DMITRI PETROVITCH SILIN had taken his degree and entered the government service in Petersburg, but at thirty he gave up his post and went in for agriculture. His farming was fairly successful, and yet it always seemed to me that he was not in his proper place, and that he would do well to go back to Petersburg. When sunburnt, grey with dust, exhausted2 with toil3, he met me near the gates or at the entrance, and then at supper struggled with sleepiness and his wife took him off to bed as though he were a baby; or when, overcoming his sleepiness, he began in his soft, cordial, almost imploring4 voice, to talk about his really excellent ideas, I saw him not as a farmer nor an agriculturist, but only as a worried and exhausted man, and it was clear to me that he did not really care for farming, but that all he wanted was for the day to be over and “Thank God for it.”
I liked to be with him, and I used to stay on his farm for two or three days at a time. I liked his house, and his park, and his big fruit garden, and the river—and his philosophy, which was clear, though rather spiritless and rhetorical. I suppose I was fond of him on his own account, though I can’t say that for certain, as I have not up to now succeeded in analysing my feelings at that time. He was an intelligent, kind-hearted, genuine man, and not a bore, but I remember that when he confided5 to me his most treasured secrets and spoke6 of our relation to each other as friendship, it disturbed me unpleasantly, and I was conscious of awkwardness. In his affection for me there was something inappropriate, tiresome7, and I should have greatly preferred commonplace friendly relations.
The fact is that I was extremely attracted by his wife, Marya Sergeyevna. I was not in love with her, but I was attracted by her face, her eyes, her voice, her walk. I missed her when I did not see her for a long time, and my imagination pictured no one at that time so eagerly as that young, beautiful, elegant woman. I had no definite designs in regard to her, and did not dream of anything of the sort, yet for some reason, whenever we were left alone, I remembered that her husband looked upon me as his friend, and I felt awkward. When she played my favourite pieces on the piano or told me something interesting, I listened with pleasure, and yet at the same time for some reason the reflection that she loved her husband, that he was my friend, and that she herself looked upon me as his friend, obtruded8 themselves upon me, my spirits flagged, and I became listless, awkward, and dull. She noticed this change and would usually say:
“You are dull without your friend. We must send out to the fields for him.”
And when Dmitri Petrovitch came in, she would say:
“Well, here is your friend now. Rejoice.”
So passed a year and a half.
It somehow happened one July Sunday that Dmitri Petrovitch and I, having nothing to do, drove to the big village of Klushino to buy things for supper. While we were going from one shop to another the sun set and the evening came on—the evening which I shall probably never forget in my life. After buying cheese that smelt9 like soap, and petrified10 sausages that smelt of tar11, we went to the tavern12 to ask whether they had any beer. Our coachman went off to the blacksmith to get our horses shod, and we told him we would wait for him near the church. We walked, talked, laughed over our purchases, while a man who was known in the district by a very strange nickname, “Forty Martyrs13,” followed us all the while in silence with a mysterious air like a detective. This Forty Martyrs was no other than Gavril Syeverov, or more simply Gavryushka, who had been for a short time in my service as a footman and had been dismissed by me for drunkenness. He had been in Dmitri Petrovitch’s service, too, and by him had been dismissed for the same vice1. He was an inveterate14 drunkard, and indeed his whole life was as drunk and disorderly as himself. His father had been a priest and his mother of noble rank, so by birth he belonged to the privileged class; but however carefully I scrutinized15 his exhausted, respectful, and always perspiring16 face, his red beard now turning grey, his pitifully torn reefer jacket and his red shirt, I could not discover in him the faintest trace of anything we associate with privilege. He spoke of himself as a man of education, and used to say that he had been in a clerical school, but had not finished his studies there, as he had been expelled for smoking; then he had sung in the bishop’s choir17 and lived for two years in a monastery18, from which he was also expelled, but this time not for smoking but for “his weakness.” He had walked all over two provinces, had presented petitions to the Consistory, and to various government offices, and had been four times on his trial. At last, being stranded19 in our district, he had served as a footman, as a forester, as a kennelman, as a sexton, had married a cook who was a widow and rather a loose character, and had so hopelessly sunk into a menial position, and had grown so used to filth20 and dirt, that he even spoke of his privileged origin with a certain scepticism, as of some myth. At the time I am describing, he was hanging about without a job, calling himself a carrier and a huntsman, and his wife had disappeared and made no sign.
From the tavern we went to the church and sat in the porch, waiting for the coachman. Forty Martyrs stood a little way off and put his hand before his mouth in order to cough in it respectfully if need be. By now it was dark; there was a strong smell of evening dampness, and the moon was on the point of rising. There were only two clouds in the clear starry21 sky exactly over our heads: one big one and one smaller; alone in the sky they were racing22 after one another like mother and child, in the direction where the sunset was glowing.
“What a glorious day!” said Dmitri Petrovitch.
“In the extreme . . .” Forty Martyrs assented23, and he coughed respectfully into his hand. “How was it, Dmitri Petrovitch, you thought to visit these parts?” he asked in an ingratiating voice, evidently anxious to get up a conversation.
Dmitri Petrovitch made no answer. Forty Martyrs heaved a deep sigh and said softly, not looking at us:
“I suffer solely24 through a cause to which I must answer to Almighty25 God. No doubt about it, I am a hopeless and incompetent26 man; but believe me, on my conscience, I am without a crust of bread and worse off than a dog. . . . Forgive me, Dmitri Petrovitch.”
Silin was not listening, but sat musing27 with his head propped28 on his fists. The church stood at the end of the street on the high river-bank, and through the trellis gate of the enclosure we could see the river, the water-meadows on the near side of it, and the crimson29 glare of a camp fire about which black figures of men and horses were moving. And beyond the fire, further away, there were other lights, where there was a little village. They were singing there. On the river, and here and there on the meadows, a mist was rising. High narrow coils of mist, thick and white as milk, were trailing over the river, hiding the reflection of the stars and hovering30 over the willows31. Every minute they changed their form, and it seemed as though some were embracing, others were bowing, others lifting up their arms to heaven with wide sleeves like priests, as though they were praying. . . . Probably they reminded Dmitri Petrovitch of ghosts and of the dead, for he turned facing me and asked with a mournful smile:
“Tell me, my dear fellow, why is it that when we want to tell some terrible, mysterious, and fantastic story, we draw our material, not from life, but invariably from the world of ghosts and of the shadows beyond the grave.”
“We are frightened of what we don’t understand.”
“And do you understand life? Tell me: do you understand life better than the world beyond the grave?”
Dmitri Petrovitch was sitting quite close to me, so that I felt his breath upon my cheek. In the evening twilight32 his pale, lean face seemed paler than ever and his dark beard was black as soot33. His eyes were sad, truthful34, and a little frightened, as though he were about to tell me something horrible. He looked into my eyes and went on in his habitual35 imploring voice:
“Our life and the life beyond the grave are equally incomprehensible and horrible. If any one is afraid of ghosts he ought to be afraid, too, of me, and of those lights and of the sky, seeing that, if you come to reflect, all that is no less fantastic and beyond our grasp than apparitions36 from the other world. Prince Hamlet did not kill himself because he was afraid of the visions that might haunt his dreams after death. I like that famous soliloquy of his, but, to be candid37, it never touched my soul. I will confess to you as a friend that in moments of depression I have sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death. My fancy invented thousands of the gloomiest visions, and I have succeeded in working myself up to an agonizing38 exaltation, to a state of nightmare, and I assure you that that did not seem to me more terrible than reality. What I mean is, apparitions are terrible, but life is terrible, too. I don’t understand life and I am afraid of it, my dear boy; I don’t know. Perhaps I am a morbid39 person, unhinged. It seems to a sound, healthy man that he understands everything he sees and hears, but that ‘seeming’ is lost to me, and from day to day I am poisoning myself with terror. There is a disease, the fear of open spaces, but my disease is the fear of life. When I lie on the grass and watch a little beetle40 which was born yesterday and understands nothing, it seems to me that its life consists of nothing else but fear, and in it I see myself.”
“What is it exactly you are frightened of?” I asked.
“I am afraid of everything. I am not by nature a profound thinker, and I take little interest in such questions as the life beyond the grave, the destiny of humanity, and, in fact, I am rarely carried away to the heights. What chiefly frightens me is the common routine of life from which none of us can escape. I am incapable41 of distinguishing what is true and what is false in my actions, and they worry me. I recognize that education and the conditions of life have imprisoned42 me in a narrow circle of falsity, that my whole life is nothing else than a daily effort to deceive myself and other people, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. To-day I do something and to-morrow I do not understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and took fright; I came here to work on the land, and here, too, I am frightened. . . . I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We are unjust, we slander43 one another and spoil each other’s lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don’t understand why and for whom it is necessary. I don’t understand men, my dear fellow, and I am afraid of them. It frightens me to look at the peasants, and I don’t know for what higher objects they are suffering and what they are living for. If life is an enjoyment44, then they are unnecessary, superfluous45 people; if the object and meaning of life is to be found in poverty and unending, hopeless ignorance, I can’t understand for whom and what this torture is necessary. I understand no one and nothing. Kindly46 try to understand this specimen47, for instance,” said Dmitri Petrovitch, pointing to Forty Martyrs. “Think of him!”
Noticing that we were looking at him, Forty Martyrs coughed deferentially48 into his fist and said:
“I was always a faithful servant with good masters, but the great trouble has been spirituous liquor. If a poor fellow like me were shown consideration and given a place, I would kiss the ikon. My word’s my bond.”
The sexton walked by, looked at us in amazement49, and began pulling the rope. The bell, abruptly50 breaking upon the stillness of the evening, struck ten with a slow and prolonged note.
“It’s ten o’clock, though,” said Dmitri Petrovitch. “It’s time we were going. Yes, my dear fellow,” he sighed, “if only you knew how afraid I am of my ordinary everyday thoughts, in which one would have thought there should be nothing dreadful. To prevent myself thinking I distract my mind with work and try to tire myself out that I may sleep sound at night. Children, a wife—all that seems ordinary with other people; but how that weighs upon me, my dear fellow!”
He rubbed his face with his hands, cleared his throat, and laughed.
“If I could only tell you how I have played the fool in my life!” he said. “They all tell me that I have a sweet wife, charming children, and that I am a good husband and father. They think I am very happy and envy me. But since it has come to that, I will tell you in secret: my happy family life is only a grievous misunderstanding, and I am afraid of it.” His pale face was distorted by a wry52 smile. He put his arm round my waist and went on in an undertone:
“You are my true friend; I believe in you and have a deep respect for you. Heaven gave us friendship that we may open our hearts and escape from the secrets that weigh upon us. Let me take advantage of your friendly feeling for me and tell you the whole truth. My home life, which seems to you so enchanting53, is my chief misery54 and my chief terror. I got married in a strange and stupid way. I must tell you that I was madly in love with Masha before I married her, and was courting her for two years. I asked her to marry me five times, and she refused me because she did not care for me in the least. The sixth, when burning with passion I crawled on my knees before her and implored55 her to take a beggar and marry me, she consented. . . . What she said to me was: ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you. . . .’ I accepted that condition with rapture56. At the time I understood what that meant, but I swear to God I don’t understand it now. ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you.’ What does that mean? It’s a fog, a darkness. I love her now as intensely as I did the day we were married, while she, I believe, is as indifferent as ever, and I believe she is glad when I go away from home. I don’t know for certain whether she cares for me or not —I don’t know, I don’t know; but, as you see, we live under the same roof, call each other ‘thou,’ sleep together, have children, our property is in common. . . . What does it mean, what does it mean? What is the object of it? And do you understand it at all, my dear fellow? It’s cruel torture! Because I don’t understand our relations, I hate, sometimes her, sometimes myself, sometimes both at once. Everything is in a tangle57 in my brain; I torment58 myself and grow stupid. And as though to spite me, she grows more beautiful every day, she is getting more wonderful. . . I fancy her hair is marvellous, and her smile is like no other woman’s. I love her, and I know that my love is hopeless. Hopeless love for a woman by whom one has two children! Is that intelligible59? And isn’t it terrible? Isn’t it more terrible than ghosts?”
He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily we heard the coachman’s voice. Our horses had arrived. We got into the carriage, and Forty Martyrs, taking off his cap, helped us both into the carriage with an expression that suggested that he had long been waiting for an opportunity to come in contact with our precious persons.
“Dmitri Petrovitch, let me come to you,” he said, bClinking furiously and tilting60 his head on one side. “Show divine mercy! I am dying of hunger!”
“Very well,” said Silin. “Come, you shall stay three days, and then we shall see.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Forty Martyrs, overjoyed. “I’ll come today, sir.”
It was a five miles’ drive home. Dmitri Petrovitch, glad that he had at last opened his heart to his friend, kept his arm round my waist all the way; and speaking now, not with bitterness and not with apprehension61, but quite cheerfully, told me that if everything had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to Petersburg and taken up scientific work there. The movement which had driven so many gifted young men into the country was, he said, a deplorable movement. We had plenty of rye and wheat in Russia, but absolutely no cultured people. The strong and gifted among the young ought to take up science, art, and politics; to act otherwise meant being wasteful62. He generalized with pleasure and expressed regret that he would be parting from me early next morning, as he had to go to a sale of timber.
And I felt awkward and depressed63, and it seemed to me that I was deceiving the man. And at the same time it was pleasant to me. I gazed at the immense crimson moon which was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful64, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dressed and fragrant65 with some special scent66, rather like musk67, and for some reason it pleased me to think she did not love her husband.
On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Marya Sergeyevna, laughing, regaled us with our purchases, and I thought that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman’s. I watched her, and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did see it.
Dmitri Petrovitch was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he sat with us for ten minutes and said:
“Do as you please, my friends, but I have to be up at three o’clock tomorrow morning. Excuse my leaving you.”
He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and gratitude68, and made me promise that I would certainly come the following week. That he might not oversleep next morning, he went to spend the night in the lodge69.
Marya Sergeyevna always sat up late, in the Petersburg fashion, and for some reason on this occasion I was glad of it.
“And now,” I began when we were left alone, “and now you’ll be kind and play me something.”
I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the conversation. She sat down to the piano and played, I don’t remember what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and tried to read something on her cold, indifferent face. Then she smiled at something and looked at me.
“You are dull without your friend,” she said.
I laughed.
“It would be enough for friendship to be here once a month, but I turn up oftener than once a week.”
Saying this, I got up and walked from one end of the room to the other. She too got up and walked away to the fireplace.
“What do you mean to say by that?” she said, raising her large, clear eyes and looking at me.
I made no answer.
“What you say is not true,” she went on, after a moment’s thought. “You only come here on account of Dmitri Petrovitch. Well, I am very glad. One does not often see such friendships nowadays.”
“Aha!” I thought, and, not knowing what to say, I asked: “Would you care for a turn in the garden?”
I went out upon the verandah. Nervous shudders70 were running over my head and I felt chilly71 with excitement. I was convinced now that our conversation would be utterly72 trivial, and that there was nothing particular we should be able to say to one another, but that, that night, what I did not dare to dream of was bound to happen—that it was bound to be that night or never.
“What lovely weather!” I said aloud.
“It makes absolutely no difference to me,” she answered.
I went into the drawing-room. Marya Sergeyevna was standing51, as before, near the fireplace, with her hands behind her back, looking away and thinking of something.
“Why does it make no difference to you?” I asked.
“Because I am bored. You are only bored without your friend, but I am always bored. However . . . that is of no interest to you.”
I sat down to the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear what she would say.
“Please don’t stand on ceremony,” she said, looking angrily at me, and she seemed as though on the point of crying with vexation. “If you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Dmitri Petrovitch’s friend, you are not in duty bound to be bored with his wife’s company. I don’t want a sacrifice. Please go.”
I did not, of course, go to bed. She went out on the verandah while I remained in the drawing-room and spent five minutes turning over the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the shadow of the curtains, and below us were the steps bathed in moonlight. The black shadows of the trees stretched across the flower beds and the yellow sand of the paths.
“I shall have to go away tomorrow, too,” I said.
“Of course, if my husband’s not at home you can’t stay here,” she said sarcastically73. “I can imagine how miserable74 you would be if you were in love with me! Wait a bit: one day I shall throw myself on your neck. . . . I shall see with what horror you will run away from me. That would be interesting.”
Her words and her pale face were angry, but her eyes were full of tender passionate75 love. I already looked upon this lovely creature as my property, and then for the first time I noticed that she had golden eyebrows76, exquisite77 eyebrows. I had never seen such eyebrows before. The thought that I might at once press her to my heart, caress78 her, touch her wonderful hair, seemed to me such a miracle that I laughed and shut my eyes.
“It’s bed-time now. . . . A peaceful night,” she said.
“I don’t want a peaceful night,” I said, laughing, following her into the drawing-room. “I shall curse this night if it is a peaceful one.”
Pressing her hand, and escorting her to the door, I saw by her face that she understood me, and was glad that I understood her, too.
I went to my room. Near the books on the table lay Dmitri Petrovitch’s cap, and that reminded me of his affection for me. I took my stick and went out into the garden. The mist had risen here, too, and the same tall, narrow, ghostly shapes which I had seen earlier on the river were trailing round the trees and bushes and wrapping about them. What a pity I could not talk to them!
In the extraordinarily79 transparent80 air, each leaf, each drop of dew stood out distinctly; it was all smiling at me in the stillness half asleep, and as I passed the green seats I recalled the words in some play of Shakespeare’s: “How sweetly falls the moonlight on yon seat!”
There was a mound81 in the garden; I went up it and sat down. I was tormented82 by a delicious feeling. I knew for certain that in a moment I should hold in my arms, should press to my heart her magnificent body, should kiss her golden eyebrows; and I wanted to disbelieve it, to tantalize83 myself, and was sorry that she had cost me so little trouble and had yielded so soon.
But suddenly I heard heavy footsteps. A man of medium height appeared in the avenue, and I recognized him at once as Forty Martyrs. He sat down on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself three times and lay down. A minute later he got up and lay on the other side. The gnats84 and the dampness of the night prevented his sleeping.
“Oh, life!” he said. “Wretched, bitter life!”
Looking at his bent85, wasted body and hearing his heavy, noisy sighs, I thought of an unhappy, bitter life of which the confession86 had been made to me that day, and I felt uneasy and frightened at my blissful mood. I came down the knoll87 and went to the house.
“Life, as he thinks, is terrible,” I thought, “so don’t stand on ceremony with it, bend it to your will, and until it crushes you, snatch all you can wring88 from it.”
Marya Sergeyevna was standing on the verandah. I put my arms round her without a word, and began greedily kissing her eyebrows, her temples, her neck. . . .
In my room she told me she had loved me for a long time, more than a year. She vowed89 eternal love, cried and begged me to take her away with me. I repeatedly took her to the window to look at her face in the moonlight, and she seemed to me a lovely dream, and I made haste to hold her tight to convince myself of the truth of it. It was long since I had known such raptures90. . . . Yet somewhere far away at the bottom of my heart I felt an awkwardness, and I was ill at ease. In her love for me there was something incongruous and burdensome, just as in Dmitri Petrovitch’s friendship. It was a great, serious passion with tears and vows91, and I wanted nothing serious in it—no tears, no vows, no talk of the future. Let that moonlight night flash through our lives like a meteor and—basta!
At three o’clock she went out of my room, and, while I was standing in the doorway92, looking after her, at the end of the corridor Dmitri Petrovitch suddenly made his appearance; she started and stood aside to let him pass, and her whole figure was expressive93 of repulsion. He gave a strange smile, coughed, and came into my room.
“I forgot my cap here yesterday,” he said without looking at me.
He found it and, holding it in both hands, put it on his head; then he looked at my confused face, at my slippers94, and said in a strange, husky voice unlike his own:
“I suppose it must be my fate that I should understand nothing. . . . If you understand anything, I congratulate you. It’s all darkness before my eyes.”
And he went out, clearing his throat. Afterwards from the window I saw him by the stable, harnessing the horses with his own hands. His hands were trembling, he was in nervous haste and kept looking round at the house; probably he was feeling terror. Then he got into the gig, and, with a strange expression as though afraid of being pursued, lashed95 the horses.
Shortly afterwards I set off, too. The sun was already rising, and the mist of the previous day clung timidly to the bushes and the hillocks. On the box of the carriage was sitting Forty Martyrs; he had already succeeded in getting drunk and was muttering tipsy nonsense.
“I am a free man,” he shouted to the horses. “Ah, my honeys, I am a nobleman in my own right, if you care to know!”
The terror of Dmitri Petrovitch, the thought of whom I could not get out of my head, infected me. I thought of what had happened and could make nothing of it. I looked at the rooks, and it seemed so strange and terrible that they were flying.
“Why have I done this?” I kept asking myself in bewilderment and despair. “Why has it turned out like this and not differently? To whom and for what was it necessary that she should love me in earnest, and that he should come into my room to fetch his cap? What had a cap to do with it?”
I set off for Petersburg that day, and I have not seen Dmitri Petrovitch nor his wife since. I am told that they are still living together.
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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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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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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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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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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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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41
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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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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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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71
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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76
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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77
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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80
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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81
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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82
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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83
tantalize
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| vt.使干着急，逗弄 | |
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84
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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87
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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88
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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91
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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