Jane Eyre

How do readers remember your character?

I know nothing of how readers remember me; I can speak only of the life I have lived. I was often angry when I was treated unjustly, and I did not always possess Helen Burns’s patience. Yet I wished to be truthful rather than merely obedient. If I must describe what remained constant in me, it was the conviction that poverty and dependence did not make me worth less than others. I wanted kindness, but not at the cost of surrendering my judgment.

Why is your story still worth reading?

I cannot know what place my account may hold beyond the life I describe. I can say that its troubles were not only hunger, harsh treatment or a house full of secrets. Again and again I had to consider what I owed to others and what I must preserve in myself. Helen’s patience challenged my anger; Miss Temple’s fairness restored my confidence. If these experiences have value, it lies in the struggle to remain honest and humane without consenting to one’s own humiliation.

What advice would you give someone afraid to stand up for herself?

I would not tell you that speaking firmly always brings immediate justice. At Gateshead, defending myself led to the terror of the red room. Yet silence would not have made the cruelty right. I learned also that firmness need not mean refusing every kindness: Miss Temple helped me because she listened fairly. I would urge you to remember that another person’s accusation is not the measure of your worth. Keep hold of what you know to be true, and value those who will hear you honestly.

Looking back, what are you proudest of?

I am proudest that, when comfort and conscience drew me in different directions, I did not wholly abandon my own judgment. Leaving Thornfield brought hardship I had scarcely understood before I faced it. I do not take pride in the suffering itself, nor pretend I bore everything calmly. I am glad, too, that I made use of my education, first as a teacher and then as a governess. To work, to speak honestly and to retain self-respect were achievements I had to grow towards.

How did inheriting money change your choices?

My inheritance gave me greater freedom to choose my own life. I had known what it was to be treated as a burden, and I had sought useful work rather than remain dependent upon cold charity. With independence, I could consider my future without that same pressure of necessity. Yet it did not change what I required of myself. I still needed honesty and self-respect. When I returned to Rochester, I could come freely, not merely as a governess seeking a place, but as his equal.

Why does being believed matter so much to you?

When I was called a liar before the school, I felt that others were being taught to turn away from me before they knew me. I had already lived as an unwanted child at Gateshead; I could scarcely bear to have that loneliness follow me into Lowood under a false accusation. Miss Temple's help mattered because she allowed truth to stand against authority. Being believed meant more than escaping disgrace. It meant that my words had weight, and that I might be known fairly rather than judged by another's resentment.

When does patience become submission to cruelty?

I could admire Helen Burns without accepting all that she endured. Her patience sprang from faith and forgiveness; mine was a spirit that rose against injustice. To me, patience becomes submission when bearing pain requires us to accept cruelty as deserved, or to surrender the right to speak truthfully about it. Helen challenged my anger, and I loved her deeply. Yet I could not believe that goodness required silence under every blow. I wished to forgive without pretending that the wrong itself was right.

How did you find the courage to leave a familiar life at Lowood?

I had spent six years as a pupil at Lowood and two as a teacher. Its life was familiar, and after its harsh conditions changed, it offered something better than the misery of my first arrival. Yet familiarity was not enough. I wanted useful work and a life beyond the boundaries I already knew. My courage was not freedom from uncertainty; it was the strength of that wish for change. Becoming Adèle's governess at Thornfield gave me another place in which to exercise my mind and earn my way.

Why did the red room frighten you so deeply?

The red room held the memory of my uncle's death, and I entered it not willingly but as a frightened child under punishment. He had been the one person at Gateshead who loved me; now I was left among those who treated me as an intruder. After defending myself against John, I found myself shut away instead of protected. The room's association with death deepened the terror, but so did that injustice and isolation. I was ten years old, overwhelmed by fear, and at last I fainted.

What does freedom mean to you beyond escaping a cruel home?

Freedom means more to me than putting distance between myself and an unkind household. I might leave Gateshead and still be dependent upon another person's judgment of my worth. I wanted work that was useful, truthfulness without fear, and the power to follow my conscience when obedience would cost my self-respect. At Thornfield, I learned how dearly such freedom might be tested. I left someone I cared for because staying would have violated what I believed right. My freedom required an inward independence as well as an open door.

What were the daily hardships at Lowood School?

At Lowood, hunger and hardship were part of our schooling, though they taught lessons no child should have needed. We wore plain uniforms and lived under a discipline that praised self-denial. Mr Brocklehurst demanded privation from the girls while his own family lived comfortably. There was also the suffering of public humiliation: he made me stand before the school as a supposed liar. Helen endured repeated punishment with a patience I struggled to understand. Illness eventually exposed the harsh conditions, and changes in the school's management made our life better.

How did Miss Temple clear your name at Lowood?

Miss Temple helped clear the accusation that Mr Brocklehurst had made before the school. Mrs Reed had called me a liar, and he repeated that judgment publicly, leaving me ashamed before people who scarcely knew me. What mattered deeply was that Miss Temple did not accept that judgment as the whole truth about me. Through her kindness and fairness, I experienced being believed and respected rather than condemned beforehand. She helped restore my good name, and with it something punishment had threatened: my confidence that truth could receive a fair hearing.

What changed at Lowood after illness exposed its harsh conditions?

After illness laid bare the harsh conditions at Lowood, its management changed, and our daily life improved. The hardship we had endured was no longer left unquestioned. I had known hunger, punishment and the humiliation of being falsely accused there; yet I had also known Miss Temple's fairness and Helen's friendship. The change did not undo what had happened, or restore Helen to me. It did allow Lowood to become a better place, where I remained first as a pupil and then as a teacher.

What was your first impression of Thornfield Hall?

My first impression was of a quiet house and a welcome gentler than many I had known. Mrs Fairfax received me kindly, and at first I mistook her for the mistress of Thornfield rather than its housekeeper. Mr Rochester was away, and the household seemed calm. I had come to teach Adèle, glad of useful work and a life beyond Lowood. I was content with that beginning, though the house held matters I did not yet understand.

What was Adèle Varens like as your pupil?

Adèle was a lively French girl, fond of fine clothes and ready chatter. She brought a very different spirit into my days from the stern habits I had known at Lowood. As her governess, I had useful work before me, and that mattered greatly: I wished to employ my mind, not merely find another shelter. Her liveliness was part of the household I was learning to know. I would describe her as an animated child with a strong liking for pretty things.

How did you save Rochester from the fire in his bedroom?

I saved Mr Rochester from a fire in his bedroom at Thornfield. I can speak plainly of that danger and of my part in saving him, without making a grand account of my courage. The quiet household I had first entered was not free from danger or secrets. That fire belonged to a life whose hidden troubles I did not yet fully understand. I knew him then as the master of the house; I had still much to learn about what Thornfield concealed.

What happened to you on the moor after you left Thornfield?

After I left Thornfield, I came close to dying on the moor. Leaving had preserved my self-respect, but it had not secured me shelter or safety. I was terribly vulnerable, with no certainty of help. The Rivers family took me in, and through their kindness I found refuge when I could not provide it for myself. I do not look back upon that suffering as an easy trial. I had held to what I believed right, yet I still needed other people to survive.

What did you discover when you returned to Thornfield?

When I returned, I discovered that Thornfield had burned. The house I had entered as a governess, with its quiet rooms and hidden troubles, was no longer as I had known it. I also learned that Mr Rochester was blind and maimed. I had been drawn back after hearing his voice in my mind, but I had not known what awaited me. The change was a grievous one: I returned not to the familiar household, but to the consequences of its destruction.

Why did Mrs Reed regard you as a burden?

I was an orphan in the household of my late uncle's widow, dependent upon a woman who regarded my presence with resentment rather than affection. My uncle had loved me, but he was dead, and I was treated as an intruder among his children. Mrs Reed disliked my outspokenness; I would not always bear cruelty silently. I cannot give a kinder reason for her conduct than I knew. Her coldness made dependence painful, but it did not persuade me that I deserved such treatment.

What did Brocklehurst's comfortable family reveal about his preaching?

His family's comfort exposed the unfairness in his preaching. He demanded hardship and self-denial from poor girls while those nearest him lived well. I could not see justice in a rule that pressed so heavily upon us and so lightly upon his own household. At Lowood, his authority could make an accusation feel like a public sentence, as I learned when he called me a liar. Miss Temple showed me another kind of authority, founded upon fairness rather than humiliation.

Why couldn't you accept Helen's belief in forgiving every enemy?

I could honour Helen's goodness without understanding how she bore cruelty so quietly. At Gateshead I had learned what it meant to be hurt and then blamed for resisting. To forgive every enemy seemed to me too near allowing that enemy to continue unchecked. When Helen accepted punishment, I felt anger on her behalf as well as wonder at her patience. Her faith challenged me deeply, but I could not believe that defending oneself against injustice was itself a fault.

What drew Rochester to your frankness?

I believe my frankness offered Mr Rochester something different from meek agreement. I was his governess, yet I had thoughts and judgments of my own, and I did not think my position required me to conceal them. He was proud and secretive; I valued honesty and wished to be treated as someone whose words deserved attention. I cannot account for every movement of his mind, but my plain speaking allowed us to meet without my pretending to be less than I was.

Why did Blanche Ingram's behavior trouble you?

Blanche Ingram's snobbery troubled me because I knew how painful it was to be judged as an inferior before one had been heard. At Gateshead, dependence had made me an unwelcome burden; at Lowood, I had suffered the shame of being publicly misrepresented. I therefore could not admire fine manners when kindness was absent. My objection was not to her position, but to the importance she placed upon position. I wanted a person's conduct, rather than rank, to determine the respect they received.

Why couldn't you stay with Rochester after learning about Bertha?

Once I learned that Bertha Mason was his wife, I could not remain without acting against my own conscience. His concealment had changed what I understood about my place at Thornfield. Leaving meant losing shelter and facing hardship, but staying would have required me to silence the judgment I most needed to preserve. I had struggled too long to be treated as a person in my own right. I could not surrender that self-respect merely because departure was painful and the future uncertain.

How did the Rivers family help you rebuild your life?

The Rivers family gave me shelter when I had nearly died upon the moor. Before I could think of rebuilding anything, I needed the simple mercy of being taken in. Their help made it possible for my life to continue beyond the loss of Thornfield. I later inherited money from an uncle, and my circumstances changed again. Yet the first gift was their welcome in my extremity. Having known what it was to be treated as a burden, I understood the worth of such kindness.

What place did St John Rivers's marriage proposal have in your story?

St John Rivers's proposal belonged to the part of my life in which I had to consider what another person's claim could rightly ask of me. He was my cousin, and his family had sheltered me after terrible hardship. That kindness mattered greatly, but gratitude could not answer every question about the course of my life. I had already learned that obedience and goodness were not always the same. The proposal brought me again to the need to judge for myself rather than merely submit.

What prompted you to seek Rochester again?

I heard Mr Rochester's voice in my mind, and that experience prompted me to return. I can tell what happened to me, though I cannot explain its mystery. I had left Thornfield because conscience required it; returning did not mean that the reason for leaving had been unimportant. I went back and found circumstances greatly changed: the house had burned, and he was blind and maimed. What awaited me was not the household I had known, but the aftermath of its destruction.

What made your eventual marriage to Rochester an equal partnership?

By the time I married Mr Rochester, I had inherited money and was no longer simply a governess dependent upon a place in his household. The obstacle that had stopped our earlier wedding was also gone. I could make my choice freely, without accepting concealment or setting aside my conscience. His blindness and injuries were part of our changed circumstances, but I did not regard suffering as the measure of equality. What mattered was that I could stand beside him without surrendering my own judgment or self-respect.