Maybe I would have liked this book more if I had read it as a teenager, when I could see myself as Jane Eyre – a plucky young woman who is so intelligent and virtuous that a man the narrative tells us is her soulmate loves her despite her plainness and the social gulf between them.
Probably not though. Even as a teen I would have rolled my eyes at the pantomime villains of Jane’s childhood, locking her in a ghostridden room for the crime of standing up for herself, and starving her to save some cash in the name of piety.
I expect I would have been scathing about some of the more problematic artefacts of 19th century English attitudes, such as visiting gypsy camps for entertainment, scorning young girls for being too French, and the imperialism and racism steaming from every mention of the West Indies and India.
I also like to think I would have seen through Mr Rochester’s controlling behaviour, even before the shocking reveal of the first Mrs Rochester, mad, bad, and occasionally venturing out of her attic prison to unleash her fiery jealousy on poor innocent Jane. While I made some terrible romantic decisions of my own as a teen, I saw nothing attractive in Heathcliff, and doubt that Rochester would have been any better at slipping past my defences.
As an adult I can see why people like Jane’s strong will and courage. I wanted better for her than Bronte could imagine from within the limits of her 19th century horizons. The mad wife conveniently dead, the social gulf narrowed – Jane lifted by an inheritance and Rochester lowered by blindness – the marriage this made possible didn’t seem like a happy ending to me.