Book 900: Wuthering Heights – Emily Brontë

What a difference eight-ish years makes between reads. I last read this in November 2013 and had some interesting comparisons to Pride and Prejudice and observations about my own love life.

I’m not planning to reflect on that this time, for a couple of reasons, mainly that this read I really felt that perhaps the better Austen comparison is Fanny Price in Austen’s Mansfield Park rather than Darcy. I mean the whole nature versus nurture argument and how responsible are they for what happens and how much of an impact does their upbringing have? SO. MANY. QUESTIONS (and thoughts).

However, the most interesting thing to me about that response was how I ended the review, with my surprise at Nelly Dean and Lockwood narrating the bulk of the story. As I re-read the book this time I honed in on that and focused on how the entire story was told by third parties except for the observations at the very end.

Another week over—and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour’s history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I’ll continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator, and I don’t think I could improve her style. (79)

I seated myself in a chair, and rocked to and fro, passing harsh judgment on my many derelictions of duty; from which, it struck me then, all the misfortunes of my employers sprang. It was not the case, in reality, I am aware; but it was, in my imagination, that dismal night; and I thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than I. (139)

It’s that second one that gets me. The story is told for the most part from Nelly’s point of view and she really does put her foot in it on multiple occasions. I mean is Nelly the true villain of the novel? Could she have prevented more of this earlier on? I don’t think she’s the villain, but I do think she could’ve acted (or not) on a couple of occasions to influence the outcomes of various characters.

And then when you add in about 1/3 of the novel is told from Lockwood telling us what Nelly told him, how fantastical or faithful did they tell the story?! There’s nothing to make us think either narrator is unreliable, but Nelly has a self-interest in not making herself look bad and Lockwood has some inclination toward Catherine Linton, but yeah it’s just so much is learned second or third hand and that really stood out to me this read.

The other thing that stood out is that no characters should have been shocked at what happened. They were very clear with each other about who and what Heathcliff was/had become:

Tell her what Heathcliff is: an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I’d as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter’s day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing else, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don’t imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern exterior! He’s not a rough diamond—a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic: he’s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him, ‘Let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them;’ I say, ‘Let them alone, because I should hate them to be wronged:’ and he’d crush you like a sparrow’s egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn’t love a Linton; and yet he’d be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations: avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There’s my picture: and I’m his friend—so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap. (53)

There were a lot more than the one above, but it stood out because he’s being described by the love of his life and best friend. She has no false notions of who he is or what he’s capable of and doesn’t hold back. So, the story was totally predictable.

The other thing that I picked up on this re-read was the religious undertones/adages added in by Brontë. I’m not sure if I picked up on them more this time having visited Haworth in July 2018 and reading more biographies/histories of the siblings resulting in more of an understanding of how central their religion and spirituality was to them, but I definitely picked up on them more this time.

A person who has not done one-half his day’s work by ten o’clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone. (32)

I’d be glad of a retaliation that wouldn’t recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies. (89)

I also particularly enjoyed this quote toward the end of the novel about West Yorkshire and the moors. For me, it reminded me of our last trip there in 2018 when we spent so much time outdoors visiting Ben A’an and Loch Lomond in Scotland, the time spent outdoors in Haworth and much further south near Brighton. It just stood out to me as so accurate, as I remember one winter storm when I lived in Leeds and had to go get my sister from city center and it was just miserable.

It was sweet, warm weather—too warm for travelling; but the heat did not hinder me from enjoying the delightful scenery above and below: had I seen it nearer August, I’m sure it would have tempted me to waste a month among its solitudes. In winter nothing more dreary, in summer nothing more divine, than those glens shut in by hills, and those bluff, bold swells of heath. (153)

And of course, I can’t write a response without acknowledging one of the most famous literary quotes of all time. There’s such a visceral nature to the quote, but the first and last thirds are usually lumped off, but when you read it in full it has that much more of a gut punch.

It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire. (42)

Especially, when you read the follow-up on the next page where Cathy continues to talk about how eternal their love is. this same quote continues to be echoed by Heathcliff (see additional quotes) again and again after Cathy dies in childbirth.

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. (43)

If anything, this re-read made me want to finish the remaining Charlotte Brontë books I have left on my TBR list and maybe go back to Austen again since it’s been a while.

Recommendation: This is not a love story to curl up by a fire with. It’s a love story to stand in the pouring rain when it’s freezing outside, get sick, and then do it all over again. There is nothing soft or sweet about it, except maybe the last few pages, but even then the heartache, heartbreak, abuse, and surviving have all taken their toll on the characters and the reader so much so that even the slightest glimpse of a happily ever after leaves the reader with trepidation. Emily Brontë wrote a love story for the ages, but it’s not one that everyone wants or needs to read. It’s as brutal as the winds sweeping over the Yorkshire moors and as touching as beautiful as the first growths of spring on the lifeless crags of the Pennines.

Opening Line: “I have just returned from a visit to my landlord–the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with.”

Closing Line: “I lingered round them, under the benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers of the sleepers in that quiet earth.” (Whited out.)

Additional Quotes from Wuthering Heights
“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. (3)

“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. ” (4)

“He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again.” (4)

“Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say—you know best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought her converted into a stranger by her grand dress.” (29)

“I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.” (41)

“I suppose we shall have plenty of lamentations now—I see we shall—but they can’t keep me from my narrow home out yonder: my resting-place, where I’m bound before spring is over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the chapel-roof, but in the open air, with a head-stone; and you may please yourself whether you go to them or come to me!” (66)

“Two words would comprehend my future—death and hell: existence, after losing her, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton’s attachment more than mine. If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole affection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?” (76)

“The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond—you would have said out of this world. ” (80)

“You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?” (82)

“Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” (85)

“‘It is a poor conclusion, is it not?’ he observed, having brooded awhile on the scene he had just witnessed: ‘an absurd termination to my violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two houses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and when everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a slate off either roof has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me; now would be the precise time to revenge myself on their representatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me. But where is the use? I don’t care for striking: I can’t take the trouble to raise my hand! That sounds as if I had been labouring the whole time only to exhibit a fine trait of magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.'” (162)

“I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and probably shall, remain above ground till there is scarcely a black hair on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe—almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so unwaveringly, that I’m convinced it will be reached—and soon—because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the anticipation of its fulfilment.” (163)