The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could see the trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was lighted by the stars, which were scattered9 thickly all over the sky. I don’t remember ever seeing so many stars. Literally10 one could not have put a finger in between them. There were some as big as a goose’s egg, others tiny as hempseed. . . . They had come out for the festival procession, every one of them, little and big, washed, renewed and joyful11, and everyone of them was softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water; the stars were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the quivering eddies12. The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, far away on the further bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright red lights were gleaming. . . .
A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette13 of a peasant in a high hat, with a thick knotted stick in his hand.
“How long the ferry-boat is in coming!” I said.
“It is time it was here,” the silhouette answered.
“You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?”
“No I am not,” yawned the peasant—“I am waiting for the illumination. I should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I haven’t the five kopecks for the ferry.”
“I’ll give you the five kopecks.”
“No; I humbly14 thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle for me over there in the monastery15. . . . That will be more interesting, and I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had sunk in the water!”
The peasant went up to the water’s edge, took the rope in his hands, and shouted; “Ieronim! Ieron—im!”
As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal16 of a great bell floated across from the further bank. The note was deep and low, as from the thickest string of a double bass17; it seemed as though the darkness itself had hoarsely18 uttered it. At once there was the sound of a cannon19 shot. It rolled away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the far distance behind me. The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself.
‘“Christ is risen,” he said.
Before the vibrations20 of the first peal of the bell had time to die away in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third, and the darkness was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh lights flashed, and all began moving together and twinkling restlessly.
“Ieron—im!” we heard a hollow prolonged shout.
“They are shouting from the other bank,” said the peasant, “so there is no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep.”
The lights and the velvety21 chimes of the bell drew one towards them. . . . I was already beginning to lose patience and grow anxious, but behold23 at last, staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of something very much like a gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It moved towards us with such deliberation that if it had not been that its lines grew gradually more definite, one might have supposed that it was standing still or moving to the other bank.
“Make haste! Ieronim!” shouted my peasant. “The gentleman’s tired of waiting!”
The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch24 and stopped with a creak. A tall man in a monk25’s cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the rope.
“Why have you been so long?” I asked jumping upon the ferry.
“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake,” Ieronim answered gently. “Is there no one else?”
“No one. . . .”
Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, bent26 himself to the figure of a mark of interrogation, and gasped27. The ferry-boat creaked and gave a lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat began slowly retreating from me—so the ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew himself up and began working with one hand only. We were silent, gazing towards the bank to which we were floating. There the illumination for which the peasant was waiting had begun. At the water’s edge barrels of tar8 were flaring28 like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson29 as the rising moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks30. The burning barrels lighted up their own smoke and the long shadows of men flitting about the fire; but further to one side and behind them from where the velvety chime floated there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All at once, cleaving31 the darkness, a rocket zigzagged32 in a golden ribbon up the sky; it described an arc and, as though broken to pieces against the sky, was scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank like a far-away hurrah33.
“How beautiful!” I said.
“Beautiful beyond words!” sighed Ieronim. “Such a night, sir! Another time one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one rejoices in every vanity. Where do you come from?”
I told him where I came from.
“To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . .” Ieronim went on in a weak sighing tenor34 like the voice of a convalescent. “The sky is rejoicing and the earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even in the time of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows?”
I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one of those endless religious conversations which bored and idle monks35 are so fond of. I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only asked:
“What sorrows have you, father?”
“As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a special sorrow has happened in the monastery: at mass, during the reading of the Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died.”
“Well, it’s God’s will!” I said, falling into the monastic tone. “We must all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . . They say if anyone dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom of heaven.”
“That’s true.”
We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat melted into the lines of the bank. The tar barrels were flaring up more and more.
“The Holy Scripture36 points clearly to the vanity of sorrow and so does reflection,” said Ieronim, breaking the silence, “but why does the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want to weep bitterly?”
Ieronim shrugged37 his shoulders, turned to me and said quickly:
“If I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth notice perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it’s hard to believe that he is no more! I stand here on my ferry-boat and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift up his voice from the bank. He always used to come to the bank and call to me that I might not be afraid on the ferry. He used to get up from his bed at night on purpose for that. He was a kind soul. My God! how kindly38 and gracious! Many a mother is not so good to her child as Nikolay was to me! Lord, save his soul!”
Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me again at once.
“And such a lofty intelligence, your honour,” he said in a vibrating voice. “Such a sweet and harmonious39 tongue! Just as they will sing immediately at early matins: ‘Oh lovely! oh sweet is Thy Voice!’ Besides all other human qualities, he had, too, an extraordinary gift!”
“What gift?” I asked.
The monk scrutinized40 me, and as though he had convinced himself that he could trust me with a secret, he laughed good-humouredly.
“He had a gift for writing hymns41 of praise,” he said. “It was a marvel43, sir; you couldn’t call it anything else! You would be amazed if I tell you about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes from Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior studied at the Kazan academy, we have wise monks and elders, but, would you believe it, no one could write them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, a deacon, had not studied anywhere, and had not even any outer appearance of it, but he wrote them! A marvel! A real marvel!” Ieronim clasped his hands and, completely forgetting the rope, went on eagerly:
“The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in composing sermons; when he wrote the history of the monastery he worried all the brotherhood44 and drove a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote canticles! Hymns of praise! That’s a very different thing from a sermon or a history!”
“Is it difficult to write them?” I asked.
“There’s great difficulty!” Ieronim wagged his head. “You can do nothing by wisdom and holiness if God has not given you the gift. The monks who don’t understand argue that you only need to know the life of the saint for whom you are writing the hymn42, and to make it harmonize with the other hymns of praise. But that’s a mistake, sir. Of course, anyone who writes canticles must know the life of the saint to perfection, to the least trivial detail. To be sure, one must make them harmonize with the other canticles and know where to begin and what to write about. To give you an instance, the first response begins everywhere with ‘the chosen’ or ‘the elect.’ . . . The first line must always begin with the ‘angel.’ In the canticle of praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested in the subject, it begins like this: ‘Of angels Creator and Lord of all powers!’ In the canticle to the Holy Mother of God: ‘Of angels the foremost sent down from on high,’ to Nikolay, the Wonder-worker— ‘An angel in semblance45, though in substance a man,’ and so on. Everywhere you begin with the angel. Of course, it would be impossible without making them harmonize, but the lives of the saints and conformity46 with the others is not what matters; what matters is the beauty and sweetness of it. Everything must be harmonious, brief and complete. There must be in every line softness, graciousness and tenderness; not one word should be harsh or rough or unsuitable. It must be written so that the worshipper may rejoice at heart and weep, while his mind is stirred and he is thrown into a tremor47. In the canticle to the Holy Mother are the words: ‘Rejoice, O Thou too high for human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep for angels’ eyes to fathom48!’ In another place in the same canticle: ‘Rejoice, O tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is the food of the faithful! Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading shade, under which there is shelter for multitudes!’”
Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though frightened at something or overcome with shame, and shook his head.
“Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . tree of gracious spreading shade. . . .” he muttered. “To think that a man should find words like those! Such a power is a gift from God! For brevity he packs many thoughts into one phrase, and how smooth and complete it all is! ‘Light-radiating torch to all that be . . .’ comes in the canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet. ‘Light-radiating!’ There is no such word in conversation or in books, but you see he invented it, he found it in his mind! Apart from the smoothness and grandeur50 of language, sir, every line must be beautified in every way, there must be flowers and lightning and wind and sun and all the objects of the visible world. And every exclamation51 ought to be put so as to be smooth and easy for the ear. ‘Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly growth!’ comes in the hymn to Nikolay the Wonder-worker. It’s not simply ‘heavenly flower,’ but ‘flower of heavenly growth.’ It’s smoother so and sweet to the ear. That was just as Nikolay wrote it! Exactly like that! I can’t tell you how he used to write!”
“Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead,” I said; “but let us get on, father, or we shall be late.”
Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they were beginning to peal all the bells. Probably the procession was already going on near the monastery, for all the dark space behind the tar barrels was now dotted with moving lights.
“Did Nikolay print his hymns?” I asked Ieronim.
“How could he print them?” he sighed. “And indeed, it would be strange to print them. What would be the object? No one in the monastery takes any interest in them. They don’t like them. They knew Nikolay wrote them, but they let it pass unnoticed. No one esteems52 new writings nowadays, sir!”
“Were they prejudiced against him?”
“Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder perhaps the brethren would have been interested, but he wasn’t forty, you know. There were some who laughed and even thought his writing a sin.”
“What did he write them for?”
“Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the only one who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that no one else might know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressing53 words as to a little child. He would shut his cell, make me sit down beside him, and begin to read. . . .”
Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.
“We were dear friends in a way,” he whispered, looking at me with shining eyes. “Where he went I would go. If I were not there he would miss me. And he cared more for me than for anyone, and all because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes me sad to remember. Now I feel just like an orphan54 or a widow. You know, in our monastery they are all good people, kind and pious55, but . . . there is no one with softness and refinement56, they are just like peasants. They all speak loudly, and tramp heavily when they walk; they are noisy, they clear their throats, but Nikolay always talked softly, caressingly57, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying he would slip by like a fly or a gnat58. His face was tender, compassionate59. . . .”
Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We were by now approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the darkness and stillness of the river into an enchanted60 realm, full of stifling61 smoke, crackling lights and uproar62. By now one could distinctly see people moving near the tar barrels. The flickering63 of the lights gave a strange, almost fantastic, expression to their figures and red faces. From time to time one caught among the heads and faces a glimpse of a horse’s head motionless as though cast in copper64.
“They’ll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, . . .” said Ieronim, “and Nikolay is gone; there is no one to appreciate it. . . . There was nothing written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to take in every word! You’ll be there, sir, so notice what is sung; it takes your breath away!”
“Won’t you be in church, then?”
“I can’t; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . .”
“But won’t they relieve you?”
“I don’t know. . . . I ought to have been relieved at eight; but, as you see, they don’t come! . . . And I must own I should have liked to be in the church. . . .”
“Are you a monk?”
“Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother.”
The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck piece into Ieronim’s hand for taking me across and jumped on land. Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping woman in it drove creaking onto the ferry. Ieronim, with a faint glow from the lights on his figure, pressed on the rope, bent down to it, and started the ferry back. . . .
I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther walked on a soft freshly trodden path. This path led to the dark monastery gates, that looked like a cavern65 through a cloud of smoke, through a disorderly crowd of people, unharnessed horses, carts and chaises. All this crowd was rattling66, snorting, laughing, and the crimson light and wavering shadows from the smoke flickered67 over it all . . . . A perfect chaos68! And in this hubbub69 the people yet found room to load a little cannon and to sell cakes. There was no less commotion70 on the other side of the wall in the monastery precincts, but there was more regard for decorum and order. Here there was a smell of juniper and incense71. They talked loudly, but there was no sound of laughter or snorting. Near the tombstones and crosses people pressed close to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their arms. Apparently72 many had come from a long distance for their cakes to be blessed and now were exhausted73. Young lay brothers, making a metallic74 sound with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabs75 that paved the way from the monastery gates to the church door. They were busy and shouting on the belfry, too.
“What a restless night!” I thought. “How nice!”
One was tempted76 to see the same unrest and sleeplessness77 in all nature, from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses on the tombs and the trees under which the people were moving to and fro. But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so marked as in the church. An unceasing struggle was going on in the entrance between the inflowing stream and the outflowing stream. Some were going in, others going out and soon coming back again to stand still for a little and begin moving again. People were scurrying78 from place to place, lounging about as though they were looking for something. The stream flowed from the entrance all round the church, disturbing even the front rows, where persons of weight and dignity were standing. There could be no thought of concentrated prayer. There were no prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext79 to break out and vent49 itself in some movement, even in senseless jostling and shoving.
The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service itself. The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of incense float in the air near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are lights, the gleam and splutter of candles. . . . There is no reading; restless and lighthearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing. After each hymn the clergy80 change their vestments and come out to burn the incense, which is repeated every ten minutes.
I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front and forced me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me with a long red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre hurried after him with the censer. When they had vanished from sight the crowd squeezed me back to my former position. But ten minutes had not passed before a new wave burst on me, and again the deacon appeared. This time he was followed by the Father Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim had told me, was writing the history of the monastery.
As I mingled81 with the crowd and caught the infection of the universal joyful excitement, I felt unbearably82 sore on Ieronim’s account. Why did they not send someone to relieve him? Why could not someone of less feeling and less susceptibility go on the ferry? ‘Lift up thine eyes, O Sion, and look around,’ they sang in the choir83, ‘for thy children have come to thee as to a beacon84 of divine light from north and south, and from east and from the sea. . . .’
I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expression of triumph, but not one was listening to what was being sung and taking it in, and not one was ‘holding his breath.’ Why was not Ieronim released? I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly85 somewhere by the wall, bending forward and hungrily drinking in the beauty of the holy phrase. All this that glided86 by the ears of the people standing by me he would have eagerly drunk in with his delicately sensitive soul, and would have been spell-bound to ecstasy87, to holding his breath, and there would not have been a man happier than he in all the church. Now he was plying88 to and fro over the dark river and grieving for his dead friend and brother.
The wave surged back. A stout89 smiling monk, playing with his rosary and looking round behind him, squeezed sideways by me, making way for a lady in a hat and velvet22 cloak. A monastery servant hurried after the lady, holding a chair over our heads.
I came out of the church. I wanted to have a look at the dead Nikolay, the unknown canticle writer. I walked about the monastery wall, where there was a row of cells, peeped into several windows, and, seeing nothing, came back again. I do not regret now that I did not see Nikolay; God knows, perhaps if I had seen him I should have lost the picture my imagination paints for me now. I imagine the lovable poetical90 figure solitary and not understood, who went out at nights to call to Ieronim over the water, and filled his hymns with flowers, stars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man with soft mild melancholy91 features. His eyes must have shone, not only with intelligence, but with kindly tenderness and that hardly restrained childlike enthusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim’s voice when he quoted to me passages from the hymns.
When we came out of church after mass it was no longer night. The morning was beginning. The stars had gone out and the sky was a morose92 greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and the buds on the trees were covered with dew There was a sharp freshness in the air. Outside the precincts I did not find the same animated93 scene as I had beheld94 in the night. Horses and men looked exhausted, drowsy95, scarcely moved, while nothing was left of the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. When anyone is exhausted and sleepy he fancies that nature, too, is in the same condition. It seemed to me that the trees and the young grass were asleep. It seemed as though even the bells were not pealing96 so loudly and gaily97 as at night. The restlessness was over, and of the excitement nothing was left but a pleasant weariness, a longing98 for sleep and warmth.
Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint mist hovered99 over it in shifting masses. There was a harsh cold breath from the water. When I jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two dozen men and women were standing on it already. The rope, wet and as I fancied drowsy, stretched far away across the broad river and in places disappeared in the white mist.
“Christ is risen! Is there no one else?” asked a soft voice.
I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no darkness now to hinder me from seeing the monk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered man of five-and-thirty, with large rounded features, with half-closed listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped beard. He had an extraordinarily100 sad and exhausted look.
“They have not relieved you yet?” I asked in surprise.
“Me?” he answered, turning to me his chilled and dewy face with a smile. “There is no one to take my place now till morning. They’ll all be going to the Father Archimandrite’s to break the fast directly.”
With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish fur that looked like the little wooden tubs in which honey is sold, he threw his weight on the rope; they gasped simultaneously101, and the ferry started.
We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily rising mist. Everyone was silent. Ieronim worked mechanically with one hand. He slowly passed his mild lustreless102 eyes over us; then his glance rested on the rosy103 face of a young merchant’s wife with black eyebrows104, who was standing on the ferry beside me silently shrinking from the mist that wrapped her about. He did not take his eyes off her face all the way.
There was little that was masculine in that prolonged gaze. It seemed to me that Ieronim was looking in the woman’s face for the soft and tender features of his dead friend.
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1
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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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5
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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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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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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31
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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34
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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37
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
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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39
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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40
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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41
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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42
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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43
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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44
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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45
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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46
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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47
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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48
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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49
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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50
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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51
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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52
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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53
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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54
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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55
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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56
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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57
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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58
gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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59
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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60
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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62
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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63
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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64
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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65
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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66
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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67
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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69
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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70
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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71
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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74
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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75
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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76
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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77
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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78
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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79
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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80
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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81
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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82
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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83
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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84
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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85
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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86
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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87
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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88
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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90
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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91
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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92
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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93
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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94
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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95
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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96
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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97
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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98
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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99
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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100
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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101
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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102
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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103
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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104
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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