Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë

Wuthering Heights as portrayed by the movies and popular culture:

Conceit number 1: ‘Wuthering Heights is a book about love and romance’. It is not. Most definitely not.

Conceit number 2: ‘Heathcliff and Cathy are star-crossed lovers who are meant for one-another, and whose struggle to be together, even beyond death, forms the basis of the story’. Really, this is so far from the truth I clench my fists in frustration at the very thought that people might actually think this. Pick Romeo and Juliet; pick Lizzie Bennet and Mister Darcy; heck, pick Gomez and Morticia if you really want to, but Cathy and Heathcliff are not the perfect couple, not by a long shot, and the book is largely made by the radioactive fallout of their inability to function as rational people.

          Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, younger sister of Charlotte and thus one of the fabulous Brontë set, is a dark dark book. Not the pitiful Comic Book style of dark, or grim in the sense of horror, but the sickening kind of dark that eats away at you as you watch functioning human beings growing steadily more twisted and horrible as the story saunters on, daring you to believe it can’t possibly keep up this trail of misery and decadence, only to laugh as it twists another knife in somebody’s gut. It’s a bit like Eastenders in that case.

          The story takes place on the bleak moors of the north, something of a rugged wasteland if the book is to be believed, back in that lovely Georgian era that Jane Austen seems so keen to glorify. There are but two man-made locations to explore – the titular Wuthering Heights which is a rustic early-modern pile of stones owned by the Earnshaw family, and Thrushcross Grange, the large domain of the much more posh Linton family. Aside from a village somewhere in the distance, these two houses represent the sole habitation of the region. Mister Lockwood, a newcomer to the neighbourhood, arrives at Wuthering Heights to find a rather unfortunate tangled knot of human beings; an incomprehensible and sadistic old retainer, a rough young man, an unhappy young lady, and presiding over it all is the surly, middle-aged and unwelcoming landlord, Mister Heathcliff, and his pack of half-murderous dogs. Of the relations between these characters, our Mister Lockwood can’t make heads nor tails – each and every one of them seem to hate one another. A couple of chapters in, Lockwood stumbles upon the metaphorical ghost of some Catherine or other, and winds up ill and bedbound, with only the stories of his housekeeper to occupy his time and energy.

          This housekeeper, Mrs Ellen Dean – often known as Nelly – turns out to be intimate with the entire sordid history of Heathcliff, Catherine, and the troubles they caused. In a confusing shift of narrative, Nelly in essence becomes the protagonist, telling of how the orphaned child Heathcliff was brought to Wuthering Heights one day by old Mister Earnshaw, how he befriended his adoptive father’s daughter Catherine/Cathy and made enemies with his son Hindley; then when Earnshaw died not long later, and Hindley succeeded him as master of the family, Heathcliff was degraded to the level of household labourer and forced into squalor. Cathy’s companionship was his only pleasure in life, and that was quickly taken away from him when she ends up marrying Edgar Linton, the rich-kid of the neighbourhood – causing Heathcliff to run away never to return. Only he does return, years later, now with a bit of cash to his name and a dream of revenge against literally everybody who had ever wronged him in the slightest way. The following three quarters of the book, and about two decades of plot, consist of just that.

          The character roster contains some of the most dreadful and unpleasant human beings to appear this side of English Literature. Catherine Earnshaw, who thankfully dies before the halfway mark of the story, is no perfect princess – she’s not the nastiest character, but manages with a number of badly thought out words and actions to send the entire plot spiralling out of control. However she rationalises marrying Linton, she proves later on how manipulative, selfish and slightly crazy she is when Heathcliff comes back and rocks the boat. On top of that is her brother, whose earlier cruelty to Heathcliff is matched by his ensuing slide into drunkenness and gambling which essentially ruins him; Hindley’s neglected son Hareton (Cathy’s nephew) who spends his childhood as an uncouth, vile-mouthed little toad; there’s Joseph, the bible-bashing old sinner who loves the idea of Hell much more than any soppy old thing like Heaven; there’s the weak-willed and foppish Edgar Linton and his stupid sister Isabella; and finally the sickly offspring of Heathcliff and Isabella Linton, their son who just goes by the name of Linton (as if the names couldn’t get any more confusing), pathetic, grasping, selfish, snobbish, and cowardly.

          But of all these disgusting creatures, there is none more frightful or monstrous than Heathcliff himself. Now, each of the characters in Wuthering Heights is a fully developed entity, packed with understandable motives, a degree of sympathy, and one or two features which could go part the way to redeeming them for their many flaws – after all, Hindley Earnshaw did lose his wife, Edgar Linton is actually a fairly decent guy it turns out, and Catherine Earnshaw had done what she thought was right, rationalising her marriage to Edgar as if it was the best thing for everybody. Heathcliff likewise begins quite understandably; a street urchin who suddenly finds he has a home and a loving family, only to have that taken from him not long later to be replaced by a life of degradation and servitude, whose only consolation is the friendship and love of Cathy, who then goes off and selfishly marries some guy who has money and social status. You can see why he might be a bit pissed off. But whereas somebody else ought to be able to just get over a broken heart, run off and start a new life, Heathcliff gets his hands on some money and comes back with only revenge on his mind, revenge against the two families which he now holds an inconsolable grudge against.

         This essentially involves playing the part of the cuckoo. Using Hindley Earnshaw’s debts, Heathcliff manoeuvres himself into a position of essential ownership over Wuthering Heights, and uses that as his base from which to launch a campaign of aggression against the Lintons; first merely getting into regular contact with Catherine, through which to irritate her husband Edgar, then when he realises how Edgar’s sister Isabella has fallen in love with him, he sees just how badly he can use the intertwining family relationships to his advantage. Isabella is a bit silly for throwing herself on this sworn enemy of her family, but Heathcliff’s conduct in using her as a mere pawn in his grand scheme, and making her miserable seemingly just for the pleasure of it, is not what anybody deserves. Heathcliff subjects her to near constant isolation and domestic abuse, until she finally runs away to give birth to their sickly son Linton.

          It’s around this point that the various weak-fisted movie adaptations begin to lose faith in the story. The older generation are beginning to die off; Catherine being the first to go, sickening as though Heathcliff himself is acting as poison to her, and finally slipping away with the birth of hers and Edgar’s daughter, also named Catherine/Cathy (confusingly). Her brother Hindley Earnshaw, Heathcliff’s old tormentor and now dependent, also dies around this time, allowing Cliffy to seize the Heights in fullness and train up Hindley’s son, Hareton, as his dogsbody. After the three children grow older, Isabella Linton dies thus resulting in Heathcliff gaining custody of his son, Linton. With me so far? Good, because Stage Two of the plan commences: the younger Catherine comes into Heathcliff’s sights, and he now knows that by manipulating and forcing the children into a marriage alliance, he can not only inflict more misery on a second generation of the two families but he can also gain control of Thrushcross Grange. With Edgar Linton on his deathbed, and Linton Heathcliff (Jr. Jr.) not likely to outlive him by much, our bad guy ends up being diabolically efficient in getting his way – resorting to kidnapping and imprisonment, and even bribing a solicitor.

          So basically Heathcliff is the villain of the tale – a ‘bad guy’ in both senses of the phrase. The dull and ordinarily miserable lives of the characters are upset and overturned purely by the hand of this wicked nemesis, this antagonist; and the more pain and suffering that he causes, the less we feel any sympathy for him – or at least that’s how we should feel, and I hereby declare any Heathcliff Apologists to be making a ridiculous argument. At any time he could have laid off his relentless assault, asked for forgiveness and left the world as it should be, but no; he pursues his war against the Lintons long after Catherine’s (the senior Cathy’s) death, when he ought to have had some kind of epiphany, but which instead spurs him on to battle Edgar to the death and corrupt the next generation. And if there is to be a hero of this tale, then the closest we have is Nelly Dean, the protagonist through whose eyes we witness all this awful stuff happen. Mister Lockwood may be writing the tale, but Nelly is the one telling it (or should that figure of speech be the other way round?). She is superstitious and meddlesome, and sometimes her interventions cause more harm than good, but at the end of the day she is doing stuff, trying to do the right thing, and she seems to at least have a sense of human decency to her. The later part of the book feels as though it’s her and Cathy (Jr.) struggling directly against Heathcliff, and one can’t help but feel sorry for them, having to stand up to such a monster – a fight which you feel sure they are going to lose. In the end, Heathcliff’s eventual death is the only real way for the surviving characters to find peace and joy; though the villain’s strange decline shows that perhaps all this wickedness was having an adverse effect on him after all. Who knows. It’s a strange finale, and I’m sure one would be better served in seeking out literary criticism of the book than in paying heed to a casual review such as this.

          So would I recommend this? I would indeed; it’s a bloody good book, written with the skill and devotion you would expect from a Brontë, though it’s not an easy nor pleasant read. The subject matter is as dark as it gets, and if you wanted a love story then you won’t like this one bit – not unless you’re sick and twisted. Admittedly I did not enjoy it like I did Jane Eyre, but then, it’s a very different tale – one is actually about love, and quite good at telling it, while the other is a tale of hatred, of suffering, and of powerlessness. Mister Rochester is a good man who has his faults and things to hide, while Heathcliff is a vindictive monster who delights in inflicting pain and misery on people who never wronged him in the first place.

          Like all Georgio-Victorian literature it takes a great deal of time and energy to ingest, but it is by all means worth it. Certainly more so than Pride and Prejudice, which ultimately does not amount to much – the Brontës on the other hand actually give us a fresh and interesting story, populated with richly woven characters and containing themes stronger than a mere ‘marry a man with lots of cash’; this is about people in the middle of nowhere, driven to each other’s throats by their most awful human failings, and it makes for a memorable tale. A tale, at least, that was ignored by Laurence Olivier and many others, I’m sure, who attempted to adapt it for film. If there’s nothing else you take away from this review, then it is that Heathcliff is not some moody romantic, but is one of the most evil men in English literature.

Bibliothing Heights

Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Alexander Hamilton Publishers (c.1940-47 [First Published 1847])

Performance Report: 'Psychopompoi'

In recent times I was present at a strange ritual in one of the gloomy spots of Great Yarmouth – a ritual concerning death and the grey reaches beyond. I arrived on the edge of a cemetery, where other wayfarers were gathering, and after an interval of exchanging pleasantries, a deathly creaking sound reached our ears and we were joined by a strange apparition – a tall masked man, pushing a decrepit old wheelbarrow. He beckoned us to follow, and led our group down the abandoned path to the very heart of the graveyard. It seemed we were not the first to tread this lonely path (I say lonely, there were a good few of us, and they seemed pleasant company); a man dressed in a slightly old fashioned suit – the sort of suit one might wear at their own funeral – sat there in the middle of the clearing. He greeted us cheerfully, welcomingly, expectantly, while the masked barrow-pusher arranged us in a circle around him.

          Of the terrifying visage of ‘Karen’, I shall say little, only that the cloaked monstrosity who appeared in our midst began to circle the suited man – Stephen – as he attempted to play a game of Duck Duck Goose with us. It was clear from the outset that we were not going to be able to get away from the spot-light. For the following three quarters of an hour we saw the strange characters in the world between life and death, and got to grips with the extraordinary job of somebody who has to guide lost spirits from one world to the next – wherever that might be.

          The play Psychopompoi, written and performed by Michael-Israel Jarvis and a handful of talented actors, is intriguing, immersive as can be, and is nothing less than staggeringly fun. We, the audience, are not merely observing the proceedings. We are part of them. From the unorthodox method of attending the play, through Karen’s unnerving treatment of the alarmed audience members, which involved a free piece of raw onion, to the interactions between the four main characters, I was with it all the way. There are moments of grim realisation, there are some of profound beauty, and here and there are even a few unexpected laughs in the spirit of the darkest comedy.

          Though somewhat confusing at first – with Karen’s cryptic answers and peculiar imagery – we are never overwhelmed by such things. The characters are all who they seem to be and, as the play progresses, the few odd ingredients slot into place to make up a clear and vivid picture by the end. There are questions raised by the play, but the answers are liquid enough to be attainable by anybody, even me. 

          So what we have in Psychopompoi is something fun as well as poignant; something expected as well as surprising. It is deeply entertaining to be in an audience which is played with by the performers – for it is not just a momentary tagged-on gimmick as I’ve seen used in other plays, but a central part of the entire performance. I loved it, and can only recommend you give it a go if you’re lucky enough to have the opportunity.

          Suitable for anybody who is going to die some day.

The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame

In all my years of reading, never have I encountered such a pile of decadent filth, vulgar, badly written, permeated so frightfully with overt sexual innuendo, grotesque violence and bad language, whose very existence has cast a stain on the world of children’s literature and whose morals are so deeply questionable and beyond salvage that I have to announce my absolute indignation in ever letting my tender eyeballs peruse the words written therein....

          But what am I saying? By the purpose of barefaced see-through irony I hoped to grab the reader’s attention, so that I might explain how fully and how deeply I am in love with this wonderful and charming little book. In the edition I read, it began with a quote from A.A. Milne, the writer of Winnie-the-Pooh, who sang the praises of The Wind in the Willows to such an extent that I felt he must be exaggerating; for it could not be as wonderful as all that, surely? I can report, to my immense satisfaction, how correct Milne actually was.

          We only need to start with the title itself: The Wind in the Willows. Just say it out loud for me. A lovely sounding little sentence, isn’t it? All those lovely ‘W’ sounds in it, a title so evocative of the natural world in which the book is set, yet only vaguely connected to anything in the story. It’s just a title. The only purpose for its being there instead of some other title being that it is gorgeous, and in that respect it is the most fitting title for a work of literature such as this. What else could you call it, I wonder: ‘Moley and Ratty Bumbling Around a River’? ‘Joy-Riding With Animals’? ‘Picnics and Weasels’? ‘The Adventures of Mister Toad’? (actually, this is a name used for various stripped-out adaptations of the work, which concentrate on Toad’s character arc, taken from one of the chapter headings – also to note that 1949 Disney adaptation originally styled itself as this). No; Grahame made an inspired choice, and this is probably in my ‘Top 3’ best-named novels of all time.

          The story concerns four animals and their relaxed lives in the English countryside. Mole is a mild little guy who, fed up with spring-cleaning, leaves his house one day and strolls off into the blue – where he meets Rat, the jolly boat-loving Water Rat (or Water Vole to use the politically correct term nowadays). The two become fast friends, later meeting rough-and-ready warm-hearted Badger, and the impetuous and conceited Mister Toad of Toad Hall. While Moley and Ratty bumble around the countryside, Toad forms an obsession for those new-fangled motor cars that are tearing up our roads and causing a frightful racket, ends up stealing one and is later summarily thrown in prison for being such a mischief-maker. Toad then escapes, now a wanted fugitive, and makes his way back home where at the climax of the tale he discovers his house has been taken over by Weasels, and has to rely on his friends Mole, Rat and Badger to help restore him to his property.

          We all have our favourite character in The Wind in the Willows – the sky is blue and the sea is wet – and my favourite is without a doubt Mister Rat. Firstly, I know he’s a water vole (Arvicola amphibious), not a true rat, but he proudly wears the name of rat. We are used to seeing rats portrayed in dark and villainous roles in entertainment, and they are generally feared and hated by people – a tragedy considering how clever and versatile a species they are, and one whose success is due in no small part to the simple fact of human existence; we ourselves make the conditions that rats thrive in. That the character of Rat can bear such a name with no stigma, no suspicion, and be one of the most stalwart and loveable of all characters in children’s literature is a blow struck for common decency, as far as I believe. Then there is the actual character of Rat; dependable, worthy, sticks up for his friends both through thick and thin, and seems to have absolutely the right idea about how to spend one’s life:

‘         “Nice? It’s the only thing,” said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant forward for his stroke. “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing around in boats. Simply messing,” he went on dreamily: “messing – about – in –boats; messing – “

                    “Look ahead, Rat!” cried the Mole suddenly.

          It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.

          “ – about in boats – or with boats,” the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. “In ‘em or out ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.” ’

          [Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. Methuen. (1935) pp. 4-5]

          It’s this espousal of the relaxed attitude to life that forms so much of the underlying wonder of this book. That’s what it is: relaxing. And it has a jolly good time doing so. Besides our beloved Ratty there is also polite, shy, unassuming Mole, who’s new-found wonder for the world makes him a loveable audience surrogate; there’s Badger, who though unwilling to mix in society and preferring to live in the middle of the Wild Woods, possesses a warm-hearted appeal and a willingness to open his door to those who need him. His house, his badger set rather, is a lovely location which forms the bedrock of one of the most relaxing chapters in the whole relaxing book. And when roused, Badger proves a masterful leader, with clear ideas about what to do and how to do it, and who won’t put up with crap from anybody.

          And then there’s Toad. This guy literally steals the show – and a shiny red car – with his caper, imprisonment and escape. The main thing to note about Toad is that he is genuinely a maniac; as in, he must suffer from deep-rooted psychological problems – he can’t control himself, can’t reign in his naughty desires, can’t listen when his friends are trying to help him. One moment he is sincerely sorry for all the wrong he has done, aware of how much trouble he’s in, the next he’s triumphantly skipping along and prattling about how clever he is. And he does this over and over again, never learning anything. Only right at the end does he learn some modicum of self control, after Badger and Rat have told him for the umpteenth time to get a grip on himself and deflate his stupid head. He is undoubtedly guilty for what in Edwardian times counts as joyriding, and though I disagree about the twenty years in prison he gets sentenced, really jail is the right place for him. He’s a menace to society – jail, or perhaps a mental hospital of some sort, over a prolonged period with no escapes. I mean, at one stage his friends do the next best thing and keep him locked up under supervision in his own house.

          But speaking of Toad’s liability to break the law, this presents one slight little plot-hole that is never resolved. Toad definitely did commit a crime, and he was successfully prosecuted for it. He escapes from prison, and is pursued by the police; Toad naturally thinks that all he needs to do is get back home, which he eventually does – despite the likelihood that even the most stupid law-enforcer could probably think it advisable to look for him there of all places. They know who’s escaped, and they know where he lives. But besides retaking Toad Hall from the Weasels and getting Toad to reform his character, nothing else is actually done; the bobbies are still technically after him at the closing of the book, and he can’t expect to hide in plain sight by living his life as before. But no, all one has to do to escape the law is get back home, apparently, and such issues can easily be forgotten.

           This is the only small gripe I have with the book; the rest of it holds together admirably. The best chapters are always those dealing with Rat and Mole, as there is never the desire for action or adventure as we get in the Toad sections – we just amble through the natural world with Kenneth Grahame’s beautiful writing abilities to guide us. I’m serious; this man could really write, and The Wind in the Willows comes alive in the sections where there’s nothing much else happening. Oh, stuff happens all right; Mole goes off into the Wild Woods where he is stalked by weasels, Ratty meets a drifter who entrances him with talks of far-away shores, Mole revisits his old home where he receives something of an epiphany, and the pair of them run into the godly presence of someone who can only be Pan – a wonderful pagan addition to the book which gives it an unexpected and rich flavour on top of everything else. It just gently flows along, happy in its own rhythm, and it is rare for me to read a book that is such a joy to just read. Here’s a little excerpt from the time that Mole and Rat get lost in the middle of the dark Wild Woods:

‘         “What’s up, Ratty?” asked the Mole.

                   “Snow is up,” replied the Rat briefly; “or rather down. It’s snowing hard.”

                   The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer  were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. A fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below.    ’        

                   [Methuen. (1935) Pg. 37]

In essence, The Wind in the Willows is perfect, and well worth a read. It has been adapted and abridged many times, but really this is one case of the text itself being the real key to enjoying it. The book’s not long, and it’s not difficult, so if you’ve never actually read the original then, like me, you can discover a world of delight just waiting for you within its pages.

Bib of Biblio Hall

Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. 49^th Ed. Methuen & Co. Ltd. (1935 [First Published 1908])