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.

我走到门槛前，留意到在房前的墙上，主要是正门旁边墙上，刻着一大片稀奇古怪的字样和图画，其中包括一些鹰头狮（有些墙皮已经剥蚀）和赤身露体、不懂羞耻的小男孩画像（这里应该指裸体小天使的画像）。于是我稍作停顿，站在门前欣赏着这些字画。我辨认出了一个“1500”年份和一个“Hareton Earnshaw”名和姓（海瑞腾•俄韶）。我本想就此发表一下我对这些字词和图画的看法，同时向我这个傲慢房东请教一下有关这里的地方小志，但是我看到他站在门口的样子，分明是在命令我立刻进屋，否则就让我彻底滚蛋。我无心给他添堵，就跟着他来到房子里面开始参观。

我们无须穿过大堂，也不必经过楼道，参观的第一站是会客室，大家都干脆把这里叫做“正屋”。正屋包括厨房和大厅，但我觉得在呼啸山庄，厨房被迫让到另外一个角落里去了——至少我可以听到厨房紧里面有喋喋不休的说话音和锅碗瓢盆的磕碰声；壁炉周边我看不出有任何烧烤、水煮或者烘焙的痕迹，墙上也不见挂有什么闪闪发光的黄铜平底锅和洋铁皮滤筐。正屋的另一头是一口巨大的橡木橱柜，上面摆满了锡镴盘子，银壶银杯散堆其中，一层层高高摞起，一直摞到屋子顶棚，这些东西的确散发出耀眼夺目的光和热。正屋没有吊顶，喜欢研究顶棚的人一眼看去，整个顶棚构造一览无余，但有个地方被木架子上挂满的燕麦饼、牛腿肉、羊腿肉、火腿肉给遮住了。炉台上摆放着各种样子难看的老式枪支和两把骑马时佩戴的手枪——同时为了装饰好看，沿着台子边排列着三个茶叶罐，罐上的画真是俗不可耐。地板用光滑的白石头铺砌；样式古老的高背椅子漆成绿色——一两把笨重的黑漆椅子隐藏在暗处。橱柜以下的拱形空当处趴着一条母猎狗，体型巨大，毛发肝红，旁边围着一窝嗷嗷待哺的狗崽子，其他几条狗在正屋的空地上游魂般地来回走动。

如果说这屋子和家具属于一个朴实无华、相貌平平的英格兰北方农民，就一点都不足为奇了。这位农民样貌固执，四肢粗壮，半截马裤和绑腿套在腿上，走起路来非常方便。晚餐之后的适当时间，你只需要在这片山丘方圆二十里左右的任何区域走上一趟，你就可以看到这样的一个人。他坐在一把扶手椅上，面前圆桌上一大杯麦牙啤酒正冒着白沫。但是黑思克里夫先生和他的住所以及生活方式，却形成一种强烈的对比。相貌方面他像个皮肤黝黑的吉普赛人，衣着和风度方面他更像个君子——就是像诸多乡绅那样的君子——也许有点不修边幅，可是这种疏懒怠惰令人觉得并不为过，因为他身材挺拔俊美；同时带点郁郁寡欢的神情。可能有人会质疑，他的傲慢多少有些缺家少教的成分；但在我内心深处却对他心生怜悯，认为他并非那种人。直觉告诉我，他外表冷淡是因为他对情感过分表露——直白示爱的反感。他的爱与恨都同样深藏不露，至于受人喜爱或者遭人憎恨，他又认为这些都是草率鲁莽的行为。不，我这样下结论未免过早——我把自己的性格过多地强加到他头上了。黑思克里夫先生遇见一个勉强算得上的熟人时，他不会主动把手伸出来。也许他另有原因，和我所想的完全不同。但愿我的个性也能够与众不同——我亲爱的母亲过去经常说我永远不会有个舒适的家。直到去年夏天我自己才算证实了这一点，我的确真地完全不配有那样的一个家。

我在海边享受了一个月的美好天气，碰巧有一位绝代佳人和我作伴——在我眼里她简直就是个活生生的女神，只是她没有注意到我而已。我从不把“我爱你”挂在嘴上；但如果眉目可以传情的话，天下最笨的傻瓜可能已经猜到我被她彻底迷住了——她最终明白了我的心意，对我回眸一笑——就是那种大家可以想得出来的最甜美一笑。接下来我该怎么办？我承认我很害羞——像只蜗牛冷冰冰地蜷缩在壳里不出来；她每瞥我一眼，我反而更往壳里缩了，而且变得比之前更冷淡了；直到最后，这个可怜天真的人儿开始怀疑她自己的感觉，认为自己判断失误而感到越发糊涂，只好劝说她妈妈一起撤离了海滩露营地。

由于我性情上这个莫名其妙的转变，我落了个故意冷酷无情的名声，我该有多冤啊，个中滋味只能自己体会了。