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I. The House on the Hill
In the late autumn of 1801 I rented a large old house in the north of England. It was called Thrushcross Grange, and it stood in a quiet park among wild, empty hills. I had come there because I was tired of people and wanted to live alone for a while. My landlord lived four miles away, at a farmhouse called Wuthering Heights. Soon after I arrived, I rode over to visit him.
Wuthering Heights stood high on the hill, open to every storm. In that part of the country the word “wuthering” describes the noise of a strong wind, and up there the wind must blow very hard. A few short trees near the house grew bent to one side, as if they were asking the sun for help. The walls were thick and the windows were small and deep.