Jane Eyre used to be my favorite book. Back then, I loved it deeply and was completely moved by the love story at its center. I even secretly imagined myself as Jane — learning to be strong, to be brave, to overcome hardships, and then meeting a Rochester who would somehow save my life. Everything felt so romantic.
But when I reread the novel recently, something had changed. I began to notice so many things that felt unsettling. Why does Jane have to inherit a fortune before she can return to Rochester? Why must Rochester be crippled and physically broken before they are finally allowed to be together? And why does the story insist that the man and woman ending up together is the only possible definition of a “happy ending”?
What disappoints me the most is that the novel gives Jane too many shining moments in its earlier chapters, which makes the ending feel strangely weak by comparison. （It almost reads as if the deadline was approaching and the story had to be wrapped up in a hurry — and perhaps under editorial pressure, it was forced into a conventional “happy ending.”）
I still love this book deeply. The Jane Eyre we meet in the earlier parts of the novel is genuinely brave, almost heroic. What amazes me is that after enduring so much suffering, she never develops a sense of learned helplessness — which, honestly, feels like a miracle. As a child, she is publicly punished after being labeled a “liar,” she loses the only friend she has, and later, even when confronted with the male protagonist’s declaration of love, she remains clear-headed and confident.
After all this pain, she can still say, calmly and without self-pity, “I have no tale of woe, sir.” （It’s as if she’s saying: I don’t need anyone’s sympathy — not even yours, even if you are the person I love.） That level of independence, that emotional self-possession, is incredibly cool.
And yet, she is not always calm or restrained. When faced with Rochester’s testing from a position of power, Jane finally pushes back — in the most direct and fearless way, leaving herself no room to retreat. She speaks without compromise, without self-protection, as if she has already accepted whatever the consequences might be. This is the moment I love most.
“Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?–a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!–I have as much soul as you,–and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;–it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,–as we are!”
（Excerpted from the novel Jane Eyre）
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“Testing from a position of power”: must men and women be set against each other?
Jane only attains equality with Rochester after she inherits a fortune and after he becomes blind and physically disabled. This plot device gives the impression that true equality between a man and a woman can only exist if the man is deliberately brought down. It has an almost retaliatory quality — their circumstances are completely reversed, and for the first time, Jane truly holds the upper hand in the relationship.
I’ve also come across a fascinating interpretation: Rochester’s disability was not arranged to make Jane worthy of him, but rather to make Rochester worthy of Jane. It’s presented as a kind of atonement — only after he is injured while saving someone can his past misdeeds be erased, and only then can he and Jane be truly equal in spirit. It may not be entirely convincing, but it’s an interesting perspective. Yet no matter how you interpret it, the core of this narrative still relies on a binary, oppositional mindset. It feels less like a dismantling of power structures and more like the author’s own fantasy or projection.
Moreover, the way the novel depicts Jane gaining wealth, returning to Rochester, and taking care of the children reinforces the idea that “family happiness” is the ultimate, unquestioned form of fulfillment. The ending reads almost like a fairy tale — a prince-and-princess story cloaked in realism. Personally, I would much rather have seen Jane rebuilding the burned-down estate, learning to manage the wealth she has inherited, and sustaining both herself and Rochester through her own competence and agency, instead of being folded so neatly into an idealized vision of domestic life.
“That madwoman”: it’s not fair.
Another reason I cannot accept the ending is that the happiness of the protagonists is secured through the death of “that madwoman.” It feels like a bargain struck at someone else’s expense. Bertha’s death is unfair to Bertha herself — and unfair to the reader as well. One can argue that Rochester is unfortunate, that he has his unspeakable burden, that his wife is mad, and that Jane is innocent and refuses to become a third party. But the truth remains: their happy ending is not something they actively fight for. It arrives only because Bertha conveniently disappears. Without the existence — and the removal — of the “madwoman,” how could they ever be together? That is not fair.
I feel sympathy for Bertha because the novel renders her as a savage, almost inhuman figure. But does this portrayal really absolve Rochester of his moral responsibility? It is as if the narrative is saying: yes, he is married, but she is not fully human — therefore he cannot be blamed. Then she is allowed to set the house on fire, and finally to die. This combination — “Bertha’s madness” followed by “Bertha’s death” — carries a distinctly patriarchal logic.
Perhaps Jane Eyre was revolutionary for women of its time. But time has moved on, and so have our expectations of female dignity. Bertha may once have been allowed to exist only as a distant, degraded symbol — an obstacle in a love story. Today, we recognize that she, like Jane, should have been granted the right to seek happiness of her own.
The Meaning of Re-reading: Perspectives Are Not Fixed
Of course, from a feminist perspective, this novel remains remarkable. Jane Eyre is almost the first female protagonist in literary history to possess a truly independent consciousness. Before her, the ultimate destination of many female characters was still marriage and family. Jane is neither conventionally beautiful, nor does she passively wait to be rescued by a male protagonist. Even this alone was radically progressive for its time — and deeply inspiring.
At the same time, we need to recognize that novels grow alongside their readers. I can see this clearly in my own experience.
When I first read the book in elementary school, I treated it, to some extent, like a romantic fantasy. I loved Jane’s resilience and her journey of self-growth, and I even regarded the novel as a “book of life.”
Later, when the novel was recommended again in school, the inheritance plot began to trouble me. That lottery-like turn of fate seemed to erase Jane’s own efforts and struggles.
Now, as a modern woman, I’ve become increasingly aware of the expectations and disciplines imposed on women by society — subtle, silent, yet overwhelmingly pervasive. In Jane’s time, the paths available to her were already extremely limited. And yet she still chose to move forward, to choose for herself. Importantly, the author does not simply allow her problems to be resolved by relying on a man.
For this reason, re-reading is not about overturning the emotions I once felt. It is about recognizing that we have arrived at a new position. I continue to respect the novel’s historical significance, but I also know clearly that today, we hold higher expectations for love, freedom, and female dignity.
Written by Yexing Zeng
