Epilogue.

More than one person has complained that Jane Eyre is too pliant, too self-sacrificing, too absorbed by the will and emotions of others. She’s all those things, and she admits it. She is a flawed heroine, and she knows it. That’s what makes her believable. But she’s also possessed of an iron will, great moral strength, and an impish frankness that’s positively amusing at times. And she is capable of manipulating men when the cause is good, just as surely as they are capable of dominating her as long as they don’t cross a boundary which she defines. As a heroine, Jane will do well enough for me.

So what of Rochester, now broken, blinded, conscious of his greater age and convinced of his undesirability? He just reminds me of me.

Have you ever read a book which captured you so deeply that the ending is like a form of death, so that you see only emptiness ahead and can’t imagine ever reading another book again? It doesn’t last, of course, but Jane Eyre did it – at least for a day or two.

*  *  *

Some years ago I was asked a question:

‘If you could go back in history and meet anybody you like, who would it be?’

I had no answer because there wasn’t anybody. Tonight I got it, only I’m greedy: not one, but three people. I want to spend an evening in the sitting room of Haworth Parsonage in the summer of 1848, talking to the three Bronte sisters. That’s all.