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Wuthering Heights 呼啸山庄 (Excerpt 节选) 
By Emily Bronte (艾米莉·勃朗特 著)
艾米莉·勃朗特(1818－1848)从小生活在英国约克郡的荒原上，荒原造就了她自由不羁的个性，同时也为她提供了一个想象的世界。她的杰作《呼啸山庄》便以此为背景，讲述吉普赛弃儿希刺克厉夫和凯瑟琳之间的爱情传奇。全书自始至终贯穿着离奇、紧张、浪漫的气氛和一种“有呼吸、有心跳的活生生的激情”。诚如一位评论家所说，“尽管这本书中有那么多极其痛苦的场面，却令人不厌再读，每读一遍必有所获。”
 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. 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 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.
The window ledge, above the bed where I placed my candle, was covered with writing scratched on the paint. A name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small – a Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.
In vapid Listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw – Heathcliff – Linton, till my eyes closed, but they had not rested five minutes when I was disturbed by the noise from the branch of a fir tree that touched my lattice, as the wind wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes.
I resolved to silence it, if possible; I endeavoured to unhasp the casement, but the hook was soldered into the staple.
“I must stop it, nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, “Let me in, let me in!”
“Who are you?” I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 
“Catherine Linton,” it replied shiveringly, “I’m come home. I’ve lost my way on the moor!” As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window.
Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious grip, almost maddening me with fear.
“How can I?” I said at length. “Let me go, if you want me to let you in!”
The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!
“Begone!” I shouted, “I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.”
“It is twenty years,” mourned the voice. “Twenty years. I’ve been a waif for twenty years!”
There at began a feeble scratching outside. I tried to jump up, but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright. Hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand.
Heathcliff stood with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the walls around him.
呼啸山庄是希刺克厉夫先生的住宅名称。“呼啸”是一个意味深长的形容词，形容这地方在风暴的天气里所受的气压波动。房屋那头有几棵矮小的枞树过度倾斜，由此就可以猜想到北风吹过的威力了。幸亏建筑师很有先见，把房子盖得很结实：窄小的窗子深深地嵌在墙里，墙里有大块的凸出的石头防护着。
在床头我放蜡烛的窗台上，油漆面多处给字迹划得乱七八糟。一个名字用各种字体写着，有大有小——凯瑟琳·恩萧，有的地方又改成凯瑟琳·希刺克厉夫，跟着又是凯瑟琳·林顿。
我无精打采地把头靠在窗子上，接连地拼写着凯瑟琳·恩萧——希刺克厉夫——林顿，一直到我的眼睛合上为止，可是还没有五分钟，一棵枞树的枝子触到了窗格子上，惊醒了我。狂风正悲叹而过，它的干果在玻璃窗面上碰得嘎嘎作响。
我决定把这声音止住，如果可能的话。我试着去打开那窗子，但窗钩给焊在钩环里了。
“不管怎么样，我非止住它不可！”我咕噜着，用拳头打穿了玻璃，伸出一个胳膊去抓那条树枝。可我的手指头没抓到它，却碰着了一只冰凉小手的手指！梦魇的恐怖压倒了我：我极力把胳膊缩回来，可是那只手却拉住它不放，一个异常忧郁的声音抽泣着：“让我进去，让我进去！”
“你是谁？”我问，同时拼命想把手挣脱。
“凯瑟琳·林顿，” 那声音颤抖着回答。“我回家来啦，我在旷野上走迷路啦！”在她说话时，我模模糊糊地辨认出一张小孩的脸向窗里望。
恐怖使我狠了心，发现想甩掉那个人是没有用的，就把她的手腕拉到那个破了的玻璃面上，来回地擦着，直到鲜血滴下来，沾湿了床单。可她还是哀哭着，“让我进去！”而且还是紧紧抓住我，简直要把我吓疯了。
“我怎么能够呢？”我终于说。“如果你要我让你进来，先放开我！”
手指松开了。我把自己的手从窗洞外抽回，捂住耳朵不听那可怜的祈求声。大概捂了有一刻钟以上吧，等到我再听时，那悲惨的呼声还继续哀叫着！
“走开！”我喊道，“就是你求我二十年，我也绝不让你进来。”
“已经二十年啦，”这声音哭着说，“二十年啦。我已经流浪了二十年啦。”
接着，外面开始了一个轻微的刮擦声。我想跳起来，可是四肢动弹不得，于是在惊骇中大声喊叫起来，一阵匆忙的脚步声走近我的卧室门口。有人使劲推开了门。
希刺克厉夫站在那里，拿着一支蜡烛，烛油直滴到他的手指上，脸色苍白得犹如他身后的墙。 (实习编辑：夏根建) | 
