Section A - Wuthering Heights - Violence and Tenderness

This is the section A from our most recent mock. For those wondering why so many of my Section A's are Wuthering Heights, it's cause that's the book I feel most comfortable writing about, plus Georgina set us a load of essays to do. Also I'm just totally shite at Faustus, and would pretty much never do a Section A on it. Also, a couple of people have asked about the underlining thing - yes, I do do it when I handwrite the essays, and I'd actually recommend it; in my opinion, it highlights what are your key points (particularly if you're doing a counter 'turn-around' point that you want to have an impact) and makes your argument sound a lot more forceful and self-assured, even if it's actually bullshit. Just my two pence there. 

(NOTE: When I wrote this essay, I didn't realise that Cathy's 'condition' in her final scene was pregnancy. I thought it was an illness, so that's why I keep referring to it as such, like a twat)

‘In Wuthering Heights love is presented as an emotion which provokes violence rather than tenderness’’

To what extent do you agree with this view?

[40/40 A* - Timed Mock]

As a gothic (or arguably pseudo-gothic) novel, Bronte’s Wuthering Heights depicts the powerful, heightened emotions of the human psyche that have come to be a characteristic of the genre – in particular, the raw, wild love shared between Heathcliff and Cathy has led to the novel being heralded as one of the greatest romance novels of all time. Despite this, many have argued that this ‘love’ only leads to despair, violence, and aggression, rather than tenderness and affection. While it is undeniably true that the tumult of their love provokes the violent, raw sides of Cathy and Heathcliff to emerge, it is superficial (and too bound within the societal chains which the gothic genre attempts to transgress) to suggest that violence and tenderness are mutually exclusive. In Wuthering Heights, violence is used not only in addition to, but in fact to amplify, tenderness – the two feed off each other so inextricably that to suggest a complete lack of tenderness is to maintain a false dichotomy.

 

Arguably, there are elements of the novel where love provokes a violence completely devoid of tenderness – particularly the relationship between Isabella and Heathcliff. Despite Isabella’s intense infatuation with him, and the conventional expectations she has for their relationship (assuming, like a ‘diamond in the rough’ she can calm his violent nature and draw out his tenderness), Heathcliff relishes inflicting pain upon her. He boasts t Cathy of how much he longs to beat Isabella, and in fact describes bruising her as ‘painting’ her face – as though such violence is the same as fashioning a masterpiece. Even Cathy warns Isabella of the consequences her love for Heathcliff will likely provoke; branding him a ‘fierce, pitiless, wolfish man’ which reflects his violent, animalistic nature, though was likely misinterpreted by the deluded Isabella to connote the ‘fierce’-ness of his love and inner feelings, one the ‘wolf’ has been tamed. Cathy even remarks that to let Isabella love Heathcliff would be the same as leaving a ‘canary’ in a ‘park [in] winter’ – clearly showing how she will become a vulnerable victim to his wrath is she enters into a relationship with him. In this sense, it appears love, at least Isabella’s, provokes only violence, and no tenderness whatsoever from Heathcliff.

 

However, it must be noted that this ‘love’ was always one-sided and unrequited – Heathcliff’s violence towards Isabella is not provoked by his love for her, as he does not love her. He calls her ‘deluded’ in her love for him, and states he has always been ‘honest’ in saying he has no love for her – even after her death he brands her a ‘slut’ to Linton. Clearly, openly insulting her, and in fact outright stating his disdain for her, is proof enough that Heathcliff’s violence in this case was not fuelled by love, but by sheet dislike for the woman, and so it is false to suggest in this case that ‘love’ provokes violence, and foolish to expect even an ounce of tenderness from Heathcliff.

It is undeniable, however, that Heathcliff loves Cathy very much, and she him; like kindred spirits, ‘whatever [their] souls are made of, [they] are the same’. It is also true that this powerful (almost ‘gothic’ in itself, as it is so frequently spoken of by Heathcliff in his gruff, intense language) raw love is the driving force behind a large amount of violence within the novel; even their last meeting seems almost most like a battle than anything romantic. Cathy grasps his hair and pushes him down, he grabs her neck so tightly it bruises, then ‘foaming like a mad dog’ pulls her tightly to him in a fit of ‘greedy jealousy’. Such violent acts are amplified not only by the shocked intensity of Nelly’s description (Cathy’s heartbeat is described as a ‘violent throbbing’ rather than just ‘beating’ and the whole scene is fast-paced and intense) but also by the fragility of Cathy’s condition (which Nelly, again, continually reminds us of – reprimanding Heathcliff for having ‘no concern’ for her illness). By presenting Heathcliff as a ‘mad dog’ it seems to suggest his raw, heightened love almost dehumanises him; we are presented with an animalistic being not capable of tenderness of concern, merely driven into a violent aggressive state by the ‘jealousy’ and ‘greed’ of his love.

That said, perhaps the sheer intensity of this language can give insight into a tenderness that we may be missing, not because it isn’t there, but because Nelly (and ‘conventional society’) doesn’t want it to be. Cathy and Heathcliff’s romantic reunion would have been scandalous at the time, due to their marital statuses; even their love for each other deviates too far from social norms (as a working class ‘gypsy’ it would ‘degrade [Cathy] to marry him’) – and such passionate violent love is almost a transgression of sexual boundaries, in the same way that BDSM is seen by society. For these reasons, it seems Nelly is a little too zealous in dehumanising Heathcliff and presenting his love as violent and uncaring; in fact, by constantly referencing Cathy’s ‘condition’ she seems to attempt to present Heathcliff as almost an attacker rather than a lover; as if this violent display is one-sided and Cathy is merely a passive victim. She even remarks that she could hardly believe he was of ‘the same species’ – dehumanising him and demonising him further, in such a hyperbolic fashion that it seems almost ridiculous. We as readers can clearly see Cathy’s own role in the violence, and her relishing in it – she pins him down and grabs his hair, even ‘[tearing] out’ a fitful. She is not a victim of his lovers’ violence, but a willing participant in what is an act of tenderness and affection. It is purely because Nelly, and society, cannot accept this raw kind of passionate love as a type of tenderness, of intimacy and closeness on a level so in tune with the body of your lover that pain and pleasure, violence and gentleness, become intertwined, that we are presented with a demonised version of love that leads only to ‘violence’.
 

In fact, if we examine this love for ourselves we can see how tenderness and violence are reconciled. Even the microstructure of the scene reflects this masochistic intimacy; aggressive, violent words are juxtaposed by tender, more conventional romantic language – ‘locked in an embrace’, ‘the violent throbbing of her heart’. The whole scene is meant to reconcile the two; to show us that Cathy and Heathcliff’s love is so powerful, unearthly, and untamed that is presents its tenderness through violence. In fact, examining the rest of the novel, all the ‘romantic’ descriptions Cathy uses for them are twinged with a violent edge – they are not ‘moonbeams’, but ‘lightening’, not ‘frost’, but ‘fire’ – their affection is raw and uncivilised – to expect conventional tenderness of them would be to reject their ‘gothic’, untamed love (as though attempting to contain ‘the sea’ in a ‘horse trough’, in fact) – to brand conventional tenderness as the only kind of tenderness, however, would be to reject the whole premise of the gothic genre, and refuse to be charmed into the world of transgression and heightened emotions.

Ultimately, while it’s true that in many cases the extreme love depicted in Wuthering Heights leads to violence and pain, it is wrong to see it only at this level (as conventional society would wish us to) and in fact this violence stems from, and intensifies, tenderness. It is through the transgressive nature of the gothic that we can break free of the social norms that impose this dichotomy on us and accept the raw, tender intimacy that violence can facilitate.