HALF wishful that the hour would come; half shuddering1 that every moment it still came nearer and more near to him; dry-eyed, but wet with that dark day's rain; at fall of eve, Pierre emerged from long wanderings in the primeval woods of Saddle Meadows, and for one instant stood motionless upon their sloping skirt.
Where he stood was in the rude wood road, only used by sledges3 in the time of snow; just where the out-posted trees formed a narrow arch, and fancied gateway4 leading upon the far, wide pastures sweeping5 down toward the lake. In that wet and misty6 eve the scattered7, shivering pasture elms seemed standing8 in a world inhospitable, yet rooted by inscrutable sense of duty to their place. Beyond, the lake lay in one sheet of blankness and of dumbness, unstirred by breeze or breath; fast bound there it lay, with not life enough to reflect the smallest shrub9 or twig10. Yet in that lake was seen the duplicate, stirless sky above. Only in sunshine did that lake catch gay, green images; and these but displaced the imaged muteness of the unfeatured heavens.
On both sides, in the remoter distance, and also far beyond the mild lake's further shore, rose the long, mysterious mountain masses; shaggy with pines and hemlocks11, mystical with nameless, vapory exhalations, and in that dim air black with dread12 and gloom. At their base, profoundest forests lay entranced, and from their far owl-haunted depths of caves and rotted leaves, and unused and unregarded inland overgrowth of decaying wood—for smallest sticks of which, in other climes many a pauper13 was that moment perishing; from out the infinite inhumanities of those profoundest forests, came a moaning, muttering, roaring, intermitted, changeful sound: rain-shakings of the palsied trees, slidings of rocks undermined, final crashings of long-riven boughs14, and devilish gibberish of the forest-ghosts.
But more near, on the mild lake's hither shore, where it formed a long semi-circular and scooped15 acclivity of corn-fields, there the small and low red farm-house lay; its ancient roof a bed of brightest mosses16; its north front (from the north the moss-wind blows), also moss-incrusted, like the north side of any vast-trunked maple17 in the groves18. At one gabled end, a tangled19 arbor20 claimed support, and paid for it by generous gratuities21 of broad-flung verdure, one viny shaft22 of which pointed23 itself upright against the chimney-bricks, as if a waving lightning-rod. Against the other gable, you saw the lowly dairy-shed; its sides close netted with traced Madeira vines; and had you been close enough, peeping through that imprisoning24 tracery, and through the light slats barring the little embrasure of a window, you might have seen the gentle and contented25 captives—the pans of milk, and the snow-white Dutch cheeses in a row, and the molds of golden butter, and the jars of lily cream. In front, three straight gigantic lindens stood guardians26 of this verdant27 spot. A long way up, almost to the ridge-pole of the house, they showed little foliage28; but then, suddenly, as three huge green balloons, they poised29 their three vast, inverted30, rounded cones31 of verdure in the air.
Soon as Pierre's eye rested on the place, a tremor32 shook him. Not alone because of Isabel, as there a harborer now, but because of two dependent and most strange coincidences which that day's experience had brought to him. He had gone to breakfast with his mother, his heart charged to overflowing33 with presentiments34 of what would probably be her haughty35 disposition36 concerning such a being as Isabel, claiming her maternal37 love: and lo! the Reverend Mr. Falsgrave enters, and Ned and Delly are discussed, and that whole sympathetic matter, which Pierre had despaired of bringing before his mother in all its ethic38 bearings, so as absolutely to learn her thoughts upon it, and thereby39 test his own conjectures40; all that matter had been fully41 talked about; so that, through that strange coincidence, he now perfectly42 knew his mother's mind, and had received forewarnings, as if from heaven, not to make any present disclosure to her. That was in the morning; and now, at eve catching43 a glimpse of the house where Isabel was harboring, at once he recognized it as the rented farm-house of old Walter Ulver, father to the self-same Delly, forever ruined through the cruel arts of Ned.
Strangest feelings, almost supernatural, now stole into Pierre. With little power to touch with awe44 the souls of less susceptible45, reflective, and poetic46 beings, such coincidences, however frequently they may recur47, ever fill the finer organization with sensations which transcend48 all verbal renderings49. They take hold of life's subtlest problem. With the lightning's flash, the query51 is spontaneously propounded—chance, or God? If too, the mind thus influenced be likewise a prey52 to any settled grief, then on all sides the query magnifies, and at last takes in the all-comprehending round of things. For ever is it seen, that sincere souls in suffering, then most ponder upon final causes. The heart, stirred to its depths, finds correlative sympathy in the head, which likewise is profoundly moved. Before miserable53 men, when intellectual, all the ages of the world pass as in a manacled procession, and all their myriad54 links rattle55 in the mournful mystery.
Pacing beneath the long-skirting shadows of the elevated wood, waiting for the appointed hour to come, Pierre strangely strove to imagine to himself the scene which was destined56 to ensue. But imagination utterly57 failed him here; the reality was too real for him; only the face, the face alone now visited him; and so accustomed had he been of late to confound it with the shapes of air, that he almost trembled when he thought that face to face, that face must shortly meet his own.
And now the thicker shadows begin to fall; the place is lost to him; only the three dim, tall lindens pilot him as he descends58 the hill, hovering59 upon the house. He knows it not, but his meditative60 route is sinuous61; as if that moment his thought's stream was likewise serpentining62: laterally63 obstructed64 by insinuated65 misgivings66 as to the ultimate utilitarian67 advisability of the enthusiast68 resolution that was his. His steps decrease in quickness as he comes more nigh, and sees one feeble light struggling in the rustic69 double-casement70. Infallibly he knows that his own voluntary steps are taking him forever from the brilliant chandeliers of the mansion71 of Saddle Meadows, to join company with the wretched rush-lights of poverty and woe72. But his sublime73 intuitiveness also paints to him the sun-like glories of god-like truth and virtue74; which though ever obscured by the dense75 fogs of earth, still shall shine eventually in unclouded radiance, casting illustrative light upon the sapphire76 throne of God.
II.
HE stands before the door; the house is steeped in silence; he knocks; the casement light flickers77 for a moment, and then moves away; within, he hears a door creak on its hinges; then his whole heart beats wildly as the outer latch78 is lifted; and holding the light above her supernatural head, Isabel stands before him. It is herself. No word is spoken; no other soul is seen. They enter the room of the double casement; and Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and spiritual awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel's gaze of loveliness and loneliness; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more than natural musicalness is heard:—
"And so, thou art my brother;—shall I call thee Pierre?"
Steadfastly80, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of the person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes her; and in that one instant sees in the imploring81 face, not only the nameless touchingness82 of that of the sewing-girl, but also the subtler expression of the portrait of his then youthful father, strangely translated, and intermarryingly blended with some before unknown, foreign feminineness. In one breath, Memory and Prophecy, and Intuition tell him—"Pierre, have no reserves; no minutest possible doubt;—this being is thy sister; thou gazest on thy father's flesh."
"And so thou art my brother!—shall I call thee Pierre?"
He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting arms.
"Thou art! thou art!"
He felt a faint struggling within his clasp; her head drooped84 against him; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glossiness86 of her long and unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks aside, he now gazed upon the death-like beauty of the face, and caught immortal87 sadness from it. She seemed as dead; as suffocated,—the death that leaves most unimpaired the latent tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance88.
He would have called aloud for succor89; but the slow eyes opened upon him; and slowly he felt the girl's supineness leaving her; and now she recovers herself a little,—and again he feels her faintly struggling in his arms, as if somehow abashed90, and incredulous of mortal right to hold her so. Now Pierre repents91 his over-ardent and incautious warmth, and feels himself all reverence92 for her. Tenderly he leads her to a bench within the double casement; and sits beside her; and waits in silence, till the first shock of this encounter shall have left her more composed and more prepared to hold communion with him.
"How feel'st thou now, my sister?"
"Bless thee! bless thee!"
Again the sweet, wild power of the musicalness of the voice, and some soft, strange touch of foreignness in the accent,—so it fancifully seemed to Pierre, thrills through and through his soul. He bent93 and kissed her brow; and then feels her hand seeking his, and then clasping it without one uttered word.
All his being is now condensed in that one sensation of the clasping hand. He feels it as very small and smooth, but strangely hard. Then he knew that by the lonely labor94 of her hands, his own father's daughter had earned her living in the same world, where he himself, her own brother, had so idly dwelled. Once more he reverently95 kissed her brow, and his warm breath against it murmured with a prayer to heaven.
"I have no tongue to speak to thee, Pierre, my brother. My whole being, all my life's thoughts and longings96 are in endless arrears98 to thee; then how can I speak to thee? Were it God's will, Pierre, my utmost blessing99 now, were to lie down and die. Then should I be at peace. Bear with me, Pierre."
"Eternally will I do that, my beloved Isabel! Speak not to me yet awhile, if that seemeth best to thee, if that only is possible to thee. This thy clasping hand, my sister, this is now thy tongue to me."
"I know not where to begin to speak to thee, Pierre; and yet my soul o'erbrims in me."
"From my heart's depths, I love and reverence thee; and feel for thee, backward and forward, through all eternity100!"
"Oh, Pierre, can'st thou not cure in me this dreaminess, this bewilderingness I feel? My poor head swims and swims, and will not pause. My life can not last long thus; I am too full without discharge. Conjure101 tears for me, Pierre; that my heart may not break with the present feeling,—more death-like to me than all my grief gone by!"
"Ye thirst-slaking evening skies, ye hilly dews and mists, distil102 your moisture here! The bolt hath passed; why comes not the following shower?—Make her to weep!"
Then her head sought his support; and big drops fell on him; and anon, Isabel gently slid her head from him, and sat a little composedly beside him.
"If thou feelest in endless arrears of thought to me, my sister; so do I feel toward thee. I too, scarce know what I should speak to thee. But when thou lookest on me, my sister, thou beholdest one, who in his soul hath taken vows103 immutable104, to be to thee, in all respects, and to the uttermost bounds and possibilities of Fate, thy protecting and all-acknowledging brother!"
"Not mere105 sounds of common words, but inmost tones of my heart's deepest melodies should now be audible to thee. Thou speakest to a human thing, but something heavenly should answer thee;—some flute106 heard in the air should answer thee; for sure thy most undreamed-of accents, Pierre, sure they have not been unheard on high. Blessings107 that are imageless to all mortal fancyings, these shall be thine for this."
"Blessing like to thine, doth but recoil108 and bless homeward to the heart that uttered it. I can not bless thee, my sister, as thou dost bless thyself in blessing my unworthiness. But, Isabel, by still keeping present the first wonder of our meeting, we shall make our hearts all feebleness. Let me then rehearse to thee what Pierre is; what life hitherto he hath been leading; and what hereafter he shall lead;—so thou wilt109 be prepared."
"Nay110, Pierre, that is my office; thou art first entitled to my tale, then, if it suit thee, thou shalt make me the unentitled gift of thine. Listen to me, now. The invisible things will give me strength;—it is not much, Pierre;—nor aught very marvelous. Listen then;—I feel soothed112 down to utterance113 now."
During some brief, interluding, silent pauses in their interview thus far, Pierre had heard a soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, meditative stepping on the floor above; and in the frequent pauses that intermitted the strange story in the following chapter, that same soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, meditative, and most melancholy114 stepping, was again and again audible in the silent room.
III.
"I never knew a mortal mother. The farthest stretch of my life's memory can not recall one single feature of such a face. If, indeed, mother of mine hath lived, she is long gone, and cast no shadow on the ground she trod. Pierre, the lips that do now speak to thee, never touched a woman's breast; I seem not of woman born. My first dim life-thoughts cluster round an old, half-ruinous house in some region, for which I now have no chart to seek it out. If such a spot did ever really exist, that too seems to have been withdrawn115 from all the remainder of the earth. It was a wild, dark house, planted in the midst of a round, cleared, deeply-sloping space, scooped out of the middle of deep stunted117 pine woods. Ever I shrunk at evening from peeping out of my window, lest the ghostly pines should steal near to me, and reach out their grim arms to snatch me into their horrid118 shadows. In summer the forest unceasingly hummed with unconjecturable voices of unknown birds and beasts. In winter its deep snows were traced like any paper map, with dotting night-tracks of four-footed creatures, that, even to the sun, were never visible, and never were seen by man at all. In the round open space the dark house stood, without one single green twig or leaf to shelter it; shadeless and shelterless in the heart of shade and shelter. Some of the windows were rudely boarded up, with boards nailed straight up and down; and those rooms were utterly empty, and never were entered, though they were doorless. But often, from the echoing corridor, I gazed into them with fear; for the great fire-places were all in ruins; the lower tier of back-stones were burnt into one white, common crumbling119; and the black bricks above had fallen upon the hearths120, heaped here and there with the still falling soot111 of long-extinguished fires. Every hearth-stone in that house had one long crack through it; every floor drooped at the corners; and outside, the whole base of the house, where it rested on the low foundation of greenish stones, was strewn with dull, yellow molderings of the rotting sills. No name; no scrawled121 or written thing; no book, was in the house; no one memorial speaking of its former occupants. It was dumb as death. No grave-stone, or mound122, or any little hillock around the house, betrayed any past burials of man or child. And thus, with no trace then to me of its past history, thus it hath now entirely123 departed and perished from my slightest knowledge as to where that house so stood, or in what region it so stood. None other house like it have I ever seen. But once I saw plates of the outside of French chateaux which powerfully recalled its dim image to me, especially the two rows of small dormer windows projecting from the inverted hopper-roof. But that house was of wood, and these of stone. Still, sometimes I think that house was not in this country, but somewhere in Europe; perhaps in France; but it is all bewildering to me; and so you must not start at me, for I can not but talk wildly upon so wild a theme.
"In this house I never saw any living human soul, but an old man and woman. The old man's face was almost black with age, and was one purse of wrinkles, his hoary124 beard always tangled, streaked125 with dust and earthy crumbs126. I think in summer he toiled127 a little in the garden, or some spot like that, which lay on one side of the house. All my ideas are in uncertainty128 and confusion here. But the old man and the old woman seem to have fastened themselves indelibly upon my memory. I suppose their being the only human things around me then, that caused the hold they took upon me. They seldom spoke79 to me; but would sometimes, of dark, gusty129 nights, sit by the fire and stare at me, and then mumble130 to each other, and then stare at me again. They were not entirely unkind to me; but, I repeat, they seldom or never spoke to me. What words or language they used to each other, this it is impossible for me to recall. I have often wished to; for then I might at least have some additional idea whether the house was in this country or somewhere beyond the sea. And here I ought to say, that sometimes I have, I know not what sort of vague remembrances of at one time—shortly after the period I now speak of—chattering in two different childish languages; one of which waned131 in me as the other and latter grew. But more of this anon. It was the woman that gave me my meals; for I did not eat with them. Once they sat by the fire with a loaf between them, and a bottle of some thin sort of reddish wine; and I went up to them, and asked to eat with them, and touched the loaf. But instantly the old man made a motion as if to strike me, but did not, and the woman, glaring at me, snatched the loaf and threw it into the fire before them. I ran frightened from the room; and sought a cat, which I had often tried to coax132 into some intimacy133, but, for some strange cause, without success. But in my frightened loneliness, then, I sought the cat again, and found her up-stairs, softly scratching for some hidden thing among the litter of the abandoned fire-places. I called to her, for I dared not go into the haunted chamber134; but she only gazed sideways and unintelligently toward me; and continued her noiseless searchings. I called again, and then she turned round and hissed135 at me; and I ran down stairs, still stung with the thought of having been driven away there, too. I now knew not where to go to rid myself of my loneliness. At last I went outside of the house, and sat down on a stone, but its coldness went up to my heart, and I rose and stood on my feet. But my head was dizzy; I could not stand; I fell, and knew no more. But next morning I found myself in bed in my uncheerable room, and some dark bread and a cup of water by me.
"It has only been by chance that I have told thee this one particular reminiscence of my early life in that house. I could tell many more like it, but this is enough to show what manner of life I led at that time. Every day that I then lived, I felt all visible sights and all audible sounds growing stranger and stranger, and fearful and more fearful to me. To me the man and the woman were just like the cat; none of them would speak to me; none of them were comprehensible to me. And the man, and the woman, and the cat, were just like the green foundation stones of the house to me; I knew not whence they came, or what cause they had for being there. I say again, no living human soul came to the house but the man and the woman; but sometimes the old man early trudged136 away to a road that led through the woods, and would not come back till late in the evening; he brought the dark bread, and the thin, reddish wine with him. Though the entrance to the wood was not so very far from the door, yet he came so slowly and infirmly trudging137 with his little load, that it seemed weary hours on hours between my first descrying138 him among the trees, and his crossing the splintered threshold.
"Now the wide and vacant blurrings of my early life thicken in my mind. All goes wholly memoryless to me now. It may have been that about that time I grew sick with some fever, in which for a long interval139 I lost myself. Or it may be true, which I have heard, that after the period of our very earliest recollections, then a space intervenes of entire unknowingness, followed again by the first dim glimpses of the succeeding memory, more or less distinctly embracing all our past up to that one early gap in it.
"However this may be, nothing more can I recall of the house in the wide open space; nothing of how at last I came to leave it; but I must have been still extremely young then. But some uncertain, tossing memory have I of being at last in another round, open space, but immensely larger than the first one, and with no encircling belt of woods. Yet often it seems to me that there were three tall, straight things like pine-trees somewhere there nigh to me at times; and that they fearfully shook and snapt as the old trees used to in the mountain storms. And the floors seemed sometimes to droop85 at the corners still more steeply than the old floors did; and changefully drooped too, so that I would even seem to feel them drooping140 under me.
"Now, too, it was that, as it sometimes seems to me, I first and last chattered141 in the two childish languages I spoke of a little time ago. There seemed people about me, some of whom talked one, and some the other; but I talked both; yet one not so readily as the other; and but beginningly as it were; still this other was the one which was gradually displacing the former. The men who—as it sometimes dreamily seems to me at times—often climbed the three strange tree-like things, they talked—I needs must think—if indeed I have any real thought about so bodiless a phantom142 as this is—they talked the language which I speak of as at this time gradually waning143 in me. It was a bonny tongue; oh, seems to me so sparkling-gay and lightsome; just the tongue for a child like me, if the child had not been so sad always. It was pure children's language, Pierre; so twittering—such a chirp144.
"In thy own mind, thou must now perceive, that most of these dim remembrances in me, hint vaguely145 of a ship at sea. But all is dim and vague to me. Scarce know I at any time whether I tell you real things, or the unrealest dreams. Always in me, the solidest things melt into dreams, and dreams into solidities. Never have I wholly recovered from the effects of my strange early life. This it is, that even now—this moment—surrounds thy visible form, my brother, with a mysterious mistiness146; so that a second face, and a third face, and a fourth face peep at me from within thy own. Now dim, and more dim, grows in me all the memory of how thou and I did come to meet. I go groping again amid all sorts of shapes, which part to me; so that I seem to advance through the shapes; and yet the shapes have eyes that look at me. I turn round, and they look at me; I step forward, and they look at me.—Let me be silent now; do not speak to me."
IV.
FILLED with nameless wonderings at this strange being, Pierre sat mute, intensely regarding her half-averted aspect. Her immense soft tresses of the jettiest hair had slantingly fallen over her as though a curtain were half drawn116 from before some saint enshrined. To Pierre, she seemed half unearthly; but this unearthliness was only her mysteriousness, not any thing that was repelling147 or menacing to him. And still, the low melodies of her far interior voice hovered148 in sweet echoes in the room; and were trodden upon, and pressed like gushing149 grapes, by the steady invisible pacing on the floor above.
She moved a little now, and after some strange wanderings more coherently continued.
"My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely upon, was yet another house, also situated150 away from human haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country. Through this country, and by the house, wound a green and lagging river. That house must have been in some lowland; for the first house I spoke of seems to me to have been somewhere among mountains, or near to mountains;—the sounds of the far waterfalls,—I seem to hear them now; the steady up-pointed cloud-shapes behind the house in the sunset sky—I seem to see them now. But this other house, this second one, or third one, I know not which, I say again it was in some lowland. There were no pines around it; few trees of any sort; the ground did not slope so steeply as around the first house. There were cultivated fields about it, and in the distance farm-houses, and out-houses, and cattle, and fowls151, and many objects of that familiar sort. This house I am persuaded was in this country; on this side of the sea. It was a very large house, and full of people; but for the most part they lived separately. There were some old people in it, and there were young men, and young women in it,—some very handsome; and there were children in it. It seemed a happy place to some of these people; many of them were always laughing; but it was not a happy place for me.
"But here I may err2, because of my own consciousness I can not identify in myself—I mean in the memory of my whole foregoing life,—I say, I can not identify that thing which is called happiness; that thing whose token is a laugh, or a smile, or a silent serenity152 on the lip. I may have been happy, but it is not in my conscious memory now. Nor do I feel a longing97 for it, as though I had never had it; my spirit seeks different food from happiness; for I think I have a suspicion of what it is. I have suffered wretchedness, but not because of the absence of happiness, and without praying for happiness. I pray for peace—for motionlessness—for the feeling of myself, as of some plant, absorbing life without seeking it, and existing without individual sensation. I feel that there can be no perfect peace in individualness. Therefore I hope one day to feel myself drank up into the pervading153 spirit animating154 all things. I feel I am an exile here. I still go straying.—Yes; in thy speech, thou smilest.—But let me be silent again. Do not answer me. When I resume, I will not wander so, but make short end."
Reverently resolved not to offer the slightest let or hinting hindrance155 to the singular tale rehearsing to him, but to sit passively and receive its marvelous droppings into his soul, however long the pauses; and as touching83 less mystical considerations, persuaded that by so doing he should ultimately derive156 the least nebulous and imperfect account of Isabel's history; Pierre still sat waiting her resuming, his eyes fixed157 upon the girl's wonderfully beautiful ear, which chancing to peep forth158 from among her abundant tresses, nestled in that blackness like a transparent159 sea-shell of pearl.
She moved a little now; and after some strange wanderings more coherently continued; while the sound of the stepping on the floor above—it seemed to cease.
"I have spoken of the second or rather the third spot in my memory of the past, as it first appeared to me; I mean, I have spoken of the people in the house, according to my very earliest recallable impression of them. But I stayed in that house for several years—five, six, perhaps, seven years—and during that interval of my stay, all things changed to me, because I learned more, though always dimly. Some of its occupants departed; some changed from smiles to tears; some went moping all the day; some grew as savages160 and outrageous161, and were dragged below by dumb-like men into deep places, that I knew nothing of, but dismal162 sounds came through the lower floor, groans164 and clanking fallings, as of iron in straw. Now and then, I saw coffins165 silently at noon-day carried into the house, and in five minutes' time emerge again, seemingly heavier than they entered; but I saw not who was in them. Once, I saw an immense-sized coffin166, endwise pushed through a lower window by three men who did not speak; and watching, I saw it pushed out again, and they drove off with it. But the numbers of those invisible persons who thus departed from the house, were made good by other invisible persons arriving in close carriages. Some in rags and tatters came on foot, or rather were driven on foot. Once I heard horrible outcries, and peeping from my window, saw a robust167 but squalid and distorted man, seemingly a peasant, tied by cords with four long ends to them, held behind by as many ignorant-looking men who with a lash50 drove the wild squalid being that way toward the house. Then I heard answering hand-clappings, shrieks168, howls, laughter, blessings, prayers, oaths, hymns169, and all audible confusions issuing from all the chambers170 of the house.
"Sometimes there entered the house—though only transiently, departing within the hour they came—people of a then remarkable171 aspect to me. They were very composed of countenance; did not laugh; did not groan163; did not weep; did not make strange faces; did not look endlessly fatigued172; were not strangely and fantastically dressed; in short, did not at all resemble any people I had ever seen before, except a little like some few of the persons of the house, who seemed to have authority over the rest. These people of a remarkable aspect to me, I thought they were strangely demented people;—composed of countenance, but wandering of mind; soul-composed and bodily-wandering, and strangely demented people.
"By-and-by, the house seemed to change again, or else my mind took in more, and modified its first impressions. I was lodged173 up-stairs in a little room; there was hardly any furniture in the room; sometimes I wished to go out of it; but the door was locked. Sometimes the people came and took me out of the room, into a much larger and very long room, and here I would collectively see many of the other people of the house, who seemed likewise brought from distant and separate chambers. In this long room they would vacantly roam about, and talk vacant talk to each other. Some would stand in the middle of the room gazing steadily174 on the floor for hours together, and never stirred, but only breathed and gazed upon the floor. Some would sit crouching176 in the corner, and sit crouching there, and only breathe and crouch175 in the corners. Some kept their hands tight on their hearts, and went slowly promenading177 up and down, moaning and moaning to themselves. One would say to another—"Feel of it—here, put thy hand in the break." Another would mutter—"Broken, broken, broken"—and would mutter nothing but that one word broken. But most of them were dumb, and could not, or would not speak, or had forgotten how to speak. They were nearly all pale people. Some had hair white as snow, and yet were quite young people. Some were always talking about Hell, Eternity, and God; and some of all things as fixedly178 decreed; others would say nay to this, and then they would argue, but without much conviction either way. But once nearly all the people present—even the dumb moping people, and the sluggish179 persons crouching in the corners—nearly all of them laughed once, when after a whole day's loud babbling180, two of these predestinarian opponents, said each to the other—'Thou hast convinced me, friend; but we are quits; for so also, have I convinced thee, the other way; now then, let's argue it all over again; for still, though mutually converted, we are still at odds181.' Some harangued182 the wall; some apostrophized the air; some hissed at the air; some lolled their tongues out at the air; some struck the air; some made motions, as if wrestling with the air, and fell out of the arms of the air, panting from the invisible hug.
"Now, as in the former thing, thou must, ere this, have suspected what manner of place this second or third house was, that I then lived in. But do not speak the word to me. That word has never passed my lips; even now, when I hear the word, I run from it; when I see it printed in a book, I run from the book. The word is wholly unendurable to me. Who brought me to the house; how I came there, I do not know. I lived a long time in the house; that alone I know; I say I know, but still I am uncertain; still Pierre, still the—oh the dreaminess, the bewilderingness—it never entirely leaves me. Let me be still again."
She leaned away from him; she put her small hard hand to her forehead; then moved it down, very slowly, but still hardly over her eyes, and kept it there, making no other sign, and still as death. Then she moved and continued her vague tale of terribleness.
"I must be shorter; I did not mean to turn off into the mere offshootings of my story, here and there; but the dreaminess I speak of leads me sometimes; and I, as impotent then, obey the dreamy prompting. Bear with me; now I will be briefer."
"It came to pass, at last, that there was a contention183 about me in the house; some contention which I heard in the after rumor184 only, not at the actual time. Some strangers had arrived; or had come in haste, being sent for to the house. Next day they dressed me in new and pretty, but still plain clothes, and they took me down stairs, and out into the air, and into a carriage with a pleasant-looking woman, a stranger to me; and I was driven off a good way, two days nearly we drove away, stopping somewhere over-night; and on the evening of the second day we came to another house, and went into it, and stayed there.
"This house was a much smaller one than the other, and seemed sweetly quiet to me after that. There was a beautiful infant in it; and this beautiful infant always archly and innocently smiling on me, and strangely beckoning185 me to come and play with it, and be glad with it; and be thoughtless, and be glad and gleeful with it; this beautiful infant first brought me to my own mind, as it were; first made me sensible that I was something different from stones, trees, cats; first undid186 in me the fancy that all people were as stones, trees, cats; first filled me with the sweet idea of humanness; first made me aware of the infinite mercifulness, and tenderness, and beautifulness of humanness; and this beautiful infant first filled me with the dim thought of Beauty; and equally, and at the same time, with the feeling of the Sadness; of the immortalness and universalness of the Sadness. I now feel that I should soon have gone,—— stop me now; do not let me go that way. I owe all things to that beautiful infant. Oh, how I envied it, lying in its happy mother's breast, and drawing life and gladness, and all its perpetual smilingness from that white and smiling breast. That infant saved me; but still gave me vague desirings. Now I first began to reflect in my mind; to endeavor after the recalling past things; but try as I would, little could I recall, but the bewilderingness;—and the stupor187, and the torpor188, and the blackness, and the dimness, and the vacant whirlingness of the bewilderingness. Let me be still again."
And the stepping on the floor above,—it then resumed.
V.
"I must have been nine, or ten, or eleven years old, when the pleasant-looking woman carried me away from the large house. She was a farmer's wife; and now that was my residence, the farm-house. They taught me to sew, and work with wool, and spin the wool; I was nearly always busy now. This being busy, too, this it must have been, which partly brought to me the power of being sensible of myself as something human. Now I began to feel strange differences. When I saw a snake trailing through the grass, and darting189 out the fire-fork from its mouth, I said to myself, That thing is not human, but I am human. When the lightning flashed, and split some beautiful tree, and left it to rot from all its greenness, I said, That lightning is not human, but I am human. And so with all other things. I can not speak coherently here; but somehow I felt that all good, harmless men and women were human things, placed at cross-purposes, in a world of snakes and lightnings, in a world of horrible and inscrutable inhumanities. I have had no training of any sort. All my thoughts well up in me; I know not whether they pertain190 to the old bewilderings or not; but as they are, they are, and I can not alter them, for I had nothing to do with putting them in my mind, and I never affect any thoughts, and I never adulterate any thoughts; but when I speak, think forth from the tongue, speech being sometimes before the thought; so, often, my own tongue teaches me new things.
"Now as yet I never had questioned the woman, or her husband, or the young girls, their children, why I had been brought to the house, or how long I was to stay in the house. There I was; just as I found myself in the world; there I was; for what cause I had been brought into the world, would have been no stranger question to me, than for what cause I had been brought to the house. I knew nothing of myself, or any thing pertaining191 to myself; I felt my pulse, my thought; but other things I was ignorant of, except the general feeling of my humanness among the inhumanities. But as I grew older, I expanded in my mind. I began to learn things out of me; to see still stranger, and minuter differences. I called the woman mother, and so did the other girls; yet the woman often kissed them, but seldom me. She always helped them first at table. The farmer scarcely ever spoke to me. Now months, years rolled on, and the young girls began to stare at me. Then the bewilderingness of the old starings of the solitary192 old man and old woman, by the cracked hearth-stone of the desolate193 old house, in the desolate, round, open space; the bewilderingness of those old starings now returned to me; and the green starings, and the serpent hissings of the uncompanionable cat, recurred194 to me, and the feeling of the infinite forlornness of my life rolled over me. But the woman was very kind to me; she taught the girls not to be cruel to me; she would call me to her, and speak cheerfully to me, and I thanked—not God, for I had been taught no God—I thanked the bright human summer, and the joyful195 human sun in the sky; I thanked the human summer and the sun, that they had given me the woman; and I would sometimes steal away into the beautiful grass, and worship the kind summer and the sun; and often say over to myself the soft words, summer and the sun.
"Still, weeks and years ran on, and my hair began to vail me with its fullness and its length; and now often I heard the word beautiful, spoken of my hair, and beautiful, spoken of myself. They would not say the word openly to me, but I would by chance overhear them whispering it. The word joyed me with the human feeling of it. They were wrong not to say it openly to me; my joy would have been so much the more assured for the openness of their saying beautiful, to me; and I know it would have filled me with all conceivable kindness toward every one. Now I had heard the word beautiful, whispered, now and then, for some months, when a new being came to the house; they called him gentleman. His face was wonderful to me. Something strangely like it, and yet again unlike it, I had seen before, but where, I could not tell. But one day, looking into the smooth water behind the house, there I saw the likeness196—something strangely like, and yet unlike, the likeness of his face. This filled me with puzzlings. The new being, the gentleman, he was very gracious to me; he seemed astonished, confounded at me; he looked at me, then at a very little, round picture—so it seemed—which he took from his pocket, and yet concealed197 from me. Then he kissed me, and looked with tenderness and grief upon me; and I felt a tear fall on me from him. Then he whispered a word into my ear. 'Father,' was the word he whispered; the same word by which the young girls called the farmer. Then I knew it was the word of kindness and of kisses. I kissed the gentleman.
"When he left the house I wept for him to come again. And he did come again. All called him my father now. He came to see me once every month or two; till at last he came not at all; and when I wept and asked for him, they said the word Dead to me. Then the bewilderings of the comings and the goings of the coffins at the large and populous198 house; these bewilderings came over me. What was it to be dead? What is it to be living? Wherein is the difference between the words Death and Life? Had I been ever dead? Was I living? Let me be still again. Do not speak to me."
And the stepping on the floor above; again it did resume.
"Months ran on; and now I somehow learned that my father had every now and then sent money to the woman to keep me with her in the house; and that no more money had come to her after he was dead; the last penny of the former money was now gone. Now the farmer's wife looked troubledly and painfully at me; and the farmer looked unpleasantly and impatiently at me. I felt that something was miserably199 wrong; I said to myself, I am one too many; I must go away from the pleasant house. Then the bewilderings of all the loneliness and forlornness of all my forlorn and lonely life; all these bewilderings and the whelmings of the bewilderings rolled over me; and I sat down without the house, but could not weep.
"But I was strong, and I was a grown girl now. I said to the woman—Keep me hard at work; let me work all the time, but let me stay with thee. But the other girls were sufficient to do the work; me they wanted not. The farmer looked out of his eyes at me, and the out-lookings of his eyes said plainly to me—Thee we do not want; go from us; thou art one too many; and thou art more than one too many. Then I said to the woman—Hire me out to some one; let me work for some one.—But I spread too wide my little story. I must make an end.
"The woman listened to me, and through her means I went to live at another house, and earned wages there. My work was milking the cows, and making butter, and spinning wool, and weaving carpets of thin strips of cloth. One day there came to this house a pedler. In his wagon200 he had a guitar, an old guitar, yet a very pretty one, but with broken strings201. He had got it slyly in part exchange from the servants of a grand house some distance off. Spite of the broken strings, the thing looked very graceful202 and beautiful to me; and I knew there was melodiousness203 lurking204 in the thing, though I had never seen a guitar before, nor heard of one; but there was a strange humming in my heart that seemed to prophesy205 of the hummings of the guitar. Intuitively, I knew that the strings were not as they should be. I said to the man—I will buy of thee the thing thou callest a guitar. But thou must put new strings to it. So he went to search for them; and brought the strings, and restringing the guitar, tuned206 it for me. So with part of my earnings207 I bought the guitar. Straightway I took it to my little chamber in the gable, and softly laid it on my bed. Then I murmured; sung and murmured to it; very lowly, very softly; I could hardly hear myself. And I changed the modulations of my singings and my murmurings; and still sung, and murmured, lowly, softly,—more and more; and presently I heard a sudden sound: sweet and low beyond all telling was the sweet and sudden sound. I clapt my hands; the guitar was speaking to me; the dear guitar was singing to me; murmuring and singing to me, the guitar. Then I sung and murmured to it with a still different modulation208; and once more it answered me from a different string; and once more it murmured to me, and it answered to me with a different string. The guitar was human; the guitar taught me the secret of the guitar; the guitar learned me to play on the guitar. No music-master have I ever had but the guitar. I made a loving friend of it; a heart friend of it. It sings to me as I to it. Love is not all on one side with my guitar. All the wonders that are unimaginable and unspeakable; all these wonders are translated in the mysterious melodiousness of the guitar. It knows all my past history. Sometimes it plays to me the mystic visions of the confused large house I never name. Sometimes it brings to me the bird-twitterings in the air; and sometimes it strikes up in me rapturous pulsations of legendary209 delights eternally unexperienced and unknown to me. Bring me the guitar."
VI.
ENTRANCED, lost, as one wandering bedazzled and amazed among innumerable dancing lights, Pierre had motionlessly listened to this abundant-haired, and large-eyed girl of mystery.
"Bring me the guitar!"
Starting from his enchantment210, Pierre gazed round the room, and saw the instrument leaning against a corner. Silently he brought it to the girl, and silently sat down again.
"Now listen to the guitar; and the guitar shall sing to thee the sequel of my story; for not in words can it be spoken. So listen to the guitar."
Instantly the room was populous with sounds of melodiousness, and mournfulness, and wonderfulness; the room swarmed211 with the unintelligible212 but delicious sounds. The sounds seemed waltzing in the room; the sounds hung pendulous213 like glittering icicles from the corners of the room; and fell upon him with a ringing silveryness; and were drawn up again to the ceiling, and hung pendulous again, and dropt down upon him again with the ringing silveryness. Fire-flies seemed buzzing in the sounds; summer-lightnings seemed vividly214 yet softly audible in the sounds.
And still the wild girl played on the guitar; and her long dark shower of curls fell over it, and vailed it; and still, out from the vail came the swarming215 sweetness, and the utter unintelligibleness, but the infinite significancies of the sounds of the guitar.
"Girl of all-bewildering mystery!" cried Pierre—"Speak to me;—sister, if thou indeed canst be a thing that's mortal—speak to me, if thou be Isabel!"
"Mystery! Mystery!
Mystery of Isabel!
Mystery! Mystery!
Isabel and Mystery!"
Among the waltzings, and the droppings, and the swarmings of the sounds, Pierre now heard the tones above deftly216 stealing and winding217 among the myriad serpentinings of the other melody:—deftly stealing and winding as respected the instrumental sounds, but in themselves wonderfully and abandonedly free and bold—bounding and rebounding218 as from multitudinous reciprocal walls; while with every syllable219 the hair-shrouded form of Isabel swayed to and fro with a like abandonment, and suddenness, and wantonness:—then it seemed not like any song; seemed not issuing from any mouth; but it came forth from beneath the same vail concealing220 the guitar.
Now a strange wild heat burned upon his brow; he put his hand to it. Instantly the music changed; and drooped and changed; and changed and changed; and lingeringly retreated as it changed; and at last was wholly gone.
Pierre was the first to break the silence.
"Isabel, thou hast filled me with such wonderings; I am so distraught with thee, that the particular things I had to tell to thee, when I hither came; these things I can not now recall, to speak them to thee:—I feel that something is still unsaid by thee, which at some other time thou wilt reveal. But now I can stay no longer with thee. Know me eternally as thy loving, revering221, and most marveling brother, who will never desert thee, Isabel. Now let me kiss thee and depart, till to-morrow night; when I shall open to thee all my mind, and all my plans concerning me and thee. Let me kiss thee, and adieu!"
As full of unquestioning and unfaltering faith in him, the girl sat motionless and heard him out. Then silently rose, and turned her boundlessly222 confiding223 brow to him. He kissed it thrice, and without another syllable left the place.
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收听单词发音
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1
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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2
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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3
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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4
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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5
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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6
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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7
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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8
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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9
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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10
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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11
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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12
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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13
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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14
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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15
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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16
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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17
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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18
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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19
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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20
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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21
gratuities
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| n.报酬( gratuity的名词复数 )；小账；小费；养老金 | |
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22
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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23
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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24
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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25
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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26
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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27
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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28
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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29
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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30
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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32
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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33
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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34
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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35
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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36
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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37
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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38
ethic
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| n.道德标准，行为准则 | |
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39
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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40
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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41
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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42
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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43
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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44
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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45
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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46
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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47
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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48
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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49
renderings
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| n.（戏剧或乐曲的）演奏( rendering的名词复数 )；扮演；表演；翻译作品 | |
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50
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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51
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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52
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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53
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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54
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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55
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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56
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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57
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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58
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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59
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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60
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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61
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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62
serpentining
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| v.像蛇般蜷曲的，蜿蜒的( serpentine的现在分词 ) | |
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63
laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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64
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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65
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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66
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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67
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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68
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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69
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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70
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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71
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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72
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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73
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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74
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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75
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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76
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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77
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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78
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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79
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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80
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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81
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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82
touchingness
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| 易动气，过分敏感 | |
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83
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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84
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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86
glossiness
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| 有光泽的； 光泽度 | |
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87
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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88
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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89
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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90
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
repents
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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95
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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96
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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97
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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98
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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99
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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100
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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101
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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102
distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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103
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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104
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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107
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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108
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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109
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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110
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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111
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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112
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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113
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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114
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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115
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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116
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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117
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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118
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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119
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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120
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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121
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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123
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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124
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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125
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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126
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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127
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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128
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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129
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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130
mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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131
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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132
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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133
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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134
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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135
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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136
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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137
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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138
descrying
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| v.被看到的，被发现的，被注意到的( descried的过去分词 ) | |
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139
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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140
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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141
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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142
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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143
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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144
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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145
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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146
mistiness
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| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
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147
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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148
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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149
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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150
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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151
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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152
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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153
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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154
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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155
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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156
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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157
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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158
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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159
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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160
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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161
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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162
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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163
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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164
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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165
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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166
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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167
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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168
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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170
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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171
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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172
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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173
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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174
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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175
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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176
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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177
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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178
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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179
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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180
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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181
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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182
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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184
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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185
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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186
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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187
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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188
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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189
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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191
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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192
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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193
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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194
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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195
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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196
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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197
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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198
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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199
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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200
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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201
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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202
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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203
melodiousness
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| n.melodious（音调悦耳的）的变形 | |
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204
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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205
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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206
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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207
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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208
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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209
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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210
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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211
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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212
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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213
pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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214
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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215
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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216
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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217
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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218
rebounding
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| 蹦跳运动 | |
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219
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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220
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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221
revering
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的现在分词 ) | |
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222
boundlessly
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| adv.无穷地，无限地 | |
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223
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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