Hello.
Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,
Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.
Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.
Emily Bronte was born in Yorkshire in 1818 and along with her brother and sisters Anne and Charlotte wrote from childhood onwards.
Wuthering Heights is the story she is best remembered for.
But before we begin let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.
That's it.
Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.
It is time to relax and fully let go.
There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.
Happy listening.
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte Chapter 1 1801 I have just returned from a visit to my landlord,
The solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with.
This is certainly a beautiful country.
In all England I do not believe I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the sterner 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.
I 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 shelled to 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 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 anyone to inconvenience me if I could hinder it.
Walk in.
The walk in was uttered with closed teeth and expressed the sentiment.
Go to the juice.
Even the gait 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 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 a 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,
Perhaps though hale and sinewy.
The Lord help us,
He soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure,
While relieving me of my horse.
Looking me in time in my face so sourly,
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 atmosphere to Malt to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.
Pure bracing ventilation they must have had 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 arms at the sun.
Happily the architect had foresight to build its fortress,
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 Hairton 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 stop 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 sign of roasting,
Boiling or baking about the huge fireplace,
Nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin-colourness 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 underdrawn.
Its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye,
Except where a frame of wood laden with oat-cakes 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,
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 an advantage in knee breeches and gaiters.
Such an individual seated in his armchair,
His mug of ale frothing on the round table before him,
Is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles along these hills if you go in 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 gypsy 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 underbred pride.
I have a sympathetic chord within,
Which tells me it's 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 undercover,
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 to return,
The sweetest of all imaginable looks.
And what did I do?
I confess it with shame.
I shrunk Isolene to myself like a snail.
At every glance,
I retired,
Cauldron further,
Till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses and,
Overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake,
Persuaded her mama to decamp.
By this curious turn of disposition,
I've gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness.
How undeserved I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the head 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.
Her white teeth watering for a snatch.
My caress provoked a long,
Guttural gnaw.
You'd better let the dog alone,
Growled Mr Heathcliff in unison,
Checking fierce demonstrations with a punch of his foot.
She's not accustomed to be spoiled,
Nor 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 him vis-a-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim,
Shaggy sheepdogs who stared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements.
Not anxious to come into 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 four-footed fiends of various sizes and ages issued from hidden dens to the common centre.
I felt my heels and coat-lapse peculiar subjects of assault,
And parrying off the larger combatants as effectively as I could with a poker,
I was constrained to demoralise the rest of the group.
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 half was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping.
Happily,
An inhabitant of the house,
Who had not been in contact with the rest of the group,
Came up to me and said,
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-rushed 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.
"'Take a little wine.
"'Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that "'I and my dogs are willing to own hardly know how to receive them.
"'Your health,
Sir.
' I bowed and returned the pledge,
Beginning to perceive it would have been foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs.
Besides,
I felt loath 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 tomorrow.
He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion.
I shall go,
Notwithstanding.
It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself,
Compared with him.
