“What is the meaning of all this?” he thought, staring downwards4 at the headlong flow so smooth and clean that only the passage of a faint air- bubble, or a thin vanishing streak5 of foam6 like a white hair, disclosed its vertiginous7 rapidity, its terrible force. “Why has that meddlesome8 old Englishman blundered against me? And what is this silly tale of a crazy old woman?”
He was trying to think brutally9 on purpose, but he avoided any mental reference to the young girl. “A crazy old woman,” he repeated to himself.” It is a fatality10! Or ought I to despise all this as absurd? But no! I am wrong! I can’t afford to despise anything. An absurdity11 may be the starting-point of the most dangerous complications. How is one to guard against it? It puts to rout12 one’s intelligence. The more intelligent one is the less one suspects an absurdity.”
A wave of wrath13 choked his thoughts for a moment. It even made his body leaning over the parapet quiver; then he resumed his silent thinking, like a secret dialogue with himself. And even in that privacy, his thought had some reservations of which he was vaguely14 conscious.
“After all, this is not absurd. It is insignificant15. It is absolutely insignificant — absolutely. The craze of an old woman — the fussy16 officiousness of a blundering elderly Englishman. What devil put him in the way? Haven’t I treated him cavalierly enough? Haven’t I just? That’s the way to treat these meddlesome persons. Is it possible that he still stands behind my back, waiting?”
Razumov felt a faint chill run down his spine17. It was not fear. He was certain that it was not fear — not fear for himself — but it was, all the same, a sort of apprehension18 as if for another, for some one he knew without being able to put a name on the personality. But the recollection that the officious Englishman had a train to meet tranquillized him for a time. It was too stupid to suppose that he should be wasting his time in waiting. It was unnecessary to look round and make sure.
But what did the man mean by his extraordinary rigmarole about the newspaper, and that crazy old woman? he thought suddenly. It was a damnable presumption19, anyhow, something that only an Englishman could be capable of. All this was a sort of sport for him — the sport of revolution — a game to look at from the height of his superiority. And what on earth did he mean by his exclamation20, “Won’t the truth do?”
Razumov pressed his folded arms to the stone coping over which he was leaning with force. “Won’t the truth do? The truth for the crazy old mother of the —”
The young man shuddered21 again. Yes. The truth would do! Apparently22 it would do. Exactly. And receive thanks, he thought, formulating23 the unspoken words cynically24. “Fall on my neck in gratitude26, no doubt,” he jeered27 mentally. But this mood abandoned him at once. He felt sad, as if his heart had become empty suddenly. “Well, I must be cautious,” he concluded, coming to himself as though his brain had been awakened28 from a trance. “There is nothing, no one, too insignificant, too absurd to be disregarded,” he thought wearily. “I must be cautious.”
Razumov pushed himself with his hand away from the balustrade and, retracing29 his steps along the bridge, walked straight to his lodgings30, where, for a few days, he led a solitary31 and retired32 existence. He neglected Peter Ivanovitch, to whom he was accredited33 by the Stuttgart group; he never went near the refugee revolutionists, to whom he had been introduced on his arrival. He kept out of that world altogether. And he felt that such conduct, causing surprise and arousing suspicion, contained an element of danger for himself.
This is not to say that during these few days he never went out. I met him several times in the streets, but he gave me no recognition. Once, going home after an evening call on the ladies Haldin, I saw him crossing the dark roadway of the Boulevard des Philosophes. He had a broad- brimmed soft hat, and the collar of his coat turned up. I watched him make straight for the house, but, instead of going in, he stopped opposite the still lighted windows, and after a time went away down a side-street.
I knew that he had not been to see Mrs. Haldin yet. Miss Haldin told me he was reluctant; moreover, the mental condition of Mrs. Haldin had changed. She seemed to think now that her son was living, and she perhaps awaited his arrival. Her immobility in the great arm-chair in front of the window had an air of expectancy35, even when the blind was down and the lamps lighted.
For my part, I was convinced that she had received her death-stroke; Miss Haldin, to whom, of course, I said nothing of my forebodings, thought that no good would come from introducing Mr. Razumov just then, an opinion which I shared fully36. I knew that she met the young man on the Bastions. Once or twice I saw them strolling slowly up the main alley37. They met every day for weeks. I avoided passing that way during the hour when Miss Haldin took her exercise there. One day, however, in a fit of absent- mindedness, I entered the gates and came upon her walking alone. I stopped to exchange a few words. Mr. Razumov failed to turn up, and we began to talk about him — naturally.
“Did he tell you anything definite about your brother’s activities — his end?” I ventured to ask.
“No,” admitted Miss Haldin, with some hesitation38. “Nothing definite.”
I understood well enough that all their conversations must have been referred mentally to that dead man who had brought them together. That was unavoidable. But it was in the living man that she was interested. That was unavoidable too, I suppose. And as I pushed my inquiries39 I discovered that he had disclosed himself to her as a by no means conventional revolutionist, contemptuous of catchwords, of theories, of men too. I was rather pleased at that — but I was a little puzzled.
“His mind goes forward, far ahead of the struggle,” Miss Haldin explained. “Of course, he is an actual worker too,” she added.
“And do you understand him?” I inquired point- blank.
She hesitated again. “Not altogether,” she murmured.
I perceived that he had fascinated her by an assumption of mysterious reserve.
“Do you know what I think?” she went on, breaking through her reserved, almost reluctant attitude: “I think that he is observing, studying me, to discover whether I am worthy40 of his trust . . . .”
“And that pleases you?”
She kept mysteriously silent for a moment. Then with energy, but in a confidential41 tone —
“I am convinced;” she declared, “that this extraordinary man is meditating42 some vast plan, some great undertaking43; he is possessed44 by it — he suffers from it — and from being alone in the world.”
“And so he’s looking for helpers?” I commented, turning away my head.
Again there was a silence.
“Why not?” she said at last.
The dead brother, the dying mother, the foreign friend, had fallen into a distant background. But, at the same time, Peter Ivanovitch was absolutely nowhere now. And this thought consoled me. Yet I saw the gigantic shadow of Russian life deepening around her like the darkness of an advancing night. It would devour45 her presently. I inquired after Mrs. Haldin — that other victim of the deadly shade.
A remorseful46 uneasiness appeared in her frank eyes. Mother seemed no worse, but if I only knew what strange fancies she had sometimes! Then Miss Haldin, glancing at her watch, declared that she could not stay a moment longer, and with a hasty hand-shake ran off lightly.
Decidedly, Mr. Razumov was not to turn up that day. Incomprehensible youth!
But less than an hour afterwards, while crossing the Place Mollard, I caught sight of him boarding a South Shore tramcar.
“He’s going to the Chateau47 Borel,” I thought.
After depositing Razumov at the gates of the Chateau Borel, some half a mile or so from the town, the car continued its journey between two straight lines of shady trees. Across the roadway in the sunshine a short wooden pier48 jutted49 into the shallow pale water, which farther out had an intense blue tint50 contrasting unpleasantly with the green orderly slopes on the opposite shore. The whole view, with the harbour jetties of white stone underlining lividly the dark front of the town to the left, and the expanding space of water to the right with jutting51 promontories52 of no particular character, had the uninspiring, glittering quality of a very fresh oleograph. Razumov turned his back on it with contempt. He thought it odious53 — oppressively odious — in its unsuggestive finish: the very perfection of mediocrity attained54 at last after centuries of toil55 and culture. And turning his back on it, he faced the entrance to the grounds of the Chateau Borel.
The bars of the central way and the wrought-iron arch between the dark weather-stained stone piers56 were very rusty57; and, though fresh tracks of wheels ran under it, the gate looked as if it had not been opened for a very long time. But close against the lodge58, built of the same grey stone as the piers (its windows were all boarded up), there was a small side entrance. The bars of that were rusty too; it stood ajar and looked as though it had not been closed for a long time. In fact, Razumov, trying to push it open a little wider, discovered it was immovable.
“Democratic virtue59. There are no thieves here, apparently,” he muttered to himself, with displeasure. Before advancing into the grounds he looked back sourly at an idle working man lounging on a bench in the clean, broad avenue. The fellow had thrown his feet up; one of his arms hung over the low back of the public seat; he was taking a day off in lordly repose60, as if everything in sight belonged to him.
“Elector! Eligible61! Enlightened!” Razumov muttered to himself. “A brute62, all the same.”
Razumov entered the grounds and walked fast up the wide sweep of the drive, trying to think of nothing — to rest his head, to rest his emotions too. But arriving at the foot of the terrace before the house he faltered63, affected64 physically65 by some invisible interference. The mysteriousness of his quickened heart-beats startled him. He stopped short and looked at the brick wall of the terrace, faced with shallow arches, meagrely clothed by a few unthriving creepers, with an ill-kept narrow flower-bed along its foot.
“It is here!” he thought, with a sort of awe66. “It is here — on this very spot . . . .”
He was tempted67 to flight at the mere68 recollection of his first meeting with Nathalie Haldin. He confessed it to himself; but he did not move, and that not because he wished to resist an unworthy weakness, but because he knew that he had no place to fly to. Moreover, he could not leave Geneva. He recognized, even without thinking, that it was impossible. It would have been a fatal admission, an act of moral suicide. It would have been also physically dangerous. Slowly he ascended69 the stairs of the terrace, flanked by two stained greenish stone urns70 of funereal71 aspect.
Across the broad platform, where a few blades of grass sprouted72 on the discoloured gravel73, the door of the house, with its ground-floor windows shuttered, faced him, wide open. He believed that his approach had been noted74, because, framed in the doorway75, without his tall hat, Peter Ivanovitch seemed to be waiting for his approach.
The ceremonious black frock-coat and the bared head of Europe’s greatest feminist76 accentuated77 the dubiousness78 of his status in the house rented by Madame de S— — his Egeria. His aspect combined the formality of the caller with the freedom of the proprietor79. Florid and bearded and masked by the dark blue glasses, he met the visitor, and at once took him familiarly under the arm.
Razumov suppressed every sign of repugnance80 by an effort which the constant necessity of prudence81 had rendered almost mechanical. And this necessity had settled his expression in a cast of austere82, almost fanatical, aloofness83. The “heroic fugitive84,” impressed afresh by the severe detachment of this new arrival from revolutionary Russia, took a conciliatory, even a confidential tone. Madame de S—— was resting after a bad night. She often had bad nights. He had left his hat upstairs on the landing and had come down to suggest to his young friend a stroll and a good open-hearted talk in one of the shady alleys85 behind the house. After voicing this proposal, the great man glanced at the unmoved face by his side, and could not restrain himself from exclaiming —
“On my word, young man, you are an extraordinary person.”
“I fancy you are mistaken, Peter Ivanovitch. If I were really an extraordinary person, I would not be here, walking with you in a garden in Switzerland, Canton of Geneva, Commune of — what’s the name of the Commune this place belongs to? . . . Never mind — the heart of democracy, anyhow. A fit heart for it; no bigger than a parched86 pea and about as much value. I am no more extraordinary than the rest of us Russians, wandering abroad.”
But Peter Ivanovitch dissented87 emphatically —
“No! No! You are not ordinary. I have some experience of Russians who are — well — living abroad. You appear to me, and to others too, a marked personality,”
“What does he mean by this?” Razumov asked himself, turning his eyes fully on his companion. The face of Peter Ivanovitch expressed a meditative88 seriousness.
“You don’t suppose, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that I have not heard of you from various points where you made yourself known on your way here? I have had letters.”
“Oh, we are great in talking about each other,” interjected Razumov, who had listened with great attention. “Gossip, tales, suspicions, and all that sort of thing, we know how to deal in to perfection. Calumny89, even.”
In indulging in this sally, Razumov managed very well to conceal90 the feeling of anxiety which had come over him. At the same time he was saying to himself that there could be no earthly reason for anxiety. He was relieved by the evident sincerity91 of the protesting voice.
“Heavens!” cried Peter Ivanovitch. “What are you talking about? What reason can you have to. . .?
The great exile flung up his arms as if words had failed him in sober truth. Razumov was satisfied. Yet he was moved to continue in the same vein92.
“I am talking of the poisonous plants which flourish in the world of conspirators94, like evil mushrooms in a dark cellar.”
“You are casting aspersions,” remonstrated95 Peter Ivanovitch, “which as far as you are concerned —”
“No!” Razumov interrupted without heat. “Indeed, I don’t want to cast aspersions, but it’s just as well to have no illusions.”
Peter Ivanovitch gave him an inscrutable glance of his dark spectacles, accompanied by a faint smile.
“The man who says that he has no illusions has at least that one,” he said, in a very friendly tone. “But I see how it is, Kirylo Sidorovitch. You aim at stoicism.”
“Stoicism! That’s a pose of the Greeks and the Romans. Let’s leave it to them. We are Russians, that is — children; that is — sincere; that is — cynical25, if you like. But that’s not a pose.”
A long silence ensued. They strolled slowly under the lime-trees. Peter Ivanovitch had put his hands behind his back. Razumov felt the ungravelled ground of the deeply shaded walk damp and as if slippery under his feet. He asked himself, with uneasiness, if he were saying the right things. The direction of the conversation ought to have been more under his control, he reflected. The great man appeared to be reflecting on his side too. He cleared his throat slightly, and Razumov felt at once a painful reawakening of scorn and fear.
“I am astonished,” began Peter Ivanovitch gently. “Supposing you are right in your indictment96, how can you raise any question of calumny or gossip, in your case? It is unreasonable97. The fact is, Kirylo Sidorovitch, there is not enough known of you to give hold to gossip or even calumny. Just now you are a man associated with a great deed, which had been hoped for, and tried for too, without success. People have perished for attempting that which you and Haldin have done at last. You come to us out of Russia, with that prestige. But you cannot deny that you have not been communicative, Kirylo Sidorovitch. People you have met imparted their impressions to me; one wrote this, another that, but I form my own opinions. I waited to see you first. You are a man out of the common. That’s positively98 so. You are close, very close. This taciturnity, this severe brow, this something inflexible99 and secret in you, inspires hopes and a little wonder as to what you may mean. There is something of a Brutus . . . .”
“Pray spare me those classical allusions100!” burst out Razumov nervously101. “What comes Junius Brutus to do here? It is ridiculous! Do you mean to say,” he added sarcastically102, but lowering his voice, “that the Russian revolutionists are all patricians103 and that I am an aristocrat104?”
Peter Ivanovitch, who had been helping105 himself with a few gestures, clasped his hands again behind his back, and made a few steps, pondering.
“Not all patricians,” he muttered at last. “But you, at any rate, are one of us.”
Razumov smiled bitterly.
“To be sure my name is not Gugenheimer,” he said in a sneering106 tone. “I am not a democratic Jew. How can I help it? Not everybody has such luck. I have no name, I have no . . . .”
The European celebrity107 showed a great concern. He stepped back a pace and his arms flew in front of his person, extended, deprecatory, almost entreating108. His deep bass109 voice was full of pain.
“But, my dear young friend!” he cried. “My dear Kirylo Sidorovitch . . . .”
Razumov shook his head.
“The very patronymic you are so civil as to use when addressing me I have no legal right to — but what of that? I don’t wish to claim it. I have no father. So much the better. But I will tell you what: my mother’s grandfather was a peasant — a serf. See how much I am one of you. I don’t want anyone to claim me. But Russia can’t disown me. She cannot!”
Razumov struck his breast with his fist.
“I am it!”
Peter Ivanovitch walked on slowly, his head lowered. Razumov followed, vexed110 with himself. That was not the right sort of talk. All sincerity was an imprudence. Yet one could not renounce111 truth altogether, he thought, with despair. Peter Ivanovitch, meditating behind his dark glasses, became to him suddenly so odious that if he had had a knife, he fancied he could have stabbed him not only without compunction, but with a horrible, triumphant112 satisfaction. His imagination dwelt on that atrocity113 in spite of himself. It was as if he were becoming light-headed. “ It is not what is expected of me,” he repeated to himself. “It is not what is — I could get away by breaking the fastening on the little gate I see there in the back wall. It is a flimsy lock. Nobody in the house seems to know he is here with me. Oh yes. The hat! These women would discover presently the hat he has left on the landing. They would come upon him, lying dead in this damp, gloomy shade — but I would be gone and no one could ever. . .Lord! Am I going mad?” he asked himself in a fright.
The great man was heard — musing114 in an undertone.
“H’m, yes! That — no doubt — in a certain sense . . . .” He raised his voice. “There is a deal of pride about you . . . .”
The intonation115 of Peter Ivanovitch took on a homely116, familiar ring, acknowledging, in a way, Razumov’s claim to peasant descent.
“A great deal of pride, brother Kirylo. And I don’t say that you have no justification117 for it. I have admitted you had. I have ventured to allude118 to the facts of your birth simply because I attach no mean importance to it. You are one of us — un des notres. I reflect on that with satisfaction.”
“I attach some importance to it also,” said Razumov quietly. “I won’t even deny that it may have some importance for you too,” he continued, after a slight pause and with a touch of grimness of which he was himself aware, with some annoyance119. He hoped it had escaped the perception of Peter Ivanovitch. “But suppose we talk no more about it?”
“Well, we shall not — not after this one time, Kirylo Sidorovitch,” persisted the noble arch- priest of Revolution. “This shall be the last occasion. You cannot believe for a moment that I had the slightest idea of wounding your feelings. You are clearly a superior nature — that’s how I read you. Quite above the common — h’m — susceptibilities. But the fact is, Kirylo Sidorovitch, I don’t know your susceptibilities. Nobody, out of Russia, knows much of you — as yet!”
“You have been watching me?” suggested Razumov.
“Yes.”
The great man had spoken in a tone of perfect frankness, but as they turned their faces to each other Razumov felt baffled by the dark spectacles. Under their cover, Peter Ivanovitch hinted that he had felt for some time the need of meeting a man of energy and character, in view of a certain project. He said nothing more precise, however; and after some critical remarks upon the personalities120 of the various members of the committee of revolutionary action in Stuttgart, he let the conversation lapse121 for quite a long while. They paced the alley from end to end. Razumov, silent too, raised his eyes from time to time to cast a glance at the back of the house. It offered no sign of being inhabited. With its grimy, weather-stained walls and all the windows shuttered from top to bottom, it looked damp and gloomy and deserted122. It might very well have been haunted in traditional style by some doleful, groaning123, futile124 ghost of a middle-class order. The shades evoked125, as worldly rumour126 had it, by Madame de S— to meet statesmen, diplomatists, deputies of various European Parliaments, must have been of another sort. Razumov had never seen Madame de S__ but in the carriage.
Peter Ivanovitch came out of his abstraction.
“Two things I may say to you at once. I believe, first, that neither a leader nor any decisive action can come out of the dregs of a people. Now, if you ask me what are the dregs of a people — h’m — it would take too long to tell. You would be surprised at the variety of ingredients that for me go to the making up of these dregs — of that which ought, must remain at the bottom. Moreover, such a statement might be subject to discussion. But I can tell you what is not the dregs. On that it is impossible for us to disagree. The peasantry of a people is not the dregs; neither is its highest class — well — the nobility. Reflect on that, Kirylo Sidorovitch! I believe you are well fitted for reflection. Everything in a people that is not genuine, not its own by origin or development, is — well — dirt! Intelligence in the wrong place is that. Foreign-bred doctrines127 are that. Dirt! Dregs! The second thing I would offer to your meditation128 is this: that for us at this moment there yawns a chasm129 between the past and the future. It can never be bridged by foreign liberalism. All attempts at it are either folly130 or cheating. Bridged it can never be! It has to be filled up.”
A sort of sinister131 jocularity had crept into the tones of the burly feminist. He seized Razumov’s arm above the elbow, and gave it a slight shake.
“Do you understand, enigmatical young man? It has got to be just filled up.”
Razumov kept an unmoved countenance132.
“Don’t you think that I have already gone beyond meditation on that subject?” he said, freeing his arm by a quiet movement which increased the distance a little between himself and Peter Ivanovitch, as they went on strolling abreast133. And he added that surely whole cartloads of words and theories could never fill that chasm. No meditation was necessary. A sacrifice of many lives could alone — He fell silent without finishing the phrase.
Peter Ivanovitch inclined his big hairy head slowly. After a moment he proposed that they should go and see if Madame de S— was now visible.
“We shall get some tea,” he said, turning out of the shaded gloomy walk with a brisker step.
The lady companion had been on the look out. Her dark skirt whisked into the doorway as the two men came in sight round the corner. She ran off somewhere altogether, and had disappeared when they entered the hall. In the crude light falling from the dusty glass skylight upon the black and white tessellated floor, covered with muddy tracks, their footsteps echoed faintly. The great feminist led the way up the stairs. On the balustrade of the first-floor landing a shiny tall hat reposed134, rim34 upwards135, opposite the double door of the drawing-room, haunted, it was said, by evoked ghosts, and frequented, it was to be supposed, by fugitive revolutionists. The cracked white paint of the panels, the tarnished136 gilt137 of the mouldings, permitted one to imagine nothing but dust and emptiness within. Before turning the massive brass138 handle, Peter Ivanovitch gave his young companion a sharp, partly critical, partly preparatory glance.
“No one is perfect,” he murmured discreetly139. Thus, the possessor of a rare jewel might, before opening the casket, warn the profane140 that no gem141 perhaps is flawless.
He remained with his hand on the door-handle so long that Razumov assented142 by a moody143 “No.”
“Perfection itself would not produce that effect,” pursued Peter Ivanovitch, “in a world not meant for it. But you shall find there a mind — no! — the quintessence of feminine intuition which will understand any perplexity you may be suffering from by the irresistible144, enlightening force of sympathy. Nothing can remain obscure before that — that — inspired, yes, inspired penetration145, this true light of femininity.”
The gaze of the dark spectacles in its glossy146 steadfastness147 gave his face an air of absolute conviction. Razumov felt a momentary148 shrinking before that closed door.
“Penetration? Light,” he stammered149 out. “Do you mean some sort of thought-reading?”
Peter Ivanovitch seemed shocked.
“I mean something utterly150 different,” he retorted, with a faint, pitying smile.
Razumov began to feel angry, very much against his wish.
“This is very mysterious,” he muttered through his teeth.
“You don’t object to being understood, to being guided?” queried151 the great feminist. Razumov exploded in a fierce whisper.
“In what sense? Be pleased to understand that I am a serious person. Who do you take me for?”
They looked at each other very closely. Razumov’s temper was cooled by the impenetrable earnestness of the blue glasses meeting his stare. Peter Ivanovitch turned the handle at last.
“You shall know directly,” he said, pushing the door open.
A low-pitched grating voice was heard within the room.
“Enfin.”
In the doorway, his black-coated bulk blocking the view, Peter Ivanovitch boomed in a hearty152 tone with something boastful in it.
“Yes. Here I am!”
He glanced over his shoulder at Razumov, who waited for him to move on.
“And I am bringing you a proved conspirator93 — a real one this time. Un vrai celui la.”
This pause in the doorway gave the “proved conspirator” time to make sure that his face did not betray his angry curiosity and his mental disgust.
These sentiments stand confessed in Mr. Razumov’s memorandum153 of his first interview with Madame de S——. The very words I use in my narrative154 are written where their sincerity cannot be suspected. The record, which could not have been meant for anyone’s eyes but his own, was not, I think, the outcome of that strange impulse of indiscretion common to men who lead secret lives, and accounting155 for the invariable existence of “compromising documents” in all the plots and conspiracies156 of history. Mr. Razumov looked at it, I suppose, as a man looks at himself in a mirror, with wonder, perhaps with anguish157, with anger or despair. Yes, as a threatened man may look fearfully at his own face in the glass, formulating to himself reassuring158 excuses for his appearance marked by the taint159 of some insidious160 hereditary161 disease.
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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granite
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wrecking
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downwards
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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foam
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vertiginous
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meddlesome
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brutally
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fatality
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absurdity
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rout
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wrath
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vaguely
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insignificant
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fussy
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spine
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apprehension
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presumption
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exclamation
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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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22
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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23
formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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24
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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25
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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26
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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27
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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29
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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30
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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31
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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32
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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33
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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34
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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35
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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36
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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37
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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38
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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39
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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40
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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41
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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42
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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43
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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44
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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45
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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46
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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47
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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48
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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49
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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50
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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51
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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52
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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53
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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54
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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55
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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56
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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57
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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58
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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59
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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60
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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61
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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62
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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63
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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64
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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65
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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66
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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67
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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71
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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72
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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73
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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76
feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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77
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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78
dubiousness
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| n.dubious（令人怀疑的）的变形 | |
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79
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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80
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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81
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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82
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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83
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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84
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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85
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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86
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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87
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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89
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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90
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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91
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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92
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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93
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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94
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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95
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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96
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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97
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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98
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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99
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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100
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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101
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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102
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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103
patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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104
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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105
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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106
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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107
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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108
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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109
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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110
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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111
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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112
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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113
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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114
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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115
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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116
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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117
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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118
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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119
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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120
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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121
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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122
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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123
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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124
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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125
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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126
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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127
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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128
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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129
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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130
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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131
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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132
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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133
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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134
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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136
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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137
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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138
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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139
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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140
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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141
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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142
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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144
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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145
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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146
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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147
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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148
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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149
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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151
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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152
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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153
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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154
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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155
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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156
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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157
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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158
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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159
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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160
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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161
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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