The epitome of what home is not: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

I have always thought it my greatest crime that I have never, as an English Literature graduate, read Wuthering Heights until this year, and I must confess my disappointment. Although at times, Brontë’s thorny novel did appeal to my expectations of its greatness—in moments describing the changing seasons in the moors, or the tangible conflict between the Heights and the Grange—it did not, sadly, accomplish any further satisfaction for me. Catherine, Heathcliff, and Mr Lockwood are all immensely unlikeable, and the only character who seems to bear sense is the one whose voice, though usurped by Lockwood’s observations, possesses much of the narrative: the servant, Nelly Dean.

Whilst the gothic quality opening this classic is delightfully vivid, it only appears in brief snatches. After Lockwood encounters Catherine’s ghost, I expected the subsequent deaths to bring a flurry of phantoms to the fore; instead, the focus shifts to the wrath of Heathcliff and the uneventful lives of his counterparts, where: “a sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself”. The potential that ghosts had to make this novel a truly disturbing and erratic contemplation of the limbo between life and death has been deeply missed. Perhaps, if Heathcliff or Catherine had been allowed to narrate, this otherworldliness might have instilled a haunted presence within the lines, elevating it above the mere recap of a servant. My expectations of a violent, troubled romance were admittedly raised by Jane Eyre—the novel of the sister author—and yet illness and isolation diffuse this tale of two families joined by a sullen outcast; at its core, it is not a text concerned with love but with the consequences of its absence. Wuthering Heights feels secluded and restrained, as nothing comes from the outside world and Lockwood brings little of it with him. Despite emphasising the solitariness of the Heights and its occupants, the result is one of claustrophobia, to the effect that the reader desires freedom from such a suffocating place.

The controversial character of Heathcliff and his unusual allure is, at first, intriguing. However, his inexplicable actions, horrific treatment of others, and complete lack of character development make him utterly detestable. I do not believe Heathcliff ever demonstrates any real feeling or love; he comes to disease the novel and the Heights, not through an initially unwanted existence but through a twisted hatred that renders him as unlovable as he is incapable of love. I did hope that Heathcliff’s death would eventually enable Catherine Linton to roam the world she longs for, but in an equally unsatisfactory ending she decides to marry into the family that has imprisoned her all her life. This bears a much more significant resemblance to Jane Eyre than the illusion of Victorian Gothicism: the female protagonists, finally liberated from their plight, return to the very people who caused them misery, deprived them of their ambition, and then sign away their lives to them—and are content to do so!

         Perhaps the only potential homely aspect of this novel is achieved through Brontë’s narrator, Nelly, whose independent sense of character is occasionally allowed to shine through and indicates that she is far more likeable than anyone she serves. Yet, such narrative authenticity is splintered by her calling every character ‘Master’ and ‘Miss’, and at times it is unclear who the ‘I’ belongs to. The repetition of names further complicates matters; across the novel, we meet two Catherines, Hindley and Hareton who are both donned Earnshaw, and Mr and Mrs Linton together with their grandchild Linton. This makes the narrative seem rather incestuous, heightened by the closing marriage between two cousins, almost as if the families are being duplicated in a way that robs each member of any individuality.

        I was glad to finally read Wuthering Heights, and, having gained an understanding of the distorted narrative framework and intertwining relationships, revisiting the novel may prove to be a better experience. Brontë’s prickly disposition overshadows this let-down of a love story, and most surprising is how quickly each character departs from life, leaving their name to another. Neither the Heights nor the Grange appear home-worthy in their depths of isolation and depression and are the overall sources of death for those who are trapped within them. Perhaps this representation reflects Brontë’s own life, as many of her family died prematurely, indicating the reality of illness and madness in the nineteenth century. Wuthering Heights is worthy of a classic, indeed, but not a place to call home.