A Little More Conversation, A Little Less Action -- Observation from Jane Eyre

(With the deepest of apologies to Elvis)

I'm watching the movie version of Jane Eyre.  Of course I'm supposed to be laundering, packing, and generally getting ready for a long trip, but you know how this goes.  I will still be laundering, packing, and throwing crap at suitcases in a confused manner at two-thirty this morning...

The two main characters, Rochester and Jane, really love each other.  They want to talk to each other more than anybody else in the world, but they just won't do it.  Part of it is pride.  Part of it is fear.  Part of it, at least on one side, is the idea that there is social impropriety; she's not good enough for him, and he's already got somebody else.  They constantly misunderstand each other because they only ever speak to each other in these short intense spates, like little thunderstorms of words.  They stubbornly deny themselves the thing that would bring them joy.

Case in point:  Jane was just gone for about a month taking care of some family business, and when she returns, Rochester is waiting for her by the gate.  He wants to see her so badly that he's put aside some of his "I don't need anybody" arrogance.  He makes some of his usual snide comments, but eventually he gets to the point that bothers him saying something along the lines of  "I had to find out from EVERYBODY ELSE that you were coming home.  You wrote to Adele (the little girl) and Mrs. Fairfax (the housekeeper) and even Pilot (the dog), but not a word to me...."  The whole time she was gone, of course, she was wondering off and on what was going on with him but refused to ask.

It's heartbreaking.

Every time I read this book or see this movie, I keep saying to them, "Talk to each other!  Oh for the love of God and all that is holy, just talk to each other!"  (And no, I do not think they can hear me. No worries...)  They are matched.  Nobody is ever going to make them as happy as they make each other.  He's not particularly kind; she's not traditional in her way, either.  They're both sharp as blades, but together they work.  So much pain would have been avoided with a little more conversation.

I do suppose, however, that this is not how great Gothic novels get written.  It's just an observation early this morning that struck me.