1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord, the solitary neighbor I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all of England, I do not believe that I could have found a situation so completely removed from the bustle of society. It is a perfect heaven for a misanthropist—and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to share the desolation between us. An excellent fellow! He could hardly have imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I saw his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under his brows as I rode up, and noticed how his fingers retreated, with a stubborn resolution, further into his waistcoat as I announced my name.
“Mr. Heathcliff?” I asked.
A silent nod was the only answer.
“Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I’ve come to express my hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my persistence in renting Thrushcross Grange. I heard yesterday you had some thoughts—”
“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. “I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could prevent it—walk in!”
The invitation to “walk in” was uttered through clenched teeth and expressed a sentiment more like “Go to the Devil!” Even the gate over which he leaned showed no movement of welcome. Nevertheless, that very circumstance made me determined to accept. I felt instinctively interested in a man who seemed even more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse’s chest pushing against the barrier, he finally reached out a hand to unchain it. He then sullenly led the way up the path, calling out as we entered the courtyard, “Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.”
“So, this is the entire establishment of servants,” I thought to myself. No wonder the grass grows up between the stones, and the only hedge-cutters are the cattle.
Joseph was an elderly man—very old, perhaps, though he appeared lean and strong. “The Lord help us!” he muttered to himself with a look of peevish displeasure as he took my horse. He looked at me so sourly that I charitably assumed he simply required divine assistance to digest his dinner, and that his pious exclamation had nothing to do with my unexpected arrival.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. “Wuthering” is a significant local adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which the house is exposed during stormy weather. They must have pure, bracing ventilation up there at all times; one can guess the power of the north wind by the excessive slant of a few stunted fir trees at the end of the house, and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs in one direction, as if begging for mercy from the sun. Fortunately, the architect had the foresight to build the structure strongly: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners are defended with large, protruding stones.
Before crossing the threshold, I paused to admire the quantity of grotesque carvings lavished over the front, especially around the main door. Above the entrance, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and stone figures, I detected the date “1500” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” I would have liked to ask for a short history of the place from the surly owner, but his attitude at the door appeared to demand either my immediate entrance or my total departure. I had no desire to aggravate his impatience before I had even seen the interior.
One step brought us into the family sitting room. In this part of the country, they call this main room “the house” pre-eminently. It usually includes both the kitchen and the parlor, but at Wuthering Heights, the kitchen has evidently been forced to retreat into another area. I could hear a chatter of tongues and a clatter of kitchen utensils deep within the building; however, I observed no signs of cooking around the huge fireplace, nor any glitter of copper saucepans on the walls. At one end of the room, light and heat reflected splendidly from rows of immense pewter dishes and silver jugs, which were arranged row after row on a vast oak dresser that reached the roof. The ceiling’s structure lay bare to the eye, except where it was concealed by a wooden frame laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef and ham. Above the chimney were several villainous-looking old guns and a couple of pistols. The floor was of smooth white stone, and the high-backed chairs were primitive structures painted green, with one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shadows.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary if they belonged to a typical Northern farmer with a stubborn face and strong limbs. Such an individual, seated in his armchair with a mug of frothing ale, can be seen anywhere within five or six miles among these hills. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his home and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gypsy in appearance, though in dress and manners he is a gentleman—or at least as much a gentleman as many a country squire. He is rather slovenly, perhaps, yet he does not look bad in his negligence because he has an erect and handsome figure. He is also quite morose. Some people might suspect him of a degree of pride, but I have a sympathetic feeling that tells me it is nothing of the sort. I know by instinct that his reserve springs from a dislike of showy displays of feeling. He will love and hate in secret, and consider it a kind of impertinence to be loved or hated in return.
I suppose I recognize this because I am somewhat peculiar myself. Only last summer, while enjoying a month at the sea-coast, I was fascinated by a most beautiful creature. I never spoke of my love aloud; yet, if looks have language, any idiot could have guessed I was head over heels in love. She finally understood me and returned my gaze with the sweetest look imaginable. And what did I do? I confess it with shame—I withdrew icily into myself like a snail. At every glance she gave, I retreated farther and colder, until finally the poor girl began to doubt her own senses. Overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, she persuaded her mother to leave the area. By this curious turn of character, I have gained a reputation for heartlessness, which is entirely undeserved.
I took a seat near the hearth and attempted to pet the mother dog, who was sneaking wolfishly toward my legs. My touch provoked a long, guttural growl.
“You’d better leave the dog alone,” growled Mr. Heathcliff, checking her with a kick. “She’s not accustomed to being spoiled.” He then strode to a side door and shouted again, “Joseph!”
Joseph mumbled something from the depths of the cellar but did not come up. Consequently, his master dived down after him, leaving me alone with the hostile dog and a pair of grim, shaggy sheepdogs. Not wishing to feel their teeth, I sat still. However, thinking they would not understand silent insults, I unfortunately began making faces at the trio. This so irritated the mother dog that she suddenly broke into a fury and leaped onto my knees. I flung her back and moved the table between us to protect myself. This action aroused the whole pack; half a dozen "four-footed fiends" of various sizes emerged from hidden corners. As I used a poker to keep the larger ones away, I was forced to shout for assistance.
Mr. Heathcliff and Joseph eventually climbed the cellar steps with an annoying lack of urgency. I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, even though the room was a storm of howling and barking. Fortunately, a sturdy woman from the kitchen rushed into the midst of us, flourishing a frying pan. She used that weapon and her tongue so effectively that the storm subsided magically.
“What the devil is the matter?” Heathcliff asked, eyeing me in a way I found hard to endure after such inhospitable treatment.
“What the devil, indeed!” I muttered. “Your animals are possessed by evil spirits, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a pack of tigers!”
“They won’t bother people who touch nothing,” he remarked, putting a bottle of wine before me. “The dogs do right to be vigilant. Will you have a glass?”
“No, thank you.”
“Not bitten, are you?”
“If I had been, I would have left my mark on the biter,” I replied. Heathcliff’s face relaxed into a grin.
“Come, come,” he said, “you are shaken, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so rare in this house that I and my dogs, I admit, hardly know how to receive them.”
I bowed and accepted the drink, realizing it would be foolish to sit sulking because of a pack of dogs. Besides, I was reluctant to give him any more amusement at my expense. He seemed to realize the folly of offending a good tenant and became slightly more talkative. We discussed the advantages and disadvantages of my new home, and I found him to be very intelligent. Before I left, I felt encouraged enough to volunteer another visit tomorrow. He evidently wished for no repetition of my intrusion; nevertheless, I shall go. It is astonishing how sociable I feel when compared with him.