of Jane Eyre’s publication). Don’t worry, though. Chances are, if you haven’t clicked me away into cyber-oblivion by now, you will do just splendidly. And at any rate, your faithful correspondent always recommends reading with a dictionary at hand in the first place (his own, like unto Linus’s blanket, being never far from his fingertips).
One way of approaching Jane Eyre is as a coming-of-age book, the kind of book stodgy old English teachers like to call a Bildungsroman (which means “coming-of-age book”). Like all coming-of-age books, therefore, it is almost certain to hit its mark with people who are … coming-of-age, and that can be in body, in mind, in emotional development, or, just as importantly, in spiritual development. Given, moreover, that all these various “comings” tend to occur at different periods in our lives (it would all be too easy otherwise), we get back to my underlying point so far that this is Your Book. It can even be approached as something of a Fairy Tale, I suppose, complete with a Wicked Stepmother (and Stepsiblings), a Journey Through Dark Woods, seemingly inaccessible wealth and happiness, and even a sort of Prince Charming (although, to be sure, an “upside down,” or “reverse,” one, but I do digress).
There are, in the end, many ways of “approaching” a richly textured novel. This space, however, is dedicated — and fiercely, I might add — to reading that is purely for pleasure, and to those readers who either already do, or who wish to learn to, read purely for pleasure. The rest — including “modalities of approach” — will take care of itself. So come, take my hand … approach.
The Brontës
We can thank Charlotte Brontë for Jane Eyre. Charlotte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire (that’s England, you know — Rathburn! Would you be an absolute dear and bring me another scone?) in 1816, the third child of Patrick and Maria Brontë, who had six children in all, five daughters and a son. You have undoubtedly heard of at least one of Charlotte’s sisters, namely Emily, of Wuthering Heights fame. In fact, Wuthering Heights was published in December of 1847, just two months after Jane Eyre’s publication on October 19 of that same year.
How’s that for matching Western Classic for Western Classic (“I’ll see your Mr. Rochester and raise you one Heathcliff!”)? But there was yet a third illustrious Brontë sister as well: Anne, who penned Agnes Grey (also published in 1847!) and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (a sentimental favorite and an intimidating contender in the “Best Title of All Time” competition). Sadly, Anne has been denied the attention lavished upon her older sisters (e.g., her works are overlooked in Professor Harold Bloom’s compilation of those works constituting The Western Canon), but the question remains, “What on earth were Mr. And Mrs. Brontë feeding those children?” Hallelujah!
One of the first endearing qualities we note in Jane is that she herself is a reader. Very early on in the novel, describing a room to which she escapes for what comfort she can find in her young life, she confesses, “I slipped in there. It contained a book-case: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.” (You see what I mean about the dictionary? “Moreen” appears in mine; it simply means “strong woolen cloth.” Isn’t it just like the English to say “moreen” when they mean “strong woolen cloth”?) Readers, at any rate (and in my experience), love to read about other readers, and so the book begins on the right note.
The Story
Jane, it turns out, was orphaned at a young age and taken in by her mother’s brother, who promptly proceeded to die himself. Her mother’s brother’s surviving family (i.e., the infamous “Reeds”) turns out to be everything Jane wished she never had. She is forced to endure their grudging patronage (and what by today’s standards would almost certainly be classified as “abuse”) for some ten years, until she is eventually ejected and packed off to Lowood boarding school, which is as deliciously inhospitable as one can imagine a 19th century English girls’ boarding school to be. It is cold, damp, and severe, presided over by an insufferable ogre named Mr. Brocklehurst! (Does he sound like a friendly soul?)
Interestingly, commentary has it that Lowood school was modeled upon a real-life boarding school that Charlotte herself (and all of her sisters, save Anne) had to attend after the untimely death of their mother. In still another Brontë family tie-in, Jane’s best friend at Lowood, the beautifully rendered and tragically fragile Helen Burns, is reputed to have been based upon Charlotte’s older sister, Maria.
Through hard work and natural ability, Jane comes to be an instructor at Lowood and eventually moves on to become a governess (Why don’t we have them anymore? What a wonderful thing to be!) for the charming young Adele, foster child of the fascinating, if only questionably likeable, Mr. Rochester, patron and master of Thornfield estate. Ahh there’s love there lurking! But the obstacles to that love that Charlotte interposes in the construction of her gigantic tale are shocking and even terrifying!
The sordid truths revealed, Jane feels herself (and how could she not?) forced to strike out on her own. Barely surviving her various ordeals, she eventually comes to find some measure of welcome and real comfort, although with a person whose identity proves ultimately to be surprising, both to Jane herself and to the reader (at least this one). At long last Jane finds herself re-drawn to Thornfield and Mr. Rochester, but can one ever really go home again? Norman Mailer may say no, but it’s not clear that he’s got the last word on that issue. Home may remain intact, in the Catholic sensibility at least, without one’s immediately recognizing it as such. But the drama, and the terror, in getting back there! You’ve been forewarned!
Products
Children – Catholic Classics Board Books
Book — Surprised by Truth
Book — Keeping Your Kids Catholic
Gift — Our Lady of Grace Statue
Discussion Forum
What books do you consider the greatest of all time?
Sacramental Love
Yes, the drama and the terror. One of the things that sticks out in your faithful correspondent’s memory about his first encounter with Jane Eyre is the sheer virtuosity of the storytelling. There is no end of narrative twists and surprises — long lost relations; surprise encounters; shadowy figures from those parts of one’s past long since thought to have been buried; “ghost story” suspense; survival and adventure elements; dramatic catastrophe (Oh, the fire!) — in short, everything a self-respecting insomniac needs on a long, sleepless night.
It is a testament to the story that there are at least three — count them, three — movie versions of Jane. (No, dear readers, I am not made of wood. Who doesn’t love a good film? I recommend the Samantha Morton version, which can be seen on television from time to time.) The story has recently been turned into a Broadway musical, for heaven’s sake!
But the haunting element of Jane Eyre still, for me, has to be the love story. Jane has few peers regarding the depiction of the heartache of unrequited love, or the cruelty capable of being inflicted by the insensitivity of the object of one’s love (whether requited or no). It has even fewer peers, perhaps none, regarding the exploration of the sacramental element of selfless love, and it is precisely that sacramental element of love that is so much in need of manifestation and exploration in the popular culture of today. One would be hard pressed, these days, to find a serious portrayal of the overcoming of real human adversity with perseverance, dignity, and genuine love. It is Jane Eyre who has what truly merits being called Girl Power — and she wins in the end, on her own terms.
In closing, I suppose there is a genuine question as to whether some contemporary youngsters will even, as an initial matter, at all understand a human being who behaves in the way Jane behaves. Oh, they are sure to understand her at first, early on in the novel, as the cornered outsider who has to rely on her sometimes smart-alecky wit to defend herself; as the perpetually misunderstood innocent; as the abandoned Ugly Duckling.
But will they, can they hope to, understand the woman, the Human Person that Jane becomes? Your faithful correspondent looks about him and he doesn’t see any Janes (female or male). But we mustn’t lose faith, because there is perhaps a solution. Children? Young ones? I would like you to meet my friend, Jane. Jane? This is the world as it exists today.
