Intro
Jane Eyre is—drumroll please—the heroine of Jane Eyre. She's an orphan in nineteenth-century England so, like everyone in that category, she's got a hard-knock life. When she graduates from the orphanage she gets a job as a governess and ends up falling in love with her hot boss and they're all set to get married when—now's the real drumroll— he's already married.
So yes, Jane Eyre is the heroine of the book named after her. But that's not the character postcolonialists like to talk about. It's all about Bertha Mason. "'Wait—who?"' you ask. None other than Mr. Rochester's secret wife! She's been locked up in his attic this whole time. She's the one who tries to bite people and burns the whole house down.
Why do postcolonialists, especially postcolonial feminists like Gayatri Spivak, adore this loopy arsonist? Chalk it up to her Creole ancestry and the fact that she's from the Caribbean. But it's not just that Bertha's a mixed-race wild child from Jamaica—it's that Charlotte Brontë's different treatment of Jane and Bertha shows how the virtuous white Western European woman (Jane, in this case) serves to define the colonized woman (Bertha) as the crazy, monstrous "'Other."' Or—in lit speak—psycho Jamaican Bertha is a foil to saintly English Jane.
By the way, Bertha's also a big hit with feminists other than Spivak. There's something totally empowering about the whole madwoman in the attic thing, it turns out.
Quote
"'Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard!—as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner—pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and MY WIFE! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl,"' he continued, looking at me, "'knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you—follow!"'
Analysis
Just in case you haven't guessed already, the speaker in this passage is none other than the dashing hunk and (bigamy-committing) groom-to-be Mr. Rochester. Here's the scene: Mr. Rochester is at the alter, all set to tie the knot with Jane. It's all smooth sailing until they get to the part when the priest asks if there are any objections to the marriage. And boy, is there ever: Bertha's brother pipes up and tells everyone that nasty Mr. Rochester is already married to his sister.
Who wouldn't get defensive? That's what evokes Mr. Rochester's explosive response, wherein he manages to not just drag Bertha's reputation through the mud, but her entire family going back three generations too. Note that he particularly blames Bertha's "'madness"' on her mother—the Creole—who was both "'a madwoman and a drunkard."' Not cool.
Then he goes on and says that he should at least get the pleasure of marrying someone "'at least human,"' i.e. Jane. That's not exactly a ringing endorsement of Jane, we know, but at least she gets to be considered human. In Rochester's view, Bertha's not even that. Very not cool.
Now do you get why postcolonialists like to get up in arms about how Bertha is portrayed in this classic novel? We'll just add that a few lines later, Brontë herself—without the filter of Rochester's perspective—depicts Bertha as a total beast too, so if you thought Brontë just wanted to make Rochester look like a brute, well…think again:
"'In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face."'
That's right: it. You can't get a more dehumanizing portrayal of Bertha than that, can you? Very, very not cool.