Kukin, who roomed in the wing of the same house, was standing5 in the yard looking up at the sky. He was the manager of the Tivoli, an open-air theatre.
“Again,” he said despairingly. “Rain again. Rain, rain, rain! Every day rain! As though to spite me. I might as well stick my head into a noose6 and be done with it. It’s ruining me. Heavy losses every day!” He wrung7 his hands, and continued, addressing Olenka: “What a life, Olga Semyonovna! It’s enough to make a man weep. He works, he does his best, his very best, he tortures himself, he passes sleepless8 nights, he thinks and thinks and thinks how to do everything just right. And what’s the result? He gives the public the best operetta, the very best pantomime, excellent artists. But do they want it? Have they the least appreciation9 of it? The public is rude. The public is a great boor10. The public wants a circus, a lot of nonsense, a lot of stuff. And there’s the weather. Look! Rain almost every evening. It began to rain on the tenth of May, and it’s kept it up through the whole of June. It’s simply awful. I can’t get any audiences, and don’t I have to pay rent? Don’t I have to pay the actors?”
The next day towards evening the clouds gathered again, and Kukin said with an hysterical11 laugh:
“Oh, I don’t care. Let it do its worst. Let it drown the whole theatre, and me, too. All right, no luck for me in this world or the next. Let the actors bring suit against me and drag me to court. What’s the court? Why not Siberia at hard labour, or even the scaffold? Ha, ha, ha!”
It was the same on the third day.
Olenka listened to Kukin seriously, in silence. Sometimes tears would rise to her eyes. At last Kukin’s misfortune touched her. She fell in love with him. He was short, gaunt, with a yellow face, and curly hair combed back from his forehead, and a thin tenor12 voice. His features puckered13 all up when he spoke14. Despair was ever inscribed15 on his face. And yet he awakened16 in Olenka a sincere, deep feeling.
She was always loving somebody. She couldn’t get on without loving somebody. She had loved her sick father, who sat the whole time in his armchair in a darkened room, breathing heavily. She had loved her aunt, who came from Brianska once or twice a year to visit them. And before that, when a pupil at the progymnasium, she had loved her French teacher. She was a quiet, kind-hearted, compassionate17 girl, with a soft gentle way about her. And she made a very healthy, wholesome18 impression. Looking at her full, rosy19 cheeks, at her soft white neck with the black mole20, and at the good na?ve smile that always played on her face when something pleasant was said, the men would think, “Not so bad,” and would smile too; and the lady visitors, in the middle of the conversation, would suddenly grasp her hand and exclaim, “You darling!” in a burst of delight.
The house, hers by inheritance, in which she had lived from birth, was located at the outskirts21 of the city on the Gypsy Road, not far from the Tivoli. From early evening till late at night she could hear the music in the theatre and the bursting of the rockets; and it seemed to her that Kukin was roaring and battling with his fate and taking his chief enemy, the indifferent public, by assault. Her heart melted softly, she felt no desire to sleep, and when Kukin returned home towards morning, she tapped on her window-pane, and through the curtains he saw her face and one shoulder and the kind smile she gave him.
He proposed to her, and they were married. And when he had a good look of her neck and her full vigorous shoulders, he clapped his hands and said:
“You darling!”
He was happy. But it rained on their wedding-day, and the expression of despair never left his face.
They got along well together. She sat in the cashier’s box, kept the theatre in order, wrote down the expenses, and paid out the salaries. Her rosy cheeks, her kind na?ve smile, like a halo around her face, could be seen at the cashier’s window, behind the scenes, and in the café. She began to tell her friends that the theatre was the greatest, the most important, the most essential thing in the world, that it was the only place to obtain true enjoyment22 in and become humanised and educated.
“But do you suppose the public appreciates it?” she asked. “What the public wants is the circus. Yesterday Vanichka and I gave Faust Burlesqued23, and almost all the boxes were empty. If we had given some silly nonsense, I assure you, the theatre would have been overcrowded. To-morrow we’ll put Orpheus in Hades on. Do come.”
Whatever Kukin said about the theatre and the actors, she repeated. She spoke, as he did, with contempt of the public, of its indifference24 to art, of its boorishness25. She meddled26 in the rehearsals27, corrected the actors, watched the conduct of the musicians; and when an unfavourable criticism appeared in the local paper, she wept and went to the editor to argue with him.
The actors were fond of her and called her “Vanichka and I” and “the darling.” She was sorry for them and lent them small sums. When they bilked her, she never complained to her husband; at the utmost she shed a few tears.
In winter, too, they got along nicely together. They leased a theatre in the town for the whole winter and sublet28 it for short periods to a Little Russian theatrical29 company, to a conjuror30 and to the local amateur players.
Olenka grew fuller and was always beaming with contentment; while Kukin grew thinner and yellower and complained of his terrible losses, though he did fairly well the whole winter. At night he coughed, and she gave him raspberry syrup31 and lime water, rubbed him with eau de Cologne, and wrapped him up in soft coverings.
“You are my precious sweet,” she said with perfect sincerity32, stroking his hair. “You are such a dear.”
At Lent he went to Moscow to get his company together, and, while without him, Olenka was unable to sleep. She sat at the window the whole time, gazing at the stars. She likened herself to the hens that are also uneasy and unable to sleep when their rooster is out of the coop. Kukin was detained in Moscow. He wrote he would be back during Easter Week, and in his letters discussed arrangements already for the Tivoli. But late one night, before Easter Monday, there was an ill-omened knocking at the wicket-gate. It was like a knocking on a barrel—boom, boom, boom! The sleepy cook ran barefooted, plashing through the puddles33, to open the gate.
“Open the gate, please,” said some one in a hollow bass34 voice. “I have a telegram for you.”
Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before; but this time, somehow, she was numbed35 with terror. She opened the telegram with trembling hands and read:
“Ivan Petrovich died suddenly to-day. Awaiting propt orders for wuneral Tuesday.”
That was the way the telegram was written—“wuneral”—and another unintelligible36 word—“propt.” The telegram was signed by the manager of the opera company.
“My dearest!” Olenka burst out sobbing37. “Vanichka, my dearest, my sweetheart. Why did I ever meet you? Why did I ever get to know you and love you? To whom have you abandoned your poor Olenka, your poor, unhappy Olenka?”
Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankov Cemetery38 in Moscow. Olenka returned home on Wednesday; and as soon as she entered her house she threw herself on her bed and broke into such loud sobbing that she could be heard in the street and in the neighbouring yards.
“The darling!” said the neighbours, crossing themselves. “How Olga Semyonovna, the poor darling, is grieving!”
Three months afterwards Olenka was returning home from mass, downhearted and in deep mourning. Beside her walked a man also returning from church, Vasily Pustovalov, the manager of the merchant Babakayev’s lumber39-yard. He was wearing a straw hat, a white vest with a gold chain, and looked more like a landowner than a business man.
“Everything has its ordained40 course, Olga Semyonovna,” he said sedately42, with sympathy in his voice. “And if any one near and dear to us dies, then it means it was God’s will and we should remember that and bear it with submission43.”
He took her to the wicket-gate, said good-bye and went away. After that she heard his sedate41 voice the whole day; and on closing her eyes she instantly had a vision of his dark beard. She took a great liking44 to him. And evidently he had been impressed by her, too; for, not long after, an elderly woman, a distant acquaintance, came in to have a cup of coffee with her. As soon as the woman was seated at table she began to speak about Pustovalov—how good he was, what a steady man, and any woman could be glad to get him as a husband. Three days later Pustovalov himself paid Olenka a visit. He stayed only about ten minutes, and spoke little, but Olenka fell in love with him, fell in love so desperately45 that she did not sleep the whole night and burned as with fever. In the morning she sent for the elderly woman. Soon after, Olenka and Pustovalov were engaged, and the wedding followed.
Pustovalov and Olenka lived happily together. He usually stayed in the lumber-yard until dinner, then went out on business. In his absence Olenka took his place in the office until evening, attending to the book-keeping and despatching the orders.
“Lumber rises twenty per cent every year nowadays,” she told her customers and acquaintances. “Imagine, we used to buy wood from our forests here. Now Vasichka has to go every year to the government of Mogilev to get wood. And what a tax!” she exclaimed, covering her cheeks with her hands in terror. “What a tax!”
She felt as if she had been dealing47 in lumber for ever so long, that the most important and essential thing in life was lumber. There was something touching48 and endearing in the way she pronounced the words, “beam,” “joist,” “plank,” “stave,” “lath,” “gun-carriage,” “clamp.” At night she dreamed of whole mountains of boards and planks49, long, endless rows of wagons51 conveying the wood somewhere, far, far from the city. She dreamed that a whole regiment52 of beams, 36 ft. x 5 in., were advancing in an upright position to do battle against the lumber-yard; that the beams and joists and clamps were knocking against each other, emitting the sharp crackling reports of dry wood, that they were all falling and then rising again, piling on top of each other. Olenka cried out in her sleep, and Pustovalov said to her gently:
“Olenka my dear, what is the matter? Cross yourself.”
Her husband’s opinions were all hers. If he thought the room was too hot, she thought so too. If he thought business was dull, she thought business was dull. Pustovalov was not fond of amusements and stayed home on holidays; she did the same.
“You are always either at home or in the office,” said her friends. “Why don’t you go to the theatre or to the circus, darling?”
“Vasichka and I never go to the theatre,” she answered sedately. “We have work to do, we have no time for nonsense. What does one get out of going to theatre?”
On Saturdays she and Pustovalov went to vespers, and on holidays to early mass. On returning home they walked side by side with rapt faces, an agreeable smell emanating53 from both of them and her silk dress rustling54 pleasantly. At home they drank tea with milk-bread and various jams, and then ate pie. Every day at noontime there was an appetising odour in the yard and outside the gate of cabbage soup, roast mutton, or duck; and, on fast days, of fish. You couldn’t pass the gate without being seized by an acute desire to eat. The samovar was always boiling on the office table, and customers were treated to tea and biscuits. Once a week the married couple went to the baths and returned with red faces, walking side by side.
“We are getting along very well, thank God,” said Olenka to her friends. “God grant that all should live as well as Vasichka and I.”
When Pustovalov went to the government of Mogilev to buy wood, she was dreadfully homesick for him, did not sleep nights, and cried. Sometimes the veterinary surgeon of the regiment, Smirnov, a young man who lodged55 in the wing of her house, came to see her evenings. He related incidents, or they played cards together. This distracted her. The most interesting of his stories were those of his own life. He was married and had a son; but he had separated from his wife because she had deceived him, and now he hated her and sent her forty rubles a month for his son’s support. Olenka sighed, shook her head, and was sorry for him.
“Well, the Lord keep you,” she said, as she saw him off to the door by candlelight. “Thank you for coming to kill time with me. May God give you health. Mother in Heaven!” She spoke very sedately, very judiciously57, imitating her husband. The veterinary surgeon had disappeared behind the door when she called out after him: “Do you know, Vladimir Platonych, you ought to make up with your wife. Forgive her, if only for the sake of your son. The child understands everything, you may be sure.”
When Pustovalov returned, she told him in a low voice about the veterinary surgeon and his unhappy family life; and they sighed and shook their heads, and talked about the boy who must be homesick for his father. Then, by a strange association of ideas, they both stopped before the sacred images, made genuflections, and prayed to God to send them children.
And so the Pustovalovs lived for full six years, quietly and peaceably, in perfect love and harmony. But once in the winter Vasily Andreyich, after drinking some hot tea, went out into the lumber-yard without a hat on his head, caught a cold and took sick. He was treated by the best physicians, but the malady58 progressed, and he died after an illness of four months. Olenka was again left a widow.
“To whom have you left me, my darling?” she wailed59 after the funeral. “How shall I live now without you, wretched creature that I am. Pity me, good people, pity me, fatherless and motherless, all alone in the world!”
She went about dressed in black and weepers, and she gave up wearing hats and gloves for good. She hardly left the house except to go to church and to visit her husband’s grave. She almost led the life of a nun60.
It was not until six months had passed that she took off the weepers and opened her shutters61. She began to go out occasionally in the morning to market with her cook. But how she lived at home and what went on there, could only be surmised62. It could be surmised from the fact that she was seen in her little garden drinking tea with the veterinarian while he read the paper out loud to her, and also from the fact that once on meeting an acquaintance at the post-office, she said to her:
“There is no proper veterinary inspection63 in our town. That is why there is so much disease. You constantly hear of people getting sick from the milk and becoming infected by the horses and cows. The health of domestic animals ought really to be looked after as much as that of human beings.”
She repeated the veterinarian’s words and held the same opinions as he about everything. It was plain that she could not exist a single year without an attachment64, and she found her new happiness in the wing of her house. In any one else this would have been condemned65; but no one could think ill of Olenka. Everything in her life was so transparent66. She and the veterinary surgeon never spoke about the change in their relations. They tried, in fact, to conceal67 it, but unsuccessfully; for Olenka could have no secrets. When the surgeon’s colleagues from the regiment came to see him, she poured tea, and served the supper, and talked to them about the cattle plague, the foot and mouth disease, and the municipal slaughter68 houses. The surgeon was dreadfully embarrassed, and after the visitors had left, he caught her hand and hissed69 angrily:
“Didn’t I ask you not to talk about what you don’t understand? When we doctors discuss things, please don’t mix in. It’s getting to be a nuisance.”
She looked at him in astonishment70 and alarm, and asked:
“But, Volodichka, what am I to talk about?”
And she threw her arms round his neck, with tears in her eyes, and begged him not to be angry. And they were both happy.
But their happiness was of short duration. The veterinary surgeon went away with his regiment to be gone for good, when it was transferred to some distant place almost as far as Siberia, and Olenka was left alone.
Now she was completely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his armchair lay in the attic71 covered with dust and minus one leg. She got thin and homely72, and the people who met her on the street no longer looked at her as they had used to, nor smiled at her. Evidently her best years were over, past and gone, and a new, dubious73 life was to begin which it were better not to think about.
In the evening Olenka sat on the steps and heard the music playing and the rockets bursting in the Tivoli; but it no longer aroused any response in her. She looked listlessly into the yard, thought of nothing, wanted nothing, and when night came on, she went to bed and dreamed of nothing but the empty yard. She ate and drank as though by compulsion.
And what was worst of all, she no longer held any opinions. She saw and understood everything that went on around her, but she could not form an opinion about it. She knew of nothing to talk about. And how dreadful not to have opinions! For instance, you see a bottle, or you see that it is raining, or you see a muzhik riding by in a wagon50. But what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik are for, or what the sense of them all is, you cannot tell—you cannot tell, not for a thousand rubles. In the days of Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary surgeon, Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would have given her opinion freely no matter about what. But now there was the same emptiness in her heart and brain as in her yard. It was as galling74 and bitter as a taste of wormwood.
Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy Road had become a street, and where the Tivoli and the lumber-yard had been, there were now houses and a row of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka’s house turned gloomy, the roof rusty75, the shed slanting76. Dock and thistles overgrew the yard. Olenka herself had aged46 and grown homely. In the summer she sat on the steps, and her soul was empty and dreary77 and bitter. When she caught the breath of spring, or when the wind wafted78 the chime of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories would pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, and the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that lasted only a moment. Then would come emptiness again, and the feeling, What is the use of living? The black kitten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred softly, but the little creature’s caresses79 left Olenka untouched. That was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that would absorb her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, that would give her ideas, an object in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she shook the black kitten off her skirt angrily, saying:
“Go away! What are you doing here?”
And so day after day, year after year not a single joy, not a single opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was all right.
One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle were being driven by, and the whole yard was filled with clouds of dust, there was suddenly a knocking at the gate. Olenka herself went to open it, and was dumbfounded to behold80 the veterinarian Smirnov. He had turned grey and was dressed as a civilian81. All the old memories flooded into her soul, she could not restrain herself, she burst out crying, and laid her head on Smirnov’s breast without saying a word. So overcome was she that she was totally unconscious of how they walked into the house and seated themselves to drink tea.
“My darling!” she murmured, trembling with joy. “Vladimir Platonych, from where has God sent you?”
“I want to settle here for good,” he told her. “I have resigned my position and have come here to try my fortune as a free man and lead a settled life. Besides, it’s time to send my boy to the gymnasium. He is grown up now. You know, my wife and I have become reconciled.”
“Where is she?” asked Olenka.
“At the hotel with the boy. I am looking for lodgings82.”
“Good gracious, bless you, take my house. Why won’t my house do? Oh, dear! Why, I won’t ask any rent of you,” Olenka burst out in the greatest excitement, and began to cry again. “You live here, and the wing will be enough for me. Oh, Heavens, what a joy!”
The very next day the roof was being painted and the walls whitewashed83, and Olenka, arms akimbo, was going about the yard superintending. Her face brightened with her old smile. Her whole being revived and freshened, as though she had awakened from a long sleep. The veterinarian’s wife and child arrived. She was a thin, plain woman, with a crabbed84 expression. The boy Sasha, small for his ten years of age, was a chubby85 child, with clear blue eyes and dimples in his cheeks. He made for the kitten the instant he entered the yard, and the place rang with his happy laughter.
“Is that your cat, auntie?” he asked Olenka. “When she has little kitties, please give me one. Mamma is awfully86 afraid of mice.”
Olenka chatted with him, gave him tea, and there was a sudden warmth in her bosom87 and a soft gripping at her heart, as though the boy were her own son.
In the evening, when he sat in the dining-room studying his lessons, she looked at him tenderly and whispered to herself:
“My darling, my pretty. You are such a clever child, so good to look at.”
“An island is a tract56 of land entirely88 surrounded by water,” he recited.
“An island is a tract of land,” she repeated—the first idea asseverated89 with conviction after so many years of silence and mental emptiness.
She now had her opinions, and at supper discussed with Sasha’s parents how difficult the studies had become for the children at the gymnasium, but how, after all, a classical education was better than a commercial course, because when you graduated from the gymnasium then the road was open to you for any career at all. If you chose to, you could become a doctor, or, if you wanted to, you could become an engineer.
Sasha began to go to the gymnasium. His mother left on a visit to her sister in Kharkov and never came back. The father was away every day inspecting cattle, and sometimes was gone three whole days at a time, so that Sasha, it seemed to Olenka, was utterly90 abandoned, was treated as if he were quite superfluous91, and must be dying of hunger. So she transferred him into the wing along with herself and fixed92 up a little room for him there.
Every morning Olenka would come into his room and find him sound asleep with his hand tucked under his cheek, so quiet that he seemed not to be breathing. What a shame to have to wake him, she thought.
“Sashenka,” she said sorrowingly, “get up, darling. It’s time to go to the gymnasium.”
He got up, dressed, said his prayers, then sat down to drink tea. He drank three glasses of tea, ate two large cracknels and half a buttered roll. The sleep was not yet out of him, so he was a little cross.
“You don’t know your fable93 as you should, Sashenka,” said Olenka, looking at him as though he were departing on a long journey. “What a lot of trouble you are. You must try hard and learn, dear, and mind your teachers.”
“Oh, let me alone, please,” said Sasha.
Then he went down the street to the gymnasium, a little fellow wearing a large cap and carrying a satchel94 on his back. Olenka followed him noiselessly.
“Sashenka,” she called.
He looked round and she shoved a date or a caramel into his hand. When he reached the street of the gymnasium, he turned around and said, ashamed of being followed by a tall, stout95 woman:
“You had better go home, aunt. I can go the rest of the way myself.”
She stopped and stared after him until he had disappeared into the school entrance.
Oh, how she loved him! Not one of her other ties had been so deep. Never before had she given herself so completely, so disinterestedly96, so cheerfully as now that her maternal97 instincts were all aroused. For this boy, who was not hers, for the dimples in his cheeks and for his big cap, she would have given her life, given it with joy and with tears of rapture98. Why? Ah, indeed, why?
When she had seen Sasha off to the gymnasium, she returned home quietly, content, serene99, overflowing100 with love. Her face, which had grown younger in the last half year, smiled and beamed. People who met her were pleased as they looked at her.
“How are you, Olga Semyonovna, darling? How are you getting on, darling?”
“The gymnasium course is very hard nowadays,” she told at the market. “It’s no joke. Yesterday the first class had a fable to learn by heart, a Latin translation, and a problem. How is a little fellow to do all that?”
And she spoke of the teacher and the lessons and the text-books, repeating exactly what Sasha said about them.
At three o’clock they had dinner. In the evening they prepared the lessons together, and Olenka wept with Sasha over the difficulties. When she put him to bed, she lingered a long time making the sign of the cross over him and muttering a prayer. And when she lay in bed, she dreamed of the far-away, misty101 future when Sasha would finish his studies and become a doctor or an engineer, have a large house of his own, with horses and a carriage, marry and have children. She would fall asleep still thinking of the same things, and tears would roll down her cheeks from her closed eyes. And the black cat would lie at her side purring: “Mrr, mrr, mrr.”
Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the gate. Olenka woke up breathless with fright, her heart beating violently. Half a minute later there was another knock.
“A telegram from Kharkov,” she thought, her whole body in a tremble. “His mother wants Sasha to come to her in Kharkov. Oh, great God!”
She was in despair. Her head, her feet, her hands turned cold. There was no unhappier creature in the world, she felt. But another minute passed, she heard voices. It was the veterinarian coming home from the club.
“Thank God,” she thought. The load gradually fell from her heart, she was at ease again. And she went back to bed, thinking of Sasha who lay fast asleep in the next room and sometimes cried out in his sleep:
“I’ll give it to you! Get away! Quit your scrapping102!”
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1
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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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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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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23
burlesqued
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| v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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25
boorishness
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meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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sublet
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| v.转租；分租 | |
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29
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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31
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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32
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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34
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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35
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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37
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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38
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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39
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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41
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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43
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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47
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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71
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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80
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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81
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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82
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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83
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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86
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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87
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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89
asseverated
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| v.郑重声明，断言( asseverate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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91
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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94
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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96
disinterestedly
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97
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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98
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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99
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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100
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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101
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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102
scrapping
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| 刮，切除坯体余泥 | |
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