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 step 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.



“You’d better let the dog alone,” growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,

checking fiercer demonstrations 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 mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no

intimation of ascending; 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 guardianship over all my movements. Not

anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but,

imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately

indulged in winking 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 proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen

four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens

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 poker, I was constrained 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 hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an

inhabitant of the kitchen made more dispatch; a lusty dame, 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 subsided 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 herd of possessed 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 meddle with persons who touch nothing,” he remarked,

putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. “The

dogs do right to be vigilant. 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 folly of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little

in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs,

and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a

discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of

retirement. 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 sociable I feel myself

compared with him.