呼啸山庄是希刺克厉夫先生的住宅名称。“呼啸”是一个意味深长的内地形容词，形容
这地方在风暴的天气里所受的气压骚动。的确，他们这儿一定是随时都流通着振奋精神的纯
洁空气。从房屋那头有几棵矮小的枞树过度倾斜，还有那一排瘦削的荆棘都向着一个方向伸
展枝条，仿佛在向太阳乞讨温暖，就可以猜想到北风吹过的威力了。幸亏建筑师有先见把房
子盖得很结实：窄小的窗子深深地嵌在墙里，墙角有大块的凸出的石头防护着。
    在跨进门槛之前，我停步观赏房屋前面大量的稀奇古怪的雕刻，特别是正门附近，那上
面除了许多残破的怪兽和不知羞的小男孩外，我还发现“一五○○”年代和“哈里顿·恩
萧”的名字。我本想说一两句话，向这倨傲无礼的主人请教这地方的简短历史，但是从他站
在门口的姿势看来，是要我赶快进去，要不就干脆离开，而我在参观内部之前也并不想增加
他的不耐烦。
    不用经过任何穿堂过道，我们径直进了这家的起坐间：他们颇有见地索性把这里叫作
“屋子”。一般所谓屋子是把厨房和大厅都包括在内的；但是我认为在呼啸山庄里，厨房是
被迫撤退到另一个角落里去了；至少我辨别出在顶里面有喋喋的说话声和厨房用具的磕碰
声；而且在大壁炉里我并没看出烧煮或烘烤食物的痕迹，墙上也没有铜锅和锡滤锅之类在闪
闪发光。倒是在屋子的一头，在一个大橡木橱柜上摆着一叠叠的白镴盘子；以及一些银壶和
银杯散置着，一排排，垒得高高的直到屋顶，的确它们射出的光线和热气映照得灿烂夺目。
橱柜从未上过漆；它的整个构造任凭人去研究。只是有一处，被摆满了麦饼、牛羊腿和火腿
之类的木架遮盖住了。壁炉台上有杂七杂八的老式难看的枪，还有一对马枪；并且，为了装
饰起见，还有三个画得俗气的茶叶罐靠边排列着。地是平滑的白石铺砌的；椅子是高背的，
老式的结构，涂着绿色；一两把笨重的黑椅子藏在暗处。橱柜下面的圆拱里，躺着一条好大
的、猪肝色的母猎狗，一窝唧唧叫着的小狗围着它，还有些狗在别的空地走动。
    要是这屋子和家具属于一个质朴的北方农民，他有着顽强的面貌，以及穿短裤和绑腿套
挺方便的粗壮的腿，那倒没有什么稀奇。这样的人，坐在他的扶手椅上，一大杯啤酒在面前
的圆桌上冒着白沫，只要你在饭后适当的时间，在这山中方圆五六英里区域内走一趟，总可
以看得到的。但是希刺克厉夫先生和他的住宅，以及生活方式，却形成一种古怪的对比。在
外貌上他像一个黑皮肤的吉普赛人，在衣着和风度上他又像个绅士——也就是，像乡绅那样
的绅士：也许有点邋遢，可是懒拖拖的并不难看，因为他有一个挺拔、漂亮的身材；而且有
点郁郁不乐的样子。可能有人会怀疑，他因某种程度的缺乏教养而傲慢无礼；我内心深处却
产生了同情之感，认为他并不是这类人。我直觉地知道他的冷淡是由于对矫揉造作——对互
相表示亲热感到厌恶。他把爱和恨都掩盖起来，至于被人爱或恨，他又认为是一种鲁莽的
事。不，我这样下判断可太早了：我把自己的特性慷慨地施与他了。希刺克厉夫先生遇见一
个算是熟人时，便把手藏起来，也许另有和我所想的完全不同的原因。但愿我这天性可称得
上是特别的吧。我亲爱的母亲总说我永远不会有个舒服的家。直到去年夏天我自己才证实了
真是完全不配有那样一个家。
   
   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 darkskinned
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.