I'm looking forward to this. The trailer and clip do seem to indicate some liberties taken by the filmmakers, but I'm remaining optimistic. Whether you enjoy the book or prefer to skip it, I also recommend the BBC miniseries, Jane Eyre, fairly dry and fairly accurate, both typically so of the production company.
Why the contrivance of separation from Thornfield and Rochester (I think this is a pretty big questions, and I use "contrivance" here for immediate lack of a better word and happen to disapprove of its assertive negative connotation), not the absence, but what/who filled that absence? Did it do anything more than provide space for the crime of burning down Thornfield? I think it did, and support Bronte's decision. Thoughts?
Why blindness, of all available handicaps to impose on the poor man?
Jane the skylark. More freaking birds! (And what of the crows/rooks last chapter?)
Despite what Jane says in response, how is Rochester indeed like the lightning-struck chestnut?
"I love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector." This seems unjust! Is there a means for his love to increase by the new engagement?
"Never mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip." Has Rochester changed, more than immediately so by his injuries? Were the jewelry and dresses so important to him at the first go-round? (Answers here, I think, can easily build from those of the previous question.)
Both suitors make assertions regarding God's will for Jane. Who, if either, is right?
After the thoughts/discussion of supernatural communication: "I kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart." Quite a juxtaposition!
What of the conclusion and all those neatly tied loose ends?
And that's it. The book is done. Final thoughts?
For an excellent and succinct review of Jane Eyre,
please visit James Smith's Unmoderated Caucus, here.
Jane leaves a place of peace and bright (relative both, and mostly physically) for this, which brings her such great hope and happiness: "At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me; on I hastened" all of which hold fairly dark connotation. Despite the destruction of the Hall, how is this imagery justly drawn for her history here?
Why is fire here so appropriate a means of destruction?
Appropriate, Jane's "illustration," where she describes the one approached as having a veil over her eyes. I wonder why she switched the gender.
Is St. John indeed punishing Jane? She believes he incurs no guilt for what he is or, in this case, isn't doing. What do you think? --Or is Jane just reading her own impressions into the situation because she feels guilty for scorning him?
St. John's obstinacy, in the form of his intentional misunderstanding of Jane, is baffling. Is his interest in marrying Jane exactly as simple as he pretends? Or is it even really obstinacy?
"It remains for me, then, to remember you in my prayers; and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognized in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: His will be done." By this very declaration, does not St. John believe himself to "see" as God sees, thereby alluding to an inhuman godliness in and of himself? In context of the story, has God called Jane to the ministry, or has St. John; is there a difference here?
"grilled alive in Calcutta" -- I'm surprised how early this shows up in literature. (etymology of "grill")
"She pushed me toward him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St. John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine, his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly—he kissed me. There are no such things as marble kisses, or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never omitted the ceremony afterward, and the gravity and quiescence with which I underwent it seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm."
From The Princess Bride:
"There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C., when Saul and Delilah Korn's inadvertent discovery swept across Western Civilization. (Before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks. Well, this one left them all behind."
1.I've wondered about St. John's name. It makes sense, in a trivial kind of way, that this obstinate and ambitious missionary be sainted by his author, but there's another potential connection. He and Jane are indeed very similar persons, perhaps because of blood, and certainly by Bronte's design. Take the long a of Saint and consonants of John and, well, you've got Jane. Are these two meant to be one, one completing the other not just in body and spirit but in very name?
2.Is St. John's desire for Jane to wed him strictly practical? Similarly, is there any practicality that would prevent Jane from marrying him?
3."I will throw all on the altar—heart, vitals, the entire victim." I am interested by the use of the word "victim" here: "late 15c., 'living creature killed and offered as a sacrifice to a deity or supernatural power,' from L. victima 'person or animal killed as a sacrifice.' Perhaps distantly connected to O.E. wig 'idol,' Goth. weihs 'holy,' Ger. weihen 'consecrate' (cf. Weihnachten "Christmas") on notion of 'a consecrated animal.' Sense of 'person who is hurt, tortured, or killed by another' is first recorded 1650s; meaning 'person oppressed by some power or situation' is from 1718. Weaker sense of 'person taken advantage of' is recorded from 1781" (thanks www.etymonline.com). In Bronte's context, it is more than just this, however, augmented as it is by the subsequent quotation: "I am ready to go to India, if I may go free."
4.While the similarities are limited, there is a taste here of W. Somerset Maugham's The Painted Veil in this chapter.
5."...do not forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God."
6."Looked to river, looked to hill": clearly, Bronte was a big Scott fan. HERE
Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone;
The battled towers. the Donjon Keep, The loopholes grates, where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seem'd forms of giant height:
Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flash'd back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light.
*
My new favorite analogy: "I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers, sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred." I don't think it's entirely accurate here, but what an image! And certainly "gastronomic powers" could not have carried quite the same meaning then as now, when we have such things as competitive eating.
The behavior of Mr. Rivers is interesting to me: his return to Jane's place has the appearance of being merely weather-related; the fact that he sits and waits some time indicates he is without hurry, regardless of whether he's building up his courage or wavering over how to articulate his motives; but the most curious is his immediate, apparently hurried departure. What's his deal?
Forget Bronte: does cosmic force exist that would draw together such estranged families as these, and why? Perhaps more importantly (and coming back to the author), how does Bronte avoid the appearance of contrivance here (basically, the "Oh-wow-we're-cousins-isn't-that-freaking-convenient?")?
Regardless of what happens in the conclusion of the book, what might prevent Jane, and remain within her character, from sharing the wealth with her new-found family and living with them happily ever after at Marsh End?
The travel or stagnation of information--its content, context, quantity, and quality (among other characteristics) --play a huge part in the creation of fictions and their conflicts. Consider the palantiri of The Lord of the Rings, and their effective transference of selective information (or misinformation, depending upon the strategy behind their implementation). The entire plot of Jane Eyre could not happen (well, not without excruciating ignorance on the part of its players) in the modern world.
32 is another chapter that passes the reader simply from one point to another, though the destination remains nebulous. The story, while doubtfully in context of the whole of the story (which I don't have yet), appears tangential, and for that comes across as over-long and superfluous. I do wonder, particularly as Jane is yet dreaming of Mr. Rochester, that there is something in the development of the difficult relationship between Mr. Rivers and Miss Oliver that will somehow inform or influence Jane--but to what end? If not, then I really don't see the point of drawing so far out this secondary story.
Mr. Rivers has just given Jane the rundown of his life and his abandoned ambitions, and now he's faced with this gorgeous girl and, upon offering mild reprimand for her being out and about so late, "...he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his feet." I suspect foreshadowing, but judging by further paragraphs, the crushed flowers are for his forceful efforts to quell the love in his heart for this pretty thing cooing over both him and his dog (after all, if she can't caress him, might as well caress his dog--metonymic, it would seem).
"inexorable as death" -- what a way to paint your brother! Inexorable = grim.
What is Mr. St. John Rivers' weight and burden that creep up in his sermons?
I hear Jane's words when Mr. Rivers speaks of the philosophy of life.
Is there a point to writing in the Rivers' mother's uncle's death (aside from permitting me an excellent opportunity for ridiculous apastrophic indulgence)?
"Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education: they grow there firm as weeds among stones."
"Paste" for the pies sounds rather nasty to our modern, American ears, and I have never heard it used as such before. Before I check the etymology, however, let me go over this: paste is awfully close to pastry, which indeed is word commonly used to describe the stuff for pie crust, among other things, and both paste and pastry are similar to pasta, which is more than just noodles, but the dough from which they're made. Makes sense, I think. The etymologies: pasta, pastry, paste (which has a rather humorous later usage).
The casual, classic good looks of Mr. St. John are an interesting contrast to the forceful, oft brutal, "manliness" of Rochester.
Issue of grammar: "Now you may eat, though still not immoderately."
Is it a philanthropist who helps one find gainful employment?
"My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you, as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird some wintry wind might have driven through their casement" (emphasis added).
Since the last Jane Eyre post, I am more convinced than ever that Jane is a bird. Here, in the second paragraph of chapter 28, Jane stands at a crossroads examining her options. She doesn't know where these paths may lead despite the signs' indications, because she doesn't know what may await her at any of the potential ends. She is very much like the birds from Bewick's in chapter one: destitute, alone, and sedentary--at least temporarily--in points dark and dreary.
"We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence." Always?
"Long after the little birds had left their nests...."; "I was a human being and had a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was nothing to supply them."
In addition to her now past life, Jane has left all her fiscal earnings behind. Considering the manner of her departure, would she have accepted her salary had it been proffered?
Interesting what one can become habituated to: compare (if you've read the latter) Jane, here in destitution, with the paisanos of Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat.
"Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester, is still living: and then, to die of want and cold, is a fate to which nature can not submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid—direct me!" What does she mean by this?
ignis fatuus: I believe this is, by Potter lore, a "hinkypunk," which is a will-o'-the-wisp by the rest of English folklore. (If you haven't read The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Doyle, this would be a perfect time. Imagine you're lost like Jane somewhere within this moor-land as described so much more effectively by Doyle. What might a will-o'-the-wisp or hinkpunk do to your paired hope and despair?)
For brevity's sake, I am not including the full poems I reference here. Also, and as I've done before (even just last week), I'm going to leave the majority of dot-connecting to you.
The topic comes from our most recent Jane Eyre installment, chapter 27, which in its reference to birds as "emblems of love" throws back in a contrary manner (opposite really, but birds still the same) to chapter 1, where Jane is reading from Bewick's History of British Birds. Before we get into the direct application to the book, however, I want to look at some more birds.
Birds, symbolically, are a lot like that of trees, at least on the positive end of things, where they can represent nature and God (often, and particularly in the case of Jane Eyre, the same thing) and love, and, in their movement between earth and Heaven, they can represent prayer and angels or spirits. However, they have a freedom impressionistically lacking in trees, and their folkloric connection to deity is stronger than that of trees. (Look at Quetzalcoatland, on the less dramatic side, Mr. Stork -- video below.)
There is also a darker element to birds, which seems more appropriate, at least by first impression, to Jane Eyre. Birds are often carrion eaters--consumers of the dead. Blend this with their naturally spiritual element, and you have a symbol well worthy of Jane Eyre, and particularly chapter 1. Crows, owls, vultures, etcetera are not birds associated with that which is pleasant and beatific and uplifting. I posted this picture yesterday:
Here a man--one unlucky soul from the Book of Samuel--after being stoned gets taken apart by the birds. It reminds me of that moment in Pirates of the Caribbean shortly before Jack SPARROW escapes (see? "sparrow": freedom -- though also, perhaps, idiocy -- in that name) where we see crows poking at the eye of some woebegone sailor in a cage.
Gustave Dore'
Pirates and birds, not to mention the illustrator of the above engraving, Gustave Dore (one of my very favorite illustrators, by the way, and thank goodness he was so spectacularly prolific!), brings us to Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (short version HERE; complete poem HERE (and, really, read the whole thing; it's worth it and will only put you out about ten or fifteen minutes). Here we see the curse that follows the destruction of nature, and in this case, an albatross, symbol of good fortune as well as symbol of Jesus Christ (consider its shape against the sky, sun up and behind it, viewed from the deck of a ship far below).
What interests me here is the combination of hopefulness (the albatross as Christ) with the migratory nature, almost aimlessness, of the sea bird. This and other sea birds are the subject of the chapter of Bewick's, which young Jane Eyre is reading. But what about the most recent chapter we've read, where the birds are all about the Love?
Certainly that--love--fits birds just fine. Read the smackingly sappy (sorry) Ode to a Nightingale, by Keats: HERE.
Note the mention of the dryad in the first stanza: bolster, as if it were needed, to the connection mentioned above between birds and trees (beside the fact that so many birds frickin' LIVE in trees!).
Joseph Severn
While I think these two poems do a good job reflecting at least a little of what Bronte was intending in their respective chapters, it does little to make connection between the two, because birds are such facile and even capricious symbols; they can be practically anything. But perhaps if we forget about the individual symbolics of specific species or varieties, then we might make a general definition for birds (easy -- they fly, right? and flying is freedom, unfettered and irresponsible), and apply it to Jane.
Look at her circumstances in each chapter as they apply to freedom. In chapter 1, she craves it, but freedom appears to be impossible, unreachable; hence the birds are dark, migratory, and carnivorous--drawn haunts of the derelict and dead. In chapter 27, she is faced with the necessity of taking up her a new and undesired freedom, but she doesn't want to go! She sees love--tweedly little birds, cute and white (I'm making that up)--but it, the love, is as unreachable--keen to fly just beyond her grasp--as was freedom back at the beginning.
Maybe this is stretching, but it works. Birds are such instinctive symbols that, I think, even if Bronte didn't intend their application here, it works nonetheless. What might not work, though I'm putting it out there anyway, is Jane's name:
JANE EYRE. (And this is how totally I am going from the mark. Read Ancestry.com's derivation of the last name Eyre, from Ayer: "English: from Middle English eir, eyer ‘heir’ (Old French (h)eir, from Latin heres ‘heir’). Forms such as Richard le Heyer were frequent in Middle English, denoting a man who was well known to be the heir to the main property in a particular locality, either one who had already inherited or one with great expectations.") But say the last name aloud. Eyre. Say it. Eyre; Air. Birds! Jane Eyre is a bird, folks! Take her first name (which means gracious and merciful, by the way) and we've really got a pretty good description of Jane's character: a forgiving and benevolent bird. Does she not travel here and there spreading the good of her soul?
What is the greater problem: the deceit or the first wife?
Why would she forgive him so quickly? Is she is so subject to her own fancy, injected as it is by his supercharged rhetoric and emotion? Why does such quick revolution say about Jane and/or her love for Rochester? Finally, how can she consider it forgiveness here if in the end she leaves anyway?
Maybe I watch too many romantic comedies now that I'm married, but I can't help but wonder (and such supposition is, at its heart, ridiculous, since characters of a book or movie do not exist beyond their pages, film, or bits and bites and pixels) if Rochester had some nagging doubt that he might be found out and so planned only the smallest wedding to be as little publicly humiliated as possible. Contradict me, please: It seems out of Rochester's character, especially in view of his efforts to flood Jane with all the typical aristocratic accoutrement, to not have the grandest of available pomp and circumstance for such an occasion.
I don't get this: Rochester has houses all over the place, right? France, elsewhere in England.... Why did he keep his monstrous wife in the abode as his "home base?" Why not put her elsewhere?
Who is the antagonist of this chapter?
"Birds were singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself." Birds were a motif early on with that book she read at Gateshead, which put them in grave- and churchyards, and islands and shipwrecks. Is there any connection between those birds and these now?
"May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love." But we all hurt those whom we love.
Now apart from all that, let's throw back to that lightning-struck tree from chapter 23, because I think we've got all the pieces now. See if you agree with me:
The shepherd in the picture is, in this case, a secret shepherd and in the form of one, and to this point much maligned, Grace Poole;
of course, if Grace Poole is the shepherd, then that would perforce render the lamb the wholly impure (or is she innocent by insanity? -- does it matter?) Bertha Mason;
the tree in the picture here is struck by lightning, of course, and by strain of metaphor and imagery, we have in the book a tree split by lightning, which tree is a likely metaphor for the otherwise perfect (perfect as in "complete" and, in this case, would-be seamless) union of Jane and Rochester;
the lamb is also the lightning. Maybe.
But we run into a couple problems. Is the tree truly irreparable? Is it even dead? And here again is the comparison to The Lord of the Rings, whose White Tree of Gondor represents the unity of a kingdom under rightfully inherited and ordained monarchy. In the books the tree is dead, and Aragorn must solve the problem of no white tree, which, of course, he does. Is there a solution to the dissolution of the Rochester kingdom?
The symbolism of trees generally is big, and nearly every culture in the world has some mythological application for them. In Western culture (that's us) there are the obvious trees of Life and Knowledge; move Northward (and if we stick with proper name-bearing trees) and there is also Ygdrassil; more than that there all the various tree spirits and nymphs and a metaphors of strength and worship and so on from around the globe--at least wherever there are trees. I think the most important piece of imagery here in Jane Eyre is that this tree, a chestnut and rooted as deeply in the earth as the Rochester line is rooted in the English countryside, and once reaching worshipfully into heaven, indeed represents not just the current Lord but the Rochester line. This being the case, it can in no wise be Mrs. Bertha Mason Rochester who struck the tree, but Mr. Rochester who is the lightning, and not most importantly by the fall and death of the tree, but by the tree's dispirited failure to maintain devoted and worshipful arms extended to Heaven and God. Mr. Rochester, as he admits in the chapel, has offended God with his presumption. Is he without religious reverence?
*
Finally, and about Jane now, is she still in love with Mr. Rochester?
"I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him."
"Be not far from me, [God,] for trouble is near: there is none to help."
Why didn't Mr. Rochester just tell the truth from the start? Isn't that always better?
*
If you're at all interested in more tree symbolism, check THIS out, specifically about the chestnut tree.
The cloven chestnut tree in its description here is like, though perhaps only in portent and not eventual outcome, the white tree of Gondor from The Lord of the Rings (either the original textual version or the cinematic.) Thoughts?
vampyre; vampire -- application, then? and is it more or less than the by-now so terribly stereotypical "modern" vampire tropes? (Fascinating history, of course, but I wouldn't about more than etymologies in this case.)
A year and a day. This law has always boggled me, as much invented, seemingly, for its poetry as its legal application. But considering its contextual use here in the book, what is Rochester actually saying (you may include exclude other listed English traditions ascribed to this legalese anapest?
Interesting: once the tale is confessed and quelled (was it really?), the wind too has died down; but how could she possibly accept the lame, or at least incomplete, explanation from Rochester?
Such is the tone of this book that I am quite frequently reminded of EA Poe. "I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket" I must say reminds me of Poe "Hop-Frog," though here, likely, is the least similar comparison between the two authors. More, again, I think the recollection calls stronger attention to the issue of tone than any issue of conflict.
It seems that perhaps this, well, tirade of Mr.R's at the head of the chapter brings to the surface a distinct, and perhaps jarring, difference between the two lovers. What is it?
Mr.R asks, "What do you anticipate of me?" and Jane's reply is bleak! If she's right, what is her evidence, more than that of storybooks; if she is wrong, why is she perhaps naturally prone to such a misjudgment?
Mr.R pleads his case and Jane asks, "Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love such an one?" // Mr.R: “I love it now.” // Jane: “But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficult standard?” Is this not a question impossible to answer? Why or why not? Is she justified in asking it?
What do Hercules and Samson have to do with any of this?
What is the real argument going on here? Why does Jane not want the jewels, and why is Mr.R so bent on receiving them to her?
And here it is! Soon after reference to a biblical king comes, "but for God's sake, don't desire a useless burden! Don't long for poison—don't turn out a downright Eve on my hands!" Is she an Eve? (Okay, I know that this is actually a pretty huge question. Simplify.)
This, I think, is my new favorite line: "My principles were never trained, Jane; they may have grown a little awry for want of attention."
It is a hard thing for those of this current American culture to understand (and very little do I) the weight carried by "station" in Jane-Eyre period England. What is Jane's station compared to Mr.R's, and what are the consequences both--NOT JUST MR. ROCHESTER--are accepting by marrying?
Is there yet disbelief within Jane that the marriage will happen?
Of course, if Jane becomes a Rochester and inherits permanent residence at Thornfield, is she not bound to discover the mystery of the third floor, Mrs. Poole, and Mr. Mason?
And as this chapter has produced my favorite line, so has it lent my favorite scene: the discussion of the moon and faeries between Mr.R and Adele. Fantastic!
"I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol."
Bronte misquotes Thomas Campbell's poem, "The Turkish Lady." Check line 5: HERE.
The first page or two of chapter 23 can be described easily as Romantic--and not "romantic," as in the 'til-now stymied romance between Jane and Mr.R, but Romantic, as in the written gushing effulgence of emotion and unquenched idealism.
So, first Romanticism and now Mr.R is pointing out this amazing moth, alien denizen of the night!, and I'm reminded of the albatross from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner." (If you're going to bother with this question, don't read Coleridge's second master piece passively; this is a BIG and IMPORTANT work.) I haven't read ahead and don't know if this moth turns out indeed to be a portent one way or another, but the at-least-partially-aligned imagery and tone are both here. Notice also the mention of the sea foam and imminent voyage to Ireland.
When Jane complains about her necessary--and necessary by statement from Rochester--departure from Thornfield, what is she really complaining of?
Is Jane a woman like Lot's wife? Will she look back? And what if she does not depart? What might this indicate of Thornfield, if this is indeed an apt comparison?
What's with the sudden usage of "Janet"?
"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you—you'd forget me." Is Bronte referring to the taken rib from Adam to make Eve? Is she referring, strangely, to the umbilical cord? What is going on in this absolutely fascinating quotation?
More poetry! Considering the period of the book's composition together with the heavy Romanticism of the book and this particular chapter respectively, check out Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale" HERE, a truly masterful and hugely influential poem (at least as much so as "Mariner" above).
I do love to see the fire of Jane's childhood reemerge here in conversation with Mr.R, but culminating in a kiss!? What is the man trying to do to our poor girl?
Name the many reasons Jane has to doubt Mr.R's sincerity of proposal.
What of the change of weather and general tone shift at the point of Jane's acceptance? Remember the weather at the beginning of the book when we spoke of Gothicism, especially as it conflicts with Romanticism. There is a strikingly similar moment in The Sound of Music (today, apparently, is the day of comparative literature).
What of the lightning-struck tree, so like a tower? If this is indeed reference to Tarot, what of the shift from Tower to Tree?
"You are not without sense, Cousin Eliza; but what you have, I suppose in another year will be walled up alive in a French convent. However, it is not my business, and, so it suits you, I don't much care." Immurement is an ugly thing. I imagine this reference to masonry isn't exactly how Jane or Bronte intended it, but I think it's indeed rather fitting.
Interesting that the death of Mrs. Reed and the dispersion of the Reed family happen roughly the same time as the death of Jane's relationship--or hopes for one--with Mr. Rochester.
So. Chapter 22: a surprisingly--or uncharacteristically--short chapter! It leaves me thinking about the idea of immurement. (If you haven't clicked the link, do so and read up, unless you already know all about it.) Forget for a minute the capital-punishment element, and even the literal walling-up element (especially since wikipedia has listed all the stuff--the literary and folkloric references to this particular and very romantic act and mode of death--I would be talking about otherwise); is there a connection within the confines of our book here between a potentially figurative immurement and our modern notion of putting up and tearing down walls--emotional walls?
"Count Ugolino and His Sons in Prison," by William Blake
The words "presentiments, signs, and sympathies" roll off the tongue so well, but do such things exist in the world of Jane Eyre?
Our present and o-so-popular interpretation of the Indian concept of "karma" is not exactly accurate to those who actually practice its source religion. However, and regardless of the details, is karma--in any of its iterations--what brought about poor Mr. John's untimely death?
(It seems that in nearly all books I've read for which I've written up reading guides or study questions (nigh unto twenty five, I should say, since I began teaching), all have an extended portion, roughly in the middle, leading into which pertinent questions come shorter and shorter in number and often remain so until nearly the end of the book, where things generally pick up a bit, philosophically speaking. We seem to be there in the discussionary doldrums now, as I go pages and pages with virtually nothing profound to ask.)
Quite a relationship there is between the two sisters, and so different than anything Jane ever saw when she was a resident at Gateshead or might have predicted during her time away.
Jane is scared to death of Grace Poole. Why has not made a bigger stink? Is she so in control of her actions that she has set her concerns--even those most dire--by the wayside for the sake of or by trust in her boss?
The situation in the room next door to Mrs. Poole on one side and the howling, groaning canine thing on the other and with the injured man, locked in, the paintings, and the dying candle is a perfect storm for phantoms. How does Jane hold up?
Crime versus Error; Sin versus Transgression
"Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant man justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach to him forever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger; thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?"
What does Mr.R mean by "instrument," and what does he intend when he says he believes to have found the instrument for his cure?
While I think these two poems do a good job reflecting at least a little of what Bronte was intending in their respective chapters, it does little to make connection between the two, because birds are such facile and even capricious symbols; they can be practically anything. But perhaps if we forget about the individual symbolics of specific species or varieties, then we might make a general definition for birds (easy -- they fly, right? and flying is freedom, unfettered and irresponsible), and apply it to Jane.
