“He Shall Never Know How I Love Him”: An Analysis of the Problem of Perception

in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights

by

Laura Peet

A THESIS Submitted to the Department of English California State University, Bakersfield In Partial Fulfillment Of the Requirements for the Degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH May 2008 Copyright

By

Laura Emily Peet

2008 May 2008

This thesis,

“He Shall Never Know How I Love Him”: An Analysis of the Problem of Perception in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights by Laura Peet has been accepted on behalf of the Department of English by her thesis supervisory committee

______Glenda Hudson

______Carol Dell’Amico Acknowledgements

I would like to dedicated this to my mother, who has always instilled in her children a love of reading and who feels, as I do, that Catherine and Heathcliff’s stormy romance is one of the great loves stories of all time

I would also like to dedicate this to my cat, Oreo, who, sadly, did not live through its production. I imagine he is out frolicking on the moors. Oreo 1992-2008 1

Introduction

Wuthering Heights is one of the most beloved novels to have come out of the

Victorian period. According to Patsy Stoneman, “Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are…still the third and fourth most borrowed books from British public libraries”

(236). Possibly as a result of their popularity, both novels have been the focus of much critical attention. Wuthering Heights, however, seems to attract a much wider range of responses than Jane Eyre. With a fractured narrative structure and plot, a seemingly ambivalent moral tone, and an abundance of violence, Wuthering Heights posed quite a problem not only for contemporary readers, but also for critics for years to come. How are we to read this strange, dark novel?

Early critics often labeled the work as clumsily constructed. The multiple narrative frames were seen as flaws exhibited by an inexperienced novelist.

Similarly, critics denounced the book’s moral lessons. Heathcliff, the supposed villain of the novel, the one who committed many of the multiple acts of brutality and cruelty within the story, is not sufficiently punished for his actions. Rather, the ending of the novel is ambiguous; it is indeed possible that Heathcliff and Cathy are spiritually reunited at the close of the novel, as is suggested by the rumored ghost sightings. For these reasons, the majority of Bronte’s contemporary critics dismissed her novel as unsuccessful or even sinister.

The perception of Bronte’s work has changed through the passage of time, however. Many critics now see Bronte’s multiple narrators as the careful craft of a gifted artist, one who pays careful attention to the smallest details to keep the novel unified and coherent. Also, since the advent of modernist criticism, critics’ views of 2 the morality of the novel have changed. Critics in modern and post-modern periods began to see the truth as subjective rather than objective. In a world where truth is largely a matter of individual perception, the ability to judge right from wrong becomes difficult and sometimes unproductive. Rather than focus on what the characters did that was “good” or “bad,” the modern and post-modern critics focused on why the characters acted the way they did. This allowed for a wider interpretation of what constitutes good and bad behavior. Similarly, focusing on characters’ motivation rather than action allowed critics to see the novel as a work of art rather than a moral example to be followed like an instruction manual. The changing views of the purpose of literature allowed for a more favorable interpretation of the novel, then.

In the midst of the current perspectives on Wuthering Heights, most critics can agree that Bronte’s use of the narrative frame was a strategic move. In addition, critics not only allow for, but even praise the use of, multiple perceptions in the revealing of the plot of the novel. What they do not agree upon, however, is why

Bronte used this particular narrative structure to tell her story. John K. Mathison argues in his article “Nelly Dean and the Power of Wuthering Heights,” that Nelly’s unreliable narration is a tool Bronte used to allow the audience to feel sympathy toward Cathy and Heathcliff in a way that any other type of narration could not. He felt that readers felt repelled by her and, as a result of her looking down upon

Catherine and Heathcliff, readers felt closer to them. He says, “Neither a direct plea nor a narrator who was a moralizing, narrow-minded hypocritically pious guardian could have placed us so completely with Heathcliff and Cathy” (192). William E. 3

Buckler, in his article “Theme and Method in Bronte’s Seventh Chapter,” focuses on the ways that misconceptions and misperceptions among the various characters in the novel account for much of the plot development. This is why, he would argue, we have so many different perceptions: to move the plot along. He ignores, however, the reason behind why the plot must be driven by these types of misunderstandings—that

Bronte wanted to showcase individual perception to highlight its importance. George

J. Worth takes a different approach to the theme of multiple perceptions in his article

“Emily Bronte’s Mr. Lockwood,” by focusing on the ways that individual characters within the novel, Mr. Lockwood in particular, misinterpret themselves. He does not go on, though, to comment on how this contributes to the many misunderstandings that happen in the plot of the novel. Critics also disagree about why Bronte would create a novel that lends itself to such a wide variety of interpretations.

I will argue that Bronte chose to present her story in the way that she did precisely because she wanted to illustrate the importance of individual perception. The story is filtered through at least two narrators for the duration of the novel, which gives readers the opportunity to witness a single action through multiple perspectives. One event is told and then retold from another perspective to show readers that each character’s interpretation is different.

Bronte elaborates on this message both in form and content. Many of the major turning points of the plot revolve around a misunderstanding or a difference in perception between characters. Heathcliff flees after hearing Catherine say that it would degrade her to marry him. He does not stay to hear her go on to say that she feels a connection to him that runs so deep that she considers than to be two halves of 4 one being and that her feelings for Edgar Linton are superficial at best. Heathcliff’s decision to leave is based not on the “reality” of the situation; if he had known

Cathy’s true feelings, he more than likely would have stayed. Heathcliff’s decision is based on, rather, on his perception of the situation. When we act on our perceptions, as we must, reality becomes strangely unimportant.

Many pivotal events within the plot of the novel remain unspecified. What happened to solidify Heathcliff and Catherine’s relationship while Nelly was away?

Where did Heathcliff go when he left only to return three years later? Clearly these are events are extremely important to furthering the plot of the novel, yet they happen

“offstage,” so to speak, and the reader is never sure what exactly happened. Bronte does this on purpose. What really happened during these crucial times is irrelevant; people live their lives based not upon a transcendental reality but upon their perceptions of the events that they witness. Thus, it does not matter what formed that powerful bond between Catherine and Heathcliff as children—whatever events that transpired or “really” happened are irrelevant. What matters to us is that they, as children, perceived the events in such a way that they felt closer as a result.

Moreover, what happened to Heathcliff during his absence is irrelevant—what matters to us is that the other characters in the novel see him as changed. Whether he has, indeed, been changed, the other characters in the novel see him and treat him as such, and it is their treatment of him that shapes their decisions and actions, which in turn shape Heathcliff’s.

I intend to prove that Bronte’s purpose in writing the novel in this way was simple: she wanted to show that there is, in fact, no discernable “truth.” We are left 5 to trust our interpretations of the situations we find ourselves in and act accordingly.

Many critics overlook this simple, yet thorough, explanation, perhaps because modern readers are more open to the idea of multiple perceptions, and this view may seem too simplistic. In Victorian England, however, this idea would not have been so widely accepted. What modern critics take as a given would have been highly debated in Bronte’s time. This, in turn, explains why her contemporaries were so confused and put-off by her work—they were unable to see the multiple perspectives, and sometimes contradictions, as indicative of anything other than a disorganized author. The current perspective, though, allows readers to tie Bronte’s narrative frame and her theme of multiple perspectives to her place in Victorian society as well as her feelings about religion and morality in a way that has never before been examined so completely. 6

Chapter One: Critical Perspectives

Victorian England was unprepared for a novel such as Wuthering Heights.

Reviewers of the 1848 edition of the novel had almost uniformly negative feelings about it. One anonymous reviewer said, “With all its power and originality, it is so rude, so unfinished, and so careless, that we are perplexed to pronounce an opinion on it, or to hazard a conjecture on the future career of the author” (Britannia 291). A reviewer in The Examiner seemed at best ambivalent about the book, saying, “This is a strange book. It is not without evidences of considerable power: but, as a whole, it is wild, confused; disjointed and improbable; and the people who make up the drama, which is tragic enough in its consequences, are savages ruder than those who lived before the days of Homer” (285). Bronte’s contemporaries seemed to be able to pick up on her great passion, certainly. They usually agreed, though, that her passions were misdirected. How could they condone a book that included multiple acts of violence that went unpunished? They didn’t. They declared Bronte’s work to be “the nightmare of a recluse…[and] a nightmare of the superheated imagination” (Watson

48). The subject matter alone was enough to condemn the novel.

The novel’s reception did not improve once the true identity of the author was made known, either. Emily Bronte, writing under the masculine pseudonym of Ellis

Bell, was outed as a female author before the first reprinting of the novel in 1850.

The violence of the novel had certainly not been accepted previously, but once

Emily’s true identity was revealed, reviewers became even more harsh in their treatment of the novel and its author. According to Carol Ohmann, in her article,

“Emily Bronte in the Hands of Male Critics,” “once the work of Ellis Bell was 7 identified as the work of a woman, critical responses to it changed. Where the novel had been called again and again ‘original’ in 1847 and 1848, the review in the

Athenaeum in 1850 began by firmly placing it in a familiar class, and that class was not in the central line of literature” (908). The positive attributes according to critics, which were few to begin with, essentially disappeared after the author of the novel was revealed. James Kavanagh agrees with this assertion, saying,

even disapproval of Wuthering Heights was initially tempered, in many critics

who thought they were confronting a male author, by a kind of grudging

admiration for the courage with which the story plunged into the unknown. . . .

When its female authorship was recognized, critical attitudes tended to change

from camaraderie to condescension. The author was chided for her lack of mature

feminine discretion (2).

In an attempt to reverse this trend, Emily’s sister Charlotte, so famous for writing

Jane Eyre, which was received with much more acclaim, wrote a preface to the novel’s first reprinting in which she tries to defend her sister’s novel while appeasing irate critics. The damage, however, had been done. According to Melvin Watson, the second edition of the novel did not “provoke any reviews which showed more complete understanding” (42-3). The novel remained maligned by critics.

This seems a strange beginning for a novel that we now know as a classic.

Ironically, it was probably because the novel prompted such strong emotions that it gained and maintained popularity in the years to come. One contemporary of Bronte stated that “Wuthering Heights is a strange sort of book—baffling all regular criticism; yet it is impossible to begin and not finish it; and quite as impossible to lay 8 it aside afterwards and say nothing about it” (Jerrold 284). Even if they were disgusted, horrified, or angered by what they read, people couldn’t look away from

Bronte’s novel. Because the novel was able to survive beyond its first reprinting, and was in continuous circulation after that, various audiences, which change with the times, were exposed to the novel. As a result, views of the novel began to shift.

While Victorian England was shocked by the novel’s violent content and confused by the fragmented narration, later generations were beginning to appreciate the novel’s structure as deliberate rather than an unintentional blunder. Similarly, changing views regarding the purpose of literature in society allowed for a different interpretation of the seemingly immoral lesson of the novel. If literature is not solely mimetic or didactic, acts of violence within novels need not be so harshly condemned. This sentiment is echoed by Frank Kermode, who argues that

Emily Bronte’s contemporaries operated different probability systems from ours,

and might well ignore whatever in a text did not comply with their generic

expectations, dismissing the rest somehow-by skipping, by accusations of bad

craftsmanship, inexperience, or the like. . . . we can read more of the text than

they could, and of course read it differently (50).

Thus, modern readers were apt to see the novel differently than its contemporaries.

With the advent of modernist criticism in the early 1900s, critics began to see

Wuthering Heights in a much more positive light. According to Knoepflmacher, in his book Wuthering Heights: A Study, “whereas the Victorians try to tame the energies they recognize, the modernists prefer to stress the novel’s anarchic or libidinal powers” (108). In addition, modern critics were more apt to be open to the 9 idea of multiple perspectives and subjective truth than Victorian readers. Not only does modern criticism allow for plurality of interpretations, it in fact encourages it.

Frank Kermode says, “the only works we value enough to call classic are those which, and they demonstrate by surviving, are complex and indeterminate enough to allow us our necessary pluralities” (50). From the early 1900s on, the criticism of

Wuthering Heights has been almost universally positive.

While current critics of the novel agree that it is powerful, haunting, and nuanced, they cannot seem to agree on a particular interpretation of the novel itself, so the criticism of the novel rages on. Dorothy Van Ghent says that Wuthering

Heights is “of all English novels, the most treacherous for the analytical understanding to approach” (9). This, too, is what so many of the critics can agree on—that they can’t agree on a single interpretation of the novel because of its narrative frame and plurality of perspectives. According to Felicia Gordon, in her book A Preface to the Brontes, “interpretations are not mutually exclusive and agree on the irreconcilable nature of the conflicts generated in the novel” (199-200).

Davies declares the novel to be “A secret by its very nature, [which] cannot be known” and compares the novel to “music’s enigmas [which] cannot be ‘solved’”

(91). Watson argues that because the novel is a “masterpiece of art” and “has a life all its own which changes, develops, and unfolds as the generations pass . . . never, probably, will an interpretation of Wuthering Heights be made which will satisfy all people for all time” (61). Carol Ohmann concurs with Watson, claiming that “the novel appears to be inexhaustible and it will support interpretations of widely varying emphasis” (906). Even Charlotte Bronte applied this same rationale not to Wuthering 10

Heights, but to Emily herself, saying, “an interpreter ought always to have stood between her and the world” (77).The possibilities of interpretation, it seems, are endless.

Some critics, though, are not content to accept the plurality of interpretations.

Rather, each of these critics proclaims that he or she has insight into the true interpretation of the novel. This means, obviously, that all other interpretations are incorrect. Watson, for example, concludes that “The praise [of the novel] is rhapsodic rather than analytical; the faults usurp the foreground and are presented in the most unequivocal language” (44-5). He declares current criticism of the novel to be “rhapsodical nonsense” (45). Bruce McCullough, in his article “The Dramatic

Novel: Wuthering Heights,” argues that “Those who have looked upon Wuthering

Heights as being awkward and confused in structure have usually not bothered to consider what other method of construction the author might have elected to follow,” while Colin Wilson argues that “A more accomplished novelist would have used the device of letters and manuscripts found in drawers [but would have] spoiled the whole effect” (226). J. Hillis Miller condemns much of the criticism of the novel, saying, “Charlotte’s prefaces establish the rhetorical stance which has been characteristic of criticism of this novel. This stance involves dismissing most previous critics and claiming one has oneself solved the enigma, cracked the code”

(173). He goes on to criticize those critics who “present [themselves] as the Daniel who can at last decipher the writing on the wall” and says that “The criticism of

Wuthering Heights is characterized by an unusual degree of incoherence among the various explanations” (175-6). Miller ultimately concludes that “what they [critics] 11 say is demonstrably mistaken . . . because there is an error in the assumption that there is a single secret truth about Wuthering Heights” (176). Thus, while so many critics now hail Bronte as a genius and her novel as a masterpiece, they cannot agree on much else.

Ironically, few critics have tied their inability to agree upon a particular interpretation of the novel with Bronte’s intentions as an author. Certainly, they agree that Bronte’s use of multiple narrators was intentional and strategic, and they also agree that the result was a plethora of possible interpretations, but almost none argue that Bronte’s purpose was to show her readers the importance of multiple perceptions in their critical approach to the novel and in their approaches to their lives. Victorian readers would probably not have come to this conclusion because this was an idea that was both foreign and frightening. If one questions a transcendental truth that overrides individual perception, then one’s entire system of beliefs is in question. All issues relating to morality and religion become precarious when truth is subjective. Modern readers, though familiar with and accepting of the idea of subjective truth, have also overlooked the possibility that Bronte simply wrote her novel to prove that truth is indeed subjective. Perhaps this interpretation is so simple it has been overlooked, but the novel contains evidence to support this reading. Nicholas Marsh says in his book Analyzing Texts, “We [readers] are provoked to question our own activity when we are engaged in reading the novel” (4) and “Bronte insistently reminds us how unreliable our perceptions are” (43).

Whatever her purpose, the novel certainly achieves this affect. 12

Through both the form and content of the novel, Bronte encourages readers to approach her novel openly. The multiple perspectives used to convey the plot of the novel ensure that there is no one authoritative voice that the readers can single out as the “true” or “right” person to identify with. David Sonstroem says, “With all the characters myopic, and all their exchanges unilluminating, the reader looks elsewhere for authorial guidance” (38). Because readers are being told the story through at least two filters, and the versions of that story do not always agree, we know that “. . . strangely, there is truth in all these apparently conflicting notions,” (Gilbert 81) but, at the same time, we have “no secure viewpoint from which to ground our responses”

(Flint 177). Readers see, then, that the point being illustrated is that individual perception allows for this type of structure. Everyone sees things differently, and this is not a particularly tidy way to view literature, but it is certainly true, and it does account for the way that we live our lives just as we see the characters of Wuthering

Heights basing their feelings and actions on their individual perceptions.

As a result, the way we see the world needs to change. Bronte shows, through the quick and often inaccurate judgments passed especially by her two narrators,

Nelly and Mr. Lockwood, that our judgments are often inaccurate. According to F.

H. Langman, “[the narrators’] responses to the story cast light upon the narrators themselves . . . To break down resistance to its central experience, the novel must somehow overcome the readers’ contrary assumptions: it does so by demonstrating the inadequacy of those assumptions in Lockwood and Nelly” (301). We see events, as they do, through our own personal filters, and what we see is not always the

Truth—perhaps there is no Truth to see, for certainly none of us is privy to it. The 13 implications of this revelation are huge, both concerning the novel and the way we view the world. Stoneman says, “The conclusion we have to draw is that literary texts are unstable constructions—that there is no ‘true’ version independent of particular readings” (238). Because our powers of perception prove to be less than perfect, people should be less quick to judge others, and more apt to look at their own motivations for their actions. 14

Chapter Two: Mr. Lockwood’s Narration

Wuthering Heights is narrated in diary format by Mr. Lockwood who came from

London to Thrushcross Grange to rent a house from the novel’s protagonist,

Heathcliff. Marsh says, “the aura of diary . . . is enhanced by the bald statement of the date ‘1801’ followed by a dash, which is the first mark of the novel” (5). Upon first glance, Lockwood seems to be an insufficient narrator for the novel. The readers’ initial confusion at being thrust into an unfamiliar plot and setting only grows as a result of Lockwood’s ineptitude. Knoepflmacher says “From the very start, Lockwood seems uncomfortable . . . about the appropriateness of his responses to what he observes in a reality so different from his own” (12). Lockwood arrives at the Heights in the middle of winter, and snow obscures pathways and landmarks making travel difficult, especially for someone who is new to the area as he is. In his article “Wuthering Heights: Narrators, Audience and Message,” Allan R. Brick states,

“This image of a man floundering in a world of obliterated landmarks has its application well beyond Lockwood” (29). This is the readers’ first clue that

Lockwood will be wandering, lost, through the novel, insufficiently prepared and unable to cope, and we shudder to realize that we are in his hands.

As Lockwood reports his arrival at the Heights, his misperceptions continue. He proclaims an almost instant affinity with Mr. Heathcliff, and is eager to declare

Heathcliff a “capital fellow” (3). Heathcliff’s less than hospitable nature soon makes itself apparent. Lockwood observes Heathcliff’s “black eyes withdraw, so suspiciously under their brows” and “his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat” (3). If Heathcliff’s body language is not 15 enough of an indication of his desire to be left alone, his words and actions should prove this point to Lockwood. Lockwood says Heathcliff’s “ ‘walk in’ was uttered with closed teeth and expressed the sentiment, ‘Go to the Deuce!’” (3). Lockwood, though, is unperturbed by Heathcliff’s lack of hospitality. Lockwood insists that

“because he [Heathcliff] has an erect and handsome figure—and rather morose—possibly some people might suspect him of a degree of underbred pride . . . it is nothing of the sort; . . . his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness” (5). Lockwood shows readers early on that he is incapable of understanding or accepting the situation he encounters at

Wuthering Heights. Thomas Vogler says, “we observe his shocked surprise as he is disillusioned. Where he expects to find ‘a capital fellow’ happily ensconced in a

‘perfect misanthropists Heaven,’ he finds Heathcliff, a ‘singular contrast to his abode and style of living’” (79). Lockwood is clearly out of his element in dealing with the residents of Wuthering Heights. Lockwood at first declares Heathcliff to be a good, affable man, and then, upon being treated so callously, seems, at first, blissfully unaware of his own miscalculation. Knoepflmacher wonders “What are we to make of Lockwood’s attitudes towards the Heathcliff we first behold through his eyes? Is he genuinely drawn to a man who so rudely dispenses with the formalities of polite intercourse” (12). Lockwood’s unwillingness to accept Heathcliff’s hostility reflects his lack of understanding of the situation. If Lockwood thought he could somehow change Heathcliff, he was sorely mistaken.

His attempts at perception, however, go from bad to worse. Upon entering the

Heights, Lockwood, speaking to Cathy, says, “ ‘Ah, your favorites [pets] are among 16 these!’ pointing to an obscure cushion full of something like cats” (11). Upon closer inspection, Lockwood finds that the heap of what he took to be cats was actually a

“heap of dead rabbits” (11). Cathy, surprised at his remark, replies “ ‘A strange choice of favorites’” (11). His blunders do not end here, however. Lockwood proceeds to presume that Cathy is Heathcliff’s wife, which seems to be offensive to both parties. Lockwood says to Heathcliff “ ‘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,’” yet Heathcliff is quick to enquire “ ‘Where is she—my amiable lady?’” (13). Heathcliff’s next comment serves only to further confuse the already bewildered Lockwood: “ ‘Oh! You would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel . . . even when her body is gone’” (13). Lockwood, at this point realizes his mistake. Even he can tell that he is “in a blunder” (13). Noticing that

“there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife,” Lockwood assumes that Hareton must be Heathcliff’s son and Cathy’s husband (14). He is again, however, mistaken. Lockwood declares “

‘Ah, certainly—I see now; you [Hareton] are the favored possessor of the beneficient fairy’” (14). Heathcliff once again attempts to correct Lockwood, saying, “ ‘Unhappy in your conjectures, sir! . . . 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.’” (14). Even this, more thorough explanation eludes Lockwood’s understanding, though, and he asks “ ‘And this young man is—‘” (14) in reference to

Hareton. After being assured that Hareton is not, indeed, Heathcliff’s son, Lockwood 17 declares, “I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle”

(14). Even the oblivious Lockwood can see that he has made a mess of his interpretations. Brick says that Lockwood “rattles off one misinterpretation after another about the identity of the people in Wuthering Heights and their (he presumes) normal relations with each other, discovering progressively that the girl is not Mrs.

Heathcliff, that she is not married to Hareton, and that Hareton is not Heathcliff’s son” (81). Bronte shows us Lockwood’s underwhelming ability to perceive his surroundings to warn us against too close an affinity with him. Miller argues, “His errors are a warning to the over-confident reader” (170). As Lockwood blunders through his first encounter at the Heights, readers lose any confidence in his ability to maneuver through the twists and turns of the plot that is to come.

Lockwood’s presumptions are nearly always incorrect, but perhaps more troubling is the language Lockwood uses to convey his misinterpretations. Readers can at once identify him as different from the other characters because of the complexity (or pomposity) of his language. Lockwood says in twenty words what another person could say in ten. Take, for example, his first spoken passage in the novel: “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” (25). This very formal speech is revealing of

Mr. Lockwood’s character. Clearly he holds himself in high esteem and wants his language to reflect what he perceives to be his superior intellect. Ten out of the thirty-four words of the above sentence (the name of the property not included) are polysyllabic. Thus, the readers’ first impression of Lockwood is that he is a man 18 more concerned with portraying his own aptitude than finding out the complex relationship of the inhabitants of Wuthering Heights, or than clearly informing his readers about his findings.

If this is not off-putting enough, readers are also faced with Lockwood’s seeming inability to fully end a sentence. Many of his sentences are drawn out as though to hold readers’ attention, and the final period comes only after we are already frustrated with Lockwood’s long-windedness. One sentence, for example, is the length of a paragraph: “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 sympathizing 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” (25). In this passage, readers can again observe Lockwood’s fondness for lofty, multi-syllabic language, but they will also note the length of this sentence.

Stringing readers along with semi-colons and colons leaves them panting for breath as they reach the finale of the sentence. Without frequent sentence breaks, readers are given information in large, unmanageable chunks that add to our sense of bewilderment with the text and, more specifically, with the narrator himself.

Lockwood’s language shows readers, then, that he has little regard for his audience, which hardly works in his favor. However, he undermines his own credibility, which he has worked thus far to establish, by often using tentative language.

In addition to Lockwood’s overly formal diction, Lockwood’s language also conveys his own uncertainty about his perceptions. Lockwood’s statements are often 19 stilted and choppy, indicating Lockwood’s reluctance to continue through a sentence that he perceives to be incorrect before it’s even finished. Similarly, Lockwood’s language contains an abundance of the subjunctive, which shows that he feels unable to commit to the statements he is making, which is an indication of his awareness of their inadequacy. Marsh echoes this sentiment, saying, “One insistent feature . . . is

Lockwood’s speculations. The language is filled with guesswork” (7). Lockwood’s attitude, as can be gauged through his language, shows uncertainty. Knoepflmacher says, “Although Lockwood becomes the butt of the primitive ways he half-celebrates and half-mocks, his uncertainty about his place in the world from which he comes contributes to his interest in ‘a situation so completely removed from the stir of society’” (15-6). He is even, it seems, uncertain about his uncertainty and how to feel about it. Words like “perhaps” and “maybe” show readers that, despite his pomposity, or rather because of it, Lockwood’s view of his surroundings is not necessarily accurate. In addition, Lockwood often uses the subjunctive to reflect his uncertainty. Take this sentence for example: “I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society” (25). Here, the subjunctive (“could”) is preceded by more uncertain language: “I . . . believe.” Not only is he not sure if he could be so removed, he is not sure about his uncertainty!

Lockwood’s uncertainty, as reflected in his language, only adds to readers’ growing contempt for him; we see Lockwood as dishonest because of it. While clearly trying to portray himself as an intelligent, able person, his mangled attempts to portray his situation to his audience reveal his glaring inadequacies. 20

Clearly, from his speech alone, we can gather that Lockwood is out of his element. Rod Mengham argues that “Lockwood is a poor interpreter of humanity because the range of his perceptions is limited by the narrowness and artificiality of his language” (25). Bronte has constructed a language for Lockwood that shows his inability through his artificiality. Lockwood uses ornate, flowery language to describe what readers begin to see is nothing of the sort. Knoepflmacher agrees with this point, saying, “A close inspection of Bronte’s brilliant opening reveals a series of frictions which Lockwood’s language vainly tries to avoid” (13). This is perhaps because “Lockwood’s voice . . . is that of an urban young gentleman whose sophistication and ‘worldliness’ prove to be inadequate” (Knoepflmacher 11).

Whether he is limited by his language, or his language simply conveys his limits, readers maintain that Lockwood is not the most capable narrator—after all, narration is all about language.

Lockwood’s language proves to be insufficient at representing the surroundings in which he finds himself at the Heights, but it reveals to the readers more than Lockwood intends. Through his language, readers can see that Lockwood is incapable even of understanding (or interpreting) himself. The first misinterpretation that Lockwood makes about himself is regarding his aversion to companionship. Lockwood proclaims that he is looking for a kind of escape from society, yet the first thing he does upon arrival at his new haven is to seek out companionship. Th. M. Vande says, “[Lockwood] likes to think of himself as a misanthropist, yet . . . [he] visit[s] and re-visit[s] Wutheirng Heights, in spite of the unwelcoming reception. The fact is of course that he has no idea of what real 21 isolation from one’s fellow creatures means” (108). Worth argues that “She [Bronte} lets Lockwood characterize himself, and then helps us to realize, by letting us witness his character in action, that he is not really like that at all” so that readers will get a sense that Lockwood is so incapable of making interpretations that he cannot even accurately interpret himself (43).

In addition, we begin to see that many of Lockwood’s interpretations may actually be projections of himself, and thus reveal more about himself than those he is interpreting. A good example of this is Lockwood’s eagerness to befriend Heathcliff.

Lockwood certainly claims an affinity with Heathcliff, but Knoepflmacher argues,

“‘The sympathetic chord’ that Lockwood at first will claim as binding him to

Heathcliff may stem, as he notes, from an act of projection . . . But the reverse seems just as possible. Lockwood extracts from Heathcliff attributes he has been led to shed or subdue in the course of his own socialization as an educated young gentleman”

(14). Perhaps all Lockwood sees in Heathcliff is an ideal of a rugged misanthrope that Lockwood wishes he could be. This reveals little about Heathcliff, but volumes about Lockwood’s inability to read himself.. Bald states that “Lockwood’s misrepresentation of his character is aimed at beguiling himself as well as the readers” (278). Because we see events through Lockwood’s point of view, we can tell that Lockwood is not being purposely deceitful or mean-spirited in his representation of himself. Rather, he is simply incapable of understanding.

Even the reason that Lockwood comes to Thrushcross Grange is a misinterpretation. After what Lockwood felt was a harmless flirtation with a woman grew into something more, Lockwood panicked and quickly revoked all attention he 22 had bestowed upon the woman. As a result, he felt embarrassed and wanted to flee society for the refuge of anonymity. What Lockwood fails to realize, however, is his own intention. Lockwood, while proclaiming to long for love, actually fears it. Apter says that “In Lockwood’s case fear of emotion rather than emotional greed or bitter vengefulness leads him to believe he is a highly emotional person” (207). His behavior, and his subsequent actions show more about his character than his protestations. Davies declares that “Lockwood, that human snail who ‘shrunk icily into myself’ when a young lady made eyes at him, frames and focuses this behavior through . . . downright incomprehension” (77). Ironically, Lockwood’s misinterpretation of his own feelings led to a miscommunication with the young lady in question, which is the precise reason he takes up lodgings at Thrushcross Grange in the first place.

Upon his removal from Wuthering Heights, and his return to Thrushcross Grange,

Lockwood takes ill (presumably from his prolonged exposure to the elements) and is displaced as narrator by Nelly Dean, the Grange’s head servant. While Lockwood is incapacitated, he asks Nelly to keep him company and tell him what she knows of the inhabitants of the Heights. Much of the remainder of the novel consists of

Lockwood’s diary entries that capture Nelly’s narrative of the tale. Now, readers see that they are receiving the tale through a double filter. Arnold Krupat says in his article “The Strangeness of Wuthering Heights,” “[Nelly and Lockwood] are the chief narrators of the book . . . there is no existence for the events of Wuthering Heights independent of their existence in the diction of Nelly [and] Lockwood” (273). Miller declares, “Wuthering Heights is presented as a kind of Chinese box of enclosures 23 within enclosures” (207). At this point, readers will perhaps begin to let down their guard despite their further removal from the events of the plot simply because they are glad that the person now in charge of the tale is not Lockwood, whom they have come to mistrust. This conclusion, while understandable, is presumptuous. After all, the same rules of perception that applied to Lockwood apply even more so to Nelly, who has not the impartiality of an uninvolved bystander. Many of Lockwood’s misperceptions can be blamed on his unfamiliarity with the situation in which he finds himself, yet readers must be critical of Nelly for the opposite reason. As the tale continues, readers will see that Nelly’s involvement in the story she is telling certainly prevented her from experiencing the events in an impartial way as they happened, and from telling the story in an objective manner.

According to Kavanagh, “It is important to ‘see’ Nelly’s activity in this text not so much to understand the non-existent ‘mind’ of another character, but in order to resist the offer of a narrative ego that Nelly’s voice carries” (32). Nelly possesses several qualities that Lockwood lacks as a narrator. Lockwood arrived at the Height having no prior knowledge of the house or its inhabitants. Nelly, however, has the benefit of hindsight. Having played an active role in the story she is telling, Nelly is able to

“fashion the narrative from scratch by recounting authentic developments as well by adding her own touches of exaggeration in regard to the heroes’ actions and by . . . obliterating her own harmful deeds” (Shunami 457). Mathison agrees and says that,

“her ability to describe accurately, and yet disregard the facts in favor of explanation by a conventional formula, is a major feature of her character and her inadequacy as a counselor” (191). Through Nelly’s own not-so-subtle rationalizations of her actions, 24 as the glimpses of other perspectives through letters and dialogue, readers can gather that “neither of the two main narrators, Lockwood and Nelly, is capable of interpreting the story adequately” (Langman 71).

Nelly’s agency in the plot becomes apparent early on in her narrative. She begins her tale with the arrival of the novel’s protagonist, Heathcliff, to the Earnshaw family.

She makes no attempt to conceal her dislike for Heathcliff from the start, saying “Mr.

Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children” (37). Referring to the child as “it,” Nelly reveals that her opinion about

Heathcliff was secured before he had even spoken one word. Thus, “Nelly is not an objective observer” (Langman 72-3). Her actions as well as her opinions are present, though. In her telling of the tale, Nelly proceeded to directly disobey Mr. Earnshaw and “put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow” (37).

Nelly, then, openly admits to her own involvement in the tale she is telling.

The message that readers received from Lockwood’s inept narration (that the narration is unreliable) is furthered by the addition of Nelly’s voice. Shunami says,

“even the narrative presented by her [Nelly] is unreliable” (454). Knoepflmacher agrees, saying, “even Nelly’s closer, eye-witness account of events . . . proves to be unreliable” (16). Ultimately, “The conversations between them [Nelly and

Lockwood] merely demonstrate with greater emphasis their incongruity in the role of reliable narrator” (Shunami 465). Readers discover two important truths early in the novel: the reliability of their narrators is in question and, perhaps, any reliability of perception is in question. 25

Chapter Three: Plot Development

The unreliability of human perception is a theme that represents itself not only in the structure of the novel (the fragmented narration), but throughout the content as well. In fact, misinterpretation and misperception are the driving forces of the plot.

This serves to reinforce Bronte’s message about the frailty of subjective interpretation.

While Bronte establishes Catherine and Heathcliff’s closeness early in the novel,

Catherine’s extended absence form the Heights during her recovery at Thrushcross

Grange proves to put a strain on their relationship. Heathcliff anticipates that his

Cathy will return to him wild and unchanged, but, upon her return to Wuthering

Heights, he is greeted not by his former playmate, but by a lady. Here begins a series of misunderstandings and hurt feelings which lead to the ultimate separation of the pair and irrevocably alters the courses of their lives.

Heathcliff, having become even more “careless, and uncared for,” during

Catherine’s absence, comes to greet her looking “dismally beclouded” (54). This does not seem to pose much of a problem at first since Catherine had often been in a similar state. She arrives, though, “a very dignified person,” as opposed to the “wild, hatless little savage she once was” (53). Heathcliff, of course, notices this change at once and is disturbed by how dirty he looks in comparison. Catherine runs to greet him, but notices his “black and cross” face and assumes that he is not happy to see her

(52). Heathcliff interprets Cathy’s comments as insults, thinking she is referring only to his appearance and not his sullen demeanor. This is the first step in a series of 26 many that drives the young couple apart—each, according to Nelly, began “to feel that the one’s interest was not the chief consideration in the other’s thoughts” (92).

This suspicion is seemingly confirmed when Heathcliff flees and Catherine

“could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper” (Bronte 55). Nelly, who provides constant and critical commentary interprets Heathcliff’s behavior as “ill humor,” but readers, aware of Nelly’s unreliability as a narrator, can “see in it a boy’s heartbreak and loneliness” (Longman

70). In addition, Catherine doesn’t see how her actions “lead Heathcliff to revolt”

(Buckler 70). Each is left to feel somehow abandoned by the other, while both long for nothing but each other.

Now on the defensive, Catherine and Heathcliff’s relationship becomes strained.

The recurring presence of Edgar Linton in Cathy’s life serves to reinforce to

Heathcliff the message that he is soon to be shut out of her life forever. The situation comes to a critical crossroads when Catherine declares to Nelly that she has received and accepted a marriage proposal from Edgar Linton. Nelly, of course, is surprised at this revelation—Catherine’s love for Heathcliff was, after all, no secret. Nelly inquires about the nature of Catherine’s affections for Linton, and Catherine responds

“he is handsome and pleasant to be with . . . . he is young and cheerful . . . . he loves me . . . I love the ground under his feet, the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says—I love his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely, and altogether” (78-9). Catherine’s “bitter parody of a genteel romantic declaration” “shows how effective her education has been in indoctrinating her with the literary romanticism deemed suitable for young ladies” (Gilbert and Gubar 277). 27

Here, Catherine displays the rehearsed, false nature of her feelings for the young man she has just agreed to marry.

Nelly, aware of Catherine’s discontent, asks “you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. . . . where is the obstacle?” (79). Catherine replies, “In whichever place the soul lives” (80). Although she would like nothing better than to be joined with Heathcliff forever, Catherine feels that Heathcliff’s questionable origins, paired with his lack of education, will prove to be too much for them to overcome. Thus, Cathy sees that a marriage to the considerably more prosperous Edgar Linton will be a way for her to improve both her own future prospects and those of Heathcliff, too. When Cathy tells

Nelly that she has agreed to marry Edgar, Nelly warns her, “As soon as you become

Mrs. Linton, he [Heathcliff] loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you’ll bear the separation, and how he’ll bear being quite deserted in the world?” (81-

2). Nelly sees in Catherine’s marriage to Edgar an obvious and unavoidable obstacle to Cathy and Heathcliff’s union. Cathy, though, rather than seeing this likely outcome of her choice, sees her marriage to Edgar as the only chance she and

Heathcliff have to be together. She says in response to Nelly’s comment, “I shouldn’t be Mrs. Linton were such a price demanded! He’ll [Heathcliff will] be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime . . . did it never strike you that, if Heathcliff and I married, we should be beggars? Wheras, If I marry Linton, I can aid Heathcliff to rise and place him out of my brother’s power?” (82). Matthews says, “Catherine thinks that she can concentrate on the strictly practical advantages of marriage because to her the potency of their [her and Heathcliff’s] love escapes confinement to any recognized container. Conversely, Catherine’s match with Edgar is the soul of 28 conventional romantic love” (58-9). Thus, Catherine’s interpretation of marriage, or, at least, of her marriage, does not imply her lack of devotion to Heathcliff; rather, it shows her willingness to make sacrifices for him because, as Gibert and Gubar mention, “Catherine has no [other] meaningful choices. Driven from Wuthering

Heights to Thrushcross Grange and held fast in the jaws of reason, education, decorum, she cannot do otherwise than as she does, must marry Edgar because there is no one else for her to marry and a lady must marry” (277). Catherine, then, will use what seems to be the only option available to her to be close to Heathcliff, even if it means betraying her soul.

Cathy’s misperception of the end result of her union with Edgar ultimately brings about the very end she was attempting to avoid—one without Heathcliff. Prior to

Cathy’s heartfelt confession, Catherine asked Nelly “Are you alone, Nelly?” (77).

Nelly, knowing that Heathcliff was in earshot, replied, “Yes, Miss” (77). Nelly goes on to say, “[Heathcliff is] About his work in the stable,” which is an outright lie (77).

Kavanaugh says, “Nelly controls the crucial piece of information in the scene, the knowledge of Heathcliff’s presence, and this gives her decisive power within the communicative structure of the scene” (45). Nelly decides to remain silent about

Heathcliff’s presence, and, thus, changes the course of both Catherine’s and

Heathcliff’s lives. During Cathy’s confession to Nelly, Heathcliff overhears her profession—or part of it. Catherine says, “if the wicked man in there [Hindley] had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought of it [marrying Edgar]. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now” (81). Upon hearing these words,

Heathcliff flees, unable to hear that her very next utterance is, “so he shall never 29 know how I love him” (81). Misunderstandings here are rampant. Due to Nelly’s

“outright lie” (Mengham 80), Catherine made a confession that she might not have otherwise made. Similarly, because he was unaware of the direction Cathy’s speech would take, Heathcliff hears, “just enough to drive him away” (Kavanaugh 45).

Mengham notes that “the truth might have sent Cathy after Heathcliff in time to prevent misunderstanding and avert disaster,” (80), but “Nelly’s silence here is not passive, but active” (Kavanaugh 48) and she continues to lie until Heathcliff’s disappearance is final. As a result of these misunderstandings and Nelly’s lies, both

Catherine’s and Heathcliff’s lives are forever changed.

Heathcliff’s disappearance leaves Catherine a changed woman. Her lengthy illness, as a result of her tireless search for Heathcliff on the rain-soaked moors, seems to have stolen some of her happy spirit. Catherine’s family is told by her doctor that “she would not bear crossing much, she ought to have her own way” (89).

It is worth noting here that Nelly, whom the reader will notice has become more and more entangled with plot development, sees Catherine’s illness as ridiculous and within Catherine’s control. She sees in Catherine’s cries of desperation at

Heathcliff’s absence the tantrum of a spoiled child, and in the resulting illness she sees something Catherine could call up on a whim; Nelly refuses to acknowledge the seriousness of Catherine’s illness or that it’s origin lies outside of Catherine’s will.

These misunderstandings on Nelly’s part will eventually bring about Catherine’s untimely death.

In the three years that Heathcliff is gone, Catherine marries Edgar and seems to settle into a state of normalcy. Because she is unaware of just what caused 30

Heathcliff’s abrupt departure, Catherine interprets his actions as abandonment, and has no reason to believe he will ever return home. They both are somewhat surprised at the turn of events that follows. The audience, upon Heathcliff’s return home, learns that Heathcliff, who had all those years before overheard and in part misunderstood Cathy’s speech, had left not out of spite or malice, but in hopes of self-betterment, so that Catherine would not see marriage to him as degrading.

Because this intent was never made known to Catherine, she, thinking that Heathcliff had gone forever, proceeded with her life by marrying the only prospect she had left:

Edgar. Again, because of a series of misfortunate misunderstandings, Catherine and

Heathcliff are denied their union.

With Heathcliff’s return, Catherine seems to believe that her earlier idea of a marriage to Edgar as enabling a relationship with Heathcliff is once again possible.

Neither man, however, is willing to play a part in Catherine’s scheme. Each character is incapable of understanding what the other feels is quite plain. Individual perception has, ultimately, derailed all three lives: Edgar, Catherine, and Heathcliff.

After a particularly nasty fight between Edgar and Heathcliff, in which Catherine is forced to choose between the two, she is overcome by a fit of rage the likes of which her doctor warned could be a catalyst for disaster. Catherine exclaims, “Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend—if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I’ll try to break their hearts by breaking my own” (116). Then, Catherine, here in the later stages of pregnancy, proceeds to lock herself in her room. This is where perhaps the most tragic misinterpretation of events unfolds. Nelly, having heard Catherine’s ominous pronouncement, assumes “that Catherine is in total control of her situation 31

(Gates 131). According to Mengham, “Nelly’s common sense tells her that anyone capable of switching on their fits of passion is equally capable of switching them off again, but she [Nelly] cannot appreciate the intensity of Cathy’s distress” (81). Since

Nelly feels that Catherine is only acting as an overindulged child, and because “Nelly dislikes Cathy, as she frequently admits,” she “repeatedly distinguishes herself from the other servants, [and] speaks as a member of the house, and even alludes to her superiority to those she serves” (London 47). When Edgar asks about Catherine,

Nelly tells him “There is nothing in the world the matter” (118). Despite her awareness of the doctor’s warning about angering Catherine, and, despite Catherine’s pregnancy, Nelly “keeps to herself Cathy’s warning that she is dying, and even deliberately antagonizes her . . . by creating a false impression of Edgar’s response to the situation” (Hafley 191). Because Nelly assumes that Catherine is simply throwing a tantrum which she is in complete control of, Nelly presumptively decides that exaggerating about Edgar’s lack of concern for his wife will be just the thing to snap her out of her rage. Nelly, as so many characters have done already, makes a grave misjudgment of the situation. Newman says, “Nelly’s practice of seeing and telling, far from maintaining family order, is disruptive . . . . the acts of narration that

Nelly’s gaze makes possible produces consequences she can neither predict nor control” (1035). Shunami agrees, saying, “her [Nelly’s] sanctimonious position results from an ignorance of her true roles and a misunderstanding of the spirit of others. She is therefore incapable of recognizing the fact that her decisions bring about the tragic crisis of the novel” (457). Nelly’s overconfidence in her “feeling that she can manage her mistress’ life better than her mistress” causes Catherine’s illness 32 to go unchecked (Shunami 455), and “it is her breach of trust which brings about

Catherine’s dying scene” (Ward 124).

The three crucial plot developments that affect the outcome of the novel—Catherine’s decision to marry Edgar Linton, Heathcliff’s decision to leave

Wuthering Heights, and Catherine’s death, all resulted from misperceptions and misinterpretations. Catherine and Heathcliff’s lives were guided, not by the reality of the situations in which they found themselves, but by their perceptions of that reality.

Although readers may never know if the characters’ actions would have been different had their perceptions been different, this is irrelevant, for, like the characters in the novel, we are all forced to make the decisions that shape our lives based on our perceptions at the moment, even though this can bring about the type of tragic ending seen in the novel.

As Bronte shows, individual perception is the most important influence in our lives. In fact, through Bronte’s novel, readers can see that individual perception can, indeed, create a type of reality in itself. Nicholas Marsh asks, “How far is reality not a separate thing at all, but only created out of human will, and subjective perceptions driven by emotion?” (74). Reality is created, then, from perceptions of events that happen, but also from speculation about events that did not happen. Lowder-Newton says, “In any work, of course, it is not only what a text does say but what it dos not say that reveals its relation to dominant images, ideas, and values,” and Wuthering

Heights is no different (9). In the novel, three important pieces of the plot are left as complete mysteries: Heathcliff’s origins, the cause of Catherine and Heathcliff’s 33 close bond, and Heathcliff’s whereabouts during his three year absence from the

Heights.

Since the novel’s original publication, audiences have been intrigued by the mysterious Heathcliff. Mr. Earnshaw, who brings the boy home from a trip to

Liverpool, tells only “a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless and as good as dumb in the streets . . . where he picked it up and inquired for its owner . . . he thought it better to take it home with him, at once, than run into vain expenses there; because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it” (37). Mr.

Earnshaw’s family is quite shocked at this new arrival, but Mr. Earnshaw says, “you must e’en take it as a gift of God; though it’s as dark almost as if it came from the devil” (36). This hardly answers any questions the family may have about the boy.

This seemingly critical information of Heathcliff’s origins is never revealed within the novel. Stevenson says, “The remarkable indefiniteness of Heathcliff is established the moment he arrives at Wuthering Heights” (67). The boy “repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand,” which indicates that whomever was caring for the boy previously had spoken a language other than

English (36-7). This clue, though, doesn’t offer much help because, “Being found in

Liverpool, he could have come from the far ends of the earth, he could be a Lascar or a gypsy” (Sagar 144). Williams attributes significantly darker origins to Heathcliff, saying, “Heathcliff is touched in to recognizable existence by the harvest moon, his dark shape emerging from the character of dark shadows caused by the moon’s light”

(48). Many critics share this supernatural view of Heathcliff and wonder “Is he homeless waif to be pitied or diabolic emissary to be feared?” (Guerard 64). Still 34 other critics propose that Heathcliff “could be a child of sin, even a bastard of

Earnshaw’s” (Last Name 144). Ultimately, because Heathcliff’s true origins are not made known, “None of these doors to understanding is ever really closed; but none opens wide enough to let the whole Heathcliff through” (Sonstroem 35). As a result,

“Heathcliff is the outcast, the castaway, the Lascar or gypsy or disinherited prince”

(Miller 219-20).

The characters in the book are just as ignorant of Heathcliff’s origins as the audience, but, for this novel, the more significant meaning of Heathcliff’s indeterminate origins is not that he is free to define himself, but that “every character he comes in contact with . . . is forced to mark him with a meaning they give him”

(Stevenson 69-70). Mr. Earnshaw, we can gather, had some reason to take such pity on the young boy that he brought him home, so Earnshaw’s affection for Heathcliff is no surprise. Even the name bestowed upon the boy is one that had belonged to “a son who died in childhood” (Bronte 38). Visick says, “he favours Heathcliff,” (173) and

Eagleton argues, “Earnshaw pets and favours him, and in doing so creates fresh inequalities in the family hierarchy” (225). If Heathcliff is a blank slate to begin with, Mr. Earnshaw’s treatment of him is the first indication to the rest of the family of how to treat the boy.

Hindley, who had been the family’s only son, feels extremely threatened by

Heathcliff’s presence. Even Heathcliff’s name makes Hindley feel inadequate: why would his father bring back this orphaned boy from Liverpool when he already had a son, and why would he bestow this boy with a name that belonged to a beloved but departed son? According to Williams, “[Mr. Earnshaw’s] primitive, brittle system of 35 demarcation forces Hindley into the position of ‘reprobate’ : for him, Heathcliff is a

‘usurper’” (21-1). Heathcliff’s sudden arrival and promotion to favorite brings nothing but feelings of resentment from Hindley. Gordon says, “As if in response to his own worst fears, Hindley is duly supplanted in his father’s affections by

Heathcliff” (198). What is worth noting here is that Hindley’s feelings of hatred and resentment arise due to a feeling of abandonment and betrayal from his father.

Neither Heathcliff’s actions, nor his origins, which are, of course, unknown, have contributed to Hindley’s estimation of him. Nevertheless, Hindley bases his treatment of Heathcliff on his perceptions of the situation. Ironically, the very feelings of betrayal Hindley feels upon Heathcliff’s arrival drive his behavior, which is both cruel and unjust, and this only further’s Mr. Earnshaw’s affection for the friendless Heathcliff. This cycle of misinterpretation was set into motion by pure speculation, and, as a result, Heathcliff’s true origins become unimportant.

Hindley is not the only character to judge Heathcliff without reason. Essentially, all characters are forced to make some kind of assumptions about Heathcliff’s background in order to determine how to incorporate him into their lives. Nelly does not hide the fact that she, like Hindley, was also unpleasantly surprised by

Heathcliff’s arrival. Nelly “consistently refers to the child as ‘it,’ denying Heathcliff any human status. He is not only threatened with callous indifference, he is subjected to active and gratuitous cruelty . . . ‘bad feeling’ arises from within the family itself rather than from Heathcliff” (Holderness 30). Nelly’s reasons for disliking Heathcliff are actually very similar to Hindley’s. Knoepflmacher says, “old Earnshaw had treated Nelly almost as one of his own children . . . small wonder that Nelly tries to 36 remove the alien child” (45). Similarly, “Nelly always managed to take Hindley’s barbarities in stride” because she, obviously, has taken Hindley’s side against

Heathcliff (Mengham 64). She seems to see something demonic in Heathcliff’s origins as well, but again, we can see that this idea reflects more on Nelly’s superstition than on Heathcliff’s moral fiber. Even when Nelly softens and

“encourages Heathcliff to frame high notions of his birth,” she still gives no hint to

Heathcliff’s true background because “she is obviously trying to project on to him the inspiration she derives from her own daydreams of advancement” (Mengham 76).

Once more, Nelly’s assessment and treatment of Heathcliff have nothing to do with his origins—only her imaginings of them.

Because Heathcliff’s presence evokes such unpleasant feelings from both Nelly and Hindley, “spontaneous rejection is . . . Heathcliff’s first experience at Wuthering

Heights, before he has done anything to deserve it” (Sagar 143-3). Bearing this in mind, Heathcliff’s actions appear less brutal and more frustrated. He is not the monster they see him as. Matthews says,

Since Heathcliff is so regularly misrepresented as the thrust of stormy nature at

the foundations of culture, it might be worth pointing out that Heathcliff, having

survived the Earnshaws’ instinctive equation of his swarthiness with bestiality,

constantly surprises Nelly by being more refined, better mannered, and more

amply furnished than the loutish gentry at which he takes aim . . . Even when

Heathcliff behaves at his most despicable, he invariably turns out to be reflecting

the violence inherent in the structure of social order (61-2). 37

Hagan agrees, saying, “his violence has been building up only gradually and only under the stress of provocation. For this reason, though we may deplore his subsequent actions, he never entirely forfeits our sympathy” (65). Because we see

Heathcliff’s creation through the cruelty of others, “All of us, at one time or another, have identified with Heathcliff’s victimization with his gorgeous, sadistic rage”

(Yaeger 225). How would we have turned out any differently, we wonder, were we in this position?

The only character who takes a liking to Heathcliff beside Mr. Earnshaw is

Catherine. The cause of the close bond between Catherine and Heathcliff is another important plot development that is kept “off-stage” so to speak. Nelly, who is narrating Heathcliff’s arrival, had been “sent out of the house” for her “inhumanity” toward Heathcliff, and returned to find that “Miss Cathy and he were now very thick”

(37-8). Nelly, who had returned only “a few days” after her banishment, was surprised at this development because Catherine had “showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing” and “refused to have it in bed” just days before (37). Bronte has strategically devised a reason to send Nelly, the only one who could report on exactly why Catherine and Heathcliff bond so quickly and completely, away during the very act. Nelly seems surprised yet uninterested by this new development, in all likelihood, because she has never been too fond of Miss

Cathy herself. Knoepflmacher says,

she [Nelly] seems totally uncurious about the genesis of Catherine’s change of

heart towards Heathcliff . . . Had she [Cathy], her father’s former favorite,

decided to regain some of Old Earnshaw’s withdrawn love by identifying herself 38

with his new love object? Such explanations seem inadequate. For Bronte wants

no causal clues to account for her book’s arch-relation between male and female

selves who claim that each is the other. Mystery must be maintained (95-6).

Essentially, what exactly created such a close bond between these two characters is irrelevant, and, thus, omitted. What does matter to readers is that the two demonstrate this feeling of closeness in a way that proves its existence beyond all doubt. The feeling, not the cause, is highlighted because it is that intense connection which drives the actions of the pair. Stevenson says “they feel an identity of being that their adult lives, their deaths, even, cannot alter,” and this is what Bronte wants her readers to see (64).

Another of the novel’s unsolved mysteries is Heathcliff’s whereabouts during his three year absence from Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff’s departure was both swift and secret, and, just as no one had any idea when or if he would return, they were also ignorant of where he went. Nelly is the first to see Heathcliff upon his homecoming, and she finds him so changed that, at first, she does not recognize him. Nelly says,

“And you are Heathcliff? But altered!” and then asks “Have you been for a soldier?”

(94). Heathcliff does not answer her question, nor does he ever give an answer.

Heathcliff left a wild, gypsy boy and returned “a tall, athletic, well-formed man” (96).

Heathcliff’s physical changes prompt many to assume he was somehow involved in the military, yet he also possesses, “A half-civilized ferocity” paired with a demeaner “quite divested of roughness” which seems to defy categorization (96).

Heathcliff’s explanation of his absence creates more questions than it answers. He says to Cathy, “I’ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice, and you 39 must forgive me, for I struggled only for you” (97). In addition, Heathcliff’s newfound gambling ability creates curiosity: where did he learn such skills?

Much like Heathcliff’s first encounter with the Earnshaw family, here, Heathcliff returns to the house new and mysterious, and the cause of his great transformation is never revealed. Also like the beginning of the novel, the cause of the changes in

Heathcliff is left out because it is unimportant. The other characters see Heathcliff as different and treat him as such. Hindley and Nelly, who previously held a sense of contempt for Heathcliff, are now wary of his increased physical strength and calculating mind. Edgar Linton, who once scoffed at the idea of Heathcliff as a rival for Cathy’s affection, is reduced to tears after one encounter with the new man. The way the other characters treat Heathcliff, with a newfound sense of awe that is part respect and part terror, is likely much more influential than the years that changed him.

To highlight the importance of individual perception in shaping our lives, Bronte makes a point of leaving these key scenes and bits of information out of her novel so that readers will focus not on the actual events but the way that people’s perceptions of these events guide their actions and their lives. Nicholas Marsh says, “however much the narrator guesses, interferes, or imposes a different language on events,

Bronte never allows the narrative to solve the fundamental problems of the book . . . the subject of storytelling, and the distortion that any narrative imposes on life itself is brought up between the characters” (18-9). Macovski agrees, saying, “despite the reader’s ‘bewilderment’ and even ‘ultimate bafflement’ at such mysteries, it is difficult to deny that the novel is about the act of interpretation itself” (101). We 40 interpret the story that Lockwood interprets, based on Nelly’s interpretations, but, more importantly, each of us serves as interpreter of our own lives, and our interpretations are more influential than the events themselves. 41

Chapter Four: The Ambivalence of Morality and Religion

Upon its initial publication, reviewers of Wuthering Heights found the novel to be shockingly violent and immoral. Rylance says, “Most readers were baffled—and angry. Wuthering Heights was offensive and incomprehensible to most, like the reviewer in the Examiner who could detect no purpose or moral in it, or that in the spectator who found it ‘coarse and disagreeable’” (165). Given the subject matter of the novel and the “social and ideological needs of the late 1840s,” this was not surprising (Rylance 165). Reviewers, in general, condemned the novel for its lack of moral purpose. One anonymous reviewer remarked, “Acton, when left altogether to his own imaginations, seems to take a morose satisfaction in developing a full and complete science of human brutality. In Wuthering Heights he has succeeded in reaching the summit of this laudable ambition” (300). Another reviewer commented that “we must . . . stipulate with him that he shall not drag into light all that he discovers of coarse and loathsome, in his wanderings, he may find necessary to elucidate his history” (287). Bold agrees, saying, “Nowhere is there any respite or escape. There is neither triumph nor moral retribution” (83). Jerrold wonders “what may be the moral which the author wishes the reader to deduce from his work” (285).

According to Miles, one of “The moralizing nineteenth-century reviewer[s] detecting such unorthodoxy slammed the book down, roundly damned it as a ‘pest-house’ and, by way of critical judgment, offered the injunction ‘burn Wuthering Heights’” (36).

Clearly, the lack of an obvious moral center was troubling to the novel’s contemporary reviewers. 42

Critics of Wuthering Heights noted two aspects of the novel that were particularly troubling. The first was that the novel’s many violent characters go unpunished for their bad deeds. This leads audiences to a second point—Bronte seems to offer no authoritative moralizing voice to praise the pious or condemn the corrupt. In Bronte’s work, the two types of characters are treated equally, and Bronte passes no judgement on any of her characters. These were the very points that lead readers to pose the question ‘just what are we to be getting out of this work?”

Heathcliff is the character whose violent actions are so often fixed upon by critics.

Rylance says, “In its sharpest form, the problem revolves, as it always has done, around the moral ambiguity, glamour and degradation that is Heathcliff” (166).

Bronte’s protagonist, despite his moral shortcomings, is portrayed in such a way that readers can never fully condemn him. Wilson says, “Heathcliff may be ‘black browed’ and insulting, but it is fairly clear that Emily Bronte admires him” (228).

Hagan agrees, saying, “One of Emily Bronte’s major achievements in Wuthering

Heights is to keep alive the reader’s sympathy for . . . Heathcliff” (59). Aside from condemning the novel for this very reason, readers may also wonder why Bronte went about creating characters that while committing cruel acts, were still deserving of our sympathy.

Just as Bronte focuses on how perceptions and interpretations shape our decisions, she also sheds light on how this affects our views of morality. When we focus on invention rather than action, morality becomes much more difficult to judge. For example, if readers see Hindley’s treatment of Heathcliff as reflecting the insecurity of a young boy who feels unsure of his father’s affections, we are much more 43 understanding of his plight. After all, how can we know we wouldn’t react the same way given the circumstances? This same idea can be applied to virtually all of the characters in the novel. Matthison says, “The question is not whether Heathcliff and

Catherine are good or bad. They are the result of psychological isolation and misunderstanding working on a particular native temperament, and the ‘good’ are as much doers of the damage as the ‘bad’” (181-2). Thus, this type of value judgment is unimportant, but also unproductive. All people are capable of committing good and bad actions given the right circumstances and perceptions. The labels of “good” and

“bad” oversimplify morality and completely ignore individual motivation.

Bronte is able to further this message by serving as an example in the way that she withholds judgment of the characters herself. Fraser says, “What makes her virtually unique among writers dealing with this matter [wickedness], however, is the equal force with which she can also show both the causes of this conduct and the defects of those who suffer from it” (224). As a result, she “extends the net of her sympathy so widely” (Winnifrith 14) that she “does not explicitly condemn or approve of her characters, nor does she imply judgement through the introduction of a machinery of rewards and punishments responsive to a moral order” (Sonstroem 38). By withholding punishment and moral condemnation, Bronte encourages readers to keep in mind both the good and bad that lie within all people, and how circumstances and perceptions, and not innate tendencies, drive people’s actions.

If traditional views of morality are being brought into question, readers certainly will begin to look for clues about the author’s perspective on religion as well.

Bronte’s non-traditional treatment of Christianity has brought into question her own 44 personal religious beliefs. While religion does play a role in the novel, Glen reminds us that “It was within the discourse of religion that much of their [the Bronte’s] thinking was framed. More than any other aspect of the Bronte’s mental universe, this one is foreign to the twenty-first century reader, to whom, all too often, any invocation of the Bible signifies unquestioning belief” (9). Certainly, Bronte is able to comment on religion without implying her total acceptance or rejection of it.

Taylor argues, “I see no evidence that Emily considered herself a Christian . . . Rather

. . . she adapted Christian modes of thought to her own independent purposes, finding in those modes analogues by which she might render intelligible the patterns of her own spiritual experience” (94). Robinson agrees with this estimation, saying, “this quiet clergyman’s daughter, always hearing evil of Dissenters, has therefore from pure courage and revolted justice became a dissenter herself” (4). Regardless of the particulars of Bronte’s own religious beliefs, she does encourage taking a critical look at Christianity and all that it entails.

The two main proponents of Christianity within the novel are Nelly Dean and

Joseph. While Bronte refrains from passing judgment on her characters, “No doubt she herself did find some characters more sympathetic than others” (Cecil 148). In fact, one of the least sympathetic characters is Joseph, the cantankerous caretaker at the Heights. It is not a coincidence that Joseph is also the mouthpiece for conventional Christianity. Nelly declares Joseph to be “the wearisomest self- righteous pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses on his neighbors” (42). Thus, “Bronte depicts . . . a world in which

Christianity is both hypocritical and inept” (Champion 53). For Joseph, religion is a 45 way to justify his contempt for the family he serves while, at the same time, maintaining his own sense of superiority. Gordon says, “In Joseph, Emily mocks some of the worst aspects of Calvinism, a spiteful, self-righteous fanaticism” (200-1).

Joseph participates constantly in the very type of judgmental moralizing that Bronte warns us against, and Sagar says, “Joseph is the only representative of Christianity in the novel and it is a mark of Emily Bronte’s uncompromising fearlessness that he should be also the most evil character” (145). Joseph’s example of self-serving

Christianity was certainly created to warn readers against the very type of uncompromising judgment he represents.

While Joseph is certainly the most obvious mouthpiece for religion in the novel, he is not the only character to represent Christianity. Nelly Dean, one of the novel’s chief narrators, also represents Christianity. Nelly, as we have seen, is disapproving of Joseph’s interpretation of Christianity, but she “seems to have equally little relevance to the lives of the chief characters. She believes that good will be rewarded and evil punished, and that we may all meet again in a bitter world” (Gordon 201).

Nelly certainly is not immune to a smug sense of superiority gained from her religious beliefs. Th. M. Vande says, “Her [Nelly’s] stilted words do not exactly call up a picture of Christian charity” (198-9). As we have seen through Nelly’s actions, due to a sense of self-righteousness, Nelly often determines herself to be a better judge of right from wrong than anyone in the novel. This type of judgment not only brought about the chief crisis in the novel (Catherine’s death), but is also unproductive in light of the ambiguity of moral judgments. Without knowing each character’s perceptions, and, thus, motivation, how can Nelly profess an ability to 46 proclaim these characters “good” or “bad”? Though Nelly’s version of Christianity is less dependent on fire and brimstone than Joseph’s version, it is equally as judgmental, and, thus, equally inept.

While Nelly and Joseph represent Christianity within the novel, the other characters contribute their less traditional views on the subject. This can best be illustrated through each characters’ discussions of his or her interpretation of the afterlife. Just as each character has a unique view of his or her situation and surroundings, all of the characters in the novel express a desire for a different type of afterlife. The stormy moors which so delight Catherine and Heathcliff would serve them as a perfect heaven, yet “Certainly one can no more imagine a place for dainty and dull Lockwood, or even for good though conventionally worshipping and conniving Nelly in Cathy and Heathcliff’s turbulent paradise than Joseph can a place for the protagonists in his” (Maynard 208). The climate is not the only distinction between these character’s ideas of heaven. Catherine’s heaven is an extension of earthly delights. Nussbaum says, “Cathy’s spring is not upward, but a horizontal movement—not toward heaven, but toward her beloved moors and winds, severed from which she would find heaven miserable; not toward God but toward Heathcliff, the lover of her soul” (395). As a result, “Catherine’s heaven . . . is very much like the place such a representative gentleman as Lockwood would call hell” (Gilbert and

Gubar 87). Conversely, the idea of a Christian heaven looks more like hell to

Catherine, which she expresses to Nelly early in the novel. She says,

I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with my ever after, and changed

my ideas . . . If I were in heaven, Nelly I should be extremely miserable . . . . 47

heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come

back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out, into the middle

of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy (80-

1).

This heaven, for Catherine, is hellish. Nussbaum says, “Cathy’s soul cannot live in the Christian heaven” (394). For Cathy, “heaven is seen as rigidly hierarchical, while hell is energetic and delightful” (Abraham 100). Vibrant, lively Catherine feels stifled in the still, stagnant heaven that she imagines is so different from Wuthering

Heights.

Heathcliff, too, expresses a non-traditional view of heaven and hell. Heathcliff’s only qualification for heaven seems to be Catherine’s presence. Thus, after her death,

“The world without Catherine has become a hell for Heathcliff” (Aptner 219). After

Catherine’s death, “Heathcliff’s heaven is six feet underground” because “It is wherever Catherine is” (Sagar 158). Heathcliff holds this view up until his death. He tells Nelly, “no minister need come; . . . I tell you, I have nearly attained my heaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me” (333). Indeed, according to Heathcliff’s definition of hell as extreme emotional suffering, the years following Catherine’s death must have been all but unbearable.

Because the characters in the novel have such varied interpretations of what constitutes heaven and hell, Christianity, or religion in general, becomes not a transcendental truth, but just another subjective interpretation of morality and the afterlife. Sonstroem says, “The concept of heaven provides further ground for inconclusive disagreement . . . each person’s heaven is composed of those qualities 48 that are most appealing to him; so there are as many heavens implied in the novel as there are points of view” (35-6). As a result, to Catherine and Heathcliff, “Their attachment defines their world and provides their own morality . . . . No laws other than those which pertain to their attachment are binding upon them” (Apter 209-10).

The dissolution of religion in Bronte’s work serves to further her theme of individual perception as guiding people’s lives. Just as there is no worldly Truth, there is no absolute in spirituality either. Even ideas of heaven and hell or good and bad are open to interpretation, and these interpretations are the basis for the character’s actions in the novel. 49

Chapter Five: The Ultimate Loneliness of the Human Condition

In Emily Bronte’s world, the only constant characters have to rely on is their perception. Social constructs of religion and morality offer little in the way of uniting people when they, too, are based on individual subjectivity. Characters don’t even have accurate perceptions of themselves because, after all, who they are is largely determined by how others see them. Macovski says, “rhetorical exposures before an other come to represent not only the separate interpretation of self and other, but the actual fashioning of this self in terms of other” (105). Because we can only ever be sure of our own individual perceptions, we can never really know ourselves.

According to Jackson, “The many partial, dual, multiple and dismembered selves scattered throughout literary fantasies violate the most cherished of all human unities: the unity of ‘character’” (82-3). This way of looking at people’s characters is upsetting because “ ‘otherness is all that threatens ‘this’ world . . . with dissolution”

(Jackson 57). This is probably part of what was so upsetting about Wuthering

Heights after its initial publication. The feeling of not being able to fully know ourselves is, certainly, unsettling.

What is perhaps more unsettling than this is the next logical conclusion: if we can not even know ourselves, we can never really know another person. Kinkead-Weeks says, “It is in the heart that each of us ultimately lives and dies alone” (77). Marsh echoes this sentiment, saying “the unknowable mystery of other people is affirmed

(10). As a result, “We are left with the impression that there are very different realities, each hardly recognizable to another character . . . By constructing several simultaneous strands of narrative, then, Emily Bronte succeeds in emphasizing the 50 power of subjective emotion in determining what characters perceive and the separate worlds of self in which they live” (Marsh 110). The implications of this pose a seemingly insurmountable obstacle to love as we have defined it; for how can we love another without really knowing him or her?

This ultimately poses quite a problem for Catherine and Heathcliff. Because

“Bronte insists upon the relativity and shortcomings of all of her characters’ perceptions, including those of Heathcliff and Catherine,” (Sonstroem 33) she “makes us consider from the start that the obstacles to deep love are not only obstacles created by superficial, social deadness and hypocrisy” (Nussbaum 399) but limited perceptions as well. This “incapacity of the central lovers to utter their relation”

(Matthews 54) is reflected by readers’ own inability to grasp the exact nature of their relationship. Farrell says, “We can almost see Catherine and Heathcliff, and yet we cannot . . . we can’t get a clear view of Catherine and Heathcliff as transcendent beings. Our view of them, and their view of each other, is always screened by the text of the world” (191-2). Blondal says, “the passion which devours Heathcliff and

Catherine, symbols of man’s inability to attain the absolute, is a force proceeding from nothingness” (151). The frustration that readers feel as they attempt to understand Catherine and Heathcliff’s relationship is a reflection of the intensity with which they are attempting to understand just the same thing.

As a result of this lack of understanding, the type of relationship that Catherine and Heathcliff seek is virtually impossible. Marsh says, “They both fear that the other is not absolute in love. Catherine is frightened that Heathcliff will forget her after she dies; and Heathcliff rejects her demanding talk, angrily dismissing all ideas 51 of limitation in the face of his absolute love” (148). Upon Catherine’s death,

Heathcliff, unable to stand the thought of a wider rift between he and his beloved, says,

May she wake in torment! . . . Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I

am living! . . . I know that ghosts have wandered the 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! (169).

Now the separation of Catherine and Heathcliff has to overcome not only the limitations of their individual perceptions, but the physical chasm of death.

In death, Catherine alludes Heathcliff even more. Catherine’s first appearance as a ghost in the novel is not to Heathcliff, but to Lockwood, who sees “a child’s face looking through the window” (25). She laments, “I’ve been a waif for twenty years”(25). Lockwood, in his terror, screams, which awakes Heathcliff. Upon hearing Lockwood’s tale, Heathcliff exclaims, “Cathy, do come. Oh, do—once more! Oh! My heart’s darling, hear me this time—Catherine at last!” (28), but, “The spectre showed a spectre’s ordinary caprice; it gave no sign of being” (28-9). Despite

Heathcliff’s desperate plea that Catherine haunt him, readers learn that Heathcliff has been unable to make contact with Cathy in all these years. Rather, he has suffered through the agony of almost seeing her, of glimpses of her face that vanish upon closer inspection, of an unsubstantiated feeling that she is near. Heathcliff is haunted, definitely, but not in the way that he imagined. Instead, he gets hints of her presence 52 that disappear as soon as he pursues them. These glimpses drive him to go to

Catherine’s gravesite to dig up her body. There, he says,

it seemed that I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave,

and bending down . . . There was another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared to feel

the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew no living thing in

flesh and blood was by—but as certainly as you perceive the approach to some

substantial body in the dark, though it cannot be discerned; so certainly I felt that

Cathy was there, not under me, but on the earth. . . . I looked round impatiently—I

felt her by me—I could almost see her, yet I could not! I ought to have sweat

blood then, from the fervor of my supplications to have but one glimpse! I had

not one. She showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since

then, sometimes more, and sometimes less, I’ve been the sport of that intolerable

torture! (289-90).

This type of haunting is unbearable because it resembles a magnified version of the separation he and Cathy endured while she was alive. Their desired union is now impossible.

What makes the situation even worse is that Bronte makes sure that for every supernatural occurrence in the novel, a logical explanation is possible. Of course, there is a possibility that Catherine’s appearance to Lockwood “exists only in

Lockwood’s dream” (McSweeny 168). Gordon says, “Heathcliff’s extraordinary reaction to Lockwood’s account strengthens the ghost’s reality for the reader: . . .

Heathcliff, for one, clearly ‘believes’ in Catherine’s ghost” (195-6), but Sonstroem counters by saying, “the strength of his belief in them [ghosts] is no warrant for their 53 existence” (42). Heathcliff’s experience in the graveyard could indicate Catherine’s spiritual presence, yet Marsh argues that “Heathcliff’s emotions are so powerful that they create an illusion in his brain . . . On the one hand, he ha a powerful grasp of reality. On the other hand, his emotions cannot accept the pain they experience in living through change” (50-1). Similarly, Heathcliff seems to encounter Catherine’s ghost at the close of his life, yet Hagan reminds us that “by this time, in order to achieve his desire [a reunion with Catherine], he has also begun to starve himself, and thus the possibility that he is suffering only from a hallucination is distinctly left open” (69). The fact that each of these encounters has a perfectly logical explanation only makes Catherine that much more elusive. Is she really tormenting Heathcliff, or is Heathcliff tormenting himself?

When Heathcliff dies at the close of the novel, the other characters, as well as the readers, can only speculate about what happened to his soul. Is Joseph correct that

“Th’ divil’s harried off his soul” (335), and that Heathcliff is suffering some sort of eternal punishment for his actions while on earth? Or should we assume like

Lockwood and Nelly that “the dead are at peace” (337), and Heathcliff’s sins have been forgiven? Or should we believe, like the small boy who claims to have seen them, that “They’s Heathcliff and a woman, yonder” (336) in the heaven that they dreamed of on the moors? Like everything else in this book, no one can know for sure the fate of Catherine or Heathcliff in the afterlife. Were they able to finally overcome the limitations they faced to create the complete union they so desired?

Can transcendental truth be achieved? Each of us has only our beliefs, shaped by our 54 perceptions, to help us make that decision, but the very possibility that could be together gives some comfort in an otherwise bleak ending. 55

Conclusions

Wuthering Heights has gone from a hated and perhaps even feared novel at its publication to a well-respected and admired novel today. This change of heart can be attributed to society’s changing perspective of the purpose of literature. Victorians saw literature as primarily mimetic: it should mirror life as exactly as possible in order to serve literature’s second goal of being didactic, or teaching lessons.

Wuthering Heights did not accomplish either of these goals for Victorian audiences.

Modern readers, though, are able to appreciate literature as art. Wuthering Heights is beautiful because of, not in spite of, its originality of plot and structure, which is more symbolic than mimetic. Similarly, modern readers do not look to literature for moral or behavioral guidelines. Thus, we can appreciate the tragic beauty of the novel without feeling that it should be followed as an instruction manual.

The novel seems made for modern criticism. Davies says, “Wuthering Heights demolishes the assumptions of the given world. The church decays in the course of the novel; God is mocked; gender norms reversed. The novel is not radical but recidivist; uninterested in social protest, it exhibits an extremist’s skepticism. It is one of the great prose poems in our language” (93). Modern readers not only accept but revel in the type of deconstruction Bronte performs in her novel. Also, Bronte’s use of a fragmented narrative frame to structure her novel was innovative and daring.

Dobree says, “Today the method is the ordinary one—it was not so much the routine in 1846 . . . the story does not suffer from the usual defect of the narrator method, that of seeing people from only one point of view” (114-5). Marsh agrees, saying,

“Wuthering Heights is so unlike any other production of its own time that it invites 56 comparison with novels of the twentieth century, when several writers set out to challenge or change the conventions of the genre” (197). The very pluralism that

Bronte employs in her novel is now favored and even expected. Thus, the fragmentation of her plot, which was once considered her greatest shortcoming, was actually one of her greatest achievements.

Interestingly, the enigma of Bronte’s novel is what has both condemned it and made it so famous. While many current critics bicker about who holds the key to unlocking the mystery of Wuthering Heights, I assert that, in fact, there is no key.

There is not even really a mystery. As I have shown, Bronte uses both form and content to display to readers that we should be aware of the frailty of our perceptions while at the same time reminding us that, frail as they may be, our perceptions are all we have to rely on in making the decisions that shape our lives. Yes, readers experience many different interpretations of the novel, and this just furthers my assertions of Bronte’s purpose. Each interpretation is unique, because each individual critic’s perception is, of course, his or her own.

In both her form and her content, Bronte was a revolutionary thinker much ahead of her time. The haunting beauty of the novel has captured reader’s interest for more than a century, and, whether readers loved it or hated it, they could not deny the novel’s power, nor could they forget it. Cecil says, “Alone of Victorian novels,

Wuthering Heights is undimmed, even partially, by the dust of time” (144). Although only time can tell how the novel will be approached by future audiences, we can speculate that they will be intrigued by it just as we have. 57

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