Wuthering Heights: Modern English Version: Today's English with Yesterday's Eloquence for Easy Reading

By Emily Bronte and Tanya Johnson

Wuthering Heights Modern English Version by Emily Bronte is a beloved classic that has been captivating readers for over 150 years. The story follows the passionate and tumultuous relationship between Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, set against the backdrop of the wild and unpredictable Yorkshire moors. Their love is doomed from the start, as their families' bitter rivalry threatens to tear them apart.

The modern English version, translated by Harvest Research, brings this classic novel into the 21st century without sacrificing the eloquence and beauty of the original prose. This modernization of the text makes it more accessible to contemporary readers while preserving the poetic language and vivid imagery that make Wuthering Heights such a timeless masterpiece.

Bronte's masterful prose brings the characters to life in vivid detail, each with their own flaws and weaknesses that make them relatable and intriguing. From the brooding and vengeful Heathcliff to the fiery and impulsive Catherine, readers are drawn into a world of dark secrets, hidden motives, and destructive desires.

The modern English version of Wuthering Heights is perfect for anyone who wants to experience this classic novel in a fresh and accessible way. The edition includes helpful footnotes and annotations that provide context and insight into the story, giving readers a deeper understanding of the historical and cultural context in which the novel was written, as well as the literary techniques and themes that make it such a compelling work of literature.

Whether you're a longtime fan of the book or reading it for the first time, Wuthering Heights Modern English Version captures the beauty and power of Bronte's writing, making it a must-read for anyone who loves classic literature. With its complex characters, dark themes, and hauntingly beautiful prose, this novel will stay with you long after you turn the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312789036

Emily Bronte

Emily Brontë (1818-1848) was an English novelist and poet, best remembered for her only novel, Wuthering Heights (1847). A year after publishing this single work of genius, she died at the age of thirty.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

1

801. I just got back from visiting my landlord, who is the only neighbour I’ll have to deal with. This place is really beautiful! I don’t think I could have found a better spot that’s so far away from all the noise and chaos of society. It’s like a paradise for people who don’t like people. My landlord, Mr. Heathcliff, and I are the perfect pair to live here together. He’s a great guy! He had no idea how happy I was to see him when I rode up and saw his suspicious looking eyes and how he hid his fingers in his shirt like he didn’t trust me when I told him my name.

Mr. Heathcliff? I said.

He just nodded.

Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I came to visit you as soon as possible after my arrival to express my hope that my persistence in asking to rent Thrushcross Grange has not caused you any inconvenience. I heard yesterday you had some thoughts-

Thrushcross Grange is mine, sir, he interrupted, looking uncomfortable. I wouldn’t let anyone cause me inconvenience if I could help it. Come in!

"The ‘come in’ was said through gritted teeth, it meant ‘go away’ and even the gate he was leaning on didn’t move when he said it. I think that’s what made me decide to go in, I was curious about a man who seemed even more closed off than I am.

When he saw my horse at the gate, he reluctantly opened it and led me up the driveway, calling out as we entered the courtyard, ‘Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse and bring up some wine.’

It looks like this place has a whole staff of servants, I thought to myself. No wonder the grass is so tall between the flagstones and the only thing keeping the hedges trimmed are the cows."

Joseph was an elderly gentleman, maybe even an old man, very old though still strong and healthy. He muttered under his breath in an irritated voice, ‘Lord help us!’ while taking my horse from me and giving me an unfriendly look. I thought he must have had difficulty digesting his dinner and his prayer had nothing to do with me showing up unexpectedly.

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s house. Wuthering is a local word that means the house is often exposed to strong winds and storms. The house must have good ventilation all the time because of its location. You can tell how strong the wind can be by looking at the bent over trees at the end of the house and the way the thorn bushes all lean in one direction, as if they are asking for the sun’s warmth. Luckily, the person who built the house made sure it was strong. The windows are set deep into the walls and the corners are protected by large stones.

Before I went inside, I stopped to look at the intricate carvings on the front of the house, especially around the main door. Among all the worn-out griffins and mischievous little boys, I noticed the date 1500 and the name Hareton Earnshaw. I was going to make a few comments and ask the grumpy owner for the history of the place, but he seemed to want me to go in or leave right away, and I didn’t want to make him any more impatient before I could see the inside.

The first stop on the tour brought us to the main living room of the house, which they refer to as the house in this area. It usually includes the kitchen and living room together, but at Wuthering Heights it seems that the kitchen is in a separate area, as I could hear people talking and the sound of cooking utensils coming from somewhere deep inside. I didn’t see any signs of cooking happening in the big fireplace, and no shiny copper pots or tin pans on the walls. One end of the room did have a lot of large pewter plates and silver jugs and mugs on display, stacked on a big oak dresser that reached all the way to the ceiling. The dresser had never been covered and you could see everything on it except for a big wooden frame that held oatcakes and meat hanging from hooks. Above the fireplace there were some old guns and a couple of horse pistols and three brightly painted canisters on the shelf. The floor was made of smooth white stone, the chairs were tall with green paint, and some of them were heavy and black and were in the shadows. Under an archway by the dresser was a big liver-coloured pointer dog surrounded by a bunch of noisy puppies and other dogs were in different parts of the room.

The house and the furniture inside wouldn’t have been anything special, it would have belonged to an average northern farmer, with a determined expression, and strong legs that look good in knee-breeches and gaiters. You can see this type of person sitting in his armchair, drinking ale from a mug on the table in front of him, in any area of five or six miles around these hills if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff is different from his home and way of living. He looks like a dark-skinned gypsy, but he dresses and acts like a gentleman, as much of a gentleman as many country squires, maybe a bit sloppy, but it doesn’t look bad on him because he has a tall and handsome figure, and he can be a bit grumpy. Some people might think he’s a bit too proud, but I have a feeling that’s not it, I know that he keeps to himself because he doesn’t like to show too much emotion or be too friendly. He’ll love and hate just as much but in secret, and he thinks it’s rude to be loved or hated back. No, I’m thinking too much, I’m giving him my own characteristics too much. Mr. Heathcliff might have completely different reasons for not shaking hands when he meets someone new, than I have. I hope that I’m special, my dear mother used to say that I would never have a comfortable home, and just last summer I proved that I’m not worthy of one.

While spending a month at the seaside in pleasant weather, I had the good fortune of meeting a truly captivating creature - a real goddess in my eyes. Though I never expressed my feelings for her, if looks could speak, even the most foolish person could tell that I was madly in love with her. Eventually, she realized my feelings and responded with the most beautiful look. But instead of reciprocating her affections, I pulled away, growing colder and more distant with each glance. This left the poor girl confused and embarrassed, so much so that she asked her mother to take her away. As a result of this strange behavior, I have gained the reputation of being cold-hearted, which is completely undeserved.

I took a seat at the end of the fireplace opposite where my landlord was standing, and to break the silence I tried to pet the mother dog, who had left her puppies to come and sneak up to the back of my legs, looking threatening with her lips curled and her teeth bared. My attempt to pet her was met with a deep growling sound.

Mr. Heathcliff growled in unison, warning that the dog should be left alone, and stamping his foot to emphasize his point. He explained that the dog was not used to being pampered and kept as a pet. Then he shouted for Joseph to come to the side door.

Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no sign of wanting to leave; so his master descended to him, leaving me opposite the wild-looking dog and a pair of grim, shaggy sheepdogs, who shared a jealous guardianship over my movements with her. Not wanting to risk being bitten, I stayed still; however, hoping that they wouldn’t understand my insults, I made faces at them and gestured in a way that made the female dog extremely angry, and she leapt at my knees. I threw her away, and hurried to put the table between us. This caused a whole horde of dogs to appear, of different sizes and ages, coming out of secret places. I was attacked by them, and I parried off the larger dogs with a poker, and had to call out for help from the people in the house to restore peace.

Mr. Heathcliff and his employee slowly climbed up the cellar steps with annoyance. I think they didn’t move any faster than they usually did, even though the room was a chaotic mess of barking and growling. Fortunately, an occupant of the kitchen acted more quickly: a burly woman with a tucked-up dress, bare arms, and flushed cheeks rushed into the middle of us, wielding a frying pan. She used the frying pan and her voice to such an effect that the chaos quickly died down, and she was the only one left, panting heavily, when her master came in.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked, giving me a look that I found difficult to bear, after this uninviting reception.

What the hell, really! I said to myself. Those animals of yours, sir, must have been possessed by evil spirits. It’s like leaving a stranger with a pack of tigers!

They won’t bother people who don’t touch anything, he said as he placed the bottle in front of me and put the table back in place. The dogs are just being protective. Would you like a glass of wine?

No, thank you, I replied.

You weren’t bitten, were you? he asked.

If I was, I would have left my mark on the biter, I replied. Heathcliff’s expression relaxed into a grin.

Come on, he said, You’re upset Mr. Lockwood. Here, have some wine. Guests are so rare in this house that myself and my dogs, I’ll admit, don’t really know how to handle them. Cheers!

I nodded and raised my glass in response; I was starting to realize that it was pointless to stay angry because of the bad behavior of a group of dogs. Additionally, I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing me upset, since he seemed to be enjoying it. He, probably thinking about the practical side of not making a good tenant angry, started to speak more and used more words when talking to me. He spoke about the pros and cons of living in my current place of residence. I found him to be very knowledgeable on the subjects we discussed, and before I left, I even agreed to come back and visit him the next day. Even though it was clear he didn’t want me to come back, I will still go. It’s surprising how much more social I feel compared to him.

CHAPTER II

I

almost decided to stay inside yesterday afternoon because of the misty and cold weather, instead of going to Wuthering Heights. But when I came upstairs after dinner, I saw a maid on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising a lot of dust as she put out the fire with piles of cinders. This sight made me turn back immediately. I grabbed my hat and, after a four-mile walk, I arrived at Heathcliff’s garden gate just in time to avoid the first flurries of a snowstorm.

On the top of that cold, bleak hill, the ground was hard with a black frost and the air made me shiver through every limb. I was unable to remove the chain blocking the gate, so I jumped over it and ran up the flagstone path lined with scraggly gooseberry bushes. I knocked repeatedly for admittance, but my knuckles were sore and the dogs were howling.

I thought to myself, These terrible inhabitants deserve to be permanently isolated from their kind because of their rude unkindness. I would never keep my doors locked during the day. I don’t care, I’m getting in! With this in mind, I grasped the latch and shook it vigorously. Joseph, with a sour face, stuck his head out of a round window of the barn.

What do you want? he shouted. The master is down in the field. Go around to the end of the barn if you want to speak to him.

Is there nobody inside to open the door? I shouted back.

There’s only the missus and she won’t open it if you make such a racket until night, the voice answered.

Why? Can’t you tell her who I am, Joseph?

No, I don’t want anything to do with it, the voice muttered before disappearing.

It started snowing heavily. I grabbed the door handle to try again, and a young man without a coat and carrying a pitchfork appeared in the yard behind. He told me to follow him, and after going through a washhouse and an area with a coal shed, pump and pigeon coop, we finally arrived in a warm and cozy room where I had been received before. It was bright and warm from a big fire made of coal, peat, and wood. Near the table set for a big evening meal, I noticed the missis, a person I didn’t know existed before. I bowed and waited, thinking she would invite me to sit. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained silent and still.

I remarked, It’s a rough day outside. I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door won’t open due to your servants’ late arrival. I had to work hard to make them hear me.

She didn’t say anything. I stared at her and she just stared back at me in an uninterested and off-putting way.

The young man gruffly told me to sit down and that he would be coming soon.

I complied and I made a comment about the dog, Juno, who finally acknowledged my presence by wagging her tail.

I asked Mrs. Heathcliff if she was planning to give away the puppies.

They are not mine, the hostess said coldly, more unfriendly than Heathcliff himself could have responded.

Oh, these are your favourites? I continued, looking at a pile of something that resembled cats.

A strange choice of favourites, she said, with contempt.

Unfortunately, it was a pile of dead rabbits. I cleared my throat again and moved closer to the fireplace, mentioning again how bad the weather was.

You shouldn’t have come out, she said, standing up and taking two painted canisters from the mantelpiece.

Before, her position was hidden from view; now I had a clear view of her entire body and face. She was slender and seemed to be barely out of her teenage years. She had a wonderful shape and the most beautiful little face I have ever seen; small features, very fair; golden curls hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes that, had they been pleasant, would have been irresistible. Luckily for my vulnerable heart, the only emotion they conveyed was a mix of contempt and desperation, which was strangely out of place. The tins were just out of her reach; I motioned to help her, but she looked at me like a miser would if someone tried to help him count his money.

I don’t want your help, she said sharply, I can get them for myself.

I’m sorry, I quickly apologized.

Were you invited for tea? she asked, as she tied an apron over her neat black dress and held a spoonful of tea leaves over the pot.

I’d love to have a cup, I said.

Were you invited? she repeated.

No, I said, half smiling. You’re the one who should have invited me.

She slammed the tea back on the table, spoon and all, and sat back down in a huff, scowling with her forehead wrinkled and her bottom lip poked out like a child about to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man put on a shabby coat and stood in front of the fire, looking at me with suspicion in his eyes, as if there was some unresolved feud between us. I started to wonder if he was a servant or not. His clothes and manner of speaking were both rough, lacking the superiority of Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff. His thick brown curls were unkempt, his whiskers covered his cheeks, and his hands were rough like a labourer’s. But his posture was confident, almost arrogant, and he didn’t act like a typical servant. I decided to ignore his strange behavior and a few minutes later, Heathcliff came in and relieved me from my uncomfortable situation.

I’ve come as promised, I said, trying to sound cheerful. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here for half an hour, can you give me shelter during that time?

Half an hour? he said, shaking the snow off his clothes. I can’t believe you chose to walk around during a snowstorm. Do you know that you’re risking getting lost in the marshes? People who know these moors often lose their way on nights like this, and there’s no chance of the weather improving soon.

Maybe I can find a guide among your workers and they can stay at the Grange until morning. Can you spare one?

No, I can’t.

Oh, okay. I’ll have to rely on my own judgement then.

Hmph.

Are you going to make the tea? the man in the shabby coat asked, turning his fierce gaze from me to the young lady.

Is HE going to have any? she asked, looking to Heathcliff for an answer. Get it ready, will you?

Heathcliff replied in a harsh tone that revealed his genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a good person. When the preparations were finished, he invited me to sit with them and we all, including the rustic youth, gathered around the table. A strict silence was maintained while we ate our meal.

I thought that if I had caused the tension, it was my responsibility to try to ease it. They couldn’t always sit so grim and silent; and it was impossible that the constant scowl they wore was their everyday expression.

It’s strange, I began, as I took a sip of tea and received another - it’s strange how habit can shape our tastes and opinions. Many people couldn’t imagine being happy living in such complete isolation from the world like you do, Mr. Heathcliff. But I’ll dare to say that, with your family around you and your kind wife as the leader of your home and heart-

My lovely lady! he interrupted, with a almost devilish sneer on his face. Where is she - my lovely lady?

Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.

Well, yes - oh, you mean to say that her spirit has taken the role of a guardian angel and protects the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is not here. Is that it?

I realized I had made a mistake. It was clear that there was a significant age gap between the two people I thought were a couple and it was unlikely that they were married for love. The man was around forty, a time when men are unlikely to be married to young women. The woman did not look older than seventeen.

I then realized that the rough-looking man sitting next to me who was eating and drinking in an unsanitary manner could be her husband, Heathcliff Jr. It was a sad realization that she had likely settled for someone like him due to her lack of knowledge of other options. I made a note to be careful not to make her regret her choice. The last thought was not meant to be conceited, as I knew from experience that I was reasonably attractive.

Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law, said Heathcliff, confirming my assumption. He gave her a look of hatred as he spoke.

Ah, I see now, you are the lucky one who has the good fairy’s favor, I said, turning to my neighbor.

The young man grew red and clenched his fist, as if he was about to attack me. But he quickly calmed down and instead muttered a curse at me. I made sure not to pay attention to it.

My host said unhappily, We don’t have the luck to own your good fairy; her partner has died. I said she was my daughter-in-law, which means she must have married my son.

And this young man is-

Certainly not my son

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were a joke to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

My name is Hareton Earnshaw, the other said gruffly. And I advise you to show some respect for it!

I haven’t shown any disrespect, I replied, laughing internally at the dignity with which he introduced himself.

He fixed his gaze upon me for a longer period than I wished to return the stare, for fear of being tempted to box his ears or let my laughter be heard. I began to feel that I was obviously out of place in that cozy family setting. The gloomy spiritual atmosphere outweighed the warmth of the physical comforts in the room and I decided to be more cautious when I visited again.

Once the meal had been finished and no one said a word of pleasant conversation, I went to the window to check the weather. It was a depressing sight; the night had come early and the sky and hills were mixed in a cold wind and thick snow.

I can’t believe I’m going to have to get home without a guide, I said exasperatedly. The roads will be buried in snow by now; even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to see more than a foot ahead.

Hareton, take those twelve sheep and put them in the barn porch, Heathcliff said. They’ll stay warm if they’re inside, and put a plank in front of them.

What should I do now? I asked, my irritation increasing.

There was no response to my question, and when I looked around, I saw only Joseph bringing in a bucket of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, amusing herself by burning a bundle of matches that had fallen from the mantelpiece as she put back the tea canister in its place. Joseph, after he had put down his bucket, took a critical look around the room and in a hoarse voice said, I wonder how you can stand there idle and warm, when everyone else is going out! But you’re a worthless person, and it’s no use talking, you’ll never change your bad ways, but go straight to the devil, like your mother before you!

"I thought for a moment that this eloquent statement was directed at me, and I was so angry that I stepped towards the old rogue with the intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, stopped me with her answer.

You are a scandalous old hypocrite! she replied. Aren’t you afraid of being carried away bodily whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you not to provoke me or I will ask for your abduction as a special favour! Wait! Look here, Joseph, she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf. ‘I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art. I’ll soon be able to make a clean house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance, and your rheumatism can hardly be counted as a providential visit.’"

Oh, wicked, wicked! exclaimed the older man, May the Lord deliver us from evil!

No, reprobate! You are a castaway - be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! And the first who passes the limits I fix shall - I’ll not say what he shall be done to - but, you’ll see! Go, I’m watching you!

The little witch made her eyes look mockingly evil, and the older man, trembling with genuine horror, quickly left the room, praying and exclaiming wicked as he went. I thought she was just joking around, and now that we were alone, I tried to get her to show some interest in my problems.

Mrs. Heathcliff, I said earnestly, You must excuse me for troubling you. I assume that you are a kind-hearted person because of your appearance. Can you please tell me how I can find my way home? I have no idea how to get there, any more than you would know how to get to London!

Take the road you came, she replied, sitting down in a chair with a candle and an open book in front of her. It’s brief advice, but it’s the best I can give.

Then, if you hear of me being found dead in a bog or a pit filled with snow, your conscience won’t tell you that it’s partly your fault?

I can’t escort you, she said. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.

I wouldn’t want to ask you to leave your house on such a night, just for my convenience, I said. I just need you to tell me how to get home, not show me the way. Or convince Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.

Who would you like as a guide? There’s himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph, and me. Who do you want?

Are there no boys at the farm? I asked.

No, those are all the people here, she said.

Then it looks like I’m forced to stay, I said.

You’ll have to work that out with your host. It’s not my problem, she replied.

I hope it will be a lesson to you to not make any more risky trips on these hills, Heathcliff’s harsh voice said from the kitchen entrance. As for staying here, I don’t have room for visitors: you will have to share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.

I can sleep on a chair in this room, I replied.

No, no! A stranger is a stranger, whether they are rich or poor: I will not allow anyone to roam around my place while I am not around! The rude man said.

This insult made me lose my patience. I expressed my disgust and pushed past him into the yard, running into Earnshaw in my hurry. It was so dark that I couldn’t see the way out, and as I wandered around, I heard another example of their disrespectful behavior towards each other. At first, the young man seemed to want to help me.

I’ll go with him as far as the park, he said.

You’ll go with him to hell! exclaimed his master, or whoever he was related to. And who is going to take care of the horses, huh?

A person’s life is more important than one night’s neglect of the horses. Someone has to go, murmured Mrs. Heathcliff more kindly than I had expected.

Not at your command! retorted Hareton. If you care about him, you should keep quiet.

Then I hope his ghost will haunt you, and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant until the Grange is in ruins, she answered sharply.

Listen, listen, she’s cursing them! muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been heading.

"He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I took without asking, and, saying that I would send it back the next day, rushed to the nearest side gate.

‘Master, master, he’s stealing the lantern!’ shouted the old man, chasing after me. ‘Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, hold him, hold him!’"

When I opened the small door, two big and hairy dogs attacked me, knocked me down and put out the light. Heathcliff and Hareton laughed at me, making me even more angry and humiliated. Thankfully, the dogs seemed more interested in stretching and yawning than actually hurting me, but they wouldn’t let me get up. I had to wait for them to release me. Once they did, I was furious, without a hat, and shaking with anger. I demanded that they let me out immediately, threatening them with punishment if they kept me there any longer. My threats were vague but full of anger, reminiscent of King Lear.

The intensity of my anger caused me to bleed from my nose, and Heathcliff just laughed. I don’t know what would have happened next if there wasn’t someone more rational and kind than myself and Heathcliff. This was Zillah, the housekeeper. She thought they had hurt me, and not daring to confront her master, she scolded the younger one.

Well, Mr. Earnshaw, she cried, I wonder what you’ll do next? Are we going to murder people on our very doorstep? I see this house will never do for me - look at the poor lad, he’s almost choking! Quiet, quiet, you mustn’t go on like this. Come in, and I’ll fix that: there now, hold still.

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual grumpiness.

I was very ill and dizzy, and weak, so I was forced to stay and sleep under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then he went into the next room, while she felt sorry for my unfortunate situation, and after giving me the brandy, which made me feel a little better, she showed me to my bed.

CHAPTER III

W

hile leading me up the stairs, she advised me to keep the candle hidden and to be as quiet as possible; as her master had some strange beliefs concerning the bedroom he was putting me in, and he never allowed anyone to stay there willingly. I questioned her as to why this was so. She answered that she had only lived there for a couple of years, and there were so many strange occurrences that she had no interest in being curious about them.

Too baffled to be curious myself, I secured my door and surveyed the room for the bed. The entirety of the furniture consisted of a chair, an armoire, and a large oak cabinet, with panels cut out near the top resembling carriage windows. I drew nearer to the structure and peered inside, recognizing it to be a peculiar sort of old-fashioned couch, which was thoughtfully designed to eliminate the need for every family member to have their own room. In essence, it formed a small closet, and the ledge of the window it enclosed served as a table. I pushed aside the panels and crept inside, my candle in hand. As I pulled the panels back into place, I felt secure from the prying eyes of Heathcliff and everyone else.

In one corner of the ledge where I placed my candle lay a few mildewed books. The wood was scratched with writing, all of which read either CATHERINE EARNSHAW, CATHERINE HEATHCLIFF, or CATHERINE LINTON.

In a state of listless lethargy, I leaned my head against the window and continued to repeat the names of Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff, and Linton until my eyes closed. But they had not been shut for more than five minutes when I saw a sudden bright flash of white letters in the darkness, as vivid as if they were ghosts. The air was filled with Catherine's and I woke up, startled, to make the name disappear. I then noticed that my candle had burned down and was resting on one of the ancient books, giving the room a scent of roasted calf-skin.

I quickly extinguished the flame, feeling very queasy. I propped myself up and unfurled the damaged volume on my lap. It was an old, thin-type Bible with a strong musty smell. The first page was inscribed with the words ‘Catherine Earnshaw, her book’ and a date that was about twenty-five years old. I closed it and moved on to the next one, and then the next, until I had gone through them all." Catherine’s library was carefully chosen, and its disrepair showed it had been well used, though not always for its intended purpose: virtually every page had been annotated in pen and ink, with more than just a few comments here and there. Some were single sentences, while others were a regular diary, written in a clumsy, immature script. At the top of an extra page, I found a delightful caricature of my friend Joseph, masterfully drawn in a crude fashion. Instantly, I was filled with an interest for the unknown Catherine, and began to decipher her ancient script.

It was an awful Sunday, began the passage below. "I wish my father was here again. Hindley is a terrible replacement - his treatment of Heathcliff is abominable. H. and I are about to rebel - we took our first step tonight.

"All day had been pouring with rain, so we could not go to church. Thus, Joseph had to set up a congregation in the attic. Meanwhile, Hindley and his wife luxuriated in front of a warm fire, likely not reading their Bibles, while Heathcliff, myself, and the unfortunate ploughboy were obliged to take our prayer books and ascend. We were arranged in a line, seated on a sack of corn, shivering and moaning, hoping that Joseph would be affected by the cold enough to give us a brief sermon out of his own concern. A ludicrous notion! The service went on for exactly three hours; yet my brother had the audacity to exclaim when we were leaving, ‘What, already done?’ On Sundays we were allowed to play if we were not too loud; now a mere giggle is enough to send us to the corners.

"’You seem to have forgotten that I am your master,’ says the tyrant. ‘I will destroy the first person who makes me angry! I demand absolute soberness and quiet. Oh, boy! Was that you? My darling Frances, tug his hair as you pass him by; I heard him click his fingers.’ Frances pulled his hair with enthusiasm, and then sat on her husband’s lap, and there they were, like two children, kissing and prattling away for hours, uttering foolishness that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible in the corner of the dresser. I had just tied our aprons together to form a curtain, when Joseph came in with news from the stables. He ripped apart my work, boxed my ears, and croaked:

"’Your master has just been buried and the Sabbath is not yet over, and you can still hear the sound of the gospel, and you dare be playing around! Shame on you! Sit down, you ill-behaved children! There are enough good books if you will read them: sit down and think of your souls!’

"Saying