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    Wuthering Heights
    Wuthering Heights
    Wuthering Heights
    Ebook502 pages8 hours

    Wuthering Heights

    By Emily Bronte

    4/5

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    HarperCollins is proud to present a range of best-loved, essential classics.

    ‘Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil?’

    Set on the bleak moors of Yorkshire, Lockwood is forced to seek shelter at Wuthering Heights, the home of his new landlord, Heathcliff. The intense and wildly passionate Heathcliff tells the story of his life, his all-consuming love for Catherine Earnshaw and the doomed outcome of that relationship, leading to his revenge.

    Poetic, complex and grand in its scope, Emily Brontë's masterpiece is considered one of the most unique gothic novels of its time.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateApr 22, 2010
    ISBN9780007373451
    Author

    Emily Bronte

    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.

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    Reviews for Wuthering Heights

    4/5

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    • 1/5
      I originally reviewed this book on my blog - The Cosy Dragon. For more recent reviews by me, please hop over there.

      This is a classic novel that I have been assigned to study in literature. This is not something I would choose to read by myself by any means. I didn't love the language, I didn't feel for the characters, but I read it anyway! Do I think anything is good about this novel? Well, maybe.

      This novel starts out slowly, and painfully, and I had to entice myself to read onwards with not allowing myself to read anything else (or is that punishment?). The drivel that is written, complete with personal endearing terms that I'm sure the author felt added colour, but just irritated me because I had to look to the back of the book to see what they meant.

      Eventually the storytelling gets going, and it is focused on the past for a time, with Mr Lockwood being told stories by his housekeeper. This part did keep me reading to an extent, mainly because I was ignoring another task I needed to be doing.

      I have to admit I did not finish reading this book. I haven't locked myself in for studying the unit that this book is required for this semester, and so I have abandoned it in favour of other things I need to read first. If I do end up taking the unit, I will finish reading this book, and post another review of my feelings about the whole thing.

      I'm sure there are Bronte fans out there that are going to hate me for saying this - but I really didn't feel for Heathcliff. I felt that he brought so many of his troubles upon himself, he didn't deserve any sympathy, not matter how bad things were for him.

      I find the cover of this book visually appealing at least. It fits in with the storms that seem to plague the countryside now that Lockwood has moved it (or at least it seems that way!).

      I'm not sure why you would want to read this book, except that it is a classic, and therefore is probably worth reading just to say yo have. I know that there is a movie based on it, and on the parts I saw of it, it is relatively violent. I'd recommend this book for adults I guess. But really - there are so many other good things to read out there, you don't need to waste your time on this one!
    • 3/5
      300-odd pages of unpleasant people being hateful to each other.
    • 4/5
      An excellent novel, and I really enjoyed it! I highly recommend this book.
    • 5/5
      Very few novels have intrigued me as much as "Wuthering Heights" by Emily Brontë has, and I have read many great books in my life. It captures a significant theme of the Victorian Era, one that so many writers chose to overlook: death, destruction, and the melancholy gardens we sow. Among other authors, Emily Brontë transformed the faux pas of a bad ending into an approachable- nay controversial- subject. Her novel helped revolutionize the overall tone of pre-contemporary literature.“Wuthering Heights” was originally published in 1847, and authentically captures daily life in that time-period. There are scenes that many of us recognize as being entirely victorian: maids and manservants, ruffled dresses, and the diction of their everyday conversation; however, drops of reality sneak into this realistic portrayal of life as it was in the 1800s. Prejudice, abuse; premature death, hysteria; unseen killers hidden in the walls and beauty products. Each flaw has a story that has finally revealed by scientists with knowledge of lead and formaldehyde. In just the same way, every character has a purpose... which is why less than twenty people can be seen from the beginning to the end. Intentionality reeves in between the binding of this enthralling novel. "Wuthering Heights" is steeped in melancholy and draped in veils of woe. Readers follow Heathcliff across the moors of the UK. His story is much different than the romantic tale of “Pride and Prejudice”, where two people fall in love and eventually marry. Instead, the story is founded upon turmoil, which leads to inevitable failure, though it brazes the mark so often throughout its pages. It crafts an understanding of the phrase "too little, too late", which becomes the main focus of the entire story. Heathcliff did not stir this on his own, at least not entirely; he is abused and neglected after his adoptive father passes, outcasted and named a "g*psy" and "bastard" due to his uncertain heritage. He resents most of his house mates, excluding the girl who opened- and tore- his heart: Catherine Earnshaw. Readers learn and discover the truth about Heathcliff through memories recalled by Nelly, the house maid, a majority of the time. By the end, one is left wondering whether they pity, love, or hate Heathcliff, leaving many with a sense of familiar dread (this time, in literature rather than reality). The purposeful writing of Brontë is revealed again and again, but never more so than when one analyzes her incredible skill for building characters. This book is disturbing at times, and I admit it; but this aspect adds depth and truth to an otherwise perfect novel. It has become my favourite book, and one I will recommend to others as long as I have strength to speak. The year that I first read it was the year I reread it 15-16 other times. It truly has a certain magnetism that pulled me towards it, and for that reason, I give it a 5 star rating.
    • 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.
    • 3/5
      Had to read this in high school. Was not impressed. Honestly? Just found the whole thing depressing and a slog to get through. I can appreciate the skill that went into writing it and I understand it's a classic, but I personally didn't enjoy it.
    • 5/5
      I enjoyed my second visit to “Wuthering Heights” more than the first. This is partly because my first read was spread out over 4 –6 weeks (I think in 2005, though it could’ve been a couple of years either way), whereas my second read took 6 days, commencing from Emily Brontë’s 200th birthday, which is why I thought I’d give it another look.I was also less enthused during my first read because I'd previously watched numerous adaptations of “Wuthering Heights” over the years, with all but one (which I saw after reading the novel) skipping much, if not all, of the story’s second half. In short, my expectations were that this tale would revolve around Cathy and Heathcliff’s unique relationship. In a sense it does (won’t add more in case I spoil things for anyone), but from about halfway through, we see other characters emerge who rarely appear in most screen adaptations. Another pre-reading influence was Kate Bush's song “Wuthering Heights”, which I’ve always loved, and this also made me think the main theme would be Heathcliff and Cathy’s passion for each other. Therefore, during my first read I felt a little disappointed that their relationship wasn’t as emphasised as expected.When I approached “Wuthering Heights” for a second time, I knew what to expect, though after such a long gap since I first read it, I’d naturally forgotten a lot, especially events in the second half. This is by no means a beautiful love story, but rather a bleak tale of sadness, loneliness, loss, cruelty, and misery, yet it’s not entirely devoid of hope. I admire how the author structured the narrative. It’s multi-first person, predominantly told by Nelly and Mr Lockwood, with smaller parts filled in by other characters. It all blends in very well together, and what makes the narrative’s construction even more impressive is that it’s not strictly linear. This type of thing can often prove messy, but Emily Brontë handles it smoothly.One review I saw criticises “Wuthering Heights” for have no sense of place. This I must disagree with. In fact, I consider the sense of place as one of the book’s great strengths. I could vividly “see” the moors, the landscape, plus the rooms at the Heights and at the Grange.My only real criticism is Joseph’s dialogue. Although I’m a Yorkshireman myself, much of Joseph’s broad dialect took some understanding – and the odd phrase I couldn’t fathom out – and overall his dialogue really slows the narrative down. I imagine anyone outside of Yorkshire – and even more so anyone outside of England – would have immense trouble understanding Joseph.An interesting aspect to this story is of course the supernatural element. I suspect anyone who hasn’t read this book has at least seen an adaptation where, at the end, Cathy and Heathcliff reunite after death. I was actually disappointed this wasn’t developed to a similar extent in the book, as it’s something special in the well-done adaptations where we see these thwarted lovers reunited. In the novel, however, their reunion is more of a casual reference. It's still a poignant moment – or moments – though, and reading it for the second time I appreciated it more than the first.We also see Mr Lockwood endure a supernatural encounter at a window early on, which is one of my favourite scenes, and an important one.I don’t always appreciate the supernatural seeping in to novels that are essentially “real life”, but in this case, the supernatural parts not only feel believable, they also add hope to a tragic story. Without the afterlife moments, “Wuthering Heights” wouldn’t hit the mark in the same way. The ending would’ve been too depressing. As it is, we’re left with hope for the living and for the dead.While I feel Heathcliff and Cathy’s story is the novel most appealing element, I do like the story which revolves around the new characters featured in the second half, and how they interact with Heathcliff’s deceptive and despicable nature. In fact, my favourite character is the younger Catherine. She, along with Hareton and Isabella, are the three who I feel the most sympathy towards.Most of the misery in this story stems from Heathcliff’s actions, though the likes of Hindley and Joseph don’t exactly spread light into the world. It’s hard to feel sympathy for many of the characters because of their selfishness and unkindness. It’s debateable whether Cathy is more selfish than Heathcliff. Despite Heathcliff affecting more people’s lives for the worst, much – if not all – of this is through Cathy and her brother Hindley’s treatment of Heathcliff during his youth. While Hindley causes Heathcliff physical and mental torment, Cathy's brand of mental anguish is surely worse. I don’t think Cathy does this deliberately, as she’s too self-absorbed to realise how her motives will devastate Heathcliff.The younger Catherine comes across as selfish and haughty many times, but I like her because deep down she has a good heart and she’s a bright character in a dark world. She’s horrible to poor Hareton, who deserves better, yet she goes out of her way to help Linton, who doesn’t deserve her attention. Linton, in my opinion, is the most detestable character of all. Granted, some of his behaviour is owing to Heathcliff’s influence, but at heart Linton is a spineless, self-obsessed creature.Heathcliff, whatever you think of him, is a fascinating character. The whole story pretty much revolves around his treatment of others, and how others treat or perceive him. He has that “lost soul” element about him, with his origins shrouded in mystery. I commend the author for creating such a vivid and memorable character.I originally rated “Wuthering Heights” four stars when I added it to my Goodreads shelf in 2013. This was based on reading it circa 2005. After finishing it again in August 2018, I felt four stars was a fair rating; however, the characters and various scenes from the book have stayed with in the subsequent days. Not many novels have this type of potency to “haunt” me, so on reflection, I feel “Wuthering Heights” deserves five stars.
    • 5/5
      How can I find and put together the suitable words and write a review about one of the most iconic creations in World Literature? One of those books that provoke such intense feelings that either you worship them or you utterly hate them. There is no middle ground. Every year, I revisit Wuthering Heights for two reasons. First, it is one of my personal Christmas traditions and secondly, I prepare extracts to use in class for my intermediate level students. This year, I finally felt confident enough to write a text. I will not call it a review, but a summary of what this masterpiece means for me, what I feel each time I gaze upon its title.I was 12 when my mother made me a special gift. (I have a mother that gave me a book about self-destructive love and a father that gave me Crime and Punishment a year later. I know, they rock!) It was a thick volume with a dark cover. A cover as black as the night scene it depicted. A young couple running in the moors against the wind, and a black, foreboding mansion looming in the background. To this day, that cherished Greek edition of Emily's only novel is the most beautiful I've ever seen. I read it in a single day. I remember it was a windy day, a summer torrent rain that lasted all afternoon. It left me speechless. It shaped me. It shaped my reading preferences, it shaped my love for eerie, dark, doomed, haunting stories with twisted anti-heroes. It even shaped the choice of my profession.When I was 15, one of the best teachers I've ever had gave us a project. She divided us into groups and asked us to make a presentation of our favourite book. She put me in a group with two classmates. Such kind and charming souls they were but would never open a book if their lives depended on it. I didn't care, I was happy because I'd get to choose the book. We left our teacher crying buckets in the classroom, marking a heroic A+ on our papers. During the 3rd year in university, we had to complete individual assignments. I'll let you guess the theme and the book I chose. My professor had to interrupt me at some point, kindly but firmly. ''Yes, thank you, Amalia, this is great, but there are others waiting, you know.'' Were they? Anyway, you get the point. My level of obsession with this novel equal Heathcliff's obsession with Cathy.Emily Brontë's novel may not be for everyone. It doesn't matter. Nothing is for everyone. But, she has created an eternal tale -or nightmare- of a love that is destructive, dark, twisted and stranger than all the other sweet, lovey-dovey stories that have been written. She has created one of the most iconic couples in Literature, she has provided the first and finest example of the Anti-hero in the face of Heathcliff. She has ruined many girls' expectations, because who wouldn't want to be loved as fiercely as Cathy was? (For years, my notion of the ideal man was Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff in the 1992 film. The best adaptation of the novel, with Juliette Binoche as Cathy) How many writers who have written only one novel can claim to have accomplished all these?One of the reasons I became a teacher was to have the opportunity to teach this book. It is my greatest satisfaction when I see its impact on my teenage students. They are familiar with the bleak and twisted tales of our times, nothing shocks them anymore. They love it unanimously, it is a rare case where boys and girls love the same book equally. So, mission accomplished.''I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!'' For me, this book is my soul. It lies there, making the question ''What is your favourite book?'' the easiest ever.P.S. Please, God, when I die, put me in a sector where I can meet Emily. You can keep Shakespeare, Austin, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. I prefer long talks with a disturbed, fragile, wild girl...
    • 5/5
      Yet another book that I was sure I had read in full as a child but didn't. How was it possible for a reclusive figure to write such a book before the age of 30? How did she understand the passions and emotions that drive people to extreme behaviour and actions? Once I had sorted out the various Catherines, the Earnshaws and the Lintons, and some Yorkshire dialect, I became engrossed. The remoteness and isolation of the setting provide the ideal claustrophobic context for the passions to burst forth and wreak havoc. Yet the passions and emotions are universal.
    • 3/5
      A man obsessed with his childhood friend spends his lifetime destroying her family.3/4 (Good).This is a wild ride. It's a continuous stream of Big, Dramatic Scenes. There's no protagonist, and consequently no satisfying story arc, which normally would be guaranteed to make me dislike a book. But in this case, it works somehow.
    • 4/5
      Despite this being an acknowledged classic that shows up on such lists as 1001 books to read before you die I was not overly impressed with this book. I think the main problem for me was how easily everyone resorted to violence. Was this really indicative of life in the rural reaches of England in the early 1800s? The Earnshaw and the Linton families lived near to each other in Yorkshire and were the gentry of the neighbourhood. Both families had one son and one daughter but Mr. Earnshaw added a foundling whom he called Heathcliff to his family. Heathcliff and Cathy Earnshaw formed a deep friendship which became almost monomaniacal as they grew older. Yet Cathy decided to marry Edgar Linton which caused Heathcliff to retaliate by eloping with Isabella Linton. When Heathcliff and Isabella returned to Wuthering Heights Cathy was very ill. Edgar forbade Heathcliff from seeing Cathy but Heathcliff would not be put off. Cathy died the next day but did succeed in giving birth to a daughter who was named Catherine. Heathcliff had managed to acquire all the land associated with Wuthering Heights by gambling with Hindley Earnshaw. Through his marriage to Isabella he would gain the Linton property as well since Edgar did not have a male heir. Isabella soon ran away from Heathcliff and Wuthering Heights. She gave birth to a son, Linton, and kept him with her until her death. Then Linton came under the parentage of Heathcliff who had nothing but contempt for this sickly child. Nevertheless he was determined to marry his son to Cathy's daughter and he carried this out by kidnapping Catherine and her maid. Catherine and Linton were married but it is hard to believe there was any consummation of the marriage since Linton was so ill. Linton died shortly after Catherine's father which left Catherine to the mercy of Heathcliff. Somehow Catherine fell in love with her other male cousin, Hareton Earnshaw, who was uneducated and brutish but quite smitten with Catherine. Heathcliff died and was still so much in love with Cathy that he insisted on being buried by the side of her grave with the sides of their two coffins knocked out so they could rest eternally together. I know this book is supposed to be an example of a great love affair but I just thought both Cathy and Heathcliff were bordering on insanity. And Heathcliff had no redeeming qualities as far as I am concerned. He was violent, sadistic, selfish and miserly. What did Cathy see in him? And how did a sheltered young lady come up with such a character? Since she died soon after the book was published there was never any explanation fom Emily Bronte.
    • 4/5
      It was hard going at first. Everyone is so unlikeable. I thought a knew the story, so it was a surprise that when Catherine died it was only the half way point. I think it is not a romance. Instead it is a tragedy.
    • 5/5
      I have the dumbest reason for picking up this book in the first place. I heard of it in Friends (when Phoebe takes literature lessons, it is the first book they read). I could not remember if I read this one in high school, so I picked it up. Also I want to read and own more classics in 2017 (one of my resolutions). I haven't got a big collection, but I am working on it.
      So I read Wuthering Heights at the end of last year and I enjoyed it immensely. I own the Barnes and Noble Classics edition, which came with an introduction, a short biography and a preface by her sister, Charlotte Bronte. I decided to read all of them, since I did not remember much about the Bronte's from school. I am quite confident that reading the biography and a preface made all the difference for me while I was reading this book. Reading Charlotte's description of her sister's only book, how it was rejected by the publishers, her sudden illness and her short-lived life set the right tone for this novel.
      This book is quite different from many that I have read, so I won't be using my usual template of reviewing, but will just share my thoughts instead.
      If this book could talk for itself, it would be screaming its head off with anger. I am simply astonished at how a book about very dull lives of regular people can be so frightening to the reader. It took me a while to read it, because I could only read so many pages a day before I have had enough of madness that were the two main characters. You know when in a book you usually pick your favorite character and then your least favorite one? Well, how about a book in which ALL of the characters are your least favorite ones? Characters so horribly selfish, arrogant, cross, indignant and spiteful that it makes you want to throw the book out of the window.
      Yet, you keep reading. If that isn't a sign of a great book then I don't know what is.
      Structure of the story line was quite odd, but somehow it flew very nicely. I felt like reading a memoir of a family (a very messed up family) starting with the grandparents and finishing up with the youngest of kids all grown up. Illnesses and death were woven into the story like they were as natural as a morning breakfast (which goes to show the state of living in the early 1800). Also all of this "marrying your own cousins" ordeal shook me a little bit, but then again, different times. Come to think of it maybe that is why they all were so feeble and sickly, because they kept interbreeding with each other.
      The only annoying thing in this book was the broken language at which one of the characters speaks, it was incredibly hard to read and follow, and it became very irritating, very quickly. Luckily, he wasn't that important in the book anyway.
    • 2/5
      Alas, I don't think this one is for me. Third try, this time I got to page 70. Seems like a study on how people can manipulate each other. I don't have the energy to bear all the misery in what I've just read, let alone all 300 pages.
    • 4/5
      Have to say I liked the black & white film better.I went into this really wanting to fall in love with Heathcliff, it just didn't happen and I can usually find the best in any vampire or Phantom of the Opera, downtrodden misunderstood victim that no one understands.I just could not find any redeeming qualities in him. Or any of the other characters either. I dare say Bronte had a bit of trouble keeping to character with Hareton, (view spoiler)I understand Heathcliffe wanted his revenge, but frankly his cruelty got a bit just out of hand. I will just stick with the Hollywood lite version of this one.It is a brilliant book, I will say that.The using of some of the same names did get a bit confusing in parts though.
    • 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.
    • 4/5
      An excellent novel, and I really enjoyed it! I highly recommend this book.
    • 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
      I'm finally finished with it!

      I must say, I've heard much about this book, but to be brutally honest, it hadn't really met my expectations. I still prefer Jane Eyre by far, to be honest.

      As with most such books, I find myself having a bit of a difficulty in understanding it at the beginning, but then improved as I got along. The only thing that kept me going was my OCD habit in which I had to finish reading what I started, and the fact that I rather liked stories from that period of time.

      There were so many deaths in this book that the only other book I've read that gave this a run for their money is the Harry Potter series.

      I admit that I pitied Heathcliff in the beginning, but then grew to dislike him more and more. I was quite surprised at how it ended, too.
    • 4/5
      Wonderfully Overwrought - Confusingly Incestuous
    • 5/5
      A great classic.
    • 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.
    • 5/5
      Seldom must a book have differed between its commonly held perception and its actuality, as much as Wuthering Heights. I came to this book from the camp of the former with some reservations about some doomed love affair on the Yorkshire moors. Perhaps the realisation of how far removed any preconceptions were added to the subsequent enjoyment of the story.

      Wuthering Heights is a story of revenge fed by obsession crossing over the generations of two families. And it is much more gothic than romantic. The plot rolls along with the drama rising and falling. Ok, few if any of the characters elicit much sympathy but they are complex and so well drawn that it is difficult not to be drawn into their isolated world or to anticipate what happens next.

      Ultimately it's all madness. Grave tampering madness.
    • 1/5
      I love classic literature, and finally decided to give this one a try. It was awful - such a terrible book! I couldn't even finish it. About halfway through I declared myself done with it. Clearly not all the Bronte sisters should have been writers.
    • 1/5
      This book has so much hype so I expected it to be amazing. Boy was I let down! I didn't really care for this book at all. And people say Heathcliff and Catherine's love was so epic, but he was a horrible person who did nothing but torment others. I don't know, maybe I just didn't get it, but I wasn't impressed in the slightest.
    • 4/5
      This is a story of the Earnshaw and the Linton family who are quite isolated in their homes of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange. The homes represent the opposition that exists throughout the novel. There is a lot of death in the book but there is also the hopeful happy ending. That being said, I did feel the ending was a little bit off for me. The sudden decline and death of Heathcliff didn't make sense as it was presented. I see the need for the author to kill him off, I just didn't feel that the way made any sense. The novel is also told through the voice of a stranger who takes up a temporary residence and observes this dysfunctional family and the servant who has lived since childhood with these children.
    • 2/5
      This is one of those classics that I've never rread, and now I know why. I thought I knew the3 story since I've seen the 1939 movie starring Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon probably 50 times. But, of course, Hollywood left a lot out when they made the film.The movie is a Gothic tale of obsessive love, and maybe the physical beauty of the stars who played Kathy and Heathcliff, covered over what to me, is just a sick story of feminine submission and male abuse. The prose if over wrought and the plot, especially in the last third of the book just defies belief. Forget the novel & watch the movie.
    • 5/5
      I'm gad I waited to read this. The love story woven throughout was much easier for me to identify with in my 20's. A beautifully written flashback story. There is an especial attention paid to the elaborate details.
    • 1/5
      ugh! worst book ever written! all i wanted to do the whole time i was reading it was tear it up, burn it and repeat the process! my mother in law works for the department of education. We share books, so I let her read it. She hated it! Her only comment "I didn't like it because of the way that one guy 'Joesoph' spoke." And i agree with her he made that whole book confusing as shit!
    • 5/5
      I have read this many times and it is still a favorite.

    Book preview

    Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

    CHAPTER 1

    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 sympathizing 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 pull 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 hedgecutters.’

    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 step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby, or passage: they call it here ‘the house’ preeminently. It includes kitchen and parlor, 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 fire-place; 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, in a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been underdrawn; 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 kneebreeches and gaiters. Such an individual, seated in his armchair, 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 gypsy 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 snarl.

    ‘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 roused 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 dispatch; 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 loath to yield the fellow further amusement, at my expense; since his humour took that turn.

    He – probably swayed by prudential considerations 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, tomorrow.

    He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him.

    CHAPTER 2

    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 coalscuttles, 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.

    ‘Whet are ye for?’ he shouted. ‘T’ maister’s dahn i’ t’fowld. Goa rahnd by th’ end ut’ laith, if yah went tuh spake tull him.’

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

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

    ‘Why? cannot you tell her who I am, eh, Joseph?’

    ‘Nor-ne me! Aw’ll hae noa 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 cote, we at length arrived in the large, 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, they 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 onto 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 snowstorm 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 th’ 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 everyday 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 neutralized 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 woonder hagh yah can faishion tuh stand thear i’ idleness un war, when all on ‘em’s goan aght! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s noa use talking – yah’ll niver mend uh yer ill ways; bud goa raight tuh 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 visiters; 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 aid 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’lantern!’ 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 cope-stone 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 3

    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 stupified 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 decypher 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 flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked down stairs before a comfortable fire – doing anything but reading their Bibles, I’ll answer for it – Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy plough-boy, were commanded to take our Prayer-books, and mount – we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending,

    ‘What, done already?

    ‘On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners!

    ‘You forget you have a master here, says the tyrant. I’ll demolish the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances, darling, pull his hair as you go by; I heard him snap his fingers.

    ‘Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her husband’s knee; and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour – foolish palaver that we should be ashamed of.

    ‘We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handywork, boxes my ears, and croaks:

    ‘T’ maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath nut o’ered, und t’ sahnd uh t’ gospel still i’ yer lugs, and yah darr be laiking! shame on ye! sit ye dahn, ill childer! they’s good books eneugh if ye’ll read ‘em; sit ye dahn, and think uh yer sowls!

    ‘Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might receive, from the far-off fire, a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us.

    ‘I could not bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book.

    ‘Heathcliff kicked his to the same place.

    ‘Then there was a hubbub!

    ‘Maister Hindley! shouted our chaplain. Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy’s riven th’ back off ‘Th’ Helmet uh Salvation,’ un’ Heathcliff’s pawsed his fit intuh t’ first part uh ‘T’ Brooad Way to Destruction!’ It’s fair flaysome ut yah let ‘em goa on this gait. Ech! th’ owd man ud uh laced ‘em properly – bud he’s goan!

    ‘Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, owd Nick would fetch us as sure as we were living; and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent.

    ‘I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient and proposes that we should appropriate the dairy woman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion – and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified – we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.’

    I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject; she waxed lachrymose.

    ‘How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!’ she wrote. ‘My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can’t give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders.

    ‘He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place –’ I began to nod drowsily over the dim page; my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title…‘Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabes Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.’ And while I was, half consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabes Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep.

    Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! what else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don’t remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering.

    I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim’s staff: telling me I could never

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