Wuthering Heights

By Emily Bronte

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

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

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

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Apr 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480484108

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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CHAPTER I

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

‘Mr. Heathcliff?’ I said.

A nod was the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, thank you.’

‘Not bitten, are you?’

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Were you asked?’ she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, I could not.’

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

‘Umph!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And this young man is—’

‘Not my son, assuredly.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are there no boys at the farm?’

‘No; those are all.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

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

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

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

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

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

‘All day had been

Reviews for Wuthering Heights

[margarft · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

God, everyone in this book is so insufferable.

[terriks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Catherine, Heathcliff, the moors, family angst and mad love. What's not to like here? There's a reason this book continues to draw readers: these are some wild characters. Terrific prose. More violence than one might be expecting. What a tale! Enjoy the ride.

[ghost_boy-691444 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have to admit Wuthering Heights was at first hard to follow because of the language and who was speaking. However, as soon as I got into the book I could follow it much easier. My edition had a very helpful family tree in the beginning. My advice anyone is to look at the tree before you read the book (unless you can handle Catherine naming her daughter Catherine).

The part I happened to like the best was the characteristics of Heathcliff. He basically represented the moors themselves. He was dark and brutal, yet had a certain beauty about him. He is one of those characters you either love or hate. I happened to like the character because he was kind of that manly-man character with a wicked past to him.

One thing I should point out is that neither my high school or the Twilight books brought me to Wuthering Heights. I remembered reading in two of Virginia Woolf's books that she liked Wuthering Heights because Emily Bronte wrote differently then most women at her time. So if Woolf liked it, then I have to read the book because Woolf is my favorite author. Also, I still do not see the need for Twilight to reference Wuthering Heights just because of the love triangles. To be honest, the ending of Wuthering Heights is just depressing.

[agentx216 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Gah! This book is the most horrible thing I've read! Heathcliff is a horrible character! I didn't know I was ever suppose to root for him. He borders on crazy and even crazier. No one should be forced to read this dren. I'd rather be waterboardered than read this again...at least the psychological scars of waterboarding wouldn't last as long!

[mandarella-337035 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Simply: Heathcliff and Catherine grew up together as childhood lovers. He is a man without a past (sometimes called a "gypsy"). Catherine is a spunky, free spirited, headstrong woman. Catherine marries Edgar Linton and Heathcliff seeks vengeance. The unresolved passion between Heathcliff and Catherine destroys them, their family and those around them. This is not a tale of romance, instead it is a very deep and dark story about revenge and the generations of families that live on the properties of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange.

****

My first Brontë was Jane Eyre and I fell in love with Jane as a character. Unlike my love for Jane I don't "love" any of the characters in Wuthering Heights; however, I can say I love Wuthering Heights. I wasn't sure what to expect but I knew I was in for a twisted, dark brooding Gothic Fiction tale (my favorite).

The novel is full of complicated characters and this is a book for readers who understand and can appreciate flawed characters. While the characters are unlikable, I did fall in love with with the atmosphere - the dreariness, the two ancient manors of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, and the four miles that separate them.

Heathcliff's character is comprised of the abusive and unloved childhood he experienced, his love and obsession with the only person who ever showed him any kindness (Catherine), and an adulthood as an angry, vengeful and violent man.

Catherine is selfish and vindictive. She married Edgar Linton but still loves Heathcliff. Catherine admits, "My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable."

While this is a bleak novel that deals with some very complicated people, in the end we are offered the possibility of peace and happiness through Cathy (younger) and Hareton's relationship, and the suggestion that Catherine and Heathcliff were reunited in the afterlife.

[brakketh-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of those classic novels that are substantially different from your preconceived ideas. In my head Wuthering Heights was almost a classic romance rather than being a much more complex mix of romance, near horror and everything in between.

[christilee394 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Unpopular opinion here but I just don't understand the love for this book. Almost every character is self-centered and just horrible, self-centered, vile jerks.

[desiree_reads · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A beautiful rendition of the classic Wuthering Heights, I reviewed this book for the "extras" it provides, rather than the story itself, as it is one we all know.

The cover on this hardback, both front and back, appear to be gorgeous. The book is also filled to the brim in the margins with small but wonderful illustrations of flowers, birds, feathers, pinecones, and more. One page may be half filled with a handful of dandelion blossoms, while another with warblers on some tree branches. Butterflies, squirrels, owls, and acorns - nature in many forms of lovely watercolors. The artwork is indeed a beauteous accompaniment to the text.

The description of the book also mentions additional content to be included, such as four-color maps, letters, family trees, and sheet music, which I didn't see in the PDF copy I reviewed, so hopefully these neat-sounding features will be included in the actual hardback.

A big thank you to Andrew McNeel Publishing and NetGalley for providing an Advance Reader Copy in exchange for this review.

[moukayedr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this very long ago in translation and it was also an abridged version. I do remember the main characters, Catherine and Heathcliff, but I am sure that the depth of these characters, their manipulative and sometimes evil ways were not conveyed properly in the translation.

I was fascinated throughout by the cruelty of Heathcliff and his drive for revenge, which knew no bounds. The book is mostly about him, but the object of his love, Catherine is also a selfish, though self-destructive character. These two eventually destroyed each other, leaving a literal trail of dead bodies around them.

The story is a study of the dark side of love, and how it can destroy when it fails to uplift. The choices Catherine Sr. made in her life, set forth a sequence of events that destroyed the lives of her nephew, her sister in-law and almost carried through to destroying her daughter, if the latter did not eventually heal herself by the power of love and forgiveness.

Ultimately it shows that the choice of the heart is always the correct one, rather than the choice of the ego, driven by considerations of status or fear. The most difficult character to understand was Joseph with his Yorkshire dialect, but he added colour to the narrative, and he was almost always full of crap about sin and how bad everyone is. His literal interpretation of the scripture made him especially cruel to the people he considered lacking in morals (almost every normal human being). We all know people like that. Meanwhile the narrator Nellie sounded like a wise person, and enlightened the audience with her insight into the people she knew, and at the same time kept us wondering about their motivation.

The book got progressively darker, I felt. At the beginning I found Mr. Lockwood's description of Heathcliff's family quite humorous, but his mood became more subdued in the latter chapter. Nellie Dean was quite a skilled narrator too and kept me interested, even though using her as a narrator is an antiquated device, I felt.

[gmomaj · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

For some reason, I could never make myself read this book, perhaps because of an ancient movie based on it. It was a wonderful, terrible story and for one who cries easily, a tear jerker! That being said, it's a wonderful book and this Audible edition was very well done.Famous, all-encompassing, passionate, but ultimately doomed love between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, and how this unresolved passion eventually destroys them and the people around them.Today considered a classic of English literature, Wuthering Heights was met with mixed reviews when it first appeared, mainly because of the narrative's stark depiction of mental and physical cruelty. Joanne Froggatt did a wonderful job narrating, although the Yorkshire accent of the servant, Joseph, was very hard to follow.

[andorion-259107 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A deeply disturbing book about some seriously messed up people. A significant portion of this book seems to have been the distilled essence of anger, jealousy and violence.

[pgchuis · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Read for my OU course.I found the beginning of this story incomprehensible, but once Ellen Dean's narration kicks in things make more sense. I would have been lost at times without the family tree though. So, things I hated about this book:- all the characters without exception. (Even Ellen was manipulative and scheming, and Mr Lockwood was a self-satisfied snob.)- the 'plot' (there wasn't much of one).- Joseph's incomprehensible dialect.- the unrelenting misery, and cruelty.- the way all the character were damaged and their relationships dysfunctional.

[mandathestrange · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An amazing classic that everyone should truly read, I've never read a book that has spurred me to have so many emotions. I experienced Heathcliff's fury, Catherine's moroseness and I could feel the fog on my skin drifting over the moors. It was utterly depressing but in the most beautiful way.

My only hiccup was Joseph's Yorkshire accent, i truly understand that Emily wanted to make this apparent. However it was incredibly hard and frustrating to understand even with the appendix helping me out. However it was clever device.

Emily wrote beyond her years and now I know why this novel will continue to stand the test of time.

I did prefer Jane Eyre, although I know everyone prefers Wuthering Heights. Interesting!

[thedivineoomba · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I finally got around to reading Wuthering Heights, originator of the dark, handsome distant, and slightly abusive male love interest. Of course, the story is more than that, with a fairy like leading lady, and a gossipy servant telling an outsider everything and a setting that fits the story perfectly.The book is well written, especially the locations - from the dangerous moors to the houses of the two very different families. The characters themselves were well written, and I'd say stereotypical, except that in the cases of Heathcliff and Catherine, they SET the precedence.As for the plot, I'd sum it up as "How to raise children into absolute horrible creatures". Each of the characters were the sum of how they were raised, from Heathcliff, who was only loved by Catherine, to Linton, who was whiner who was alternately spoiled by his mother, and verbally abused by his father.Cathrine, the instigator, is a capricious being, not understanding how her words and actions both hurt her husband and her lover. And last, we have Ellen Dean, the old servant, who was there for the majority of the story. Ellen is quick to betray confidences, tell the new tenant the story of the family, and be extremely inconsistent in how she handles a situation. Everybody in this story is quick to get angry, slow to forgive, and seems to only live for hurting each other. Which isn't to say you shouldn't read it, but its not the dark and steamy romance that its made out to be in popular culture.

[drbrand-271246 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Jeez—and I thought Blood Meridian was bleak.

[thestrawberrymoon · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A Romantic Ghost Story very atmospheric.

[soufflebun · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have to say that I did read it for school. But unlike many people in my year, I really really liked it. Over the course of the year I read it multiple times because I liked it so much (and yes exams). I'm not entirely sure what drew me to the book... I liked the time span, the narration, the description... It's not a book I would have recognised immediately as a future favourite, it's just sort of sprung up on me.

[suesbooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was disappointed in this classic. I was interested in the book, but the characters were presented as such extremes. This was a horrible love story, not a caring one.

[m.belljackson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

ONE STAR less than perfect due to the horror of the dog hangings,I could understand Heathcliff's desire for revenge after the abuse he suffered for so many yearsand could relate to his passion for the love he had lost, but, the dog - NEVER!Ellen (Nelly) is the only likable character:Linton and his sister deserve each other.Heathcliff is filled with hatred, vengeance, jealousy, and remains selfish and just plain mean,as does his Great Love, Catherine who is also a self-indulgent, spiteful, unpredictable, and a hysterical liar.They deserve each other.Despite not connecting with the characters, Wuthering Heights is a wildly engrossing tale,complete, in the 1943 Random House edition, with equally wildly imaginative and evocativewood-cut illustrations by Fritz Eichenberg.

[kayis813-163108 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was much different than I expected. I wasn't sure whether or not I liked it for a couple of days, because I'm not used to liking a book that doesn't make me happy, but I found myself really wanting to see how it ended and decided that meant I did like it. The story was told very well and was engaging and felt everything I think the author was intending for me to feel. I didn't really root for any character which is another thing that made me unsure if I liked it or not since I love character driven stories but the characters, while not good people are very interesting.

[kayla.krantz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm a fan of classics, but not so much one of romance so I went into this book a little hesitant. I came out very pleasantly surprised though. This is an amazing book with both a complicated and fulfilling plot. My only grievance would be the names of the characters. Sometimes in the piece the similarity of the names would get confusing to the point where I would have to reread sections to clarify exactly which characters I was dealing with. Other than that, I loved this book! It's one of my new favorites.

[scottcholstad · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don't know. This is another "classic" I was told I had to like, but honestly, it's never done much for me. Frankly, I'm not a fan of the period and if I had to choose, I really prefer Charlotte over Emily... For those who love this era's literature, recommended. Not my cup of tea though...

[boundtogetherforgood · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wow. I finally made it through this book. I am glad I did. Many people either love it or hate it. I guess I fall somewhere in the obscure 'I kinda liked it' category. I probably give it an extra half a star for the cultural awareness it has afforded me as I hear or read about it often enough that it mattered to me that I read the book.Be warned, six of the characters share three names. It took me a lot of time, from the very beginning of the book to figure out WHO everyone was. Once I'd done that she'd woven a web that I wanted to see untangled eventually. The plotline wraps up neatly in the end but, I think, without great resolution. The tale is one of love and hate and need, revenge and restlessness.

[amanda4242_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

300-odd pages of unpleasant people being hateful to each other.

[lvstrongpuff · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Yeah I really didn't care for this book. I thought Heathcliff was a jerk. I thought it was really a stupid book. I know others love this book, but I just thought it was total crap

[antao-3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

(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.

[serenova_phoenix · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

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.

[comfypants · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

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.

[jon1lambert · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

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.

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

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.