CHAPTER I

1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary¹ neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed² 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 beheld³ 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 tenant⁴, 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 perseverance⁵ in soliciting⁶ the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—”

“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing⁷. “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 determined⁸ 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 sullenly⁹ 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, nay¹⁰, an old man, very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy¹¹. “The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish¹² displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured¹³ he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious¹⁴ ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent¹⁵.

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling¹⁶. “Wuthering” being a significant provincial¹⁷ adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric¹⁸ tumult¹⁹ to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing²⁰ 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 slant²¹ of a few stunted²² firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving²³ alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight²⁴ to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting²⁵ stones.

Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque²⁶ carving²⁷ lavished²⁸ over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness²⁹ of crumbling³⁰ 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 aggravate³¹ his impatience³² previous to inspecting the penetralium.

One step brought us into the family sitting-room³³, 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 distinguished³⁴ a chatter³⁵ of tongues, and a clatter³⁶ of culinary utensils³⁷, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper³⁸ saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed³⁹ with silver jugs⁴⁰ and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy⁴¹ lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden⁴² with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed⁴³ it. Above the chimney were sundry⁴⁴ villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament⁴⁵, three gaudily⁴⁶ painted canisters disposed along its ledge⁴⁷. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive⁴⁸ structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking⁴⁹ in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed⁵⁰ a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm⁵¹ of squealing⁵² puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses⁵³.

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely⁵⁴, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance⁵⁵, 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 abode⁵⁶ 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 squire⁵⁷: rather slovenly⁵⁸, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence⁵⁹, because he has an erect⁶⁰ and handsome figure; and rather morose⁶¹. 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 manifestations⁶² of mutual⁶³ kindliness⁶⁴. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem⁶⁵ it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast: I bestow⁶⁶ my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely⁶⁷ 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 peculiar⁶⁸: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly⁶⁹ 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” vocally⁷⁰; 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 snail⁷¹; at every glance retired⁷² 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 disposition⁷³ 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 interval⁷⁵ of silence by attempting to caress⁷⁶ the canine⁷⁷ mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking⁷⁸ 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.

“You’d better let the dog alone,” growled⁷⁹ Mr. Heathcliff in unison⁸⁰, checking fiercer demonstrations⁸¹ with a punch of his foot. “She’s not accustomed to be spoiled—not kept for a pet.” Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, “Joseph!”

Joseph mumbled⁸² indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending⁸³; so his master dived down to him, leaving me vis-à-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship⁸⁴ over all my movements. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs⁸⁵, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking⁸⁶ and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding⁸⁷ aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens⁸⁸ to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker⁸⁹, I was constrained⁹⁰ to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace.

Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth⁷⁴ was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping⁹¹. Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more dispatch; a lusty dame⁹², with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided⁹³ magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.

“What the devil is the matter?” he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I could ill endure after this inhospitable treatment.

“What the devil, indeed!” I muttered. “The herd⁹⁴ of possessed⁹⁵ swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!”

“They won’t meddle⁹⁶ with persons who touch nothing,” he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. “The dogs do right to be vigilant⁹⁷. Take a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“Not bitten, are you?”

“If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.” Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin.

“Come, come,” he said, “you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?”

I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his humour took that turn. He—probably swayed by prudential consideration of the folly⁹⁸ of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little in the laconic⁹⁹ style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary¹⁰⁰ verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a discourse¹⁰¹ on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement¹⁰². I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable¹⁰³ I feel myself compared with him.