Readers,
Pouring rain today in Melbourne, leading me to believe that the promised gloom of Autumn has arrived at last. Started my morning by ironing wax off the carpet of the church that I frequent, and socializing with the gaggle of grey-haired ~70 year old ladies in attendance for this old-fashioned "working bee." Said ladies had many ideas about what proper cleaning meant. The church is old, for Melbourne, and rather gothic, especially in the half-light of the stormy day. But the old ladies had it cheerful in no time, and when I left around noon - for lunch with my friend David - I was in fine spirits.
The same cannot be said for Jane Eyre. Poor Jane. Her life is a particularly dreadful one, and particularly hard, I think, for any woman to read about now, with the privilege of a 21st Century view. On the other hand, Jane is probably one of the least apparently likeable characters in the fiction of that time (worse, I think, than Dorothea, than Emma, than Catherine). She is extremely judgmental, prone to bouts of abject bitchiness, and self-indulgently melancholy.
For these reasons, I view her as something of a kindred spirit.
In fact, this is the third time I have read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. Here is my quick take from each of those occasions:
Age ~9: More concerned about proving how good at reading I was than actually digesting the books I read. Got bogged down in the exhaustive passages on Lowood school. Realized, upon reflection, I had no idea why anyone would care at all about this Jane Eyre girl. Realized, years later, that I had not understood the book at all.
Age 19: Exquisite romance. Utterly overcome. When would I find MY Mr. Rochester? My soul mate? Dear God, how had I overlooked this book in my youth? Realized I should skip the Lowood sections henceforth.
Present-day: Am I the only who feels as though Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James, could have learned a thing or two from this book? There are some pretty serious dominance themes going on here, that I did NOT pick up on previously. Should we be talking about that more?
Have I become a cynic? Not really. Goodness knows that I have a lot fewer feelings than I did at age 19, but I think we can agree that's for the best. Do I view Jane's love through the lens of someone who is now older than her, and prone to judge her (and Bronte) as being somewhat overcome by her first romance? Yes. But then again, that does not change my view on one matter - which has stayed consistent since my second read: this is a book about two dreadful people, who bring out the best in each other by loving each other completely. This romance is soul-achingly beautiful (I know I'm losing the men here - bear with me). The interiority of Jane is profoundly moving as she begins to realize and contend with the narrowness of her world, and then adjust with that world as it expands in her newfound love.
I'm not sure I'll ever experience a romance like this one, now that I'm a little past the age of Jane, and a little world-weary. I think my generation, inured by the realism of 21st century takes on marriage and relationship, have begun to protect ourselves a little too thoroughly. We are not as inclined to be thrown whole-heartedly into this kind of love. But I hope I am wrong. I hope I still have it in me. I hope I get the opportunity.
For now, I'll leave you with this moment, which hits a little close to home. She might be a tad melo-dramatic, old Charlotte B., but she certainly gets what it's like to be a woman in love: "My master's colourless, olive face, square massive brow...were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me, - that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me."