Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Wuthering Heights
    Wuthering Heights
    Wuthering Heights
    Ebook413 pages7 hours

    Wuthering Heights

    By Emily Brontë

    4/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    The immortal story of love and obsession in the North of England

    Atop the stormy Yorkshire moors sits Wuthering Heights, a manor inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw and their two children, Catherine and Hindley. The fate of the manor, and the family that lives in it, is forever changed when the Earnshaws adopt a dark-skinned orphan boy named Heathcliff. As the years pass, Heathcliff and Catherine fall deeply in love, but even their great passion cannot survive the pressures of society and the black force of jealousy. Driven away by a broken heart, Heathcliff leaves Wuthering Heights only to return years later, bent on the cruelest kind of revenge.

    Published just one year before Emily Brontë’s untimely death, her only novel shocked Victorian reviewers with its vivid depictions of passion and brutality. It is now considered a masterpiece of English literature and one of the most enduring romances of all time.

    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateApr 22, 2014
    ISBN9781480484085
    Author

    Emily Brontë

    Emily Brontë (1818-1848) was an English novelist and poet, best remembered for her only novel, Wuthering Heights (1847). A year after publishing this single work of genius, she died at the age of thirty.

    Read more from Emily Brontë

    Related to Wuthering Heights

    Related ebooks

    Romance For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Howl Palace

      Sep 15, 2019

      Last week, I finally had to put Howl Palace up for sale. Years of poor financial planning had led to this decision, and I tried to take some comfort in my agent’s belief in a buyer who might show up with an all-cash offer. My agent is a highly organi

      25 min read

    • Article

      Saint Cuthbert’s Incorruptible Body

      Sep 8, 2020

      In the year of our Lord 687, in cause of an early, wet spring, the body of Saint Cuthbert was laid in the ground to rest. On the tomb were figured angels and seraphim of plain but wonderful design. And among these flitted cherubs, like apricots set i

      19 min read

    • Article

      A Symposium on Loss

      Mar 1, 2023

      A Symposium on Loss
      30 min read

    • Article

      It Had To Be Stew

      May 22, 2022

      It Had To Be Stew
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Man Behind the Counter

      Mar 4, 2019

      The Man Behind the Counter
      8 min read

    • Article

      Women Sweeping

      Mar 15, 2022

      The woman in Édouard Vuillard’s Woman Sweeping, painted between 1899 and 1900, is Marie Michaud Vuillard, the painter’s mother. She is tall and stocky, her posture—that slight give of the back to the broom, without bending—marking a nonchalant style

      25 min read

    • Article

      Fredericksburg’s Wounded Warriors

      Jul 11, 2023

      Fredericksburg’s Wounded Warriors
      6 min read

    • Article

      The Way Home

      Feb 5, 2022

      The Way Home
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Way Home

      Feb 4, 2022

      The Way Home
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Eternal Adventure

      Jun 29, 2021

      The Eternal Adventure
      4 min read

    • Article

      Worship On High

      Oct 18, 2021

      Worship On High
      5 min read

    • Article

      Low Expectations

      Feb 1, 2019

      Low Expectations
      7 min read

    • Article

      Streets Ahead

      Feb 24, 2021

      Streets Ahead
      2 min read

    • Article

      Welcome to Howardville

      Jan 17, 2022

      Welcome to Howardville
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Simple Things In Life

      Dec 10, 2020

      The Simple Things In Life
      3 min read

    • Article

      Home

      Dec 27, 2018

      Home
      3 min read

    • Article

      Forgive Us Our Trespasses

      Jun 3, 2021

      Forgive Us Our Trespasses
      4 min read

    • Article

      Ugly Ingredients Yield Succour And Good Cheer

      Nov 4, 2020

      IT is, for me, the very quintessence of cow—a cool, gently trembling mass that gleams like polished amber. Simply served in a plain white bowl, Wilton’s cold beef consommé, with its lone, verdant sprig of curly parsley garnish, is a dish of quiet maj

      4 min read

    • Article

      Estella’s Fate

      May 17, 2023

      Estella’s Fate
      7 min read

    • Article

      Cul-de-Sac

      Dec 1, 2021

      That old rage for order: how my father drove a square mouthed mower over-and-back, over-and-back, each row of neatly trimmed grass cut just like he told his barber: boy’s short, regular. O pioneer, taming this joke bit of prairie, no bindweed or dog

      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Wuthering Heights

    4/5

    9,557 ratings314 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 4/5
      An excellent novel, and I really enjoyed it! I highly recommend this book.
    • 4/5
      (Original Review, 1981-01-02)The “dog scene” does not exist in the book as some sort of sick foreplay; it’s actually an extremely clever piece of writing. Besides showing Heathcliff total disregard for Isabella, it’s a reality check for those girls with romantic notions about Byronesque “bad boys”. Isabella is so infatuated, that she cannot understand, although he flaunts it on her face ( that’s what makes the scene interesting) that what she takes for intensity and romantic darkness is actually plain cruelty. Isabella is selective in what she chooses to see, she wants to run away with this man everyone calls dangerous and not even the fact he hangs her pet dog stops her on her tracks. As we will see later in the book she does eventually find out he’s actually a plain domestic abuser, but by then she has been totally crushed.It’s not Emily’s fault people see Heathcliff as some sort of romantic hero, just like Isabella readers have been choosing what they want to highlight or disregard.The book has been adapted many times - mostly very badly and there a misunderstanding that this is a romantic novel so people are confused and disappointed in it. It’s also been lampooned many times. Actually it’s an extraordinary brilliant observation of the effect of neglect in early childhood, long before child psychiatry. There is no whitewashing and the damage done as an infant to Heathcliffe is permanent despite the kindness of the Earnshaws. He destroys what he loves and others with him. The character of Nelli Dean is also brilliantly drawn. She understands more than anyone but is forced to observe on the sidelines as a servant as the family and then another family is pulled into the tragedy. I love the story of her refusal to accommodate her precious piano pupils play time and her preference to the dog.The Brontës lived though a traumatic childhood and survived a boarding school which sounded like a pro type for the workhouses. Haworth at the time had greater social deprivation than the east end of London, with all the alcoholism, drugs, disease and violence that went with it and their brother brought home daily. Orphans and abandoned children were bought like slaves from London to work in the mill towns and as vicarage daughters were expected to help out with the night schools their father had organised. They weren’t sheltered - they saw the lot which is why no doubt Emily Brontë drew the character of an abandoned orphan child so well. Emily Brontë refused to admit to her consumption and was kneading bread the morning she died. Like Elizabeth, first she remained standing for as long as possible only finally lying down just before she died.Child neglect, for whatever reason, it was one of the themes in “Wuthering Heights” that stroked a chord with me, and I do not think it’s explored enough. The fact that Heathcliff decided to replicate his own abuse by inflicting it on Hareton, with the expectation that he would turn out as “twisted” as him as form of vengeance is quite interesting. Even more interesting is the fact Emily chose to make that experiment a failed one; even before that advent of child psychology, she clearly understood that the experience of abuse and neglect is unique to the individual, and the way people react to it unpredictable. That’s something that bewildered Heathcliff, and in a way, the realisation that he could not make people as detestable as he was, even though they have also been victimised, contributed to, by the end to make him him even more unstable.
    • 4/5
      This novel exists in two texts: that written and published by Emily, and Charlotte's revised edition. I can't remember which version I read first time around, but this time I read the original and I don't see anything in it that needs to be changed. That said, I did find the character of Joseph to be virtually unintelligible. I understand Charlotte partially translates his dialogue so get her version if you must understand everything he says, or get a copy with notes.Happily, someone has invented the internet since I last read this. I remember getting very confused as to who was related to who and how, and really, you need to know to realise the import of what Heathcliff is doing. These days you can find a variety of family trees on tinternet… though none that I found showed Heathcliff as being related by blood to anyone else. But come one, old Mr Earnshaw comes home with Heathcliff and a story about how he found him in the street. Pull the other one mate. Heathcliff and Catherine are obviously half-siblings.Lots going on in the novel. I can see why it's so richly studied. I get the impression it's one of those books that doesn't give up all its interpretations at one. What I found particularly interesting was the idea of the interloper that's played out again and again throughout. Not just Heathcliff, but everyone who comes to the Grange and the Heights, including the narrator; and also the way the servants intrude into the private lives of their employers.
    • 5/5
      A great classic.
    • 4/5
      Wonderfully Overwrought - Confusingly Incestuous
    • 4/5
      An excellent novel, and I really enjoyed it! I highly recommend this book.
    • 4/5
      Loved it, Heathcliff is a wonderful broken villain. Incredible the atmospheric analogies between the landscape and the characters - everything's dark, hopeless and obsessive. Only the ejaculations of Joseph are a real challenge for a non-native speaker.
    • 5/5
      Wuthering Heights has been in my consciousness ever since the 70's when Kate Bush was wailing out her high pitched ethereal lyrics -Out on the wiley, windy moorsWe'd roll and fall in green.You had a temper like my jealousy:Too hot, too greedy.How could you leave me, When I needed to possess you?I hated you. I loved you, too. I watched the TV adaptaion with Tom Hardy some years ago and still have vague recollections of it - mostly of Tom Hardy's brooding gorgeousness. And as I have said before seeing any tv or film adaptation before reading the book for me is a mistake. When I first started reading I found myself trying to link in the story to what I had seen and thought I already knew which detracted somewhat for allowing the story to unfold.What surprised me most on reading was it wasn't all about Cathy and Heathcliff as my memory had held it. So much of this tale is about the children of the initial characters. If there is any place for pathetic fallacy in literature then Wuthering Heights is the perfect venue. Not only does the weather provide the sometimes wild, sometimes brooding, sometimes oppressive atmosphere of the book but for me it is also a metaphor for the characters themselves. Many like myself come to the story thinking it will be a tale of love and passion only to discover that the pervading emotions are childish petulance and hatred and revenge. I have learnt much about life and love in nearly half a century on the planet and one thing I have learnt is that, when it comes to human relationships, hate is not the opposite of love - apathy is. So for me there is still more love in the story than hatred. It just manifests itself in an immature way. When I think of Heathcliff then the word repression comes to mind. I was once told that Wuthering Heights is best read when young and I can see why - there is for me is an immaturity in Cathy Earnshaw's behaviour in particular.The amazing thing for me about Wuthering Height's is held in the author herself - how on earth did a young woman in victorian England come up with all of this? The initial reviews of the book were not favourable and critics thought it morally reprehensible drivel. I need to find out more about Emily Bronte and her life and experiences - ooh a trip to Haworth when I am next back up in the Motherland. I have the 1939 film adaptation waiting with Larry O and Merle Oberon which I will watch with interest - although a more unlikely Heathcliff I cannot imagine. And a final note - having seen Tom Hardy digging up Cathy from her grave to embrace her again like a deranged lunatic ( my favourite scene ) I was eaer for it to come up in the book - it was there at last, so very near the end although the writing of it a very different less urgent account than the one I experienced in viewing.
    • 3/5
      No book has made me more grateful to have been born in the latter half of the 20th century. The writing was fine, and the story moved along, but good lord, I wanted to slap every single character upside the head at some point in the novel. Nelly, 3 weeks in bed after a walk that got her shoes and hose wet?? Catherine, who swoons, then rebounds, then swoons again based on a raised eyebrow or not very sharp word?? Don't get me started on Linton.
    • 3/5
      Wuthering Heights tells the tortured story of Catherine Earnshaw, the orphan Heathcliff, and the people who surround them. The story depicts a stark environment that surrounds the two soul mates and the passion that destroys almost everyone.

      Wuthering Heights, published in 1847, was the only novel written by Emily Bronte. It is classified as a Victorian Gothic novel, with a strong leaning toward Byronic Romanticism. Indeed, this novel is the epitome of a Gothic Romance- tortured souls, regret, a love that surpasses time. At the time of its publishing, it was met with mixed reviews. However, in the 20th century, it was deemed a superior classic.

      Emily Bronte was a masterful writer, who seems almost more in line with modern writers than those of her day. Wuthering Heights is the true model for the tortured love stories that seem to dominate the media these days. Heathcliff and Cathy are the ultimate tortured soul mates- one of the most well-known lines is when Cathy declares she is Heathcliff- meaning that they cannot live without the other.
      Heathcliff proves this when his life becomes a shell when she is gone. He allows the worst parts of himself to take over and treats everyone around him worse than he was treated as a child.

      I wasn't expecting to like this novel as much as I did. I tried to read it in high school, but couldn't get very far. I'd seen the movie with Laurence Olivier and thought the characters were insipid. A friend of mine and I were talking one day in April about classics and she wanted to read this, so I agreed to try it again. Boy, was I surprised. I literally couldn’t put the novel down. This book proves to me that everything deserves a second chance.
    • 5/5
      I still consider this one of my favorite books, possibly of all time, and that just further solidifies with each reread. One of the easier 'classic' novels to read, at least in my opinion. Cathy Heathcliff are my model couple for crazy love, and then Cathy 2.0 Hareton are a prime example of opposites attracting. Ahhhh I seriously just love this dark, twisted little book, plain and simple.
    • 4/5
      > In Lord John and the Private Matter, Lord John opines that honour sacrificed on the altar of love renders the love dishonourable and the lesser of pure lust. Heathcliff’s love for Catherine is an example of just such dishonourable love and is hardly the stuff of any romantic sensibility nor of the philosophical bent of Nietschze (“Beyond good and evil there is love.”) Heathcliff’s feeling for Catherine is egocentric, destructive and, a fearful thing not unlike the wuthering moors. Like the twisted tangles of brush that somehow manage to survive on the moors, the people that come into contact with Heathcliff are bowed and bent under the sheer force of his will, passion and temper. The idea of such an unrelenting, aggressive and unsparing devotion is both shocking and frightening. Beyond the linear narrative, this novel merits re-examination (re-reading) for its dense language, its allegorical associations and, the ideas about human nature itself.
    • 4/5
      A most unusual novel. Dark tale of wretched and unlikable characters, of a tormented and bold - yet unable to change his fate subjected to his time (the Victorian England) - tragic soul and his other-worldly passionate and dark love relationship, with vengeful, selfish or pathetic actions, obsessions and great tragedy, which is irritating and painful while reading; but somehow turns into a fluffy(?!), moderately sunny and comforting ending.

      Not quite pleasant and easy to read but definitely one of the most thought-provoking after: it is compelled to read it more than once.

      No. It's not about love. And it certainly is not a romance! Cathy and Heathcliff's relationship is much more complicated, messy and profound than a simple romantic love.

      On another note, has anyone been "vexed" by the narrative of this story as I was? The choice of the narrator has left much to be desired, too ambiguous and unrealiable to my liking, which, in a positive way, gives the readers the freedom to interpret as well, obviously.
    • 5/5
      I refuse to review this title, but I can say its one of my favorites and not just because of twisted dark romance, but the sheer elegance of the writing and the topic which was shocking for the time period.
    • 4/5
      The characters in Emily Brontë’s novel are so extreme, so given over to their passions, so driven and wilful that you will, certainly, want to pull your own hair out. From the dissipated yet cruel Hindley, to the emotionally divided and divisive Cathy, to the mindlessly foolish Isabella, and her ineffectual brother, Edgar, to the stunted, brutish Hareton, it is a cavalcade of distasteful, even monstrous, types. But none compare to the fiendish Heathcliff himself, whose unrelenting vengeful monomania brings ruin upon them all. How Heathcliff’s perverse passion for Catherine came to represent any sort of ideal of romantic devotion in the many years subsequent to the novel’s publication is a mystery to me.If possible, it might be best to set aside the principal characters and their extreme emotions and actions, and turn instead to the descriptive prose with which Emily Brontë renders the wild moors, the relentless inclement weather, and the brief wonder of spring or a sunny summer day. Even more intriguing is the bracketed narrative technique, initiated by the loquaciously risible Mr. Lockwood and then, more prosaically, carried forward by Ellen Dean. That Ellen Dean at one point encourages Mr. Lockwood to pursue a possible marriage with the younger Catherine deliciously risks the confusion of narrative and plot, and Mr. Lockwood does well to get himself as far away from Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights as possible. His return later in the year rightly heralds the wrapping up of loose ends and the natural dénouement of the tale.Wuthering Heights, even today, seems so singular, so extreme that, if you still have hair at the end of it, you might wish to set it on its own shelf in your library, isolated and incomparable. A curious, dark masterpiece recommended only for the brave of heart.
    • 4/5
      Reading the book a year after my pilgrimage to Haworth last year reminded me of the bleak Yorkshire landscape that drives sheep into suicide. As Juliet Barker so memorably noted in her stellar Brontë biography, the sisters would be quickly "plowed under" by the unhealthy living conditions. The protagonists of this novel suffer from the same condition. Marriage and death are its two constants which occur, like in a soap opera, amidst a tiny cast who fall for and over each other.Large doses of misery and small potions of happiness are in store for the occupants of Wuthering Heights and the Grange. To me, their hate is understandable, the cast featuring singularly obnoxious personae. The love stories I found less believable in their almost Stockholm syndrome like variant. The 2012 Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences was awarded for "the theory of stable allocations and the practice of market design". The Wuthering Heights marriage market clears fast thanks to the paucity of contestants, happiness does not ensue.A remarkable aspect of the novel are the stark gender contrasts. While the women are mostly passive-aggressive, the men are divided into extremely violent and meek types. There is not much space for the normal in the Yorkshire moors.
    • 5/5
      One of the most incredible, yet disturbing novels of the 19th century. What was unique for it's time is now the Lifetime Movie Network, however, no story or movie of such horrid characters will ever match the beauty and horror of Emily's Wuthering Heights.In a novel full of rich, truistic characters that show the realities of humanity all too well, the only ones who could be even close to lovable are the young Hareton and Cathy along with the all-knowing narrator, Nelly Dean. Even the listener of her tale, Mr. Lockwood shows little valor in his enlightenment to Heathcliff's character by leaving the youths to their desolation under his rule. This novel has the brilliant underlying moral that revenge and hatred can only make your life a living hell. It also shows the destruction that can be brought on by obsessive, selfish love.Emily Bronte's novel also brings to light the ever controversial argument of Nature vs. Nature. Would Heathcliff, Linton, Catherine, and Hindley have different temperaments and fates if they had been exposed to better environments? Especially in the case of Linton who was a sweet lad until exposed to his father and he turned selfish and vile.A wonderful, brilliant, original, classic that is one of those rare novels I can see myself re-reading many times.
    • 5/5
      Though, in my opinion, not as great as Jane Eyre, I will say this is one book that people should read to explore the darkest of human nature. This tragic gothic romance really is piercing and haunting. Though this is not the love story that will gripe you and make you want more, it does show how dark love and passion can get. The characters do throw "tantrums" and make you want to go up to them and shake them or slap them into realization that they are acting stupid. However, this is their story, and the reader will learn how passions and emotions can control how a person acts.The main character is not the loveable, dark and dreamy kind of hero that girls swoon over. He is very anti-heroic and very cruel. But there is something about him and the abusive relationships that he creates around him that makes you want to keep on reading, not out of pittance or because one might like cruelty or anti-feminism, but because you will have the hope that things will change and turn around for the better.I would recommend this book, however with a warning that the reader will either hate or love it. I would recommend however that the reader look at the book critically instead of for a thrilling read. The story really illustrates and gives examples on how dangerous and pure love can be and especially how different love can be to different people.
    • 4/5
      Having read and loved this book when I was about 14, I decided that 17 years later a reread could be in order.

      To be honest I struggled, a lot, at the start. While there is no denying how well written it is, it's all so unrelentingly depressing. However I perservered and came to remember why I loved it so much. All the moodiness, madness and passion is still there and that's why I loved it.

      I'm happy to say it remains one of the most atmospheric books I've ever read.

      That being said I imagine it will be another 17 years before I even think about venturing back to the Heights!
    • 3/5
      Piecing my way through the narrative fog of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights with its many layers of narrators, I was reminded of the found footage genre of films, in which the viewer’s entire understanding of the story is whatever is visually made apparent to them through the first person gaze of the whoever’s holding the camera in the fictional world and then the film’s editor, a figure who sits between that world and our reality. Everything we know about the love story is filtered through the recollections of Lockwood and Nelly and others, characters who Bronte employs to imply that Heathcliffe and Cathy and their decedents exist in a subjectively cruel, sadistic place cut off from a more benign reality. All are apparently reliable narrators, but throughout I couldn’t help a nagging suspicion, and that like The Blair Witch Project et al, there are multiple layers of fiction at play.
    • 5/5
      Once upon a time I called this my favorite book. I am not sure I can still say that twenty years later, but there is a special place for it on my shelf and in my heart.
    • 3/5
      I decided to read this book because every other book I've been reading lately (Eclipse, Well of Lost Plots, The Thirteenth Tale) has been referencing it, and I want to know what's going on. With the exception of the horrible spelling used to depict Joseph's conversation and the fact that three generations of characters all had the same names, I found it to be a surprisingly easy read. The romance between Catherine and Heathcliff was not the main focus of the plot as I expected it would be, but rather seemed to be the backdrop for the entire tale, the way a war might be a backdrop. It has the same feel as a war, even: conflicted, unresolved, and full of tragedy. I was somewhat relieved that the story ends with young Catherine Linton about to, once again, become a Catherine Earnshaw. It is a nice circularity and finally a relationship that is going to (hopefully) not be the cause of the deaths of one or the other parties involved.
    • 3/5
      Firstly, I enjoyed this piece of literature. It was good and often had me on the edge of my seat with all the drama and goings on that took place between the Grange and the Height. I just feel like too much happened. To many people died and too much hate filled the air, it suffocated me and turned everything rotten. Although the ending reconciles the hateful atmosphere with love and release, everything was still tainted by the aforementioned plague. I also feel that the moral of the story may come down to the simple fact that we must love neighbors or if not don't invite a orphaned gypsy boy into your house. It does sorrow me that in the end an entire life became almost pointless.
    • 5/5
      A truly miserable story, but with very beautiful writing. There's no denying that almost everyone in this book suffers from some mental problems, but it's hard not to get pulled into the story all the same.
    • 4/5
      Slowly, I’m working my way through a list of classics that I have always wanted to read. “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Bronte was next on the list. I knew that it was a story of unrequited love, and I was curious to see how her work would compare to her sister’s. Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre” is one of my favorites. I didn’t know, however, that the main characters would have the emotional maturity of two-year-olds. Maybe I have been reading far too many young adult novels because I thought “Wuthering Heights” would contain characters that I would, maybe not relate to, but at least latch onto and then want to follow their plight to a satisfying conclusion. Heathcliff, however, is purely a villain with no redeeming qualities and Catherine a spoiled brat. This was disappointing because I wanted to immerse myself in the novel and get lost in their relationship. Instead, I followed the train wreck that they created and the ripple effects impacting the people around them, including their children. It’s not often that a novel features the “bad guys” as protagonists and the secondary characters as the normal people. This interesting twist, the excellent quality of writing, and the fact that I can’t stop thinking about the story made the novel worth reading.
    • 4/5
      Nearly every character in this book is horrible and by the time I finished reading the book I was hate-reading in order to get finished. The writing was excellent, and I'm glad the end was the way it was, but dear lord - what horrible people.
    • 2/5
      In many ways, I didn't see the big deal about this book. I chose to read it because I fancied, for a moment, that if it were so highly praised, there must surely be something to it. I spent the majority of the book haunted by a peculiar despair on behalf of its characters; no one seemed disposed toward a good end, and the only character even remotely relatable was Mrs. Dean, the primary narrator of the story. Indeed, Heathcliff's monomania and violent devotion, coupled with his unfettered anger, made him a most repugnant character... and, while I gather that this was the intended emotional response for the reader, his primacy in the book's contents made much of it rather unpleasant.

      Worse still is that this book is often lauded (or so I've heard) for its romantic depth. The only romance even remotely healthy in nature takes place in the last several chapters of the book, and indeed, it is the only one which I ever wished to take place. Every other was malformed, disordered, and ultimately broken. Again, perhaps this was the point in the writing, but again, the book was not an enjoyable read.

      There were other issues, too, which I found vaguely amateurish and off-putting. The notion of supplying a story within a story within a story is a rather modern "meta" style, but this book employs it often. The primary story, of course, is Mr. Lockwood's renting of Thrushcross Grange and his learning about the owner's family history; most of the internal story is Mrs. Dean's own experience, but on many occasions, she lacks experience in the story and relates the story related to her. While this may be the most literal means of maintaining perspective, it is quite ridiculous that Mrs. Dean, as intelligent and sociable as the character may be, could remember not only everything she said and did, everything that was said to her, over a thirty-some year period.

      This perspective also makes certainly styles within the book seem out of place. Why is it, for example, that Catherine Earnshaw's diary should record the servant Joseph's accent in exactly the same manner as Isabella's tale of her escape from Wuthering Heights, as told by Mrs. Dean? Ignoring, for a moment, that trying to read Joseph's speech creates an intellectual dissonance that breaks up the story (and is, occasionally, utterly illegible, at least to my American mind), why should every person who quotes him repeat his accent perfectly, except as though the tale were written first, then given perspective afterward?

      I am certain that high-school English teachers everywhere will vehemently disagree with my assessment, but the most valuable detail I gleaned from this book is that it was written, most certainly, by a woman. None of the male characters, when their perspective is employed, think like men. There is almost no visual description of any person, place, or object throughout the book, except insofar as the simplest of actions must be described. On the contrary, every event, every place, and every person is tied intrinsically to the emotional reactions of the narrator (whoever that may be at the time). We hear often of the feelings that seeing Wuthering Heights invokes in Mr. Lockwood or Mrs. Dean or Mrs. Heathcliff, but never - to my recollection - do we hear a word about its actual appearance. While this is enlightening as to the female perspective on life, it makes both the perspective of Mr. Lockwood and several male behaviors throughout seem utterly alien to me. Women behave like women, and men behave like women, only with greater violence.
    • 5/5
      Loved it. Creepy and eerie classic tale.
    • 5/5
      This is my second time read of this great epic and it's still very impressive. Nowadays everyone loves dark tales, this story of Heathcliff and Catherine is as dark as a tale can get. "A love so dark that it destroyed everyone it touched". 
    • 4/5
      I was enchanted by the dark romance of this novel. The characters were well developed and showed true human form: they were bitter, malicious, selfish, lusty. I was drawn into the story -wanting to know if they would ever be redeemed of their evil natures. The somewhat sad ending only caused me to love the novel more. I really enjoyed reading Wuthering Heights.

    Book preview

    Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë

    CHAPTER I

    1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist’s heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

    ‘Mr. Heathcliff?’ I said.

    A nod was the answer.

    ‘Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—’

    ‘Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,’ he interrupted, wincing. ‘I should not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!’

    The ‘walk in’ was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, ‘Go to the Deuce:’ even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.

    When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,—‘Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.’

    ‘Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,’ was the reflection suggested by this compound order. ‘No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.’

    Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. ‘The Lord help us!’ he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.

    Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. ‘Wuthering’ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.

    Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date ‘1500,’ and the name ‘Hareton Earnshaw.’ I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.

    One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here ‘the house’ pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.

    The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.

    While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I ‘never told my love’ vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.

    I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.

    ‘You’d better let the dog alone,’ growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. ‘She’s not accustomed to be spoiled—not kept for a pet.’ Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, ‘Joseph!’

    Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me vis-à-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace.

    Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.

    ‘What the devil is the matter?’ he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.

    ‘What the devil, indeed!’ I muttered. ‘The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!’

    ‘They won’t meddle with persons who touch nothing,’ he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. ‘The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?’

    ‘No, thank you.’

    ‘Not bitten, are you?’

    ‘If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.’ Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin.

    ‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?’

    I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his humour took that turn. He—probably swayed by prudential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him.

    CHAPTER II

    Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

    On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.

    ‘Wretched inmates!’ I ejaculated, mentally, ‘you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will get in!’ So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

    ‘What are ye for?’ he shouted. ‘T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.’

    ‘Is there nobody inside to open the door?’ I hallooed, responsively.

    ‘There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen ’t an ye mak’ yer flaysome dins till neeght.’

    ‘Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?’

    ‘Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t,’ muttered the head, vanishing.

    The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the ‘missis,’ an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.

    ‘Rough weather!’ I remarked. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.’

    She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

    ‘Sit down,’ said the young man, gruffly. ‘He’ll be in soon.’

    I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

    ‘A beautiful animal!’ I commenced again. ‘Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?’

    ‘They are not mine,’ said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied.

    ‘Ah, your favourites are among these?’ I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.

    ‘A strange choice of favourites!’ she observed scornfully.

    Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.

    ‘You should not have come out,’ she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters.

    Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold.

    ‘I don’t want your help,’ she snapped; ‘I can get them for myself.’

    ‘I beg your pardon!’ I hastened to reply.

    ‘Were you asked to tea?’ she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot.

    ‘I shall be glad to have a cup,’ I answered.

    ‘Were you asked?’ she repeated.

    ‘No,’ I said, half smiling. ‘You are the proper person to ask me.’

    She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

    Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.

    ‘You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!’ I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; ‘and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.’

    ‘Half an hour?’ he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; ‘I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.’

    ‘Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning—could you spare me one?’

    ‘No, I could not.’

    ‘Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.’

    ‘Umph!’

    ‘Are you going to mak’ the tea?’ demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

    ‘Is he to have any?’ she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.

    ‘Get it ready, will you?’ was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with—‘Now, sir, bring forward your chair.’ And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.

    I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their every-day countenance.

    ‘It is strange,’ I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another—‘it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—’

    ‘My amiable lady!’ he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. ‘Where is she—my amiable lady?’

    ‘Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.’

    ‘Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?’

    Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

    Then it flashed upon me—‘The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice.’ The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.

    ‘Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,’ said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

    ‘Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy,’ I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

    This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.

    ‘Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,’ observed my host; ‘we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.’

    ‘And this young man is—’

    ‘Not my son, assuredly.’

    Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

    ‘My name is Hareton Earnshaw,’ growled the other; ‘and I’d counsel you to respect it!’

    ‘I’ve shown no disrespect,’ was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.

    He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.

    The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.

    ‘I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,’ I could not help exclaiming. ‘The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.’

    ‘Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,’ said Heathcliff.

    ‘How must I do?’ I continued, with rising irritation.

    There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out—‘Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un war, when all on ’ems goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no use talking—yah’ll niver mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ divil, like yer mother afore ye!’

    I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

    ‘You scandalous old hypocrite!’ she replied. ‘Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,’ she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; ‘I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!’

    ‘Oh, wicked, wicked!’ gasped the elder; ‘may the Lord deliver us from evil!’

    ‘No, reprobate! You are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! And the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!’

    The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating ‘wicked’ as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.

    ‘Mrs. Heathcliff,’ I said earnestly, ‘you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!’

    ‘Take the road you came,’ she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. ‘It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.’

    ‘Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?’

    ‘How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.’

    ‘You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,’ I cried. ‘I want you to tell me my way, not to show it, or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.’

    ‘Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?’

    ‘Are there no boys at the farm?’

    ‘No; those are all.’

    ‘Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.’

    ‘That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.’

    ‘I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills,’ cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. ‘As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.’

    ‘I can sleep on a chair in this room,’ I replied.

    ‘No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!’ said the unmannerly wretch.

    With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.

    ‘I’ll go with him as far as the park,’ he said.

    ‘You’ll go with him to hell!’ exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. ‘And who is to look after the horses, eh?’

    ‘A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the horses: somebody must go,’ murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.

    ‘Not at your command!’ retorted Hareton. ‘If you set store on him, you’d better be quiet.’

    ‘Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,’ she answered, sharply.

    ‘Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em!’ muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering.

    He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.

    ‘Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern!’ shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. ‘Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey, Wolf! Holld him, holld him!’

    On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear.

    The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.

    ‘Well, Mr. Earnshaw,’ she cried, ‘I wonder what you’ll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now, hold ye still.’

    With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.

    I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.

    CHAPTER III

    While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious.

    Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.

    The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.

    In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—‘Catherine Earnshaw, her book,’ and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

    ‘An awful Sunday,’ commenced the paragraph beneath. ‘I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening.

    ‘All day had been

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1