Within five hundred yards of the chair on which I sat stood the first peasant hut of the village — part of my maternal5 grandfather’s estate, the only part remaining in the possession of a member of the family; and beyond the village in the limitless blackness of a winter’s night there lay the great unfenced fields — not a flat and severe plain, but a kindly6 bread-giving land of low rounded ridges7, all white now, with the black patches of timber nestling in the hollows. The road by which I had come ran through the village with a turn just outside the gates closing the short drive. Somebody was abroad on the deep snow track; a quick tinkle8 of bells stole gradually into the stillness of the room like a tuneful whisper.
My unpacking had been watched over by the servant who had come to help me, and, for the most part, had been standing9 attentive10 but unnecessary at the door of the room. I did not want him in the least, but I did not like to tell him to go away. He was a young fellow, certainly more than ten years younger than myself; I had not been — I won’t say in that place, but within sixty miles of it, ever since the year ‘67; yet his guileless physiognomy of the open peasant type seemed strangely familiar. It was quite possible that he might have been a descendant, a son, or even a grandson, of the servants whose friendly faces had been familiar to me in my early childhood. As a matter of fact he had no such claim on my consideration. He was the product of some village near by and was there on his promotion13, having learned the service in one or two houses as pantry boy. I know this because I asked the worthy14 V—— next day. I might well have spared the question. I discovered before long that all the faces about the house and all the faces in the village: the grave faces with long mustaches of the heads of families, the downy faces of the young men, the faces of the little fair-haired children, the handsome, tanned, wide-browed faces of the mothers seen at the doors of the huts, were as familiar to me as though I had known them all from childhood and my childhood were a matter of the day before yesterday.
The tinkle of the traveller’s bells, after growing louder, had faded away quickly, and the tumult15 of barking dogs in the village had calmed down at last. My uncle, lounging in the corner of a small couch, smoked his long Turkish chibouk in silence.
“This is an extremely nice writing-table you have got for my room,” I remarked.
“It is really your property,” he said, keeping his eyes on me, with an interested and wistful expression, as he had done ever since I had entered the house. “Forty years ago your mother used to write at this very table. In our house in Oratow, it stood in the little sitting-room16 which, by a tacit arrangement, was given up to the girls — I mean to your mother and her sister who died so young. It was a present to them jointly17 from your uncle Nicholas B. when your mother was seventeen and your aunt two years younger. She was a very dear, delightful18 girl, that aunt of yours, of whom I suppose you know nothing more than the name. She did not shine so much by personal beauty and a cultivated mind in which your mother was far superior. It was her good sense, the admirable sweetness of her nature, her exceptional facility and ease in daily relations, that endeared her to every body. Her death was a terrible grief and a serious moral loss for us all. Had she lived she would have brought the greatest blessings19 to the house it would have been her lot to enter, as wife, mother, and mistress of a household. She would have created round herself an atmosphere of peace and content which only those who can love unselfishly are able to evoke20. Your mother — of far greater beauty, exceptionally distinguished21 in person, manner, and intellect — had a less easy disposition22. Being more brilliantly gifted, she also expected more from life. At that trying time especially, we were greatly concerned about her state. Suffering in her health from the shock of her father’s death (she was alone in the house with him when he died suddenly), she was torn by the inward struggle between her love for the man whom she was to marry in the end and her knowledge of her dead father’s declared objection to that match. Unable to bring herself to disregard that cherished memory and that judgment23 she had always respected and trusted, and, on the other hand, feeling the impossibility to resist a sentiment so deep and so true, she could not have been expected to preserve her mental and moral balance. At war with herself, she could not give to others that feeling of peace which was not her own. It was only later, when united at last with the man of her choice, that she developed those uncommon24 gifts of mind and heart which compelled the respect and admiration25 even of our foes26. Meeting with calm fortitude27 the cruel trials of a life reflecting all the national and social misfortunes of the community, she realized the highest conceptions of duty as a wife, a mother, and a patriot28, sharing the exile of her husband and representing nobly the ideal of Polish womanhood. Our uncle Nicholas was not a man very accessible to feelings of affection. Apart from his worship for Napoleon the Great, he loved really, I believe, only three people in the world: his mother — your great-grandmother, whom you have seen but cannot possibly remember; his brother, our father, in whose house he lived for so many years; and of all of us, his nephews and nieces grown up around him, your mother alone. The modest, lovable qualities of the youngest sister he did not seem able to see. It was I who felt most profoundly this unexpected stroke of death falling upon the family less than a year after I had become its head. It was terribly unexpected. Driving home one wintry afternoon to keep me company in our empty house, where I had to remain permanently29 administering the estate and at tending to the complicated affairs —(the girls took it in turn week and week about)— driving, as I said, from the house of the Countess Tekla Potocka, where our invalid30 mother was staying then to be near a doctor, they lost the road and got stuck in a snow drift. She was alone with the coachman and old Valery, the personal servant of our late father. Impatient of delay while they were trying to dig themselves out, she jumped out of the sledge31 and went to look for the road herself. All this happened in ‘51, not ten miles from the house in which we are sitting now.
The road was soon found, but snow had begun to fall thickly again, and they were four more hours getting home. Both the men took off their sheepskin lined greatcoats and used all their own rugs to wrap her up against the cold, notwithstanding her protests, positive orders, and even struggles, as Valery afterward32 related to me. ‘How could I,’ he remonstrated33 with her, ‘go to meet the blessed soul of my late master if I let any harm come to you while there’s a spark of life left in my body?’ When they reached home at last the poor old man was stiff and speechless from exposure, and the coachman was in not much better plight34, though he had the strength to drive round to the stables himself. To my reproaches for venturing out at all in such weather, she answered, characteristically, that she could not bear the thought of abandoning me to my cheerless solitude35. It is incomprehensible how it was that she was allowed to start. I suppose it had to be! She made light of the cough which came on next day, but shortly afterward inflammation of the lungs set in, and in three weeks she was no more! She was the first to be taken away of the young generation under my care. Behold36 the vanity of all hopes and fears! I was the most frail37 at birth of all the children. For years I remained so delicate that my parents had but little hope of bringing me up; and yet I have survived five brothers and two sisters, and many of my contemporaries; I have outlived my wife and daughter, too — and from all those who have had some knowledge at least of these old times you alone are left. It has been my lot to lay in an early grave many honest hearts, many brilliant promises, many hopes full of life.”
He got up briskly, sighed, and left me saying, “We will dine in half an hour.”
Without moving, I listened to his quick steps resounding38 on the waxed floor of the next room, traversing the anteroom lined with bookshelves, where he paused to put his chibouk in the pipe-stand before passing into the drawing-room (these were all en suite), where he became inaudible on the thick carpet. But I heard the door of his study-bedroom close. He was then sixty-two years old and had been for a quarter of a century the wisest, the firmest, the most indulgent of guardians39, extending over me a paternal40 care and affection, a moral support which I seemed to feel always near me in the most distant parts of the earth.
As to Mr. Nicholas B., sub-lieutenant41 of 1808, lieutenant of 1813 in the French army, and for a short time Officier d’Ordonnance of Marshal Marmont; afterward captain in the 2d Regiment42 of Mounted Rifles in the Polish army — such as it existed up to 1830 in the reduced kingdom established by the Congress of Vienna — I must say that from all that more distant past, known to me traditionally and a little de visu, and called out by the words of the man just gone away, he remains43 the most incomplete figure. It is obvious that I must have seen him in ‘64, for it is certain that he would not have missed the opportunity of seeing my mother for what he must have known would be the last time. From my early boyhood to this day, if I try to call up his image, a sort of mist rises before my eyes, mist in which I perceive vaguely44 only a neatly45 brushed head of white hair (which is exceptional in the case of the B. family, where it is the rule for men to go bald in a becoming manner before thirty) and a thin, curved, dignified46 nose, a feature in strict accordance with the physical tradition of the B. family. But it is not by these fragmentary remains of perishable47 mortality that he lives in my memory. I knew, at a very early age, that my granduncle Nicholas B. was a Knight48 of the Legion of Honour and that he had also the Polish Cross for valour Virtuti Militari. The knowledge of these glorious facts inspired in me an admiring veneration49; yet it is not that sentiment, strong as it was, which resumes for me the force and the significance of his personality. It is over borne by another and complex impression of awe3, compassion50, and horror. Mr. Nicholas B. remains for me the unfortunate and miserable51 (but heroic) being who once upon a time had eaten a dog.
It is a good forty years since I heard the tale, and the effect has not worn off yet. I believe this is the very first, say, realistic, story I heard in my life; but all the same I don’t know why I should have been so frightfully impressed. Of course I know what our village dogs look like — but still. . . . No! At this very day, recalling the horror and compassion of my childhood, I ask myself whether I am right in disclosing to a cold and fastidious world that awful episode in the family history. I ask myself — is it right? — especially as the B. family had always been honourably52 known in a wide countryside for the delicacy53 of their tastes in the matter of eating and drinking. But upon the whole, and considering that this gastronomical54 degradation55 overtaking a gallant56 young officer lies really at the door of the Great Napoleon, I think that to cover it up by silence would be an exaggeration of literary restraint. Let the truth stand here. The responsibility rests with the Man of St. Helena in view of his deplorable levity57 in the conduct of the Russian campaign. It was during the memorable58 retreat from Moscow that Mr. Nicholas B., in company of two brother officers — as to whose morality and natural refinement59 I know nothing — bagged a dog on the outskirts60 of a village and subsequently devoured61 him. As far as I can remember the weapon used was a cavalry62 sabre, and the issue of the sporting episode was rather more of a matter of life and death than if it had been an encounter with a tiger. A picket63 of Cossacks was sleeping in that village lost in the depths of the great Lithuanian forest. The three sportsmen had observed them from a hiding-place making themselves very much at home among the huts just before the early winter darkness set in at four o’clock. They had observed them with disgust and, perhaps, with despair. Late in the night the rash counsels of hunger overcame the dictates64 of prudence65. Crawling through the snow they crept up to the fence of dry branches which generally encloses a village in that part of Lithuania. What they expected to get and in what manner, and whether this expectation was worth the risk, goodness only knows.
However, these Cossack parties, in most cases wandering without an officer, were known to guard themselves badly and often not at all. In addition, the village lying at a great distance from the line of French retreat, they could not suspect the presence of stragglers from the Grand Army. The three officers had strayed away in a blizzard66 from the main column and had been lost for days in the woods, which explains sufficiently67 the terrible straits to which they were reduced. Their plan was to try and attract the attention of the peasants in that one of the huts which was nearest to the enclosure; but as they were preparing to venture into the very jaws68 of the lion, so to speak, a dog (it is mighty69 strange that there was but one), a creature quite as formidable under the circumstances as a lion, began to bark on the other side of the fence . . . .
At this stage of the narrative70, which I heard many times (by request) from the lips of Captain Nicholas B.‘s sister-in-law, my grandmother, I used to tremble with excitement.
The dog barked. And if he had done no more than bark, three officers of the Great Napoleon’s army would have perished honourably on the points of Cossacks’ lances, or perchance escaping the chase would have died decently of starvation. But before they had time to think of running away that fatal and revolting dog, being carried away by the excess of the zeal71, dashed out through a gap in the fence. He dashed out and died. His head, I understand, was severed72 at one blow from his body. I understand also that later on, within the gloomy solitudes73 of the snow-laden woods, when, in a sheltering hollow, a fire had been lit by the party, the condition of the quarry74 was discovered to be distinctly unsatisfactory. It was not thin — on the contrary, it seemed unhealthily obese75; its skin showed bare patches of an unpleasant character. However, they had not killed that dog for the sake of the pelt76. He was large. . . . He was eaten. . . . The rest is silence . . . .
A silence in which a small boy shudders77 and says firmly:
“I could not have eaten that dog.”
And his grandmother remarks with a smile:
“Perhaps you don’t know what it is to be hungry.”
I have learned something of it since. Not that I have been reduced to eat dog. I have fed on the emblematical78 animal, which, in the language of the volatile79 Gauls, is called la vache enragee; I have lived on ancient salt junk, I know the taste of shark, of trepang, of snake, of nondescript dishes containing things without a name — but of the Lithuanian village dog — never! I wish it to be distinctly understood that it is not I, but my granduncle Nicholas, of the Polish landed gentry80, Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur, etc., who in his young days, had eaten the Lithuanian dog.
I wish he had not. The childish horror of the deed clings absurdly to the grizzled man. I am perfectly81 helpless against it. Still, if he really had to, let us charitably remember that he had eaten him on active service, while bearing up bravely against the greatest military disaster of modern history, and, in a manner, for the sake of his country. He had eaten him to appease82 his hunger, no doubt, but also for the sake of an unappeasable and patriotic83 desire, in the glow of a great faith that lives still, and in the pursuit of a great illusion kindled84 like a false beacon85 by a great man to lead astray the effort of a brave nation.
Pro12 patria!
Looked at in that light, it appears a sweet and decorous meal.
And looked at in the same light, my own diet of la vache enragee appears a fatuous86 and extravagant87 form of self-indulgence; for why should I, the son of a land which such men as these have turned up with their plowshares and bedewed with their blood, undertake the pursuit of fantastic meals of salt junk and hardtack upon the wide seas? On the kindest view it seems an unanswerable question. Alas88! I have the conviction that there are men of unstained rectitude who are ready to murmur89 scornfully the word desertion. Thus the taste of innocent adventure may be made bitter to the palate. The part of the inexplicable90 should be al lowed for in appraising91 the conduct of men in a world where no explanation is final. No charge of faithlessness ought to be lightly uttered. The appearances of this perishable life are deceptive92, like everything that falls under the judgment of our imperfect senses. The inner voice may remain true enough in its secret counsel. The fidelity93 to a special tradition may last through the events of an unrelated existence, following faithfully, too, the traced way of an inexplicable impulse.
It would take too long to explain the intimate alliance of contradictions in human nature which makes love itself wear at times the desperate shape of betrayal. And perhaps there is no possible explanation. Indulgence — as somebody said — is the most intelligent of all the virtues94. I venture to think that it is one of the least common, if not the most uncommon of all. I would not imply by this that men are foolish — or even most men. Far from it. The barber and the priest, backed by the whole opinion of the village, condemned95 justly the conduct of the ingenious hidalgo, who, sallying forth96 from his native place, broke the head of the muleteer, put to death a flock of inoffensive sheep, and went through very doleful experiences in a certain stable. God forbid that an unworthy churl97 should escape merited censure98 by hanging on to the stirrup-leather of the sublime99 caballero. His was a very noble, a very unselfish fantasy, fit for nothing except to raise the envy of baser mortals. But there is more than one aspect to the charm of that exalted100 and dangerous figure. He, too, had his frailties101. After reading so many romances he desired naively102 to escape with his very body from the intolerable reality of things. He wished to meet, eye to eye, the valorous giant Brandabarbaran, Lord of Arabia, whose armour103 is made of the skin of a dragon, and whose shield, strapped104 to his arm, is the gate of a fortified105 city. Oh, amiable106 and natural weakness! Oh, blessed simplicity107 of a gentle heart without guile11! Who would not succumb108 to such a consoling temptation? Nevertheless, it was a form of self-indulgence, and the ingenious hidalgo of La Mancha was not a good citizen. The priest and the barber were not unreasonable109 in their strictures. Without going so far as the old King Louis-Philippe, who used to say in his exile, “The people are never in fault”— one may admit that there must be some righteousness in the assent110 of a whole village. Mad! Mad! He who kept in pious111 meditation112 the ritual vigil-of-arms by the well of an inn and knelt reverently113 to be knighted at daybreak by the fat, sly rogue114 of a landlord has come very near perfection. He rides forth, his head encircled by a halo — the patron saint of all lives spoiled or saved by the irresistible115 grace of imagination. But he was not a good citizen.
Perhaps that and nothing else was meant by the well-remembered exclamation116 of my tutor.
It was in the jolly year 1873, the very last year in which I have had a jolly holiday. There have been idle years afterward, jolly enough in a way and not altogether without their lesson, but this year of which I speak was the year of my last school-boy holiday. There are other reasons why I should remember that year, but they are too long to state formally in this place. Moreover, they have nothing to do with that holiday. What has to do with the holiday is that before the day on which the remark was made we had seen Vienna, the Upper Danube, Munich, the Falls of the Rhine, the Lake of Constance — in fact, it was a memorable holiday of travel. Of late we had been tramping slowly up the Valley of the Reuss. It was a delightful time. It was much more like a stroll than a tramp. Landing from a Lake of Lucerne steamer in Fluelen, we found ourselves at the end of the second day, with the dusk overtaking our leisurely117 footsteps, a little way beyond Hospenthal. This is not the day on which the remark was made: in the shadows of the deep valley and with the habitations of men left some way behind, our thoughts ran not upon the ethics118 of conduct, but upon the simpler human problem of shelter and food. There did not seem anything of the kind in sight, and we were thinking of turning back when suddenly, at a bend of the road, we came upon a building, ghostly in the twilight119.
At that time the work on the St. Gothard Tunnel was going on, and that magnificent enterprise of burrowing120 was directly responsible for the unexpected building, standing all alone upon the very roots of the mountains. It was long, though not big at all; it was low; it was built of boards, without ornamentation, in barrack-hut style, with the white window-frames quite flush with the yellow face of its plain front. And yet it was a hotel; it had even a name, which I have forgotten. But there was no gold laced doorkeeper at its humble121 door. A plain but vigorous servant-girl answered our inquiries122, then a man and woman who owned the place appeared. It was clear that no travellers were expected, or perhaps even desired, in this strange hostelry, which in its severe style resembled the house which sur mounts the unseaworthy-looking hulls123 of the toy Noah’s Arks, the universal possession of European childhood. However, its roof was not hinged and it was not full to the brim of slab-sided and painted animals of wood. Even the live tourist animal was nowhere in evidence. We had something to eat in a long, narrow room at one end of a long, narrow table, which, to my tired perception and to my sleepy eyes, seemed as if it would tilt124 up like a see saw plank125, since there was no one at the other end to balance it against our two dusty and travel-stained figures. Then we hastened up stairs to bed in a room smelling of pine planks126, and I was fast asleep before my head touched the pillow.
In the morning my tutor (he was a student of the Cracow University) woke me up early, and as we were dressing127 remarked: “There seems to be a lot of people staying in this hotel. I have heard a noise of talking up till eleven o’clock.” This statement surprised me; I had heard no noise whatever, having slept like a top.
We went down-stairs into the long and narrow dining-room with its long and narrow table. There were two rows of plates on it. At one of the many curtained windows stood a tall, bony man with a bald head set off by a bunch of black hair above each ear, and with a long, black beard. He glanced up from the paper he was reading and seemed genuinely astonished at our intrusion. By and by more men came in. Not one of them looked like a tourist. Not a single woman appeared. These men seemed to know each other with some intimacy128, but I cannot say they were a very talkative lot. The bald-headed man sat down gravely at the head of the table. It all had the air of a family party. By and by, from one of the vigorous servant-girls in national costume, we discovered that the place was really a boarding house for some English engineers engaged at the works of the St. Gothard Tunnel; and I could listen my fill to the sounds of the English language, as far as it is used at a breakfast-table by men who do not believe in wasting many words on the mere129 amenities130 of life.
This was my first contact with British mankind apart from the tourist kind seen in the hotels of Zurich and Lucerne — the kind which has no real existence in a workaday world. I know now that the bald-headed man spoke131 with a strong Scotch132 accent. I have met many of his kind ashore133 and afloat. The second engineer of the steamer Mavis, for instance, ought to have been his twin brother. I cannot help thinking that he really was, though for some reason of his own he assured me that he never had a twin brother. Anyway, the deliberate, bald-headed Scot with the coal-black beard appeared to my boyish eyes a very romantic and mysterious person.
We slipped out unnoticed. Our mapped-out route led over the Furca Pass toward the Rhone Glacier134, with the further intention of following down the trend of the Hasli Valley. The sun was already declining when we found ourselves on the top of the pass, and the remark alluded135 to was presently uttered.
We sat down by the side of the road to continue the argument begun half a mile or so before. I am certain it was an argument, because I remember perfectly how my tutor argued and how without the power of reply I listened, with my eyes fixed136 obstinately137 on the ground. A stir on the road made me look up — and then I saw my unforgettable Englishman. There are acquaintances of later years, familiars, shipmates, whom I remember less clearly. He marched rapidly toward the east (attended by a hang-dog Swiss guide), with the mien138 of an ardent139 and fearless traveller. He was clad in a knickerbocker suit, but as at the same time he wore short socks under his laced boots, for reasons which, whether hygienic or conscientious140, were surely imaginative, his calves141, exposed to the public gaze and to the tonic142 air of high altitudes, dazzled the beholder143 by the splendour of their marble-like condition and their rich tone of young ivory. He was the leader of a small caravan144. The light of a headlong, exalted satisfaction with the world of men and the scenery of mountains illumined his clean-cut, very red face, his short, silver-white whiskers, his innocently eager and triumphant145 eyes. In passing he cast a glance of kindly curiosity and a friendly gleam of big, sound, shiny teeth toward the man and the boy sitting like dusty tramps by the roadside, with a modest knapsack lying at their feet. His white calves twinkled sturdily, the uncouth146 Swiss guide with a surly mouth stalked like an unwilling147 bear at his elbow; a small train of three mules148 followed in single file the lead of this inspiring enthusiast149. Two ladies rode past, one behind the other, but from the way they sat I saw only their calm, uniform backs, and the long ends of blue veils hanging behind far down over their identical hat-brims. His two daughters, surely. An industrious150 luggage-mule, with unstarched ears and guarded by a slouching, sallow driver, brought up the rear. My tutor, after pausing for a look and a faint smile, resumed his earnest argument.
I tell you it was a memorable year! One does not meet such an Englishman twice in a lifetime. Was he in the mystic ordering of common events the ambassador of my future, sent out to turn the scale at a critical moment on the top of an Alpine151 pass, with the peaks of the Bernese Oberland for mute and solemn witnesses? His glance, his smile, the unextinguishable and comic ardour of his striving-forward appearance, helped me to pull myself together. It must be stated that on that day and in the exhilarating atmosphere of that elevated spot I had been feeling utterly152 crushed. It was the year in which I had first spoken aloud of my desire to go to sea. At first like those sounds that, ranging outside the scale to which men’s ears are attuned153, remain inaudible to our sense of hearing, this declaration passed unperceived. It was as if it had not been. Later on, by trying various tones, I managed to arouse here and there a surprised momentary154 attention — the “What was that funny noise?”— sort of inquiry155. Later on it was: “Did you hear what that boy said? What an extraordinary outbreak!” Presently a wave of scandalized astonishment156 (it could not have been greater if I had announced the intention of entering a Carthusian monastery) ebbing157 out of the educational and academical town of Cracow spread itself over several provinces. It spread itself shallow but far-reaching. It stirred up a mass of remonstrance158, indignation, pitying wonder, bitter irony159, and downright chaff160. I could hardly breathe under its weight, and certainly had no words for an answer. People wondered what Mr. T. B. would do now with his worrying nephew and, I dare say, hoped kindly that he would make short work of my nonsense.
What he did was to come down all the way from Ukraine to have it out with me and to judge by himself, unprejudiced, impartial161, and just, taking his stand on the ground of wisdom and affection. As far as is possible for a boy whose power of expression is still unformed I opened the secret of my thoughts to him, and he in return allowed me a glimpse into his mind and heart; the first glimpse of an inexhaustible and noble treasure of clear thought and warm feeling, which through life was to be mine to draw upon with a never-deceived love and confidence. Practically, after several exhaustive conversations, he concluded that he would not have me later on reproach him for having spoiled my life by an unconditional162 opposition163. But I must take time for serious reflection. And I must think not only of myself but of others; weigh the claims of affection and conscience against my own sincerity164 of purpose. “Think well what it all means in the larger issues — my boy,” he exhorted165 me, finally, with special friendliness166. “And meantime try to get the best place you can at the yearly examinations.”
The scholastic167 year came to an end. I took a fairly good place at the exams, which for me (for certain reasons) happened to be a more difficult task than for other boys. In that respect I could enter with a good conscience upon that holiday which was like a long visit pour prendre conge of the mainland of old Europe I was to see so little of for the next four-and-twenty years. Such, however, was not the avowed168 purpose of that tour. It was rather, I suspect, planned in order to distract and occupy my thoughts in other directions. Nothing had been said for months of my going to sea. But my attachment169 to my young tutor and his influence over me were so well known that he must have received a confidential170 mission to talk me out of my romantic folly. It was an excellently appropriate arrangement, as neither he nor I had ever had a single glimpse of the sea in our lives. That was to come by and by for both of us in Venice, from the outer shore of Lido. Meantime he had taken his mission to heart so well that I began to feel crushed before we reached Zurich. He argued in railway trains, in lake steamboats, he had argued away for me the obligatory171 sunrise on the Righi, by Jove! Of his devotion to his unworthy pupil there can be no doubt. He had proved it already by two years of unremitting and arduous172 care. I could not hate him. But he had been crushing me slowly, and when he started to argue on the top of the Furca Pass he was perhaps nearer a success than either he or I imagined. I listened to him in despairing silence, feeling that ghostly, unrealized, and desired sea of my dreams escape from the unnerved grip of my will.
The enthusiastic old Englishman had passed — and the argument went on. What reward could I expect from such a life at the end of my years, either in ambition, honour, or conscience? An unanswerable question. But I felt no longer crushed. Then our eyes met and a genuine emotion was visible in his as well as in mine. The end came all at once. He picked up the knapsack suddenly and got onto his feet.
“You are an incorrigible173, hopeless Don Quixote. That’s what you are.”
I was surprised. I was only fifteen and did not know what he meant exactly. But I felt vaguely flattered at the name of the immortal174 knight turning up in connection with my own folly, as some people would call it to my face. Alas! I don’t think there was anything to be proud of. Mine was not the stuff of protectors of forlorn damsels, the redressers of this world’s wrong are made of; and my tutor was the man to know that best. Therein, in his indignation, he was superior to the barber and the priest when he flung at me an honoured name like a reproach.
I walked behind him for full five minutes; then without looking back he stopped. The shadows of distant peaks were lengthening175 over the Furca Pass. When I came up to him he turned to me and in full view of the Finster Aarhorn, with his band of giant brothers rearing their monstrous176 heads against a brilliant sky, put his hand on my shoulder affectionately.
“Well! That’s enough. We will have no more of it.”
And indeed there was no more question of my mysterious vocation177 between us. There was to be no more question of it at all, no where or with any one. We began the descent of the Furca Pass conversing178 merrily.
Eleven years later, month for month, I stood on Tower Hill on the steps of the St. Katherine’s Dockhouse, a master in the British Merchant Service. But the man who put his hand on my shoulder at the top of the Furca Pass was no longer living.
That very year of our travels he took his degree of the Philosophical179 Faculty180 — and only then his true vocation declared itself. Obedient to the call, he entered at once upon the four-year course of the Medical Schools. A day came when, on the deck of a ship moored181 in Calcutta, I opened a letter telling me of the end of an enviable existence. He had made for himself a practice in some obscure little town of Austrian Galicia. And the letter went on to tell me how all the bereaved182 poor of the district, Christians183 and Jews alike, had mobbed the good doctor’s coffin184 with sobs185 and lamentations at the very gate of the cemetery186.
How short his years and how clear his vision! What greater reward in ambition, honour, and conscience could he have hoped to win for himself when, on the top of the Furca Pass, he bade me look well to the end of my opening life?
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
unpacking
|
|
| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
ridges
|
|
| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
tinkle
|
|
| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
guile
|
|
| n.诈术 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
pro
|
|
| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
promotion
|
|
| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
tumult
|
|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
jointly
|
|
| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
blessings
|
|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
evoke
|
|
| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
foes
|
|
| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
fortitude
|
|
| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
patriot
|
|
| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
permanently
|
|
| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
sledge
|
|
| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
remonstrated
|
|
| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
plight
|
|
| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
frail
|
|
| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
resounding
|
|
| adj. 响亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
guardians
|
|
| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
paternal
|
|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
lieutenant
|
|
| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
perishable
|
|
| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
knight
|
|
| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
veneration
|
|
| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
honourably
|
|
| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
gastronomical
|
|
| adj.美食法的，美食学的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
55
degradation
|
|
| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
levity
|
|
| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
memorable
|
|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
outskirts
|
|
| n.郊外，郊区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
devoured
|
|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
cavalry
|
|
| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
picket
|
|
| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
dictates
|
|
| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
prudence
|
|
| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
blizzard
|
|
| n.暴风雪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
jaws
|
|
| n.口部；嘴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
severed
|
|
| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
solitudes
|
|
| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
quarry
|
|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
obese
|
|
| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
pelt
|
|
| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
shudders
|
|
| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
emblematical
|
|
| adj.标志的，象征的，典型的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
volatile
|
|
| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
gentry
|
|
| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
appease
|
|
| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
patriotic
|
|
| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
kindled
|
|
| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
beacon
|
|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
fatuous
|
|
| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
inexplicable
|
|
| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
appraising
|
|
| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
deceptive
|
|
| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
churl
|
|
| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
sublime
|
|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
frailties
|
|
| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
naively
|
|
| adv. 天真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
armour
|
|
| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
strapped
|
|
| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
fortified
|
|
| adj. 加强的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
succumb
|
|
| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
meditation
|
|
| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
reverently
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
rogue
|
|
| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
leisurely
|
|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
ethics
|
|
| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
burrowing
|
|
| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
hulls
|
|
| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
tilt
|
|
| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
plank
|
|
| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
planks
|
|
| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
amenities
|
|
| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
ashore
|
|
| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
glacier
|
|
| n.冰川，冰河 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
obstinately
|
|
| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
mien
|
|
| n.风采；态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
calves
|
|
| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
tonic
|
|
| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
beholder
|
|
| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
caravan
|
|
| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
uncouth
|
|
| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
mules
|
|
| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
enthusiast
|
|
| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
industrious
|
|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
alpine
|
|
| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
attuned
|
|
| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
ebbing
|
|
| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
chaff
|
|
| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
impartial
|
|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
unconditional
|
|
| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
sincerity
|
|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
exhorted
|
|
| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
friendliness
|
|
| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
scholastic
|
|
| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
avowed
|
|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
obligatory
|
|
| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
arduous
|
|
| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
incorrigible
|
|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
lengthening
|
|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
vocation
|
|
| n.职业，行业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
conversing
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
philosophical
|
|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
moored
|
|
| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
bereaved
|
|
| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
Christians
|
|
| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
sobs
|
|
| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
cemetery
|
|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |