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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. |
我走到門檻前，留意到在房前的牆上，主要是正門旁邊牆上，刻著一大片稀奇古怪的字樣和圖畫，其中包括一些鷹頭獅（有些牆皮已經剝蝕）和赤身露體、不懂羞恥的小男孩畫像（這裏應該指裸體小天使的畫像）。於是我稍作停頓，站在門前欣賞著這些字畫。我辨認出了一個“1500”年份和一個“Hareton Earnshaw”名和姓（海瑞騰•俄韶）。我本想就此發表一下我對這些字詞和圖畫的看法，同時向我這個傲慢房東請教一下有關這裏的地方小誌，但是我看到他站在門口的樣子，分明是在命令我立刻進屋，否則就讓我徹底滾蛋。我無心給他添堵，就跟著他來到房子裏麵開始參觀。 我們無須穿過大堂，也不必經過樓道，參觀的第一站是會客室，大家都幹脆把這裏叫做“正屋”。正屋包括廚房和大廳，但我覺得在呼嘯山莊，廚房被迫讓到另外一個角落裏去了——至少我可以聽到廚房緊裏麵有喋喋不休的說話音和鍋碗瓢盆的磕碰聲；壁爐周邊我看不出有任何燒烤、水煮或者烘焙的痕跡，牆上也不見掛有什麽閃閃發光的黃銅平底鍋和洋鐵皮濾筐。正屋的另一頭是一口巨大的橡木櫥櫃，上麵擺滿了錫鑞盤子，銀壺銀杯散堆其中，一層層高高摞起，一直摞到屋子頂棚，這些東西的確散發出耀眼奪目的光和熱。正屋沒有吊頂，喜歡研究頂棚的人一眼看去，整個頂棚構造一覽無餘，但有個地方被木架子上掛滿的燕麥餅、牛腿肉、羊腿肉、火腿肉給遮住了。爐台上擺放著各種樣子難看的老式槍支和兩把騎馬時佩戴的手槍——同時為了裝飾好看，沿著台子邊排列著三個茶葉罐，罐上的畫真是俗不可耐。地板用光滑的白石頭鋪砌；樣式古老的高背椅子漆成綠色——一兩把笨重的黑漆椅子隱藏在暗處。櫥櫃以下的拱形空當處趴著一條母獵狗，體型巨大，毛發肝紅，旁邊圍著一窩嗷嗷待哺的狗崽子，其他幾條狗在正屋的空地上遊魂般地來回走動。 如果說這屋子和家具屬於一個樸實無華、相貌平平的英格蘭北方農民，就一點都不足為奇了。這位農民樣貌固執，四肢粗壯，半截馬褲和綁腿套在腿上，走起路來非常方便。晚餐之後的適當時間，你隻需要在這片山丘方圓二十裏左右的任何區域走上一趟，你就可以看到這樣的一個人。他坐在一把扶手椅上，麵前圓桌上一大杯麥牙啤酒正冒著白沫。但是黑思克裏夫先生和他的住所以及生活方式，卻形成一種強烈的對比。相貌方麵他像個皮膚黝黑的吉普賽人，衣著和風度方麵他更像個君子——就是像諸多鄉紳那樣的君子——也許有點不修邊幅，可是這種疏懶怠惰令人覺得並不為過，因為他身材挺拔俊美；同時帶點鬱鬱寡歡的神情。可能有人會質疑，他的傲慢多少有些缺家少教的成分；但在我內心深處卻對他心生憐憫，認為他並非那種人。直覺告訴我，他外表冷淡是因為他對情感過分表露——直白示愛的反感。他的愛與恨都同樣深藏不露，至於受人喜愛或者遭人憎恨，他又認為這些都是草率魯莽的行為。不，我這樣下結論未免過早——我把自己的性格過多地強加到他頭上了。黑思克裏夫先生遇見一個勉強算得上的熟人時，他不會主動把手伸出來。也許他另有原因，和我所想的完全不同。但願我的個性也能夠與眾不同——我親愛的母親過去經常說我永遠不會有個舒適的家。直到去年夏天我自己才算證實了這一點，我的確真地完全不配有那樣的一個家。 我在海邊享受了一個月的美好天氣，碰巧有一位絕代佳人和我作伴——在我眼裏她簡直就是個活生生的女神，隻是她沒有注意到我而已。我從不把“我愛你”掛在嘴上；但如果眉目可以傳情的話，天下最笨的傻瓜可能已經猜到我被她徹底迷住了——她最終明白了我的心意，對我回眸一笑——就是那種大家可以想得出來的最甜美一笑。接下來我該怎麽辦？我承認我很害羞——像隻蝸牛冷冰冰地蜷縮在殼裏不出來；她每瞥我一眼，我反而更往殼裏縮了，而且變得比之前更冷淡了；直到最後，這個可憐天真的人兒開始懷疑她自己的感覺，認為自己判斷失誤而感到越發糊塗，隻好勸說她媽媽一起撤離了海灘露營地。 由於我性情上這個莫名其妙的轉變，我落了個故意冷酷無情的名聲，我該有多冤啊，個中滋味隻能自己體會了。 |
