呼啸山庄:WUTHERING HEIGHTS(英文原版) 下载 pdf 百度网盘 epub 免费 2025 电子书 mobi 在线

《呼啸山庄》19世纪英国女作家艾米莉·勃朗特经典代表作，《呼啸山庄》小说出版后一直被认为是英国文学史上一部“奇特的小说”。 《呼啸山庄》一反同时代作品普遍存在的伤感主义情调，而以强烈的爱、狂暴的恨及由之而起的无情的报复，取代了低沉的伤感和忧郁。虽然刚开始时曾被人看做是年轻女作家脱离现实的天真幻想，但结合其所描写地区激烈的阶级斗争和英国的社会现象，不久后便被评论界高度肯定，并受到读者的热烈欢迎。根据这部《呼啸山庄》小说改编的影视作品至今久演不衰。

本版《呼啸山庄》为英文原版，同时提供配套英文朗读免费下载，在品读精彩故事的同时，亦能提升英语阅读水平，下载方式详见图书封底博客链接。

Wuthering Heights is Emily Brontë’s only novel. Written between October

1845 and June 1846,Wuthering Heights was published in 1847 under the pseudonym “Ellis Bell”; Brontë died the following year, aged 30. Wuthering Heights and

Anne Brontë’s Agnes Grey were accepted

by publisher Thomas Newby before the success

of their sister Charlotte’s novel, Jane Eyre . After Emily’s death, Charlotte edited the manu* of Wuthering Heights , and

arranged for the edited version to be published as a posthumous second edition

in 1850.

Although Wuthering Heights is now widely regarded as a

classic of English literature, contemporary reviews for the novel were deeply

polarised; it was considered controversial because its depiction of mental and

physical cruelty

was unusually stark, and it challenged strict Victorian

ideals of the day regarding religious hypocrisy, morality, social classes and

gender inequality. The English poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

although an admirer of the book, referred to it as “A fiend of a book – an incredible monster [...] The action is laid in hell, – only it seems places and people have English names there.”

The novel has inspired adaptations, including

film, radio and television dramatisations, a musical by Bernard J. Taylor, a

ballet, operas, and a 1978 song by Kate Bush.

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     《呼啸山庄》 作者艾米莉·勃朗特，19世纪英国维多利亚时代诗人和小说家。艾米莉在这个世界上仅仅度过了三十年，便默默无声地离开了人间。她写过一些极为深沉的抒情诗，包括叙事诗和短诗。艾米莉与《简·爱》的作者夏洛蒂·勃朗特及她们的小妹妹——《艾格尼丝·格雷》的作者安妮·勃朗特——并称“勃朗特三姐妹”，在英国19世纪文坛上焕发异彩。

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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 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 expressed 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, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. “The Lord help us!”

he soliloquized 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 stop brought us

into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage; they

call it here “the house” preeminently. 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,

livercoloured 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

armchair, 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 darkskinned 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,

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     《呼啸山庄》为英国女作家艾米莉·勃朗特代表作，通过一个爱情悲剧，向人们展示了一副畸形社会的生活画面，勾勒了被这个畸形社会扭曲的人性及其造成的种种可怖的事件。本版《呼啸山庄》为英文原版，同时提供配套英文朗读免费下载，在品读精彩故事的同时，亦能提升英语阅读水平，下载方式详见图书封底博客链接。

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