Wuthering Heights

The year is 1801, and Mr. Lockwood has just returned from paying his respects to his new landlord—a visit that proved as peculiar as it was unwelcoming. Having recently taken up residence at Thrushcross Grange, Lockwood finds himself delighted by the remote Yorkshire landscape, proclaiming it a perfect sanctuary for one who wishes to flee the tiresome bustle of society. His landlord, Mr. Heathcliff, strikes him as an ideal companion in solitude—a man whose suspicious black eyes and guarded manner speak of a reserve even deeper than Lockwood's own.

Upon arriving at Wuthering Heights, Lockwood receives a greeting that can scarcely be called hospitable. Heathcliff's invitation to enter is uttered through clenched teeth, his entire bearing suggesting he would sooner send his visitor to perdition than across his threshold. Yet this very coldness piques Lockwood's curiosity, and he accepts the grudging welcome with growing interest.

The dwelling itself commands attention. Its name derives from the fierce winds that batter the moorland station, evidenced by the tortured posture of stunted firs and gaunt thorns bent perpetually toward the sun. The house stands defiant against the elements—narrow windows set deep in thick walls, corners fortified with jutting stones. Above the door, amid crumbling carvings of griffins and cherubs, Lockwood discerns the date 1500 and the name Hareton Earnshaw, though Heathcliff's impatient stance forbids any inquiry into this history.

Within, the family sitting-room presents a scene of rustic antiquity: stone floors, primitive green-painted chairs, pewter dishes towering upon a vast oak dresser, and old guns mounted above the chimney. Dogs lurk everywhere—a liver-coloured pointer bitch with her squirming puppies, shaggy sheep-dogs watching with jealous vigilance. The furnishings suit a plain northern farmer well enough, yet Heathcliff himself forms a striking contrast: dark-skinned and gypsy-like in appearance, yet carrying himself with the negligent grace of a gentleman, handsome despite—or perhaps because of—his morose and slovenly bearing.

Lockwood confesses his tendency to project his own qualities upon others, for he too shrinks from displays of affection. He recalls with shame a recent incident at the seaside, where a fascinating young woman returned his unspoken admiration, only to be met with his icy withdrawal until she fled in confusion. This curious disposition has earned him an undeserved reputation for heartlessness.

Left alone with Heathcliff's menacing dogs, Lockwood foolishly provokes them with grimaces until the entire pack descends upon him in a fury. He defends himself with a poker until a stout kitchen woman rushes in wielding a frying-pan, dispersing the animals with magnificent efficiency. Heathcliff returns with maddening slowness, showing little concern for his guest's predicament. After sharp words are exchanged—Lockwood comparing the dogs to demon-possessed swine—his host's countenance finally relaxes into something approaching amusement. Wine is poured, civilities are observed, and the two men converse intelligently enough on matters concerning the neighbourhood.

By evening's end, though Heathcliff clearly desires no repetition of this intrusion, Lockwood resolves to return the very next day, astonished to find himself feeling almost sociable by comparison to his brooding, enigmatic landlord.

With curiosity now thoroughly kindled by this strange household and its stranger master, Lockwood prepares to venture once more unto the windswept heights.

The raw misery of a February afternoon nearly kept Lockwood fireside at Thrushcross Grange, but circumstances conspired against his comfort. A servant girl had invaded his study with her coal-scuttles and brushes, raising such clouds of dust and cinder that he found himself driven out into the cold. Thus began his four-mile trudge through gathering snow to Wuthering Heights, where he arrived just as the first white flakes began their descent upon that desolate hilltop.

His reception proved even colder than the weather. The chain on the gate would not yield, and his knocking went so long unanswered that his knuckles ached and the dogs set up their infernal howling. Old Joseph, that vinegar-faced servant, offered nothing but surly directions and dialect-laden refusals, and it was only by chance that a coatless young man bearing a pitchfork led Lockwood through the wash-house into the warmth of that great kitchen.

There he encountered the mistress—though not the mistress he had imagined. This young woman, scarcely past girlhood, possessed a face of remarkable beauty: golden ringlets, delicate features, small and fair. Yet her eyes held nothing of welcome; they hovered instead between scorn and a strange desperation. When Lockwood attempted pleasantries, she met him with silence or cutting remarks. He mistook a heap of dead rabbits for cats. He offered help she did not want. He inquired whether he had been asked to tea and received only cold confirmation that he had not.

The young man—rough, bearish, with unwashed hands and a manner hovering between servant and equal—proved equally hostile, glowering at Lockwood as though nursing some private grievance. Only Heathcliff's arrival offered any relief, and even that proved temporary. Over a grim and silent meal, Lockwood blundered spectacularly, assuming the beautiful young woman was Heathcliff's wife. She was not. She was his daughter-in-law, widowed—her husband dead, her beauty wasted in this desolate place. And the rough young man was not Heathcliff's son at all, but one Hareton Earnshaw, who announced his name with a fierce pride that invited no contradiction.

The snow meanwhile had thickened into a blinding storm. When Lockwood begged for guidance home, he found only refusal and mockery. Heathcliff would spare no guide; the young widow could offer only bitter advice to take the road he came; Hareton's tentative offer was crushed by his master's command. In desperation, Lockwood seized a lantern and made for the door—only to be set upon by the household dogs, knocked flat, his light extinguished, while Heathcliff and Hareton laughed at his humiliation.

It was the housekeeper Zillah who finally intervened, splashing cold water on his bleeding nose and leading him, sick and trembling, back inside. There was nothing for it but to accept shelter beneath that inhospitable roof, where the very air seemed poisoned with old hatreds and unspoken griefs—mysteries that Lockwood could not yet fathom but which pressed upon him with the weight of the snowbound night itself.