Poking the Eye of the Beholder: Triumph of the Plain in Jane Eyre
Dorothy Compton
"Love built on beauty, soon as beauty,
dies"
--John Donne: Elegies 2, "The Anagram"
Convinced that the beautiful heroines her sisters portrayed in their
novels were a disservice to their readers, Charlotte Bronte
deliberately set out to create the anti-heroine that became Jane
Eyre:
She once told her sisters that they
were morally wrong - in
making their heroines beautiful as a matter of course. They replied
that it was impossible to make a heroine interesting on
any other terms. Her answer was "I will prove to you that you
are wrong; I will
show you a heroine as plain and small as myself, who shall be
as interesting as any of yours." (Federico 29)
Bronte could well be considered a proto-feminist. She was
clearly rebelling against Victorian literary conventions, which
typically reflect, says Reed, "certain fears, anxieties and
desires of Victorian men" (77). That Bronte was successful in
revolutionizing the Victorian heroine is evident in the term "post-Jane
heroine" which indicates a departure from the "sweet
and submissive heroines" found elsewhere in the literature of
the
period (Federico 29). In Jane Eyre,
Bronte firmly rejects Victorian ideals of beauty (most notably the "ne
plus ultra"
female and the classical Greek male) in favor of a spiritually
and intellectually superior, if plain, heroine.
Why was Jane's plainness so extraordinary? In an era when the
elaborate and the ornate were considered most attractive (in
everything from architecture and furniture to hair
styles), Jane,
with her "Quakerish" black frocks and hair "combed behind [her]
ears" is refreshing in her simplicity. In "plain Jane" (her name
itself is suggestive of a new type of heroine, according to
Gilbert and Gubar), Bronte offers a character whose interior self
actually surpasses the exterior in beauty.
With a typical Victorian obsession for physical appearance,
Jane gives many descriptions of herself, as well as others'
responses to her appearance. Jane recalls with painful awareness
the deficiencies of her physical appearance even in the earliest
chapters of her autobiography. If her state of "dependence"
causes her only vague grief, her plainness is a constant reminder of
her "outsider" status at Gateshead. She is "the strange
little figure there . . . with a white face and arms specking
the
gloom..." (46; ch. 2).
Even at an early age, Jane recognizes the power held by the
beautiful (Federico 32). At Gateshead, the selfish Georgiana is not
just tolerated but adored, simply because she is pretty:
"Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious
and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink
cheeks, and golden curls, seemed to give delight
to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault"
(46-7; ch. 2). Young Jane recognizes that even now her
situation is tied to her physical appearance: "I know that had
I
been a . . . handsome child--though equally dependent
and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more
complacently" (47; ch. 2). It also seems she is not alone in
this estimation; her only friend at Gateshead, Bessie, agrees:
"at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more
moving in the same condition" (58; ch. 3). The heavy importance
placed on female beauty is nicely summed up by Miss Abbot, a
servant at Gateshead. For all the Victorians' emphasis on money
and class, Jane's supposed lack of attractiveness is more damning
to her socially than her financial straits: "[I]f she were a
nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness; but
one really cannot care for such a little toad as that" (58; ch.
3).
Perceptive child as she is, Jane has the ability to see through
the disguises that appearance can present. She recognizes that
one's actions are far more important than one's physical
appearance. Bessie, when she treats Jane with kindness, seems
radiantly beautiful to Jane: "When thus gentle, Bessie seemed
to
me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world" (61; ch. 4). Helen
Burns, perhaps the purest, most angelic character in the whole novel,
is characterized by "[A] beauty neither of fine colour nor long
eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of
movement, of radiance" (105; ch. 8). Bronte seems to propose
the following moral: conventional beauty is at best shallow, at
worst morally bankrupt, while plainness is unfailingly virtuous
and good.
Jane's situation doesn't improve at Lowood, where she learns of
the hypocritical standards society applies to both the poor and
the plain. Mr.
Brocklehurst takes fear of beautiful (lower
class) woman to the extreme: "'Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what--what is
that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled--curled all over?'"
(96; ch. 7). Julia Severn's hair horrifies
him to such an extent he is reduced to stuttering. Such is the
Victorian fear of female sexuality. Rea asserts that "His
arousal at the sight of Julia's red curls is unconsciously
sexual, and he discharges this sexual rage against Julia by
focusing his inner rage on the other girls' hair" (21). The text seems
to agree with this assertion: "'All these top-knots must
be cut off . . . my mission is to mortify these girls the lusts
of the flesh" (96; ch. 7).
Naturally unpretentious, Jane conforms easily and naturally to
what Joanne E. Rea calls the "deliberately ascetic" (20) physical
appearance of the her fellow inmates, but she doesn't fail to
notice that Mr. Brocklehurst applies quite a different set of rules to
his own daughters, who are elaborately coiffed and
richly dressed: "they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk,
and furs . . . from under the brim of this graceful headdress
fell a
profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled" (97; ch. 7).
Beauty in the poor, it seems, it threatening because it implies
only sexuality. In the privileged, however, beauty (even in the
most flagrant display of the ladies Brocklehurst) is respected
and admired because of the necessity to attract a suitable
husband.
Appropriately, the practical and realistic Jane is not transformed,
swan-like, into a great beauty, upon reaching
maturity. As an adult, she is by now somewhat resigned to
her plainness, although she still aspires to the early Victorian ideal:
I ever wished to look as well as I
could, and to please as much
as my want of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that
I was
not handsomer: I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a
straight nose, and a small cherry mouth: I desired to be tall,
stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune
that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and
marked. (130; ch. 11)
Jane's imaginary ideal arrives at Thornfield in the character and
figure of Blanche Ingram. Blanche personifies the "ne plus
ultra" female form that was so desirable in the first half of
the
nineteenth century. Not coincidentally, she is everything Jane is not.
While Jane is quite short, Blanche and her sister are
"straight and tall as poplars" (201; ch. 17). Federico describes the
sharp contrast between Blanche and Jane: "Blanche displays
all the features of the ne plus ultra: her 'Grecian neck and bust' are
in the classical vogue...and Jane is positively dwarfed
beside the 'Tall, fine, sloping shoulders, and long graceful
neck'" (32). Jane is wearing, as usual, her drab, Quakerish
black; Blanche is "attired in spotless white" (202; ch. 17). In
short, Blanche is "the very type of majesty" (202; ch. 17).
Despite her majestic carriage, Blanche is not (like Queen
Victoria herself) a benevolent queen. Reed characterizes her as
a type called the "Man-destroying woman; frequently and quite
naturally presented as handsome, but their beauty has a peculiar
quality . . . although they usually exhibit astounding beauty,
it is
really abrupt masculinity that characterizes these conventional
types" (157). But despite her outward charms, Blanche is not
"good natured," in fact it is revealed later that she is positively
shallow, even greedy. The moment she hears a rumor
that Rochester is not worth as much as she had thought, she
immediately drops him. Her beauty, though, is legendary, and Jane
compares herself to Blanche, sight unseen, with mixed results. Jane, as
usual, portrays herself as "Governess, disconnected,
poor, and plain" (190; ch. 16). She endows Blanche with "the
loveliest face you can imagine . . . the Grecian neck and bust
. . . and
the delicate hand" (191; ch. 16). "[C]ompared with her,
physically speaking," concludes Jane, "I am nothing" (191; ch.
16). Yet the ever-perceptive Jane considers Blanche beneath her
jealousy, because she recognizes that Blanche's appearance
conceals an inner emptiness. She is one-dimensional and lacking
in goodness, or as the French proverb says, "Beauty without
virtue is a flower without perfume." Jane describes Blanche's faults
mercilessly:
"She was very showy, but she was not genuine; she had a fine
person, many brilliant attainments, but her mind was
poor, her heart barren by nature; nothing bloomed
spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit
delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was
not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from books: she never
offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated
a high tone of sentiment, but she did not know the
sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her"
(215; ch. 18).
"She was not good," says Jane, and indeed, Blanche doesn't even
have the goodwill to be kind to a child: "Too often she betrayed this,
by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had
conceived against little Adele, pushing her away with some
contumelious epithet . . . sometimes ordering her from the room,
and
always treating her with coldness and acrimony" (215; ch. 18).
Blanche has a powerful personality to match her height, which
is
reinforced, according to Reed, by her role in the charades game played
at Thornfield: "The identification with the Old Testament Israelitish
princesses hints also at other commanding females
such as Judith and Jael" (157). But it must be remembered that
the biblical Rebecca was barren. This makes her an even more
appropriate role for Blanche, whose coldness renders her "barren" in
the sense that she is incapable of love. Blanche and
Rochester share some characteristics, such as their dark
complexion and "large and dark eyes" (189; ch. 16) but they are
not compatible as a couple because Rochester is not
withhout a soul.
It is also important that Jane describes Blanche as "not
original." Victorian women, according to Reed, were not supposed
to have independent thoughts, as that might undermine their utter
dependence upon their husbands. "An aggressive, liberated woman,
seeking ideals of her own and the freedom that would enable her
to pursue those ideals" was considered flawed (Reed 77). Bronte,
in making the unoriginal Blanche so thoroughly unlikable, is
clearly reacting against this attitude. The inner beauty that
Bronte seems to advocate a break from both the physical and
intellectual standards to which Victorian women were held.
Like Blanche Ingram, Bertha
Rochester competes and contrasts with Jane physically. Though Jane
knows her only as a mad, frightening
beast of a woman, was considered quite a beauty in her youth.
In the classical form, Bertha is tall: "She was a big woman, in
stature almost equalling her husband" (321; ch. 26). She has other
similarities to Blanche: she was a legendary beauty, and
dark-complected: "Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for
her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in
the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic" (332; ch. 27).
Bertha Mason's "majestic"--this term linking her directly
to
Blanche Ingram--exterior conceals something much more hideous
than Blanche's coldness: her latent insanity. Bertha's beauty
blinded the young, naive Rochester in a way that Blanche's does
not. He is fooled first by Bertha's attractive appearance, then
by the beautiful French dancer Celine, who uses him coldly and
mercilessly. By the time he meets Jane, he has learned the
"beauty is so often false" lesson that Bronte seeks to teach her
readers. The ease and speed with which Bertha disintegrates into
corpulent, diseased monster from lovely maiden is astonishing
and
terrifying: "[H]er character ripened and developed with
frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast and rank" (334;
ch. 27). It's no wonder Rochester is drawn to his small, plain,
simple governess.
Of course Rochester himself is no great beauty. Much as she
loves him, Jane is not blind to his physical defects. "Do you
think me handsome?" Rochester has the audacity to ask when they
are formally
introduced, and Jane just as bluntly answers "No" before she can
stop herself (162; ch. 14). Even later, when she gazes at him
in
love, she sees a rather ugly man: "My master's colourless, olive
face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes,
strong features, firm grim mouth . . . were not beautiful, according
to rule" (204; ch. 17). If Rochester does not conform to what Jane
knows as the "rule" of
beauty, he does resemble a popular Victorian type called the
Byronic
hero. According to Lefkovitz, "Rochester has all the
appeal of a Byronic hero; he is wild, dark, rootless, troubled
and brooding . . . Rochester sport[s] the same kind of brutal
beauty
that was coming into popularity in the early decades of the
century" (146). As a man, and more importantly, as a wealthy
man, he is not so adversely affected by his looks. He would be
sought out by
families like the Masons and the Ingrams based on his wealth
alone, regardless of his looks. Bronte makes him unattractive
primarily to promote his relationship with Jane. Like Jane, his
"beauty" is born of his sufferings and of his basic goodness.
Lefkovitz says, "Moreover, because Rochester loves Jane in spite
of her plainness and social status, and because he rejects the
lovely, but unlovable, Miss Ingram, the reader comes to admire the
rough edges of his beauty" (149). Rochester's visage may
lack "benevolence," but he does show some sign of inner goodness:
he takes responsibility for Adele, who constantly reminds him
of
experiences in France he would rather forget. Additionally, his
slightly savage looks insure his redemption in the readers' eyes,
because we are supposed to be learning Bronte's lesson: "[T]he
polish which money puts on beauty conceals either the mad beastliness
of a Bertha or the worldly greediness of a Miss Ingram" (Lefkovitz
149).
The constant importance of Jane's plainness is evidenced in
Rochester's rather unromantic marriage proposal. "You--poor and
obscure, and small and plain as you are--I entreat you to accept
me as a husband" (283; ch. 23). She accepts, of course, and
Rochester seems to enter his second period of blindness, this
time to Jane's desire for simplicity. He wants the world to
think her as beautiful as he does, which is both impossible and
unnecessary, according to the insulted Jane:
"No, no sir! Think of other subjects,
and speak of other
things, and in another strain. Don't address me as if I were a
beauty; I am your plain Quakerish governess."
"You are a beauty in my eyes; and a beauty just after the
desire of my heart--delicate and aerial . . . I will make the
world acknowledge you a beauty too . . . I will attire my
Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her
hair; and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil."
(297; ch. 24)
To attire Jane in this manner would violate not only Jane's
personality but also severely weaken the whole argument of the
novel, which places itself firmly against the "arbitrary politics
of female beauty" (Federico 32). Lefkovitz thinks the reader
will agree with Jane's assessment of this situation: "Jane's
beauty is the beauty of plainness, plain good sense and plain
good looks, and by now, the reader is sufficiently won over that
we believe Jane to be better off without the expensive ornaments"
(150).
Rochester's maiming and this time, literal blindness are widely
read as the ultimate symbol of the unimportance of physical
beauty. Federico says, "Rochester's blindness may epitomize the
transcendence of mind and spirit over body and beauty, since he
no longer has the power of the gaze" (32). If there was any
residual doubt regarding the compatibility of Jane and Rochester,
it is completely removed when he is blinded. His deformities
allow them to attain an almost neoplatonic relationship, based
on
something far greater than outward beauty. Even before Jane
actually arrives at Ferndean, they communicate, literally, on
a
spiritual level: "'I could have deemed that in some wild, lone
scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe, we must
have met'" (472; ch. 38). Thus their relationship is reduced to its
essence, and Rochester finally comes to a true understanding
and appreciation of Jane's plain nature: "'Never mind find
clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip'" (470;
ch. 38).
Further, not only is Rochester now truly dependent upon Jane's most
important trait--her kindness--she never again has to worry about him
being
distracted by the superficial beauty of the flashy Blanche
Ingrams of the world. Rochester's physical opposite, and also his chief
competitor for
Jane's hand, is found in the figure of the classically handsome
St. John Rivers. He is an unusually Grecian figure, as Jane marvels:
Had he been a statue instead of a man,
he could not have been
easier . . . tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like
a
Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic
nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed,
an
English face comes so near the antique models as did his . . .
His
eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead,
colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless
locks of hair. (371; ch. 29)
Like the similarly classically formed Blanche Ingram, St. John's
character is somehow deficient. He is a parson, yet he is hardly
personable, according to Jane: "[H]e . . . scarcely impressed
one
with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even
of
a placid nature. Quiescent as he now sat, there was something
about his nostril, his mouth, his brow . . . which indicated elements
within either restless, or hard, or eager" (371; ch. 29). There
is an impenetrable coldness about him, and though Lefkovitz calls
him "excessively spiritual" (153) he is distanced and unhappy;
Jane
even goes so far as to question his sincerity as a Christian:
"Zealous in his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and
habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, the inward
content, which should be the reward of every sincere
Christian and practical philanthropist" (378; ch. 30).
As with Blanche Ingram, we have the feeling this sculpted, perfect
exterior is hiding an icy cold soul. Jane is not elevated by his
religious sermons; on the contrary she is depressed and saddened.
Though now convinced he a sincere Christian, she also knows that
he "[H]ad not yet found the peace of God which passeth all
understanding" (378; ch. 30.)
Jane eventually finds that St. John's character flaw is an
over-developed desire to deny himself happiness. Greek sculpture
is supposed to represent a balance between the physical,
intellectual and spiritual, but St. John clearly fails to strike
that balance. Though not incapable of love (he is passionately
in love with the beautiful, if vain, Rosamond Oliver) he is
incapable of allowing himself to succumb to anything that might
cause him (heavenly) joy. As Jane puts it, "That heart is already
laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged around it. It will soon be
a sacrifice consumed" (394; ch. 32).
It might seem strange of Jane to fault St. John for refusing to
marry Miss Oliver, who is similar to Blanche Ingram in her
striking beauty: "Anything more exquisite than her appearance,
in her purple habit with her Amazon'e cap of black velvet placed
gracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated
to her shoulders, can scarcely be imagined" (393; ch. 32). Though she
notes that Rosamond is "not profoundly interesting or
thoroughly impressive" (394; ch. 32), she seems to favor the
match: "'You ought to marry her'" is her blunt advice to St.
John (398; ch. 32). Yet this recommendation is not completely
inconsistent with Bronte's rejection of traditional beauty,
because of certain mitigating circumstances: first, that
Rosamond Oliver is a shallow and childlike minor character, not
a
heroine; and second, that St. John truly loves her. Jane disapproves of
Rochester and Blanche's supposed match because
(aside from her personal feelings) she recognizes the absence
of
love in the relationship. Furthermore, as a classical figure,
St. John is desperately in need of balance in his life. Since
his own beauty means nothing to him, perhaps the lovely to look
at Rosamond (and she is just that) could be an external source
of
harmony for him. Perhaps on some level Jane recognizes this, and
because she does care for St. John, tries to encourage what she
believes will bring him happiness.
But, St. John proposes to our heroine instead, not because he
loves her, but because the unpretentious Jane fits in perfectly with
his plan to "[lay] his genius out to wither, and his strength to waste,
under a tropical sun" (398; ch. 32). He immediately
identifies Jane as physically undesirable: "Ill or well, she would
always
be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those
features"
(366;
ch. 29). She is, however, "Formed for labor, not for love" as
he tells her in a marriage proposal even more tactless than Rochester's
423; ch. 34). Her plainness, in his mind, makes her
the perfect partner for his missionary work, which he described
in rather unhumanitarian terms: "My foundation laid on earth for
a mansion in heaven..." (400; ch. 30). Jane at once recognizes
the unsuitability of this match because "He is handsome and she
is plain" (Federico 31). Or as Jane explains to Diana, "We should
never suit" (441; ch. 35). Jane, for all her Quakerish
appearance, is as passionate as an adult as she was in the days
of the red-room, and a marriage to a self-described "cold, hard
man" (400; ch. 30) would only mean unhappiness for her.
Jane and Rochester's suitability lies in their shared
unconventional
looks. Jane is a "plain beauty" and Rochester is the similarly
oxymoronic "noble savage" (Lefkovitz 154). "Beauty is of little
consequence," Jane tells Rochester, and although this is
certainly untrue in the outside world, it is certainly true of
their relationship. Their mutual unattractiveness to the outside
world overcomes the disparity in their ages and class. Rochester
recognizes this common ground early in their relationship:
"...you are not pretty any more than I am handsome..." (163, ch.
13). Jane radiates with happiness at the end of the novel, and
as Lefkovitz concludes, "Jane and Rochester acquire beauty. Their
appearances are not so much altered as we are made to
reassess our criteria for appreciating beauty" (149). The ending
of the novel is all the more satisfying because Jane and
Rochester achieve a mature and lasting love: "Mature
love...requires the ability to see beyond the appearance to the
reality, and the acceptance of that reality in all its aspects"
(Ralph 57). Their relationship will almost assuredly be a long
one, because it is not based on appearances that will eventually
"fade."
"Most true is that 'beauty is in the eye of the gazer,'" Jane
notes, and this is the moral of her tale, though she manages its
telling with more sophistication than this platitude might
suggest. Bronte is successful in making an "interesting" plain heroine,
even more so because Jane is interesting because of her lack of beauty,
not despite it. Lest we forget, the reader is reminded just once more
that it is
plain Jane that triumphs. An old servant remarks after the
wedding: "If she ben't one of the handsomest, she's noan faal
and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, ony
body may see that" (474; ch. 38).
Link to
Home
| Previous