In my Substack post about Jane Eyre, I wrote about Jane’s mad negotiation skills: Determination, persistence, and a steadfast belief in her own value and priorities. Zero self-doubt or fear of what other people will think.

Here’s a passage that was too long to discuss in full on Substack, from Chapter 34. Jane’s long-lost cousin, St. John, harangues her to marry him and join him on a missionary trip to India.

Jane has enormous respect for St. John, so she’s willing to consider his idea.

“I can do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and acknowledge that,” I meditated

Acknowledging that she COULD say yes, she doesn’t jump straight to a decision. She considers her own values, goals, fears, and priorities, and assesses how well his proposal aligns with them.

—“that is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is not the existence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What then? He does not care for that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me.

First, she fears the trip might kill her, and saintly St. John would just shrug and tell her to have fun with God. That’s a vote against the missionary trip.

The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land—Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him.

Second, her biggest goal is to get over Mr. Rochester. Maybe leaving England would help. That goes in the pro-missionary column.

Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes

Third, if she wants to get over Mr. Rochester, she needs something else to focus on. Pro: this has the advantage of being sanctioned by God.

—and yet I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself: if I go to India, I go to premature death. And how will the interval between leaving England for India, and India for the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is very clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy him—to the finest central point and farthest outward circle of his expectations. If I do go with him—if I do make the sacrifice he urges, I will make it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar—heart, vitals, the entire victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never suspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can, and with as little grudging.

She knows she can work hard enough to please St. John. She will literally work herself to death. It’s not clear that she sees this as a con; it seems like a path she might consider. Her bigger concern is not the work, it’s the marriage:

“Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item—one dreadful item. It is—that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of a husband’s heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock, down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations—coolly put into practice his plans—go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear the consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him—not as his wife: I will tell him so.”

Jane develops an creative solution to the problem. She is willing to do the work out of reverence for God and a desire to help St. John. She is not willing to marry him for the sake of propriety, when she has experienced real love. So instead of either accepting or rejecting his proposal, she offers a counterproposal: she will accompany St. John, but not as his wife.

I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his feet and approached me.

“I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.”

“Your answer requires a commentary,” he said; “it is not clear.”

“You have hitherto been my adopted brother—I, your adopted sister: let us continue as such: you and I had better not marry.”

He shook his head. “Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you were my real sister it would be different: I should take you, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment—your strong sense will guide you.”

Jane’s counterproposal is shot down. St. John refuses to travel together without marrying. (Later, he clarifies that everyone knows he only has two sisters, and it would look highly improper to travel with his cousin and claim she was a third sister.)

This is where a lot of people would throw their hands up and get upset. In a movie, this is the scene where the characters would yell at each other and storm out, or end up crying. But not Jane Eyre, master negotiator. She persists.

I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so. “St. John,” I returned, “I regard you as a brother—you, me as a sister: so let us continue.”

“We cannot—we cannot,” he answered, with short, sharp determination: “it would not do. You have said you will go with me to India: remember—you have said that.”

“Conditionally.”

Jane first restates her reason and conclusion. St. John rebuffs her and tries to guilt her, but she doesn’t fall for it. “You said you would!” he argues. In response, a lesser negotiator would try to justify herself or mollify him. She just says “Conditionally.” She sees him setting a trap for her, and reminds him that she has a right to stick to her position. She also subtly points out that he is misrepresenting what she said.

“Well—well. To the main point—the departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my future labours—you do not object. You have already as good as put your hand to the plough: you are too consistent to withdraw it.

St. John backs down, and goes back to their areas of agreement. He reminds her that they both agree, in principle, that they should go to India together. And he throws in a combined compliment and mini-guilt trip.

You have but one end to keep in view—how the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect—with power—the mission of your great Master.

St. John’s argument continues: Since Jane has already agreed to go to India, the only question is how. She should do what God wants.

To do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother—that is a loose tie—but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death.”

Here, St. John’s argument falters. First he says a sister is a looser tie than a wife. (Does that really matter?) And then he betrays himself with “I want a wife.” Instead of appealing to Jane’s needs, he’s reiterating his own, which she has already rejected.

I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow—his hold on my limbs.

“Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you.”

Even Jane is not made of iron. But still she insists.

“One fitted to my purpose, you mean—fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant private individual—the mere man, with the man’s selfish senses—I wish to mate: it is the missionary.”

“And I will give the missionary my energies—it is all he wants—but not myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I retain them.”

“You cannot—you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire.”

More back-and-forth, with Jane again explaining why her solution works, and St. John again appealing to her faith in God in support of his solution.

“Oh! I will give my heart to God,” I said. “You do not want it.”

I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in awe, because he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made in this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I was with an equal—one with whom I might argue—one whom, if I saw good, I might resist.

Here is where Jane decisively concludes the negotiation. She satisfies herself that doing St. John’s will is not the same as doing God’s will, and that what matters to her is equally important as what matters to St. John. Accordingly, she is justified in arguing and pursuing her own goals. Resistance is her due.

He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presently risked an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry. “Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to me!” it seemed to say. “What does this signify?”

St. John still thinks of himself as an earthly stand-in for God, and is shocked at Jane’s resistance.

“Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter,” he said ere long; “one of which we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say you will serve your heart to God: it is all I want. Once wrench your heart from man, and fix it on your Maker, the advancement of that Maker’s spiritual kingdom on earth will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be ready to do at once whatever furthers that end. You will see what impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our physical and mental union in marriage: the only union that gives a character of permanent conformity to the destinies and designs of human beings; and, passing over all minor caprices—all trivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling—all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or tenderness of mere personal inclination—you will hasten to enter into that union at once.”

“Shall I?” I said briefly…

“Shall I?”

Like I said, Jane is a boss.

I’ll skip over Jane’s reflections about how unhappy she would be in a marriage with St. John, to the part where she reminds him of their common goals and tries one more time to find a solution.

“St. John!” I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.

“Well?” he answered icily.

“I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary, but not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you.”

Jane is not holding grudges here. She is still willing to explore his original idea, despite their disagreement.

“A part of me you must become,” he answered steadily; “otherwise the whole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we be for ever together—sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes—and unwed?”

“Very well,” I said shortly; “under the circumstances, quite as well as if I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman like yourself.”

“It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for the rest, though you have a man’s vigorous brain, you have a woman’s heart and—it would not do.”

“It would do,” I affirmed with some disdain, “perfectly well. I have a woman’s heart, but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a comrade’s constancy; a fellow-soldier’s frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte’s respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing more—don’t fear.”

“It is what I want,” he said, speaking to himself; “it is just what I want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would not repent marrying me—be certain of that; we must be married. I repeat it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love would follow upon marriage to render the union right even in your eyes.”

And again, St. John insists it’s his way or the highway, and goes back to the real reason for his insistence: “It is just what I want.”

Jane does not take responsibility for giving him what he wants. Her job is to pursue what she wants.

“I scorn your idea of love,” I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. “I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.”

He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he did so. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy to tell: he could command his countenance thoroughly.

“I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you,” he said: “I think I have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn.”

I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien.

“Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that I have been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic on which our natures are at variance—a topic we should never discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required, what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin, abandon your scheme of marriage—forget it.”

Jane speaks with some anger, taking St. John aback. When she realizes he feels disrespected, she doesn’t take back what she said. Instead, she explains that she was “roused to speak so unguardedly” because this is a topic on which they will never agree.

Acknowledging areas of disagreement is a fantastic negotiation technique. It’s realistic. It’s nonjudgmental — you’re not saying one of you is wrong and the other is right, but rather that you don’t see any possibility of overlap on this issue. It lets you move past the issue and see if you can still solve the larger problem.

So one last time, Jane reminds him that she is willing to go, but marriage is a hard no.

“No,” said he; “it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which can secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at present. To-morrow, I leave home for Cambridge: I have many friends there to whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight—take that space of time to consider my offer: and do not forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered with those who have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels!”

He had done. Turning from me, he once more “Looked to river, looked to hill.”

Ugh, St. John.

But this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was not worthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: the disappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has met resistance where it expected submission—the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which has detected in another feelings and views in which it has no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me into obedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection and repentance.

This is an observation that resonates with me, even though I’m not Christian. To coerce is human; to negotiate is divine.

That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I—who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him—was hurt by the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.

“I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,” said Diana, “during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in the passage expecting you—he will make it up.”

I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him—he stood at the foot of the stairs.

“Good-night, St. John,” said I.

“Good-night, Jane,” he replied calmly.

“Then shake hands,” I added.

What a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply displeased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had with him—no cheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian was patient and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having been offended.

And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.

One last note. Jane did not emerge unscathed from this conflict. Her relationship with St. John, who she loves and values as her cousin, is icy for the rest of the book, and she’s sad about it. She occasionally tries to warm up their relationship and assure him of her continued regard. But he won’t melt, and ultimately that is his problem, not hers.