Irony Becomes Her

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

posted by Lynn @ 11:10 AM