Chapter 7 third chapter

When she led me upstairs, she advised me to hide the candle and keep quiet.Because her master had a strange idea of ​​the bedroom she took me to, and never liked anyone to sleep there.I asked why, and she replied that she didn't know.She has only lived here for a year or two, and they have so many weird things, so she doesn't ask more questions. Being dazed myself, and unable to ask much, I locked the door and looked around for a bed.All the furniture consisted of a chair, a wardrobe, and a large oak chest.Several square holes were dug near the top, like carriage windows.I approached this thing and looked inside, only to see that it was a special-looking old-fashioned couch, designed so conveniently that it would save everyone in the family from having to occupy a room.In fact, it forms a small suite.A window sill inside it doubles as a table.I pushed open the paneled door, went in with my candle, and closed it again, feeling safe and secure from the vigilance of Heathcliff and the others.

On the window sill where I kept the candles, there were some moldy books stacked in one corner, and the paint on the window sill was also scratched by handwriting.But the handwriting was only one name in various scripts, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, and here and there Catherine Heathcliff, and then Catherine Linton again. I leaned my head listlessly against the window, and spelled Catherine Earnshaw-Heathcliff-Linton in succession till my eyes closed.But in less than five minutes, there was a blindingly bright white letter in the darkness, as if a ghost came to life-the sky was full of Catherines.I jumped up, trying to dispel the sudden name, and found my wick resting on an ancient book, and the place where it rested smelled of roasted cowhide.I snipped off the wick, extinguished it, and sat up, ill at ease with the cold and constant nausea, with the baked book open on my lap.It was a Bible, printed in long, thin letters, and had a strong musty smell.On the white front of the book was written--"Catherine Earnshaw, Her Books," and dated, that was some twenty years ago.I close it, and pick up another, and another, until I've checked them all.Catherine's collection was selective, and the state of damage of these books proves that they have been read again and again, though not quite properly, and hardly a chapter escapes a pen-written commentary - at least, like a commentary - Every blank space left by the printer was filled.Some are incoherent sentences, others are in the form of a regular diary, written in a haphazard manner with the indeterminate handwriting of a child.On a spare page (perhaps treasured upon discovering it) I was delighted to see a marvelous caricature of my friend Joseph,--roughly drawn, but powerful.I took an instant interest in this unknown Catherine, and I began to decipher her faded and illegible handwriting.

"Unlucky Sunday!" began the next paragraph. "I wish my father could come back again. Hindley is a hideous agent—his attitude toward Heathcliff is too fierce.—Hee and I will rebel—to-night we will take the first step. "It rained heavily all day and we couldn't go to church, so Joseph insisted on meeting in the attic. So while Hindley and his wife were downstairs cozying up to the fire--whatever, I daresay they would never read Bible,—while Heathcliff, me, and the unfortunate country bumpkin were ordered to climb upstairs with our prayer-books. We sat in a row on a sack of grain, humming and shivering. I hope Joseph trembling, so that he would give us less sermons for his own sake. Delusion! The service dragged on for three full hours. But my brother had the nerve to cry out when he saw us coming down, 'What, it's over. Huh?" From the previous day until Sunday night, we were allowed to play, as long as we didn't make too much noise, but now if we just smile secretly, we will be punished to stand in a corner!

"'You forget that there is a master here,' said the tyrant; 'whoever offends me first, I will destroy him! I insist on complete silence. Ah, boy! Is it you? Francis, My dear, you pulled his hair when you came, and I heard him pinch his fingers." Francis pulled his hair with pleasure, and then came and sat on her husband's lap. There they were, like Kissing and babbling all hour like two little kids - the kind of stupid sweet talk we should be ashamed of. We try to make ourselves as comfortable as we can in the cupboard arch. I just tied our napkins in the Together, hang it up as a curtain, and suddenly Joseph came in from the stable. He tore off my handiwork, slapped me, squawked—

"'The master is buried, the Sabbath is not over, and the voice of the Gospel is still ringing in your ears, how dare you play! You are not ashamed! Sit down, bad boys! There are plenty of good books, if you will. Sit down, think Think of your souls!' "Having said this, he forced us to sit down so that we could get a dim light from the distant fire, so that we could see the useless scripture he had thrust on us. I can't stand this An errand. I slapped the cover of my dirty book, threw it into the kennel, and swore I hated good books. Heathcliff threw his copy in the same place. And then There was a big fuss.

"'Master Hindley!' cried our vicar, 'come, sir! Miss Catty has torn the cover of Helmet of Salvation, and Heathcliff is stomping on the first page of The Broad Road to Perdition. Part of it! It's terrible you let 'em go on like this. Oh! The old man's going to give 'em a good flog - and he's not here!' "Hindley came up from his fireside heaven, grabbed us both, one by the collar, the other by the arm, and dumped us both in the back kitchen, where Joseph asserted that 'Old Nick' would capture us alive After we received such help, we each found a corner and waited for it to come. I reached out my hand from the bookshelf to touch this book and a bottle of ink, then pushed the door open a little, let in some light, and I wrote for two days. Ten minutes. But my companion got impatient, and suggested that we put on our milkmaid's coats and go for a run in the moor. A curious suggestion—then, if that grumpy old man came in, he would Trust his prophecy to come true—we won't be wetter or colder in the rain than we are here."

①Old Nick——Old Nick, that is, the devil. I suppose Catherine carried out her plan, for the next sentence said something else, and she was heartbroken. "I never dreamed that Hindley would make me cry like that!" she wrote. "I have a headache so bad I can't sleep on my pillow. But I can't help crying. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley called him a Rascal, don't let him sit and eat with us anymore. And he said, don't let him play with me, and threatened to throw him out if we disobeyed orders. Blame our father (how dare he Huh?) treated Xi too leniently, and swore to bring him down to his proper place."

I dozed over the illegible pages, my eyes shifting from the manuscript to the printed words.I saw a headline in red letters—"Seventy by Seven, and the First Article of the Seventy-first. A theological treatise preached by the Reverend Jabes Brandham at the church in Gimmerton. "While I was bewilderedly racking my brains to guess how the Reverend Jabes Brandham would develop his subject, I fell asleep on the bed.Alas, the influence of unlucky tea and bad temper!What else could have been enough to carry me through such a dreadful night?I can't recall a single night since I learned to suffer.

I started dreaming, almost before I forgot where I was.I thought it was morning, and I was on my way home, Joseph leading the way.Along the way, the snow was several yards deep.As we struggled to move forward, my companion kept scolding me, which annoyed me.He scolded me for not bringing a crutch to go to the mountains, and told me that without a crutch, I would never be able to enter the house. He even waved a stick with a big head proudly.At the time I thought it was ridiculous to need such a weapon to get into my home.Followed by a flash of a new thought.I'm not going there, we're making the long trek to hear the famous Jabes Brandham preach "seventy times seven" and it doesn't matter if Joseph, or the pastor, or I'm going to commit this" Article 71, Article 1" will be exposed in public and expelled from the church.

We came to the church.I actually walk there two or three times on my normal walks.It was in a valley between two hills: a raised valley near a swamp, where the peat moisture was said to be sufficient to embalm the few dead bodies deposited there.The roof is still intact, but here the priest's income is only twenty pounds a year, plus a house with two rooms, and I am afraid it will be decided to only give one room, so no priest wants to take on the responsibility of shepherd. In particular, it is said that his "flock" would rather starve him to death than feed him with an extra penny out of their own pockets.But, in my dream, Jabes had a full congregation listening intently.He preached—for God's sake!What a sermon, with four hundred and ninety stanzas, each of which is quite an ordinary sermon, each dealing with a sin!I don't know where he searched for all these crimes.He had his own way of explaining phrases, as if the faithful were bound to commit different sins from moment to moment.The nature of these crimes is extremely strange: queer and grotesque crimes that I had never imagined before.

Ah, how weary I am!How I writhed, yawned, dozed, and woke again!How I pinched myself, stabbed myself, rubbed my eyes, got up, sat down, and elbowed Joseph to tell me if he was done yet.I was destined to hear it all.Finally, he came to "article 1 of seventy-one".At this moment, I rose involuntarily, and denounced Jabes Brandham as a sinner for such a sin as no Christian can forgive. "Sir," I exclaimed, "sitting between these four walls, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety topics of your sermon. Seventy seven times I have lifted my hat , going to leave.—Seventy and seven times you forced me to sit down again. This four hundred and ninety-first is unbearable. Religious fellow sufferers, beat him! Pull him down, Smash him, and let this place that knows him never see him again!" "You're a sinner!" Jabes yelled, leaning from his cushion, after a stern silence. "Seventy seven times you grimaced with your mouth wide open—seventy seven times I consulted with my soul—behold, this is a human weakness, and this is pardonable! Article 1 of the seventy-first Come. Brethren, execute upon him the written verdict. All his saints have this honor!" ①He—He, refers to "God".Show respect to God (God), so the first letter is capitalized.In China, believers often write "he" when referring to God. As soon as the words fell, the whole congregation raised their climbing sticks and rushed towards me together.Without a weapon to defend myself, I began to wrestle Joseph, the closest and fiercest assailant, for his cane.In the crowd of people, many sticks were crossed, and the blows that came to me fell on other people's heads.Immediately the whole church ping-pong-pong sounded.Everyone raises his hand to those in his neighbourhood.And Brandenhan was not willing to be idle, so he rapped hard on the pulpit wall to vent his enthusiasm. The sound was so loud that it finally woke me up and made me feel unspeakably relieved.What is it that conjures up that great disturbance?Who is playing the part of Jabes in this row?Only a branch of a fir-tree touched my pane, and its dried fruit rattled against the panes, as the wind lamented by!I listened skeptically for a while; ascertained that it was it that disturbed me, and turned over and fell asleep again, and dreamed again: a dream, if possible, more unpleasant than the previous one. This time, I remembered that I was lying in the oak suite.I heard the wind and the snow clearly; I heard the fir-tree repeated its teasing voice, and I knew why.But it bothered me so much that I decided, if possible, to silence the sound.I think I got up and tried to open the window.The window hooks were welded into the shackles—a fact I saw when I was awake, but then forgot. "Anyway, I've got to stop it!" I grumbled, punching through the glass with my fist, and stretching out an arm to grab the disturbing tree.My fingers missed it, but the fingers of a cold little hand!The terror of the nightmare overwhelmed me, and I drew my arm back as hard as I could, but the hand held on, and a voice sobbed in the deepest melancholy: "Let me in—let me in!" "Who are you?" I asked. asked, trying desperately to free his hands. "Catherine Linton," answered the voice tremblingly (Why should I think of Linton? Twenty times I have pronounced Linton as Earnshaw). "I'm coming home, I'm lost in the moor!" As she spoke, I vaguely made out a child's face looking out the window.Horror made me hard, and seeing that it was useless to shake the person off, I pulled her wrist to the broken glass and rubbed it back and forth until the blood dripped and wet the sheet.But she still wailed, "Let me in!" and still clung to me so tightly that it drove me crazy. "How can I?" I said at last. "If you want me to let you in, let me go!" The fingers loosened.I withdrew my hand from the window opening, hurriedly piled the books up against the window, and covered my ears for more than a quarter of an hour, refusing to listen to that poor begging.But when I listened again, the miserable cry continued to cry! "Go away!" I cried, "even if you beg me for twenty years, I will never let you in." "It has been twenty years," cried the voice, "twenty years. I have been A vagabond for twenty years!" Then there was a slight scratching outside, and the stack of books moved as if someone had pushed it away.I tried to jump up, but I couldn't move my limbs, so I cried out in horror.To my dismay I discovered that the cry was not unreal.The sound of hurried footsteps approached my bedroom door.Someone pushed the door open vigorously, and a light shone in from the square hole on top of the bed.I sat still shivering, and was wiping the sweat from my brow.The intruder seemed to be hesitating, grunting to himself.Finally he said softly, "Is anyone here?" Obviously not expecting an answer.I thought it best to admit that I was here, for I recognized Heathcliff's accent, and feared he would search further if I remained silent.With that in mind, I rolled over and pushed the panel away.The effect of my action will be one I will not forget for a long time. Heathcliff stood in the doorway, in his shirt and drawers, holding a candle, the oil dripping down his fingers, and his face was as pale as the wall behind him.The first slam of the oak door struck him like an electric shock: the candle in his hand jumped a few feet, and he was so excited that he couldn't even pick it up. "It's just that your guest is here, sir," I called out, lest he should lose face by showing his timidity even more. "I had a horrible nightmare which unfortunately woke up in my sleep. I'm sorry I disturbed you." "Oh, God punish you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were--" began my host, putting the candle on a chair, as he found it impossible to hold it without shaking it. "Who brought you into this room?" he went on, digging his nails into the palm of his hand and grinding his teeth to stop the quivering of the jaw. "Who brought you here? I really want to throw them out of the house right now!" "It's your servant, Zira," I answered, jumping to the floor and dressing hastily. "I don't care if you throw it out, Mr. Heathcliff. She deserves it, and I reckon she's trying to use me to prove again that the place is haunted. Well, it's haunted—the house is full of ghosts and ghosts! I say to you, You have a reason for shutting it up. No one who has ever slept in such a hole will thank you!" "What do you mean?" asked Heathcliff. "What are you doing? Now that you're here, lie down and sleep through the night! But, for God's sake! Don't say that again." It's a horrible cry. It's unforgivable unless your throat is being cut!" "If that goblin came in through the window, she'd probably strangle me!" I retorted. "I am not prepared to be persecuted by your hospitable ancestors any more. Is the Reverend Jabes Brandham a relation of your mother's? And that mad girl, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, whatever she may be." What's the last name—she must be a capricious—male little soul! She told me she'd been wandering the ground for twenty years—I don't doubt she deserved it!' Before these words fell, I immediately remembered the connection between the two names of Heathcliff and Catherine in that book. I completely forgot about this, and only then woke up.I blushed at my carelessness, but, to show that I was not aware of my recklessness, I hastened to add, "The truth is, sir, in the middle of the night I was—" I stopped short at this point—I Nearly saying "read those old books" shows that I know not only what's in print, but also what's in pen.So I corrected myself and went on like this--"Spelling the names carved on the windowsill. A very monotonous job, intended to put me to sleep, like counting, or--" "What on earth do you mean by talking so much to me?" Heathcliff roared, brutish. "Why—how dare you be in my house?—God! He must be mad for talking like that!" He tapped his forehead angrily. I don't know whether to argue with him or continue to explain.But he seemed so shaken that I felt sorry for him, and I went on with my dream, affirming that I had never heard the name "Catherine Linton" before, but that too much pronouncing it gave the impression that I could not When I constrained my imagination, the impression became real.Heathcliff slowly leaned back on the bed while I spoke, and at last sat down almost hidden behind.But, listening to his irregular, breathless breathing, I guessed that he was trying to restrain his overly strong emotions.I didn't want him to see that I had noticed that he was in conflict, so I continued to wash and wash, making a lot of noise, looking at my watch again, and complaining to myself about the long night. "It's not three o'clock! I was about to swear it was six o'clock, and time stands still here: we must have gone to bed by eight!" "Always go to bed at nine and rise at four in winter," said my master, stifling a groan.From the movement of the shadow of his arm, I guessed that he was wiping a tear from his eye. "Mr. Lockwood," he added, "you may come into my room. You are a nuisance by going downstairs so early, and your childish yelling has driven my Sandman away." "Me too." I replied. "I'm going to walk about the yard until daylight. You needn't be afraid of my interruptions. I'm cured of my wanting to make friends and have fun, whether in the country or in the city. A man of sound mind should I found that being with me is enough.” "Pleasant company!" murmured Heathcliff. "Take the candle, and go where you like. I'll come to you. But don't go into the yard, the dogs are unleashed. In the hall —Juno's on guard there, and—no, you'll just hang around the stairs and the passages. But go! I'll be there in two minutes." I obeyed and left the bedroom.I did not know where the narrow hut led, and so I stood there, inadvertently witnessing a superstitious gesture by my landlady, who seemed to have only superficial intelligence. He went to bed, twisted open the window, and burst into uncontrollable tears while opening the window. "Come in! Come in!" he sobbed. "Katie, come on! Oh, come on—again! Ah! my darling! Take my word this time, Katie, for the last time!" The Phantom showed all the capriciousness that Phantoms were known for, and it did not Come!Only the wind and snow blew with such violence and rapidity that it blew even to where I was standing, and blew out the candle. In the sudden outpouring of sorrow, there was such anguish accompanying this frenzied speech that my pity for him blinded me to the folly of his manner.I turned away, both secretly angry at what I had heard from him, and at the same time disturbed at having told of my absurd nightmare, which had produced this grief.As for why it happens, I don't know.I went downstairs carefully, and when I reached the back kitchen, there was a small flame there, which was pulled together, and I lit a candle.There was no movement, only a gray tabby cat crawled out of the ashes and saluted me with a whining purr. Two benches, arranged in a semicircle, almost surrounded the fire.I was lying on one stool, and the old cat jumped on the other.We were both dozing, when we were disturbed by Joseph letting down a wooden ladder, which led through a trap into the attic: and that was his way up, I suppose.He cast a sharp glance at the flame I had stirred up, pushed the cat down from its high seat, sat down in the vacated seat, and began to fill the three-inch pipe with tobacco leaves.My presence at his sanctuary was evidently regarded by him as an imprudence which he was ashamed to mention.Silently he put the pipe to his mouth, folded his arms, and puffed.I let him enjoy his comfort and leave him alone.He drew a last breath, exhaled deeply, stood up, and walked out with the same dignity he had entered. Then someone came in briskly; and now I opened my mouth to say good morning, but I closed it again, and the salute was not completed, for Hareton Earnshaw was saying his morning prayers at the SottoVoce, which is to say he was in Searching the corners of the house for a shovel or shovel to shovel away snow, he cursed everything he came across.He glanced behind the stool, his nostrils flaring, assuming that he should be as rude to me as he was to my cat companion.Judging by his preparations, I guessed that he allowed me to go, and I left my hard seat, intending to go with him.Noticing this, he prodded at a black door with the end of his shovel, expressing silently that if I were to change my lodging it must be here. ① Italian, meaning "secretly whispering". The door opened into the hall, where the women were already moving: Zillar blowing the flames up the chimney with a great bellows; and Mrs Heathcliff, kneeling by the fire, reading a book by the light of the fire.She shielded the heat from the stove with her hands so that it would not hurt her eyes, and seemed to be reading intently.She only stopped reading when she scolded the servants for getting sparks on her, or pushed away a dog that kept snuggling up to her face from time to time.I was surprised to see Heathcliff there too.He was standing by the fire with his back to me.Every now and then she would drop her work and pull up the corners of her apron, grunting indignantly, because of a recent outburst of temper with poor Zilla. "And you, you worthless—" When I entered, he was turning to his daughter-in-law and adding a harmless word after the adjective, such as duck, sheep, but often what It is not added, only a "—" is used to represent it. "There you are again, doing your silly tricks! Everybody can make a living--I'm all you need! Put that piece of shit out of your way and find something to do! You annoy me in front of my eyes all the time, You're going to get what you want—did you hear, bloody slut!" "I'll throw my rubbish away, because if I refuse, you can make me throw it anyway," answered the young woman, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair. "But even if you cursed your tongue, I will not do anything except what I am willing to do!" Heathcliff raised his hand, and the speaker, evidently familiar with the weight of that hand, sprang to a safer distance.Not wanting to watch a cat-dog fight, I walked briskly forward, as if eager to warm myself by the fire, and completely ignored the interrupted quarrel.Both sides were polite enough to temporarily stop further hostilities.Heathcliff unconsciously put his fist in his pocket.Mrs. Heathcliff pursed her lips, and seated herself in a chair far away, and during my stay there she did, as she said, play a stone statue.I didn't stay long.I declined to have breakfast with them.As soon as the first light broke, I seized the opportunity and escaped into the free air outside, which was now clear, serene, and cold as an invisible block of ice. I had not yet reached the end of the garden when my landlady called to me to accompany me across the moor.Fortunately, he accompanied me, because the whole ridge is like a white ocean with waves.Its undulations do not indicate the unevenness of the ground: at least, many of the pits have been filled; and the whole winding hill—remnants of the quarry—is from what was left in my mind when I walked yesterday. erased from the map.I had noticed on one side of the road, every six or seven yards, an upright row of stones, continuing to the end of the moor.These stones were erected, plastered, for marking the way in the dark; and also for when a heavy snow, as it was now, confused the deep edges on either side with the more solid paths.But all trace of the existence of these stones has disappeared, except here and there a spot of mud can be seen here and there.Every now and then my companions need to warn me to turn left or right when I think I'm heading correctly down the winding road. We rarely talked. He stopped at the gate of the Thrushcross Garden and said that I would not go wrong when I got here.Our farewell was limited to a hasty bow, and I went straight on.Trust me in my powers, for the gatekeeper's lodgings haven't been rented out yet.It was two miles from the gate to the Grange, and I believe I walked four.Being lost in the woods and stuck up to your neck in snow in a snow pit: a difficult situation that only those who have been there can appreciate.Anyway, no matter how messed up I was, the clock was striking twelve when I entered the house.This indicated that the usual route back from Wuthering Heights took a full hour for each mile. My sedentary housekeeper and her entourage rushed out to welcome me, declaring that they thought I was hopeless.Everyone assumes that I died last night.They didn't know how to set out to find my body.Now that they see me coming back, I tell them to be quiet, and I'm about to freeze too.I trudged upstairs, and after changing into dry clothes, I paced up and down for thirty or forty minutes to recover.I was in my study again, weak as a kitten, barely able to enjoy the simmering fire and steaming coffee that the servants had prepared to revive me.