I think that Catherine and Heathcliff just generally suck!
So I went into a bit of a frenzied rage after finishing volume one of Wuthering Heights. So here is my alternative ending, please bear in mind that I have not actually read the rest of it yet.
As a warning, this contains a lot of biasedness, the use of a word denoting a female dog, and there is a significant change in the voice of Lockwood (because I get tired of using Victorian-like politically correct language to veil my frustrations towards the end) . Oh, and the first two paragraphs are actually from the book (to provide a transition).
Another week over- and I am so many days nearer health, and spring!I have now heard all my neighbour’s history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I’ll continue it in her own words, only impossibly detailed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator and I don’t think I could improve her style.
In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I knew as well as if I saw him, that Mr Heathcliff was about the place; and I shunned going out because I still carried his letter in my pocket, and didn’t want to be threatened, or teased anymore.
I hid the wretched thing in my church bonnet, and opened the large casement in the parlour, so as to draw light into the blackened shadow of Thrushcross Grange. The day was glorious, a flutter of breeze from the north-west unfixed my stern hairs, the sun poured light into the abyss in which we had been thrust and illuminated the moors- Penistone Craggs looked all the more golden and magnificent, and the usually dark, muddy heath sweetly recommended itself to my sullen eyes.
Whilst involving myself in this, I became excited with emotion as thoughts of the mistress’ condition returned to my head. With the intention of being a loyal servant to my master- not his temperamental wife- I ascended the stairs, a flurry of fear began to take up my apathetic soul, and I became anxious that the selfishly ill mistress had died in my absence. Now I must tell you Sir, that this flurry was needless and irrational because Edgar was nursing Catherine as if she were his sickly child. God only knows how he put up with her empty presence- if she were in my care I would discreetly treat her with a pail of cold water from the lake and she would come to her senses.
On opening the door I found a sorry sight: the lively, robust child, so full of fire and zeal had been reduced to nothing but a living corpse; her cheek glowed with the hue of death, her dark eyes were glazed and milky, and her straight lips held a grave and bitter tone. She was certainly near death, yet I felt compelled to wake her up with by swiftly striking her palsy face. She did not acknowledge my company nor Linton’s beside her, yet when she looked in the mirror in the room, she frantically swivelled her gaze as if searching for something, or confirming the existence of the apparition that she most likely saw in front of her.
“Is it you, abhorred beast? Why do you ridicule my movements? Yet I cannot touch you, and why would I- when both you and I are bound to cowards? By finger and by ring. Yet this finger does not leave my hand, begone I say, begone! This vile finger separates you and I Heathcliff, yet we are bound intrinsically. Why is it that your sight is like that of a stranger; a dirty faced gypsy, begging to leave the realm of Catherine Linton, nay I say Heathcliff, with the fear that the poor blue eyed coward will faint with jealousy and betrayal. I want him to, I want you to, Heathcliff for you are the cause of my death. So live, fiend! Live whilst I die because I lack you, for I know I reside in your brute heart, although it be chilly even for my sceptre.”
These ramblings continued and brought horror to my doting master’s disposition. His perpetual detestation of Heathcliff became all the more arduous to my loyal heart, which caused me to resolve myself with a thousand promises of revenge, unheard of to my unfortunate master. Catherine herself did not remain unscathed by my deep sense of injustice, for she was the very reason for misery itself, she is what brought the wild creature to our happy household therefore she is the cause for the blackening of the estate, of our lives. Never had I met a creature so avaricious, so base and worthless, yet so conceited and self imposing. From my many years of acting as companion, and agitator, it has occurred to me that all these illnesses, these anxious spells are not due to the devil or a sympathetic mental dysfunction, but a lacking in attention on herself, of people doting over her, of praise: “Catherine Earnshaw is a beauty, she is merciful to have graced our lives” is the malady my mistress wished to wake up to every morning. If, at any point she was convinced that the purpose of our every action is not to please and impress her, she refused to sup, or locked herself away in the dark to punish us by leaving our lives ungraced.
I truly hope that you will not judge my subsequent actions too harshly, Mr Lockwood and I hope that God also is merciful with his judgement for I cannot recount the amount of times I have repented for the same sin.
At this point in the old housekeeper's tale I had grown sick of all the revelations and religious piousness, the mess these two undesirable characters had got themselves into was far too illogical for me to comprehend, and all for the hope of a semi-incestuous relationship between two people who are too passionate for it to not end in anything other than murder. “Ellen” I said in an impatient voice, to which she replied:
“I shall continue this account, it was initially...”
“No, please do not. I just wish for you to answer me one last question: who is left alive that was connected to this miserable tale?”
The servant looked confused, “I shan’t endeavour to guess your motives for asking as I am only the conveyer of the tale, but what I shall tell you is that you know and have met all of those left alive from the tale on the night that you were forced to seek shelter here.”
“If that is the case, I shall take a leisurely walk around the Grange, Nelly, as I feel much more at ease.”
“By all means, Sir, I've naught to do with it.”
So, I walked, all over the house and the gardens, making sure to pierce every person that made this dreadful story possible with the bullet of my pistol. For Heathcliff, I relished every moment of it, especially the moment that his annoyance turned to pure fear, who would have thought that he would prefer his miserable existence to the thought of being reconciled with his whiny little bitch after death. The man is truly cold, I’d rather say that the bullet shattered his heart than pierced it.
THE END (thank goodness for that!)
Note:
Pistols probably didn't exist back then... oh well!
