Employing my small knowledge of BookWalking I walked towards Wuthering Heights while thinking hard about it and Heathcliff being away for three years. Suddenly I was there, in the vestibule. I knocked, and Heathcliff answered.
“Ah, you came for your tour.” He smiled. “Can I get you some tea before we go?”
I accepted and over tea in the library he asked
“Is there any place in particular that you should like to go?” He offered a scone. “Anyone you want to meet? I can, of course give you the official tour, but since we haven’t had a visitor for awhile, at least that I have run into, you can choose where we go.”
“Would it be possible to meet Hareton Earnshaw?” I asked. “He was always my favorite character.”
“From the first? Or just after I die?”
“Oh, from the first. I thought that there was something different about him when we first meet him.”
“Hareton it is then. Any particular plot point?”
I shook my head.
“All right, we shall go where I have a soliloquy. I like those.” He smiled, and offered his hand, I took it and he closed his eyes. Suddenly we were in a small room with a cracking fire. Heathcliff peeked through the door.
Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out walking in the fields, for his cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph to bring him dry shoes.
“Ah,” said Heathcliff to me. “We haven’t arrived yet. I must go and join The Narrative. You will meet Hareton after this scene.”
I nodded. He climbed out the window and soon enough I heard the party entering the house, and the noises of the scene unfolding. Presently a young man came down the stairs into the room, his nose in a book, and sat next to the fire, still reading.
He had dark, shaggy hair, and rather scruffy clothes. His features were intense and handsome under a tan of many days in the sun. I studied him for a while and he seemed completely unaware of my presence. Then he seemed to get to the end of a chapter and looking up, he jumped.
“Oh, I am sorry, Miss, how do you do?” he bowed and spoke without a hint of an accent.
I shook his proffered hand and said I was fine, and how was he? Suddenly he stopped and said
“Nearly time for Narrative, though I wish I could finish my book.” I listened to the words that were always there. Always The Narrative was there.
Heathcliff rose, and went into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out for Hareton.
Hareton went out the window and I heard a splash has he put his head in a convenient rain barrel. And then gave an answering shout to his uncle.
Hareton responded, and presently the two re-entered. The young man had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.
“Oh, I'll ask you, uncle,” cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the housekeeper’s assertion. “That is not my cousin, is he?”
“Yes,” he, replied, “your mother's nephew. Don't you like him!”
Catherine looked queer.
After awhile Heathcliff’s voice rose.
“You'll be the favourite among us, Hareton! She says you are a - What was it? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go with her round the farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don't use any bad words; and don't stare when the young lady is not looking at you, and be ready to hide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words slowly, and keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as nicely as you can.”
Hareton and Cathy walked past the window. Cathy looked much like her mother. The Narrative was back, and I decided to wait and hear Heathcliff’s soliloquy.
He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his countenance completely averted from his companion. He seemed studying the familiar landscape with a stranger's and an artist's interest. Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration. She then turned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself, and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of conversation.
“I've tied his tongue,'” observed Heathcliff. “He'll not venture a single syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age - nay, some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so ‘gaumless,’ as Joseph calls it?”
“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.”
“I've a pleasure in him,” he continued, reflecting aloud. “He has satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it half so much. But he's no fool; and I can sympathise with all his feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now, for instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer, though. And he'll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness and ignorance. I've got him faster than his scoundrel of a father secured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutishness. I've taught him to scorn everything extra- animal as silly and weak. Don't you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him? almost as proud as I am of mine. But there's this difference; one is gold put to the use of paving- stones, and the other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. MINE has nothing valuable about it; yet I shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go. HIS had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than unavailing. I have nothing to regret; he would have more than any but I are aware of. And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of me! You'll own that I've outmatched Hindley there. If the dead villain could rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring's wrongs, I should have the fun of seeing the said offspring fight him back again, indignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the world!”
Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no reply, because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion, who sat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms of uneasiness, probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat of Catherine's society for fear of a little fatigue.
Heathcliff appeared again for a brief moment, at the break in The Narrative when it was talking about his son. “Should you like to wait awhile, I can take you to other places. Or you can try yourself.” He smiled and stepped back in time for The Narrative.
I waited, for it was only a few pages more ‘til he could accompany me, and I did not wish to interrupt The Narrative with my inept BookWalking.
His father remarked the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand irresolutely extended towards his cap. “Get up, you idle boy!” he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. “ Away after them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.”
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Behind Wuthering Heights 2
I thought very hard about Catherin Linton, the younger one, and started to walk. Within seven paces I was no longer walking away from the Grange but I was once again inside it, walking down one of its many halls. There was a frightful noise coming form one of the rooms.
“But I don’t want him to come!” It sounded all the world like a Catherin.
“You know he must, Cathy, you know it is for The Narrative.”
“But he is a horrible child. And he is younger than me. And, I don’t want to share father with him. Aunt Isabella shouldn’t have died and left him to us.”
“Well, in The Narrative she can’t help dieing. But you are supposed to like you cousin.”
“Well, I don’t! I much more like Hareton, he is gentle and he listens to me. There is nothing that Hareton won’t do for me.”
“Cathy! You know that you aren’t supposed to know that until nearly the end of the book.”
“I know what I am supposed to do and I know what I do anyway. In the story I love Linton and hate Hareton. I do that in the story, but can’t the story change?”
“Cathy!”
“But we could change it. I think it would be much better if I liked Hareton from the first moment I met him. That’s how it is always happening to the girls in books.”
“I am going to have to stop your reading of those books if you suggest changing The Narrative again.”
“Oh, Nelly, you wouldn’t!”
“I would.”
A maid walked past, nodded to me as a sort of welcome, and entered to room.
“Heathcliff to see you Miss.”
I turned, indeed there was Heathcliff coming up the stairs.
“Hello.” He said to me. “I see you have mastered the art of BookWalking.”
“More or less, Mr. Heathcliff.”
“I shall have to take you around sometime.”
“Would you really?”
“Of course, I just said I would, didn’t I? It’s rare that we get a visitor. It seems that most who read our tale care more for the story than for the characters or the work Miss Bronte put into Wuthering Heights. It is usually students who find their way into our story.” At that moment a little girl came running out of the room I had been eavesdropping on, and Heathcliff caught her up. “How’s my little niece?”
“Alright, but better for your coming.”
“Only alright?”
“I don’t want my cousin to come.” She pouted.
“Now, now, we can have none of that. What is it that I have in my pocket?” Catherin squealed with delight and wriggling down made for his pocket. He put his hand in, to stop her, and pulled out a peppermint stick. She jumped for it, and he lifted it higher.
“Oh, I will be good and nice to Linton if you give it you me.” He held it just within her reach. She hugged him and ran off to Mrs. Dean, licking it contentedly.
“Now,” said Heathcliff, “I must go, and you should as well, or stay in the house out of sight. My son and Edgar should be here soon and The Narrative will start up again. If you’ll come to Wuthering Heights during The Three Year Absence I could show you around.
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return, Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of her 'real' cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock - poor thing! her aunt's death impressed her with no definite sorrow - she obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.— Chapter 19
“But I don’t want him to come!” It sounded all the world like a Catherin.
“You know he must, Cathy, you know it is for The Narrative.”
“But he is a horrible child. And he is younger than me. And, I don’t want to share father with him. Aunt Isabella shouldn’t have died and left him to us.”
“Well, in The Narrative she can’t help dieing. But you are supposed to like you cousin.”
“Well, I don’t! I much more like Hareton, he is gentle and he listens to me. There is nothing that Hareton won’t do for me.”
“Cathy! You know that you aren’t supposed to know that until nearly the end of the book.”
“I know what I am supposed to do and I know what I do anyway. In the story I love Linton and hate Hareton. I do that in the story, but can’t the story change?”
“Cathy!”
“But we could change it. I think it would be much better if I liked Hareton from the first moment I met him. That’s how it is always happening to the girls in books.”
“I am going to have to stop your reading of those books if you suggest changing The Narrative again.”
“Oh, Nelly, you wouldn’t!”
“I would.”
A maid walked past, nodded to me as a sort of welcome, and entered to room.
“Heathcliff to see you Miss.”
I turned, indeed there was Heathcliff coming up the stairs.
“Hello.” He said to me. “I see you have mastered the art of BookWalking.”
“More or less, Mr. Heathcliff.”
“I shall have to take you around sometime.”
“Would you really?”
“Of course, I just said I would, didn’t I? It’s rare that we get a visitor. It seems that most who read our tale care more for the story than for the characters or the work Miss Bronte put into Wuthering Heights. It is usually students who find their way into our story.” At that moment a little girl came running out of the room I had been eavesdropping on, and Heathcliff caught her up. “How’s my little niece?”
“Alright, but better for your coming.”
“Only alright?”
“I don’t want my cousin to come.” She pouted.
“Now, now, we can have none of that. What is it that I have in my pocket?” Catherin squealed with delight and wriggling down made for his pocket. He put his hand in, to stop her, and pulled out a peppermint stick. She jumped for it, and he lifted it higher.
“Oh, I will be good and nice to Linton if you give it you me.” He held it just within her reach. She hugged him and ran off to Mrs. Dean, licking it contentedly.
“Now,” said Heathcliff, “I must go, and you should as well, or stay in the house out of sight. My son and Edgar should be here soon and The Narrative will start up again. If you’ll come to Wuthering Heights during The Three Year Absence I could show you around.
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return, Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of her 'real' cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock - poor thing! her aunt's death impressed her with no definite sorrow - she obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.— Chapter 19
Behind Wuthering Heights 1
I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to observe that Catherine's arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung down.
“She's fainted, or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to all about her.” “Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless- looking form in his arms.”
“Look there!' he said. 'Unless you be a fiend, help her first - then you shall speak to me!”
“He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.
“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,' he answered; 'but I shall stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall be under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether Linton be in or not.”
He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the house of his luckless presence. —Chapter 15
Heathcliff swept past me, disappearing into the gathering darkness of the garden, not even blinking at the presence of someone in blue jeans and a sweater, in his book. I was just happy to have seen him. After all he is one of the most well known (if slightly mental) male characters ever. He’s only overshadowed by Hamlet, but no one ever bothers to compete with Shakespeare, it just isn’t worth it.
I knew Wuthering Heights well enough, to know that I was at Thrushcross Grange and that there was several hour’s space between the confrontation that had just occurred and the next thing in the story, which was the birth of Catherine Linton at twelve that evening. I was about to venture closer to the door, maybe to catch a glimpse of the kitchen and of Mrs. Dean when Heathcliff appeared again.
“Can I be of assistance?” He bowed respectfully. I was shocked. He was supposed to be sulking about in the garden until Mrs. Dean told him that Catherine was dead. I was saved from answering by Mrs. Dean. The book I had read never said anything about her coming out of the house until after the baby was born.
“Heathcliff, would you care for some tea while we wait for The Narrative? I’m making a pot of Early Grey, and I know that’s your favorite.” I knew this wasn’t in the book. “Oh!” she caught sight of me. “Would you care to join us?”
I nodded, so surprised was I that I was actually talking with the people from Wuthering Heights (or at least they with me), that I couldn’t speak.
“Well, come in from the cold, you two. You’ll catch something if you don’t.” Heathcliff offered me his arm like the gentleman he wasn’t supposed to be, and we were soon comfortably ensconced in the warm kitchen with tea and Mrs. Dean’s raisin scones. Edgar Linton came in and whacked Heathcliff on the back in a friendly way what made him choke on his scone.
“How are you, old thing? I always miss you when you leave The Narrative for too long.” Edgar caught sight of me, and hurried to introduce himself. But he soon went back to Heathcliff. “What did you do this time?”
Heathcliff looked at him. “Should I just say ‘the usual’ or shall it be the truth?”
“The truth. Complete and honest.”
“Alright. The usual.” Edgar stole his scone. “No, no! Give that back! That is the honest truth. I went to Liverpool to see if anyone remembered a small, dark child and where he came from.”
“And?” Edgar took a bite of Heathcliff’s scone and then gave it back. “What did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing, there was only the washerwoman, and she just knew that the little boy ran errands for her. But I could have told her that.”
At that moment two young women walked in. The elder of them had blond curls and large blue eyes. It couldn’t be anyone but Catherine Linton. She didn’t look at all like she was dying. Her companion was as dark as she was fair. Isabella Linton had dark ringlets and eyes of chocolate. Mrs. Dean got them tea and we were all soon sitting around the table. The two girls and I were introduced but I was soon forgotten. Catherine was sitting on Edgar’s lap, and, this gave me quite a shock, Isabella and Heathcliff were holding hands!
We all fell silent. Mrs. Dean seemed to be the only one who remembered that I was present. Heathcliff looked up, as if petitioning to a higher being, and then stood up. He dropped, in the most dignified of ways of course, to one knee next to Isabella.
“Heathcliff! It isn’t even The Narrative, and even if it was, you’ve purposed already! For Heaven’s sake I’m married to you!”
“Only for the sake of the plot!” he cried. “Miss Bronte had no intention of marrying us in the plot, I did that all on my own. She asked aloud one day what other horrible, vindictive, manipulative things I could do. If we were true to our characters surly the worst thing I could do in Catherine’s eyes was marry someone else. Please, will you marry me?”
“Yes! Yes I will, if you really mean it. For I never acted being in love with you!” and she clapped her hands and hugged Catherine and her brother and kissed Heathcliff.
Mrs. Dean looked at a time-keeping candle. “Oh! It’s nearly time for The Narrative.” She scooped up the tea and scones (much to Heathcliff’s dismay) and placed them in the dark on the settle. Then, as if she had done it a million times before, she herded Edgar into the library, Heathcliff and I out into the garden, and Isabella into a room off the kitchen that was never mentioned in the book. Catherine rushed up the servant’s stairs to her bedroom where she was to die.
I must say it was the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened. Heathcliff told me that if I walked very purposely towards Wuthering Heights and though about part of the story I would arrive there.
“She's fainted, or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to all about her.” “Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless- looking form in his arms.”
“Look there!' he said. 'Unless you be a fiend, help her first - then you shall speak to me!”
“He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.
“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,' he answered; 'but I shall stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall be under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether Linton be in or not.”
He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the house of his luckless presence. —Chapter 15
Heathcliff swept past me, disappearing into the gathering darkness of the garden, not even blinking at the presence of someone in blue jeans and a sweater, in his book. I was just happy to have seen him. After all he is one of the most well known (if slightly mental) male characters ever. He’s only overshadowed by Hamlet, but no one ever bothers to compete with Shakespeare, it just isn’t worth it.
I knew Wuthering Heights well enough, to know that I was at Thrushcross Grange and that there was several hour’s space between the confrontation that had just occurred and the next thing in the story, which was the birth of Catherine Linton at twelve that evening. I was about to venture closer to the door, maybe to catch a glimpse of the kitchen and of Mrs. Dean when Heathcliff appeared again.
“Can I be of assistance?” He bowed respectfully. I was shocked. He was supposed to be sulking about in the garden until Mrs. Dean told him that Catherine was dead. I was saved from answering by Mrs. Dean. The book I had read never said anything about her coming out of the house until after the baby was born.
“Heathcliff, would you care for some tea while we wait for The Narrative? I’m making a pot of Early Grey, and I know that’s your favorite.” I knew this wasn’t in the book. “Oh!” she caught sight of me. “Would you care to join us?”
I nodded, so surprised was I that I was actually talking with the people from Wuthering Heights (or at least they with me), that I couldn’t speak.
“Well, come in from the cold, you two. You’ll catch something if you don’t.” Heathcliff offered me his arm like the gentleman he wasn’t supposed to be, and we were soon comfortably ensconced in the warm kitchen with tea and Mrs. Dean’s raisin scones. Edgar Linton came in and whacked Heathcliff on the back in a friendly way what made him choke on his scone.
“How are you, old thing? I always miss you when you leave The Narrative for too long.” Edgar caught sight of me, and hurried to introduce himself. But he soon went back to Heathcliff. “What did you do this time?”
Heathcliff looked at him. “Should I just say ‘the usual’ or shall it be the truth?”
“The truth. Complete and honest.”
“Alright. The usual.” Edgar stole his scone. “No, no! Give that back! That is the honest truth. I went to Liverpool to see if anyone remembered a small, dark child and where he came from.”
“And?” Edgar took a bite of Heathcliff’s scone and then gave it back. “What did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing, there was only the washerwoman, and she just knew that the little boy ran errands for her. But I could have told her that.”
At that moment two young women walked in. The elder of them had blond curls and large blue eyes. It couldn’t be anyone but Catherine Linton. She didn’t look at all like she was dying. Her companion was as dark as she was fair. Isabella Linton had dark ringlets and eyes of chocolate. Mrs. Dean got them tea and we were all soon sitting around the table. The two girls and I were introduced but I was soon forgotten. Catherine was sitting on Edgar’s lap, and, this gave me quite a shock, Isabella and Heathcliff were holding hands!
We all fell silent. Mrs. Dean seemed to be the only one who remembered that I was present. Heathcliff looked up, as if petitioning to a higher being, and then stood up. He dropped, in the most dignified of ways of course, to one knee next to Isabella.
“Heathcliff! It isn’t even The Narrative, and even if it was, you’ve purposed already! For Heaven’s sake I’m married to you!”
“Only for the sake of the plot!” he cried. “Miss Bronte had no intention of marrying us in the plot, I did that all on my own. She asked aloud one day what other horrible, vindictive, manipulative things I could do. If we were true to our characters surly the worst thing I could do in Catherine’s eyes was marry someone else. Please, will you marry me?”
“Yes! Yes I will, if you really mean it. For I never acted being in love with you!” and she clapped her hands and hugged Catherine and her brother and kissed Heathcliff.
Mrs. Dean looked at a time-keeping candle. “Oh! It’s nearly time for The Narrative.” She scooped up the tea and scones (much to Heathcliff’s dismay) and placed them in the dark on the settle. Then, as if she had done it a million times before, she herded Edgar into the library, Heathcliff and I out into the garden, and Isabella into a room off the kitchen that was never mentioned in the book. Catherine rushed up the servant’s stairs to her bedroom where she was to die.
I must say it was the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened. Heathcliff told me that if I walked very purposely towards Wuthering Heights and though about part of the story I would arrive there.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Philadelphia
Inspired by morning sermon at Tenth Presbyterian Church Sunday October 29, 2006
There may be sin,
There may be death,
There may be sadness ,
In this great city.
But,
There will always be those
Who follow the Son.
No mater how evil,
No mater how dark,
No mater how sad
Becomes this great city.
But,
There will always be those
Who are touched by the Spirit.
It will never be perfect,
It will never be the best,
It will never be the New City,
This great city.
But,
There will always be those
Who believe in the Father.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
News Bringer
To be the bearer of tainted news
Is truly a heartbreaking thing.
“Congratulations!” I’m to tell,
“But,” There must always be a but.
To see the light behind his eyes
At the news that I have brought,
To be the one to add the “but”
{is truly the worst place to be}
To see the light go out,
At the sound of the news I bear,
I do not wish to bear that news,
And so I try to flee.
But sometimes I will be my turn,
To be that mournful bearer,
And I must learn to endureThe disappointed “Oh”.
Is truly a heartbreaking thing.
“Congratulations!” I’m to tell,
“But,” There must always be a but.
To see the light behind his eyes
At the news that I have brought,
To be the one to add the “but”
{is truly the worst place to be}
To see the light go out,
At the sound of the news I bear,
I do not wish to bear that news,
And so I try to flee.
But sometimes I will be my turn,
To be that mournful bearer,
And I must learn to endureThe disappointed “Oh”.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
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