Virtue as Armor: Jane Eyre and the Misremembering of a Heroine

Light in the moors: a portrait of grace and resolve

Hello, my friends. Welcome back to another bookclub meeting at Arete & Ink. Please browse our special Jane Eyre-inspired brew bar before settling into your armchair by the fire: The Rochester – A bold, smoky espresso laced with burnt sugar syrup and a hint of brandy extract. Served hot and brooding, just like the man himself; Adele’s Treat – A light and playful strawberry Italian soda topped with whipped cream and rose sugar sprinkles—joyful, sweet, and a little dramatic; and The Red Room – A striking red velvet mocha spiked with cinnamon and cayenne. Served in a glass mug with a single crimson rose petal. Our pastry pairing today includes our in-house currant scones with Devonshire cream and blackberry jam.

Once your drink is in hand, join us by the fireside as we open the doors to Gateshead, Thornfield Hall, and the wilds beyond.

(Spoilers ahead.)

Featured topics:

1. Discussion of Jane Eyre’s character

2. The crux of the novel

3. Mr. Rochester and Jane’s love

4. Jane vs. the modern feminist movement

“Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last… These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world.” - Charlotte Brontë

I've read Jane Eyre three times now. The first was in my mid-to-late teens, when the world of classic literature had warmly welcomed me in. I’d grown up surrounded by classical children’s and adult fiction, so reading Jane Eyre wasn’t entirely unfamiliar—but it did challenge and expand me.

Now, on my most recent reread, I treasure her words exponentially more. Reading Jane Eyre feels like sitting in a quiet room with Charlotte herself, hearing her speak candidly about virtue, God, and the human spirit. Ms. Brontë was a bold woman in her time, proclaiming truths that were likely belittled or cast aside for the simple fact of being born a woman.

Earlier this month, I watched one of my favorite BookTubers describe Jane Eyre as “a woman finding love on her own terms.” The comment made my heart pound, my cheeks flush. I wanted to shout: That’s not what it’s about at all! I later stumbled upon an article offering a playlist “inspired” by the novel, complete with song suggestions indicating autonomy, independence, and Jane’s “rebellious streak.” Another part of the post described her as unafraid to speak up against gender or class-based discrimination.

These takes, while not wholly unfounded, miss the mark. Jane Eyre is unforgettable precisely because of how it transcends modern buzzwords. It still resonates today—and yet, like so many historic works, Jane Eyre is often read through a narrow lens. Instead of attempting to creep into Charlotte’s world and evaluate the values she wrote from, we project ours onto hers.

Take a moment to refill your cup—might we recommend another round of The Rochester? If you're journaling alongside this read, what were your initial impressions of Mr. Brocklehurst? How did young Jane's strength strike you on this reread?

The Attributes of Miss Eyre

Jane Eyre is a deeply complex character. She is human and flawed, yes—but she is also:

- Virtuous
- Selfless
- Humble
- Strong
- Christian

The first four are inseparable from the fifth. Christianity—at its core, espouses virtue, selflessness, humility, and strength. These aren’t outdated ideals or symbols of repression; they are radical values, especially when lived out with conviction, as Jane does.

Jane’s virtue is not prudish or timid. The word “virtue” has been misappropriated by modern parlance to imply chastity alone. But its fuller meaning—righteous or excellent behavior—saturates every action Jane takes. From the abused little girl locked in the “red room” to the resolute woman who turns down a passionate but morally compromised marriage, Jane walks a path of principled self-control and a deep desire to do right by others—namely, Mr. Rochester.

In today’s heroines, we rarely see virtue lauded. Modern portrayals often confuse virtue with people-pleasing or weakness—qualities Jane wholly lacks. “Simplicity” is just another term for “simple-minded”. Jane wears her virtue like Joan d’Arc wore her armor, not as a defense against the world but as a commitment to living rightly within it. She chooses righteousness repeatedly, not as a suppression of emotion, but as a channeling of wisdom born from deep spiritual clarity.

I was taken aback—startled, even outraged—by Rochester’s attempt to provoke Jane’s jealousy through Miss Ingram. From a modern perspective, his behavior flashes like a glaring red flag. But I had to pause and catch myself: I was viewing his actions through a contemporary lens, and in doing so, I risked overlooking the deeper nuance of what Brontë was truly trying to reveal.

Rochester’s “scheme” wasn’t merely a trick. It was a complex gesture of affection—an attempt to reach a woman who had been trained to be wary of her emotions, sometimes walling them off deep inside. His manipulations weren’t cruel so much as intentional, and they revealed how deeply he had come to know which of her heartstrings to pluck.

Rochester is probably not a feminist’s dream. He’s manipulative, yes—but also desperate. His antics are misguided, but they reflect a deep desire: to be loved by a woman who far outranks the sort 19^th century aristocracy brought to the table.

Jane, for her part, remains grounded. Even shaken, she does not crumble. She does not plead. She does not compromise her sense of accountability to a higher power. She holds firm.

Jane’s journey from Gateshead to Ferndean is a pilgrimage of quiet sacrifice. She endures the cruelty of Aunt Reed without bitterness. She returns willingly to care for her dying relative and extends forgiveness already long given. Her cousins, initially scornful, begin to respect her as they discover what a worthy woman Jane truly is—to some degree, even the lowest of the low can recognize greatness.

She shows the same forbearance with Adele and Rochester, even with the sharp-tongued Blanche Ingram. She never rails against the world’s unfairness. Instead, she responds with grace, tenderness, and an astonishing capacity for endurance.

Imagine you’re eavesdropping at the next table in the café: Jane is sitting across from Helen Burns, discussing duty, suffering, and quiet defiance over steaming cups of The Governess’s Blend. What do you think they’d say to each other?

Her humility is perhaps her most overlooked quality. Though she possesses intelligence, artistic talent, and beauty of spirit, she thinks little of herself. Even when praised, she doubts her skill, preferring modesty over pride.

From the very first chapters, Jane’s resilience is forged in fire. She endures physical abuse, social humiliation, institutional hardship, and emotional devastation. And yet she endures.

Her flight from Thornfield is a masterclass in spiritual and psychological strength. She walks away from the man she loves—because to stay would be to betray herself. Later, she resists the cold coercion of St. John Rivers, choosing love and freedom over duty and martyrdom.

After her discovery of Bertha, Rochester’s mad wife, he questions her reasoning for feeling shame should she decide to stay with him—who would care about her moral standing, her scandalous choices? She’s answers as a woman facing a roaring ocean:

“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself…”¹

It’s no accident that Jane Eyre’s virtues align with Christian ideals. Brontë, the daughter of an Anglican minister, lived in a world saturated with religious thought. Whether or not all that religiosity was doctrinally sound is another matter—but to deny the novel’s Christian underpinning is to strip away its soul.

The above quote continues:

“I will keep the law given by God, sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation; they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour: stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed…”²

Reason Versus Passion

This tension is the central conflict of the novel. Jane is a woman torn between feeling and reason, instinct and discipline. So are we all.

Jane, on the belief in objective standards says about her feelings toward them:

“…If I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane, with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.”³

And yet,

“Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by; there I plant my foot.”⁴

In choosing not to stay with Rochester after discovering his existing marriage, Jane listens not to societal expectations, but to something deeper. Not because she feared scandal, but because her soul would not allow her to live in sin. Later, she hears his voice calling across the moors—not as a symbol of passion triumphing over reason, but as an act of divine affirmation. She had asked God to show her where to go. And He answered.

Not for Rebellion, But for Righteousness

It wasn’t her “rebellious streak” or defiance of social norms that drew Rochester to Jane. It was her virtue, her constancy, her moral gravity.

She had not been shaped by the artifice and ambition of high society. She had nothing to gain from aligning herself with him. Her motives were pure. That alone made her singular in his world. And it is that purity—not naiveté, but incorruptibility—that captivated him.

“Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once to frail and indomitable…I could bend her with her my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her?...Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it…If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose…it is you, spirit—with will and energy, and virtue and purity—that I want: not alone your brittle frame.”⁵

Jane was not ontologically light, rather she held weight to her person, her presence. In fact, her very feminine, gracious, and virtuous behavior was what made Mr. Rochester passionately pursue her, weep at her feet as she prepared to depart from his estate.

Jane and the Modern Feminist

“Those who had saved my life, whom till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were under a yoke—I could free them; they were scattered—I could reunite them; the independence, the affluence which was mine, could be theirs too…Now the wealth did not weigh on me; now it was a mere bequest of coin—it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.”⁶

Jane was certainly pro-woman, in the sense that she championed women becoming intelligent, self-sacrificing, gentle, disciplined, and selfless, just as men ought to be. Free to become contributing persons in society. She was not the caricature we so often see online—storming into rooms, shouting about her rights, scorning dependence, or wielding sexuality as a weapon.

Nor was she a “trad-wife” paragon. She was something more complicated, more grounded in truth: a woman who chose simplicity, service, and love—not out of weakness, but out of conviction.

She could have lived a wealthy, untethered life after her inheritance. But she chose family. She shared her wealth. She chose to care for a broken man not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Jane Eyre deserves to stand on her own two feet, not be propped up by modern ideologies that misrepresent her. She is more than a symbol. She is a character forged in fire, full of contradiction, grace, and strength.

Let her speak for herself. Let her be who she truly is—a woman after the True, the Good, and the Beautiful.

We’re nearing the bottom of our cups and the last page of the novel. Before you go, consider this:

"Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings?"⁷

Leave your answers to the reflection questions below, or write them in your journal over your last bite of scone. As always, thank you for being part of our warm little book circle.

And if you’d like to leave a tip for the barista or grab a last-minute pastry for the road, the counter is still open. Until next time, stay curious, and stay cozy.

Join my chat where we discuss all things bookish and literary!

1. This ed. I reference is out of print, but I will list page numbers as a loose reference. This quote is from p. 273

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid.

5. Pp. 273-4

6. P. 333

7. P. 217