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(All Credit To Go Real Hero EMILY BRONTE)
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1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary
neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In
all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely
removed from the stir of society.
A perfect misanthropist’s Heaven—and Mr.
Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A
capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I
beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up,
and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further
in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
“Mr. Heathcliff?” I said.
A nod was the answer.
“Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as
soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not
inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of
Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—”
“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. “I should not
allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!”
The “walk in” was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, “Go
to the Deuce!” even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising
movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept
the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly
reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his
hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as
we entered the court,—“Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some
wine.”
“Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,” was the
reflection suggested by this compound order. “No wonder the grass grows up
between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.”
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man, very old, perhaps, though hale and
sinewy. “The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish
displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so
sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his
dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. “Wuthering”
being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to
which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they
must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north
wind, blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the
end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one
way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it
strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended
with large jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque
carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above
which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I
detected the date “1500,” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” I would have made
a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner;
but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete
departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting
the penetralium.
One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory
lobby or passage: they call it here “the house” pre-eminently. It includes kitchen
and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced
to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of
tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs
of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper
saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly
both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with
silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the
very roof.
The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to
an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters
of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry
villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament,
three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of
smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green:
one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser
reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing
puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as
belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and
stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an
individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table
before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if
you go at the right time after dinner.
But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast
to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress
and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country
squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence,
because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some
people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic
chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve
springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of
mutual kindliness. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a
species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast:
I
bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have
entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a
would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution
is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable
home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the
company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as
she took no notice of me. I “never told my love” vocally; still, if looks have
language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she
understood me at last, and looked a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks.
And what did I do? I confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself,
like a
snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was
led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed
mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp.
By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate
heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my
landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the
canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back
of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My
caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.