The bells have stopped, so Helen will quite certainly be late, and the silence of Sunday{36} morning in the country grows a shade deeper. Fifi just now, with an air of grim determination, sat up to scratch herself; but she could not be bothered, and sank down again in collapse4 on the grass. Legs, too, has apparently6 found the heat too much even for him, and has stopped playing. And I abandoned myself to that luxury which can only be really enjoyed on Sunday morning, when other people have gone to church (I wish to state again that I am going this afternoon), of thinking of all the things I ought to do, and not doing them. On Monday and Tuesday, and all through the week, in fact, you can indulge in that same pursuit, but it lacks aroma7: it is without bouquet8. But give me a chair under a tree on Sunday morning, and let my wife call me names for sitting in it, and then let the church-bells stop. Fifi wants washing. Legs said so yesterday, and we meant to wash her this morning. I must carefully avoid the subject if he comes out, since I don’t intend to do so. Then I ought to write to the Secretary of State—having first ascertained9 who he is—to remind him that Legs is going up for his Foreign Office examination in November, and{37} that his (the Secretary of State’s) predecessor10 in the late Government promised him a nomination11. How tiresome12 these changes of Government are! One would have thought the Conservatives might have held on till Legs’ examination. Then I should not (1) have to consult Whitaker to find out who the present Secretary of State is, and (2) write to him, and—probably—(3) find that either I haven’t got a Whitaker, or else that it is an old one. This will entail13 expense as well.
How the silence grew! I could not even hear any bees buzz among the flower-beds, and wondered whether bees do no work on Sunday. There was not a sound or murmur14 of them. Probably this is quite a new fact in natural history, which has never struck anybody before. It would never have struck me if I had gone to church. Then Fifi pricked15 one ear, sat up, and snapped at something. It was a winged thing, with a brown body, rather like a bee. How indescribably futile16!
Then there came a little puff17 of wind from the end of the garden, and next moment the whole air was redolent with the scent18 of sweet-peas. {38}Sweet-peas! How strangely, vastly more intimate is the sense of smell than any other! How at one whiff of odour the whole romance of life, its beautiful joys and scarcely less beautiful sorrows, the dust and struggle and the glory of it, rises up, clad not in the grey robes, or standing19 in the dim light of the past, but living, moving, breathing—part of the past, perhaps, but more truly part of the present. Like a huge wave from the immortal20 sea of life, cool and green, and speaking of the eternal depths, yet exulting21 in sunshine and rainbow-hued in spray, all the memories entwined about this house held and enveloped22 me. Here lived once Dick and Margery, those perfect friends; here, when they had passed to their triumphant23 peace, came she whom, when I first saw her, I thought to be Margery. From this house (where still in memory of Margery we plant the long avenue of sweet-peas, because she loved them) two years ago we were married, and here I sit now drowned in the beautiful past that is all so essential a part of this beautiful present.
But it would be as well, perhaps, if this book is to be in the slightest degree intelligible24 (a thing which I maintain is a merit rather than a{39} defect), to put together a few simple facts concerning these last two years.
It was two years ago last April that we were married, and took a small house in town, though we still spent a good deal of time down here with Helen’s father. But before the year was out he died, leaving everything to Helen, who was his only child. So, as was natural, we continued to live in the house which was so dear to both of us.
Legs is my first cousin, and he has lived with us for a year past, for he has neither father nor mother; and since he was cramming25 for his Foreign Office work in town, it was far the best arrangement that he should make his home with us. Legs is the only name he is ever known by, since he is one of those people who are almost unknown by their real name (which in this case is Francis Horace Allenby), and are alluded27 to only by some nickname which is far more suitable. If, for instance, I said to somebody who knew him quite well, ‘Have you seen Francis lately?’ I should probably be favoured with an inquiring stare, and then, ‘Oh, Legs you mean!’ while to his million acquaintances (he has more{40} than anyone I ever knew) he is equally Legs Allenby. The name, I need scarcely add, is a personal and descriptive nickname, for Legs chiefly consists of them. When he sits down, he would be guessed to be well on the short side of middle height; when he stands up he is seen to be well on the farther shore of it. He was Legs at school, and his family, very sensibly, and all his friends, saw how impossible it was to call him Francis any more. For the rest, he is just over twenty, sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and green-eyed, with a front tooth broken across, a fact that is continually in evidence, since he is nearly always laughing. It would be sheer nonsense to call him good-looking, but it would be as sheer to call him ugly, since, when you have got a face like Legs’, either epithet28 has nothing to do with it. But I have never seen any boy with nearly so attractive and charming a face, and Legs, whose nature is quite as nice as his face, and extremely like it, has the most splendid time.
And that, to finish these tedious explanations, is our household. There is no other inmate29 of it—no little one, you understand.{41}
Legs is an enthusiast—a fanatic30 on the subject of life. Everything, including even his foreign languages, which he has to cram26 himself with, is the subject of his admiration31, and he discovers more secrets of life than the rest of the world put together. At one time it is a chord which is meat and drink to him; at another the romances of Pierre Loti; or, again, golf is the only thing worth living for, while occasionally some girl, or, as often as not, a respectable elderly married woman, usurps32 his heart. Last week he discovered that there were only two people in town the least worth talking to, but yesterday, when I asked him who the second one was, having forgotten myself, I found that he had forgotten too, for if the ‘Meistersinger’ overture33 was not enough for anybody, he was a person of no perception.
‘Why, it contains all there is,’ he had said, when he finished it the other evening with Helen. ‘It’s all there, the whole caboodle.’
But this morning, from the silence indoors, I imagine he must have found another caboodle—a book probably. Or equally possible, Legs has an attack of acute middle-age, which occasionally{42} takes him like a bad cold in the head. Then he wonders whether anything is worth doing, and is sorry for Helen and me, because we are so frivolous34. Six months ago, I remember, he had such an attack, induced by reading a book about three acres and a cow, which raised in him the sense of injustice35 that all of us three had so much more than that. During this period he took no sugar in his tea, refused wine, and began to write a book which was called ‘Tramps,’ contrasting the horror of indigence36 with the even greater horror of extravagance. It was really directed against Helen and me, for we had lately bought a small, snuffling motor-car. These outbursts of Socialism are generally coincident with Atheism37. But they do not last long: Legs soon feels better again.
I was right, it appeared, about the conjecture38 that he had found a book, but I was wrong about the attack of middle-age. Legs jumped out of the drawing-room window with wild excitement.
‘Oh, I say!’ he cried, ‘why did you never tell me? I thought Swinburne was an awful rotter! But just listen.{43}’
And he read: ‘When the hounds of spring are in winter’s traces.’
‘Did you ever hear anything like it?’ he said. ‘“Blossom by blossom the spring begins!” Why, it’s magic! Oh, don’t I know it! Do you remember—I suppose you don’t—when all the daffodils came out together last year?’
‘Oh, Legs, what an ass5 you are!’ I said. ‘Because you never noticed them till I showed you them.’
‘No, I believe that’s true. Oh, don’t argue! Listen!’
And he began all over again.
Then he lay back on the grass with his hands underneath39 his head, looking up unblinking into the face of the sun. That, by the way, is another peculiarity40 of his: he looks straight at the sun at noonday, and is not dazzled. His eyes neither blink nor water. He can’t understand why other people don’t look at the sun.
Then—if by any chance you care to understand this quiet, delightful41 life we lead, it is necessary that you understand Legs—then his mood suddenly changed.{44}
‘Oh, I’m wrong about the daffodils,’ he said; ‘you showed me them. But this chap is a daffodil. I suppose he’s quite old, too. I wonder how you can get old, if you have ever felt like that. What a waste of time it is to do anything if you can feel. I hate this Foreign Office affair: why shouldn’t I do nothing?’
‘Because you can’t,’ I remarked.
‘What do you mean?’
I had not been to church, and so had heard no sermon. Therefore, I preached one on my own account.
‘You will know in about fifteen years,’ I said. ‘Anyhow, you will find that, unless you are brainless and absurd, you must do something. You are quite wrong. It isn’t nearly enough to feel. The moment you “feel,” you want to create. You not only want, but you have to; you can’t possibly help yourself. You have just read that heavenly poem. You now want to write something like it. You hear what spring once said to a poet, and you want to put down what spring says to you!’
‘Oh, you’re quite wrong,’ said Legs. ‘He {45}has said what spring means. That’s the last word on the subject. But summer now: this, to-day——’
‘So you want to create,’ said I.
A glorious trait about Legs is that he never admits conviction. He only changes the subject. Thus, if the subject is changed by him, his controversialist is satisfied.
‘I don’t believe in the highest of the shortest suit if your partner doubles,’ he said. ‘What are you to do if you have two spades and two clubs all contemptible42?’
‘Lead the less contemptible.’
Legs turned slowly over on his side, and lay with his face against the short turf of the lawn. ‘“Blossom by blossom,”’ he said, ‘“the spring begins.” I wonder if he meant more than that! Did he mean to tell of the time when one is young oneself, and it is all blossom? Lord, how priggish that sounds! But it is all blossom, except for this beastly German. I hate German! It sounds as if you were gargling. Damn! I have to go up by the early train to-morrow, too! And you and Helen will stop here till after lunch. Grind, grind—oh, I lead the life of a {46}dog! And then, if I am very successful, I shall have the privilege of sitting on a stool in a beastly building in Whitehall, and writing a précis from some silly old man in Vienna or Madrid, about nothing at all. It isn’t worth it!’
Legs and I, it will be observed, deal largely in contradictions.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘Everything almost that one does is worth it. As long as you are actively43 doing anything with all your heart, you can’t be wasting time, nor can there be anything better worth doing. It is only when you say that a thing isn’t worth doing that it becomes so.’
Legs sat up again.
‘Oh, I want nine lives at least!’ he said. ‘Or why can’t one buy some of the time that hangs so heavy on other people’s hands? I know a man who reads the Times all through every morning, and the Globe every evening. Yet, after all, I dare say it is quite as improving as sitting here and talking rot as we are doing. I shall go and put in half an hour over that accursed Teutonic language before lunch.’
Legs had, as it seemed to me, run over most{47} of the topics of human interest in the few minutes he had been out, and since I was still irrevocably determined44 neither to wash Fifi, nor to write to the Secretary of State, nor, indeed, to open the very large book on the crisis in Russia, which I had brought out with me (to bring out a book on Sunday morning and not to open it is strictly45 in accordance with the spirit of the thing), my mind went slowly browsing46, like a meditative47 cow, over the dazzling display he had spread before me. And instinctively48 and instantaneously I found myself envying him, though why I envied him I did not immediately know. But it was soon obvious; I envied his power of making soul-stirring discoveries; his rapture49 over that magical spring song of the man he had thought ‘an awful rotter.’ I envied him his ignorance of the perfectly50 patent fact that it is only fools who can go on doing nothing, and of the fact that it is infinitely51 better to sit on a stool and do arithmetic for stockbrokers52 than to do nothing at all. But youth does not know that, and I think I envied him his youth. Yet—so often does one contradict oneself—I knew very{48} soon that I did not envy him any of these things. After all, I still went on making soul-stirring discoveries, and propose to do so until the very end of my life, when I shall make the most soul-stirring discovery of all, which is death. And to envy the fact of his having just discovered the magic of Swinburne’s spring song would be exactly the same as envying the appetite of somebody who has just come down to breakfast, when you are half-way through. Your eggs and bacon were delicious, but the fact that you have eaten them makes it impossible to wish for them again. And it should make you only delighted that other people keep coming down to breakfast—till the end of your life they will do that, unless the world comes to an end first—and, thank God, they will find eggs and bacon delicious too, hungry and fresh in the morning of their lives.
I was becoming slightly too active in mind for the proper observance of Sunday morning (given, of course, that you have chosen not to go to church), for the real attitude is a state of tranquil53 bemusedness, but it was too late to stop now.... What, in fact, did I want?{49} Did I want to be twenty again, and go through the days and hours of those fifteen years once more?
Yes, I did. If the world could be turned back for fifteen years, I would gladly take my place there, and go through it all, good and bad together, just as it has happened. I would encore this delightful song, in fact, and be content that it should be sung again—it, not another song. Of course, if one could start again at the age of twenty—or ten, for that matter—and live it over again with the knowledge, infinitesimal as it is, that one has gained now, I imagine that the vast majority of the world would put the hands of the clock back. On all those thousands of occasions on which one has acted stupidly, unkindly, evilly, and has probably suffered for it without delay (for it is mercifully ordained54 that we have not long to wait before our punishment begins, especially if we have been foolish), we should now do differently, remembering that it did not pay—to put things at their lowest—to be asses55 and knaves56. Apart from that, we should have the same beautiful, flawless days again, when, so{50} I cannot but think, the beneficent power has somehow come very close to us and our surroundings, and by its neighbourhood has given us a series, again and again repeated, of hours in which we have been unable to imagine anything better than what we have got. We have wanted, with all the eager happiness that wanting gives, and we have obtained; but before any leanness of the soul has entered we have wanted again. We have had happiness, not content (since that implies the end of wanting) but happiness, the content that dwells not in the present only, but looked forward. I have no idea whether, on the whole, I am happier than the average of other people, since there is no thermometer yet invented that can register that. But I do know that I would choose to go back and live it all over again, as it has been. With the little experience, the little knowledge that must inevitably57 come with years, whether one is stupid or not, I imagine that everybody would choose to go back, but I wish to state distinctly that I would go back without that. I suppose it was that which made me just now feel I envied{51} Legs. But I don’t do that really for this reason.
Supposing that what I should choose (because I really should) were given me, what then? I should arrive again eventually in the mere58 measure of years at the point where I am now, no different, no better, no worse. I should like to go back, because it has been such fun. But there is better than that ahead: of that I am completely convinced. There are as many (if not more, and I think there are more) entrancing discoveries from middle age as there have been from youth, and I am convinced again that if one happens to live to be old there will be as many more.
After all, to re-read life again would be like re-reading the first volume of an absorbing book. One has revelled59 in the first volume, and naturally wants to revel60 again. But what is going to happen? There is nothing that interests me so much as that. To-day, even in this quiet domestic life of ours, there are a hundred threads leading out into unknown countries, all of which, if one lives, one will follow up. And all, big and tiny alike, are so stupendous.{52} If, to take the forward view, I could see in a mirror now what and where all those people—few of them, no doubt, but friends—those who really matter, would be in a year’s time, how I should seize the magic reflector, and gaze into it! Incomparable as has been the romance of life up till now, it is known to me. But to peep into the second volume!
The sun, in the full blaze of which Legs had laid, peeped over the top of the elm in shade of which I had seated myself, and, not being Leggish, I shifted my chair again to consider this point.
It is a question of scale that is here concerned, though the scale seems to me to be an unreal one. If I happened to be the Emperor of All the Russias, and the magic mirror were given me, I should look eagerly out for my own figure, and see if I still wore a crown. I should scrutinize61 the faces of those around me, to see if war and the hell-hag of revolution had been shrieking62 through my illimitable country. But my interests are not soul-stirring to any but me, and anyhow not of European importance. So I should look to see who sat on this lawn a{53} year hence; I should ask for a short survey of the Embassy at Paris, to see if Legs was attached; I should visit a dozen houses or so. But if I was allowed to put the clock back fifteen years, I should have to wait longer for this.... So I must reconsider my choice, and I am afraid I must reverse it. But it must be understood that I choose not to be twenty again, merely because it will take longer to be forty and fifty. I want the second volume so much.
‘Or....’ Here Helen’s voice broke in. She had come back from church, and had seated herself on the grass, and I believe that half of what appeared to be soliloquy was actually spoken to her. But she is wonderfully patient.
‘It is youth you want,’ she said, ‘and you have got it till you cease to want it. It is only people who don’t care about it that grow old. Or is there more than that? Is it wanting to go on learning that keeps one young?’
A dreadful misgiving64 came over me.
‘Am I dreaming?’ I said. ‘Or did you tell me the other day that I showed signs of wishing to teach?{54}’
She laughed.
‘No; it is quite true. But I will tell you when you cease to wish to learn. I shall say it quite, quite clearly.’
She took off her hat, and speared it absently with a pin.
‘We had an awful sermon,’ she said, ‘all about the grim seriousness of life, and the opportunities that will never come back. It does seem to me it is most absolute waste of time to give a thought to that. I shan’t go to church next Sunday. I don’t feel fortified65 by thoughts like that. It’s much better for me to know that you would put the clock back, live it all over again. But about looking forward. Oh, Jack66, I think I shouldn’t look in the magic mirror if I had the chance. What if one saw oneself all alone? One would live in dread63 afterwards.’
‘Or what if you saw a cradle in the room?’ said I.
She looked up at me quickly, and then put out her hands for me to pull her up.
‘Perhaps I should look in the mirror,’ she said.{55}
Poor Legs, as he had said, left by a very early train next morning, and Helen, moved by a sudden violent attack of vague duty, went with him. The access was quite indeterminate. She thought merely that one ought to get back to town early on Monday, so as to have the whole day there instead of splitting it up. Personally I followed neither her reasoning nor example, and intended to spend the day in dignified67 inaction in the country, and not split it up by going to town till after dinner. But to the owner of a motor-car the train appears a degraded sort of business, and, greatly daring, I meant to start about nine in the evening, and be the monarch68 of the road; for when there is no other traffic, any car becomes a chariot of triumph. Helen, I may remark, loves our motor when she does not want to go anywhere particular. When she does she takes the train. I think, in fact, that it was my proposal that we should drive up together after dinner that was the direct parent of her sense of duty.
So, when I came down at the not unreasonable69 hour of nine to breakfast, I found that I had{56} the house to myself, and—I am not in the least ashamed of the confession—found that the prospect70 of an absolutely solitary71 day was quite to my mind. I do not believe myself to be unsociable or morose72, but every now and then I confess that I like a day in which I see nobody. It is not that one is busy, and wants to get through one’s work, for, on the contrary, when I have a great deal to do, I hugely desire the presence and the conversation of friends in the intervals73 of ‘doing.’ But occasionally it is a very good thing to chew and ruminate74, to be surrounded by the quiet green things of the earth, which give you all their best without waking the corresponding instinct to exchange ideas, to give something of yours to meet theirs. For intercourse75 with one’s fellow-men, especially with one’s friends, is like some rapid interchange of presents. Everybody (everybody, at least, who has the smallest sense of sociability) searches in his mind for any little thing that may be there, and gives it his friend, while the friend, accepting it, gives something back. From all that—we cannot call it an effort since it is so completely spontaneous on both sides{57}—it is well to be free occasionally, to lie, so to speak, under the pelting76 rain of life that is ever poured out from the voiceless, eloquent77, bright-eyed happiness of Nature, to make no plan, to contemplate78 no contingency79, to drop that sort of fencing rapier that we all wield80 when we are with our fellow-men, and lie like a log, with one eye open it may be, and be rained upon by the things that live, and are clothed and nourished without toil81 or spinning.
I am aware that the great Strenuists, from Mr. Roosevelt downwards82, would hold up their toil-hardened hands at this, exclaiming: ‘You mean it is better now and then to be a cow than a Man?’ Precisely83 so, but cows are not nearly as inactive as Man on these occasions ought to be. They eat too long, and they switch their tails, and stamp their feet. But the long, stupid, bovine84 gaze is moderately correct. At least, I have never detected a shadow of intelligence in a cow’s eye. If there is any, the man who occasionally becomes a cow must be careful to get rid of it. Nor must he be a cow too often: that is fatal. If he is a cow for one day in{58} every six weeks, I think he will find the proportion is about right.
So all day, literally85 all day, I sat, or, when sitting became too fatiguing86, lay on the lawn, and nothing happened that did not always happen, but all was worth observing in a purely87 bovine manner, without intelligence. Little brown twigs88 occasionally fell from the elms, and once or twice a withered89 yellow leaf came spinning on its own axis90, as if it was the screw of some unseen steamer. A stag-beetle walked slowly down from the wooden paling, and came some ten yards across the lawn. It stopped there about an hour, I should think, doing nothing whatever. Then it turned and went back on to the paling again. A robin91 took about the same length of time to make up his mind that I was quite harmless, and eventually pecked at my bootlace, which was undone92. It took him an enormous time to decide, with his head cocked sideways, whether it tasted nice or not, but eventually he settled it did not, for he did not peck it again. Then a jackdaw sat on one of the poles of the tennis-net, and said ‘Jarck’ seventeen times after I began to count.{59} He began to say it the eighteenth time, but stopped in the middle and ate an incautious earwig.
That was almost too exciting, and I transferred not my attention, because I had not got any, but my bovine gaze to the big flower-bed opposite. All summer was there, dim, hot, blossoming summer in full luxuriance of growth, so that scarcely a square inch of earth was visible. I did not even name the dear familiar flowers that grew there. One was a spire93 of blue, one was a cluster of orange; there was an orchestra of red trumpets94, a mist of starry95 grey, and bits of sky caught in a web of green. And from beyond (I could not help naming that) the odour of sweet-peas. I lay and soaked in it.
To use a simile96, do you know those mysterious things which are to be found on the chalk downs, called dew-ponds? Often, of course, they are fed with rain, but even when for months no rain has fallen, you will still find them full. They just lie open to the sky and that is all. And the mind, so it seems to me, is{60} something like them. Often it is fed in the obvious way, as the dew-pond with rain, by conscious thought, by active intercourse with others. But sometimes it is not a bad thing for it to be like the dew-pond, just to lie open to the sky, and drink in the eternal wine of Nature, which fills its pond again. All that is required of it is to do nothing whatever, not to think even, but just to be there, to be in existence, to let go of everything. It really is worth the experiment, though it is not quite so easy as it sounds, for thoughts, ideas of some kind, keep leaking in. They must be firmly excluded.
The snuffling motor rose like a hero to the occasion, and came round throbbing97 with excitement. Something in the idea of this drive by night had evidently taken its fancy, and it positively98 burned to exceed the legal limit, a wish that I was only too glad to gratify. When we started the crimson99 of the sunset was still aflame in the west, but gradually the colour was withdrawn100, as if some unseen hand was pulling out scarlet101 threads that ran through some exquisite102 fabric103 of dainty embroidery104, leaving{61} there only the soft transparent105 ground of it. Then more gradually, so that the eye could not trace the appearance of each, but only knew that the number was being multiplied, behind the dark velvet106 of the sky were lit the myriad107 suns that make a flame of space, and sing in their orbits. Colours faded and disappeared, and soon the world was turned to an etching of black and white. The roads were empty of traffic, and though July was here, still from dark coppice and leafy screen there sounded the one eternal song, the rapture of nightingales. Often it seemed to me as if we were standing still, while the world in its revolution span by us; there was but a space of lamp-lit road by which, shadow-like, dream-like, the trees and open spaces ran. For a long piece together, as over the Hartford Bridge flats, nothing marked our passage except this whirling of the world. It seemed in the darkness that time had ceased, and that from its own impetus108 this globe and the thousand globes above were circling still.
Then in front there began to shine, like the reflected light of some comet coming nearer, the huge glow-worm of London. For a while it{62} rested, like some remote befogged star on the horizon; then its light brightened, and its little crawling caterpillars109, the trains and buses, began to creep by us, reaching out, as it were, to the end of the leaf, the greenest and most succulent parts.
Then, like the opening of a photographer’s shutter110, so swift it was, we were in the traffic of the town again, and all was familiar, all was home. The country was home too, and here was another. Which was the truer sense? The sense that claimed the jackdaw on the tennis-net as a brother, or the sense that rejoiced in this fierce-beating pulse of life?
Perhaps, since they are both true, there is no question of comparison.
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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collapse
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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aroma
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bouquet
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ascertained
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predecessor
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nomination
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tiresome
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entail
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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19
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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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21
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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22
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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24
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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25
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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26
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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27
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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29
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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30
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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31
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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32
usurps
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的第三人称单数 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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33
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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34
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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35
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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36
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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37
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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38
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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39
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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40
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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41
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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42
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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43
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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44
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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45
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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46
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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47
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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48
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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49
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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52
stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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53
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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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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55
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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58
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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59
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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60
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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61
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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62
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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63
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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64
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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65
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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66
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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67
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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68
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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69
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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71
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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72
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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73
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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74
ruminate
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| v.反刍；沉思 | |
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75
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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76
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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77
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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78
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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79
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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80
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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81
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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82
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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83
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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84
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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85
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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86
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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87
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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88
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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89
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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90
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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91
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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92
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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93
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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94
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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95
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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96
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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97
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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98
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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99
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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100
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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101
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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102
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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103
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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104
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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105
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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106
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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107
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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108
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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109
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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110
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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