Ever since I first became an exhibitor at Burlington House, I have made it a rule to studiously avoid visiting the gallery after varnishing4 day. My reasons would interest no one, but they were sufficiently5 strong to induce me to adhere to them. This year, however, I was led into doing so in a quite unintentional fashion, and as that exception vitally concerns this narrative6, I must narrate7 in detail the circumstances that led up to it.
On a certain Friday early in June, I was sitting in my studio, after lunch, wondering what I should do with myself during the afternoon, when a knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, after I had invited whoever stood outside to enter, my old friend, George Merridew, his wife, son, and three daughters, trooped into the room. They were plainly up from the country, and, as usual, were doing the sights at express speed. George Merridew, as you know, stands six feet in his stockings, and is broad in proportion. His face is red, his eyes blue, and he carries with him wherever he goes the air of a prosperous country squire8, which he certainly is. Like many other big men, he is unconscious of his strength, and when he shakes hands with you, you have reason to remember the fact for five minutes afterward9. His wife is small, and, as some folks declare, looks younger than her eldest10 daughter, who is a tennis champion, a golfer, and boasts a supreme11 contempt for Royal Academicians and, for that matter, for artists generally. The son is at Oxford12, a nice enough young fellow with limpid13 blue eyes, who, to his father’s disgust, takes no sort of interest in fox-hunting, racing14, football, or any other sport, and has openly asserted his intention of entering the Church in the near future. There are two other girls, Gwendoline and Ethel — the latter, by the way, promises to be a second edition of her mother — who, at present, are in the advanced schoolroom stage, dine with their parents, except on state occasions, and play duets together on the piano with a conscientious15 regard for time and fingering that gives their father no small amount of pleasure, but with other people rather detracts from the beauty of the performance.
“Thank goodness we have got you at last!” cried Merridew, as he rushed forward and gripped my hand with a cordiality that made me suffer in silent agony for minutes afterward. “But, my dear fellow, what on earth induces you to live in a place that’s so difficult to find? We have been all round the neighbourhood, here, there, and everywhere, making inquiries16, and shouldn’t have found you now had it not been for an intelligent butcher-boy, who put us on the right scent17 and enabled us to run you to earth at last.”
“Such is fame, you see,” I answered with a smile. “One should be humble18 when one reflects that the knowledge of one’s address is confined to a butcher-boy. — How do you do, Mrs. Merridew? I am sorry you should have had so much difficulty in discovering my poor abode19.”
I shook hands with the rest of the family, and when I had done so, waited to be informed as to the reason of their visit.
“Now, look here,” said the squire, as he spoke20 producing an enormous gold repeater from his pocket, which by sheer force of habit he held in his hand, though he never once looked at it, during the time he was speaking. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. In the first place you’re to take us to the Academy to see your picture, which every one is talking about, and at the same time to act as showman and tell us who’s who. After that you’ll dine with us at the Langham, and go to the theatre afterward. No, no, it’s not a bit of use you’re pretending you’ve got another engagement. We don’t come up to town very often, but when we do we enjoy ourselves, and — why, man alive! just consider — I haven’t seen you since last autumn, and if you think I am going to let you escape now, you’re very much mistaken. Such a thing is not to be thought of — is it, mother?”
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Merridew was kind enough to say that she hoped I would comply with her husband’s wishes. The daughters murmured something, which I have no doubt was intended to be a complimentary22 expression of their feelings, while the son commenced a remark, failed to make himself intelligible23, and then lapsed24 into silence again.
Thus hemmed25 in, it remained for me to invent a valid26 excuse, or to fall in with their plans. I effected a compromise, informed them that I should be much pleased to accompany them to the Academy, but that it was quite impossible I should dine with them afterward, or even visit the theatre in their company, having, as was quite true, already accepted an invitation for that evening. Five minutes later the matter was settled, and we were making our way toward Piccadilly and Burlington House.
In the light of all that has happened since, I can only regard my behaviour on that occasion with a contemptuous sort of pity. The minutest details connected with that afternoon’s amusement are as clearly photographed upon my brain as if they had occurred but yesterday. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can see, just as I saw it then, the hawkers selling catalogues in the busy street outside, the great courtyard with the lines of waiting carriages, the fashionable crowd ascending27 and descending28 the stairs, and inside the rooms that surging mass of well-dressed humanity so characteristic of London and the season. When we had fought our way to the vestibule, I was for doing the round of the rooms in the orthodox fashion. This, however, it appeared, was by no means to George Merridew’s taste. He received my suggestion with appropriate scorn.
“Come, come, old fellow,” he replied, “we’re first going to see your picture. It was that which brought us here; and, as soon as I have told you what I think of it, the rest of the daubs may go hang as far as I am concerned.”
Now, it is an indisputable fact that, whatever Nature may, or may not, have done for me, she has at least endowed me with an extremely sensitive disposition29. My feelings, therefore, may be imagined when I tell you that my old friend spoke in a voice that was quite audible above the polite murmur21 of the crowd, and which must have penetrated30 to the farthest end of the room. Not content with that, he saluted31 me with a sounding smack32 on the back, bidding me, at the same time, consign33 my modesty34 to the winds, for everybody knew — by everybody, I presume he meant his neighbours in the country — that I was the rising man of the day, and would inevitably35 be elected President before I died. To avert36 this flood of idiotic37 compliment, and feeling myself growing hot from head to foot, I took him by the arm and conducted him hastily through the room toward that portion of the building where my picture was displayed.
Whether the work was good, bad, or indifferent, the public at least paid me the compliment of bestowing38 their attention upon it, and their behaviour on this occasion was no exception to the rule. I hope I shall not be considered more conceited39 than my fellows; at the risk of it, however, I must confess to a feeling of pride as I glanced, first at the crowd wedged in before the rail, and then at the party by my side. George Merridew’s face alone was worth the trouble and time I had spent upon the canvas. His eyes were opened to their fullest extent: his lips were also parted, but no sound came from them. Even the face of my formidable friend, the tennis champion, betrayed a measure of interest that, in the light of her previous behaviour, was more than flattering. For some moments we stood together on the outskirts40 of the throng41. Then those who were directly in front moved away, and my friends immediately stepped into the gap and took their places. As there was no reason why I should follow their example, I remained outside, watching the faces and noting the different effects the picture produced upon them.
I had not been alone more than a few seconds, however, before I became sensible of a curious sensation. It was accompanied by a lowering of the pulse that was quite perceptible, followed by an extraordinary feeling of nausea42. I battled against it in vain. The room and its occupants began to swim before me. I tottered43, and at length, being unable any longer to support myself, sat down on the seat behind me. When I looked up again I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses. Approaching me from the crowd, leaning upon his stick, just as I remembered him on the previous occasion, and dressed in the same extraordinary fashion, was the old man whose personality had given me such a shock at the foot of Cleopatra’s Needle. His face was as thin and as wrinkled as I had seen it then, and I also noticed that he wore the same indescribable look of cruelty and cunning that I remembered so well. One thing was quite plain, however profoundly I may have been affected44 by my proximity45 to this singular being: I was not the only one who came within the sphere of his influence. Indeed, it was strange to notice the manner in which the polite crowd drew away from him, and the different expressions upon their faces as they stepped aside in order to give him room to pass. Had he been a snake, they could scarcely have shown a more unanimous desire to withdraw from his neighbourhood. On this occasion he was evidently not alone. I gathered this from the fact that, as soon as he had emerged from the crowd, he paused as if to wait for a companion. A moment later a woman come to his side — a woman who carried herself like a daughter of the gods; the most beautiful creature, I can safely assert, that I have ever seen either in this or any other country. If her companion’s height was below the average, hers was at least several inches above it. But it was neither her stature46, the exquisite47 symmetry of her figure, the beauty of her face, the luxuriance of her hair, nor the elegance48 of her attire49 that fascinated me. It was the expression I saw in her dark, lustrous50 eyes.
It is essential to my profession that I should be continually studying the human face, attempting to obtain from it some clew as to the character of the owner, and learning to read in it the workings of the mind within. And what I read in this woman’s face was a sorrow that nothing could assuage51, a hopelessness that was not limited to this earth, but was fast passing into the Eternal.
Having once freed herself from the crowd, who, you may be sure, turned and stared after her as if she were some rare and beautiful animal, she took her place at her companion’s side, and they passed along the room together, finally disappearing through the archway at the farther end. A moment later the eldest of my friend’s daughters joined me. I had never credited her with the possession of so much emotion as she displayed at that moment.
“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “I want you to tell me if you have ever seen anything so awful as that old man’s face?”
“I think I can safely say that I never have,” I answered; and then, in an attempt to conceal52 the emotion I was still feeling, added, “I wonder who he can be?”
“I can not imagine,” she continued, “but I’m certain of this, that I never want to see him again.”
At that moment we were joined by the remainder of the family.
“By Jove! Forrester,” said the squire, but without his usual heartiness53, “I don’t know what is coming to this place. Did you see that little chap in the fur coat and skullcap who came out of the crowd just now with that fine-looking woman behind him? You may scarcely credit it, but his face gave me quite a turn. I haven’t got over it yet.”
“The girl with him was very beautiful,” murmured his wife gently; “but there was something about her face that struck me as being very sad. I should like to know what relationship she bears to him.”
“His granddaughter, I should imagine,” said Miss Merridew, who was still watching the entrance to the next room as if she expected them to return.
“Nonsense!” cried the squire impatiently. “His great-granddaughter, you mean. I’ll stake my reputation that the old fellow is as old as Methuselah. What say you, Forrester?”
I can not now remember what answer I returned. I only know that we presently found ourselves on the pavement of Piccadilly, saying good-bye, and expressing our thanks in an aimless sort of fashion for the pleasure we had derived54 from each other’s society.
Having seen them safely on their way toward Regent Street, I strolled along Piccadilly in the direction of my studio, thinking as I went of that terrible old man whose personality had twice given me such a shock, and also of the beautiful woman, his companion. The effect they had produced upon me must have been something out of the common, for I soon discovered that I could think of nothing else. It was in vain I looked in at my club and attempted to engage in conversation with friends, or that, when I reached home, I threw myself into an easy-chair and endeavoured to interest myself in a book. Out of the centre of every page peered that wicked old face, with its pallid55, wrinkled skin, and lack-lustre eyes. For upward of an hour I wrestled56 with the feeling, but without success. The man’s image was not conducive57 to peace of mind, and I knew very well that unless I found some distraction58 I should be dreaming of him at night. Accordingly I rose from my chair and crossed the room to a table on which stood a large Satsuma bowl, in which it was my custom to place the invitations I received. That evening fortune favoured me. I had the choice of four houses. Two I rejected without a second thought; between the others I scarcely knew how to decide. Though I was not aware of it, my evil destiny, for the second time that day, was standing59 at my elbow, egging me on to ruin. It appeared I had the choice of a dance in the Cromwell Road, another in Belgrave Square; private theatricals60 in Queen’s Gate, and a musical “at home” in Eaton Square. I did not feel equal to dances or private theatricals, and, thinking music would soothe61 my troubled mind, I decided62 for Eaton Square, and in so doing brought about the misery63 and downfall of my life.
Nine o’clock that evening, accordingly, found me ascending the staircase of Medenham House, greeting my hostess in the anteroom, and passing thence into the great drawing-room beyond. There is not a more conspicuous64 power within the range of her hobby than her ladyship, and at her house one hears all that is newest and most likely to be famous in the musical world. Many now celebrated65 artistes owe much of what they have since achieved to the helping66 hand she held out to them when they were struggling up the rugged67 hill of fame.
On entering the room I looked about me in the hope of finding some one I knew, but for some moments was unsuccessful. Then I espied68, seated in a corner, almost hidden by a magnificent palm, a man with whom I possessed69 some slight acquaintance. I strolled toward him, and after a few moments’ conversation took my place at his side. He had himself achieved considerable success as an amateur violinist, and was a distant relative of our hostess.
“I suppose, like the rest of us, you have come to hear Lady Medenham’s latest prodigy70?” he said, after the usual polite nothings had been said.
“I am ashamed to confess I have heard nothing at all about him,” I answered.
“Her, my dear sir,” he replied, with a little laugh. “Our hostess says she is marvellous.”
“A pianist?”
“Indeed, no! A violinist, and with, I believe, the additional advantage of being a very beautiful woman. Lady Medenham met her in Munich, and she has raved71 about her ever since. Needless to say, she invited her to visit her as soon as she reached London.”
What the connection could have been it is impossible to say, but by some occult reasoning I instantly associated this new wonder with the magnificent creature I had seen at Burlington House that afternoon.
“You have already made her acquaintance, I presume?”
I said in a tone of mild curiosity.
“No such luck,” he answered. “I have not been permitted that pleasure. From all accounts, however, she is really very wonderful. All the people I have met who have heard her declare they have never known anything like her playing. And the funniest part of it is, she is accompanied everywhere by a man who is as physically72 repulsive73 as she is beautiful.”
“A little old man with an extraordinary complexion74, deep-set, horrible eyes, who wears a fur coat and a peculiar75 cap in the height of the season, and looks at least a hundred years old?”
“From all accounts you describe him exactly. Where did you meet him?”
“I saw them both at the Academy this afternoon,” I answered. “She is, as you say, very beautiful; but she scarcely struck me as being English.”
“She is not. She is Hungarian, I believe, but she has travelled a great deal and speaks English perfectly76.”
“And her companion — what nation has the honour of claiming him as her son?”
“Ah, that I can not tell you! He is a mystery, for no one seems to know anything about him. Nor is it at all certain what relationship he bears to the woman. But see, here is Lord Medenham. The performance is evidently about to commence.”
As he spoke there was a general turning of heads in the direction of the anteroom, and almost simultaneously77 my hostess entered the room, accompanied by the exquisite creature I had seen emerging from the crowd before my picture that afternoon. If she had looked beautiful then, she was doubly so now. Dressed to perfection, as on the previous occasion, she towered head and shoulders above Lady Medenham, who is generally considered tall for her sex, and carried herself with a more imperial grace than is boasted by any empress I have ever seen.
A few paces behind her followed the man who had been her companion that afternoon. On this occasion also he disdained78 the orthodox style of dress, wore a black velvet79 coat, closely buttoned beneath his chin, and upon his head a skullcap of the same material. As on the previous occasions, he walked with a stick, leaning upon it heavily like an old man of ninety. Reaching that portion of the room in which the piano was situated80, he dropped into a chair, without waiting for his hostess to seat herself, and, laying his head back, closed his eyes as if the exertion81 of walking had been too much for him. A servant, who had followed close behind, wrapped a heavy rug about his knees and then withdrew. Meanwhile his beautiful companion stood for a moment looking down at him, and then, with a little gesture the significance of which I could not then interpret, accepted her hostess’s invitation and seated herself beside her.
The first item on the programme was a nocturne rendered by the composer, a famous pianist who at the time was delighting all London. He seated himself at the piano and began to play. I am afraid, however, I spared but small attention for his performance. My interest was centred on that huddled-up figure under the fur rug and the beautiful creature at his side. Then a change came, and once more I experienced the same sensation of revulsion that had overwhelmed me twice before. Again I felt sick and giddy; once more a clammy sweat broke out upon my forehead, and at last, unable any longer to control myself, I rose from my seat.
“What on earth is the matter?” inquired my friend, who had been watching me. “Are you ill?”
“I believe I’m going to faint,” I replied. “I must get into the air. But there is no necessity for you to come. I shall be all right alone.”
So saying I signed him back to his seat, and, slipping quietly from the corner, made my way through the anteroom into the marble corridor beyond. Once there I leant against the balustrading of the staircase and endeavoured to pull myself together. A groom82 of the chambers83, who was passing at the time, seeing there was something amiss, approached and inquired if he could be of service.
“I am feeling a little faint,” I replied. “The heat of the drawing-room was too much for me. If you can get me a little brandy I think I shall be quite well in a few moments.”
The man departed and presently came back with the spirit I had asked for. With the return of my self-possession I endeavoured to arrive at an understanding of what had occasioned the attack. I was not subject to fainting-fits, but was in every respect as strong as the majority of my fellow-creatures.
“It’s all nonsense,” I said to myself, “to ascribe it to that old fellow’s presence. How could such a thing affect me? At any rate, I’ll try the experiment once more.”
So saying, I returned to the drawing-room.
I was only just in time, for, as I entered, the lady who had hitherto been seated by her hostess’s side rose from her chair and moved toward the piano. As no one else stirred, it was plain that she was going to dispense84 with the services of an accompanist. Taking her violin from a table she drew her bow gently across the strings85, and, when she had tuned86 it, stood looking straight before her down the room. How beautiful she was at that moment I can not hope to make you understand. Then she began to play. What the work was I did not then know, but I have since discovered that it was her own. It opened with a movement in the minor87 — low and infinitely88 sad. There was a note of unappeasable yearning89 in it, a cry that might well have been wrung90 from a heart that was breaking beneath the weight of a deadly sin; a weird91, unearthly supplication92 for mercy from a soul that was beyond redemption or the reach of hope. None but a great musician could have imagined such a theme, and then only under the influence of a supreme despair. While it lasted her audience sat spell-bound. There was scarcely one among them who was not a lover of music, and many were world-famous for their talent. This, however, was such playing as none of us had ever heard before, or, indeed, had even dreamed of. Then by imperceptible gradations the music reached its height and died slowly down, growing fainter and fainter until it expired in a long-drawn sob93. Absolute silence greeted its termination. Not a hand was raised; not a word was uttered. If proof were wanting of the effect she had produced, it was to be found in this. The violinist bowed, a trifle disdainfully, I thought, and, having placed her instrument on the table once more, returned to Lady Medenham’s side. Then a young German singer and his accompanist crossed the room and took their places at the piano. The famous pianist, who had first played, followed the singer, and when he had resumed his seat the violinist rose and once more took up her instrument.
This time there was no pause. With an abruptness94 that was startling, she burst into a wild barbaric dance. The notes danced and leaped upon each other in joyous95 confusion, creating an enthusiasm that was as instantaneous as it was remarkable96. It was a tarantella of the wildest description — nay97, I should rather say a dance of Satyrs. The player’s eyes flashed above the instrument, her lithe98, exquisite figure rocked and swayed beneath the spell of the emotion she was conjuring99 up. Faster and faster her bow swept across the strings, and as before, though now for a very different reason, her audience sat fascinated before her. The first work had been the outcome of despair, this was the music of unqualified happiness, of the peculiar joy of living — nay, of the very essence and existence of life itself. Then it ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and once more she bowed, put down her violin, and approached her hostess. The programme was at an end, and the enthusiastic audience clustered round to congratulate her. For my own part I was curiously100 ill at ease. In a vague sort of fashion I had appropriated her music to myself, and now I resented the praise the fashionable mob was showering upon her. Accordingly I drew back a little and made up my mind to get through the crowd and slip quietly away. By the time I was able to emerge from my corner, however, there was a movement at the end of the room, and it became evident that the player and her companion were also about to take their departure. Accompanied by Lord and Lady Medenham they approached the spot where I was standing, endeavouring to reach the door. Had it been possible I would have taken shelter behind my palm again in order that my presence might not have been observed. But it was too late. Lady Medenham had caught my eye, and now stopped to speak.
“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “we have been permitted a great treat to-night, have we not? You must let me introduce you to the Fr?ulein Valerie de Vocxqal.”
I bowed, and, despite the fact that, regarded in the light of her genius, such a thing was little better than an insult, followed the example of my betters and murmured a complimentary allusion101 to her playing and the pleasure she had given us. She thanked me, all the time watching me with grave, attentive102 eyes, into which there had suddenly flashed a light that was destined103 to puzzle me for a long time, and the reason of which I could not understand. Then came the crucial moment when Lady Medenham turned to me again, and said:
“Mr. Forrester, Monsieur Pharos has expressed a desire to be introduced to you. I told him yesterday I thought you would be here to-night. May I have the pleasure of making you acquainted with each other?”
Those cold, dead eyes fixed104 themselves steadily105 on mine, and, under their influence, I felt as if my brain were freezing.
“I am indeed honoured, sir,” he said, “and I trust I may be permitted to express a hope of enlarging our acquaintance. I understand you are the painter of that very wonderful picture I saw at the Academy this afternoon? Allow me to offer you my congratulations upon it. It interested me more deeply than I can say, and on some future date I shall be grateful if you will let me talk to you upon the subject. The knowledge it displayed of the country and the period is remarkable in these days. May I ask how it was acquired?”
“My father was a famous Egyptologist,” I replied. “All that I know I learned from him. Are you also familiar with the country?”
“There are few things and fewer countries with which I am not familiar,” he replied, somewhat conceitedly106, but still watching me and speaking with the same peculiar gravity. “Some day I shall hope to offer you conclusive107 evidence on that point. In the meantime the hour grows late. I thank you and bid you farewell.”
Then, with a bow, he passed on, and a moment later I, too, had quitted the house and was making my way homeward, trying to collect my impressions of the evening as I went.
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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varnishing
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| 在（某物）上涂清漆( varnish的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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eldest
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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humble
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abode
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spoke
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| 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 | |
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murmur
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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hemmed
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valid
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ascending
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descending
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disposition
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penetrated
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saluted
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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33
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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36
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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37
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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38
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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39
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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40
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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41
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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42
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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43
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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44
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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45
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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46
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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49
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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50
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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51
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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52
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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54
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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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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theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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72
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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75
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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81
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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82
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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84
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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85
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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86
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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87
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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88
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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89
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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90
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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92
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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93
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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94
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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95
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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96
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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97
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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98
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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99
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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100
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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101
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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102
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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103
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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104
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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105
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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106
conceitedly
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| 自满地 | |
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107
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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