Грозовой перевал

Emily BRONTE

WUTHERING 

HEIGHTS

CLASSICAL LITERATURE

УДК  372.8 
ББК  81.2 Англ-93 
 
Б88

ISBN 978-5-9925-1652-4

Бронте, Эмили.

Б88        Грозовой перевал / Э. Бронте : книга для чтения на 

английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2023. — 
416 с. — (Classical Literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1652-4.

«Грозовой перевал» — жемчужина классической англий
ской литературы. Эмили Бронте, самая загадочная из трех 
сестер-писательниц, создала бессмертное романтическое 
произведение о любви. 

Среди английских вересковых пустошей стоят две 

старинные усадьбы, и две семьи, живущие в них, связаны 
родственными узами. Их история полна разочарований и 
потерь, но из поколения в поколение настоящая любовь хранит и возвышает тех героев, кто достаточно смел, чтоб идти 
вопреки судьбе.

Книга «Грозовой перевал» была многократно экранизи
рована. Это роман на века, понятный и близкий многим поколениям читателей и зрителей. 

Неадаптированный текст печатается без сокращений и 

подойдет всем, кто изучает английский язык.

УДК 372.8

ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2023
Все права защищены

Chapter I

1801—I have just returned from a visit to my land
lord—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 ex
pressed 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, per
haps, 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, with
out 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 fourfooted 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.

Chapter II

Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half 

a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading 
through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve 
and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken 
as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, 
comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on 
mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping 
into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded 
by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust 
as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This 
spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, 
after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate 
just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow 
shower.

On that bleak hill top the earth was hard with a black 

frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being 
unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up 
the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles 
tingled and the dogs howled.

“Wretched inmates!” I ejaculated, mentally, “you de
serve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred