Spirits & Sorrow: Wuthering Heights

Emily's Brontë's life work has made history—and rightfully so. But, are we all reading it the same way?

Twilight’s Bella Swan, who is not like other girls.

Before I first read Wuthering Heights, all I knew about the novel was that it was Bella’s favorite book in Twilight. It was an unsurprising choice for Stephanie Meyers: the fog of the moors and Heathcliff’s stormy demeanor synced well with the mystery and gloom of Forks, Washington, while the idea of haunting forebode her affinity for the supernatural. And, of course, Bella’s not like other girls—of course she loves classic novels.

When I did read it, I was in high school. Sitting in my bed (conveniently located on the floor, making me not like other girls), I devoured the book in a weekend. I remember enjoying the book so wholeheartedly that I continued to cite it as one of my favorites. 

Years later, I came across a reference to the novel in Simone de Beauvoir’s the Second Sex. In an exploration of female authorship, de Beauvoir applauded Emily Brontë for departing from themes of domesticity to explore life and death. Few female Victorian authors have made it into the mainstream, distinguishing Brontë’s writing all the more.

Upon reading de Beauvoir’s praise, I realized that most of the plot of Wuthering Heights had escaped my memory–it had been five years or so since I last read it. Deciding that it warranted a reread, I dusted (literally) off my copy to refresh my memory.

Wuthering Heights follows the relationship between Heathcliff (both primary & surname, à la Cher or Madonna) and Catherine Earnshaw across three generations, as told by housekeeper Nelly Dean. To me, it is unclear whether Catherine and Heathcliff share love or a trauma bond; but, what they call their love wreaks havoc across the houses Earnshaw and Linton, ultimately following both Catherine and Heathcliff to their deaths.

To many readers, Wuthering Heights is indeed a chronicle of great love. Upon her death, Heathcliff feels haunted by Catherine, living cruelly until he meets Catherine’s spirit and joins her in the afterlife. For me, it is difficult not to read the story as one of intergenerational trauma, class, and ownership. The story begins when Mr. Earnshaw, father of Catherine and her brother, Hindley, returns from a business trip to London with an orphan boy in tow. The boy is met with immediate ire from Hindley, who, as heir to the estate, is clearly threatened by his father’s favor toward his new brother. Catherine and Heathcliff become thick as thieves, evading Hindley’s wrath together; however, the relationship between the two of them is not always kind. Catherine shares Hindley’s entitlement, and is unafraid to step on Heathcliff when she must to get what she wants.

Heathcliff bears his childhood in silence. But, perhaps as a product of his life on the streets, he understands how to play the people around him to his favor. Heathcliff expertly leverages Mr. Earnshaw’s goodwill toward him in such aims as securing his favorite pony from the stable, for instance. His youthful manipulation—a survival tactic in childhood—will later warp into an antagonism that may even exceed the abuse he endured.

The Cycle of Abuse

Each of the three children in adulthood is thus informed by their childhood station in the house. Hindley is a violent drunk; it is clear that, always ignored in favor of Healthcliff, Hindley resents his father’s favorite while feeling that he himself is unworthy as master of the house. For some time, Catherine leads a perfect life; she marries Edgar Linton and lives as mistress of Thrushcross Grange, the heaven to Wuthering Heights’ hell. But, once Healthcliff reenters the picture, she tortures her husband by entertaining his affection. Like Hindley, Catherine was ignored by their father; but, unlike him, she coped by exerting favor over Heathcliff rather than tyranny. 

An optimistic view would be that Catherine and Heathcliff saw each other as true comrades. A more pessimistic soul would view their relationship as one forged of necessity and enduring out of muscle memory. I don’t want to cry “daddy issues” or risk emulating Freud; but, it appears to me that Catherine’s relationships with Linton and Heathcliff each reproduce her relationship with her father. In each romantic relationship, she is the more adored party, giving her space to dominate should she choose to do so. With Edgar, she is soft because he is; she has no need to cry or lash out. With Heathcliff, it is likely that she is triggered first by the childhood memories of Hindley’s violence that she shares with him, and then by Healthcliff’s violence himself. Her amygdala engages, screaming at her to fight. 

Heathcliff, hardened by years of feeling “other,” embarks on a quest to physically and materially dominate Wuthering Heights—and, as a tenant property, Thurcross Grange—and its inhabitants. His ire toward his experience in the estate preys on various human forms. Ostentatiously, Hindley and Edgar Linton are the prime targets; but, he doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. He marries Linton’s younger sister, Isabella, in order to enrage Linton and provoke Catherine. He physically abuses her and, since they have a child together, likely rapes her. Years later, he literally takes Catherine’s daughter (Catherine II, for all intents and purposes) hostage in his home and forces her to marry his son. Materially, he does this to cement himself as owner of the estate; however, it is clear that he takes pleasure in physical and emotional violence.

The story has somewhat of a happy ending: Catherine II and Hareton, Hindley’s son, marry upon Heathcliff’s death (as so many Victorian marriages are nonconsensual, I should clarify that there seems to be real love between them). The cycle of abuse is broken. We don’t necessarily know why; it would have been easy for Hareton and Catherine II to become as embittered as their parents. But, then again, is there a hard and fast reason why some abuse is healed, while others continue to fester?

Race & Trauma

In cases of cyclical abuse, I tend to take the view that a history of abuse explains one’s behavior, but doesn’t excuse it (credit to a friend of mine, who said this once freshman year—I’ve never forgotten it). I stand by this; but, when it comes to Heathcliff, I also have to think about the intense racism he endured. Though Heathcliff’s race is unclear, he is continually described as a “gypsiy” or as “black.” What is most important is that he was racially “othered” throughout his childhood, and that his race was intentionally weaponized throughout the book in order to imply an inner evil. 

Here, I wonder about the role of the author. Was the weaponization of race in the book meant to come from the characters, or from Brontë herself? Did she intend to depict racism as a particular driver of intergenerational trauma, or was it just convenient for her to depict the “bad guy” as nonwhite?

The Writer’s Room

As I think about the author, I come back to de Beauvoir’s praise for Wuthering Heights as a singular feminine exploration of life and death. It is true that most widely known Victorian women writers depict bourgeois scenes of romance and domesticity. In fact, Wuthering Heights draws from these themes as well. But, I would expect that this is because it’s what Victorian women knew. What brought Brontë to take the lens she did? Did she experience or witness similar abuse to that her characters endured?

There isn’t really any evidence that she did. However, the end of her life was plagued with tuberculosis, and her other writings evidence a belief in the supernatural. From my station, I have to think that a belief in the supernatural would be only natural for a Victorian woman (nay, any woman; I actually definitely believe in ghosts). After all, the love stories penned by many Victorian authors are as much dreams of escape as they are footprints of reality. Why should a belief in the supernatural be any different?