When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the house, that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he was, in his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping his wet face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was dark in the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished1 only his middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily2 pale face, so pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall brighter....
"Is the doctor in?" the visitor asked abruptly3.
"I'm at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?"
"Oh, you're the doctor? I'm so glad!" The visitor was overjoyed and began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness. He found it and squeezed it hard in his own. "I'm very ... very glad! We were introduced ... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this summer at Mr. Gnouchev's. I am very glad to have found you at home.... For God's sake, don't say you won't come with me immediately.... My wife has been taken dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me...."
From the visitor's voice and movements it was evident that he had been in a state of violent agitation5. Exactly as though he had been frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried breathing, and he spoke6 quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech there sounded a note of real sincerity7, of childish fright. Like all men who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt4 phrases and uttered many superfluous8, quite unnecessary, words.
"I was afraid I shouldn't find you at home," he continued. "While I was coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for God's sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me—Alexander Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to tea. Suddenly my wife cries out, presses her hands to her heart, and falls back in her chair. We carried her off to her bed and ... and I rubbed her forehead with sal-volatile, and splashed her with water.... She lies like a corpse9.... I'm afraid that her heart's failed.... Let us go.... Her father too died of heart-failure."
Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian language.
When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife's father, and once more began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness, the doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly:
"Excuse me, but I can't go.... Five minutes ago my ... my son died."
"Is that true?" Aboguin whispered, stepping back. "My God, what an awful moment to come! It's a terribly fated day ... terribly! What a coincidence ... and it might have been on purpose!"
Aboguin took hold of the door handle and drooped10 his head in meditation11. Evidently he was hesitating, not knowing whether to go away, or to ask the doctor once more.
"Listen," he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. "I fully12 understand your state! God knows I'm ashamed to try to hold your attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself—who can I go to? There isn't another doctor here besides you. For heaven's sake come. I'm not asking for myself. It's not I that's ill!"
Silence began. Kirilov turned his back to Aboguin, stood still for a while and slowly went out of the hall into the drawing-room. To judge by his uncertain, machine-like movement, and by the attentiveness13 with which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the drawing-room and consulted a thick book which lay on the table—at such a moment he had neither purpose nor desire, nor did he think of anything, and probably had already forgotten that there was a stranger standing14 in his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room apparently15 increased his insanity16. As he went from the drawing-room to his study he raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his hands for the door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in his whole figure, as though he had entered a strange house by chance, or for the first time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving himself up in bewilderment to the new sensation. A wide line of light stretched across the bookshelves on one wall of the study; this light, together with the heavy stifling17 smell of carbolic acid and ether came from the door ajar that led from the study into the bed-room.... The doctor sank into a chair before the table; for a while he looked drowsily18 at the shining books, then rose and went into the bed-room.
Here, in the bed-room, dead quiet reigned19. Everything, down to the last trifle, spoke eloquently20 of the tempest undergone, of weariness, and everything rested. The candle which stood among a close crowd of phials, boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of drawers brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay open-eyed, with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it seemed that his open eyes became darker and darker every second and sank into his skull21. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face in the folds of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before the bed. Like the boy she did not move, but how much living movement was felt in the coil of her body and in her hands! She was pressing close to the bed with her whole being, with eager vehemence22, as though she were afraid to violate the quiet and comfortable pose which she had found at last for her weary body. Blankets, cloths, basins, splashes on the floor, brushes and spoons scattered23 everywhere, a white bottle of lime-water, the stifling heavy air itself—everything died away, and as it were plunged24 into quietude.
The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and bending his head on one side looked fixedly25 at his son. His face showed indifference26; only the drops which glistened27 on his beard revealed that he had been lately weeping.
The repulsive28 terror of which we think when we speak of death was absent from the bed-room. In the pervading29 dumbness, in the mother's pose, in the indifference of the doctor's face was something attractive that touched the heart, the subtle and elusive30 beauty of human grief, which it will take men long to understand and describe, and only music, it seems, is able to express. Beauty too was felt in the stern stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and did not weep, as though they confessed all the poetry of their condition. As once the season of their youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to bear children had passed away, alas31! for ever to eternity32. The doctor is forty-four years old, already grey and looks like an old man; his faded sick wife is thirty-five. Audrey was not merely the only son but the last.
In contrast to his wife the doctor's nature belonged to those which feel the necessity of movement when their soul is in pain. After standing by his wife for about five minutes, he passed from the bed-room, lifting his right foot too high, into a little room half filled with a big broad divan33. From there he went to the kitchen. After wandering about the fireplace and the cook's bed, he stooped through a little door and came into the hall.
Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again.
"At last," sighed Aboguin, seizing the doorhandle. "Let us go, please."
The doctor shuddered34, glanced at him and remembered.
"Listen. I've told you already that I can't go," he said, livening. "What a strange idea!"
"Doctor, I'm made of flesh and blood, too. I fully understand your condition. I sympathise with you," Aboguin said in an imploring35 voice, putting his hand to his scarf. "But I am not asking for myself. My wife is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you'd seen her face, you would understand my insistence36! My God—and I thought that you'd gone to dress yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you."
"I can't come," Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his drawing-room.
Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve.
"You're in sorrow. I understand. But I'm not asking you to cure a toothache, or to give expert evidence,—but to save a human life." He went on imploring like a beggar. "This life is more than any personal grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed—in the name of humanity."
"Humanity cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably37. "In the name of the same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity. I'm not fit for anything now. I won't go for anything. With whom shall I leave my wife? No, no...."
Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back.
"And ... and don't ask me," he continued, disturbed. "I'm sorry.... Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I'm obliged to go and you have the right to drag me by the neck.... Well, drag me, but ... I'm not fit.... I'm not even able to speak. Excuse me."
"It's quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor," said Aboguin, again taking the doctor by the sleeve. "The thirteenth volume be damned! I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, come; if you don't, then God be with you; but it's not to your will that I apply, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say your son died just now. Who could understand my terror better than you?"
Aboguin's voice trembled with agitation. His tremor38 and his tone were much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is remarkable39 that every phrase he used came out stilted40, soulless, inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the doctor's house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and in his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost to make his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity of his tone at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep and beautiful the words they affect only the unconcerned. They cannot always satisfy those who are happy or distressed42 because the highest expression of happiness or distress41 is most often silence. Lovers understand each other best when they are silent, and a fervent43 passionate44 speech at the graveside affects only outsiders. To the widow and children it seems cold and trivial.
Kirilov stood still and was silent. When Aboguin uttered some more words on the higher vocation45 of a doctor, and self-sacrifice, the doctor sternly asked:
"Is it far?"
"Thirteen or fourteen versts. I've got good horses, doctor. I give you my word of honour that I'll take you there and back in an hour. Only an hour."
The last words impressed the doctor more strongly than the references to humanity or the doctor's vocation. He thought for a while and said with a sigh.
"Well, let us go!"
He went off quickly, with a step that was now sure, to his study and soon after returned in a long coat. Aboguin, delighted, danced impatiently round him, helped him on with his overcoat, and accompanied him out of the house.
Outside it was dark, but brighter than in the hall. Now in the darkness the tall stooping figure of the doctor was clearly visible with the long, narrow beard and the aquiline46 nose. Besides his pale face Aboguin's big face could now be seen and a little student's cap which hardly covered the crown of his head. The scarf showed white only in front, but behind it was hid under his long hair.
"Believe me, I'm able to appreciate your magnanimity," murmured Aboguin, as he helped the doctor to a seat in the carriage. "We'll whirl away. Luke, dear man, drive as fast as you can, do!"
The coachman drove quickly. First appeared a row of bare buildings, which stood along the hospital yard. It was dark everywhere, save that at the end of the yard a bright light from someone's window broke through the garden fence, and three windows in the upper story of the separate house seemed to be paler than the air. Then the carriage drove into dense47 obscurity where you could smell mushroom damp, and hear the whisper of the trees. The noise of the wheels awoke the rooks who began to stir in the leaves and raised a doleful, bewildered cry as if they knew that the doctor's son was dead and Aboguin's wife ill. Then began to appear separate trees, a shrub48. Sternly gleamed the pond, where big black shadows slept. The carriage rolled along over an even plain. Now the cry of the rooks was but faintly heard far away behind. Soon it became completely still.
Almost all the way Kirilov and Aboguin were silent; save that once Aboguin sighed profoundly and murmured.
"It's terrible pain. One never loves his nearest so much as when there is the risk of losing them."
And when the carriage was quietly passing through the river, Kirilov gave a sudden start, as though the dashing of the water frightened him, and he began to move impatiently.
"Let me go," he said in anguish49. "I'll come to you later. I only want to send the attendant to my wife. She is all alone."
Aboguin was silent. The carriage, swaying and rattling50 against the stones, drove over the sandy bank and went on. Kirilov began to toss about in anguish, and glanced around. Behind the road was visible in the scant51 light of the stars and the willows52 that fringed the bank disappearing into the darkness. To the right the plain stretched smooth and boundless53 as heaven. On it in the distance here and there dim lights were burning, probably on the turf-pits. To the left, parallel with the road stretched a little hill, tufted with tiny shrubs54, and on the hill a big half-moon stood motionless, red, slightly veiled with a mist, and surrounded with fine clouds which seemed to be gazing upon it from every side, and guarding it, lest it should disappear.
In all nature one felt something hopeless and sick. Like a fallen woman who sits alone in a dark room trying not to think of her past, the earth languished55 with reminiscence of spring and summer and waited in apathy56 for ineluctable winter. Wherever one's glance turned nature showed everywhere like a dark, cold, bottomless pit, whence neither Kirilov nor Aboguin nor the red half-moon could escape....
The nearer the carriage approached the destination the more impatient did Aboguin become. He moved about, jumped up and stared over the driver's shoulder in front of him. And when at last the carriage drew up at the foot of the grand staircase, nicely covered with a striped linen57 awning58 and he looked up at the lighted windows of the first floor one could hear his breath trembling.
"If anything happens ... I shan't survive it," he said entering the hall with the doctor and slowly rubbing his hands in his agitation. "But I can't hear any noise. That means it's all right so far," he added, listening to the stillness.
No voices or steps were heard in the hall. For all the bright illumination the whole house seemed asleep. Now the doctor and Aboguin who had been in darkness up till now could examine each other. The doctor was tall, with a stoop, slovenly59 dressed, and his face was plain. There was something unpleasantly sharp, ungracious, and severe in his thick negro lips, his aquiline nose and his faded, indifferent look. His tangled60 hair, his sunken temples, the early grey in his long thin beard, that showed his shining chin, his pale grey complexion61 and the slipshod awkwardness of his manners—the hardness of it all suggested to the mind bad times undergone, an unjust lot and weariness of life and men. To look at the hard figure of the man, you could not believe that he had a wife and could weep over his child. Aboguin revealed something different. He was robust62, solid and fair-haired, with a big head and large, yet soft, features, exquisitely63 dressed in the latest fashion. In his carriage, his tight-buttoned coat and his mane of hair you felt something noble and leonine. He walked with his head straight and his chest prominent, he spoke in a pleasant baritone, and in his manner of removing his scarf or arranging his hair there appeared a subtle, almost feminine, elegance64. Even his pallor and childish fear as he glanced upwards65 to the staircase while taking off his coat, did not disturb his carriage or take from the satisfaction, the health and aplomb66 which his figure breathed.
"There's no one about, nothing I can hear," he said walking upstairs. "No commotion67. May God be good!"
He accompanied the doctor through the hall to a large salon68, where a big piano showed dark and a lustre69 hung in a white cover. Thence they both passed into a small and beautiful drawing-room, very cosy70, filled with a pleasant, rosy71 half-darkness.
"Please sit here a moment, Doctor," said Aboguin, "I ... I won't be a second. I'll just have a look and tell them."
Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the pleasant half-darkness, even his presence in a stranger's unfamiliar72 house evidently did not move him. He sat in a chair looking at his hands burnt with carbolic acid. He had no more than a glimpse of the bright red lampshade, the cello73 case, and when he looked sideways across the room to where the dock was ticking, he noticed a stuffed wolf, as solid and satisfied as Aboguin himself.
It was still.... Somewhere far away in the other rooms someone uttered a loud "Ah!" A glass door, probably a cupboard door, rang, and again everything was still. After five minutes had passed, Kirilov did not look at his hands any more. He raised his eyes to the door through which Aboguin had disappeared.
Aboguin was standing on the threshold, but not the same man as went out. The expression of satisfaction and subtle elegance had disappeared from him. His face and hands, the attitude of his body were distorted with a disgusting expression either of horror or of tormenting74 physical pain. His nose, lips, moustache, all his features were moving and as it were trying to tear themselves away from his face, but the eyes were as though laughing from pain.
Aboguin took a long heavy step into the middle of the room, stooped, moaned, and shook his fists.
"Deceived!" he cried, emphasising the syllable75 cei. "She deceived me! She's gone! She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away with this fool Papchinsky. My God!" Aboguin stepped heavily towards the doctor, thrust his white soft fists before his face, and went on wailing76, shaking his fists the while.
"She's gone off! She's deceived me! But why this lie? My God, my God! Why this dirty, foul77 trick, this devilish, serpent's game? What have I done to her? She's gone off." Tears gushed78 from his eyes. He turned on his heel and began to pace the drawing-room. Now in his short jacket and his fashionable narrow trousers in which his legs seemed too thin for his body, he was extraordinarily like a lion. Curiosity kindled79 in the doctor's impassive face. He rose and eyed Aboguin.
"Well, where's the patient?"
"The patient, the patient," cried Aboguin, laughing, weeping, and still shaking his fists. "She's not ill, but accursed. Vile80—dastardly. The Devil himself couldn't have planned a fouler81 trick. She sent me so that she could run away with a fool, an utter clown, an Alphonse! My God, far better she should have died. I'll not bear it. I shall not bear it."
The doctor stood up straight. His eyes began to blink, filled with tears; his thin beard began to move with his jaw82 right and left.
"What's this?" he asked, looking curiously83 about. "My child's dead. My wife in anguish, alone in all the house.... I can hardly stand on my feet, I haven't slept for three nights ... and I'm made to play in a vulgar comedy, to play the part of a stage property! I don't ... I don't understand it!"
Aboguin opened one fist, flung a crumpled84 note on the floor and trod on it, as upon an insect he wished to crush.
"And I didn't see ... didn't understand," he said through his set teeth, brandishing85 one fist round his head, with an expression as though someone had trod on a corn. "I didn't notice how he came to see us every day. I didn't notice that he came in a carriage to-day! What was the carriage for? And I didn't see! Innocent!"
"I don't ... I don't understand," the doctor murmured. "What's it all mean? It's jeering87 at a man, laughing at a man's suffering! That's impossible.... I've never seen it in my life before!"
With the dull bewilderment of a man who has just begun to understand that someone has bitterly offended him, the doctor shrugged88 his shoulders, waved his hands and not knowing what to say or do, dropped exhausted89 into a chair.
"Well, she didn't love me any more. She loved another man. Very well. But why the deceit, why this foul treachery?" Aboguin spoke with tears in his voice. "Why, why? What have I done to you? Listen, doctor," he said passionately90 approaching Kirilov. "You were the unwilling91 witness of my misfortune, and I am not going to hide the truth from you. I swear I loved this woman. I loved her with devotion, like a slave. I sacrificed everything for her. I broke with my family, I gave up the service and my music. I forgave her things I could not have forgiven my mother and sister.... I never once gave her an angry look ... I never gave her any cause. Why this lie then? I do not demand love, but why this abominable92 deceit? If you don't love any more then speak out honestly, above all when you know what I feel about this matter...."
With tears in his eyes and trembling in all his bones, Aboguin was pouring out his soul to the doctor. He spoke passionately, pressing both hands to his heart. He revealed all the family secrets without hesitation93, as though he were glad that these secrets were being tom from his heart. Had he spoken thus for an hour or two and poured out all his soul, he would surely have been easier.
Who can say whether, had the doctor listened and given him friendly sympathy, he would not, as so often happens, have been reconciled to his grief unprotesting, without turning to unprofitable follies94? But it happened otherwise. While Aboguin was speaking the offended doctor changed countenance95 visibly. The indifference and amazement96 in his face gradually gave way to an expression of bitter outrage97, indignation, and anger. His features became still sharper, harder, and more forbidding. When Aboguin put before his eyes the photograph of his young wife, with a pretty, but dry, inexpressive face like a nun's, and asked if it were possible to look at that face and grant that it could express a lie, the doctor suddenly started away, with flashing eyes, and said, coarsely forging out each several word:
"Why do you tell me all this? I do not want to hear! I don't want to," he cried and banged his fist upon the table. "I don't want your trivial vulgar secrets—to Hell with them. You dare not tell me such trivialities. Or do you think I have not yet been insulted enough! That I'm a lackey98 to whom you can give the last insult? Yes?"
Aboguin drew back from Kirilov and stared at him in surprise.
"Why did you bring me here?" the doctor went on, shaking his beard. "You marry out of high spirits, get angry out of high spirits, and make a melodrama—but where do I come in? What have I got to do with your romances? Leave me alone I Get on with your noble grabbing, parade your humane99 ideas, play—" the doctor gave a side-glance at the cello-case—"the double-bass and the trombone, stuff yourselves like capons, but don't dare to jeer86 at a real man! If you can't respect him, then you can at least spare him your attentions."
"What does all this mean?" Aboguin asked, blushing.
"It means that it's vile and foul to play with a man I I'm a doctor. You consider doctors and all men who work and don't reek100 of scent101 and harlotry, your footmen, your mauvais tons. Very well, but no one gave you the right to turn a man who suffers into a property."
"How dare you say that?" Aboguin asked quietly. Again his face began to twist about, this time in visible anger.
"How dare you bring me here to listen to trivial rubbish, when you know that I'm in sorrow?" the doctor cried and banged his fists on the table once more. "Who gave you the right to jeer at another's grief?"
"You're mad," cried Aboguin. "You're ungenerous. I too am deeply unhappy and ... and ..."
"Unhappy"—the doctor gave a sneering102 laugh—"Don't touch the word, it's got nothing to do with you. Wasters who can't get money on a bill call themselves unhappy too. A capon's unhappy, oppressed with all its superfluous fat. You worthless lot!"
"Sir, you're forgetting yourself," Aboguin gave a piercing scream. "For words like those, people are beaten. Do you understand?"
Aboguin thrust his hand into his side pocket, took out a pocket-book, found two notes and flung them on the table.
"There's your fee," he said, and his nostrils103 trembled. "You're paid."
"You dare not offer me money," said the doctor, and brushed the notes from the table to the floor. "You don't settle an insult with money."
Aboguin and the doctor stood face to face, heaping each other with undeserved insults. Never in their lives, even in a frenzy104, had they said so much that was unjust and cruel and absurd. In both the selfishness of the unhappy is violently manifest. Unhappy men are selfish, wicked, unjust, and less able to understand each other than fools. Unhappiness does not unite people, but separates them; and just where one would imagine that people should be united by the community of grief, there is more injustice105 and cruelty done than among the comparatively contented106.
"Send me home, please," the doctor cried, out of breath.
Aboguin rang the bell violently. Nobody came. He rang once more; then flung the bell angrily to the floor. It struck dully on the carpet and gave out a mournful sound like a death-moan. The footman appeared.
"Where have you been hiding, damn you?" The master sprang upon him with clenched107 fists. "Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to said the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready for me. Wait," he called out as the footman turned to go. "Not a single traitor108 remains109 to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones ... Rabble110!"
While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that deep, rather cynical111, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust lot can look, when they see satiety112 and elegance before them.
A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle113 on the road and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit all manner of folly114.
All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts were unjust, inhuman115, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his life long.
Time will pass and Kirilov's sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the doctor's mind until the grave.
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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extraordinarily
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abruptly
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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sincerity
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superfluous
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corpse
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drooped
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meditation
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fully
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attentiveness
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standing
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apparently
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insanity
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stifling
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drowsily
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reigned
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eloquently
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skull
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vehemence
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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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24
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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25
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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26
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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29
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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30
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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32
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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33
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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34
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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35
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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36
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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37
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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38
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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39
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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40
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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41
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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42
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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43
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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44
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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45
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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46
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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47
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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48
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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49
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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50
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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51
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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52
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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53
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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54
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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57
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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58
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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59
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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60
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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66
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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67
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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68
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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69
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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71
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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72
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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73
cello
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| n.大提琴 | |
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74
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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75
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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76
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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77
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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78
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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79
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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80
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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81
fouler
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的比较级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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82
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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83
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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84
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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85
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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86
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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87
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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88
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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90
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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91
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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92
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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93
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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94
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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95
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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96
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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97
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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98
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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99
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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100
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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101
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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102
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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103
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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104
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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105
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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106
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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107
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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109
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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110
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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111
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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112
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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113
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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114
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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115
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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