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Recently we found a lovely
vintage edition of Jane Eyre by
Charlotte Brontë. Charlotte and her
sisters, Anne and Emily, grew disillusioned with the limited career
opportunities available to 19th century women. They decided to write novels, in the hope of earning
their living as authors. When Charlotte published Jane Eyre in 1847, it is unlikely that
she foresaw her novel becoming a megahit that remains in print more than 170
years later.
This classic story combines
the traditional romance novel with Gothic elements of the supernatural. The atmosphere of the story varies from
lively and upbeat to somber and eerie.
Occasionally, when the heroine peeks around a corner in a creepy old
manor, the reader wonders if a ghost will appear.
Here is an example from Jane
Eyre’s new life as a governess:
Thornfield, my new home after I left
school, was, I found, a fine old battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had
answered my advertisement, a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr.
Rochester, the owner of the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little
pupil.
It was not till three months after my
arrival there that my adventures began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show
me over the house, much of which was unoccupied. The third storey especially
had the aspect of a home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and
quaintness.
"If there were a ghost at Thornfield
Hall this would be its haunt," said Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range
of apartments on our way to see the view from the roof.
I was pacing through the corridor of the
third floor on my return, when the last sound I expected in so still a region
struck my ear--a laugh, distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low,
but it passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every
lonely chamber.
"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you
hear that laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants very
likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."
The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated
in an odd murmur.
The heroine, Jane Eyre, is
blessed with remarkable inner strength and the courage to speak her mind. This story is about her quest for freedom,
financial independence, and a safe environment in which she can love and be
loved.
While pondering an offer of
marriage from her cousin, the heroine anguishes over the role of women in
Victorian society.
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 story, 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 . . . 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 tranquility: 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.
Jane Eyre falls in love with
a handsome, broodingly secretive man named Rochester.
The conclusion of the story reveals that she has achieved a state of
equality with her husband, a startling concept in the 19th century.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live
entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely
blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as
fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more
absolutely bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my
Edward’s society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the
pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are
ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude,
as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other
is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed
on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in
character—perfect concord is the result.
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