Шарлотта Бронте - Лучшие романы сестер Бронте / The best of the Brontë sisters

Running after t’ lads, as usuald! If I war yah, maister, I’d just slam t’ boards i’ their faces all on ’em, gentle and simple! Never a day ut yah’re off, but yon cat o’ Linton comes sneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo’s a fine lass! shoo sits watching for ye i’ t’ kitchen; and as yah’re in at one door, he’s out at t’other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a-courting of her side! It’s bonny behaviour, lurking amang t’ fields, after twelve o’ t’ night, wi’ that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I’m blind; but I’m noan: nowt ut t’ soart! – I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed yah’ (directing his discourse to me), ‘yah gooid fur nowt, slattenly witch! nip up and bolt into th’ house, t’ minute yah heard t’ maister’s horse-fit clatter up t’ road.’ – Running after the lads as usual! If I were you, master, I’d just slam the doors in their faces, all of them, gentle and simple! Never a day when you’re away, but that cat Linton comes sneaking here; and Miss Nelly, she’s a fine lass! she sits watching for you in the kitchen; and as you are in at one door, he’s out at the other; and then our grand lady goes a-courting herself! It’s fine behaviour, lurking in the fields, after twelve at night, with that foul, frightening devil of a gypsy, Heathcliff! They think I’m blind; but I’m not: nothing of the sort! – I saw young Linton both coming and going, and I saw you, you good for nothing, slovenly witch! run up and into the house, the minute you heard the master’s horse coming up the road.

Nelly, we’s hae a crowner’s ’quest enow, at ahr folks’. One on ’em ’s a’most getten his finger cut off wi’ hauding t’ other fro’ stickin’ hisseln loike a cawlf. That’s maister, yeah knaw, ’at ’s soa up o’ going tuh t’ grand ’sizes. He’s noan feared o’ t’ bench o’ judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on ’em, not he! He fair likes – he langs to set his brazened face agean ’em! And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he’s a rare ’un. He can girn a laugh as well ’s onybody at a raight divil’s jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t’ Grange? This is t’ way on ’t: – up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can’le-light till next day at noon: then, t’fooil gangs banning und raving to his cham’er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i’ thur lugs fur varry shame; un’ the knave, why he can caint his brass, un’ ate, un’ sleep, un’ off to his neighbour’s to gossip wi’ t’ wife. I’ course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur’s goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur’s son gallops down t’ broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t’ pikes! – Nelly, we’ll have a coroner’s inquest soon, at our place. One of them almost got his finger cut off stopping the other from sticking himself like a calf. That’s the master, you know, that is so set on going to the Grand Assizes (periodic courts dealing mostly with serious crimes). He’s not afraid of the bench of judges, neither Paul, nor Peter, nor John, nor Matthew, not any of them! He fair likes (would like) – he longs to set his defiant face against them! And that bonny (sweet, nice) lad Heathcliff, you mind, he’s a rare one. He can grin and laugh as well as anybody right at a devil’s jest. Does he never say anything of his fine living among us when he goes to the Grange? This is the way of it: up at sundown, dice, brandy, closed shutters, and candlelight till next day at noon: then the fool goes cursing and raving to his chamber, making decent folk dig their fingers in their ears for the very shame; and the knave, why, he can count his money, and eat and sleep, and off to his neighbour’s to gossip with the wife. Of course, he tells lady Catherine how her father’s gold runs into his pocket, and her father’s son gallops down the broad road (to ruin), while he flies before to open the gates!

seek elf-bolts to hurt us – elf-bolts are stone arrowheads which were believed to be made by elves; Catherine accused Ellen of collecting elf-bolts to use for witchcraft.

Gooid Lord! If there’s to be fresh ortherings – just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev’ a mistress set o’er my heead, it’s like time to be flitting. I niver did think to see t’ day that I mud lave th’ owld place – but I doubt it’s nigh at hand! – Good Lord! If there’s to be fresh orders – just when I’m getting used to two masters – if I must have a mistress set over my head, it’s time to be flitting. I never did think to see the day when I must leave the old place – but I doubt it’s not at hand!

Thear! Hareton, thou willn’t sup thy porridge to-neeght; they’ll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear, agean! I’d fling in bowl un’ all, if I wer ye! There, pale t’ guilp off, un’ then ye’ll hae done wi’ ’t. Bang, bang. It’s a mercy t’ bothom isn’t deaved out! – There! Hareton, you won’t have your porridge tonight; there’ll be nothing but lumps as big as my fist. There again! I’d throw the bowl and all, if I were you! There, skim the milk off, and then you’ll be done with it. Bang, bang. It’s the mercy (thanks) the bottom isn’t knocked out!

Oh! it’s Maister Hathecliff’s ye’re wanting? Couldn’t ye ha’ said soa, at onst? un’ then, I mud ha’ telled ye, baht all this wark, that that’s just one ye cannut see – he allas keeps it locked, un’ nob’dy iver mells on’t but hisseln. – Oh, it’s Master Heathcliff’s you want? Couldn’t you have said so at once? and then I must have told you, without all this work, that he is just one you can’t see – he always keeps it locked, and nobody ever middles with it but himself.

Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss Cathy! Howsiver, t’ maister sall just tum’le o’er them brooken pots; un’ then we’s hear summut; we’s hear how it’s to be. Gooid-for-naught madling! ye desarve pining fro’ this to Churstmas, flinging t’ precious gifts o’God under fooit i’ yer flaysome rages! But I’m mista’en if ye shew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye? I nobbut wish he may catch ye i’ that plisky. I nobbut wish he may. – Well done, Miss Cathy! well done, Miss Cathy! Howsoever, the master will just tumble over them broken pots; and then we’ll hear something; we’ll hear how it’s to be. Good-for-nothing madling! you deserve starving from now to Christmas for flinging the precious gifts of God underfoot with your frightening rages! But I’ll be mistaken if you show your spirit long. Will Heathcliff bide (have, tolerate) such nice ways, you think? I just wish he may catch you in that temper. I just wish he may.

kirk-yard – kirk = church

I’d rayther he’d goan hisseln for t’ doctor! I sud ha’ taen tent o’ t’ maister better nor him – and he warn’t deead when I left, naught o’ t’ soart! – I’d rather he’d gone himself for the doctor! I would have taken care of the master better than him – and he wasn’t dead when I left, not of the sort!

He opened the mysteries of the Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. – The fairy cave under Penistone Crag is an outcrop cliff about three miles west of Haworth. It has a natural passage through the base, and local folklore has it that couples who crawl through this together will die if they do not marry within a year, or that they will commit suicide and haunt the rock forever if they marry someone else.

Noa! Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks noa ’count o’ t’ mother, nor ye norther; but he’ll heu’ his lad; und I mun tak’ him – soa now ye knaw! – No! No! that means nothing. Heathcliff makes no account of the mother, nor you neither; but he’ll have his lad and I must take him – so now you know!

Cannot ate it? But Maister Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little ’un; and what wer gooid enough for him’s gooid enough for ye, I’s rayther think! – Cannot eat it? But Master Hareton never ate anything else when he was a little one; and what was good enough for him is good enough for you, I rather think.

Wah! yon dainty chap says he cannut ate ’em. But I guess it’s raight! His mother wer just soa – we wer a’most too mucky to sow t’ corn for makking her breead. – What! that dainty chap says he cannot eat them. But I guess it’s right! His mother was just so – we were almost too mucky (dirty) to sow the corn for making her bread.

Michaelmas – a holiday of Archangel Michael, celebrated on the 29 thof September

I wer sure he’d sarve ye out! He’s a grand lad! He’s getten t’ raight sperrit in him! He knaws – ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t’ maister yonder – He made ye skift properly! – I was sure he’d serve you right! He’s a grand lad! He’s got the right spirit in him! He knows – yes, he knows, as well as I do, who should be the master here – He made you shift properly!

Chevy Chase – a 15th-century ballad describing the battle of Otterburn

I’d rayther, by th’ haulf, hev’ ’em swearing i’ my lugs fro’h morn to neeght, nor hearken ye hahsiver! It’s a blazing shame, that I cannot oppen t’ blessed Book, but yah set up them glories to Sattan, and all t’ flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th’ warld! Oh! ye’re a raight nowt; and shoo’s another; and that poor lad’ll be lost atween ye. Poor lad! he’s witched: I’m sartin on’t. Oh, Lord, judge ’em, for there’s norther law nor justice among wer rullers! – I’d rather, by half, have them swearing in my ears from morning to night, than hear you! It’s a blazing shame that I cannot open the blessed Book (the Bible) but you set up those glories to Satan, and all the frightening wickedness that ever were born into the world! Oh! you’re a real nothing, and she’s another; and that poor lad will be lost between you. Poor lad! he’s bewitched: I’m certain of it. Oh, Lord, judge them, for there’s neither law nor justice among our rulers!

Tak’ these in to t’ maister, lad, and bide there. I’s gang up to my own rahm. This hoile’s neither mensful nor seemly for us: we mun side out and seearch another. – Take these to the master, lad, and stay there. I’m going up to my own room. This hole is neither proper nor looks like it’s for us: we must move out and search for another.

Ony books that yah leave, I shall tak’ into th’ hahse, and it’ll be mitch if yah find ’em agean; soa, yah may plase yerseln! – Any books that you leave, I shall take into the house, and it’ll be much if you find them again; so, you may please yourself!