As one of the
first Victorian novels actually to challenge accepted norms and assert a
feminine voice, Jane Eyre, according
to some, such as Sandra Gilbert, stands as a sign of hope for women and their
struggle for emancipation. Though it may take a truly radical stance on gender
politics, the novel contains within it an oppressive and insidious dark side as
well. Despite its claims of female empowerment, the novel’s liberatory
potential does not exonerate itself from its continued entanglement within
Victorian modes of domination and normative webs of power. It is specifically
within the confines of imperialist logic that the novel is unthinkingly positioned.
The novel’s historical context, especially with the rise of British imperialism
and its inherent expansionism, infiltrates the novel’s imagery, rhetoric and
ideological assumptions and infuses it with colonialist sentiments. From its
views towards the “East” to its rhetoric of savagery, the novel is riddled with
demeaning references to the Other and its qualities as diametrically opposed to
the self-righteous, proud and flaunting descriptions of Europe
and its superiority. As a result, Jane
Eyre ultimately contains the seeds of its own undoing as a novel of
resistance because of its unquestioning complicity with imperialism. Therefore,
although the novel certainly contains a radical side, its existence within the
landscape of imperialism and its corresponding tenets undermine its emancipatory
potential as it simply relocates and reinscribes oppressive systems of power
over another group of identities, the Other.
Most
importantly, the novel exposes its imperialist underpinnings by its
representations of the Other as a savage, unrefined and ultimately inferior
being in comparison to Europe and its ideologies. The
most apparent example of these representations is embodied in the portrayal of
Bertha, Mr. Rochester’s insane, Creole wife. From the very beginning, Mr.
Rochester’s uses colonial rhetoric in his references to her, her original
environment and his opinion of his life there in the West Indies.
His initial opinion of her instigates the novel’s effort to distance “the East”
from Europe and isolate it in a zone of exclusion.
“Dazzled [and] stimulated” with his “senses…excited,” (Brontë 301) Rochester
begins to craft the East into a world of exotic pleasures and wildness with its
“fiery West-Indian night,” a world far beyond the scope of Europe and its
controlled and rational environments (303). By polarizing their intrinsic
characteristics, Rochester’s
language begins the project of dividing Europe from the
East by establishing a gap in which a hierarchical system of differences and
consequent value (or lack thereof) may be erected.
Rochester’s
language then becomes progressively more vile and critical, thereby
intensifying the degradation of the East. The characterization of the East as a
site of insanity and madness, embodied by the “lunatic asylum,” isolates it as
a world to be controlled or ignored (302). The novel’s references to Bertha’s
madness powerfully demonstrate this view of the East. It is important to note
that “since the medical men had pronounced [Bertha] mad, she had of course been
shut up” (303). This line is charged with meaning as it sheds light on the
totalizing and dominating European view of the East. One may not only read the
above quotation as an act of isolation as Bertha is shut up in a physical sense
but as an act of silencing for she is also told
to shut up. The novel’s discourse, therefore, “reinforce[s] racist imperialist
conceptions and…further silence[s] the lesser privileged group’s own ability to
speak” (Alcoff 26). Moreover, her consequent ability only to yell further signifies
her inability to revolt as imperialism has confined her subjectivity to fit its
standard view and removed her of the means of challenging it, namely, her
speech.
Additionally, the conflation
of the Other with non-human beings and subhuman characteristics further oppresses
and debases the Other as its very humanity is extracted. The description of
Bertha’s family as animal-like with her brother’s “dog-like attachment” labels the
East as a locus of inferiority (Brontë 302). Rochester’s
additional criticism of the younger brother as a “complete dumb idiot” and the
elder’s “feeble mind” compounds his “[abhorrence] [of] all his [the elder
brother’s] kindred” (302). In doing so, Rochester
expands the gap between Europeans and the Other as their intellectual levels
are seen as incomparable, solidifying a state of permanent inequality. Finally,
his belief that “[Bertha’s] nature [is] wholly alien to [his],” “a nature the
most gross, impure and depraved [he] ever saw,” makes frighteningly clear his
conclusion that both she and her “kind” are immutably inferior both to him and
the European ideology he represents (302). His disgust at the thought that
“society associated [his] name and person with hers” as she plagued him with
“grimy dishonour” establishes an irrefutable hierarchy in which Bertha, and thus
the Other, are utterly degraded (303).
Finally, Rochester’s
near-suicide experience and his resulting epiphany expose the imperialist logic
rooted within the novel as his characterization of Europe
entrenches its superiority. His rescue by “the sweet wind from Europe (my emphasis)” and
the ocean’s “glorious liberty,” culminating in his emotional rebirth in which
he “saw Hope revive” and “felt Regeneration possible,” explicitly degrade the
Other as it implicitly contrasts its locations and thus its character with
those of Europe, a land where Rochester’s
“filthy burden” may be lost (304). Moreover, the fact that Rochester
is willing to go on living, “for not being insane” his desire to die “was past
in a second,” directly contrasts his rational state of mind with the madness depicted
within the West Indies and thus within the being of the
Other itself (304). It is through such demeaning rhetoric that the novel stands
as ultimately complicit, if not in support, of the domination of the Other
Furthermore,
the description of Bertha through Jane’s
eyes exposes the imperial underpinnings of the novel and its otherization of
the East. Jane’s ultimate encounter with Bertha in her room poignantly reveals
the means by which the novel distances the two and subsequently subjugates the
Other into a state of inequality. Jane’s narrative depiction of Bertha critically
exposes the novel’s intense degradation of the Other. Her language as she notes
Bertha to be a “shape” who “seemed…a
woman (my emphasis)” further demeans her (281). She is consequently excluded
from the human species for she is not a woman, she merely seems like one. Jane’s
further description of her with a face “fearful and ghastly,” a “savage face,”
leads her ultimately to the conclusion that Bertha is not a human being but a
monster, “the Vampire” (281). Jane, therefore, reveals the colonialist logic of
the novel to be an ever-present phenomenon not isolated to one character such
as Rochester, but pervasively inculcated
into every inch of the text.
One
implication of Bertha’s characterization is the effect that it has on her
subjectivity and, consequently, the subjectivity of the Other. Bertha’s depiction
as a wild savage divorced from reason, civility and sanity has irrepressible
consequences for the novel and its view of the East. Her representation as a
mad beast entirely divorced from Europe and its ideology
of enlightenment strips her of agency and forces her into a state of otherness
in which she is silenced. The very fact that she must be represented, for she is neither given dialogue nor able to express
herself, exposes our view of her as one mediated through the lens of the
traditional Victorian worldview. Rather than be able to represent and speak for
herself, someone must speak for her,
thus excluding her from any claims to her own subjectivity. This particular use
of language is dangerous for “the very discursive arrangement may reinscribe
the hierarchy of civilizations” as “the speaker is positioned as authoritative
and empowered, as the knowledgeable subject” (Alcoff 26). It is exactly the
“impetus always to be the speaker and to speak” that exudes a “desire for
mastery and domination” (24).
Second, the
novel’s ironically extensive focus on Jane’s subjectivity overshadows that of
the demonized other. It is this very split between the two individuals that
relegates Bertha to a zone of otherization, thereby implicitly favoring the
subjectivity of the European as one with rational capabilities that exceed
those of Bertha. Interestingly, if we are to take Sandra Gilbert’s reading of
Bertha as the passionate double of Jane, such an interpretation’s implications
are quite telling when intertwined with a postcolonial reading of the novel (Gilbert
492). For if Jane and Bertha are simply two halves of the same person then
Bertha’s otherization from Jane, Rochester’s
criticism of Bertha and her ultimate death demonstrate the irreconcilability of
Jane’s two parts. Therefore, the permanent separation of these two parts
signals that Bertha’s fate can be read as a metaphor for the infinite
distancing of the Other from not only the European self but herself for she is never allowed to find
her other half, complete herself, and thus possess subjectivity. Additionally,
this reading has far-reaching implications for an understanding of Jane’s
subjectivity as well, for it reveals the detrimental effects that the novel’s
underlying imperialism has for its other readings, such as a feminist
interpretation, as its relation to imperialism comes to the fore.
The
final issue to be grappled with is the notion of enlightened salvation carried out
by the characters within the novel and its embodiment of imperialist European
logic. Though ostensibly benign and service-oriented, the gift of enlightenment
and the torch of reason turn out to be symbols of power given to solidify the
imbalanced relationship of power between the two sides. The novel’s most
apparent example of this civilizing logic is through St.
John and his wish to go to India.
His immense desire to be “numbered in the band who have merged all ambitions in
the glorious one of bettering their race –
of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance (my emphasis)” illustrates
the novel’s unquestioning support for acts of colonialism in the name of
civilizing the savage (Brontë 366). St. John’s
goal to teach the natives of India
how to take care of themselves, for example, implies that the West is a
hierarchically superior ideological power that must grant the Other enlightenment. Moreover, St.
John’s religious rhetoric and his mention of heaven
and hell harken back to Rochester’s
characterization of his life with Bertha as hell where, for the moment at
least, his only option is to “go home to God” (304). This unique dichotomy
between heaven, symbolized literally and metaphorically by the coming of the
colonizer, and hell, the uncivilized land of savagery depicted as horrific and
inferior, reimposes oppressive power relations upon the text. A second example
of the role of the civilizing savior in the novel is Mr. Rochester himself.
Though he does not seem to fit the part from his originally gruff and brash
attitude, he is depicted as a self-sacrificing individual in the fire at
Thornfield. Motivated by “his own courage, and…his kindness” and risking himself
for Bertha, the savage, as he attempts to save her from her doom, Rochester
is labeled a savior (418). The novel’s portrayal of the role of the savior,
however, is problematic because “the savior
metaphor is deeply embedded in the Enlightenment's universalist pretensions,
which constructed Europe as superior (Mutua Online). As
a result, in addition to both St. John’s and his embodiment of the savior
metaphor, a “metaphor…also located in the missionary's Christian religion,” the
novel, once again, implicitly confirms the superiority of Europe in its
civilizing mission and thus isolates the East as a land of barbarism incapable
of helping itself (Online). Therefore, the savior metaphor serves as a final
means by which the novel legitimates and complies with the oppressive logic of
imperialism.
While
the novel certainly breaks with the Victorian norms of repression, female
subordination and sexual hierarchicalization, it fails to speak to other,
equally dominant modes of oppression. A postcolonial analysis of the novel
reveals a separate, far more embedded system of power beneath, that of imperial
colonialism. Through this underlying power structure a similarly oppressive
system compared to that of patriarchy emerges as a critically unchallenged
assumption permeating the text. It is thus the text itself that betrays the
location of its colonial power structure and makes clear its connections to another
form of Victorian domination of the time. Therefore, despite the novel’s
incredible challenge to sexual oppression, it remains a work nevertheless
fraught with colonial logic. As such, the novel implicitly, consistently, and
silently re-establishes a system of imperialist power relations complicit with
the domination of the Other.
Works Cited
Alcoff, Linda. “The Problem of Speaking for Others.” Cultural Critique, No. 20 Winter 1991-
1992: 5-32. JSTOR. JSTOR. Georgetown
University Library, Washington
D.C. 17 October 2006. <
http://0-www.jstor.org.library.lausys.georgetown.edu/>.
Brontë, Charlotte. Jane
Eyre. Bedford/St. Martin’s: New York,
1996.
Gilbert, Sandra
M.. “Plain Jane’s Progress.” Jane
Eyre. Ed. Beth Newman. Bedford/St. Martin’s:
New York,
1996. 475-501.
Mutua, Makau. “Savages, Victims, and Saviors: The Metaphor of Human Rights.” Harvard
International
Law Journal, 42 Harv. Int'l L.J.
201 Winter 2001. Lexis-Nexis. Lexis-Nexis. Georgetown
University Library, Washington
D.C. 17 October 2006. < http://0-web.lexis-nexis.com.library.lausys.georgetown.edu/universe/>.