Getting acquainted with a classic

I was making supper one night last week when I heard a review of this novel on NPR. I’m not sure how I could have missed Wide Sargasso Sea till now. Written by Jean Rhys, it tells the tale of Mr. Rochester’s first wife, the “madwoman in the attic,” in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. When I heard Sara Paretsky’s recommendation that “you must read this,” I complied immediately. I went to the computer and put the book on hold at the library before the radio segment was even finished. I share Paretsky’s feelings about Jane Eyre, as well as her reluctance about “vampire novels” in general (books that depend on other books for their life). Yet she recommended this one. I simply had to read it.

Apparently, Jean Rhys had written a few novels in the ’20’s and ’30’s that had not been well received. Written in the same style as Wide Sargasso Sea (which has been classed as postmodern), they tapped into a sensibility not yet familiar to a wide readership. This book, which incorporates her firsthand knowledge of the setting from her own upbringing in Dominica, appeared in 1966, when she was 70. The adulation came too late, she said. She died a few years later.

My impressions: sad. Terribly sad. Lyrical. Evocative. Expertly crafted.

Expertly crafted: Wide Sargasso Sea is written from two points of view. The first section is narrated by Antoinette Cosway (who becomes Bertha Rochester). It establishes her as a Creole heiress in post-colonial Jamaica, living on an estate in decay. The second section places us inside young, British Mr. Rochester, who has been somewhat deceptively drawn into a marriage arranged by his father and Antoinette’s step-brother Richard Mason (who makes an appearance in Jane Eyre). Antoinette’s entire inheritance is transferred to Rochester upon their marriage. He narrates the book’s mid-section about their honeymoon. The short third section returns us to Antoinette’s perspective, bringing the book to its conclusion in the confinement of Thornfield, Rochester’s estate in England. Rhys works powerfully within the limits of these perspectives to create intrigue and suspense.

Evocative and lyrical: I could see the vivid colors and smell the fecundity of the tropical setting, all set forth with startling economy. The narrative is like a taut string, never a wasted word, every phrase spare and compressed, dialect and racial tensions and landscapes both interior and exterior conveyed vividly. In some ways it’s like reading a long poem.

Sad: So sad. The Eden is an Eden in decay. The beauty is preyed upon. The passion destroys. I guess the standard way of seeing this novel is to take a feminist reading and see Bertha as destroyed by a patriarchal society, but I have to say that I thought both parties in this marriage were victims. In this sense it’s consistent with the explanation Rochester gives Jane in Bronte’s novel. It’s beautiful in its way, rich and powerful. But I’m not sure I would say I enjoyed reading it. “Call me perverse, but I’ve always identified with heroines who suffer before they succeed,” writes Paretsky. Me too. The trouble is, this heroine never succeeds.