>EMILY BRONTE
Wuthering Heights
WUTHERING HEIGHTS
Love is not always a happy experience. Nor do people who love each other always treat each other gently. We are all familiar with stories where two lovers are kept apart by outside forces – sometimes by their families, sometimes by the customs of their society.
In Wuthering Heights the main force that keeps the lovers apart is themselves. The characters in this story, just like real people, have weaknesses – and their weaknesses lead them into unhappiness. They are proud and selfish; they often have mixed feelings and are unable to make up their minds. For these reasons love often fails, but rarely as passionately and dramatically as in this story.
PEOPLE IN THIS STORY
MR LOCKWOOD’S STORY, 1801 TO 1802
At Thrushcross Grange
Mr Lockwood, the narrator
Ellen Dean, the housekeeper
At Wuthering Heights
Mr Heathcliff, the landlord of Thrushcross Grange
Mrs Cathy Heathcliff, a widow and Mr Heathcliff’s daughter-in-law
Hareton Earnshaw
Joseph, a servant
Zillah, a housekeeper
ELLEN DEAN’S STORY, 1770 TO 1802
Mr Earnshaw
Hindley Earnshaw, his son
Catherine Earnshaw, his daughter
Heathcliff, a gipsy boy
Frances, Hindley’s wife
Mr and Mrs Linton
Edgar Linton, their son
Isabella Linton, their daughter
Hareton, Hindley Earnshaw’s son
Cathy, Edgar Linton’s daughter
Linton, Heathcliff’s son
Joseph, a servant
Ellen Dean, a servant
Zillah, a housekeeper
Mr Heathcliff, in fact, is my only neighbour, and I think his character is similar to mine. He does not like people either.
‘My name is Lockwood,’ I said, when I met him at the gate to his house. ‘I’m renting Thrushcross Grange from you. I just wanted to come and introduce myself.’
He said nothing, but frowned, and did not encourage me to enter. After a while, however, he decided to invite me in.
‘Joseph, take Mr Lockwood’s horse!’ he called. ‘And bring up some wine from the cellar!’ Joseph was a very old servant, with a sour expression on his face. He looked crossly up at me as he took my horse.
‘God help us! A visitor!’ he muttered to himself. Perhaps there were no other servants, I thought. And it seemed that Mr Heathcliff hardly ever received guests.
His house is called Wuthering Heights. The name means ‘a windswept house on a hill’, and it is a very good description. The trees around the house do not grow straight, but are bent by the north wind, which blows over the moors every day of the year. Fortunately, the house is strongly built, and is not damaged even by the worst winter storms. The name ‘Earnshaw’ is cut into a stone over the front door.
Mr Heathcliff and I entered the huge main room. It could have been any Yorkshire farmhouse kitchen, except that there was no sign of cooking, and no farmer sitting at the table. Mr Heathcliff certainly does not look like a farmer. His hair and skin are dark, like a gipsy’s, but he has the manners of a gentleman. He could perhaps take more care with his appearance, but he is handsome. I think he is proud, and also unhappy.
We sat down by the fire, in silence.
‘Joseph!’ shouted Mr Heathcliff. No answer came from the cellar, so he dived down there, leaving me alone with several rather fierce-looking dogs. Suddenly one of them jumped angrily up at me, and in a moment all the others were attacking me. From every shadowy corner in the great room appeared a growling animal, ready to kill me, it seemed.
‘Help! Mr Heathcliff! Help!’ I shouted, trying to keep the dogs back. My landlord and his servant were in no hurry to help, and could not have climbed the cellar steps more slowly, but luckily a woman, who I supposed was the housekeeper, rushed into the room to calm the dogs.
‘What the devil is the matter?’ Mr Heathcliff asked me rudely, when he finally entered the room.
‘Your dogs, sir!’ I replied. ‘You shouldn’t leave a stranger with them. They’re dangerous.’
‘Come,
