You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so…

When last we left Jane, she was ill, but expecting to be sent to school…

[Change] seemed near, – I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room.

Although “closet” presumably meant a different thing back then (maybe just a small room, as opposed to a cupboard to store clothes in), this description still calls to mind Harry Potter’s situation in his first book (with his cupboard under the stairs). Rowling definitely drew a lot from this first section of the book, between the bully cousin and the protagonist’s escape from the abusive home being facilitated by going away to school.

John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from me, uttering execrations and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mamma. I heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how ‘that nasty Jane Eyre’ had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly- ‘Don’t talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters should associate with her.’
Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at all deliberating on my words,- ‘They are not fit to associate with me.’

I mean, it’s certainly an improvement! But naturally, Mrs. Reed won’t tolerate her dear children being badmouthed.

Mrs. Reed was a rather stout woman; but on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable, the remainder of the day.
‘What would uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?’ was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control.
[…]
‘My uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mamma: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.’

This clearly rattles her aunt, probably because that’s exactly how she feels. Mrs. Reed beats her a little, but for the next few months, she’s content to merely shut Jane up in the nursery, to the extent that Bessie makes Jane into her nursery-helper. It’s the holidays, so naturally, Mrs. Reed and her children are busy with parties, and everyone just pretends Jane isn’t there.

Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie’s step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval to seek out her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper – a bun or a cheese-cake – then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, ‘Good night, Miss Jane.’ When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do.

and she clearly notes the kisses because IT’S THE ONLY PHYSICAL AFFECTION SHE GETS IN THAT HOUSE

Anyhow, after the holidays are over, she’s surprised to receive a summons to the breakfast-room one day.

I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation: the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I must enter.

I definitely know that anxious feeling…

The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low I looked up at- a black pillar! such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way of capital.

Naturally, this is just a man – Mr. Brocklehurst, the headmaster of Lowood School.

‘Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?’
Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, ‘Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst.’

In this household, Jane doesn’t even know what “being good” IS, because she tries so hard, but it’s never enough.

‘No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,’ he began, ‘especially a naughty little girl. Do you know whare the wicked go after death?’
‘They go to hell,’ was my ready and orthodox answer.
‘And what is hell? Can you tell me that?’
‘A pit full of fire.’
‘And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And what must you do to avoid it?’
I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: ‘I must keep in good health and not die.’

This a humorous response, but it highlights the fact that because Jane doesn’t know what it means to be good, she has no hope of a better future, either.

‘Do you say your prayers night and morning?’ […]
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you read your Bible?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘With pleasure? Are you fond of it?’
‘I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.’

She clearly enjoys the narrative parts of the Bible, and also the visions which include more fantastical elements, which makes sense for a person with a wild imagination like herself!

‘And the Psalms? I hope you like them?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No? Oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat, or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: “Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing psalms,” says he; “I wish to be a little angel here below;” he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant piety.’
‘Psalms are not interesting,’ I remarked.
‘That proves that you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’
I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Reed interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.

Again, I can’t blame her for not liking Psalms in general – poetry is an acquired taste, and poetry that’s been translated from another language is even harder. The “heart of flesh” line is from one of the epistles (which she’s clearly not interested in). That “little boy” has obviously just learned what to say to get what he wants – they don’t even make him learn a verse before rewarding him! And I’m guessing one of his six Psalms is the two-verse one…

Jane is actually engaging with the Bible as a book, and even if that’s considered sacrilegious by some, it’s better than not reading the Bible at all.

‘Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character and disposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school I should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on her, and above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst.’
Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was her nature to wound me cruelly: never was I happy in her presence: however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart: I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst’s eye into an artful noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

This is especially heinous because Mrs. Reed is also sowing in Mr. Brocklehurst reasons to discount everything Jane says, which means he won’t believe her about the abuse she suffered at Gateshead!

She goes on to explain that she wants Jane to be trained in accordance with her “prospects” (read: not expecting to make much of her, and anticipating her having to work), and explains that she doesn’t want her to come home again. Jane doesn’t get another word in, so Mr. Brocklehurst leaves her with this:

‘Little girl, here is a book entitled the “Child’s Guide”; read it with prayer, especially that part containing “an account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G., a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.”‘

I don’t doubt that books like these were commonplace in those days, as many such stories meant to instill the fear of Hell in a child survive to this day.

But that’s the last straw for Jane, and as soon as he leaves, she wants to respond.

Speak I must; I had been trodden on severely, and must turn: but how? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence:- ‘I am not deceitful: if I were, I would say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I like you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I.’
[…]
‘What more have you to say?’ she asked, rather in the tone in which one might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.

Perhaps Mrs. Reed is exhausted by her presence by now, or maybe she wants to hear what Jane has to say because she doesn’t mean to have anything more to do with her. Either way, she finally lets Jane say her piece.

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled by ungovernable excitement, I continued:-‘I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I like you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.’
‘How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?’
‘How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back – roughly and violently thrust me back – into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, “Have mercy! Have mercy, aunt Reed!” And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me – knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad; hard-hearted. You are deceitful!’

Bronte is calling out people who claim to be good Christians, but still inflict abuse on those “beneath” them, because they think they won’t be able to strike back (and all too often, they can’t).

Ere I had finished this reply my soul began to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.
‘Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?’
‘No, Mrs. Reed.’
‘Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend.’
‘Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I’ll let everyone at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.’
‘Jane, you don’t understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults.’
‘Deceit is not my fault!’ I cried out in a savage, high voice.
‘But you are passionate, Jane, you must allow: and now return to the nursery – there’s a dear – and lie down a little.’
‘I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.’

And with that, Mrs. Reed retreats!

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, warm and racy: its after-flavor, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed’s pardon; but I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature.

Jane’s a naturally quiet child, so when she gets worked up enough to actually speak her mind, it’s uncomfortable for her. I relate to her a lot.

All at once I heard a clear voice call, ‘Miss Jane! where are you? Come to lunch!’
It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step came tripping down the path.
‘You naughty little thing!’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come when you are called?’
Bessie’s presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid’s transitory anger; and I was disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just put my arms around her, and said, ‘Come, Bessie! don’t scold.’
The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.
‘You are a strange child, Miss Jane,’ she said as she looked down at me: ‘a little, roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?’
I nodded.
‘And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?’
‘And what does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me.’
‘Because you’re such a queer, frightened, shy, little thing. You should be bolder.’
‘What! to get more knocks?’
‘Nonsense! but you are rather put upon, that’s certain. […]’

Her abuse and neglect made her anxious to please, but that’s not what the other people in the house wanted from her…and that makes her a target for MORE abuse. But anyhow, Bessie came to her with actual good news: Mrs. Reed and the children are basically eating out, leaving her alone with Jane for the rest of the day.

‘And so you’re glad to leave me?’
‘Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I feel rather sorry.’
‘Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I daresay now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say you’d rather not.’
‘I’ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.’
Bessie stooped; and we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

Until next time…