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When I was perhaps as young as nine or ten, I attempted to read Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre to very unsatisfactory results. I had already pored many times over a severely abridged children's version of the tale, which contained many illustrations of an odd sort of watercolour-meets-oil surrealism. I was familiar with the skeletal plot, held in a state of mixed fascination and repulsion for the bland heroine and exaggerated protagonist-hero, and excessively bored with the 'real' version - which (to my young eyes) simply had more words mixed in.
Imagine my surprise when, picking up the book again after at least a decade of intentional avoidance, I found it interesting! My chief prior complaint had been against the bleakness and out-of-humor nature of all the characters - from dour Jane to wild Edward to hyper-Puritanical St. John. But I had been mistaken; lacking a matured sense of humor and probably an attention span as well, I missed quite a few of the bright spots and quips that the novel hides.
That is not to say that the novel is not dark and full of turmoil. But I have grown up, and the book grows on me. (I have also been through the depths of Wuthering Heights, which is dark enough to make molasses spark like gold.) And let's face it - parts of it are just plain funny. Several very competent film adaptations have been made of semi-late years, and despite their competence most of them don't do justice to the snark and spirit of this heroine - which is quite an irony, considering that so much of the time that wit is bent against the idea that feeling and humor cannot be mixed with quietness and principle.
So in the interest of a producing something under the influence of a head cold, I give you a few of the spots of Eyre that touched my humour. Alas; so many of them are situational and complex. I am particularly fond of the part where - well, but you shall have to read it and unearth for yourself these gems where they fall, fleeting and certain,
like sunlight scattered on the moor.
I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come, was objectionable:
'I must keep in good health and not die.'
'Don't trouble yourself to give her a character,' returned Mr. Rochester:
'eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse.'
'Am I hideous, Jane?'
'Very, sir: you always were, you know.'
'I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy.'
All that region [the kitchen] was fire and commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection,
and the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion.
'Little niggard*!' said he, 'refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.'
'Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.'
'Just let me look at the cash.'
'No, sir; you are not to be trusted.'"
I would always rather be happy than dignified.
'Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and at this moment I am paving hell with energy.'
Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him
fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water.
'Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me - for you will not get it,
any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.'
With that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.
*In case anyone is prone to needless sensationalism, this is not a racial slur; look it up.
