Hi! Ok I love this book, and would deeply love to hear your further thoughts on Bertha. I mean, in a Doylean (Doylist?) viewpoint she's a terribly racist commentary on the "wrong" way to be feminine and the possibly prevailing notion that men should only pursue English maidens with soft, whispering voices and mild manners (ugh). But given that it's a very, very bad take on colonialism that's only gotten more raunchy as it ages, what do you think of Rochester's treatment of Bertha's madness? Is locking her in the attic really the abusive crime then that it would be today? Would an asylum have given her better treatment? Certainly with her penchant for harm to herself and to people and things around her, it doesn't seem safe to let her have full run of the house. Is the biggest crime that Rochester refuses to acknowledge that she even exists, let alone claims her as his wife? (in the same way England refused to acknowledge their crimes against their colonies?)
Oh, Bertha! </3 Sort of parenthetically, I find it worth noting that Blanche Ingram, the "correct" upper-class Englishwoman, is presented as vapid, and the romantic pursuit of her (such as it is) as a pathetic farce. What we are looking for is the intellectual companionship of the passionate weirdos who abandon Blanche in the parlor and deal with the aftermath of Bertha's rage in the attic. As another parenthetical: I presume you've read Jean Rhys' The Wide Sargasso Sea and are looking for more textual commentary.
To address your attic/asylum comments first: I'm on firm ground here with the history of medicine, and an asylum would absolutely not have given her better treatment. This would have been a pre-reform asylum and... one-on-one care, directly overseen, with private space and a personalized regimen, is a much better option for Bertha than an asylum would be. We also learn that Rochester has refused the respectable but morally horrific option of having Bertha live separately in an "insalubrious" environment where she might easily die of natural causes ("to each villain his own vice," he says bitterly; "and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination.") No, he has kept her at the house of which she is the mistress by right, and he absents himself from it instead. It’s important that we’re explicitly told that it is not because she is mad that Rochester hates her (which he does.) Another part of the novel's commentary on mental illness and its care, here, is that insanity is not grounds for divorce. It is precisely her insanity, in fact, that makes it impossible for Rochester to divorce her on the grounds he would otherwise have.
What Rochester has refused Bertha, of course, is acknowledgement, as you rightly observe. I think there's a very good case for analyzing this silence as a metaphor for colonial sins: the lives of the colonies are bound up with the life of England; these are systems exploitatively intertwined. And England wants to ignore both the exploitation and the existence of that inconvenient other. (Charlotte Brontë is brilliant, but this does not mean she is subtle.) The other thing the narrative denies Bertha is... just continuing to live in Jamaica. In-text, this is not even presented as an option. The text is, however, rich enough that it makes a range of postcolonial readings not only possible but interesting (as well as, in many cases, obvious.) The portrayal of her as hypersexual is, of course, racist. There's also the depiction of her as cursed with both natural strength and the inability to self-govern (ahem.) She has excellent qualities; she has beauty lush for the taking; she will be the undoing of the man who yokes himself to her. Moreover, clearly, failing to understand Bertha on her own terms can bring only misery. I would also argue that it is of vital importance that Rochester describes his own action in marrying her as that of a "gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead." Moreover, this marriage is explicitly identified as an arrangement made for material gain, in pursuit of (colonially-generated) wealth. Rochester doesn't know this at the time, of course. But I think Charlotte Brontë shows us this whole sorry mess as a symptom of an imperial system that is rotten to its core, and one that will destroy all it touches: the proud son married off for his "good race" (yikes) as surely as Bertha, doomed by congenital mental illness, and trapped in the incompatible relationship with Rochester. Reading against the grain, it's very easy to read her "intemperate and unchaste" conduct as a form of protest. Anyway. Yes. I am so acutely sorry for Bertha.