Dropping then Mr. Razumov’s record at the point where Councillor Mikulin’s question “Where to?” comes in with the force of an insoluble problem, I shall simply say that I made the acquaintance of these ladies about six months before that time. By “these ladies” I mean, of course, the mother and the sister of the unfortunate Haldin.
By what arguments he had induced his mother to sell their little property and go abroad for an indefinite time, I cannot tell precisely6. I have an idea that Mrs. Haldin, at her son’s wish, would have set fire to her house and emigrated to the moon without any sign of surprise or apprehension7; and that Miss Haldin — Nathalie, caressingly9 Natalka — would have given her assent10 to the scheme.
Their proud devotion to that young man became clear to me in a very short time. Following his directions they went straight to Switzerland — to Zurich — where they remained the best part of a year. From Zurich, which they did not like, they came to Geneva. A friend of mine in Lausanne, a lecturer in history at the University (he had married a Russian lady, a distant connection of Mrs. Haldin’s), wrote to me suggesting I should call on these ladies. It was a very kindly11 meant business suggestion. Miss Haldin wished to go through a course of reading the best English authors with a competent teacher.
Mrs. Haldin received me very kindly. Her bad French, of which she was smilingly conscious, did away with the formality of the first interview. She was a tall woman in a black silk dress. A wide brow, regular features, and delicately cut lips, testified to her past beauty. She sat upright in an easy chair and in a rather weak, gentle voice told me that her Natalka simply thirsted after knowledge. Her thin hands were lying on her lap, her facial immobility had in it something monachal. “In Russia,” she went on, “all knowledge was tainted12 with falsehood. Not chemistry and all that, but education generally,” she explained. The Government corrupted13 the teaching for its own purposes. Both her children felt that. Her Natalka had obtained a diploma of a Superior School for Women and her son was a student at the St. Petersburg University. He had a brilliant intellect, a most noble unselfish nature, and he was the oracle14 of his comrades. Early next year, she hoped he would join them and they would then go to Italy together. In any other country but their own she would have been certain of a great future for a man with the extraordinary abilities and the lofty character of her son — but in Russia . . . .
The young lady sitting by the window turned her head and said —
“Come, mother. Even with us things change with years.”
Her voice was deep, almost harsh, and yet caressing8 in its harshness. She had a dark complexion15, with red lips and a full figure. She gave the impression of strong vitality16. The old lady sighed.
“You are both young — you two. It is easy for you to hope. But I, too, am not hopeless. Indeed, how could I be with a son like this.”
I addressed Miss Haldin, asking her what authors she wished to read. She directed upon me her grey eyes shaded by black eyelashes, and I became aware, notwithstanding my years, how attractive physically18 her personality could be to a man capable of appreciating in a woman something else than the mere19 grace of femininity. Her glance was as direct and trustful as that of a young man yet unspoiled by the world’s wise lessons. And it was intrepid20, but in this intrepidity21 there was nothing aggressive. A naive22 yet thoughtful assurance is a better definition. She had reflected already (in Russia the young begin to think early), but she had never known deception23 as yet because obviously she had never yet fallen under the sway of passion. She was — to look at her was enough — very capable of being roused by an idea or simply by a person. At least, so I judged with I believe an unbiassed mind; for clearly my person could not be the person — and as to my ideas!. . .
We became excellent friends in the course of our reading. It was very pleasant. Without fear of provoking a smile, I shall confess that I became very much attached to that young girl. At the end of four months I told her that now she could very well go on reading English by herself. It was time for the teacher to depart. My pupil looked unpleasantly surprised.
Mrs. Haldin, with her immobility of feature and kindly expression of the eyes, uttered from her armchair in her uncertain French, “Mais l’ami reviendra.“ And so it was settled. I returned- -not four times a week as before, but pretty frequently. In the autumn we made some short excursions together in company with other Russians. My friendship with these ladies gave me a standing17 in the Russian colony which otherwise I could not have had.
The day I saw in the papers the news of Mr. de P- —‘s assassination24 — it was a Sunday — I met the two ladies in the street and walked with them for some distance. Mrs. Haldin wore a heavy grey cloak, I remember, over her black silk dress, and her fine eyes met mine with a very quiet expression.
“We have been to the late service,” she said. “Natalka came with me. Her girl-friends, the students here, of course don’t. . . . With us in Russia the church is so identified with oppression, that it seems almost necessary when one wishes to be free in this life, to give up all hope of a future existence. But I cannot give up praying for my son.”
She added with a sort of stony25 grimness, colouring slightly, and in French, “Ce n’est peut etre qu’une habitude.“ (“It may be only habit.”)
Miss Haldin was carrying the prayer-book. She did not glance at her mother.
“You and Victor are both profound believers,” she said.
I communicated to them the news from their country which I had just read in a cafe. For a whole minute we walked together fairly briskly in silence. Then Mrs. Haldin murmured —
“There will be more trouble, more persecutions for this. They may be even closing the University. There is neither peace nor rest in Russia for one but in the grave.
“Yes. The way is hard,” came from the daughter, looking straight before her at the Chain of Jura covered with snow, like a white wall closing the end of the street. “But concord27 is not so very far off.”
“That is what my children think,” observed Mrs. Haldin to me.
I did not conceal28 my feeling that these were strange times to talk of concord. Nathalie Haldin surprised me by saying, as if she had thought very much on the subject, that the occidentals did not understand the situation. She was very calm and youthfully superior.
“You think it is a class conflict, or a conflict of interests, as social contests are with you in Europe. But it is not that at all. It is something quite different.”
“It is quite possible that I don’t understand,” I admitted.
That propensity29 of lifting every problem from the plane of the understandable by means of some sort of mystic expression, is very Russian. I knew her well enough to have discovered her scorn for all the practical forms of political liberty known to the western world. I suppose one must be a Russian to understand Russian simplicity30, a terrible corroding31 simplicity in which mystic phrases clothe a naive and hopeless cynicism. I think sometimes that the psychological secret of the profound difference of that people consists in this, that they detest33 life, the irremediable life of the earth as it is, whereas we westerners cherish it with perhaps an equal exaggeration of its sentimental34 value. But this is a digression indeed . . . .
I helped these ladies into the tramcar and they asked me to call in the afternoon. At least Mrs. Haldin asked me as she climbed up, and her Natalka smiled down at the dense35 westerner indulgently from the rear platform of the moving car. The light of the clear wintry forenoon was softened37 in her grey eyes.
Mr. Razumov’s record, like the open book of fate, revives for me the memory of that day as something startlingly pitiless in its freedom from all forebodings. Victor Haldin was still with the living, but with the living whose only contact with life is the expectation of death. He must have been already referring to the last of his earthly affections, the hours of that obstinate38 silence, which for him was to be prolonged into eternity39. That afternoon the ladies entertained a good many of their compatriots — more than was usual for them to receive at one time; and the drawing-room on the ground floor of a large house on the Boulevard des Philosophes was very much crowded.
I outstayed everybody; and when I rose Miss Haldin stood up too. I took her hand and was moved to revert40 to that morning’s conversation in the street.
“Admitting that we occidentals do not understand the character of your . . . .” I began.
It was as if she had been prepared for me by some mysterious fore-knowledge. She checked me gently —
“Their impulses — their . . . “ she sought the proper expression and found it, but in French. . .” their mouvements d’ame.”
Her voice was not much above a whisper.
“Very well,” I said. “ But still we are looking at a conflict. You say it is not a conflict of classes and not a conflict of interests. Suppose I admitted that. Are antagonistic41 ideas then to be reconciled more easily — can they be cemented with blood and violence into that concord which you proclaim to be so near?”
She looked at me searchingly with her clear grey eyes, without answering my reasonable question — my obvious, my unanswerable question.
“It is inconceivable,” I added, with something like annoyance42.
“Everything is inconceivable,” she said. “The whole world is inconceivable to the strict logic32 of ideas. And yet the world exists to our senses, and we exist in it. There must be a necessity superior to our conceptions. It is a very miserable43 and a very false thing to belong to the majority. We Russians shall find some better form of national freedom than an artificial conflict of parties — which is wrong because it is a conflict and contemptible44 because it is artificial. It is left for us Russians to discover a better way.”
Mrs. Haldin had been looking out of the window. She turned upon me the almost lifeless beauty of her face, and the living benign45 glance of her big dark eyes.
“That’s what my children think,” she declared.
“I suppose,” I addressed Miss Haldin, “that you will be shocked if I tell you that I haven’t understood — I won’t say a single word; I’ve understood all the words. . . . But what can be this era of disembodied concord you are looking forward to. Life is a thing of form. It has its plastic shape and a definite intellectual aspect. The most idealistic conceptions of love and forbearance must be clothed in flesh as it were before they can be made understandable.”
I took my leave of Mrs. Haldin, whose beautiful lips never stirred. She smiled with her eyes only. Nathalie Haldin went with me as far as the door, very amiable46.
“Mother imagines that I am the slavish echo of my brother Victor. It is not so. He understands me better than I can understand him. When he joins us and you come to know him you will see what an exceptional soul it is.” She paused. “He is not a strong man in the conventional sense, you know,” she added. “But his character is without a flaw”
“I believe that it will not be difficult for me to make friends with your brother Victor.”
“Don’t expect to understand him quite,” she said, a little maliciously47. “He is not at all — at all — western at bottom.”
And on this unnecessary warning I left the room with another bow in the doorway48 to Mrs. Haldin in her armchair by the window. The shadow of autocracy49 all unperceived by me had already fallen upon the Boulevard des Philosophes, in the free, independent and democratic city of Geneva, where there is a quarter called “La Petite Russie.” Whenever two Russians come together, the shadow of autocracy is with them, tinging50 their thoughts, their views, their most intimate feelings, their private life, their public utterances51 — haunting the secret of their silences.
What struck me next in the course of a week or so was the silence of these ladies. I used to meet them walking in the public garden near the University. They greeted me with their usual friendliness52, but I could not help noticing their taciturnity. By that time it was generally known that the assassin of M. de P—— had been caught, judged, and executed. So much had been declared officially to the news agencies. But for the world at large he remained anonymous53. The official secrecy54 had withheld55 his name from the public. I really cannot imagine for what reason.
One day I saw Miss Haldin walking alone in the main valley of the Bastions under the naked trees.
“Mother is not very well,” she explained.
As Mrs.Haldin had, it seemed, never had a day’s illness in her life, this indisposition was disquieting57. It was nothing definite, too.
“I think she is fretting58 because we have not heard from my brother for rather a long time.”
“No news — good news,” I said cheerfully, and we began to walk slowly side by side.
“Not in Russia,” she breathed out so low that I only just caught the words. I looked at her with more attention.
“You too are anxious? ”
She admitted after a moment of hesitation59 that she was.
“It is really such a long time since we heard . . . .”
And before I could offer the usual banal60 suggestions she confided61 in me.
“Oh! But it is much worse than that. I wrote to a family we know in Petersburg. They had not seen him for more than a month. They thought he was already with us. They were even offended a little that he should have left Petersburg without calling on them. The husband of the lady went at once to his lodgings62. Victor had left there and they did not know his address.”
I remember her catching63 her breath rather pitifully. Her brother had not been seen at lectures for a very long time either. He only turned up now and then at the University gate to ask the porter for his letters. And the gentleman friend was told that the student Haldin did not come to claim the last two letters for him. But the police came to inquire if the student Haldin ever received any correspondence at the University and took them away.
“My two last letters,” she said.
We faced each other. A few snow-flakes fluttered under the naked boughs64. The sky was dark.
“What do you think could have happened?” I asked.
Her shoulders moved slightly.
“One can never tell — in Russia.”
I saw then the shadow of autocracy lying upon Russian lives in their submission65 or their revolt. I saw it touch her handsome open face nestled in a fur collar and darken her clear eyes that shone upon me brilliantly grey in the murky66 light of a beclouded, inclement67 afternoon.
“Let us move on,” she said.” It is cold standing — to-day.”
She shuddered68 a little and stamped her little feet. We moved briskly to the end of the alley56 and back to the great gates of the garden.
“Have you told your mother? “ I ventured to ask.
“No. Not yet. I came out to walk off the impression of this letter.”
I heard a rustle69 of paper somewhere. It came from her muff. She had the letter with her in there.
“What is it that you are afraid of?” I asked.
To us Europeans of the West, all ideas of political plots and conspiracies70 seem childish, crude inventions for the theatre or a novel. I did not like to be more definite in my inquiry71.
“For us — for my mother specially72, what I am afraid of is incertitude73. People do disappear. Yes, they do disappear. I leave you to imagine what it is — the cruelty of the dumb weeks — months — years! This friend of ours has abandoned his inquiries74 when he heard of the police getting hold of the letters. I suppose he was afraid of compromising himself. He has a wife and children — and why should he, after all. . . . Moreover, he is without influential75 connections and not rich. What could he do? . . . Yes, I am afraid of silence — for my poor mother. She won’t be able to bear it. For my brother I am afraid of. . .” she became almost indistinct, “of anything.”
We were now near the gate opposite the theatre. She raised her voice.
“But lost people do turn up even in Russia. Do you know what my last hope is? Perhaps the next thing we know, we shall see him walking into our rooms.”
I raised my hat and she passed out of the gardens, graceful76 and strong, after a slight movement of the head to me, her hands in the muff, crumpling77 the cruel Petersburg letter.
On returning home I opened the newspaper I receive from London, and glancing down the correspondence from Russia — not the telegrams but the correspondence — the first thing that caught my eye was the name of Haldin. Mr. de P— -‘s death was no longer an actuality, but the enterprising correspondent was proud of having ferreted out some unofficial information about that fact of modern history. He had got hold of Haldin’s name, and had picked up the story of the midnight arrest in the street. But the sensation from a journalistic point of view was already well in the past. He did not allot78 to it more than twenty lines out of a full column. It was quite enough to give me a sleepless79 night. I perceived that it would have been a sort of treason to let Miss Haldin come without preparation upon that journalistic discovery which would infallibly be reproduced on the morrow by French and Swiss newspapers. I had a very bad time of it till the morning, wakeful with nervous worry and night-marish with the feeling of being mixed up with something theatrical80 and morbidly81 affected83. The incongruity84 of such a complication in those two women’s lives was sensible to me all night in the form of absolute anguish85. It seemed due to their refined simplicity that it should remain concealed86 from them for ever. Arriving at an unconscionably early hour at the door of their apartment, I felt as if I were about to commit an act of vandalism . . . .
The aged88" target="_blank">middle-aged87 servant woman led me into the drawing-room where there was a duster on a chair and a broom leaning against the centre table. The motes89 danced in the sunshine; I regretted I had not written a letter instead of coming myself, and was thankful for the brightness of the day. Miss Haldin in a plain black dress came lightly out of her mother’s room with a fixed90 uncertain smile on her lips.
I pulled the paper out of my pocket. I did not imagine that a number of the Standard could have the effect of Medusa’s head. Her face went stony in a moment — her eyes — her limbs. The most terrible thing was that being stony she remained alive. One was conscious of her palpitating heart. I hope she forgave me the delay of my clumsy circumlocution92. It was not very prolonged; she could not have kept so still from head to foot for more than a second or two; and then I heard her draw a breath. As if the shock had paralysed her moral resistance, and affected the firmness of her muscles, the contours of her face seemed to have given way. She was frightfully altered. She looked aged — ruined. But only for a moment. She said with decision —
“I am going to tell my mother at once.”
“Would that be safe in her state?” I objected.
“What can be worse than the state she has been in for the last month? We understand this in another way. The crime is not at his door. Don’t imagine I am defending him before you.”
She went to the bedroom door, then came back to ask me in a low murmur26 not to go till she returned. For twenty interminable minutes not a sound reached me. At last Miss Haldin came out and walked across the room with her quick light step. When she reached the armchair she dropped into it heavily as if completely exhausted93.
Mrs. Haldin, she told me, had not shed a tear. She was sitting up in bed, and her immobility, her silence, were very alarming. At last she lay down gently and had motioned her daughter away.
“She will call me in presently,” added Miss Haldin. “I left a bell near the bed.”
I confess that my very real sympathy had no standpoint. The Western readers for whom this story is written will understand what I mean. It was, if I may say so, the want of experience. Death is a remorseless spoliator. The anguish of irreparable loss is familiar to us all. There is no life so lonely as to be safe against that experience. But the grief I had brought to these two ladies had gruesome associations. It had the associations of bombs and gallows95 — a lurid96, Russian colouring which made the complexion of my sympathy uncertain.
I was grateful to Miss Haldin for not embarrassing me by an outward display of deep feeling. I admired her for that wonderful command over herself, even while I was a little frightened at it. It was the stillness of a great tension. What if it should suddenly snap? Even the door of Mrs. Haldin’s room, with the old mother alone in there, had a rather awful aspect.
Nathalie Haldin murmured sadly —
“I suppose you are wondering what my feelings are?”
Essentially97 that was true. It was that very wonder which unsettled my sympathy of a dense Occidental. I could get hold of nothing but of some commonplace phrases, those futile98 phrases that give the measure of our impotence before each other’s trials I mumbled99 something to the effect that, for the young, life held its hopes and compensations. It held duties too — but of that I was certain it was not necessary to remind her.
She had a handkerchief in her hands and pulled at it nervously100.
“I am not likely to forget my mother,” she said. “We used to be three. Now we are two — two women. She’s not so very old. She may live quite a long time yet. What have we to look for in the future? For what hope and what consolation101?”
“You must take a wider view,” I said resolutely102, thinking that with this exceptional creature this was the right note to strike. She looked at me steadily103 for a moment, and then the tears she had been keeping down flowed unrestrained. She jumped up and stood in the window with her back to me.
I slipped away without attempting even to approach her. Next day I was told at the door that Mrs. Haldin was better. The middle-aged servant remarked that a lot of people — Russians — had called that day, but Miss Haldin bad not seen anybody. A fortnight later, when making my daily call, I was asked in and found Mrs. Haldin sitting in her usual place by the window.
At first one would have thought that nothing was changed. I saw across the room the familiar profile, a little sharper in outline and overspread by a uniform pallor as might have been expected in an invalid104. But no disease could have accounted for the change in her black eyes, smiling no longer with gentle irony105. She raised them as she gave me her hand. I observed the three weeks’ old number of the Standard folded with the correspondence from Russia uppermost, lying on a little table by the side of the armchair. Mrs. Haldin’s voice was startlingly weak and colourless. Her first words to me framed a question.
“Has there been anything more in papers?”
I released her long emaciated106 hand, shook my head negatively, and sat down.
“The English press is wonderful. Nothing can be kept secret from it, and all the world must hear. Only our Russian news is not always easy to understand. Not always easy. . . . But English mothers do not look for news like that . . . .”
She laid her hand on the newspaper and took it away again. I said —
“We too have had tragic107 times in our history.”
“A long time ago. A very long time ago.”
“Yes.”
“There are nations that have made their bargain with fate,” said Miss Haldin, who had approached us. “We need not envy them.”
“Why this scorn?” I asked gently. “It may be that our bargain was not a very lofty one. But the terms men and nations obtain from Fate are hallowed by the price.”
Mrs. Haldin turned her head away and looked out of the window for a time, with that new, sombre, extinct gaze of her sunken eyes which so completely made another woman of her.
“That Englishman, this correspondent,” she addressed me suddenly, “do you think it is possible that he knew my son?”
To this strange question I could only say that it was possible of course. She saw my surprise.
“If one knew what sort of man he was one could perhaps write to him,” she murmured.
“Mother thinks,” explained Miss Haldin, standing between us, with one hand resting on the back of my chair, “that my poor brother perhaps did not try to save himself.”
I looked up at Miss Haldin in sympathetic consternation108, but Miss Haldin was looking down calmly at her mother. The latter said —
“We do not know the address of any of his friends. Indeed, we know nothing of his Petersburg comrades. He had a multitude of young friends, only he never spoke109 much of them. One could guess that they were his disciples110 and that they idolized him. But he was so modest. One would think that with so many devoted111 . . . .”
She averted112 her head again and looked down the Boulevard des Philosophes, a singularly arid113 and dusty thoroughfare, where nothing could be seen at the moment but two dogs, a little girl in a pinafore hopping114 on one leg, and in the distance a workman wheeling a bicycle.
“Even amongst the Apostles of Christ there was found a Judas,” she whispered as if to herself, but with the evident intention to be heard by me.
The Russian visitors assembled in little knots, conversed115 amongst themselves meantime, in low murmurs116, and with brief glances in our direction. It was a great contrast to the usual loud volubility of these gatherings117. Miss Haldin followed me into the ante-room.
“People will come,” she said. “We cannot shut the door in their faces.”
While I was putting on my overcoat she began to talk to me of her mother. Poor Mrs. Haldin was fretting after more news. She wanted to go on hearing about her unfortunate son. She could not make up her mind to abandon him quietly to the dumb unknown. She would persist in pursuing him in there through the long days of motionless silence face to face with the empty Boulevard des Philosophes. She could not understand why he had not escaped — as so many other revolutionists and conspirators118 had managed to escape in other instances of that kind. It was really inconceivable that the means of secret revolutionary organisations should have failed so inexcusably to preserve her son. But in reality the inconceivable that staggered her mind was nothing but the cruel audacity119 of Death passing over her head to strike at that young and precious heart.
Miss Haldin mechanically, with an absorbed look, handed me my hat. I understood from her that the poor woman was possessed120 by the sombre and simple idea that her son must have perished because he did not want to be saved. It could not have been that he despaired of his country’s future. That was impossible. Was it possible that his mother and sister had not known how to merit his confidence; and that, after having done what he was compelled to do, his spirit became crushed by an intolerable doubt, his mind distracted by a sudden mistrust.
I was very much shocked by this piece of ingenuity121.
“Our three lives were like that!” Miss Haldin twined the fingers of both her hands together in demonstration122, then separated them slowly, looking straight into my face. “That’s what poor mother found to torment123 herself and me with, for all the years to come,” added the strange girl. At that moment her indefinable charm was revealed to me in the conjunction of passion and stoicism. I imagined what her life was likely to be by the side of Mrs. Haldin’s terrible immobility, inhabited by that fixed idea. But my concern was reduced to silence by my ignorance of her modes of feeling. Difference of nationality is a terrible obstacle for our complex Western natures. But Miss Haldin probably was too simple to suspect my embarrassment124. She did not wait for me to say anything, but as if reading my thoughts on my face she went on courageously125 —
“At first poor mother went numb91, as our peasants say; then she began to think and she will go on now thinking and thinking in that unfortunate strain. You see yourself how cruel that is . . . .”
I never spoke with greater sincerity than when I agreed with her that it would be deplorable in the highest degree. She took an anxious breath.
“But all these strange details in the English paper,” she exclaimed suddenly. “What is the meaning of them? I suppose they are true? But is it not terrible that my poor brother should be caught wandering alone, as if in despair, about the streets at night . . . .”
We stood so close to each other in the dark anteroom that I could see her biting her lower lip to suppress a dry sob126. After a short pause she said —
“I suggested to mother that he may have been betrayed by some false friend or simply by some cowardly creature. It may be easier for her to believe that.”
I understood now the poor woman’s whispered allusion127 to Judas.
“It may be easier,” I admitted, admiring inwardly the directness and the subtlety128 of the girl’s outlook. She was dealing129 with life as it was made for her by the political conditions of her country. She faced cruel realities, not morbid82 imaginings of her own making. I could not defend myself from a certain feeling of respect when she added simply —
“Time they say can soften36 every sort of bitterness. But I cannot believe that it has any power over remorse94. It is better that mother should think some person guilty of Victor’s death, than that she should connect it with a weakness of her son or a shortcoming of her own.”
“But you, yourself, don’t suppose that . . . .” I began.
She compressed her lips and shook her head. She harboured no evil thoughts against any one, she declared — and perhaps nothing that happened was unnecessary. On these words, pronounced low and sounding mysterious in the half obscurity of the ante-room, we parted with an expressive130 and warm handshake. The grip of her strong, shapely hand had a seductive frankness, a sort of exquisite131 virility132. I do not know why she should have felt so friendly to me. It may be that she thought I understood her much better than I was able to do. The most precise of her sayings seemed always to me to have enigmatical prolongations vanishing somewhere beyond my reach. I am reduced to suppose that she appreciated my attention and my silence. The attention she could see was quite sincere, so that the silence could not be suspected of coldness. It seemed to satisfy her. And it is to be noted133 that if she confided in me it was clearly not with the expectation of receiving advice, for which, indeed she never asked.
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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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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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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15
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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17
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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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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19
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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20
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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22
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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23
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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24
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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25
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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26
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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27
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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28
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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29
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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30
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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31
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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32
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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33
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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34
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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35
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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36
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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37
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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38
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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39
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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40
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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41
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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42
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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43
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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45
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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46
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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47
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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48
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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49
autocracy
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| n.独裁政治，独裁政府 | |
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50
tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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51
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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52
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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53
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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54
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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55
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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56
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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57
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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58
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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59
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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60
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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61
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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62
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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63
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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64
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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65
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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66
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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67
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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68
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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69
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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70
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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71
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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72
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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73
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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74
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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75
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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76
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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77
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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78
allot
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| v.分配；拨给；n.部分；小块菜地 | |
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79
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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80
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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81
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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82
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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83
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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84
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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85
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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86
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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87
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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88
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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89
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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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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91
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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92
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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93
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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94
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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95
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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96
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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97
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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98
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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99
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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101
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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102
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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103
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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104
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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105
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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106
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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107
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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108
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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109
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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110
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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111
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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112
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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113
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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114
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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115
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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116
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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117
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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118
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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119
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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120
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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121
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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122
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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123
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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124
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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125
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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126
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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127
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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128
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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129
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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130
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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131
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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132
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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133
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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