But the real invalid8, just like the man who enjoys real health, never talks about such matters. It is only to the amateur in disease that they are of the smallest interest. The man who is well never thinks about his health, and certainly never mentions it; to the man who is really ill some divine sense of irresponsibility is given. He brushes it aside, just as one brushes aside any innate9 inability; with common courage—how lavishly10 is beautiful gift given to whomever really needs it—he makes the best of other things.
These poignant11 though obvious reflections are the outcome of what occurred this evening. I sat between two friends at dinner, both of them people in whom one’s heart rejoices. But one of them is obsessed12 just now with this devil of health-seeking. The other has long{11} ago given up the notion of seeking for health at all, for it is not for her. She faces incurable13 with gaiety. So I have to record two conversations, the worse first.
‘Oh, I always have ten minutes’ deep-breathing every morning. It is the only way I can get enough air. You have to lie on your back, you know, and stop one nostril14 with your finger, while you breathe in slowly through the other; and you should do it near an open window. There is no fear of catching15 cold, or if you do I can send you a wonderful prescription16.... Then you breathe out through the other nostril. I wish you would try it; it makes the whole difference. No, thanks, caviare is poison to me!’
‘Well, so is arsenic17 to me,’ I said. ‘But why say so?’
(It did not sound quite so brusque as it looks when written down, and native modesty18 prevents my explaining how abjectly20 patient I had been up till then.)
Then there came the reshifting of conversation, and we started again, with change of partners.{12}
‘I do hope you will come to see us again in August,’ said the quiet, pleasant voice. ‘I shall go up to Scotland at the end of the month. Your beloved river should be in order: there has been heaps of rain.’
But I could not help asking another question.
‘Ah, then they let you go there?’ I said.
She laughed gently.
‘No, that is just what they don’t do,’ she said. ‘But I am going. What does it matter if one hastens it by a few weeks? I am going to shorten it probably by a few weeks, but instead of having six tiresome21 months on board a yacht, I am going to have rather fewer months among all the things I love. Oh, Dick quite agrees with me. Do let’s talk about something more interesting. Did you hear “Tristan” the other night? No? Richter conducted. He is such a splendid Isolde! There is no one to approach him!’
There, there was the glory of it! And how that little tiny joke about Richter touched the heart! Here on one side was a woman dying, and she knew it, but the wonder and the pleasure of the world was intensely hers.{13} There, on the other, was the excellent Mrs. Armstrong. She could not think about the opera or anything else except her absurd deep-breathing and her ridiculous liver. Nobody else did; nobody cared. Even now I could hear her explaining to her left-hand neighbour that next to deep-breathing, the really important thing is to drink a glass of water in the middle of the morning. Slowly, of course, in sips22. And she proceeded to describe what the water did. Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned, but I could no more think of discussing these intimate matters at the dinner-table than I should think of performing my toilet there. Besides—and this is perhaps the most unanswerable objection to doing so—besides being slightly disgusting, it is so immensely dull!
However, on the other side there was a topic as entrancing as the other was tedious, and in two minutes my other neighbour and I were deep in the fascinating inquiry23 as to how far a conductor—a supreme24 conductor—identified himself with the characters of the opera. Certainly the phrase ‘Richter is such{14} a splendid Isolde’ was an alluring25 theme, and by degrees it spread round the corner of the table (we were sitting close to it), and was taken up opposite, when a member of the Purcell Society gave vent19 to the highly interesting observation that the conductor had practically nothing to do with the singers, and was no more than a sort of visible metronome put there for the guidance of the orchestra. It was impossible not to retort that the last performance of the Purcell Society completely confirmed the truth of that view of the conductor. Indeed, the chorus hardly thought of him even as a metronome. Or else, perhaps, they were deaf, which would account for their sinking a tone and a half; in fact there were flowers of speech on the subject.
But how extraordinary a thing (taking the view, that is to say, that a conductor conceivably does more than beat time) is this transference of emotion, so that first of all Wagner, by means of merely black notes and words on white paper, can inspire the conductor with that tragedy of love which years ago, he wove out of the sunlight and lagoons{15} of Venice; that, secondly27, the conductor can enter into that mysterious and mystical union with his band and his singers, and reflect his own mood on them so strongly that from throat or strings28 or wailing30 of flutes31 they give us, who sit and listen, what the conductor bade them read into the music, so that all, bassoons and double-bass, flutes and strings, trumpets32 and oboes and horns, become the spiritual mirror of his emotion. By means of that little baton33, by the beckoning34 of his fingers, he pulls out from them the music which is in his own soul, makes it communicable to them. Indeed, we need not go to the Society for Psychical35 Research for experiments in thought-transference, for here is an instance of it (unless, indeed, we take the view of this member of the Purcell Society) far more magical, far further uplifted out of the sphere of things which we think we can explain. For the mere26 degrees of loud or soft, mere alterations36 in tempo37, are, of course, less than the ABC of the conductor’s office. His real work, the exercise of his real power, lies remote from, though doubtless connected with them. And of that we can explain{16} nothing whatever. He obsesses38 every member of his orchestra so that by a motion of his hand he gets the same quality of tone from every member of it. For apart from the mere loudness and the mere time of any passage, there are probably an infinite number of ways of playing each note. Yet at his bidding every single member of the band plays it the same way. It is his thought they all make audible with a hundred instruments which have all one tone; else, how does that unity39 reach us sitting in our stalls?
That is the eternal mystery of music, which alone of the arts deals with its materials direct. It is not an imitation of sound, but sound itself, the employment of the actual waves of air that are the whistle of the wind, and the crash of breakers, and the love-song of nightingales. All other branches of art deal only second-hand40; they but give us an imitation of what they wish to represent. The pictorial41 artist can do no more than lay a splash of pigment42 from a leaden tube on to his canvas when he wishes to speak to us of sunlight; he can only touch an eye with a reflection in its corner{17} to show grief, or take a little from the size of the pupil to produce in us who look the feeling of terror that contracts it. Similarly, too, the sculptor43 has to render the soft swell44 of a woman’s bosom45 in marble, as if it was on marble a man would pillow his head. It is all a translation, a rendering46 in another material, of the image that fills us with love or pity, or the open-air intoxication47 of an April morning. But the musician works first-hand; the intangible waves of air, not a representation of them, are his material. It is not with a pigment of sound, so to speak, that the violins shiver, or the trumpets tell us that the gods are entering Valhalla. Music deals with sound itself, with the whisper that went round the formless void when God said, ‘Let there be light,’ with all that makes this delicate orchestra of the world, no copy of it, no translation of it, but it itself.
And for the time being, while the curtain is up, the control of these forces, their wail29 and their triumph, belongs to the conductor. He gives them birth in the strings and the wind; he by the movement of a hand makes{18} them express all that sound expressed to the magician who first mapped them on his paper. Indeed, he does more; he interprets them through his own personality, giving them, as it were, an extra dip in the bath of life, so that their colours are more brilliant, more vital of hue48. Or is the member of the Purcell Society right, and is the man who gives us this wonderful Isolde only a metronome?
It is often said that the deaf are far more lonely, far more remotely sundered49 from the world we know, than are the blind. It is impossible to imagine that this should not be so, for it is not only the sounds that we know we hear, but the sounds of which for the most part we are unconscious, that form the link between us and external things. It commonly happens, as in the dark, that we are cut off from all exercise of the eyes, and yet at such moments we have not been very conscious of loneliness. But it is rare that we are cut off from all sound, and the loneliness of that isolation50 is indescribable. It happened to me once in the golden desert to the west of Luxor, above the limestone51 cliffs that rise{19} from the valley where the Kings of Egypt lie entombed.
I had sat down on the topmost bluff52 of these cliffs, having tethered my donkey down below, for the way was too steep for him, and for several minutes observed my surroundings with extreme complacency. Below me lay the grey limestone cliffs, but where I sat a wave of the desert had broken, and the immediate53 foreground was golden sand. Farther away, in all hues54 of peacock green, lay the strip of cultivated land, and beyond, the steel blue of the ancient and mysterious river. It was early yet in the afternoon, and the sun still high, so that the whole land glittered in this glorious high festival of light and colour. And, looking at the imperishable monuments of that eternal civilization, it seemed that one could not desire a more convincing example of the kindliness55 of the circling seasons, of the beneficence that overlooked the world from generation to generation, so that man might well say that this treasure-house of the earth was inexhaustible. No breeze of any sort was stirring, but the air, pure, hot, invigorating, was absolutely still.{20} But at that moment I suddenly felt as if something was dreadfully wrong, though I did not at once guess what it was. Then came the thought, the identification of what was wrong: it seemed as if the world was dead; then came the reason for it: it was because there was no sound. For a moment I listened in order to verify this—listened with poised56 breath and immovable limbs. Yes, I was right: there was no sound of anything at all; for once the ears were deprived of the delicate orchestra that goes up, a hymn57 of praise, day and night from the earth. It was like a dreadful nightmare.
I first tried coughing, to see if that would be companionable, but that did not do; I coughed, and then silence resumed its reign58. I lit a cigarette. I moved, rustled59, even got up and walked a little, kicking the pebbles60 that lay about in the sand. But that was no use, and I perceived where the defect was. I knew I was alive, and could make sounds, but what I wanted was some evidence that something else was alive. But there was none.
Somehow this fact was so disquieting61 that I{21} sat down again to think about it. In my reasonable mind I knew that absolutely everything was alive, only there was at this moment nothing to tell me so. Not a fly buzzed over the hot sand, not a kite was to be seen wheeling slow as if in sleep, a black speck62 against the inviolable blue that stretched from horizon to horizon. I was the only thing alive as far as I had evidence. Or supposing—the thought flashed suddenly across me—supposing I, too, was dead? And what was this—this dome63 of air and the golden sand? Was it hell?
I cannot describe the horror of this. Momentary64 as was the sensation, it was of a quality, a depth of surcharged panic, which comes to us only in nightmares. I was alone, I was not within touch, in this utter stillness, of any other consciousness, and surely that must be hell, the outer darkness of absolute loneliness, which not even the glorious golden orb3 swung centre-high in the blue could ever so faintly penetrate65. Indeed, it and this iridescent66 panorama67 at my feet only added some secret bitter irony68 to the outer darkness. All the light, the colour, the heat, which one had so loved was{22} there still, but life was arrested, and there was nobody.
Then quite suddenly and unexpectedly the farcical happened, for from some hundred yards away down below the steep cliff up which I had climbed came a long discordant69 bray70 from my donkey, who perhaps felt lonely, too. But I have never heard a sound which was to the spirit so overpoweringly sweet. I heard that, and gave a long breath, and shouted, ‘Thank you very much!’ for the whole glory of the noon, which silence had blackened, was instantly restored.
One of the interesting things to which I have alluded71, in contrast with the tedium72 of Mrs. Armstrong’s health, was occurring to-day, for the thermometer had indeed been up in the nineties, a fact which fills all proper-minded people with pride. Our dear, stuffy73 old London had registered 92 degrees in the shade at Messrs. Negretti and Zambra’s that morning, and I with my own eyes had seen it. It was impossible not to be proud, just as it is impossible not to be proud when one is in a train that is{23} going over seventy miles an hour, a thing that may be timed by the small white quarter-mile posts that are so conveniently established by the side of the line. Once I went in a train that did a mile and a half in seventy-three seconds. I have not got over my elation74 yet. Or when an extraordinarily75 vivid flash of lightning occurs, with a congested angry spasm76 of thunder coming simultaneously77 with it, are you not sorry for the nerveless soul that does not thrill with personal elation at power made manifest? Or when Madame Melba sings the last long note of the first act of ‘La Bohème’? Or when the organist in King’s College Chapel78 pulls out the tubas, making the windows to rattle79 in their leaded panes80 by the concussion81 of the astonished air? Or when a perfectly82 enormous wave rides in from the Atlantic, and is transformed suddenly from the illustrious blue giant into a myriad83 cascades84 of snowy white, as, jovially85 dealing86 itself its own death, as it were, it is dashed against the brown steadfast87 rock of the land? Or when Legs (I shall speak of him soon), as he did to-day, sliced his drive very badly at the fourth hole at Woking,{24} and hit the front of the engine of an up-train with extraordinary violence, and thereupon collapsed88 on the tee in speechless laughter for the sheer joy of the gorgeously improbable feat89?
For all these things, so I take it, are evidence of the splendid energy of things in general in which we, each of us, have our share. So that when our train goes very fast, or when thunder cracks very loudly, or when blue waves are turned to smoke, though we are not actually responsible in any way for these encouraging facts, which are dependent on pressure in a boiler90, electricity in the air, and a disturbance91 in mid-Atlantic, yet as by some wireless92 telegraphy, the energy of them is caught in the receiver of ourselves, and we throb93 back to it, feeling the pulse of life, which is exactly the same life in boiler and cloud and wave as that pulse in ourselves, which beats at the wrist. Life! Life! Life! All one—all absolutely one!
And to-night, too, though not in any of these particular ways, how it throbs94 and beats in this hot darkness of June! For a moment I wished I was in the country, to feel the pulse of the woodland and the garden. For the green things{25} of the earth are awake all June; they never sleep day or night; they hold their breath sometimes in the hour before dawn, and they hang their heads sometimes beneath some scurry95 of summer rain; but day and night their eyes shine; they are growing and living, and are always awake till autumn comes, when they doze96, and winter comes, when they sleep sound, day and night alike, dreaming, perhaps, of the spring, when from deep sleep they will slowly awake again, aconites first, and soon after daffodils, and then the buds of the hawthorn97, little green squibs of leaf....
But I had not gone a hundred yards from the doors within which I had dined, when the mysterious joy of London summer night smote98 these thoughts of the country into silence. The whole town was awake, theatres were pouring out into the streets, and boarding the giants of the roadway, the snorting smelling motor-buses, their trotting99 brothers, and the inferior cabs and hansoms, where one could be alone and not stop on the way, but be taken decorously and dully to one’s destination. There was news, too, in the evening papers—a horrible murder, I think{26} it was, but the nature of the incident mattered very little. It was incident, anyhow; something had happened. And without wishing to know exactly what it was, I felt extraordinarily pleased that something had happened.
The dip of Piccadilly between Devonshire House and Hyde Park was comparatively empty, and a sudden shudder100 of the mind came across me. I had been sitting next a dear friend, condemned101 to death. How could I have forgotten that, for forgotten it I had, in this riotous102 summer of London. Then I knew why I had forgotten it. It was because she had been so superior (an odious103 word, but there is no other) to it herself. That courage, that passionate104 interest in the dear things of the world, her contempt (for this time there is no need of another word) of death, had been infectious. To her it was a mere incident of life. ‘Things in general’ were no less real and delightful105 to her because this incident was coming close, than they were to me, who had not yet, as far as I knew, to look it in the face.
Yet, after all, to any of the others sitting at{27} that table, death, so small an incident to her who had steadfastly106 regarded it, might in reality be closer than to her. And she exulted107 in the things of life still: they had lost no interest for her.
I stopped for a moment at the bottom of the hill, as one must when something quite new to oneself strikes one. That was the ideal she had shown. Fearless, undismayed, full of summer. ‘And with God be the rest.’
At Hyde Park Corner a coffee-stall and an ice-cream stall jostled each other. Each had its following. But both at the moment seemed to me to be heretical, and instead I turned into the Park to walk as far as the Alexandra Gate, whence I had to get into Sloane Street.
It was like coming out of the roar of a tunnel into the day again, and one’s eyes (though conversely) had to get accustomed to the dark after the glare and noise of the dear streets. A little wind whispered overhead in the planes; a little odour of moist earth came from Rotten Row. Quiet, solitary108 figures passed, or figures in pairs, closely linked, but for the most part silent. On{28} benches underneath109 the trees there were pairs of figures. In Heaven’s name why not? To flirt110, to make love, to look into eyes, is an applauded, and rightly applauded, pursuit in sequestered111 corners, under palms, beneath the eaves of the staircase, with the band blaring from the ball-room just beyond. But it doesn’t seem to strike the fastidious, who write letters to papers about the ‘state’ of the parks, that it is just possible that there are other people in the world who haven’t got ball-rooms and palms, and marble staircases. What are they to do, then? The answer of these letter-writers is deplorably futile112, for they talk about indigent113 marriages! As if you could stop the life of the world by pointing with impious hands towards the Savings114 Bank! God laughs at it!
But the people who most call attention to the state of the park are those who have sat in the back drawing-room with their ‘gurls,’ while mamma has been Grenadier at the door, and papa has put a handkerchief over his broad face, when he has finished his glass of port after lunch (after lunch!), and smokes his cigar in the dining room. It really is so. Young men{29} and maidens115 may sit on a plush sofa in the dreadful back drawing-room and behave as young men and maidens should (and if they shouldn’t, they will); and why in the name of all that is decent should they not sit on a bench in the Park and kiss each other? Yet the person who objects to their doing so, and who writes to the papers in consequence, is exactly the man who, in his semi-detached villa116 at some nameless suburb, draws his handkerchief over his face, and obscenely snores, while Jack117, a respectable bank-clerk, kisses Maria in the back drawing-room. Good luck to them all, except to the horrible man who snores and writes to the papers when he is awake! He would be better snoring.
The moon had risen and rode high in a star-kirtled heaven, making a diaper of light and shifting shadow below the shade of the many-elbowed planes. Even now, close on midnight, it was extraordinarily hot, and for a little the grass and the trees made me long again for the true country, where the green things on the earth are native, not, as here, outcasts in the desert island of the streets. Yet, when there is,{30} as in London, so large a colony of castaways, extending, you will remember, right down from beyond the Serpentine118 Bridge to Westminster, so that, except for the crossing at Hyde Park, one may walk on grass for all these solid miles, one hopes that the trees and flowers are tolerably cheerful, and do not sigh much for the wild places away from houses. Never was there a town so full of trees as this, for walk as you may in it, you will, I think, with three exceptions only, never find a street from some point in which you cannot see a tree to remind you of shade at noontide and grassy119 hollows. But the names of those streets shall not here be stated; they must, however, consider themselves warned.
Then the streets again, crowded still with moving figures, each an entrancing enigma120 to any passenger whose soul is at all alert, and swift with the passage of those glorious motor-buses, pounding and flashing along on their riotous ways, the very incarnation to me of all that ‘town’ means! I cannot imagine now what London was like without them. It must have been but half alive, half itself. It is im{31}possible to be patient with these curious folk who consider them nuisances, who say (as if anyone denied it) that they both smell and clatter121. That is exactly why they are so typical of London; indeed, one is disposed to think that they were not made with hands, but spontaneously generated out of the Spirit of the Town.
And how delightful to observe their elephantine antics if the streets are slippery, when they behave exactly like a drunken man, with appearance still portentously122 solemn, as if he had heard grave news, but afflicted123 with strange indecision and uncertainty124 on questions of the direction in which he intends to walk. I was on one the other day which did the most entrancing things, and had it all to myself, as everybody else got down, not seeming to see that if a motor-bus has been ‘overtaken’ it is far safer to be on it than anywhere else in the street, just as a drunken man may lurch125 heavily with damage to others, but never hurts himself. It was in Piccadilly, too, a beautiful theatre for its man?uvres. Trouble began as we descended126 the hill by the Green Park: it had vin gai, and{32} was boisterously127 cheerful; but it was extraordinarily uncertain about direction, and slewed128 violently once or twice, so that hansoms started away from our vicinity as rabbits scuttle129 from you in the brushwood. Then my bus suddenly pulled itself together and walked quite straight for a lamp-post by the kerb. It felt tired, I suppose, and leaned wearily against it, snapping it neatly130 off with as little effort as it takes to pluck a daisy. Then it hooted131, moved gravely on again, and, thinking it was a member of the Junior Athen?um, made straight for the door. But it forgot to lift its feet up to get on to the pavement, and stumbled. Then it saw a sister-bus, backed away from the pavement, and tried to make friends. But the other simply cut it and passed by. So it gave a heavy sigh, and began to mount the hill towards Devonshire House. But it had scarcely gone twenty yards when the behaviour of its sister so smote upon its heart that it could not go on, and turned slowly round in the street to look back at that respectable but uncharitable relation with pathetic and appealing eyes. It might happen to anybody, it seemed to say, ‘to take a{33} drop too much, and you shouldn’t judge too severely132.’
This sense of being misunderstood gave it vin triste of the most pronounced kind. I have seldom seen so despondent133 a drunkard. It moaned and muttered to itself, and I longed to console it. But beneficent Nature came to its aid: laid her cool hand upon its throbbing134 head, and it slept. I got gently off, feeling, as Mr. Rossetti, I think, says (if it was not he, it was somebody else), that I must step softly, for I was treading on its dreams.
And all this for a penny, which the conductor very obligingly refunded135 to me, as I had not been taken where I wanted to go!
Sloane Street, and soon my dear house, into which I was towed by my watch-chain. For my latchkey was on the end of it, and, having opened the door, I could not get the latchkey out, and had to step on tiptoe, following the door as it opened. Wild music came from the upstairs, and, having disentangled my key, I ran up, to find Helen and Legs trying with singular ill-success to play the overture136 to the{34} ‘Meistersingers,’ from a performance of which they had just returned. They took not the slightest notice of my entry.
‘No!’ shouted Legs. ‘One, two; wait for two! Oh, do get on! Yes, that’s it. Sorry; I thought it was a sharp.’
They were nearing the end, and several loud and unsimultaneous thumps138 came.
‘I’ve finished,’ said Helen.
Legs had one thump137 more.
‘So have I,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it ripping?{35}’
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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innate
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lavishly
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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secondly
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strings
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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35
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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36
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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37
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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38
obsesses
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| v.时刻困扰( obsess的第三人称单数 )；缠住；使痴迷；使迷恋 | |
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39
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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40
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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41
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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42
pigment
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| n.天然色素，干粉颜料 | |
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43
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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44
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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45
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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46
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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47
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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48
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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49
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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51
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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52
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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53
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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54
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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55
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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56
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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57
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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58
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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59
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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61
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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62
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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63
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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64
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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65
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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66
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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67
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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68
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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69
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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70
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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71
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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73
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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74
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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75
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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76
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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77
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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78
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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79
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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80
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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81
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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84
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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85
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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86
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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87
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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88
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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89
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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90
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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91
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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92
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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93
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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94
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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95
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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96
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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97
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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98
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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99
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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100
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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101
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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102
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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103
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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104
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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105
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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106
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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107
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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109
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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110
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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111
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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112
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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113
indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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114
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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115
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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116
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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117
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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118
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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119
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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120
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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121
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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122
portentously
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123
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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125
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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126
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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127
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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128
slewed
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| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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130
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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131
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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133
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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134
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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135
refunded
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| v.归还，退还( refund的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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137
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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138
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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