P.G. Smith Author

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

A gothic tale of obsession and revenge set in the eerie English moors in the early 1800s. This, in my opinion, is the iconic piece of the genre that set the standard for all later attempts to equal it. I say attempts, because I do not think it has ever been equaled.

I know; I know. What about Frankenstein? What about Dracula? Iconic, no question. And great metaphors for human flaws. But this book lays bare the demons in the human soul without recourse to metaphor. Nothing has ever equaled it. And yet it’s often overlooked.

In my long life somehow, I never read this classic, I think because I assumed it was a gothic romance and I’m not a big fan of romance. Nothing against it; I’m just not a fan, myself. But I kept seeing it on lists: both Ernest Hemmingway and Virginia Wolff claim it should not be missed, for example. I wanted to see what the fuss was about.

From the very first chapter I couldn’t put it down. It is a page turner; in some ways it feels very modern–although historical. Fast pace, great plot, high tension, powerful characters. And incredible descriptions that put you in the place you’re reading about.

You feel the gloom of the crumbling estate of Wuthering Heights, only lit by a few candles and the dying embers in a fireplace; the foggy, windswept, and treacherous moors. You can hear the tree branches scraping on the window, or are they fingernails? You hear the howling wind, or is it a lost soul?

And you don’t blame the initial narrator, Mr. Lockwood, who is just a visitor, an outsider who simply paid a neighborly visit to his landlord, Mr. Heathcliffe, for feeling this is a creepy place, and along with him you wonder how it got that way. You want to hear the story, and what a story it turns out to be.

Mr. Lockwood barely makes it home with his life and falls ill from exposure trying desperately to get home through a deadly blizzard on the moor between his rented mansion and Wuthering Heights. As he recovers, he prevails upon Mrs. Ellen (Nellie) Dean, his housekeeper to entertain him with the story of the strange and frightening inhabitants of the crumbling mansion, for she was there. She was Catherine’s faithful servant throughout the entire dark tragedy.

It all begins when kindly, but ineffective Mr. Earnshaw, the lord of Wuthering Heights brings home a dark eyed child he found on the streets of Liverpool, since he was unable to locate the boy’s parents or anyone who would take him. This greatly dismays his rather sickly wife, who has more than she can handle already, and both his children, who are spoiled and suspicious of a new competitor for their father’s affection. The boy doesn’t speak. Mr. Earnshaw calls him Heathcliff and declares that he will receive the same treatment and education as his two natural children, Hindley and Catherine.

Things fall apart quickly. When Mrs. Earnshaw falls ill and dies, distraught Mr. Earnshaw leaves the care and instruction of the children to the servants, especially to pious, narrow-minded, old Joseph, who is harsh and hypocritical. Hindley, who is five years older than Catherine and Heathcliff (15 to their 10) is rabidly jealous of his father’s obvious preference for the strange, dark boy, and does everything he can to torment him, while Heathcliff, for his part, becomes a master manipulator to make himself look good and Hindley look bad to his father.

Soon Heathcliff and Catherine, who is a wild, unruly child, escape to the treacherous but beautiful moors, where they bond like animals in a pack, roaming freely through the wild unstructured world of nature, untouched by civilization. I found this part of the book quite amazing.

Selfish, headstrong, unruly Catherine. What an incredible character for the time it was written. I was astonished that a female character so willful and wild could be conceived in 1846 by a woman who lived a rather cloistered although tragic life. Of course, Catherine is a child, and a neglected one at that. No one has taught her to be (or to want to be) a lady. Not yet. This is a brilliant psychological study of how minds and wills are built or bent for good or evil by upbringing or the lack of it, and by childhood trauma and abuse. All this before psychology was invented. Emily Bronte was a genius.

In a short time (a few years) despondent Mr. Earnshaw dies, leaving cruel Hindley the lord of the manor and Heathcliff in the pit of hell. He is beaten, harassed and belittled, demoted to the status of a field hand in the grip of a hostile master, his only friend and ally, Catherine who is forbidden to see him or even to go on the moor alone. There is something to be said for this last rule, since she is now getting a little old to be wandering on the moor alone with a boy. But then, Catherine never was a respecter of rules, and even less of her brother.

Then one day the two raggamuffins are skulking around the neighbor’s mansion when Catherine is attacked and badly bitten by their bulldog. They are trespassing, after all. When the neighbors, the Lintons realize that Catherine is their neighbor, they take her inside, swaddle her on the sofa, and do all they can to tend her wounds and make amends. Heathcliff, however, is left outside, ignored, as if he weren’t there, or was a servant.

Catherine stays until her wounds are healed and she likes the place. Thrushcross Grange is everything Wuthering Heights is not: light, clean, warm, cheerful. The people there actually like each other and they like her, and they treat her well. Catherine loves the aristocratic Lintons. They are kind and charming, and genuinely concerned about her welfare. It’s outside her experience. And their son Edgar, he’s so sweet and gentle and thoughtful. She’s never met anyone like that and she likes it. By the time she recovers from her wounds, she returns to Wuthering Heights as a lady, and Edgar comes to court. Heathcliff, of course, is confined to servant’s quarters and not allowed in the house.

Not that Catherine forgets him. Of course, she doesn’t. She loves him. They are soulmates. She could never love anyone like she loves Heathcliff. And yet…she loves the life she knows she would have if she married Edgar. What kind of life can she have with Heathcliff? A dingey room in the servant’s quarters of a crumbling estate under to inept lordship of her drunken brother? She tells herself she could help Heathcliff more by marrying Edgar. Of course, she could. She would have money then, leverage. It’s the only way, really. The only rational choice.

When Heathcliff hears that Catherine will marry Edgar, he disappears. A few years later, when he returns mysteriously rich, he has only one burning objective: revenge. Painful, humiliating, total revenge. I won’t tell you what happens next but it’s perfect for a Halloween night. If you think the beginning of the book is bad, you can’t even imagine what happens next. If Hindley was savage and cruel, he’s no match for Heathcliff as an adult. And I don’t even like to think about Hindley’s poor innocent son, or Edgar’s poor innocent sister.

This is Emily Bronte’s only novel, a true masterpiece. She died of TB the following year at age 30. There are no ghouls, vampires, or witches in this book. They are not needed. The demons in the human soul are the true subject of the best gothic literature, and this one is the best ever written.

Happy Halloween