It almost makes Hamlet look silly. All his important internal struggle and angst, all his indecision, all the intrigues—how important everything within the palace seemed, to him and to everyone else involved. But all the time, they had no idea. They were focused on the wrong thing. The audience is left wondering—if they had shifted their focus and put aside internal grievances to make Denmark strong, what would have happened? If they had faced the actual, bigger threat of Fortinbras’ army instead of being distracted by internal turmoil, what would have happened?
Not to say the murder of Hamlet’s father and the grief and betrayal therein isn’t legitimate–but I also think survival is legitimate. That’s the problem with the trees you get distracted by–they’re all legitimate, but at what cost?
You can imagine what a viewing experience this was. My entire idea of this play was turned upside-down; the obsessive Fortinbras shots I at first thought strange and unnecessary, I soon realized were an insightful interpretation. That perhaps the inclusion and role of Fortinbras is not a plot convenience or odd loose end—perhaps it is a very subtle placement by the Bard, a very subtle point for his readers.
It is one of the tragic flaws of we, as a human species, to focus on the wrong things. We focus on the small bad in our lives instead of the huge good. We focus on internal concerns in a family, organization, or even country, at the peril of being a strong and successful whole and facing often greater external threats. We miss the forest for the trees.
Perhaps Hamlet’s tragic flaw is not, as many say, indecision. Perhaps he, and his entire country, were putting their energy towards the wrong things—self-destructive quests that destroyed everything around them.
Hello! Why don’t we return to one of the old guard for this month’s posts—the Bard.
I believe it was Mortimer Adler that read Hamlet over again every year, gaining new insights with each look. You could say society is in the same bucket; new adaptations of this play focus on different things, and different waves of academics bring out one theme or focus, only to be surprised by a later insight from a different voice, highlighting another aspect of the story.
Kenneth Branagh’s adaptation of Hamlet did that for me. Here’s the backstory:
I’d read this play once before, and was reading it again this year for Literature. I’ve recently enjoyed indulging in adaptations (studying something is an easy excuse), and as you all have seen I’ve gone rather wild with Wuthering Heights. So I watched Branagh.
Reading Hamlet, I found Fortinbras a rather odd thorn. Perhaps a loose end. The arrogant, power-hungry Norwegian prince who conquers Denmark in the end. What was he doing there? He wasn’t in the story enough to really contribute to thematic significance, and his entrance at the end is almost random and seems quite the convenience for our esteemed author. However, Branagh gave Fortinbras more of a presence in his adaptation. Fortinbras already was sprinkled throughout the beginning of the play, but Branagh gave him more wordless shots, flashbacks, and made it always ominous. The viewer is definitely more aware of the threat he poses to Denmark, and of the dramatic irony that the Danes have no idea.
As the film progresses, so does Fortinbras’ looming figure. Branagh highlights the huge scope of the threat during one of Hamlet’s soliloquies as the camera zooms out, leaving Hamlet a speck before Fortinbras’ enormous army (which Hamlet has no idea is actually marching to Denmark).
Act 5 is the most marked difference of all. While in the play, Fortinbras only appears with his entrance at the end, his approach is frequently shown by Branagh, heightening the peril. The audience is agonizingly aware that, the whole of act 5, Fortinbras is swiftly taking a defenseless Denmark—and, again, Hamlet and crew have no idea. The action of act 5, the duels, the poisonings, that seem in the script so all-consumingly important, are constantly juxtaposed with shots of the massive approaching army. In Branagh’s version, Fortinbras is of as great importance, if not more, than the intrigue within Denmark.
Look out for the next installment, up later this month!
(missed the first part of this conversation? find it HERE)
Perhaps Heathcliff, as I said, is not really a man at all. In general, men don’t sympathize with him—women do. Sometimes the sympathy comes from romantic feeling, or because we identify with him, but there is a connection.
What I now think is that Cathy’s love for Edgar is perhaps Emily Brontë’s statement on all romantic love; it will change, it will have seasons, etc. Cathy and Edgar are two very different, highly imperfect people. Although they loved each other (and, as Nelly thought, were actually on their way to happiness before Heathcliff came back and stepped into their marriage), they didn’t have that wild, transcendental attachment of Heathcliff and Cathy that leave so many fans swooning.
But perhaps Heathcliff and Cathy’s love is not romantic at all. Perhaps it is, instead, the deeper relationship that Brontë seems to value above that of marriage—the relationship between a woman and her inner man (or vice versa).
When looked at in this way, Cathy’s speech makes complete sense. Let’s look at part of this passage again:
“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees.” Although rather unromantic, this could be Brontë’s overall statement on romantic love. Seeing as she never married and seemed content in herself, it’s not that surprising that she might see it in a more removed and secondary way. And it is pretty realistic—long-term relationships do change like the seasons. “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.” Just as one’s relationship with one’s self would be. “Nelly, I am Heathcliff!” Heathcliff is her Animus! He is a part of her. “He’s always, always in my mind:” because he’s a part of her. “not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable;” it is impracticable, because he is contained within her.
Now this is just one interpretation of many, I am well aware, and it is one I personally did not buy a few months ago. But keep it in the back of your mind! Think about it! It’s pretty interesting.
Part of Jung’s theory is that if a person is not in touch with their Anima/Animus, or if they are letting problems with this other part of themselves fester, that this part of a person becomes destructive and sabotages their relationships, that it holds them back from their full potential in all areas of life. Heathcliff certainly becomes a destructive force.
Now this is a concept I find pretty complex and do not yet completely understand. So let me just talk about this in the simpler terms I am currently more comfortable with—as the masculine and the feminine.
I think every person has a mix of both genders within them; some people’s are suppressed, or they’re afraid of or not in touch with one part of themselves. Emily Brontë (as far as we know; there isn’t as much information on her as many would like) did not have any romantic relationships; she hated teaching, and was most happy alone on the moors. Talk about someone who would be very comfortable with themselves—both sides of themselves.
Heathcliff is intense emotion, and intense pain. He is left without the one source of love he enjoyed, Cathy, and is not able to change or break free from his painful feelings and can do nothing but destruct.
At the end, as we know, Heathcliff does change. He tells Nelly he feels some kind of change on the horizon; he feels he has nearly attained his heaven, that of being united to Cathy, and at the end, when their gravestones are alongside Edgar’s, peace can be restored.
All in all, Wuthering Heights has recently been making me think about one’s relationship to one’s self. Perhaps, the idea that, by acknowledging and coming up against the uglier sides within you, you can achieve a greater synthesis of your entirety. How about you guys?
For previous discussion of Heathcliff, and background on Wuthering Heights, click HERE and HERE.
I must confess that I did not at all expect to return to Heathcliff (at least so soon)! But Emily’s character is indelible, I fear. I must have read Wuthering Heights in October and here I am, still wrapped up in processing and thinking about it. It puts most other books to shame by contrast.
So, last time we looked at Heathcliff we were taking him on his literal terms. We were taking the story on its literal terms as well—Heathcliff was Heathcliff, Cathy was Cathy, every character a separate entity and complete human being living in an ordinary (if Gothic and amazing) world.
Back when I was reading Wuthering Heights, I was also indulging in some Jung. In the chapters on the Anima and Animus (every man’s inner feminine, and every woman’s inner masculine), there was a stormy black-and-white picture of Heathcliff and the moors from some older adaptation, with a caption below stating that some people think that Heathcliff, so shocking to so many readers, was in fact a representation of Emily Brontë’s Animus subconsciously coming forth.
When I first read that it sounded ridiculous to me. Mind you, I was still mid-read of Wuthering Heights, taking everything at face-value, taking everything in, reacting to the first impressions of the characters. My sympathy for Heathcliff has taken awhile to develop; when I read the book I empathized with Isabella and the spaniel Heathcliff tried to hang; he became gradually unforgivable to me and I boxed him out of any sympathies just as one would to an abuser/antagonist in real life.
But, as you all know, I have gradually come to feel much more understanding for Heathcliff; although many of his actions remain equally unforgivable, I have gone from viewing his character as a separate entity, to someone I deeply identify with and learn from.
Many are quite troubled by Cathy’s conflicting feelings for Edgar and Heathcliff. It can be hard to understand how Cathy could be so shallow—anyone who at all believes in true love is horrified by her throwing a way a love for Heathcliff so deep just so she could have the flashy Edgar and be the finest woman in the neighborhood.
Here is Cathy’s famous speech, as she tries to decide whether to go through with Edgar’s proposal (which she has already accepted):
“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable;” (Cathy speaking to Nelly, from chapter 9 of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë).
While Cathy’s comparisons of her love for Heathcliff and that for Edgar are often construed as describing two types of romantic love (I have read of it before being defined as Transcendental versus Empirical love), I can’t help but wonder if Emily Brontë is making a broader statement entirely.
What if Heathcliff is not really a man at all? Now I’m not saying he’s a woman, what I’m saying is this: in general, men tend not to like Wuthering Heights. I know there are lots of men out there who appreciate the book, but in general I (and others) have noticed that men are more likely to dislike the book, and women are more likely to have an affinity to it. Now one could boil this down to the simple fact that many women-fans are in love with Heathcliff. But really? Are we going to leave it at that?
But remember how I called him radical? Find the first part of this post HERE.
Ovid, Waterhouse’s most likely source material, tells. He tells who Orithyia’s related to, what her sons do; he tells of Boreas’ anger, he tells of Boreas’ actions—it is all telling, it is all what happens to her. Victorians did a lot of telling themselves; deciding the proper sphere of women, telling them the ideal they ought to live up to.
Waterhouse, however, does no telling at all. He eschews the plot that Ovid, and most other treaters of this tale, focus on. The story is cast aside for the moment Waterhouse depicts.
The girl is aligned with the nature around her. The colors of her clothes echo those around her, she like the nature around her is buffeted by the wind. The deep, soulful colors and textures connect her to her environment; the viewer’s eyes are drawn to her face, framed by her arm, by the billow of her mantle. Her face, her expression, and the daffodil in her ear.
In such a dark, deep color palette, the yellow is surprising. Daffodils are spring, a season far removed from the setting of the painting. Spring is rebirth, and change, and generally, in the language of flowers, that is just what the daffodil symbolizes.
The Metamorphoses is all about rebirth. Characters meet life anew in changed forms, with their life situations changed drastically—and often tragically—along with it. As Peter Trippi puts it, in his book J. W. Waterhouse:
“it was Ovid’s Metamorphoses to which he [Waterhouse] returned in every phase of his career, celebrating physical transformations as emblems of the passage from suffering to acceptance, from death to eternal life”.
In his portrayal of this girl, Waterhouse accepts the unknown. He does not tell us what is happening to her, how she relates to other aspects of the story. He does not tell anything about her, as his time could be so wont to do. Instead, Waterhouse accepts the silence of the moment, focusing in on the girl’s mysterious expression, an expression showing deepness, deep as the colors she wears, as the circles throughout the painting. The daffodil he places behind her ear suggests her own possibilities for transformation, for metamorphosis, subtly transcending the views of his society and time to create a gorgeous exploration of the mystical feminine.
What do you think about all this? Are you a hardcore Waterhouse fan, hater, or new initiate?Comment below!
“it was Ovid’s Metamorphoses to which he [Waterhouse] returned in every phase of his career, celebrating physical transformations as emblems of the passage from suffering to acceptance, from death to eternal life” (Peter Trippi, from his book J. W. Waterhouse)
John William Waterhouse is perhaps best known for his paintings of women, particularly in Classical and Medieval settings, retelling classic tales. He often retold stories from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the Ancient Roman Epic about magical physical changes. Ovid’s stories tend to focus on the chaos in the transformations, the fragility of life and the status quo of anyone’s experience, and the randomness of suffering.
One of the hundreds of short tales winding throughout the Metamorphoses is that of “Boreas and Orithyia”. Ovid’s telling of this tale, most likely Waterhouse’s source material, corresponds to the purpose: it is a short transition piece to tie the previous story to the next section, in order to retain his goal of all the smaller stories in his work being connected. Ovid tells the thread matter-of-factly; Boreas, the North Wind, desires to marry the mortal Orithyia, but her father, having a grudge against Northerners (which is how it connects to the previous story, in which a Northerner harms Orithyia’s father’s family), forbids it. Boreas resorts to his customary violence and carries Orithyia off; he forces her to become his wife, and their children (who have wings—the Boreads) join Jason and the Argonauts, tying into the next part of the saga.
Orithyia is never focused on for herself. It is a highly technical story.
But now’s where we get to the actual painting: Waterhouse retells the story, painting a girl being buffeted by the wind. It is not strictly identifiable with the original tale at all, and the only reason we know what Waterhouse is retelling is by the title, Boreas.
It is a completely different composition than Ovid’s, and certainly different from many of the other artistic retellings of the story, all of which depict the moment of abduction. No, Waterhouse’s take is so different as to be unrecognizable from the original plot—not only a different take, I would say, but a radical one.
John William Waterhouse is not usually someone tagged with that appellation, “radical”. To many he is a stuffy old Victorian Gentleman, who, beginning with his own lifetime, often found himself out of fashion and certainly is today. Recently, his painting Hylas and the Nymphs was temporarily taken down to invite museum-goers to participate in a discussion on the portrayal of women’s bodies in art, a good illustration of the negative way some people perceive his portrayals of women—as erotic objects to be looked at.
At first glance, Waterhouse’s painting seems completely in-step with his time. Women in the Victorian Era had limited rights and were idealized, especially idealized for being the center of the home and sexually pure. Women were expected to be modest, and were not encouraged to act in the outside world.
The girl in Waterhouse’s painting is similarly modestly clad; she is beautiful and feminine, she is highly idealized. It is easy to look at this—and many of Waterhouse’s paintings—and write them off as highly aesthetic erotic portraits of the female body unrealistic to the full experience of being a woman. It is easy to look at him and his work and feel no connection between the idealized, Victorian females he portrays and the real woman you might be or know.
But remember how I called him radical?
(tune in next time for the second part of this post!)
In this lovely age of the 21st century, one can do a lot of things with one’s art. Spoonflower is a fast-growing business, where anyone from the lowliest amateur to a professional designer can upload their fabric design and have it printed in anything from cotton to silk.
And it’s actually easier than I (a tech-challenged individual) would have thought. If you’re averse to the investment that is Photoshop, you can do what I did and get the free trial, which is actually surprisingly lengthy. On Photoshop, I was able to cut out by different instruments, delete the white space around them, and assemble them in new ways to create trios.
Wanna see my fabric? Two different designs are available here:
But that’s only the beginning of the story! From there, you can order your fabric (or any of the other many fabulous designs on Spoonflower), and whip it up into many kinds of projects to suit your needs. For instance, as the esteemed Gardenia (another flower in The Snottor’s garden) did, making musically-themed presents for music teachers…
The Phlox must confess herself to be an avid, if sadly amateur, painter. Her favorite medium is watercolor and pencil but can also be seen at work with gauche or a pen; her favorite subject, nature, but what must take a close second…
As the devoted reader will remember, The Phlox has written an entire novel on the subject of musicians, and thus it will not come as a surprise that she is one of that disastrous number herself. Having doodled stringed instruments in the margin of her notes somewhat pathologically for some time, she finally took to formalities, trying to maximize her minimal skill.
Bonus! Funny musical botanical drawings!
Inspired by the Nonsense Botany Illustrations of the much-admired Edward Lear…
But what is this “spoonflower”, the reader wonders? What use does the Phlox possibly put this immature doodlings to? Stick around to find out….
For the background to this analysis on Wuthering Heights’ Heathcliff, click HERE. For The Snot’s lovely review of several Wuthering Heights film adaptations, click HERE.
I don’t think Heathcliff’s intense passion and yearning for Cathy is romantic. I don’t think he’s really in love with here. In this post, I am offering my own humble analysis of this classic story, which I don’t think is a love story at all.
Basically, as I said last time, Cathy was the only experience Heathcliff ever really had with being loved and accepted for who he was. She was beautiful and free-spirited and how could he not fall in love with her; they kept each other from loneliness and despair, they shared freedom playing on the moors. Who hasn’t been infatuated with someone? Who doesn’t know what it feels like for the presence, or even the idea, of someone else, in reality or in imagination, to somehow make everything better?
I don’t think Heathcliff loved the real Cathy. Cathy wasn’t seduced to the dark side by the Lintons; her stay with them led her to discover new parts of herself. The Cathy that loved fine clothes wasn’t a fake part of her, as I’m sure Heathcliff would have liked to think; it was Cathy’s way of growing up. The reality of this shiny Cathy-bird is moodiness, self-absorption and selfishness, arrogance. She is a fair-weathered friend; she wants to have everything; she is infatuated with the idea that marrying Edgar would make her the finest woman in the neighborhood. Like many others throughout the course of human history, Heathcliff discovered that the person he loved was not what he idealized them to be. Cathy was a real, highly imperfect person. But Heathcliff was never able to accept the reality of Cathy. Instead, he clung to this idea of her, this perfect Cathy who made everything better, who would, if only he could have her, make everything better. Like magic.
Heathcliff suffered a lot in his life. He was regularly beaten and bullied all growing up; he was looked down upon, considered inferior, and generally without caring adults. He was often probably painfully lonely. I think Heathcliff’s obsession with Cathy was a coping mechanism, clinging in his suffering to this sure idea of a remedy.
Heathcliff and Cathy’s story to me is the sad reality that people are not what you thought they were, what you wish they were.
It is about how someone else can’t really ever fix your problems, no matter how much you want them to. It is about the tragedy of putting everything into longing for something outside of yourself to save you. In a way, Heathcliff was like a Disney princess, convinced that if only he could have his prince(-ess) charming, he would be delivered from all pain.
The tragedy also lies in all the possibilities. What would have happened if Heathcliff had accepted Cathy as she really was and let go? If he realized that his love for her wasn’t real love at all? Could he have made a nice life for himself with Isabella, would she be able to mature from her infatuation-with-the-bad-boy to have a nice relationship with him? Or could he have let go from his Cathy-preoccupation and become a social avenger, instead of a personal avenger, being the caring father for Hareton he had never had himself?
A lot of people love Heathcliff’s destructive passion for Cathy. And yes, it is destructive. It’s because, as I see it, it’s not love. Heathcliff’s desire for Cathy is so intense because he needs her to survive. He needs her to be free from himself. He needs her because if he can only, only have her, he will be alright.
I do not think Wuthering Heights is a love story. I think, by showing all the painful ways human relationships can turn—obsessive, abusive, selfish, etc.—Emily Brontë is showing us a profound story about love. Hareton and Catherine are mirrors of Heathcliff and Cathy, and at first their relationship is almost exactly parallel to their predecessors, with Catherine’s rude treatment of Hareton. Heathcliff’s tragedy is in that he was never able to change; in the very end, after all the problems, change is the antidote. Hareton and Catherine do just that, and Heathcliff finally realizes that he was focused on the wrong thing—this revenge that would somehow be meaningful—the whole time. He gives in to them.
The Phlox dismounts her soapbox. She takes a drink of water. She fends off the shocked, admonishing Snottor at how long these posts have been. She recalls her manners, and invites the reader to contribute their own views, as she is well aware she is nowhere near right. This is a book she intends on living with the rest of her life, and will likely one day think this opinion-dump a very silly affair indeed, but she did want to share this different perspective she has been considering. Thoughts?
It’s likely you’ve heard of Heathcliff, the tormented protagonist of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. It is likely, also, that you have an opinion on him. Generally these seem to go in two directions.
Opinion 1: Heathcliff is a romantic, seductive, tortured Byronic Hero. You are in love with him. His unbridled passion and emotion are the heights of romance. The passion is unbearable.
Opinion 2: Heathcliff is terrible, you find it impossible to sympathize with him at all. He is an abusive villain; he is selfish, he beats women and hurts helpless dogs, etc. He is horrifying in every way.
I am not really in either camp. In my reading of Wuthering Heights, I scoured the internet, trying to see if anybody felt the way about Heathcliff I did. Alternating opinions were scarcer than I would have thought: and so I realized I’d better contribute to this discussion, and write about it myself.
First I’m going to provide some background on Wuthering Heights, and on this elusive Heathcliff himself, in case the reader is not familiar with him. If you don’t want the spoilers, or already know it all, feel free to skip to part two of this post, which contains my analysis.
Wuthering Heights takes place on the English moors, focusing on two families largely removed from society. The Earnshaw family adopts Heathcliff, a child found by Mr. Earnshaw on the streets of Liverpool, whom Mr. Earnshaw prefers to his own son, Hindley. Hindley bullies Heathcliff as they grow up; Cathy, Mr. Earnshaw’s daughter, is wild and willful and Heathcliff’s only friend.
After Mr. Earnshaw dies, Hindley comes back and takes over Wuthering Heights, a tyrannical ruler. After his wife’s death, he descends into alcoholism, becoming even more abusive to Cathy and Heathcliff, whose only escape is to the moors where they are free.
At the age of twelve things change for Cathy. The Lintons are the other family on the moor, considerably more cushy and upper-crust than the grim inhabitants of Wuthering Heights. Cathy makes a stay with them after she is attacked by their dog. When she returns Heathcliff hardly knows her; she has, for the first time in her life, been treated like a lady and been given comforts. She becomes (more) arrogant, likes fine clothes, and suddenly finds Heathcliff lacking.
Enter Edgar. He’s the son of the Linton’s, and as a boy he’s a cry-baby and something of a wimp. Cathy has him over a whole lot more; Edgar’s shinier object than Heathcliff, who withdraws further at his usurpation.
Eventually Edgar asks Cathy to marry him. Cathy is torn and talks to Nelly, the servant, about it, unaware that Heathcliff is laying down unseen in another part of the room. When she gets to the part about how it would degrade her to marry Heathcliff, he leaves, missing, with tragic irony, the next part of her speech, where she explains to Nelly just how deep her love for Heathcliff is, unlike the changeable love she knows she has for Edgar.
Heathcliff is gone for three years. Cathy marries Edgar; she is strong-willed as ever and bends soft-willed Edgar and his sister Isabella to her will, and thus they all get along quite well, and Nelly thought that Edgar and Cathy were really on the path to happiness before Heathcliff came back.
Heathcliff returns, a gentleman, mysteriously wealthy. The only thing that has sustained him, all the miserable years making something of himself, was the thought of Cathy; Edgar at first lets Heathcliff hang around, but there are eventually some confrontations, as sparks fly between Heathcliff and Cathy. Meanwhile Heathcliff lives at Wuthering Heights, taking his revenge on Hindley by ruining him through gambling etc.
Cathy cannot abide having to choose; when Edgar tries to force her to choose between himself and Heathcliff, she, in an emotionally manipulative move, falls ill (at first it seems to be all show). However, soon it is not all show. Cathy really loses it.
Meanwhile, before Cathy’s illness, Heathcliff ran off with Isabella, who had a crush on him, as a sort of revenge on Cathy. He demonstrated his brutality to Isabella beforehand by hanging her spaniel, and she still runs off with him. Nelly rescues the spaniel.
Heathcliff abuses Isabella. Cathy becomes more and more weak and sick. Heathcliff sleeps in Cathy’s old room, in the old oak paneled bed they used to share as children, keeping anyone else out; upon hearing of Cathy’s significant decline, he forces Nelly (now working at Edgar’s) to arrange a final meeting between him and Cathy.
This meeting is tortuous. Cathy is weak and ill, and they cling to each other in agony. It is not that romantic, however—they are both bitter, they blame each other, she tells him that he and Edgar have killed her, it’s pretty miserable. Edgar bursts in, Cathy faints, Heathcliff hands her to him and escapes.
Heathcliff waits all night in the orchard. Cathy, who is seven months pregnant, delivers her child and dies. Nelly tells Heathcliff the news in the morning and he, a man who seldom shows strong emotion, wails and bangs his head against a tree until it bleeds. He wishes aloud that Cathy will wake in torment, not in the peace Nelly suggests, and, as she said that Heathcliff killed her, begs her to haunt him.
Heathcliff eventually kills Hindley in a confrontation; Isabella eventually escapes, has Heathcliff’s child and dies alone in London (Edgar disowned her when she ran off with Heathcliff).
Edgar matures considerably as a character. He cared for Cathy unceasingly in her illness, and, although becoming somewhat of a recluse after her death, gives all love to their daughter, Catherine.
Heathcliff becomes master of Wuthering Heights, living there with Hindley’s son, Hareton, who Heathcliff degrades in further revenge to Hindley, just in the way Hindley degraded Heathcliff.
When Isabella dies, her son Linton is sent to Edgar, but Heathcliff quickly claims him. Linton is sickly and is abused by Heathcliff, who keeps him living in fear.
Catherine (junior) is lonely and restless, locked up as she is in her father’s house. She loves the moors, like her mother, and is constantly trying to explore further. One day she meets Heathcliff, about whom Edgar has kept all knowledge from her, who takes her to Wuthering Heights. She reunites with Linton, and they become fast friends.
The two exchange love letters for awhile; soon they see and play with each other. Heathcliff encourages their marriage, but the longer Catherine knows Linton the less she is impressed by him. He is whiny and pitiful, and declines. She begins to get cold feet, but whenever she does Linton betrays his debilitating terror of his father, of what Heathcliff will do to him if he does not successfully marry Catherine.
Eventually Catherine is forced to marry Linton. She’s locked up in Wuthering Heights, and has no choice. Heathcliff hits her mercilessly when she tries to fight back against his master scheme.
After she marries Linton, she is able to escape just in time to be at Edgar, her father’s, deathbed. The moment Edgar is dead Heathcliff arrives, and tears Catherine away.
Linton dies. He had been getting more and more ill, and this was all part of Heathcliff’s plan—because when Linton dies, Heathcliff gets control of Edgar’s house. He now has complete control of everything.
Catherine is miserable. She has nothing; she is trapped in Wuthering Heights with no living family members, no friends, and just the cruel Heathcliff and discounted (by her) Hareton. Hareton thinks she’s kind of cute, and tries to get to know her, but his advances are cruelly denied, and Catherine talks to him in the same way—calling him dumb and stupid, bad company—that Cathy, her mother, did to Heathcliff. Hareton responds angrily. It seems as if history is repeating itself.
However, history does not repeat itself. Nelly tells Catherine that it was cruel of her to behave so—Cathy never used to listen to admonishments—the point is that Catherine changes. She apologizes to Hareton. Hareton apologizes for his harsh words in response to Catherine’s; they forgive each other, something Heathcliff and Cathy were never able to do. Catherine begins to teach Hareton to read, lifting him up from the ignorance Heathcliff had deliberately kept him in.
Heathcliff has been losing it more and more. The departed Cathy keeps a tighter and tighter hold of him; he even digs up her grave, laying next to her corpse, at one point. He becomes more and more distracted, but one night, as he comes back in from his moor-wanderings, he is stunned to be greeted by two pairs of Cathy-reminiscent eyes (Hareton’s especially), looking up from the book they are sharing. Despite all of Heathcliff’s attempts, love has blossomed in Wuthering Heights. He is stunned.
Heathcliff lets go. He lets Hareton and Catherine be; he loses the will to continue his revenge any longer, as he explains to Nelly, who is gravely concerned—he tells her he feels a change coming, but he doesn’t know what it is. He forgets to eat, sleep, he is always distracted; he roves the moors, late at night. They find him dead, one morning, in Cathy’s old oak-paneled bed, the window hanging open, drenched in rain, smiling.
Hareton loved Heathcliff, despite Heathcliff’s mistreatment of him; he was the closest thing to a father Hareton ever had, and he insists on a fine burial. Heathcliff, Cathy, and Edgar’s gravestones stand side by side. Hareton and Catherine revitalize Wuthering Heights with flowers and happiness, but leave it, for Edgar’s old house, where they will live together.
A lot to take in? I know. You should read it (it’s mind-blowing). Here’s the point:
Nobody ever loved Heathcliff. He was an ethnic “other” to the characters, although his ethnicity is never specified; characters describe him as dark-complexioned, and rudely refer to him as “gypsy”. Some people think of him as a member of the Roma people, others as being African, and having come to Liverpool (where he was found by Mr. Earnshaw) through its infamous slave-trade.
What’s the point? He was treated and spoken to, often, as if he was inhuman. Cathy was the only one who treated him like he was an ordinary person; they escaped together from the cruel rule of Hindley, they were free on the moors. Cathy was the only place Heathcliff ever knew feeling good, feeling loved. Cathy was then “stolen” by Edgar; Cathy died. Earth became hell to Heathcliff, because he couldn’t have her.
But what’s the real point to all this? What did Heathcliff teach me? Why don’t I think this is a love story? You’ll have to read part 2 to find out. Find it HERE.