WUTHERING HEIGHTS
A monologue from the
novel by Emily Brontë
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from Wuthering Heights. Emily Brontë. New York: Harper
& Brothers, 1848. |
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MR. LOCKWOOD: I began to dream, almost before I ceased
to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning; and
I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow
lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion
wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a
pilgrim's staff: telling me that I could never get into the house
without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel,
which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered
it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance
into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was
not going there: we were journeying to hear the famous Jabez
Branderham preach, from the text -- Seventy Times Seven;
and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had committed the "First
of the Seventy-First," and were to be publicly exposed and
excommunicated. We came to the chapel where Jabez had a full
and attentive congregation; and he preached -- good God! what
a sermon; divided into FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY parts, each fully
equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing
a separate sin! Where he searched for them, I cannot tell. He
had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed
necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion.
They were of the most curious character: odd transgressions that
I never imagined previously. Oh, how weary I grew. How I writhed,
and yawned, and nodded, and revived! How I pinched and pricked
myself, and rubbed my eyes, and stood up, and sat down again,
and nudged Joseph to inform me if he would EVER have done. I
was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the "FIRST
OF THE SEVENTY-FIRST." At that crisis, a sudden inspiration
descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez Branderham
as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon. "Sir,"
I exclaimed, "Sitting here within these four walls, at one
stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety
heads of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked
up my hat and been about to depart - Seventy times seven times
have you preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four
hundred and ninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at
him! Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place which
knows him may know him no more!" "THOU ART THE MAN!"
cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over his cushion.
"Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy
visage -- seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul
-- Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved! The
First of the Seventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him
the judgment written. Such honour have all His saints!"
With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their
pilgrim's staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no
weapon to raise in self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph,
my nearest and most ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence
of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me,
fell on other sconces. Presently the whole chapel resounded with
rappings and counter rappings: every man's hand was against his
neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to remain idle, poured forth
his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit,
which responded so smartly that, at last, to my unspeakable relief,
they woke me. And what was it that had suggested the tremendous
tumult? What had played Jabez's part in the row? Merely the branch
of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by,
and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly
an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and
dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before.
MORE
MONOLOGUES BY EMILY BRONTË |
