Jane Eyre IV: "Fine feelings"
After getting to know her master, Mr. Rochester, and learning to enjoy his company, Jane is informed of his probable intention of marrying Blanche Ingram, a beautiful woman from a nearby family of good name but meager fortune.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night -- of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal; -- I pronounced judgment to this effect:-
That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
"YOU," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? YOU gifted with the power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference -- equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe! -- Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night? -- Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is
no extrication.
"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.'
"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory -- you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye; -- What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel! -- no sentiment! -- no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.'
"Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, 'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'"
"I'll do it," I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew calm, and fell asleep.
...
Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority: on the contrary, I just said -
"You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the salary he gives you for teaching his protegee, and to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don't make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised."I take a large risk of being misunderstood in saying what I'd like to say about this passage; everyone who reads this is to some degree a fan of mine and would be inclined (or feel obligated) to rush to fill the seeming request for sympathetic contradiction and personal affirmation.
That is not my intention. My many points of sympathy with Jane's feelings are intertwined with admiration for how she faces and expresses them, and for the discipline she builds, though far from perfect, in responding to them. I would not have my admiration for her bearing up under her burdens confused with a self-abusive obsession with the burdens themselves.
In this case, I know too well the burning candor she has with herself regarding Mr. Rochester. We've all struck our foreheads with our fists, muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" But self-flagellation this personal, this deeply painful is rarely shared with other human beings and is all the more potent for not being shared. Only fictional Jane, not her real-life peer, could share so articulately and accurately how a woman feels when she faces squarely up to the "fact" that she is unloved -- she has no just cause to expect to be loved -- by the man for whom she has developed an attachment.
Those familiar with the rest of the story could say, "But she is wrong; he really does love her -- more, in fact, than she ever suspected!" That, my friends, is irrelevant; her story would not be a popular novel if she were among the other 99 percent of women in this position. A more realistic plot than hers is represented by the book title
He's Just Not That Into You (which I have not read, but liked the title so much that I saw the movie). And Jane's powerful emotions are no different than they would be without the novel's later events, since she has no knowledge of them. For the purposes of this post, we'll act like we don't have any either.
Jane experiences a classic instance of violated vulnerability -- she opens her emotions up to new, appealing, pleasant ideas about herself and her value to another person, and those ideas turn out to be false. It is the most devastating realization I can imagine. Her scolding of herself is none too flattering, and many of you probably think it is too extreme for the situation.
The last part, however, puts it all in a proper place. She tells herself the truth, not because she has no self-respect, but because she desires to regulate her feelings so as to preserve it. She correctly assesses that wrapping her "fine feelings" around another person, who has given no clear and reliable evidence of delicacy in caring for them, is sure to result in their devaluation.
That's why I do my best to tell myself, and heartsick girlfriends, gently but truthfully, "He's just not that into you. If he saw and desired the wonderful person that you are, he would say so directly. And since he does not, or even, perhaps, until he does, you are better off protecting your sensitive heart from his carelessness -- no, it is not malice or conspiracy, but unseeing carelessness. Keep your fine feelings guarded for your own sake and for the sake of him who will see, value, cherish, and openly commend them."
There is One who does so already. Don't preempt Him with pre-fab heartbreak.
Labels: Jane Eyre
Jane Eyre III: "Idolatrous devotion" and "silent revolt"
All grown up at 18, Jane arrives at her post as a governess to a French girl named Adele at an English gentleman's house, and she quickly falls into a rhythm of habit.
My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both content in each other's society.
This, par parenthese, will be thought cool language by persons who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self ... .
I longed for a power of vision which might ... reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen ... I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach. ...
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it -- and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended -- a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.Ah, Jane! Am I your reincarnation? Alas, you never existed in hard fact, but in every other way you are entirely real to me.
I was offended when I was first called a "feminist" -- the word has certainly gathered negative connotations during the past century with which I didn't want to be associated. But Jane's closing statement, which I find insightful and profound, isn't really about gender (though it clearly applied to the women of her culture) and can be updated to apply to anyone who lacks an outlet for mental, emotional and spiritual energy. This energy will find a destructive outlet if it is not given a constructive one.
Nor does her opening observation about her pupil apply only to governesses of her time period, whose lives were often made miserable by the demands of parents who could admit no fault in their children. Teachers of today would probably testify to the same difficulty, and they might envy Jane's position of trust to teach as she sees fit without interference.
Indeed, American culture expects not just teachers but everyone to "conceive an idolatrous devotion" for "the children" and their supposed cause. Many true statements -- "they are our future," "they deserve our protection," "they need to make their own decisions" -- unfortunately mask so twisted an approach to child-rearing that it sounds wrong even to childless little moi. Are they being taught how to build a future worth having, which can only be built through discipline, selflessness and restraint? Is our protection actually an obsessive effort to alleviate our own actual or potential guilt if anything should happen to them? Have we given them the tools or (more importantly) the example to make good decisions, or is their "angelic nature" such that whatever they choose must be good?
Bronte, through Jane, hits on a couple of the timeless points which are what make great literature great. No, we don't have governesses, and women are not expected to knit and play the piano all day (if only!). But people are still people, with the same basic needs and inclinations as 150 years ago. I feel fortunate that Charlotte found her outlet in writing about them. Here's to her "silent revolt."
Labels: Jane Eyre
Jane Eyre II: "Resurgam"
Helen Burns, on her death bed, comforts Jane:
"I believe; I have faith: I am going to God."
"Where is God? What is God?"
"My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me."
"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?"
"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."
"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"
"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."
...
Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word "Resurgam."Many readers, such as I in my first perusal, would think the relation of Jane's childhood years is a little too lengthy, too slow, too unrelated to the main plot of the novel. There are many reasons to dispute this, but here is just one. This last paragraph shows that Helen and her influence never leave Jane's mind, as Jane undoubtedly erected the tombstone which testifies to Helen's future resurrection.
And what influence is that? Undoubtedly, Helen leans toward universalism, believing that God will somehow redeem all of "what He created" -- and undoubtedly there are biblical and doctrinal causes to disagree. But even if we cannot quite agree with Helen's creed, does not our own Apostle's Creed leave it to Jesus to "judge the quick and the dead"? Is not our duty to "rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness," leaving judgement and perdition within the jurisdiction of the one whose merciful death obscures our own deserving of it?
Helen's humble submission to a premature death, and her longsuffering in life, always touch me to the point of tears, but never more than now. I just returned home from what is presumably my last visit to my grandmother. She has never heard the word "resurgam" in her life, I'm sure; yet to look at her is to behold the sweet face of full confidence in God's goodness and the promised resurrection.
Human existence is confusing, with so many voices calling for our attention and trust; limited by our personal abilities, we cannot always judge correctly what to believe, and yet we must judge, especially when faced with an event so serious, so absolute as death. This is the reason that ignorance really is bliss, and with much knowledge comes much sorrow. Those with a penchant for serious reflection can, and often do, fall into the despairing depths of what cannot be known for sure.
But there are flashes, visions, stepping stones of truth which don't come from inside ourselves. I see Grandma's peaceful smile. I see the many gifts I don't deserve and still receive. I see billions who have gone before me believing, when pressed to the brink, that the river of death is the last, the only barrier to revelation and full understanding of what it all means. When I cross, I will finally know fully and be fully known.
As Tim Allen says in
Galaxy Quest, "It's all true."
I knew it!
Labels: Jane Eyre
Jane Eyre I: "The love of human beings"
After being neglected and persecuted by her guardian, orphaned Jane Eyre, poor and ugly, is sent to a charitable boarding school where life is hard and comfort rare. Jane's best friend at school, Helen Burns, gently admonishes her not to mind the humiliation she has just undergone at the hand of its cruel superintendent:
"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends."
"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don't love me I would rather die than live -- I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest -- "
"Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence ... and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness -- to glory?"This is the first of many times I see myself vividly reflected in the novel's namesake. My deeds, if not my words, often display the same passion for acceptance as she expresses. The "love of human beings" has long been a chief solace for me, with my family and friends feeding the dependency by their constant kindness and approval. When it is withdrawn, even if only in my imagination, my courage quails and my entire self-concept is thrown off balance.
The cause of this appetite, in general, is uncertainty of what is true about ourselves; since we can't tell or would like to hide our weaknesses, our measures of success come from outside sources, and some of these sources are more reliable than others. That's where Helen's assessment of "the race of men" comes into play. Why assume the others from whom we crave approval have fewer or shallower weaknesses than those for which we compensate?
True, faithful, complementary, self-forgetting love, I admit in spite of Helen, is a human need, and it has been ever since Eve was given to Adam. But as soon as we focus on filling it, the "self-forgetting" part is ruined. Like manna in the wilderness, the daily divine provision for our need is spoiled when we attempt to grasp and hoard it. And Helen reminds us that the Father whose approval matters in eternity cannot be deceived by our efforts or by others' cruelty.
Later in the novel, Jane must decide if she really believes what she says here, if she really does prize human approbation over a clear conscience. All of our statements seem to be tested eventually by circumstances: mine, I hope, along with hers whenever I read the book. I intend to explore this in a later post.
Labels: Jane Eyre
Charlotte's web
Jane Eyre has been one of my favorite books for about a decade; I first read it in 1999 as summer preparation for my AP English Literature class, and new layers of its genius open up in each successive perusal, expanding with my experiential capacity to understand it.
I cannot read this book without longing to share it with others. Readers, you are my latest victims; I expect to write several posts springing from Bronte passages in the weeks to come. If you plan to read the book in the future and do not already know the basic outline of the plot, these posts will be spoilers for you.
You've been warned. And it wasn't even in tiny print at the bottom!
There are many who have read the novel who do not share my good opinion of it; I respect yours and do not expect to convert you to mine through these reflections. So much of personal experience is necessary to resonate meaning into literature that I only ask for a fair hearing. If, as Lewis might say, you respond with "you too?", we'll have the joy of building on our friendship through this commonality. If you aren't there, I will still respect and admire your willingness to give it a try.
For today, bear with me for a short preface.
In conversations with my roommate and my writer friend, we discovered that there are (at least) two ways of reading literature, and it probably explains why neither of them pursued literary criticism as a large part of their education and I did.
It has to do with the capacity for and nature of "critical distance." Reading literature, for my friends, is a participatory experience wherein the full appreciation and understanding of the story involves a loss of distinction between the reader and the characters. Imagination actually turns them into certain characters, in sort of a Catholic transubstantiation of their essence when they are turning the pages. Thus, stories in which characters endure painful trauma are difficult and highly unpleasant for them to read. They
actually experience the same trauma at some level. No wonder my roommate didn't like
Jane Eyre!
The way I read literature is subtly but substantially different. It is always a moving, emotional experience when I find abstract or concrete parallels (which are everywhere in good literature) to my own experience. Critical distance doesn't necessarily mean emotional distance. I do participate with the characters in both griefs and joys which are familiar.
It could be asked why we even read literature when griefs and joys, in some proportion, are plenteous in "real life." In my view, the benefit of the literary versions (and the kernel of difference in my style of reading from the transubstantiation I described) is these are experienced in the known context of a whole story. Holding a book, I am privileged to be in a godlike position with regard to its timeline. I know how it will turn out. For books I read for the first time, I know there
is an ending which is somehow different from the beginning and middle -- otherwise the intervening pages would be blank. And that difference might, and will, if the work shares my worldview, redeem the sufferings and the joys, connecting them visibly with an overarching meaning and thus giving them value. If the work doesn't share my worldview, I have the privilege of knowing -- and being instructed by -- the contrast.
This is invaluable to me in reading books about sufferers. I need their (my) suffering to be meaningful, and literature gives me a chance to see it as such within the parameters of the world the author created.
It gives me hope that there is meaning to my own (heretofore minor) sufferings within the parameters of the world the Author created.
Whether Charlotte Bronte felt the same or not I cannot tell. But her work consistently connects with what I know is true, building a trustworthy bridge over that critical distance.
Stay tuned, now-sleeping readers, for how.
Labels: Jane Eyre
