The Treatment of Bertha Rochester in a True Contemporary Context

People always seem to land in the same position when it comes to interpreting Rochester’s treatment of his wife. Readers of Jane Eyre seem to be biased towards Rochester treating Bertha well, in comparison to the care that was available then, because they presume that care for the mentally ill was the same all through the past up until the invention of medication and modern ways of dealing with psychiatric patients. They seem to think that Bethlem, as it was from the 1800s to the 1830s like Norris described it, was the standard all through the 19th century or that psychiatric patients were not able to be treated, or kept calm at least, without medication (which is of course available now), and so had to be restrained or confined. Yet there have been a number of asylums like the York Retreat that professed ‘non-restraint’ and ‘moral treatment’. Did they never confine or mechanically restrain people? Was this all a sham, as some professors and people in the field claim, or was it serious? And what with really violent people? I will attempt to throw a glance at what were the practices of non-restraint, not only the theory, but what actually went on in the asylums where that was professed.

Firstly it needs to be said that the conditions in which mad people were kept in the early 1900s are not at all the same as the conditions in the 1840s when Jane Eyre was written and to what its initial public was obviously used to hearing (because issues got debated in the press) (Roberts). Roberts writes, on his site dedicated to care for the mentally ill and part of the University of Middlesex, about the 19th century in general: ‘The early period of state asylums was custodial, out of it developed a period of therapeutic optimism that reached its height in the 1840s, and declined into therapeutic pessimism in the second half of the nineteenth century.’ It seems that there was a high in the 1840s of therapeutic optimism, so what did that mean? Roberts writes: ‘The optimistic period in the history of asylums runs from about 1830 to around 1860. It was at its height in the 1840s. Asylums built under the 1808 and 1828 County Asylums Act tended to be left to the management of doctors. As the theories and techniques of managing lunatics in asylums developed, so did the belief that this asylum treatment itself was the correct, scientific way to cure lunacy.’ The only way was up, as it seems. What’s more is that the period 1830s to the 1840s is particularly important to Brontë and her opinions as that was the time of her teenage years in which opinions are formed. It is especially acknowledged in research concerning political participation. (J. Gimpel, J. Lay, J. Schuknecht, Cultivating Democracy). Issues that were debated in the prss must then certainly have found their to Brontë and her perception of lunacy and its proper treatment. About therapeutic pessimism, Roberts writes: ‘The pessimistic period in asylum history developed during the second half of the nineteenth century. Medical theory was strongly influenced by social darwinist beliefs that insanity is the end product of an incurable degenerative disease carried in the victim's inherited biology, and the experience of asylums, and reanalysis of their statistics, undermined the earlier beliefs in their therapeutic value. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the pessimistic period in asylum history ran gently into a backwater period. Most progress in mental health policy took place outside the asylums, in specialist hospitals like the Maudsley, or in outpatient departments, and the asylums became the quiet back wards where chronic patients live.’ During the second half of the 19th century social darwinism had taken over. Degeneration was a natural social process and intervening in it (by treating patients in an attempt to cure them f.i.) harms the natural process and is ultimately harmful to society (Roberts). Thus, from an enlightened time of treating the mentally ill, asylum care went backwards, back to the days before treatment. Scientific research in the psychiatric field continued but only in very restricted circles. The reform of humane treatment did not last also partly due to the problem of overcrowding (University of Alabama) as more and more people were admitted to asylums because they were deemed mentally ill (Roberts). Peace could no longer be maintained, keepers were overstretched and as a result reduced to confining patients again. (University of Alabama)

It is obvious that something went on from the end of the 18th century to about the middle of the 19th, this in connection with the Enlightenment which brought a new way of thinking (Edginton). Particularly the case of King George III (of England) who was mad himself, raised awareness for the insane (Roberts), as people did not want to picture their beloved king in a straightjacket. The first to start a more humane approach to asylum care were the Quakers, led by Tuke, who founded the York Retreat in 1796. They decided to found an asylum after the death of one of their members in the conventional York Asylum (Bewley for RCPsych) and speedily took it over by force (Roberts). Bewley writes about their approach: ‘The views of the original promoters of this establishment shed some light on the psychological, moral and medical treatment available to the mentally ill at that time. Although they were aware that abuses existed in many asylums, they expected that there would be people from whose practice they might learn and by whose instructions they might be guided in the main principles of their moral and medical treatment. The system at that time generally adopted relied on the principle of fear to govern the insane. The practical consequence deduced from this was that attendants should initially relate to patients with an appearance of austerity and perhaps the display of personal strength; in some cases of violent excitement, force would be the most suitable method of control. At the beginning the Retreat assented to the general correctness of these views and although they were modified by the good sense and feeling of the management committee, they were acted upon to an extent that we can hardly contemplate without surprise today.’ In other words, the Quakers acknowledged that the mentally ill which they wanted to care for, were usually governed by fear (of their keepers) and their initial approach should be similar. Yet, they moved towards a more humane treatment by modifying the rules. So we can conclude that they did not from one moment to another remove all restraint and hoped for the best, which would be very unrealistic indeed. Beside that, there was the problem for the Quakers that they were the first in England, and that they had to make their own policy and philosophy. On top of that they did not have experience and needed to learn, but renew at the same time. So the likelihood of restraints being removed at once without regard for side-issues is very small indeed and could be a romantic view of it. However, the method of non-restraint when it was finally established should not be taken lightly as it still works today (not least in the York Retreat itself).

Further on in the same article Bewley writes about treatments they used in order to calm people. It shouldn’t be thought that their only ‘therapies’ consisted in cleanliness, order, useful occupation, religious service and education. They did use calming medication (as laudanum), although that was largely limited to agreeable patients before the invention of the injection needle, and they used baths cold and hot. A case note from Thomas Prichard, who managed Northampton Lunatic Asylum from 1838, describes the case of a 31 year old railroad labourer who attacked his wife, bit her and was confined in a pauper asylum and was transferred to Northampton having worn a straightjacket for a week prior to that. Prichard deemed ‘restraint unnecessary’ and advised to have the man treated with ‘digitalis, antimony tartrate and calomel’. He also had to be kept quiet and cool, and should get a ‘low diet’. Digitalis is now used against heart failure and problems with heart rhythm, but due to its toxicity, it causes, in too high doses, ‘nausea, vomiting, anorexia, diarrhea, abdominal pain, wild hallucinations, delirium, and severe headache’ (Lacassie). Admittedly it can cause death, but provided the fact that its medicinal effectiveness was already addressed in 1785 by Erasmus Darwin and William Withering (College of Physicians, An Account of the Successful Use of Foxglove in Some Dropsies and in Pulmonary Consumption, London, 1785), it can be considered that doctors knew which doses were lethal and how much one should give to the patient in order to purge, which was a common practice, and which no doubt had a calming effect (only down to the lack of energy). Antimony tartrate or Antimonium Tartaricum is a substance still used in Homeopathy today (Séror). It causes nausea, headaches, drowsiness, weakness of circulation and is now used for things as bronchitis, but was then used in order to relieve certain symptoms of insanity. (Talcott, Compendium Mental Diseases and their Modern Treatment, 1901). Calomel or mercury chloride was a laxative, used for the same purpose as digitalis. Although it has now been phased out of use because of its toxic nature, back then it was widely used for medicinal purposes, also for pneumonia (University of Alabama). Whatever may have been the merits of the medication the railroad worker admitted to Northampton got, two days after his admission and necessarily the application of his medication, he asked to work in the garden and did that for more than an hour. By the 13th of August 1838, a mere twelve days after his admission on the 1st of that month, he worked in the garden every day from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.. The same man was discharged ‘recovered’ 2 months after admission. The same man had, as stated above, bitten his wife, but also escaped confinement, knocked down his keeper, scaled two high walls and then banged his head against a bridge. (Thomas Prichard and the non-restraint movement at the Northhampton Asylum, C. Haw and G. Yorston for the Psychiatric Bulletin, 2004). It needs to be asked of course how long the man was ‘recovered’ and how long it was before he was back into care, but by restraining him there would probably have been no way he would ever have ‘recovered’.

The same article examined the records of the first 50 cases brought to the asylum. 70% of patients brought in had had a history of violence towards others and 22% had harmed themselves or attempted suicide. 18% of patients had been restrained in a previous institution (it needs to be noted that only 74% of patients came from a ‘previous institution’, namely workhouse or other asylum (68%), infirmary (4%) or gaol (jail) (2%) and that 10% was not indicated and 6% came from home) and 16% was brought to Northampton in restraints. Only In 14% of cases restraints were taken off on admission while 8% over all was temporarily restrained in the asylum. Seen that 70% had a history of violence it is remarkable that only 30% was violent in Northampton and that only 8% was temporarily restrained there (Haw and Yorston). Thomas Prichard said that his system was one ‘of kind and preventative treatment, in which all excitement is as much as possible avoided, and no care omitted’ (Northampton Record Office, 1840). It is imaginable that the more excitement provided, the more risk there is that the patient will get violent. However it needs to be noted that both researchers remarked that it is possible that not all restraint was recorded. But even then there is more than a 50% gap between the patients of those 50 that were restrained before and the people of those 50% that were restrained in Northampton. It seems highly unlikely that in more than 50% of cases the restraint would not have been recorded, while in other cases that was done.

Prichard noted another ‘remarkable’ case, even for his conception:

A servant, 31 years of age, was admitted to Northampton on the 30th of August 1838 with ulcers in the lumbar region, legs and ankles because of being strapped to a bed. After her first attack of insanity she was sent to the local infirmary where they had treated her with bleeding and blisters, but that had not made anything better. She destroyed her clothes. Prichard decided to take restraints away and noted: ‘continued in the state about a week during which time she was very bad destroying her bed continuously, tearing clothes to pieces and talking in a most incoherent manner to herself. [She was] treated with both shower baths and laxatives and bathing the head, under this other improved when tonic mixture was given and she rapidly recovered her reason.’ In February 1839, he wrote on the same case, that ‘it had been a very interesting [one]’ and that she had filled the vacant post of a nurse ‘for the last two weeks’ (!). In March 1839 he discharged her and hired her as a nurse!

Of course not all things went like that. Despite the non-restraint policy, naturally restraint was sometimes necessary. But it was kept to a definite minimum. For controlling aggressive behaviour the man used solitary confinement, low rations and shower baths, however in rare cases he did use restraint. (Robinson, 1859).

Another great man in the movement of non-restraint was John Conolly. In her article John Conolly and the treatment of mental illness in early Victorian England, Haw discusses the possible medication Victorian psychiatrists had at their disposal. It needs to be acknowledged that we are not considering true ‘psychiatric’ medication that tackles the disorders themselves, because those drugs like anti-depressants were 20th century inventions. Also the principles of medicine were totally different at the time. Haw writes: ‘Patients were frequently subjected to a wide variety of drastic purgatives and emetics, such as croton oil, castor oil, extract of rhubarb and aloes (Esquirol, 1845). Constipation was commonly believed to exacerbate insanity, hence alienists were preoccupied with the state of their patients’ bowels and the desirability of producing daily bowel actions (Esquirol, 1845; Rush, 1812).’ Haw argues, like I thought, that ‘dehydration and electrolyte inbalances might have exhausted an excited schizophrenic or manic patient into a state of temporary quietness and thus appear to have alleviated their condition.’ But Conolly was more cautious and did not approve of ‘drastic purgation’. Beside purgation that was considered ‘wholesome’, there were of course also sedatives that could be used: opiates like morphia salts, hyoscyamine, although the latter is extremely poisonous, but it would not be the first extremely toxic medication… Those sedatives were used to make patients sleep when they were excited (Haw). Surprisingly, or maybe not so, Conolly preferred the latter (Haw), but still found ‘a copious draught of cold water often a better sedative than any medicine’ (Report of the Resident Physician at the Hanwell Asylum, 1840). She does conclude that toxic drugs were often used in psychiatry then, but Conolly did have the wariness to remark that antimony and digitalis seemed ‘to lower the strength of the lunatic beyond expectation, but without significant improvement in the mental state (Report, 1840).

Drugs were of course not the only means of treatment. There were a number of other methods that were applied like bleeding, blisters, calming in general, the whirling chair, warm baths and giant rocking horses in the courtyard. Because physicians were obsessed with physical causes of mental illness, they bled certain areas that were deemed the cause of mental discomfort. Blisters, moxas (burns caused by a Japanese burning herb) and setons (the application of a thread through a fold of skin) were applied with the aim of counter-irritation (Haw), Conolly did use blisters occasionally, but never moxas or setons (Haw). Depression was thought to result from a debility in the gastric system and so small blisters and leeches were applied to the epigastrium and a bland diet was prescribed (Haw). Furthermore Conolly and Esquirol asserted that madness was the result of an over-excited brain and they believed that shaving the head and applying a paste containing antimony or cold packs (bladders with powdered ice) was wholesome. Shower baths were also deemed calming and Conolly reported that patients were calm for days or even months after one (Haw). Morison used the douche, but Conolly did not like it as it was too much of a punishment (Haw). While he disapproved of the whirling chair which rotated at high speed so as to shock people out of their delusions, Conolly calmed patients down with warm baths in order to soothe them to sleep. Equally sleep-inducing were supposed to be the giant rocking horses for the patients in the courtyards on which several patients at the time could take place. (Haw)

When Conolly visited the Lincoln Asylum in 1839, where non-restraint was already practiced by Hill, he decided to do away with all restraint in Hanwell as well and managed that in three months (Haw). However, the ideal situation that was present in Lincoln with its mere 150 patients, was not there in Hanwell as that was an asylum with 800 inmates. To achieve his goal he increased the number of keepers from 1 per 25 patients to 1 for 18 patients and increased the wages to £25 a year. (Haw)

In order to calm patients down, Conolly decided on seclusion which would remove all irritating sources from an excited brain. To prevent misuse by the attendants he ordered them to meticulously record any use of the padded rooms, which he had specially constructed, and they at all times had to inform a member of the medical staff (Haw). He noted about the absence of restraint that ‘the wards are less noisy, frantic behaviour and manic paroxysms are less frequent, patients are more cheerful and cleaner.’ (Conolly, reprinted 1973)

There were of course patients who were not correctible in their violence or destructiveness. Women who were continually destroying their clothes, he did not restrain, however, but just supplied them with stronger dresses and a leather belt with a lock (Haw). For epileptic patients that were fastened to their beds at night for fear of fits - he did not continue practicing that because he found it unsafe - he made their beds lower and padded the rooms (Haw). But it did not stop with non-restraint and moral management. He improved the wards’ hygiene, lighting and heating in winter. He kept the patients equally hygienic and warm. The food was of better quality and of a bigger amount. Employment was provided. Even leisure activities were supplied in the form of dances, dinners, tea parties and seasonal activities (on a grand scale, for several hundreds of patients!). He also trained the nurses in order to improve their care to his patients and ended up (after some doubt on their part) with a loyal workforce (Haw). Nevertheless, even he could not fail to see that a large number of patients never recovered: ‘the consequences [of non-restraint] may not be that a much greater number of perfect recoveries are effected, for recovery is impossible in a majority of cases of insanity, but the actual number of the insane thus kept in the living and intellectual world, and enjoying a great share of happiness, is immensely increased.’ In the end Conolly was saddled with a lot of chronic patients that indeed did not recover. Though Haw does comment on the ‘occupational therapy’ being certainly in a modern view exploiting, she does put it in its Victorian context of literal ‘usefulness’. She concludes further: ‘We can usefully apply Conolly’s healthy scepticism over physical and drug remedies for mental illness to today’s treatments, although we now have the benefit of the double-blind technique by which to judge a treatment’s efficacy.’

It should also be mentioned that animals were used in a therapeutic way! The first to introduce them was Tuke (again). By 1813 be had put in his airing courts rabbits, hawks, poultry and seagulls (although it is not clear what the rabbits actually thought about that). Conolly had ‘various tame animals’ in his wards and ducks and ‘other aquatic fowl’ in his yards by 1847. In Bethlem, by 1860 they had birds, cats, canaries, squirrels and greyhounds. (Allderidge)

In connection with non-restraint, there was the moral management-approach which tried to ‘increase the conscience and will of patients and thus to combat insanity by increasing self-control’ (Haw). In his article The Well-Ordered Body: The Quest for Sanity through nineteenth-century Asylum Architecture, Edginton makes a link between the philosophy of the day concerning curing insanity and the architecture of the asylums that had to provide a space for it, as Tuke said it. Moral management could not be applied without a place that allowed such things as Classification, Routine, Discipline and Contact with the Landscape, without which moral management was non-existent. Classification, Routine and Discipline were needed to make a copy of the normal and natural (the sane) in order to put the abnormal (the insane) in it. The cheerful, agreeable aspect, the wholesomeness of the site, the sense of space, the temperature and the comfort would be able to pass from the outside, where it was sensed, to the inside (the mind). Thus a well-ordered asylum would produce well-ordered minds (Edginton). Patients were classified according to class, gender, behaviour, type of insanity: ‘Those who are violent, require to be separated from the more tranquil, and to be prevented, by some means, from offensive conduct, towards their fellow sufferers. Hence, the patients are arranged according to classes, as much as may be, according to the degree in which they approach rational or orderly conduct.’ (Tuke, Practical Hints on the Construction and Economy of Pauper Lunatic Asylums, W. Alexander, 1815). That is as far as the importance of classification goes. The healing aspects of nature, though, were present in the construction of the places themselves: great window space, verandas, large day rooms, gardens, sports facilities as bowls, tennis and cricket and a farm. Edginton remarked that from all windows one had a view of the landscape/nature. Even when there were walls around the airing courts, the places where the windows were were elevated enough so as to look over them. Windows were cleverly constructed so people would not jump out of them: they only opened 6 inches top and bottom, they consisted out of little panes and they were four feet from the floor. They were always directed south and they had an uninterrupted view of the landscape. The asylums did not have fences, but instead a ditch with a wall on the other side so the lunatics could not escape (a so-called ha-ha), but did have an uninterrupted view of the landscape and did not feel ‘locked in’ by a fence or wall. (Sennett) That design was an effect of the ways people wanted to cure insanity and it was apparent in the design of lunatic asylums by the 1840s. While Wakefield (1818) and Cornwall (1820) were built like the asylums installed in buildings that were not purpose-built (prisons or similar buildings like convents) with a few alterations as to view and space, by the 1880s asylums were built according to gaiety (Edginton, a view also shared by Roberts and Rutherford who examined the influence of Moorfields Bethlem built in 1815 with a corridor plan ending in two pavilions). The concept of moral management had first been identified in the Retreat of Tuke: the realisation of the humanity of the insane or their incompleteness as rational individuals; the need for non-medical or the psychological aspects of treatment; the treatment of the insane as children and the asylum organisation as a family; the use of nature as a means of calming insanity. (Edginton) Thus, together with the classification, routine and discipline provided, the design of the asylum itself became a therapy to make the insane sane. (Edginton)

The Audit of Violence of the National Healthcare Commission between 2003 and 2005 in the UK asked about violence on psychiatric wards. 50% of staff of all levels of 203 wards was questioned and for each ward there were 20 patients asked their opinion. The examined wards were mainly acute wards, but also included elderly, learning disability and secure wards. 35% of patients claimed that they were ‘winded up’ by staff or nurses. In the same audit, patients and visitors were asked what they felt ‘triggered’ violence on the ward. Amongst the most common were: substance misuse: the use of alcohol, illegal drugs, or withdrawal from them; staff: (low) staff levels, skills, experience, but also attitudes (patronising), over custodial, interaction with patients, nature or absence of intervention; space and over-crowding: bed numbers, ward/unit layout, proximity of other people, lack of privacy; medication and treatment: side effects, compliance, changes to regimen; frustration: lack of activities, noise levels, being away from family and friends, lack of visitors; smoking: lack of cigarettes, overcrowded smoking areas, annoyance about smoking behaviour of others; excessive noise: radios, shouting people, squeaking doors, ringing door bells, noises made by others late at night; intimidation by other patients; theft; temperature. It is obvious that the same problems existed in the asylums in the 19th century: patronising staff, not enough staff, too many people, lack of privacy, too much noise, squeaking doors, ringing bells etc… Although the medication and treatment should be left to one side as that is not comparable. If all these are kept to a minimum by the layout of the building, the organisation of the asylum, and the training of the staff, it seems totally plausible to me to be able to keep violence to a minimum. The question about what triggers violence is particularly important if we acknowledge that no patient (or visitor, because they were also asked) puts it down to themselves (or the patients). Of course, people are not aware of the fact that a squeaking door should not irritate you that much that you should become violent, but in eradicating the squeaking door one takes away the cause of the violence in the first place which would be a lot harder if one were to try to take away the irritation at once. Conolly and the others of the non-restraint movement tried to diminish causes of irritation so much by achieving quietness, kind nurses, and low numbers of patients, that it can indeed become credible that non-restraint did work without medication. That is at least what the audit was partly concerned with as they did not ask the staff what triggered the violence but the patients and visitors.

Having seen the types of treatment doctors used in an attempt to cure and calm patients, and having seen the non-restraint policy, we should consider Bertha’s position. Non-restraint and moral management were not a hoax as it seems. It can be said that it is written about seriously in psychiatric magazines, and not least the Royal College of Psychiatrists does not see it as a hoax, but as a system that worked though not cured. Although we can make objections to some of its methods, we should acknowledge, in this context, that that was the best they could do with the knowledge and medication available to them. If there was such an emphasis on healthy wards, kind attendants and non-restraint (which apparently did work due to organisation and diminishing of the causes of irritation), even if it did not cure, is it then to be considered that Rochester did the best he could in confining his wife in the half dark for 10 years, 24 hours a day, and restraining her with a rope under the eyes of Wood, Briggs, Mason and Jane? In my view the non-restraint asylums were definitely better than the ones criticised by the Commisioners and Bethlem which chained people to the floor, although that was largely over by the time Brontë wrote Jane Eyre. Restraint in Bethlem had largely been abolished in the 1840s and was totally abandoned in the 1850s (source: Bethlem itself). What is better? To sit 24 hours a day in the same place with nothing to occupy you and maybe still have blisters applied, be leeched and even beaten, or to occasionally be made calm by (from a modern point of view unorthodox) treatment after which you sleep, become (temporarily) better and can get usefully occupied? Even from a modern point of view the non-restraint policy is just that slight bit better than the conventional way of handling lunatics, because it at least supplied them freedom. In the 19th century, from 1830 on, it was the best that was possible. Harriet Martineau’s article in The Lancet of June 1834 can be considered as a little too romantic in feel, but not as untrue. In that context it is obvious that Rochester did not care. He paid Grace Poole about the tenfold of Conolly’s attendants that were very well paid, in order to keep his wife a secret, not to give her good care.

The intriguing question still remains, however, which was the actual ‘retreat’ Brontë based the name ‘Grimsby Retreat’ on. The Guardian and the Rowntree organisation both claim it is the York Retreat, and Stanford University puts the same on its fact sheet for Jane Eyre and moral madness, basing its factsheet on Showalter (1985) and Sutherland (1997). Yet, there was another non-restraint asylum in Lincoln, the capital of Lincolnshire, the same county as Grimsby is in and 34 miles from there.

Bibliography:

Thomas Bewley, Madness to Mental Illness, A History of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, 2008, a publication of the RCPsych

Camilla Haw & Graeme Yorston, Thomas Prichard and the Non-Restraint movement at the Northampton Asylum, 2004 for the Psychiatric Bulletin

Camilla Haw, John Conolly and the treatment of mental illness in early Victorian England, 1989 for the Psychiatric Bulletin

The National Audit of Violence, 2003-2005, Royal College of Psychiatrists and Healthcare Commission.

Barry Edginton, The Well-Ordered Body: The Quest for Sanity through nineteenth-century Asylum Architecture, 1993, for the Canadian Society for the History of Medicine and the European Society for the History of Psychiatry

Patricia H. Allderidge, A cat, surpassing in beauty, and other therapeutic animals, 1991, for the Psychiatric Bulletin

Selden Harris Talcott, Compendium Mental Diseases and their Modern Treatment, 1901

Factsheet Jane Eyre and Moral Madness, Stanford University

Andrew Roberts, Mental Health History Timeline, for Middlesex University

On three of the BBC’s costume dramas and their genre: Jane Eyre 2006, Tess of the d’Urbervilles 2008 and Pride and Prejudice 1995

A new entry… This time considering the new costume drama coming on BBC in the Autumn of this year: Emma.

Apparently the same writer who wrote the screen plays for Brontë’s Jane Eyre would be in charge of Emma’s script. Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles the last Autumn rama BBC one broadcast. I had a long discussion about the first and wrote a long letter to the BBC about the last (but received no reply yet). It seems to me that even the writer of Jane Eyre in 2006 mistook Rochester’s character. Beside that, in the beginning he was more rude than abrupt. In costume dramas it is important to be aware of the fact that there is a balance between being abrupt and plain rude! Rochester is direct and commandeering, but not rude. A (Victorian) gentleman would have known how to behave and would never have been so direct as Stephens played him in Jane and Rochester’s first scene. Ciaran Hinds in his Rochester made that distinction very well, better than Stephens. He was able to be abrupt without being rude. Like Elizabeth Bennet tells Mr Darcy at the end of Pride and Prejudice when they talk about the past: ‘… my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not.’ Elizabeth’s behaviour towards Darcy in the beginning might indeed be called rather abrupt and not really positive, indeed intended to vex a little, but it is not rude. When the writer of Jane and Rochester’s second conversation in 2006 which starts with Rochester coming into the library and saying: ‘Come here,’ makes Rochester command Jane ‘sit’, and Pilot sits, it can be called funny, but it is not at all authentic! In Brontë’s original it even says in the beginning: ‘Let Miss Eyre be seated.’ A far cry from ‘sit’… Rochester, at that moment, is supposed to be alone, desolate, closed to any positive feeling (symbolised in his black horse Mesrour and the riding cloak). In that, he continues ‘as a statue would’ and does not take much notice of Jane, Mrs Fairfax or Adèle and in that is vexing to Jane as she is summoned but is not seemingly required somehow. Yet, he keeps up the form of a gentleman and softens every time. Ciaran Hinds managed that very well, and credit should be awarded to the writer for the dialogues, but the writer in 2006 made Rochester an arrogant rude man, not a somewhat unpleasant person like Jane calls him in 1997. Rochester should be charming, yet somewhat unpleasant. That is what he is and that is his charm: the duality between the arrogance and command and civility, particular to the Byronic hero
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What really irritated me in the 2006 adaptation was the bed scene after the cancelled wedding. We discussed it on the forum and it was concluded that it was probably a mix of imagination on Jane’s part and what really happened, however after watching it again I cannot say that that is definitely the case as a memory triggered by the dragon fly is accurate. Jane would have imagined what happened on the bed, but Rochester would really have asked to go to France with him. That may be, and it is possible that that was intended, but it begs the question why the writer absolutely wanted to add that scene. Was it to please the public or was it to add another dimension to the story? For me it does not give an extra point of view. It does not reveal anything new that could not be revealed in another way. It only elaborated on the theme of Jane still being in love with Rochester. Of course, we need to note that the writer decided to end each episode with a cliff-hanger. So episode three ends with the wedding being cancelled and episode four, instead of opening with Rochester’s monologue or something in that sense, opens with Jane on the moors. Everything concerning what happened after the wedding is done in flashback, which could be right, but of course limits the view of the public as to what happened. I can’t consider this as a good decision on the writer’s part because it takes out a vital part of the book! Other than for example flashbacks about Lowood, Gateshead or even Morton, I don’t find a flashback of what happened after the cancelled wedding a good decision. A flashback on Lowood or Gateshead would be appropriate for me because those phases of Jane’s life belong to the ‘real past’, by which I mean: they either take place in the far past of Jane’s childhood or they belong to the phase before Rochester, which makes Jane an adult to some extent and changes her perception. In Morton, Jane still grows, but only in knowing what she wants and doing it, not in anything particular like knowledge, body or passion. She only needs to bring the three together. As most of Lowood and Gateshead are in the distant past of Jane’s childhood, and childhood memories are always coloured because our perception is not as a child what it is as an adult, it would be clear to viewers that the memories that haunt Jane about Lowood and Gateshead are coloured and important to her to some extent, but less important than what is shown in real time in the adaptation. A flashback is useful for additional information as it is short and adds something to the character itself in terms of perception (how the character thinks and what determines his/her actions), but as it is considered as thought of that particular character it does not serve as additional information about the character that the flashback features, only what that character is in the thoughts of another. Rochester’s monologue in Brontë’s original has not got the function of enlightening the reader about the situation or about Jane’s thinking, but has a crucial function in the reader’s perception of Rochester’s mindset and the opinion about him afterwards. If one tells that in a flashback prone to fantasy, it destroys the whole set-up of Brontë. In a sense the monologue can be seen as a monologue in Shakespeare, the last lament of someone who is already condemned or dying. After that the curtain comes down, and so does it on the scene of Rochester: he will be left by Jane. Telling that in a flashback is seriously reducing the dramatic effect of it. More appropriate might have been a flashback in Rochester’s mind about it, not in Jane’s mind. By putting it in Jane’s mind, the writer made the impression that Jane is still thinking about Rochester passionately while in the original Jane did not even allow herself to say she loved him. That feeling was featured in 1997, not in 2006. Admittedly one cannot control dreams, but this was a daydream. It can be ordered not to take place. Jane did think about Rochester still, even in the original, but with different feelings as proper sexual passion not allowed.
Putting the daydream in a bedroom context, even if that were down to imagination on Jane’s part which is not at all clear, confuses in my opinion the viewer and does not add. Of course it does comply with the modern viewer's desire for passion on the screen, but it is inappropriate if the times it plays in, the story and the function of that monologue are considered. The monologue was put into the BBC-version of ’83 with Timothy Dalton. Although it is extremely long and more appropriate for reading than for film or stage, it can be shortened, like in the version of A&E of 1997. Admittedly Rochester turns out quite violent there and says things that are not in the book and he takes Jane to the same tree where he proposed and asks her to say she doesn’t love him (classic!), but it highlights Rochester’s conviction of his own (bad) ways in a short space of time without explicit words. Jane tries to reason with him in the book, but doesn’t seem to get through. In 1997 Jane does not reason, but Rochester’s conduct speaks for itself and it must be clear to all viewers that no reasoning will ever get through at that moment. Jane does not reason in 2006, she voluntarily surrenders herself to his kisses. Jane also feels fear in 1997, like the viewers, at his violence. In the original, Jane does not feel fear for him because he is violent (or at least not that bad), but feels more fear for his dark side (and seducing powers that she refers to as standing between her and the sun as an eclipse). The 1997-version makes a very odd balance between Rochester’s lament, his vulnerability, force and dominance. The viewer who feels that he is a filthy liar sees him desperately trying to convince Jane to stay. How? By chucking her luggage over the balustrade and by stating that he wanted to go to prison for her (congratulations man, what a sacrifice). It is his total humiliation in a way. In the original the humiliation is not present so strongly, but when the curtain comes down, the reader feels a very odd pity and ‘serves you right’ sensation (a little the same as Jane who is torn between his need for help and her need for morality), which is also present in 1997, but not at all in 2006. In 1997 Jane tells him that she leaves for what they have, to keep that pure, and indeed that is what that feeling after the closing of the curtain is about: Rochester is no good, yet is pitiable, but pitiable like King Lear who brought his situation onto himself and cannot possibly be rewarded for his false views, not like Jane herself who is the real victim in the whole situation. In 1983 that feeling was certainly present, but there the monologue was put in in its entirety and turned out quite long. So shortening and enforcing is quite appropriate to awaken the same feelings. Reducing it to a bed-scene I find not only cheap, but also disregarding what that speech means to Rochester’s character. By making Jane lie on a bed with him and kiss him (which Jane did not allow herself in the original), the writer rather raised questions for modern viewers as to why Jane left him if she is then lying on her bed, alone, crying at her thoughts. Essentially it is clear to Jane what she has to do once she learns Rochester has a wife: leave him. There is no other way, because she will not be strong enough to stay there with him around. By making her cry on that bed in 2006, they made Jane a modern woman with modern morals who regrets leaving him. The original Jane would not have allowed herself to do so because it would have been improper to love a man who was married… This was discussed, again, in 1997 and the importance of marriage for her was emphasised when she says: ‘How can I lie with you if I know I am not your wife?’ Rochester answers that they can say she is just that abroad and who will know? Jane exclaims: ‘Me!’ and then goes on stating that that would eat away at her conscience until she would be no more than his mistress who he would resent being with. That is indeed what it is about: no marriage, no relationship. Although Jane finds it hard to leave she does so consequently. In 1997 the writer even made her reproach Rochester that he thought it was easy for her (necessarily Rochester implied that she was only out to get her hands on his money, which is truly low of him). The reproach of Jane is not in the original of course, but it expresses a feeling that the reader has when he reads Rochester’s speech: ‘why do you think you are the great victim in this? What about her? She thought she was going to marry today and just found out that was not the case and you dare to make yourself the victim?’ Making Jane cry on a bed does make a point as far as her sorrow is concerned, but it does not at all make Rochester what he should be. Much more to the point is 1997 Jane who stays stoic through the whole thing and has taken her decision, whatever he might say…

When watching Tess of the d’Urbervilles I decided to read along. Before they broadcasted the adaptation they made a documentary about Hardy’s work. It was a good documentary as far as the influence of Hardy’s life on his work was featured. Yet, Tess of the d’Urbervilles stands in the tradition of Naturalism: a peculiar genre that grew out of the Realism of Balzac and Dickens (to a certain extent), and which mainly focuses on the lives of normal people trying to struggle against their own nature. A nature that shapes society (exploitation), shapes religion (the church), laws and morals; all of which results in the worst endings: degradation, suicide, murder and death. None of this was mentioned and astonishingly enough, or not so, Tess was largely reduced to the tragic tale of a girl who was raped (however that is not explicitly stated by Hardy, although it can be argued). The nature-images were beautiful, that needs to be said, but sadly the way in which the machinery and the surroundings in the section after the leaving of Angel were portrayed, was not at all faithful to the original. It should be a phase of desolation, loneliness and desperation, where life is regulated by the pace of machinery/human nature. Like Milton’s hell (which Alec alludes to literally!). It is a desolate and cold situation similar in feeling as the fist meeting of Rochester and Jane in the cold in Jane Eyre. To make the mistake totally complete the writer decided to put Alec on a white horse! Admittedly it worked very well in the greyish décor and set, different than the section on the dairy farm (with sunny green hills and blue skies with white cows and colourful attire), but even then it is totally inappropriate to put Alec on a white horse as he is not the ‘lord and saviour’ on the white steed! He is the very person in the first place who is ultimately responsible for the failed marriage (although the mother also has a great role in the initial situation because she did not tell Tess about the possible dangers a gentleman could pose, of course out of a naïve wish/certainty to have her daughter marry Alec). By making Alec of a dark complexion, Hardy even made a statement, already before he made Alec do something bad. Dark characters were considered as bad and mysterious, they could better be avoided: Rochester (Jane Eyre), Alec (Tess of the d’Urbervilles), Brian de Bois-Guilbert (Ivanhoe). In a certain sense they were antitheses for the Dark Lady, already a stock character In Shakespeare where Lady MacBeth and Cleopatra will lead both their men to their downfall. Byron carried that theme further with his heroes and Brontë made her Byronic hero repent. Hardy made Alec do what he was meant to do in the Victorian mind: lead Tess to her downfall, and himself as well. Get Tess so far that she murders him and is hanged for it. Not that Hardy agrees with the law, but the end is naturalistically inevitable. Putting Alec on a white horse was totally out of context, both in a literary critical sense and a conventional sense. Even more ridiculous was the mistake of putting in a hymn that was only translated to English in 1953. The text of it worked very well indeed, but anachronism does not have a place in the costume drama genre.

The BBC realised that in 1995 when they filmed their famous adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. The lake scene which a TV critic on ITV recently said about: ‘Man steps out of lake and TV is never the same again,’ was actually planned to be a nude-scene, but Firth had a problem with it (according to the director). So someone suggested to have him wear shorts of some kind, but this was rejected on the mere ground that shorts were anachronistic because men did not wear underwear in the times of Austen (also not, by the way, in the times Jane Eyre plays). So instead they made Darcy dive into the water fully clothed which branded the man and its actor for ever as a sex-symbol (an image that still haunts Firth today). Nonetheless it highlights the concern in 1995 for absolute accuracy, which was not at all present in Jane Eyre 2006, where Rochester sleeps in breeches and an open shirt (a type of shirt that did not exist) and did not cover himself up when Jane was with him. The concern for accuracy in 1995, even in a literary critical context, was also seen in the very consequent portrayal of Darcy and Bingley. Because there was no real adequate description of either they had to make their own Bingley and Darcy and made them, as Austen intended, two opposites: one fair/light brown and one dark. Bingley on a white horse and Darcy on a black one. Although in the beginning of the original it is mentioned that Bingley rides over to Longbourn on a black horse it can be seen as a hint that he has some fault, which does not show in his person. Indeed, the man has one fault, worse for himself than his friends, but which will also affect Jane: he is too dependent on others’ judgment. In that, he is not an intentional ‘homme fatale’ or does not plot to bring Jane down, but will have the same effect, until Darcy confesses. In 1995 they made Darcy dark by analogy, I believe, to the works of the time like Ivanhoe which features the bad guy Brian de Bois-Guilbert as dark and Cedric the Saxon, the good guy, as fair like Ivanhoe himself. Furthermore, 1995’s Darcy through his pride brings Lydia into trouble, which he recognises himself. Elizabeth is portrayed maybe as a ‘femme fatale’ to a certain extent. She indeed brings Darcy to his downfall, but a downfall that is favourable and not fatal. In a sense ‘homme fatale’ and ‘femme fatale’ duel for supremacy over each other (and maybe themselves), a ‘duel’ that is also featured in the original of Austen: both need to acknowledge their own fault and need to consider the effect of their conduct on others by considering the other's behaviour; both need to be humbled by the other to be able to come together. So to a certain extent they each bring about the other’s downfall, though not in a negative way.

In the 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice the writer also added scenes, but they were important and added to the story. They did not destroy anything Austen put in the original, nor did they raise any questions. The lake-scene seems to be part of a larger wash/baptism-motif the writer put in the adaptation (a theme that is also not alien to other works as Jane Eyre). The lake scene is not a mere excuse for sexual tension and does not stand alone. When Jane is ill at Netherfield and Darcy is slowly falling in love with Elizabeth, the latter’s mother comes to visit her daughter and gives a few vexing remarks about Darcy and his opinion on country people and life, but more importantly on gentlemanly behaviour and generosity. The scene after, we see Lizzy walk through the garden, see a Great Dane and play with it. At the same moment Darcy sits in his bath and his servant walks in with a jug of water to pour over him. At the moment Darcy steps out of his bath he walks to the window and watches Elizabeth playing with the dog. It is as if, just after the nasty remarks of Elizabeth’s mother, he wants to ‘wash off’ all the ‘sins’ so to say and has an urge to be more like the dog Elizabeth is playing with (a motif that also occurs in Jane Eyre with Pilot and which was largely known to a Victorian reading public by way of paintings of prince Albert and Victoria, the latter of whom was portrayed as his favourite dog Eos). The washing/baptism-motif reoccurs when Elizabeth has refused Darcy’s first proposal and he writes the letter. There again he looks outside the window and later washes himself. When Elizabeth is in Derbyshire and will visit Pemberley, we see Darcy fencing and then saying ‘I will conquer this.’ While Lizzy is being made aware by the housekeeper of his real character, and not the façade he puts up, partly probably because he is as shy as his sister (which is a good quality for a woman but not for a man, as portrayed in Bingley who is much more agreeable because of his lively manners), Darcy is returning home and approaching Pemberley and the lake, like Elizabeth at that same moment is in the process of approaching the real Fitzwilliam Darcy . At the same moment, the same second, that Elizabeth is admiring his portrait in the gallery with a more open mind to the man himself, Darcy is stripping off and swims in the lake. And when they finally meet each other on the lawn, totally unexpected, there is not only surprise, but also awkwardness, rebirth, and a totally different man as the music indicates when Lizzy looks at the painting. The same as in the original, yet even with a deeper meaning for Darcy himself. The revelation the reader gets in the original, both of Lizzy’s mistake and Darcy’s real character, is present for the viewer in that whole set-up. When we meet the sister Georgiana afterwards, it is suddenly clear what Darcy’s character is like for real, not what his façade is/was, Austen’s original alike.

The scene after features Darcy staring in the camera (to Elizabeth, who is playing). The song she sings is even appropriate as it is Voi Che Sapete from Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro (‘You who know’ from The Marriage of Figaro).

The text:

Voi che sapete che cosa è amor
donne, vedete s'io l'ho nel cor
Quello ch'io provo, vi ridiró
E per me nuovo, capir not so
Sento un affetto pien di desir,
ch'ora è diletto, ch'ora è martir!
Gelo, e poi sento l'alma avvampar
e in un momento torno a gelar;
ricerco un bene fuori di me,
non so ch'il tiene, non so cos'è.
Sospiro e gemo senza voler,
palpito e tremo senza saper.
Non trovo pace notte ne di,
ma pur mi piace languir così.

The translation:

You who know what love is,
Ladies, look if I have it in my heart.
What I feel, I will repeat to you
And (as it is) new to me, I cannot understand.
I feel an affection full of desire,
That now is a delight, that now is martyrdom!
I freeze and then I feel my soul burn
And in a moment I freeze again;
I seek a good outside of me,
I don’t know what it contains and I don’t know what it is.
I sigh and groan without wanting to,
I throb and tremble without knowing it.
I cannot find peace night or day
But it is even pleasure to me to languish like this.

Then the first verses are repeated. Bearing in mind that Elizabeth is now ending the song, and it is translated in English, we can suppose that the writer put it in knowing what it said! If we see the staring of Darcy in that context, it is very very appropriate what Lizzy is singing there and we can also totally comprehend what Darcy is thinking, and has felt for the last months! Indeed, the poor man froze and then had his soul burn, sighed and shook at the sight of her and then he walks around half-naked (to the standards then) in his grounds and meets the woman of his life, thus almost literally revealing himself to her (as in the aria); as in the aria, he wishes Lizzy and the viewer to judge by his behaviour and the description of his feelings whether he loves. It is as if the writer of the adaptation even took the verses ‘Ricerco un bene fuori di me, non so ch’il tiene, non so cos’è’ literally for Darcy as he literally looks outside the window for solace.

The writer took the notion that the banks of the stream at Pemberley were ‘neither formal nor falsely adorned’ and the allegorical aspect of that passage in the original (as to Darcy’s real person), to the extreme, associating Darcy through the whole adaptation with water and embedding him in nature. The free, vast and healing nature of the pre-Victorian era and Enlightenment was taken as a theme of redemption that Darcy must address for himself until he can unite with his Elizabeth who loves nature and who does not conceal herself behind a good/bad façade (unlike Bingley’s sisters). Darcy in the original was not really deeply touched upon until the end and they needed to change that because otherwise the adaptation would have ended up with a long tale about what happened before which is not good for an interesting film. Like the monologue of Rochester that passage of Pride and Prejudice is also more suited for reading than stage/film. Yet, this writer, in opposition to the writers of Tess and Jane Eyre got through to Darcy and managed to write his words, and his part bringing pride, conceit, concern for society rules, civility, rebellion and shyness together in a curious combination that is only revealed after but is present from the start in both the original and the adaptation. The writer did not make Darcy rude for the viewer, but made him shy. Something that can be mistaken for pride by some, who will obviously have to change their opinion along with Lizzy in the end. What is certainly to be noted, is that in the whole adaptation, even after the proposal, there is no kissing, touching hands, whatever. Only in the very last minute does the adaptation end with a very very very prudish kiss. This totally according to the times of Austen. In Austen there is no place for fleshly passion, so it should not be in the adaptation. The same goes for most Victorian work. And so in making an adaptation one should be careful with that kind of thing. The beauty of Austen lies not in passion of any kind, it lies in its wording and its quietly moving along of life with a revelation of truth in the end. The beauty of Jane Eyre lies in its deepness and allusion, also not in its fleshy passion of which there is very little, though some. Passion has its place in Jane Eyre, but it is not exaggerated. Jane does not even want to kiss Rochester after the cancelled wedding. Why did the writer of the adaptation in 2006 disregard this? In 1997, Rochester tries to kiss Jane and tries to make her consent to be his mistress by emphasising their union, but Jane refuses. Yet in 2006 the writer put them on a bed. It could be down to fantasy on Jane’s part, but even then it is raising confusion in the minds of viewers, because it is not totally clear why then she walked away… In costume drama and adapting books to stage or film it is of great importance that the writer adheres to the original and does not put words or thoughts in the character that are not their own. In 2006, the writer of Jane’s thoughts put certain fantasies in her head (if those flashbacks were imagination) or made Rochester this tender and soft man (which would even be a greater mistake). There is a total absence of pity, vulnerability, anger, desperation and guilt in the impression he gives to the viewer. Even if it was down to the fantasy of Jane, the writer was wrong in wanting to put those thoughts in Jane’s head, because they give a totally different view on Rochester than the reader gets when he reads the original. Furthermore it is totally wrong, from a literary critical point of view, to speculate on the thoughts of characters certainly if that affects the general impression of that particular character. In the case of Darcy’s transformation and the water-motif connected with Voi che sapete it is not speculating on Darcy’s thoughts, but it is rather elaborating on the theme of his transformation, which only becomes clear in the end of the original, but which they chose to run through the whole adaptation, probably because a ranting about what happened ‘while this and while that’ would have taken up the whole of episode 6 without actual interesting or funny bit. Viewers would have flicked away. The writer, in running the transformation of Darcy from the beginning, did not change the original character Mr Darcy, nor the impression he gives to the reader/viewer, but rather made him a full character from the start: unlike in the original, Darcy is not reduced to one-liners and a very brief description. Naturally not, when someone is around he necessarily gives an impression (which people can mistake and which is obviously the case) and a character on film has to be assigned something to do that is in accordance with its personality whereas in a book, it can be mentioned what it does or not when it is around. In the original Darcy is not mentioned sometimes, but he grows more affectionate towards Lizzy, however he stays his quiet self. It is possible in a book to leave a character for what it is and then take it out of oblivion and make it say something puzzling, or assigning to it a look or a smile that speaks a great deal or even mention casually that ‘a few minutes before’ this or that happened. On film, it is a little harder: as the character is around, it needs to have a personality and needs to act: look, drink tea, smile, talk, read, etc. That all according to its particular personality. Darcy is enigmatic as he is a very quiet man, probably (extremely) shy and intelligent. He does not like to blow his top, resents conversation for conversation’s sake and clearly wants substance rather than beauty in a woman (naturally as he could not possibly have an intelligent conversation with an ‘accomplished lady’ as Caroline and would probably not last an hour with her alone in a room… And after all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Such is implied at least when Darcy first finds Lizzy only tolerable, and then considers her, unlike the Bingleys, one of the handsomest women of his acqainance). When Darcy is there he needs to do something, yet not be too sociable, but grow visibly more affectionate towards Lizzy in a way that is clear to viewers, but not to her. On the other hand his first proposal should still be a big surprise and Darcy mustn’t overdo it on the screen; he needs to puzzle the viewer sufficiently, yet not leave any doubt on his growing affection. The adaptation of 1995 did that very well in taking shots of Darcy staring at Lizzy through the crowds. The writer also made him more human from the start by making him walk to the window at crucial moments (when the mother is visiting and at the end when he visits Longbourn with Bingley), linking it somehow with emotional turmoil as time goes on; addressing the healing power of nature as it were, common to the Enlightenment. But not only that: at the first assembly, just after Bingley urged Darcy to dance and Darcy made the remark that Elizabeth is only tolerable in her looks, where the book then stops, the camera continues filming Darcy, seeing Lizzy pass him and go to Charlotte. He looks at them and sees them laugh. This still happens a few times, and it raises the impression that he is concerned with what people think of him. Indeed, a transformation starts with doubt… At the second assembly, Darcy’s look is followed, and where does the camera stop? At Lizzy who is talking with Forster and then the camera moves back to Darcy’s eye. When later Sir William introduces Darcy to Lizzy and she walks away after refusing Darcy’s offer of dancing (which is a little different than in the original and is to be considered rather as an insult, it addresses the point that Lizzy wants to throw Darcy’s insult at her beauty back to him), Darcy has already the peculiar smile on his face (he also has when at Pemberley during Voi Che Sapete, and numerous occasions before that) where a second before he was still all sternness. When Lizzy walks down to Netherfield to attend to Jane and surprises Darcy on the lawn, the same smile is there again. Obviously Lizzy does not observe it, but the viewer is certainly convinced. It proves a definite intention in the writer of the adaptation to have Darcy express himself not with words, because the man is shy, but with facial expressions that are mistaken by Lizzy in the original. When Bingley’s sisters are gossiping about her petticoat and the mud on it at the table, Darcy looks out of the window. There already he is addressing nature for help. After his remark about her fine eyes and his smile, he turns back to the window and leaves the rest to gossip. When they go on about the inferiority of the Bennets’ connections, and Bingley challenges that, Darcy turns back in anger and leaves the window saying that his sisters have a material point in that the size of the Bennet sisters’ (non-existent) fortunes lowers their chances to a good marriage, thus turning away from his own nature which loves Lizzy already, angry at the restraint of society which turns man away from his deeper human nature. After that Elizabeth walks in and there is the smile again. Looking at nature Darcy tries to take all society’s rules away, but cannot succeed and cannot conquer himself, in a way. That the writer decided to take a shot of Darcy when Lizzy walks in is vital for Darcy’s character portrayal. For the washing scenes and heaing power of nature (the bath, the face washing after the letter, the lake, but also his ride in Rosings Park) the adaptation even had its own music, as for his pride/restraint by society’s rules (the theme of Lady Catherine de Bourgh) which regularly features during the reading of his letter after his first proposal. The adaptation added scenes for him alone like the bath, which make him a full character rather than the one Austen wrote into her original (a natural consequence of free indirect speech). When Darcy returns from the lake, his white horse, and not his black one (!), walks beside him and we see him walk amidst nature, stripped down to a bare minimum of clothes towards the same outside of Pemberley (or is it the society in which he lives?), but a new man. Indeed, he addresses Elizabeth in much the same way: inquires after the health of her parents, the health of her sisters (twice) and then excuses himself awkwardly. The musical theme of washing continues however, but now in a more romantic manner and the same theme returns when he proposes for a second time. When he then returns afterwards with Bingley to Longbourn, he still sits on his dark horse, and returns to his quiet self, but now of course his inside is different. Mrs Bennet still does not see that (like Lizzy in the beginning), but like in the original Elizabeth is now convinced of another cause of his quietness, as are the viewers and readers at that moment. That adaptation fully understood its characters and the writer took great care in portraying them, even in the musical background and the casting they were extremely consequent.

In 2006, Jane Eyre was interpreted, but not in a way that offered answers to questions, like the 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice offered answers to Darcy from in the beginning. The adaptation of Jane Eyre totally mistook and ignored Rochester’s darkness and desolateness and instead made him a pitiable man in slightly feminist way. As illustrated in my blog on the treatment of Bertha, he should not be pitied. Not at least for his lying, but rather for his situation; for the handling of it he should rather be blamed. As in 1997, Jane has to leave, leaving him in anguish but also angry. Samantha Morton as Jane even reproached him that he thought it was easy for her… And indeed, that is what a reader thinks if he is not carried away by preconceptions about the good treatment of his wife. But that is of course something deeply rooted into the modern mind. The more modern versions do not hesitate to make the confinement of Bertha softer than it originally was. The 1983 version makes it pretty grim, but the 1944 version with Orson Welles makes it grim indeed, however after that Rochester returns somehow to the pitiable. What should rather happen is that the bad impression Rochester took when Bertha was revealed, sticks and does not affect his lament whatsoever because Jane’s and the reader’s decision is already taken. Only Zefirelli decided to make a more poetic version of Jane Eyre, but was saddled with a rather passionless Rochester which is a total shame because in itself the screen play was very poetic and proved to have great possibilities.

After having made a poetic adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, an attempt that made its impression on scholars, readers and filmmakers alike, it is puzzling why possibly the BBC would prefer to go back to shoddy interpretations that are too modern in language, do not take on board any of the original’s allusions and above all even feature mistakes against genre, characterisation and historic accuracy. Pride and Prejudice's original was of course low on allusions, and in that it was easy. However, the writer did acknowledge the one allegory that was present in the river at Pemberley and took it to the full. In 1995 they managed to put down such an effort of accuracy and poetry that no-one can do better. Now the BBC have gone down to the level of interpretations that do not make sense and are far from poetic. Sometimes even reducing all of the work of the writer (who does make an effort in putting it in context, whether unconsciously or consciously) to nothing. A work of a writer, in adapting it, should not be made better as such, but only made clear to viewers, depending on how the viewer should see the story. In that the writer in 1995 exaggerated the comedy of Mrs Bennet’s conduct and added scenes for Darcy, but it does not take anything away from the original work of Austen, only attempts to help the viewer appreciate it better than they did the other versions (which were a lot by then!). The writer of Tess (2008) did not really know what the allusions to nature and hell in Hardy’s work were about and made a few crucial changes that he/she would not have made, had he/she known what Naturalism is. She made the father ill from the beginning and then made him die. In the original the mother was ill but the father died unexpectedly from a heart attack. Of course the effect is the same (in both cases the father ends up dead), but the naturalistic effect of total surprise and fate that strikes at a very bad moment indeed, is not present. If the writer had known what Naturalism is, he/she would have realised the importance of the illness of the mother and the unexpected death of the father; he/she would have realised that the reader's feelings are more affected when the father dies unexpectedly than when he doesn't. In Naturalism the bad expected, but the worse happens. The writer ignored it and so destroyed Hardy’s set-up. The drama not only had anachronistic features in it (the hymn of 1953, only about 60 years after Tess was published!), but it also made great mistakes in putting Alec on a white horse and in making Angel break into the mansion at the end. The writer clearly did not realise what Hardy did when he left the windows of the mansion open when he wrote the original! That is namely a reason for Angel not breaking in and so for Angel not being liable for incarceration and adhering to his fair complexion which is a sign of honesty and openness in 19th century literature. The open windows are essentially the reason why the police does not arrest Angel. As they were left open, Angel just entered, did not steel or break anything and therefore there was no break-in. Admittedly this is not the case anymore now, but in the days Hardy wrote Tess this was the law: a break-in only took place if there was a forceful entry (breaking of a window, forcing of a lock, the opening of an unlocked door was not considered trespassing astonishingly enough) and if an act of felony was committed (vandalism, steeling, or any such thing). By making Angel break a window in the adaptation, the writer made him liable and punishable for burglary and thus raised questions (again) in the viewer's mind. The most important thing is that the writer in having Tess say ‘I am already in hell,’ alludes to something that happened earlier but clearly did not see the great significance of… Just before the father dies Tess works on the field, in the cold, alone and in the dark with burning heaps of weeds around. As if this does not call up the image of hell in each of us. Indeed, a little later Alec disguises himself (as Satan in Paradise Lost), sneaks up on her, and makes Tess another offer to become his mistress. She sends him away but will be forced to consent when the father passes away. Hardy even puts verses of Paradise Lost in that passage! Yet the writer of the adaptation did not address this and just made a burning heap in the foreground of the picture and then later alluded to it seemingly without knowing why… It is indeed peculiar that Tess comes in front of the camera like a spirit from the afterlife: in a long black dress and pale as a ghost… The readers of the original do know what is happening (or should be expected to be aware of it), but I cannot possibly see that viewers at all got what was going on. As was the problem with the fairy nature of Jane in Jane Eyre. The whole of the moon-motif, the fairy-motif that was connected with that, all the allusions to Shakespeare, Paradise Lost (an image of hell which Rochester’s white and red rococo boudoir should address, but which image was reduced to gothic and dark in the adaptation), The Pilgrim’s Progress, the religious motif on the whole and above all fire and water that come together were totally absent or alluded to but not carried by any symbolic images. The only thing that was addressed in Jane Eyre in 2006 was the gothic theme of Bluebeard (although the closet with the 'dead' wives was not at all grim enough) and The Beauty and the Beast. It was carried on until the end, but put Ferndean rather in the context of the enchanted castle at the start of The Beauty and the Beast, rather than making it the approaching of the prince. The wood around Ferndean can rather be considered as the wood around the castle of Sleeping Beauty or the transformation of the Beast into prince. Thus it should not be gloomy and scary, but it should call up the idea of quietness, seclusion with a positive edge. Jane then as the prince who approaches his true love and who is let through the brier in the Grimms' version... Instead the gothic theme Bertha was too much emphasised by the red scarf flying from the widow continually and thus destroyed the exploding surprise of married Rochester in the end.

If one wants to adapt a book for the screen or stage one has a responsibility, a heavy responsibility: to bring across the original idea of the writer to the viewer, who is not reading that book. The writer of an adaptation should not put wrong thoughts into the viewer’s mind. If he does that, the adaptation is not an adaptation but a creation of the writer based on that book like The Count of Monte Cristo of 2002. It is obvious that also playwrights put in allusions towards philosophy and other works (whether theatrical or not) and it is clear that good films do that as well. Yet it seems that the BBC has slid down to the cheap Hollywood format which adapts without thinking of or regard for neither genre, nor literary accuracy, nor historical accuracy. The role of the writer of the adaptation is not anymore one of responsibility, but has become one of creativity which is not appropriate as the creative process has already taken place when the original was written. The only thing that should happen is adapting that creative result of the original writer to another medium. That does not include far-reaching interpretation as such, but rather care, cautiousness and foremost a knowledge of the genre and themes at the times the work was published/plays. In 1995 the writer took on board, not the seeming restraint of Regency England, but the Enlightenment philosophy which went back to nature for solace. To add to that he took on board colours, music and common themes in literature (and later necessarily film): contrast between Darcy and Bingley (even carried on the sisters), white dresses for the Bennets to declare their innocence and rather dark clothing for Darcy but light for his sister, rich fabrics for the Bingleys and rather simpler ones for the Bennets, the music the characters played was appropriate and was played on a real pianoforte and not on a piano (which is a decided difference!). All that was lightly present in Austen but the writer in 1995 made it a theme and displayed great skill and knowledge. The BBC displayed equally great skill in the hiring of their experts and thus put Austen’s work in a contemporary context. Something I cannot see in their more recent adaptations…

I call upon the BBC to repeat their great skill and effort of 1995. Their adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was almost perfect and is considered to become ‘the definitive’ adaptation because no-one seems to be able to do better. Jane Austen was a woman of her time and so should her characters be viewed. By putting an adaptation in a wider contemporary philosophical, societal and historical context a far better and more consistent result is reached than when interpreted in a modern way and ‘updated’. I only hope sincerely that the BBC decided not to go along with modern feminist views of Austen which are totally out of place in my opinion. In the plot of Emma (and I haven’t read it yet, but only seen an adaptation of it dating from ’96 with Samantha Morton in the role of Harriet Smith, years ago, and read the summary on Wikipedia) there seem to be great possibilities for comedy, but also great poetic possibilities, like in Pride and Prejudice. Austen’s comedy is to a certain extent similar to Shakespeare’s comedy: it is not slapstick, it is humour with a serious edge… If the writer this time got the genre and its tradition, studied the work, its times and did his best, I am sure we will get quality. If on the other hand the writer was again sluggish, we will get mediocre TV-drama worth watching once. Let’s hope it is the first.

Jane Eyre, Rochester and the treatment of Bertha, a considerate view

Hello, here I am again!

I thought I’d write something more because it is so long ago… I have been heavily discussing Jane Eyre on a literature forum lately. It is amazing what ideas people have about that book! Anti-religious, Rochester is a saint, feminist, …

Of course it stays a very very nice and pleasing story, but don’t be fooled by your first swooning impression of Rochester. It is puzzling how people can fall in love with him (including me!) because the man has had mistresses, is a liar, bigamist and locks up his wife in the attic in an attempt to forget her. This can all be excused, because the man was stuck in a marriage with a mad woman, and on top of that before she was mad she wasn’t compatible with him. Sad really, and probably the case in lots of marriages (Mr Hurst and Mrs Hurst of Pride and Prejudice, Mr and Mrs John Dashwood of Sense and Sensibility (although she is clever at manipulating him, as all women are, I expect :D) amongst others). Although he chose to marry her (with a little encouragement from his father), blinded by her beauty, he later hates her and wants to forget her, locking her up in the third story of his mansion in a room without a window.

Brontë wrote about the room that it had no windows, a lamp hanging from the ceiling by a chain and a fire place. Not much was said about it, because then the ‘lunatic’ is described in an animal way. It is shocking, and Brontë was criticised for the image she sketched of the ‘lunatic’ (believe it or not!), because pity was the main thing in those days one should have for lunatics because they were unfortunate people who were ill in the head. Believe it or not lunatics were pitied. It is a far cry from the prejudice of chaining them to the wall as a standard ‘treatment’. Brontë faced her critics and uttered that she also thought pity in order, but ‘wanted to make horror too predominant’. Very strange, wanting to make it horrifying yet pitiable. She attributed the madness of Bertha to ‘moral madness’, a type of madness occurring because of deploring moral conduct (very strange concept we now would not dare to think of, but nonetheless Bertha had it and we must face that truth). When she is compared to Messalina, it implies an unchaste way of living, committing adultery let’s say. (Rochester must have been ashamed). Still, Brontë found that she should be pitied, but did not put that in her scene, or did she anyway?

The debate about compassionate or evil Rochester (the evils which are in the minority) seems to revolve around one issue: the confinement of Bertha his wife. People seem to have the prejudice that mad people in the 19th century were badly treated, chained and left to rot in asylums untreated. Nothing is less true. At least, the Victorian tried to treat their lunatics although their knowledge was very limited. Nonetheless, they did have ‘therapies’. They believed in the wholesome nature of church service (a fact which we would not even think of, but which was serious to them), occupational therapy (men used to have to maintain the gardens, do the odd jobs, and women did women tasks: seaming, washing, making beds and that kind of thing), the wholesome effect of good food and hygiene was also very important. Admittedly, it seems not very effective, and it was probably not, but it resulted in asylums for the mad becoming much nicer with airy corridors, good food, good beds, nice gardens, recreation, large windows, clean and non-restraint. A far cry from Bedlam Hospital in London (or Bethlem as it was called normally) (which everyone seems to think was the standard care in those days) where lunatics were chained to the wall until the 1810s, sleeping on straw, where there was no cleanliness, no recreation, no gardens for wholesome walks and where at a certain moment a part of the building was in such a state it was not habitable. It even had a bad reputation in 1800 already (!) when there was a man who decided to open a private asylum and advertised for good food of the kind that was not allowed in Bedlam Hospital. Now of course, the government has to set the standard in care and whatever it offers in general, but back then government institutions were not at all preoccupied with ‘setting the standard’ and people had to fend for themselves. Just think about social security, medical care, etc. There was even one man who told Queen Victoria, ‘why don’t we leave the poor to themselves?’ they are happy like that. Yeah, right, but that was the idea at the time. Still, for the unfortunate lunatics, and certainly for the reasonably rich ones there was better available than what Rochester offered Bertha, although It was of course shameful to be in an asylum or to have a family member in it. Mary Lamb, a famous 18th century case, who murdered her mother in a fit of rage was acquitted in court because of insanity and treatment was tried. Of course that did not go very well and subsequent admissions in private asylums followed, but not in Bedlam. Her brother paid £50 in those days (1796), which would amount in 1836 (count back from when Jane Eyre is started by the author, based on the publication year 1847) to the equivalent of £57 if we take the average earnings index, or even £49 if we use the retail price index, £55 if the 50 is just indexed. Rochester wanted to pay £200 for Grace Poole, an amount that was 6 times what Jane earned as a governess and that, according to the average earnings of the time was an equivalent of £2000 per month… So £200, what would that be, about £12,000? Astronomical. Yet Mary Lamb, in reality and about 40 years prior to when Jane Eyre plays, had also a private nurse and room, but also gardens, occupational therapy and good food and hygiene for a quarter of that…

Now we consider the reality of Bertha’s confinement: a windowless room, one lamp hanging from the ceiling by a chain, a fireplace. One should picture it: always in the dark (no window = no daylight), and permanently the glow of a fire. Then we should consider the ‘lamp’ and it needs some consideration: in 1836 we are still In the times before the petroleum/kerosene lamp that was manufactured on a grand scale from 1853, hence no mention of anything but candles in the book. Admittedly, there were whale oil lamps available but they were expensive and I can imagine dangerous if Bertha deliberately wanted to tip it over and set fire to the place. Lamps like that also stank and smoked an awful lot, not ideal for a room, permanently shut. So we can presume that it was candles that were in the lamp, hence also the fact that Bertha can light Rochester’s bed with one… The light of one candle is nothing. It is not comparable to the 40Watt lamps we have now! With the light of one candle one can barely see his hand for his eyes, let alone do something like reading, sewing or anything similar (yet people did that in those days…). We can of course say that there were several candles in the lamp, but still it would not amount to a serious amount that would seriously light the room up like 10 or 20 (like Rochester must have had in his dining room for example), because Jane does not talk of a ‘chandelier’ but a ‘lamp’. On top of that candles were expensive, and big chandeliers were not so much lit, only on special occasions. So we can assume that the lamp was a kind of ‘lantern’ with one or maybe more candles in it, but certainly not a lot, as that would have been too expensive for at least 12 hours every day. It also needs to be said, concerning candles, that working hours of servants were sometimes regulated to the amount of daylight, and consequently the amount of candles they had to use during their working day. During winter it must certainly have been expensive and so working days became shorter to try to save on the candles (source ITV documentary). Given that suicide numbers in the northern parts of Scandinavia are substantial in winter because of the lack of daylight, it is very strange that people still think that Rochester is being kind by shutting his wife in permanent dusk in one room for 15 years without once having been out of it… I would almost say: she would have been better in Bedlam Hospital where she might have been shut in a room, but where she could at least have seen the daylight… But there was a lot better available, for the rich at least. In 1834, there was an author Martineau who wrote about Hanwel Lunatic Asylum: ‘Yet it is the ignorant, gin-drinking pauper whom we now see entertained with constant employment, and governed by a look or a sign, while the educated gentleman and accomplished lady are left helpless, to be preyed upon by diseased thoughts, and consigned to strait- waistcoats and bonds ! This is barbarity, this is iniquity, whatever may be done for them besides. Let their secret be ever so carefully kept, let their physicians have their forty or fifty guineas a week, every week of the year, let heaven be wearied with prayers and tears on their behalf, they are each still as oppressed and injured beings as any wretch for whose sake the responsible shall be brought into judgment. There is far more truth and reason in the perpetual complaints of such sufferers.’ It is amazing that ten years prior to the publication of Jane Eyre already there were better places than what Rochester considered as ok! There have been people who argued that he subjected his wife rather to the old-fashioned way of dealing with lunatics: incurable, lock up and left to rot. Yet the popular reader does not seem to take notice.

Essentially, the horror and pity Brontë wanted to express are there, but not where they are expected. The horror does not conceal itself in Bertha the lunatic, nor does the pity conceal itself in her state of insanity. The horror Brontë wanted she expressed in the fight Rochester has with his wife and in the state of her confinement, and the pity is induced by the state of her confinement. Not the other way round. Of course, after that Rochester makes himself the big victim, but is blaming everyone else but oneself not a want of education (Epictetus)? King Lear blamed everyone, but is he innocent? Yet, both are pitiable but in their own deluded way.

People come up with all kinds of arguments to allow for a benevolent Rochester, but the ironical thing is that even the literary allusions are bad for him: King Lear (Off ye lendings), Paradise Lost (the kingly crown in one of the water colours), Manfred/Cain (both Bryon’s and narcissistic to the very core) and not least Byron himself who happens to even have the same breed of dog as Rochester (Newfoundland) and the same kind of name (Boatswain and Pilot, both functions on a ship, the first one on deck, the second the person at the rudder (conveniently)), even (controversially) demonology (the name Edward Fairfax) and an allusion to Ivanhoe (the revenge on Brian de Bois-Guilbert that carries a lot of similarity with the fire that destroys Thornfield) . It seems that Brontë had fun in portraying Rochester in a logical and superficially good way and putting bad allusions in so that superficial readers would be seduced, much like Milton who planned to have his readers seduced by Satan, but planned to make them more faithful. Yet it seems that most popular readers would go with Satan and would think that King Lear is a poor old man, wronged by his daughters and only just to Cordelia…


Bibliography:

Charlotte Brontë and her Circle, Clement K. Shorter, Hodder and Stoughton, 1896

Light Fittings in Georgian and Early Victorian Interiors, Jonathan Taylor, http://www.buildingconservation.com/articles/light98/light98.htm

The Hanwell Lunatic Asylum, Harriet Martineau, Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine, June 1834, http://www.mdx.ac.uk/WWW/STUDY/xmad1834.htm

Jane Eyre and Insanity, http://www.stanford.edu/~steener/su02/english132/MoralMadness.htm

Milton’s God, Cordelia Zukerman and Thomas H Luxon, http://www.dartmouth.edu/~milton/reading_room/pl/intro/index.shtml