From 1923 to 1924
ALL THIS WHILE, it seems, Maggie had kept her promise not to “use her witchcraft3 on him.” It was an easy promise, for she had no idea how she could break it. But with a view to the possibility that later she might have to exercise whatever powers she had (if indeed she had any), she set about exploring and experimenting. She was handicapped by complete ignorance, and a vague revulsion against the whole matter. For years she had been leaning more and more toward common sense, matter-of-factness, natural science. Apart from shadowy memories of her great-aunt’s stones, and of her own doubtful paranormal experiences in early youth, and the obviously quite uncritical beliefs of some of her acquaintances, she had no reason to believe in “the occult.”
She began to attend some sort of spiritualist seance that was held weekly in her neighbourhood. She tried to test the medium by asking for an interview with her dead brother. The results were not completely negative, but far too ambiguous to satisfy Maggie’s shrewd intelligence. On the other hand, she could not help being impressed by the fact that the medium at once treated her as a colleague, and told her that she must “learn quickly to use her powers, or it would be too late.” But each week she became more violently hostile to the emotional atmosphere of the seances. Had she attended the meetings in her early impressionable period, under the influence of her great-aunt, she might well have accepted without question these all-too — human communications from the dead, these carefully ambiguous prophecies, these bits of platitudinous4 advice given to simple souls in the grip of real heart-rending conflicts, or misfortunes. On the other hand, had she encountered “spiritualism” in the stage when she was reacting strongly against the old ways and values, she would have scornfully dismissed the whole matter as trickery. But now, under the influence of Victor’s cautious criticism alike of the old and the new superstitions5, and moreover stirred by the mystery of her relation with him, she was unable either to accept or reject, but was forced to remain in painful doubt. Something real and out of the ordinary, she felt, was indeed sometimes at work in the seances; but far more often nothing happened that could not plausibly6 be explained as a combination of coincidence and deception7.
On one occasion tile medium gave a display of “psychometry.” A sitter would hand her some personal article such as a glove or scarf or watch, and after fingering it for a while she would make pronouncements abut8 the character or circumstances of the owner. Maggie produced a pencil that Victor had formerly9 carried in his pocket. The medium handled it in silence for some time; then, in a voice no longer luscious10 and soothing11 but staccato and uneasy, she said, “There’s something queer about this, something that goes beyond my powers. There’s someone who is — well more than human, more than ordinary-human; but — torn apart, somehow. He needs help. But he’s proud. Help him at once, even if he’s too proud.” She paused, then hastily returned the pencil, saying. “Take it! I’m frightened.” Naturally Maggie was impressed by this reaction; and alarmed by the advice. But later, during a very emotional scene in which “ectoplasm” was supposed to have issued from the medium’s mouth. Maggie had an access of revulsion and scepticism. Several of the company were profoundly impressed, and in a state verging12 on hysterics. Maggie, on a sudden impulse, reached out and snatched the “ectoplasm.” which turned out to be a piece of crepe. There was an uproar13. The medium angrily maintained that the “young witch” had used her powers to change the genuine ectoplasm into a seeming piece of crepe, and that she herself was gravely damaged by the loss of part of her psychical15 anatomy16. She then screamed, and fell into a coma17. So at least most of the group believed. But Maggie was convinced that she was shamming18, and watching all the while under lowered eyelids19. Maggie ceased to attend the meetings.
But she was undertaking20 experiments of her own. In the hotel dining-room, when she was standing21 waiting while the residents finished a course, she would concentrate her attention on one of them, and try to will him (or her) to turn and look at her, or to sneeze, or show a change of mood. Occasionally she seemed to have a striking success; but generally nothing happened. She could not exclude the possibility that her seeming successes were illusory.
One of the residents was a sad and taciturn old lady. Maggie determined22 to make her talk to people and enjoy life. After a week or so of concentration on her “patient,” Maggie was delighted to see the ancient dame23 looking about her at her fellow guests with a bright and interested expression. Next day she actually opened a conversation with a young woman who sat alone at the next table. She seemed to have pleased the girl, for henceforth they shared a table, and were at no loss for conversation. This remarkable24 change in the old lady went far to convince Maggie that she had indeed supernormal powers. But her conviction was shaken when she overheard “her patient” remark to the younger woman that her doctor’s new medicine seemed to have worked a miraculous25 cure of the indigestion that had overclouded her life for twenty years.
Another of the residents was a morose26 man well advanced in middle age, who drank far too much, and indeed seemed to have nothing else to do. Mindful of Victor, Maggie considered him a very suitable subject for experiment; for he was obviously, as she put it to herself, “a decent sort gone wrong.” Her general aim was to find some way of “waking” people to what Victor would have called the most lucid27 and sensitive range of consciousness possible to them. If she could learn this art, she would be equipped to help Victor to keep the Dolt28 at bay for ever.
She had no certainty that she had any powers at all; but if she had, they seemed to consist at bottom in the power to direct the “patient’s” attention to something within the range of his vision but persistently29 ignored.
She began her new experiment by trying to make her man notice things in the room; the sunlight falling on a vase of daffodils, the sleek30 dignity of the hotel cat as it paced across the floor, the man-to-man relations of a mother and her small boy at a neighbouring table, the crisply rippling31 patter of two French voices at the far end of the room, the far from obvious expression of saintliness that sometimes interfered32 with the sophisticated manner of the young woman at the old lady’s table. After some days she was inclined to think that she was having a certain amount of success. She now tried to direct her “patient’s” attention to the opinion that the other residents had of him, carefully selecting those who did not loathe33 or despise him but were grieved that a man who must formerly have been well-set-up and attractive should have gone to pieces. After a few days she thought he was spending less time in the bar. Then he gave up alcohol entirely34. Maggie was convinced that her experiment was succeeding. Then one day as she was about to enter the lounge to attend to the fire, she heard her “patient” within the room earnestly saying, to someone unseen, “By simply being yourself, you have saved me. If you won’t accept me, I shall go to pieces again.” Maggie stood to listen. The voice of the sophisticated young woman replied, “I tell you it’s no good, I hardly know you. I don’t intend to marry you for your money, and I didn’t save you. You must have saved yourself. Please let me go!” There was a sound as of a slight scuffle, and Maggie hastily retired35. Later, as she was serving at dinner she overheard a snatch of conversation between the young woman and her aged14 friend. “I merely smiled at him, no more; and now I am supposed to be his guardian37 angel.”
The upshot of this experiment, like the others, was that Maggie was still uncertain whether she really had “magical” powers; but on the whole she was sufficiently38 encouraged to pursue her experiments. It even seemed that she was working in the right direction for their development as a means of helping39 Victor.
When it was clear that the flow of letters from Victor had ceased, she felt that she was absolved40 from her promise to refrain from influencing him, and she applied41 such technique as she had acquired to the task of strengthening the lucid Victor against his somnolent42 other self. But this was a far more formidable venture than any of her experiments, since Victor was at a distance. And she had no means of knowing how, if at all, he was responding. On the whole, she felt that the most hopeful method was to transmit to Victor clear images of her own face, and memories of their most stimulating43 conversations. With this end in view she used to steal moments to gaze at herself in a mirror, so that she might have as precise an image as possible to send to Victor.
Meanwhile she was becoming more and more anxious and impatient. At last she decided44 to go over to Victor’s town and make enquiries at his address, well aware that by doing so she might compromise both herself and Victor. What she learned from Victor’s landlady45 was very disturbing.
I will tell the story as I was told it by Victor himself in our London hotel. After his last visit to Maggie, he had no further attacks. He conscientiously46 practised his new “discipline” and avoided overstrain. As time passed, he became confident that he was once more firmly established, and little by little he turned less careful. At the end of the session he attended a “social” organized by the students in a distant town. On this occasion, in order to enter into the spirit of the party, he allowed himself a dispensation from his temporary total abstinence from alcohol, and he drank a fair amount of beer. I have already mentioned that in his awake state he was little affected48 by alcohol. On this occasion, however, he noticed a slight dizziness. He therefore refused any more drinks. It is not clear whether the disaster was brought on by alcohol or by the fact that on the journey home in the train a heavy suitcase fell from the rack above him on to his head, and for a moment he was stunned49. He arrived in his lodgings50 very tired, and with a splitting headache. He went straight to bed.
Next day he awoke as “the Dolt.” He had therefore no recollection of events since he stood at the altar to be married to Edith two years earlier. He woke in broad daylight and in a completely unknown and rather cheap little bedroom. Under the pillow he found his own wrist-watch. It registered 10.20. He sprang out of bed, bewildered, and with a throbbing51 head. On a chair were clothes, some of which he recognized. On the dressing52 table was some loose cash, a wallet, pen, pencil, and so on, most of which he recognized. He put on his familiar dressing gown, which was far shabbier than he had supposed it, and opened the door, which led into an obviously “lodging-house” sitting-room53. The fire in the grate had been recently fed. The table was laid for breakfast for one, but had not been used. A newspaper lay folded on the plate. It was the Manchester Guardian, a very wrong-headed paper from the Dolt’s point of view. Victor glanced at the date, February 24th, 1923. He subsided54 in an easy chair, feeling sick and frightened.
On the opposite chair was a pile of books and papers. He reached out for some of these. The books were mostly inscribed55 “Victor Smith” (not Cadogan–Smith), and were dry tomes on industrial history. The papers were written in a handwriting that was presumably his own, but there was something strange about it. Though neater and more legible, it struck him as less impressive than his own dashing hand.
Casting the papers aside, he opened the other door of the sitting-room, in search of the lavatory56 and bathroom. After a hasty wash and shave, he went back to his bedroom to dress, then returned to sit by the fire and consider his position. Taking out his wallet, he found in it two pound notes and an opened letter addressed in a careful but unformed hand to “Victor Smith” (not even Mr.), c/o Mrs. Wheelwright, at an address in a Yorkshire provincial57 town. Inside were a letter and a photograph of a remarkably58 ugly girl whom he recognized as one of the waitresses at the hotel where he had stayed for his wedding. The letter began “Dearest Victor,” and continued in the same strain, with many references to someone called “the Dolt,” against whom the writer, “Maggie,” wanted to help Victor in some mysterious way. Victor felt an irrationally59 violent surge of hostility60 to the girl. He threw letter and photograph into the fire.
By the mantelpiece there was a bell-push. Victor pressed it. After a while a smiling, motherly, middle-aged61 woman appeared. She said, “Good-morning, Mr. Smith! You have had a good lie-in!” Then she noticed something unusual about her lodger62. In a rather affected voice, very unlike the voice she knew as Victor’s (so she told Maggie), he demanded his breakfast. This was a shock to Mrs. Wheelwright, for it had been his habit to go downstairs and talk to his good friend and landlady while she cooked his bacon. Bewildered, she stood silent for a moment. Victor added coldly, “As soon as possible, please.” She left him.
Continuing his exploration of the room, he found a cheque-book, a bank passbook63 (showing a balance of some forty pounds), several folios of neat notes on economics and industrial history, a file of correspondence, mostly about adult educational arrangements, and a small collection of letters from Maggie. These he read through with increasing disgust and horror. In one of them Maggie told the story of her relations with low-class men in Aberdeen, and ended with an account of her adventures with her Negro lover. When the Dolt had finished reading the whole bundle, he flung them into the fire and stabbed at them with the poker64 till all were safely burnt. This act of self-emancipation gave him (so the awakened65 Victor told me during our long talk in the hotel) an extravagant66 vindictive67 satisfaction.
Mrs. Wheelwright returned with the breakfast. He announced that he would be leaving during the afternoon, and asked for his bill. She expressed surprise that he was starting on his holiday so soon. He said he was leaving for good. She was distressed68, and said, “But you have always seemed so happy here. And you know how I love having you. You are like a son, more than a lodger.” Tears were in her eyes, and she approached to put a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Please, tell me what’s the matter.” He shrank away from her, and said merely, “I am changing my work, and leaving this town. The bill, please.” She left him. Over breakfast he looked up trains to his father’s home. When his meal was done he piled all the notes and correspondence together. Mrs. Wheelwright brought the bill. He wrote a cheque, and made no offer to pay her anything additional on account of leaving without notice. She did not mention the matter, being more concerned with their personal than their financial relations. He told her to burn the lecture notes and correspondence, and dispose of the books as she thought fit. He then went in search of his bank and drew out all that would remain of his balance after the payment of Mrs. Wheelwright’s bill. Returning to his lodgings, he packed his possessions in two large suitcases that he found under the bed, telephoned for a taxi, gave his tearful landlady a perfunctory “goodbye,” and left for the station.
My account of Sir Geoffrey’s dealings with his son at this time is based partly on a long conversation with the old gentleman himself in the following year, while I was still in France. Knowing my admiration69 for, and intimacy70 with, his son, he asked me to meet him in Paris when he was on his way through to the Riviera. I gave him all the help I could in his effort to understand Victor’s case; and in return he told me, with considerable emotion, about the happenings which I am about to relate. I was surprised to find him so ready to help. As I shall tell in due course, he had come to feel a sharp conflict of loyalties71 in his own heart over the two antagonistic72 personalities73 of his son. Evidently it was a relief to him to unburden himself.
At the time when “the Dolt” suddenly appeared at Sir Geoffrey’s country house, the father had long ago overcome the indignation which he had felt over his son’s marriage fiasco, and he had several times written to Victor to persuade him to come back and start a new business career. But the awake Victor had always firmly though amiably74 refused, declaring that he must, for a while at least, make a complete break with his past. He never told his father that he regarded his former self as not himself at all.
But now at last Victor had come of his own accord. He was obviously in a state of great distress1 and confusion. He at once told his father that he had lost all memory of the events that had happened since he stood at the altar for marriage. When his father told him of his outrageous75 conduct, and that he had not married Edith after all, he was overwhelmed with mortification76. The consequent ruin of his business career deemed to distress him far more than the harm he had done to Edith.
Sir Geoffrey suggested that his son ought to have medical attention, but Victor was violently opposed to “getting into the clutches of the doctors.” It was decided that for a while he should remain quietly at home to rest and consider his plans. Sir Geoffrey was much distressed by his son’s distress; and at the same time relieved to learn that Victor’s disgraceful conduct had been due to definite mental aberration77. He was eager to believe that the young man’s other personality must be no more than a perverted78 and crippled part of his “true self.” How otherwise could he have treated Edith so shamefully79, and sacrifice his own career just when he was finding his feet? How otherwise could he have got himself entangled81 with a waitress, and moreover with one who, so Victor affirmed, was so plain, uneducated, and coarse-grained. The Dolt had at first intended to keep silent about this disreputable business, but in the end he had been unable to refrain from seeking his father’s sympathy and advice. In former days he had seldom taken his father into his confidence, but in his present suffering he seemed to long to pour out his woes82.
It was through this new talkativeness that he first made Sir Geoffrey wonder whether the Victor whom he had known in the past, and had now with him, was quite such an admirable person as he had formerly supposed. Evidently in the old days the son had successfully maintained a mask such as his father could respect; though even then Sir Geoffrey had sometimes felt disturbed by Victor’s ruthless “realism” in dealings with persons less fortunate than himself. Now, the harsh snobbery83 and careerism of the boy was becoming painfully obvious. His father was eager to excuse this as an exaggerated revulsion from the other personality; but he did seriously begin to wonder which of his “two sons” was in fact the more developed and integrated person.
In the end Sir Geoffrey decided on two actions. He would privately84 consult a personal friend who was a distinguished85 psychiatrist86, telling him all that he knew of Victor’s case, and arranging for his friend to meet Victor casually87 and “accidentally,” so as to be able to study the unhappy young man without betraying the fact that he was doing so.
In addition, Sir Geoffrey decided to make some discreet88 investigations89 about the doings of the other personality during the previous three years. He wrote to the Extramural Department of the university under which Victor had worked, saying that his son had come home suffering from a serious mental breakdown90, and requesting, for medical purposes, an account of his recent life, and the opinion of his employers about him. Did he, for instance, ever show signs of mental disorder91? Sir Geoffrey received a prompt reply, to the effect that Victor’s disappearance92 had surprised and distressed all who knew him, and that he was an able scholar and a brilliant teacher universally admired and liked. The letter continued, “Far from showing signs of mental disorder, he struck us as thoroughly93 sane94. No doubt some of his opinions were novel and daring, but as a person he was always completely reliable and capable of shrewd judgment95 about individuals. His, obviously, is a very original mind, and he has an extraordinary gift of sympathetic insight into the minds of others. If all goes well, he should some day make an outstanding contribution to social thought.” Enclosed was a cheque for Victor’s services during the recent session. This, it was explained, had been returned from his lodgings, which he had left without giving an address.
Pursuing his researches, Sir Geoffrey contrived96 to visit Victor’s recent landlady, of course without telling the young man himself. Mrs. Wheelwright was overawed by the well-dressed, and slightly pompous97 visitor, who introduced himself with a visiting card inscribed “Sir Geoffrey Cadogan–Smith.” But the two had a common interest in Victor; and she was soon unburdening her heart of warm feelings and anxiety on behalf of her lodger, who, she said, had been more like a son to her. He gave her no trouble, he helped her with odd jobs in the house, he nursed her and cooked for her when she was down with ‘flu, he had a way of making her feel “wanted,” and often she found herself talking freely to him about her private affairs, including her great tragedy, the loss of her husband and only son in the recent war. She assured Sir Geoffrey that “he was one in a thousand, was my Mr. Smith.. Sir Geoffrey made discreet enquiries about Victor’s relations with a certain young woman. But on this subject she could not or would not help him. She said merely that Victor had spoken of a young lady whom he hoped to marry some day, but he must not do so until he was sure he was good enough for her. He had shown her the girl’s photograph. A strange-looking young lady, not a beauty, but she might be very good-hearted. Probably she was not really half good enough for Mr. Smith.
Sir Geoffrey was too much of an aristocrat98 (or would-be aristocrat) not to feel that his son’s hob-nobbing with persons of the lower orders was a mistake. It sprang from sentimental99 idealism, and was probably a morbid100 reaction against the snobbery of the other Victor. All the same the father could not help being impressed by the way in which his “unknown son” had won people’s hearts.
Hoping for some further insight into Victor’s mind, he said he would take a glance at his son’s books. As he was casting his eyes over the shelves, he was disturbed to notice, along with the solid works on economics and history, which were the tools of Victor’s trade, a number of socialistic and even Marxist tracts101. There were also works on psychology102 by that dirty-minded fellow, Freud, who was becoming fashionable; also a few volumes on the new mind-twisting theory of relativity; and a sprinkling of modern poetry, which, Sir Geoffrey felt, was going badly astray.
While Sir Geoffrey was poking103 about among his son’s books, Mrs. Wheelwright had continued prattling104 on about Victor. But presently she made a statement that attracted her visitor’s attention. On the day of his departure Victor had told her to burn all his notes, but she had not been able to bring herself to do so. She had stored them in her own room. Perhaps it would be a breach105 of confidence to let the father see the son’s private papers; but perhaps, for her lodger’s own sake, she ought to show them, in case they threw any light on his “trouble.” Sir Geoffrey urged her to let him take them away to study at leisure; but this she firmly refused to allow. Finally it was agreed that he should stay on for a few hours to study them in her house. She gladly provided Sir Geoffrey with a meal, and left him to himself.
Most of the notes which she entrusted106 to him were material for lectures, quite unexceptionable from Sir Geoffrey’s point of view, save for a general tendency to argue that throughout history the rich had given the poor a raw deal, and that this, would continue until the control of “the major means of production” was in the hands of the representatives of the people. But there was also a crowded notebook which was obviously the first draft of a book in which Victor was attempting to state his whole philosophy of life. Sir Geoffrey was soon deeply absorbed in this. Much struck him as wild and dangerous stuff, much he sadly recognized, was simply beyond him, parts expressed with great clarity ideas that he and his generation had been vainly trying to formulate107. Gradually it was borne in on the father that, however wrong-headed and revolutionary his “unknown son” might be in some respects, his was indeed a very original mind. Sir Geoffrey even began to entertain the possibility that, when they differed, the son might not always be in the wrong. But no! The boy was still young and extravagant; also, perhaps, unbalanced owing to his mental disorder. Sir Geoffrey came to a passage of veiled autobiography108 stating that each of us is really two men, a dolt and a being of sensibility and intelligence. There followed a very moving account of the struggle between the two. Suddenly the father became painfully conscious of the fact that he was prying109. Reluctantly he closed the notebook, summoned Mrs. Wheelwright and gave all the manuscripts back into her charge.
Before he left, the landlady showed him a treasured photograph of her recent lodger. Sir Geoffrey was struck both by the likeness110 to his known son, and to certain differences. The eyes were alert and smiling, the mouth fuller yet firmer. Sir Geoffrey looked long at the photograph, then handed it back in silence.
On the journey home he had much to occupy his mind. His researches had gone far to confirm his suspicion that his other, unknown son, was indeed a completer man than the son to whom he was now returning. What then ought he to do, or rather, try to do? It was all too likely that he could do nothing. Then what, at any rate, should he hope for? Should he desire the re-establishment of his familiar Victor, of whom in the past he had often been proud on account of his successes and his rather stereotyped111 brilliance112; and for whom, in spite of misgivings113, he still retained a strong paternal114 affection? Or should he hope for the final annihilation of the familiar Victor for the sake of that other Victor, whom he did not know, and had never even met; that eccentric, remarkable, rather wrong-headed and dangerous but warm-hearted, creative intelligence? Or should he perhaps rather look for some sort of integration115 of the two Victors in one complete individual? On the whole his intellect affirmed that the familiar Victor was by now, at any rate, a poor creature, and the other an outstanding personality. But to his paternal heart the familiar though no longer respected son remained irrationally dearer than the brilliant stranger. To work for the familiar son’s annihilation seemed like murder.
When Sir Geoffrey met his son at home, he was oppressed by the contrast with Mrs. Wheelwright’s photograph of the other son. The sagging116 eyelids, the drooping117 ends of the mouth, gave an impression of humourless self-concern. The father reminded himself that this morbid condition was, of course, exaggerated by the boy’s present unhappy state. His conversation, too, contrasted unfavourably with the other’s manuscript which Sir Geoffrey had so recently been reading. The present Victor seemed to be obsessed118 with anxiety to wriggle119 back into his former post. Could his father pull wires for him? After all, he argued, in spite of aberrations120 his record had not been undistinguished. And what about Edith? Was there any chance that she would forgive him and marry him after all? When he learned that Edith was already married he was distressed, but not broken-hearted. Indeed, to his father’s shame he was soon making enquiries about other eligible121 girls.
When Sir Geoffrey suggested that he had better not worry over marriage till he was cured of his illness, Victor replied with some warmth, “But don’t you see! I must get myself legally tied to some decent girl as soon as possible. If I go sick again, I may marry that awful slut. But if I am already legally tied to another, the second marriage will be invalid122.” Sir Geoffrey was shocked by this heartless remark. He protested that it was a low trick to marry a girl simply to render a subsequent marriage bigamous. Victor hastily added that of course he was assuming that he would find a girl whom he really loved. Sir Geoffrey could not help contrasting the present Victor’s attitude with the other’s scruples123 about marrying Maggie.
In due course Sir Geoffrey’s psychiatrist friend turned up, and contrived to have a good deal of conversation with Victor. He was also told the results of Sir Geoffrey’s researches. He was convinced that the other Victor was the real Victor, or rather the more developed part of the whole Victor, and the present Victor a mere36 splinter. Integration of the two personalities, he suggested might produce a Victor no less brilliant than the absent one, but also better balanced. He insisted that the case could not be tackled unless the young man was brought to his private mental home for constant treatment. Sir Geoffrey promised that he would try to persuade his son voluntarily to comply with this suggestion. But when he broached124 the matter, Victor responded with neurotic125 anger and self-pity.
The weeks slipped by. Nothing was done about recovering Victor’s job. Sir Geoffrey was convinced, but did not say so, that the boy was in no fit state to undertake responsibility. He was still subject to attacks of black depression, and he sometimes fell into a state verging on coma. When he was more or less fit, he spent most of his time motoring very fast about the country. (His sports car had been preserved for him.) He also did a good deal of shooting. And he tried to stage a comeback into local society. In this he was not very successful, for people were on their guard against anyone who was known to have behaved eccentrically.
After a couple of months it was clear to Sir Geoffrey that his son was not making any progress. He complained of violent headaches, which often ended in a twelve-hour sleep. On one occasion he declared that he was fighting desperately126 for sanity127 “against the forces of darkness.” Pressed to amplify128 this statement, he said that ideas utterly129 alien to his nature kept breaking in on him, crazy fragments of thought about social strife130, about irreligion, about sexual licentiousness131. Also he complained that he was being haunted by “the filthy132 face of the slut.” Sir Geoffrey reluctantly decided that the time was at hand when it would be necessary to over-ride Victor’s wishes and send him away for treatment.
The idea did cross his mind that Maggie might possibly be able to settle the conflict of the two Victors by restoring the one whom she loved. He considered making contact with her, but postponed133 doing so, fearing awkward complications. It was Maggie herself who finally took action.
When at last she visited Victor’s lodgings, she found his landlady very much on her guard, for she did not consider that this ugly girl was good enough for her dear lodger. However, Maggie’s obvious sincerity134 and distress gradually won her, and she told Maggie of Sir Geoffrey’s visit, and gave his address. Maggie promptly135 wrote, telling him the main facts about her relations with his son, and imploring136 him to let her meet Victor, in the hope that her presence might “restore him to sanity.” Meanwhile she privately redoubled her efforts to cure him by telepathic influence.
Sir Geoffrey feared that if Victor were confronted with Maggie in person he would be driven to frenzy137, and might break down completely. But the father came to feel that at least he had better meet the girl himself to form some opinion of her character, with a view to enlisting138 her help in some way or other, if in his view she passed muster139. So he replied to her letter cautiously, and said he would prefer to discuss the whole matter with her before allowing her to see his son. He therefore proposed to meet her. At first he found himself in some doubt about the correct way of effecting an interview with a servant girl on such a delicate subject; but a little consideration made him realize that, if Maggie was to be of any use at all, she must be treated with the respect due to the woman whom Victor had admired. He therefore arranged to have her to lunch on her “day off” in a respectable though unobtrusive restaurant in the town where she worked.
Maggie’s presence had a disturbing effect on Sir Geoffrey. Like the Dolt, he found her face repugnant; but like the true Victor he was attracted by her direct and genial140 personality. Indeed, by the time they had reached the coffee he was beginning, in spite of his conventional standards of feminine beauty, to feel a fascination141 even in her strange face. Obviously she was of far too lowly a social class to be a desirable match for the son of a successful colonial administrator142; but, damn it, she was not the slut that the present Victor had described. Indeed, much to his surprise Sir Geoffrey found his manner changing from formal politeness to real friendliness143. But he refused to let Maggie see his son. The shock, he insisted, would be too great. Instead, he proposed to tell Victor that he had met her, and to build up in the young man’s mind a true picture of the girl whom, in his other phase, he loved. With this end in view he encouraged Maggie to tell him more about her past relations with his son, and her own past life. This she gladly did, trying (as she told me) to infuse the old gentleman’s mind with a sense of the joyful144 harmony and mutual145 dependence146 that had sprung up between Victor and herself. Excusably she said nothing about the more sordid147 side of her life in Aberdeen and Glasgow.
When Sir Geoffrey reached home and met Victor again, his son seemed to sense that his father had somehow betrayed him. Indeed, he became so suspicious and despondent148 that Sir Geoffrey felt it would be unwise to tell him about the recent interview while he was so unbalanced. Next day Victor complained of a “terrible headache,” and vertigo149. “That foul150 woman,” he said, “has been attacking me again, It’s worse than ever.” Sir Geoffrey changed his mind and took the plunge151. “You have got the girl all wrong,” he said. “I have seen her, and though she certainly is remarkably plain, she strikes me as being an admirable person.” Victor had stretched himself out on a couch, and at this information he fell into a spluttering, trembling, impotent rage. Presently he closed his eyes and assumed the expression of a martyr152. His father felt acute disgust in watching his son, so he rose and walked about the room, recounting his impressions of Maggie. Presently he stopped, and noticed that Victor was apparently153 asleep, with his head back and his jaw154 dropped. His father tried to wake him, but he was in a deep coma. Wondering what to do next, Sir Geoffrey sat down and watched his son. Presently the mouth closed, the eyes opened. Sir Geoffrey noticed a subtle change of expression. The eyes were wide and alert. The father saw at once that he was confronted with the face of the photograph in Mrs. Wheelwright’s possession. Victor sat up, stretched his arms, and laughed. He said, “Thank God I’m awake again!” For a few seconds only, he looked about him in some bewilderment. Then his eyes met his father’s with a steady, smiling gaze. Presently he said, “Thanks, Dad, for being so good to me during these wretched weeks, and coming round to take my side against that somnolent ass47 that masquerades as me.” Sir Geoffrey said nothing. He was fascinated by the change in his son. Victor said, “Look! After lunch I’ll rush off to see Maggie and get everything straight. Then, if I may, I’ll come back here some time, and tell you all about her. Believe me, I appreciate my father much better: than that other son does; specially155 after these weeks, and after what you said about Maggie just now.” He smiled brightly, like the photograph.
The new Victor was, of course in possession of the old Victor’s memories. After his moment of bewilderment, he knew perfectly156 well where he was, and had a clear recollection of all the Dolt’s conversations with his father. “Of course,” he told me, “I was not awake at the time, but after only a few seconds of confusion I could remember all that I had done in that foul sleep-walk of a life.” Latterly the Dolt had been tormented157 by obsessive158 images and thoughts that (said Victor) must have originated with Maggie. He felt confident that some strange telepathic influence from Maggie had been the main cause of his waking to his true self. His one desire was to see her at once and tell her that she had saved him. His father tried to persuade him to stay at least for one night to rest, but Victor said that he would feel much more secure if he could be with Maggie that very day. Sir Geoffrey admitted the force of this argument.
Father and son had a long talk before they parted. Sir Geoffrey admitted that he had read part of Victor’s manuscript, and they drifted into a general discussion. The upshot for Sir Geoffrey was that he had no further doubt as to which was the better Victor; and he saw that this new Victor must be helped by every possible means to become firmly established. Yet he could not feel for the new Victor the warm parental159 affection which he had always felt for the familiar Victor, even when he had been most critical of him. This new son of his was a stranger; a brilliant and a generous-minded stranger, no doubt, but a person whom his father did not really know, and one whose opinions were in many ways rash and subversive160. Though the old Victor had treated him with a kind of respectful contempt, the father had never felt resentful; probably because he so earnestly longed to be able to regard his son as his superior. On the other hand, the new Victor treated his father with man-to-man equality and friendliness. But at every turn his quick mind had to wait for the old man to catch up. When the father had occasion to protest against the wild views of the son, Victor attended earnestly to his criticism, but demolished161 it ruthlessly, not hesitating to charge his parent with sheer muddle-headedness. His attitude was that of a friendly but outspoken162 equal. Sir Geoffrey had been accustomed to deference163. At first he was a little bewildered.
Victor wired to Maggie to expect him that evening, and to Mrs. Wheelwright to re-engage his rooms, if they were still vacant. When he met Maggie he told her that she had saved him. The detached reader will note that there is no real proof that she ever did on any occasion actually exercise any supernormal or occult powers over him. The dreams and visions that plagued the Dolt might well have risen from the suppressed side of his own nature. On the other hand, the final changeover to the true Victor may, of course, be fairly plausibly explained as the work of some sort of telepathic influence from Maggie, directed through the medium of Sir Geoffrey, whose mind had so recently been deeply affected by her. This is what Maggie and Victor believed; but the sceptic is quite entitled to his doubts. Subsequent events, which I shall relate in due course, do not suggest to me that Maggie’s supernormal powers, if they existed, were very effective. Victor, however, was always convinced that they had saved him, and that he constantly depended on her influence.
Maggie was now determined to live with Victor so as to use all her influence to keep the Dolt at bay. She proposed to give a month’s notice to her employers and have the wedding as soon as she was free. Victor was torn between the desire to be united with Maggie as soon as possible and fear of tying her to the Dolt. She confidently believed that the Dolt could never return as long as she was constantly with Victor. The awake Victor was still dismayed by the recent dominance of the Dolt, and therefore hesitant about involving Maggie in a permanent relationship. In the end it was agreed that they should wait for a few weeks to see how things went.
Time passed, and it did indeed seem that Victor was thoroughly re-established in self-possession. He met Maggie every week, and they slid easily back into the old life, with the difference that they were now acknowledged lovers, and she proudly wore an engagement ring. They frequented all their old haunts, and everything was transfigured by the knowledge that now at last they were pledged to one another. Yet the future was uncertain, for Victor still retained his scruples.
The time came for Maggie to have her short annual holiday. In the past she had generally used it for a hasty visit to Shetland, though on one occasion she had joined Katie in a trip to London. This time, both she and Victor assumed that the two of them would spend Maggie’s holiday together. But in what capacity? As newly-weds? As unmarried lovers? If so, they would certainly have to masquerade as a married pair if they wanted to share a room. But the scruples which held Victor back from marrying Maggie, prevented him also from having a temporary union with her. He himself (he told me) scarcely understood his motive164. Obviously it was not conventional morality that restrained him, for it had not restrained him before. Vaguely165 he felt that to consummate166 their “spiritual marriage,” even without a legal union, would entangle80 her too deeply with him to allow her to free herself if the Dolt were to return. Always he was haunted by the fear that he might at any moment give place to the Dolt. Moreover, he felt that, quite apart from his own uncertainty167, it would be wiser, in view of Maggie’s former revulsion against sex, not to mate with her until they were even more deeply involved mentally.
In view of these scruples, Victor suggested to Maggie that they should go on holiday together as brother and sister. This proposal distressed Maggie. It revived her old suspicion that, in spite of all his affection for her, Victor suffered from an unacknowledged physical repulsion. This suspicion in turn, made her behave less warmly toward him.
However, they spent their holiday as he wished. They did a walking tour in the Lakes, from Youth Hostel168 to Youth Hostel; and they walked so strenuously169 that their vow170 of chastity was re-enforced by fatigue171. They climbed all the main heights, for Maggie was a sturdy young woman and eager to prove her mettle172. Victor persuaded her to venture on a little rock-climbing, “just to know what it’s like,” but she soon decided that “risking one’s neck for the mere thrill of it was a mug’s game.” Sitting on the loose summit of Nape’s Needle, she vowed173 that if she got down safely she would never climb again. Victor did not press her. Indeed, he admitted that, if you felt no need to test yourself, it was foolish to do so. Rock-climbing therefore gave place to scrambling174 and walking, watching buzzards and ravens175, admiring the skill of sheep-dogs, conversing176 with their masters, bathing in tarns177, and looking forward to the next meal. One day on High Street they encountered seven red deer, including a “stag of ten.” This incident stirred them both, but especially Victor. “Extraordinary,” he told me, “how the wild animal in its native environment seems quite a different creature from the same kind in the zoo. Those free beasts were so lithe178 and lean and sleek, in fact in perfect training. They stood for a moment taking the scent179 of us with dilating180 nostrils181, then turned and cantered away over the deep heather with their easy bounds, like sailing boats in a fair breeze, breasting the waves. Somehow we felt that, though we were much cleverer animals, they had something more important than cleverness, something that we had lost, perfect rapport182 with the environment, harmony with the universe, intimacy with God!” Victor laughed, apologizing for this fantasy.
It was shortly after this holiday that Victor wrote to me to suggest a meeting.
Talking late into the night in the hotel lounge, he at last completed his story. He looked at me quizzically, and said, “Well, what would you do in my position? Marry her? Live with her ‘in sin’? Carry on still longer in the present uncomfortable way? Or cut adrift altogether?” All I could find to say was that if he did not want to entangle her, he should not have allowed himself to see so much of her. He said, “Of course! But here I am, in a fix. What would you do now?” After a long silence, I brought myself to say, “Either marry her as soon as possible, or give her up completely. Don’t go on havering.” For some minutes he said nothing. Then, knocking out his pipe and rising, he said, “Well, thanks! You are a damned good listener. Queer how talking to you clears my mind, even if I don’t finally act on your advice.” We both went up to our rooms.
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1
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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platitudinous
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| adj.平凡的，陈腐的 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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abut
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| v.接界，毗邻 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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30
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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43
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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47
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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48
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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49
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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52
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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53
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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54
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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55
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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56
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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57
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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60
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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62
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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passbook
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| n.存折；顾客赊欠账簿 | |
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64
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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65
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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66
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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68
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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69
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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71
loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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72
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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73
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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74
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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76
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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78
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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79
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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80
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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81
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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83
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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84
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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85
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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86
psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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87
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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88
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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89
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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90
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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91
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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92
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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93
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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94
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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95
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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96
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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97
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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98
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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99
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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100
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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101
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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102
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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103
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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104
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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105
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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106
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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108
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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109
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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110
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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111
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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112
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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113
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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114
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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115
integration
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| n.一体化，联合，结合 | |
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116
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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117
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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118
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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119
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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120
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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121
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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122
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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123
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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125
neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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126
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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127
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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128
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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129
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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130
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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131
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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132
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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133
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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134
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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135
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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136
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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137
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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138
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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139
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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140
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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141
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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142
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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143
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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144
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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145
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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146
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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147
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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148
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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149
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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150
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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151
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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152
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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153
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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154
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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155
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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156
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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157
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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158
obsessive
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| adj. 着迷的, 强迫性的, 分神的 | |
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159
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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160
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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161
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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162
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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163
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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164
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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165
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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166
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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167
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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168
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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169
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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170
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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171
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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172
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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173
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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174
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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175
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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176
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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177
tarns
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| n.冰斗湖，山中小湖( tarn的名词复数 ) | |
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178
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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179
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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180
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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181
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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182
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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