Ambrose took a great draught1 from the mug and emptied it, and forthwith rapped the lid for a fresh supply. Nelly was somewhat nervous; she was afraid he might begin to sing, for there were extravagances in the history of Panurge which seemed to her to be of alcoholic2 source. However, he did not sing; he lapsed3 into silence, gazing at the dark beams, the hanging hops5, the bright array of the tankards and the groups of drinkers dotted about the room. At a neighbouring table two Germans were making a hearty6 meal, chumping the meat and smacking7 their lips in a kind of heavy ecstasy8. He had but little German, but he caught scraps9 of the conversation.
One man said:
“Heavenly swine cutlets!”
And the other answered:
“Glorious eating!”
“Nelly,” said Ambrose, “I have a great inspiration!”
She trembled visibly.
“Yes; I have talked so much that I am hungry. We will have some supper.”
They looked over the list of strange eatables and, with the waiter’s help, decided10 on Leberwurst and potato-salad as light and harmless. With this they ate crescent loaves, sprinkled with caraway seeds: there was more Munich Lion–Brew and more flowery drink, with black coffee, a fine and a Maraschino to end all. For Nelly the kobolds began to perform a grotesque12 and mystic dance in the shadows, the glass tankards on the rack glittered strangely, the white walls with the red and black texts retreated into vast distances, and the bouquet13 of hops seemed suspended from a remote star. As for Ambrose, he was certainly not ebrius according to the Baron’s definition; he was hardly ebriolus; but he was sensible, let us say, of a certain quickening of the fancy, of a more vivid and poignant14 enjoyment15 of the whole situation, of the unutterable gaiety of this mad escape from the conventions of Lupton.
“It was a Thursday night,” said Ambrose in the after years, “and we were thinking of starting for Touraine either the next morning or on Saturday at latest. It will always be bright in my mind, that picture — the low room with the oak beams, the glittering tankards, the hops hanging from the ceiling, and Nelly sitting before me sipping16 the scented17 drink from a green glass. It was the last night of gaiety, and even then gaiety was mixed with odd patterns — the Frenchman’s talk about martyrdom, and the statue of the saint pointing to the marks of his passion, standing18 in that dyed vesture with his rapt, exultant19 face; and then the song of final triumph and deliverance that rang out on the chiming bells from the white spire20. I think the contrast of this solemn undertone made my heart all the lighter21; I was in that odd state in which one delights to know that one is not being understood — so I told poor Nelly ‘the story of Panurge’s marriage to La Vie Mortale; I am sure she thought I was drunk!
“We went home in a hansom, and agreed that we would have just one cigarette and then go to bed. It was settled that we would catch the night boat to Dieppe on the next day, and we both laughed with joy at the thought of the adventure. And then — I don’t know how it was — Nelly began to tell me all about herself. She had never said a word before; I had never asked her — I never ask anybody about their past lives. What does it matter? You know a certain class of plot — novelists are rather fond of using it — in which the hero’s happiness is blasted because he finds out that the life of his wife or his sweetheart has not always been spotless as the snow. Why should it be spotless as the snow? What is the hero that he should be dowered with the love of virgins22 of Paradise? I call it cant23 — all that — and I hate it; I hope Angel Clare was eventually entrapped24 by a young person from Piccadilly Circus — she would probably be much too good for him! So, you see, I was hardly likely to have put any very searching questions to Nelly; we had other things to talk about.
“But this night I suppose she was a bit excited. It had been a wild and wonderful week. The transition from that sewage-pot in the Midlands to the Abbey of Theleme was enough to turn any head; we had laughed till we had grown dizzy. The worst of that miserable25 school discipline is is that it makes one take an insane and quite disproportionate enjoyment in little things, in the merest trifles which ought really to be accepted as a matter of course. I assure you that every minute that I spent in bed after seven o’clock was to me a grain of Paradise, a moment of delight. Of course, it’s ridiculous; let a man get up early or get up late, as he likes or as he finds best — and say no more about it. But at that wretched Lupton early rising was part of the infernal blether and blatter of the place, that made life there like a long dinner in which every dish has the same sauce. It may be a good sauce enough; but one is sick of the taste of it. According to our Bonzes there, getting up early on a winter’s day was a high virtue27 which acquired merit. I believe I should have liked a hard chair to sit in of my own free will, if one of our old fools — Palmer — had not always been gabbling about the horrid28 luxury of some boys who had arm-chairs in their studies. Unless you were doing something or other to make yourself very uncomfortable, he used to say you were like the ‘later Romans.’ I am sure he believed that those lunatics who bathe in the Serpentine29 on Christmas Day would go straight to heaven!
“And there you are. I would awake at seven o’clock from persistent30 habit, and laugh as I realised that I was in Little Russell Row and not at the Old Grange. Then I would doze31 off again and wake up at intervals32 — eight, nine, ten — and chuckle33 to myself with ever-increasing enjoyment. It was just the same with smoking. I don’t suppose I should have touched a cigarette for years if smoking had not been one of the mortal sins in our Bedlam34 Decalogue. I don’t know whether smoking is bad for boys or not; I should think not, as I believe the Dutch — who are sturdy fellows — begin to puff35 fat cigars at the age of six or thereabouts; but I do know that those pompous36 old boobies and blockheads and leather-skulls have discovered exactly the best way to make a boy think that a packet of Rosebuds37 represents the quintessence of frantic38 delight.
“Well, you see how it was, how Little Russell Row — the dingy39, the stuffy40, the dark retreat of old Bloomsbury — became the abode41 of miraculous42 joys, a bright portion of fairyland. Ah! it was a strong new wine that we tasted, and it went to our heads, and not much wonder. It all rose to its height on that Thursday night when we went to the ‘Three Kings’ and sat beneath the hop4 bush, drinking Lion–Brew and flowery drink as I talked extravagances concerning Panurge. It was time for the curtain to be rung down on our comedy.
“The one cigarette had become three or four when Nelly began to tell me her history; the wine and the rejoicing had got into her head also. She described the first things that she remembered: a little hut among wild hills and stony43 fields in the west of Ireland, and the great sea roaring on the shore but a mile away, and the wind and the rain always driving from across the waves. She spoke44 of the place as if she loved it, though her father and mother were as poor as they could be, and little was there to eat even in the old cabin. She remembered Mass in the little chapel45, an old, old place hidden way in the most desolate46 part of the country, small and dark and bare enough except for the candles on the altar and a bright statue or two. St. Kieran’s cell, they called it, and it was supposed that the Mass had never ceased to be said there even in the blackest days of persecution47. Quite well she remembered the old priest and his vestments, and the gestures that he used, and how they all bowed down when the bell rang; she could imitate his quavering voice saying the Latin. Her own father, she said, was a learned man in his way, though it was not the English way. He could not read common print, or write; he knew nothing about printed books, but he could say a lot of the old Irish songs and stories by heart, and he had sticks on which he wrote poems on all sorts of things, cutting notches48 on the wood in Oghams, as the priest called them; and he could tell many wonderful tales of the saints and the people. It was a happy life altogether; they were as poor as poor could be, and praised God and wanted for nothing. Then her mother went into a decline and died, and her father never lifted up his head again, and she was left an orphan49 when she was nine years old. The priest had written to an aunt who lived in England, and so she found herself one black day standing on the platform of the station in a horrible little manufacturing village in Lancashire; everything was black — the sky and the earth, and the houses and the people; and the sound of their rough, harsh voices made her sick. And the aunt had married an Independent and turned Protestant, so she was black, too, Nelly thought. She was wretched for a long time, she said. The aunt was kind enough to her, but the place and the people were so awful. Mr. Deakin, the husband, said he couldn’t encourage Popery in his house, so she had to go to the meeting-house on Sunday and listen to the nonsense they called ‘religion’— all long sermons with horrible shrieking51 hymns52. By degrees she forgot her old prayers, and she was taken to the Dissenters’ Sunday School, where they learned texts and heard about King Solomon’s Temple, and Jonadab the son of Rechab, and Jezebel, and the Judges. They seemed to think a good deal of her at the school; she had several prizes for Bible knowledge.
“She was sixteen when she first went out to service. She was glad to get away — nothing could be worse than Farnworth, and it might be better. And then there were tales to tell! I never have had a clearer light thrown on the curious and disgusting manners of the lower middle-class in England — the class that prides itself especially on its respectability, above all, on what it calls ‘Morality’— by which it means the observance of one particular commandment. You know the class I mean: the brigade of the shining hat on Sunday, of the neat little villa50 with a well-kept plot in front, of the consecrated53 drawing-room, of the big Bible well in evidence. It is more often Chapel than Church, this tribe, but it draws from both sources. It is above all things shiny — not only the Sunday hat, but the furniture, the linoleum54, the hair and the very flesh which pertain55 to these people have an unwholesome polish on them; and they prefer their plants and shrubs56 to be as glossy57 as possible — this gens lubrica.
“To these tents poor Nelly went as a slave; she dwelt from henceforth on the genteel outskirts58 of more or less prosperous manufacturing towns, and she soon profoundly regretted the frank grime and hideousness60 of Farnworth. A hedgehog is a rough and prickly fellow — better his prickles than the reptile’s poisonous slime. The tales that yet await the novelist who has courage (what is his name, by the way?), who has the insight to see behind those Venetian blinds and white curtains, who has the word that can give him entrance through the polished door by the encaustic porch! What plots, what pictures, what characters are ready for his cunning hand, what splendid matter lies unknown, useless, and indeed offensive, which, in the artist’s crucible61, would be transmuted62 into golden and exquisite63 perfection. Do you know that I can never penetrate64 into the regions where these people dwell without a thrill of wonder and a great desire that I might be called to execute the masterpieces I have hinted at? Do you remember how Zola, viewing these worlds from the train when he visited London, groaned65 because he had no English, because he had no key to open the treasure-house before his eyes? He, of course, who was a great diviner, saw the infinite variety of romance that was concealed67 beneath those myriads68 of snug69 commonplace roofs: I wish he could have observed in English and recorded in French. He was a brave man, his defence of Dreyfus shows that; but, supposing the capacity, I do not think he was brave enough to tell the London suburbs the truth about themselves in their own tongue.
“Yes, I walk down these long ways on Sunday afternoons, when they are at their best. Sometimes, if you choose the right hour, you may look into one ‘breakfast room’— an apartment half sunken in the earth — after another, and see in each one the table laid for tea, showing the charming order and uniformity that prevail. Tea in the drawing-room would be, I suppose, a desecration70. I wonder what would happen if some chance guest were to refuse tea and to ask for a glass of beer, or even a brandy and soda71? I suppose the central lake that lies many hundreds of feet beneath London would rise up, and the sinful town would be overwhelmed. Yes: consider these houses well; how demure72, how well-ordered, how shining, as I have said; and then think of what they conceal66.
“Generally speaking, you know, ‘morality’ (in the English suburban73 sense) has been a tolerably equal matter. I shouldn’t imagine that those ‘later Romans’ that poor old Palmer was always bothering about were much better or worse than the earlier Babylonians; and London as a whole is very much the same thing in this respect as Pekin as a whole. Modern Berlin and sixteenth-century Venice might compete on equal terms — save that Venice, I am sure, was very picturesque74, and Berlin, I have no doubt is very piggy. The fact is, of course (to use a simple analogy), man, by his nature, is always hungry, and, that being the case, he will sometimes eat too much dinner and sometimes he will get his dinner in odd ways, and sometimes he will help himself to more or less unlawful snacks before breakfast and after supper. There it is, and there is an end of it. But suppose a society in which the fact of hunger was officially denied, in which the faintest hint at an empty stomach was considered the rankest, most abominable75 indecency, the most detestable offence against the most sacred religious feelings? Suppose the child severely76 reprimanded at the mere26 mention of bread and butter, whipped and shut up in a dark room for the offence of reading a recipe for making plum pudding; suppose, I say, a whole society organised on the strict official understanding that no decent person ever is or has been or can be conscious of the physical want of food; that breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper are orgies only used by the most wicked and degraded wretches77, destined78 to an awful and eternal doom79? In such a world, I think, you would discover some very striking irregularities in diet. Facts are known to be stubborn things, but if their very existence is denied they become ferocious80 and terrible things. Coventry Patmore was angry, and with reason, when he heard that even at the Vatican the statues had received the order of the fig-leaf.
“Nelly went among these Manichees. She had been to the world beyond the Venetians, the white muslin curtains and the india-rubber plant, and she told me her report. They talk about the morality of the theatre, these swine! In the theatre — if there is anything of the kind — it is a case of a wastrel81 and a wanton who meet and part on perfectly82 equal terms, without deceit or false pretences83. It is not a case of master creeping into a young girl’s room at dead of night, with a Bible under his arm — the said Bible being used with grotesque skill to show that ‘master’s’ wishes must be at once complied with under pain of severe punishment, not only in this world, but in the world to come. Every Sunday, you must remember, the girl has seen ‘master’ perhaps crouching84 devoutly85 in his pew, perhaps in the part of sidesman or even church-warden, more probably supplementing the gifts of the pastor86 at some nightmarish meeting-house. ‘Master’ offers prayer with wonderful fervour; he speaks to the Lord as man to man; in the emotional passages his voice gets husky, and everybody says how good he is. He is a deacon, a guardian87 of the poor (gracious title!), a builder and an earnest supporter of the British and Foreign Bible Society: in a word, he is of the great middle-class, the backbone88 of England and of the Protestant Religion. He subscribes89 to the excellent society which prosecutes90 booksellers for selling the Decameron of Boccaccio. He has from ten to fifteen children, all of whom were found by Mamma in the garden.
“‘Mr. King was a horrible man,’ said Nelly, describing her first place; ‘he had a great greasy91 pale face with red whiskers, and a shiny bald head; he was fat, too, and when he smiled it made one feel sick. Soon after I got the place he came into the kitchen. Missus was away for three days, and the children were all in bed. He sat down by the hearth92 and asked whether I was saved, and did I love the Lord as I ought to, and if I ever had any bad thoughts about young men? Then he opened the Bible and read me nasty things from the Old Testament93, and asked if I understood what it meant. I said I didn’t know, and he said we must approach the Lord in prayer so that we might have grace to search the Scriptures94 together. I had to kneel down close to him, and he put his arm round my waist and began to pray, as he called it; and when we got up he took me on his knee and said he felt to me as if I were his own daughter.’
“There, that is enough of Mr. King. You can imagine what the poor child had to go through time after time. On prayer-meeting nights she used to put the chest of drawers against her bedroom door: there would be gentle, cautious pushes, and then a soft voice murmuring: ‘My child, why is your heart so bad and stubborn?’ I think we can conceive the general character of ‘master’ from these examples. ‘Missus,’ of course, requires a treatise95 to herself; her more frequent failings are child-torture, secret drinking and low amours with oily commercial travellers.
“Yes, it is a hideous59 world enough, isn’t it? And isn’t it a pleasant thought that you and I practically live under the government of these people? ‘Master’ is the ‘man in the street,’ the ‘hard-headed, practical man of the world,’ ‘the descendant of the sturdy Puritans,’ whose judgment96 is final on all questions from Poetics to Liturgiology. We hardly think that this picture will commend itself to the ‘man in the street’— a course of action that is calculated to alienate97 practical men. Pleasant, isn’t it? Suburbia locuta est: causa finita est.
“I suppose that, by nature, these people would not be so very much more depraved than the ordinary African black fellow. Their essential hideousness comes, I take it, from their essential and most abominable hypocrisy98. You know how they are always prating99 about Bible Teaching — the ‘simple morality of the Gospel,’ and all that nauseous stuff? And what would be the verdict, in this suburban world, on a man who took no thought for the morrow, who regulated his life by the example of the lilies, who scoffed100 at the idea of saving money? You know perfectly well that his relations would have him declared a lunatic. There is the villainy. If you are continually professing101 an idolatrous and unctuous102 devotion to a body of teaching which you are also persistently103 and perpetually disregarding and disobeying in its plainest, most simple, most elementary injunctions, well, you will soon interest anglers in search of bait.
“Yes, such is the world behind the india-rubber plant into which Nelly entered. I believe she repelled104 the advances of ‘master’ with success. Her final undoing105 came from a different quarter, and I am afraid that drugs, not Biblical cajoleries, were the instruments used. She cried bitterly when she spoke of this event, but she said, too; ‘I will kill him for it!’ It was an ugly story, and a sad one, alas106! — the saddest tale I ever listened to. Think of it: to come from that old cabin on the wild, bare hills, from the sound of the great sea, from the pure breath of the waves and the wet salt wind, to the stenches and the poisons of our ‘industrial centres.’ She came from parents who had nothing and possessed107 all things, to our civilisation108 which has everything, and lies on the dung-heap that it has made at the very gates of Heaven — destitute109 of all true treasures, full of sores and vermin and corruption110. She was nurtured111 on the wonderful old legends of the saints and the fairies; she had listened to the songs that her father made and cut in Oghams; and we gave her the penny novelette and the works of Madame Chose. She had knelt before the altar, adoring the most holy sacrifice of the Mass; now she knelt beside ‘master’ while he approached the Lord in prayer, licking his fat white lips. I can imagine no more terrible transition.
“I do not know how or why it happened, but as I listened to Nelly’s tale my eyes were opened to my own work and my own deeds, and I saw for the first time my wickedness. I should despair of explaining to anyone how utterly112 innocent I had been in intention all the while, how far I was from any deliberate design of guilt113. In a sense, I was learned, and yet, in a sense, I was most ignorant; I had been committing what is, doubtless a grievous sin, under the impression that I was enjoying the greatest of all mysteries and graces and blessings114 — the great natural sacrament of human life.
“Did I not know I was doing wrong? I knew that if any of the masters found me with Nelly I should get into sad trouble. Certainly I knew that. But if any of the masters had caught me smoking a cigarette, or saying ‘damn,’ or going into a public-house to get a glass of beer, or using a crib, or reading Rabelais, I should have got into sad trouble also. I knew that I was sinning against the ‘tone’ of the great Public School; you may imagine how deeply I felt the guilt of such an offence as that! And, of course, I had heard the boys telling their foolish indecencies; but somehow their nasty talk and their filthy115 jokes were not in any way connected in my mind with my love of Nelly — no more, indeed, than midnight darkness suggests daylight, or torment116 symbolises pleasure. Indeed, there was a hint — a dim intuition — deep down in my consciousness that all was not well; but I knew of no reason for this; I held it a morbid117 dream, the fantasy of an imagination over-exalted, perhaps; I would not listen to a faint voice that seemed without sense or argument.
“And now that voice was ringing in my ears with the clear, resonant118 and piercing summons of a trumpet119; I saw myself arraigned120 far down beside the pestilent horde121 of whom I have just spoken; and, indeed, my sin was worse than theirs, for I had been bred in light, and they in darkness. All heedless, without knowledge, without preparation, without receiving the mystic word, I had stumbled into the shrine122, uninitiated I had passed beyond the veil and gazed upon the hidden mystery, on the secret glory that is concealed from the holy angels. Woe123 and great sorrow were upon me, as if a priest, devoutly offering the sacrifice, were suddenly to become aware that he was uttering, all inadvertently, hideous and profane124 blasphemies125, summoning Satan in place of the Holy Spirit. I hid my face in my hands and cried out in my anguish126.
“Do you know that I think Nelly was in a sense relieved when I tried to tell her of my mistake, as I called it; even though I said, as gently as I could, that it was all over. She was relieved, because for the first time she felt quite sure that I was altogether in my senses; I can understand it. My whole attitude must have struck her as bordering on insanity127, for, of course, from first to last I had never for a moment taken up the position of the unrepentant but cheerful sinner, who knows that he is being a sad dog, but means to continue in his naughty way. She, with her evil experience, had thought the words I had sometimes uttered not remote from madness. She wondered, she told me, whether one night I might not suddenly take her throat in my hands and strangle her in a sudden frenzy128. She hardly knew whether she dreaded129 such a death or longed for it.
“‘You spoke so strangely,’ she said; ‘and all the while I knew we were doing wrong, and I wondered.’
“Of course, even after I had explained the matter as well as I could she was left to a large extent bewildered as to what my state of mind could have been; still, she saw that I was not mad, and she was relieved, as I have said.
“I do not know how she was first drawn130 to me — how it was that she stole that night to the room where I lay bruised131 and aching. Pity and desire and revenge, I suppose, all had their share. She was so sorry, she said, for me. She could see how lonely I was, how I hated the place and everybody about it, and she knew that I was not English. I think my wild Welsh face attracted her, too.
“Alas! that was a sad night, after all our laughter. We had sat on and on till the dawn began to come in through the drawn blinds. I told her that we must go to bed, or we should never get up the next day. We went into the bedroom, and there, sad and grey, the dawn appeared. There was a heavy sky covered with clouds and a straight, soft rain was pattering on the leaves of a great plane tree opposite; heavy drops fell into the pools in the road.
“It was still as on the mountain, filled with infinite sadness, and a sudden step clattering132 on the pavement of the square beyond made the stillness seem all the more profound. I stood by the window and gazed out at the weeping, dripping tree, the ever-falling rain and the motionless, leaden clouds — there was no breath of wind — and it was as if I heard the saddest of all music, tones of anguish and despair and notes that cried and wept. The theme was given out, itself wet, as it were, with tears. It was repeated with a sharper cry, a more piteous supplication133; it was re-echoed with a bitter utterance134, and tears fell faster as the raindrops fell plashing from the weeping tree. Inexorable in its sad reiterations, in its remorseless development, that music wailed135 and grew in its lamentation136 in my own heart; heavy it was, and without hope; heavy as those still, leaden clouds that hung motionless in heaven. No relief came to this sorrowing melody — rather a sharper note of anguish; and then for a moment, as if to embitter137 bitterness, sounded a fantastic, laughing air, a measure of jocund138 pipes and rushing violins, echoing with the mirth of dancing feet. But it was beaten into dust by the sentence of despair, by doom that was for ever, by a sentence pitiless, relentless139; and, as a sudden breath shook the wet boughs140 of the plane tree and a torrent141 fell upon the road, so the last notes of that inner music were to me as a burst of hopeless weeping.
“I turned away from the window and looked at the dingy little room where we had laughed so well. It was a sad room enough, with its pale blue, stripy-patterned paper, its rickety old furniture and its feeble pictures. The only note of gaiety was on the dressing-table, where poor little Nelly had arranged some toys and trinkets and fantasies that she had bought for herself in the last few days. There was a silver-handled brush and a flagon of some scent11 that I liked, and a little brooch of olivines that had caught her fancy; and a powder-puff in a pretty gilt142 box. The sight of these foolish things cut me to the heart. But Nelly! She was standing by the bedside, half undressed, and she looked at me with the most piteous longing143. I think that she had really grown fond of me. I suppose that I shall never forget the sad enchantment144 of her face, the flowing of her beautiful coppery hair about it; and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She half stretched out her bare arms to me and then let them fall. I had never known all her strange allurement145 before. I had refined and symbolised and made her into a sign of joy, and now before me she shone disarrayed146 — not a symbol, but a woman, in the new intelligence that had come to me, and I longed for her. I had just enough strength and no more.”
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1
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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3
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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4
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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5
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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6
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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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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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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22
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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23
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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24
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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27
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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29
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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30
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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31
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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32
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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33
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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34
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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35
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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36
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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37
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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38
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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39
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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40
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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41
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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42
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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43
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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44
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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45
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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46
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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47
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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48
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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49
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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50
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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51
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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52
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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53
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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54
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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55
pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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56
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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57
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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58
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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59
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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60
hideousness
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61
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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62
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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64
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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65
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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66
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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67
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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68
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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69
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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70
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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71
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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72
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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73
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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74
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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75
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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76
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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77
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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78
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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79
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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80
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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81
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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84
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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85
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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86
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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87
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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88
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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89
subscribes
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| v.捐助( subscribe的第三人称单数 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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90
prosecutes
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的第三人称单数 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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91
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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92
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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93
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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94
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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95
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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98
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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99
prating
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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100
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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102
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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103
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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104
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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105
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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106
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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107
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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108
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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109
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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110
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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111
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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112
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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113
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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114
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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115
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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116
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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117
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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118
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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119
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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120
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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121
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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122
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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123
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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124
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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125
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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126
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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127
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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128
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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129
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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130
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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131
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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132
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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133
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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134
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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135
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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137
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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138
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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139
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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140
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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141
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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142
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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143
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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144
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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145
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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146
disarrayed
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| vt.使混乱（disarray的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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