NOT immediately, not for a long time, could Pierre fully2, or by any approximation, realize the scene which he had just departed. But the vague revelation was now in him, that the visible world, some of which before had seemed but too common and prosaic3 to him; and but too intelligible4; he now vaguely5 felt, that all the world, and every misconceivedly common and prosaic thing in it, was steeped a million fathoms6 in a mysteriousness wholly hopeless of solution. First, the enigmatical story of the girl, and the profound sincerity7 of it, and yet the ever accompanying haziness8, obscurity, and almost miraculousness9 of it;—first, this wonderful story of the girl had displaced all commonness and prosaicness10 from his soul; and then, the inexplicable11 spell of the guitar, and the subtleness of the melodious12 appealings of the few brief words from Isabel sung in the conclusion of the melody—all this had bewitched him, and enchanted14 him, till he had sat motionless and bending over, as a tree-transformed and mystery-laden visitant, caught and fast bound in some necromancer's garden.
But as now burst from these sorceries, he hurried along the open road, he strove for the time to dispel15 the mystic feeling, or at least postpone16 it for a while, until he should have time to rally both body and soul from the more immediate1 consequences of that day's long fastings and wanderings, and that night's never-to-be-forgotten scene. He now endeavored to beat away all thoughts from him, but of present bodily needs.
Passing through the silent village, he heard the clock tell the mid17 hour of night. Hurrying on, he entered the mansion18 by a private door, the key of which hung in a secret outer place. Without undressing, he flung himself upon the bed. But remembering himself again, he rose and adjusted his alarm-clock, so that it would emphatically repeat the hour of five. Then to bed again, and driving off all intrudings of thoughtfulness, and resolutely19 bending himself to slumber21, he by-and-by fell into its at first reluctant, but at last welcoming and hospitable22 arms. At five he rose; and in the east saw the first spears of the advanced-guard of the day.
It had been his purpose to go forth23 at that early hour, and so avoid all casual contact with any inmate24 of the mansion, and spend the entire day in a second wandering in the woods, as the only fit prelude25 to the society of so wild a being as his new-found sister Isabel. But the familiar home-sights of his chamber26 strangely worked upon him. For an instant, he almost could have prayed Isabel back into the wonder-world from which she had so slidingly emerged. For an instant, the fond, all-understood blue eyes of Lucy displaced the as tender, but mournful and inscrutable dark glance of Isabel. He seemed placed between them, to choose one or the other; then both seemed his; but into Lucy's eyes there stole half of the mournfulness of Isabel's, without diminishing hers.
Again the faintness, and the long life-weariness benumbed him. He left the mansion, and put his bare forehead against the restoring wind. He re-entered the mansion, and adjusted the clock to repeat emphatically the call of seven; and then lay upon his bed. But now he could not sleep. At seven he changed his dress; and at half-past eight went below to meet his mother at the breakfast table, having a little before overheard her step upon the stair.
II.
HE saluted28 her; but she looked gravely and yet alarmedly, and then in a sudden, illy-repressed panic, upon him. Then he knew he must be wonderfully changed. But his mother spoke29 not to him, only to return his good-morning. He saw that she was deeply offended with him, on many accounts; moreover, that she was vaguely frightened about him, and finally that notwithstanding all this, her stung pride conquered all apprehensiveness30 in her; and he knew his mother well enough to be very certain that, though he should unroll a magician's parchment before her now, she would verbally express no interest, and seek no explanation from him. Nevertheless, he could not entirely31 abstain32 from testing the power of her reservedness.
"I have been quite an absentee, sister Mary," said he, with ill-affected pleasantness.
"Yes, Pierre. How does the coffee suit you this morning? It is some new coffee."
"It is very nice; very rich and odorous, sister Mary."
"I am glad you find it so, Pierre."
"Why don't you call me brother Pierre?"
"Have I not called you so? Well, then, brother Pierre,—is that better?"
"Why do you look so indifferently and icily upon me, sister Mary?"
"Do I look indifferently and icily? Then I will endeavor to look otherwise. Give me the toast there, Pierre."
"You are very deeply offended at me, my dear mother."
"Not in the slightest degree, Pierre. Have you seen Lucy lately?"
"I have not, my mother."
"You are too proud to show toward me what you are this moment feeling, my mother."
Mrs. Glendinning slowly rose to her feet, and her full stature34 of womanly beauty and majesty35 stood imposingly36 over him.
"Tempt38 me no more, Pierre. I will ask no secret from thee; all shall be voluntary between us, as it ever has been, until very lately, or all shall be nothing between us. Beware of me, Pierre. There lives not that being in the world of whom thou hast more reason to beware, so you continue but a little longer to act thus with me."
She reseated herself, and spoke no more. Pierre kept silence; and after snatching a few mouthfuls of he knew not what, silently quitted the table, and the room, and the mansion.
III.
AS the door of the breakfast-room closed upon Pierre, Mrs. Glendinning rose, her fork unconsciously retained in her hand. Presently, as she paced the room in deep, rapid thought, she became conscious of something strange in her grasp, and without looking at it, to mark what it was, impulsively39 flung it from her. A dashing noise was heard, and then a quivering. She turned; and hanging by the side of Pierre's portrait, she saw her own smiling picture pierced through, and the fork, whose silver tines had caught in the painted bosom40, vibratingly rankled41 in the wound.
She advanced swiftly to the picture, and stood intrepidly42 before it.
"Yes, thou art stabbed! but the wrong hand stabbed thee; this should have been thy silver blow," turning to Pierre's portrait face. "Pierre, Pierre, thou hast stabbed me with a poisoned point. I feel my blood chemically changing in me. I, the mother of the only surnamed Glendinning, I feel now as though I had borne the last of a swiftly to be extinguished race. For swiftly to be extinguished is that race, whose only heir but so much as impends44 upon a deed of shame. And some deed of shame, or something most dubious45 and most dark, is in thy soul, or else some belying46 specter, with a cloudy, shame-faced front, sat at yon seat but now! What can it be? Pierre, unbosom. Smile not so lightly upon my heavy grief. Answer; what is it, boy? Can it? can it? no—yes—surely—can it? it can not be! But he was not at Lucy's yesterday; nor was she here; and she would not see me when I called. What can this bode47? But not a mere48 broken match—broken as lovers sometimes break, to mend the break with joyful49 tears, so soon again—not a mere broken match can break my proud heart so. If that indeed be part, it is not all. But no, no, no; it can not, can not be. He would not, could not, do so mad, so impious a thing. It was a most surprising face, though I confessed it not to him, nor even hinted that I saw it. But no, no, no, it can not be. Such young peerlessness in such humbleness50, can not have an honest origin. Lilies are not stalked on weeds, though polluted, they sometimes may stand among them. She must be both poor and vile—some chance-blow of a splendid, worthless rake, doomed52 to inherit both parts of her infecting portion—vileness and beauty. No, I will not think it of him. But what then? Sometimes I have feared that my pride would work me some woe53 incurable54, by closing both my lips, and varnishing55 all my front, where I perhaps ought to be wholly in the melted and invoking56 mood. But who can get at one's own heart, to mend it? Right one's self against another, that, one may sometimes do; but when that other is one's own self, these ribs57 forbid. Then I will live my nature out. I will stand on pride. I will not budge58. Let come what will, I shall not half-way run to meet it, to beat it off. Shall a mother abase59 herself before her stripling boy? Let him tell me of himself, or let him slide adown!"
IV.
PIERRE plunged60 deep into the woods, and paused not for several miles; paused not till he came to a remarkable61 stone, or rather, smoothed mass of rock, huge as a barn, which, wholly isolated62 horizontally, was yet sweepingly63 overarched by beech-trees and chestnuts64.
It was shaped something like a lengthened65 egg, but flattened66 more; and, at the ends, pointed67 more; and yet not pointed, but irregularly wedge-shaped. Somewhere near the middle of its under side, there was a lateral68 ridge69; and an obscure point of this ridge rested on a second lengthwise-sharpened rock, slightly protruding70 from the ground. Beside that one obscure and minute point of contact, the whole enormous and most ponderous71 mass touched not another object in the wide terraqueous world. It was a breathless thing to see. One broad haunched end hovered72 within an inch of the soil, all along to the point of teetering contact; but yet touched not the soil. Many feet from that—beneath one part of the opposite end, which was all seamed and half-riven—the vacancy73 was considerably74 larger, so as to make it not only possible, but convenient to admit a crawling man; yet no mortal being had ever been known to have the intrepid43 heart to crawl there.
It might well have been the wonder of all the country round. But strange to tell, though hundreds of cottage hearthstones—where, of long winter-evenings, both old men smoked their pipes and young men shelled their corn—surrounded it, at no very remote distance, yet had the youthful Pierre been the first known publishing discoverer of this stone, which he had thereupon fancifully christened the Memnon Stone. Possibly, the reason why this singular object had so long remained unblazoned to the world, was not so much because it had never before been lighted on—though indeed, both belted and topped by the dense75 deep luxuriance of the aboriginal76 forest, it lay like Captain Kidd's sunken hull77 in the gorge78 of the river Hudson's Highlands,—its crown being full eight fathoms under high-foliage79 mark during the great spring-tide of foliage;—and besides this, the cottagers had no special motive80 for visiting its more immediate vicinity at all; their timber and fuel being obtained from more accessible woodlands—as because, even, if any of the simple people should have chanced to have beheld81 it, they, in their hoodwinked unappreciativeness, would not have accounted it any very marvelous sight, and therefore, would never have thought it worth their while to publish it abroad. So that in real truth, they might have seen it, and yet afterward84 have forgotten so inconsiderable a circumstance. In short, this wondrous85 Memnon Stone could be no Memnon Stone to them; nothing but a huge stumbling-block, deeply to be regretted as a vast prospective86 obstacle in the way of running a handy little cross-road through that wild part of the Manor87.
Now one day while reclining near its flank, and intently eying it, and thinking how surprising it was, that in so long-settled a country he should have been the first discerning and appreciative82 person to light upon such a great natural curiosity, Pierre happened to brush aside several successive layers of old, gray-haired, close cropped, nappy moss88, and beneath, to his no small amazement89, he saw rudely hammered in the rock some half-obliterate initials—"S. ye W." Then he knew, that ignorant of the stone, as all the simple country round might immemorially have been, yet was not himself the only human being who had discovered that marvelous impending90 spectacle: but long and long ago, in quite another age, the stone had been beheld, and its wonderfulness fully appreciated—as the painstaking91 initials seemed to testify—by some departed man, who, were he now alive, might possibly wag a beard old as the most venerable oak of centuries' growth. But who,—who in Methuselah's name,—who might have been this "S. ye W?" Pierre pondered long, but could not possibly imagine; for the initials, in their antiqueness, seemed to point to some period before the era of Columbus' discovery of the hemisphere. Happening in the end to mention the strange matter of these initials to a white-haired old gentleman, his city kinsman93, who, after a long and richly varied94, but unfortunate life, had at last found great solace95 in the Old Testament96, which he was continually studying with ever-increasing admiration97; this white-haired old kinsman, after having learnt all the particulars about the stone—its bulk, its height, the precise angle of its critical impendings, and all that,—and then, after much prolonged cogitation98 upon it, and several long-drawn99 sighs, and aged100 looks of hoar significance, and reading certain verses in Ecclesiastes; after all these tedious preliminaries, this not-at-all-to-be-hurried white-haired old kinsman, had laid his tremulous hand upon Pierre's firm young shoulder, and slowly whispered—"Boy; 'tis Solomon the Wise." Pierre could not repress a merry laugh at this; wonderfully diverted by what seemed to him so queer and crotchety a conceit101; which he imputed102 to the alledged dotage103 of his venerable kinsman, who he well knew had once maintained, that the old Scriptural Ophir was somewhere on our northern sea-coast; so no wonder the old gentleman should fancy that King Solomon might have taken a trip—as a sort of amateur supercargo—of some Tyre or Sidon gold-ship across the water, and happened to light on the Memnon Stone, while rambling104 about with bow and quiver shooting partridges.
But merriment was by no means Pierre's usual mood when thinking of this stone; much less when seated in the woods, he, in the profound significance of that deep forest silence, viewed its marvelous impendings. A flitting conceit had often crossed him, that he would like nothing better for a head-stone than this same imposing37 pile; in which, at times, during the soft swayings of the surrounding foliage, there seemed to lurk105 some mournful and lamenting106 plaint, as for some sweet boy long since departed in the antediluvian107 time.
Not only might this stone well have been the wonder of the simple country round, but it might well have been its terror. Sometimes, wrought108 to a mystic mood by contemplating109 its ponderous inscrutableness, Pierre had called it the Terror Stone. Few could be bribed110 to climb its giddy height, and crawl out upon its more hovering111 end. It seemed as if the dropping of one seed from the beak112 of the smallest flying bird would topple the immense mass over, crashing against the trees.
It was a very familiar thing to Pierre; he had often climbed it, by placing long poles against it, and so creeping up to where it sloped in little crumbling113 stepping-places; or by climbing high up the neighboring beeches114, and then lowering himself down upon the forehead-like summit by the elastic115 branches. But never had he been fearless enough—or rather fool-hardy enough, it may be, to crawl on the ground beneath the vacancy of the higher end; that spot first menaced by the Terror Stone should it ever really topple.
V.
YET now advancing steadily116, and as if by some interior pre-determination, and eying the mass unfalteringly; he then threw himself prone117 upon the wood's last year's leaves, and slid himself straight into the horrible interspace, and lay there as dead. He spoke not, for speechless thoughts were in him. These gave place at last to things less and less unspeakable; till at last, from beneath the very brow of the beetlings and the menacings of the Terror Stone came the audible words of Pierre:—
"If the miseries118 of the undisclosable things in me, shall ever unhorse me from my manhood's seat; if to vow119 myself all Virtue120's and all Truth's, be but to make a trembling, distrusted slave of me; if Life is to prove a burden I can not bear without ignominious121 cringings; if indeed our actions are all fore-ordained, and we are Russian serfs to Fate; if invisible devils do titter at us when we most nobly strive; if Life be a cheating dream, and virtue as unmeaning and unsequeled with any blessing122 as the midnight mirth of wine; if by sacrificing myself for Duty's sake, my own mother re-sacrifices me; if Duty's self be but a bugbear, and all things are allowable and unpunishable to man;—then do thou, Mute Massiveness, fall on me! Ages thou hast waited; and if these things be thus, then wait no more; for whom better canst thou crush than him who now lies here invoking thee?"
A down-darting bird, all song, swiftly lighted on the unmoved and eternally immovable balancings of the Terror Stone, and cheerfully chirped123 to Pierre. The tree-boughs bent124 and waved to the rushes of a sudden, balmy wind; and slowly Pierre crawled forth, and stood haughtily125 upon his feet, as he owed thanks to none, and went his moody126 way.
VI.
WHEN in his imaginative ruminating127 moods of early youth, Pierre had christened the wonderful stone by the old resounding128 name of Memnon, he had done so merely from certain associative remembrances of that Egyptian marvel83, of which all Eastern travelers speak. And when the fugitive130 thought had long ago entered him of desiring that same stone for his head-stone, when he should be no more; then he had only yielded to one of those innumerable fanciful notions, tinged131 with dreamy painless melancholy132, which are frequently suggested to the mind of a poetic133 boy. But in after-times, when placed in far different circumstances from those surrounding him at the Meadows, Pierre pondered on the stone, and his young thoughts concerning it, and, later, his desperate act in crawling under it; then an immense significance came to him, and the long-passed unconscious movements of his then youthful heart seemed now prophetic to him, and allegorically verified by the subsequent events.
For, not to speak of the other and subtler meanings which lie crouching134 behind the colossal135 haunches of this stone, regarded as the menacingly impending Terror Stone—hidden to all the simple cottagers, but revealed to Pierre—consider its aspects as the Memnon Stone. For Memnon was that dewey, royal boy, son of Aurora136, and born King of Egypt, who, with enthusiastic rashness flinging himself on another's account into a rightful quarrel, fought hand to hand with his overmatch, and met his boyish and most dolorous137 death beneath the walls of Troy. His wailing138 subjects built a monument in Egypt to commemorate139 his untimely fate. Touched by the breath of the bereaved140 Aurora, every sunrise that statue gave forth a mournful broken sound, as of a harp-string suddenly sundered141, being too harshly wound.
Herein lies an unsummed world of grief. For in this plaintive142 fable143 we find embodied144 the Hamletism of the antique world; the Hamletism of three thousand years ago: "The flower of virtue cropped by a too rare mischance." And the English Tragedy is but Egyptian Memnon, Montaignized and modernized145; for being but a mortal man Shakspeare had his fathers too.
Now as the Memnon Statue survives down to this present day, so does that nobly-striving but ever-shipwrecked character in some royal youths (for both Memnon and Hamlet were the sons of kings), of which that statue is the melancholy type. But Memnon's sculptured woes146 did once melodiously147 resound129; now all is mute. Fit emblem148 that of old, poetry was a consecration149 and an obsequy to all hapless modes of human life; but in a bantering150, barren, and prosaic, heartless age, Aurora's music-moan is lost among our drifting sands which whelm alike the monument and the dirge151.
VII.
AS Pierre went on through the woods, all thoughts now left him but those investing Isabel. He strove to condense her mysterious haze152 into some definite and comprehensible shape. He could not but infer that the feeling of bewilderment, which she had so often hinted of during their interview, had caused her continually to go aside from the straight line of her narration153; and finally to end it in an abrupt154 and enigmatical obscurity. But he also felt assured, that as this was entirely unintended, and now, doubtless, regretted by herself, so their coming second interview would help to clear up much of this mysteriousness; considering that the elapsing interval155 would do much to tranquilize her, and rally her into less of wonderfulness to him; he did not therefore so much accuse his unthinkingness in naming the postponing156 hour he had. For, indeed, looking from the morning down the vista157 of the day, it seemed as indefinite and interminable to him. He could not bring himself to confront any face or house; a plowed158 field, any sign of tillage, the rotted stump159 of a long-felled pine, the slightest passing trace of man was uncongenial and repelling160 to him. Likewise in his own mind all remembrances and imaginings that had to do with the common and general humanity had become, for the time, in the most singular manner distasteful to him. Still, while thus loathing161 all that was common in the two different worlds—that without, and that within—nevertheless, even in the most withdrawn162 and subtlest region of his own essential spirit, Pierre could not now find one single agreeable twig163 of thought whereon to perch164 his weary soul.
Men in general seldom suffer from this utter pauperism165 of the spirit. If God hath not blessed them with incurable frivolity166, men in general have still some secret thing of self-conceit or virtuous167 gratulation; men in general have always done some small self-sacrificing deed for some other man; and so, in those now and then recurring168 hours of despondent169 lassitude, which must at various and differing intervals170 overtake almost every civilized171 human being; such persons straightway bethink them of their one, or two, or three small self-sacrificing things, and suck respite172, consolation173, and more or less compensating174 deliciousness from it. But with men of self-disdainful spirits; in whose chosen souls heaven itself hath by a primitive175 persuasion176 unindoctrinally fixed177 that most true Christian178 doctrine179 of the utter nothingness of good works; the casual remembrance of their benevolent180 well-doings, does never distill181 one drop of comfort for them, even as (in harmony with the correlative Scripture182 doctrine) the recalling of their outlived errors and mis-deeds, conveys to them no slightest pang183 or shadow of reproach.
Though the clew-defying mysteriousness of Isabel's narration, did now for the time, in this particular mood of his, put on a repelling aspect to our Pierre; yet something must occupy the soul of man; and Isabel was nearest to him then; and Isabel he thought of; at first, with great discomfort184 and with pain, but anon (for heaven eventually rewards the resolute20 and duteous thinker) with lessening185 repugnance186, and at last with still-increasing willingness and congenialness. Now he recalled his first impressions, here and there, while she was rehearsing to him her wild tale; he recalled those swift but mystical corroborations in his own mind and memory, which by shedding another twinkling light upon her history, had but increased its mystery, while at the same time remarkably187 substantiating188 it.
Her first recallable recollection was of an old deserted189 chateau-like house in a strange, French-like country, which she dimly imagined to be somewhere beyond the sea. Did not this surprisingly correspond with certain natural inferences to be drawn from his Aunt Dorothea's account of the disappearance190 of the French young lady? Yes; the French young lady's disappearance on this side the water was only contingent191 upon her reappearance on the other; then he shuddered192 as he darkly pictured the possible sequel of her life, and the wresting193 from her of her infant, and its immurement194 in the savage195 mountain wilderness196.
But Isabel had also vague impressions of herself crossing the sea;—recrossing, emphatically thought Pierre, as he pondered on the unbidden conceit, that she had probably first unconsciously and smuggledly crossed it hidden beneath her sorrowing mother's heart. But in attempting to draw any inferences, from what he himself had ever heard, for a coinciding proof or elucidation197 of this assumption of Isabel's actual crossing the sea at so tender an age; here Pierre felt all the inadequateness of both his own and Isabel's united knowledge, to clear up the profound mysteriousness of her early life. To the certainty of this irremovable obscurity he bowed himself, and strove to dismiss it from his mind, as worse than hopeless. So, also, in a good degree, did he endeavor to drive out of him, Isabel's reminiscence of the, to her, unnameable large house, from which she had been finally removed by the pleasant woman in the coach. This episode in her life, above all other things, was most cruelly suggestive to him, as possibly involving his father in the privity to a thing, at which Pierre's inmost soul fainted with amazement and abhorrence198. Here the helplessness of all further light, and the eternal impossibility of logically exonerating199 his dead father, in his own mind, from the liability to this, and many other of the blackest self-insinuated suppositions; all this came over Pierre with a power so infernal and intense, that it could only have proceeded from the unretarded malice200 of the Evil One himself. But subtilly and wantonly as these conceits201 stole into him, Pierre as subtilly opposed them; and with the hue-and-cry of his whole indignant soul, pursued them forth again into the wide Tartarean realm from which they had emerged.
The more and the more that Pierre now revolved202 the story of Isabel in his mind, so much the more he amended203 his original idea, that much of its obscurity would depart upon a second interview. He saw, or seemed to see, that it was not so much Isabel who had by her wild idiosyncrasies mystified the narration of her history, as it was the essential and unavoidable mystery of her history itself, which had invested Isabel with such wonderful enigmas204 to him.
VIII.
THE issue of these reconsiderings was the conviction, that all he could now reasonably anticipate from Isabel, in further disclosure on the subject of her life, were some few additional particulars bringing it down to the present moment; and, also, possibly filling out the latter portion of what she had already revealed to him. Nor here, could he persuade himself, that she would have much to say. Isabel had not been so digressive205 and withholding206 as he had thought. What more, indeed, could she now have to impart, except by what strange means she had at last come to find her brother out; and the dreary207 recital208 of how she had pecuniarily209 wrestled210 with her destitute211 condition; how she had come to leave one place of toiling212 refuge for another, till now he found her in humble51 servitude at farmer Ulver's? Is it possible then, thought Pierre, that there lives a human creature in this common world of everydays, whose whole history may be told in little less than two-score words, and yet embody213 in that smallness a fathomless214 fountain of ever-welling mystery? Is it possible, after all, that spite of bricks and shaven faces, this world we live in is brimmed with wonders, and I and all mankind, beneath our garbs215 of common-placeness, conceal216 enigmas that the stars themselves, and perhaps the highest seraphim217 can not resolve?
The intuitively certain, however literally218 unproven fact of Isabel's sisterhood to him, was a link that he now felt binding219 him to a before unimagined and endless chain of wondering. His very blood seemed to flow through all his arteries220 with unwonted subtileness, when he thought that the same tide flowed through the mystic veins221 of Isabel. All his occasional pangs222 of dubiousness223 as to the grand governing thing of all—the reality of the physical relationship—only recoiled224 back upon him with added tribute of both certainty and insolubleness.
She is my sister—my own father's daughter. Well; why do I believe it? The other day I had not so much as heard the remotest rumor225 of her existence; and what has since occurred to change me? What so new and incontestable vouchers226 have I handled? None at all. But I have seen her. Well; grant it; I might have seen a thousand other girls, whom I had never seen before; but for that, I would not own any one among them for my sister. But the portrait, the chair-portrait, Pierre? Think of that. But that was painted before Isabel was born; what can that portrait have to do with Isabel? It is not the portrait of Isabel, it is my father's portrait; and yet my mother swears it is not he.
Now alive as he was to all these searching argumentative itemizings of the minutest known facts any way bearing upon the subject; and yet, at the same time, persuaded, strong as death, that in spite of them, Isabel was indeed his sister; how could Pierre, naturally poetic, and therefore piercing as he was; how could he fail to acknowledge the existence of that all-controlling and all-permeating wonderfulness, which, when imperfectly and isolatedly recognized by the generality, is so significantly denominated The Finger of God? But it is not merely the Finger, it is the whole outspread Hand of God; for doth not Scripture intimate, that He holdeth all of us in the hollow of His hand?—a Hollow, truly!
Still wandering through the forest, his eye pursuing its ever-shifting shadowy vistas227; remote from all visible haunts and traces of that strangely wilful228 race, who, in the sordid229 traffickings of clay and mud, are ever seeking to denationalize the natural heavenliness of their souls; there came into the mind of Pierre, thoughts and fancies never imbibed230 within the gates of towns; but only given forth by the atmosphere of primeval forests, which, with the eternal ocean, are the only unchanged general objects remaining to this day, from those that originally met the gaze of Adam. For so it is, that the apparently231 most inflammable or evaporable of all earthly things, wood and water, are, in this view, immensely the most endurable.
Now all his ponderings, however excursive, wheeled round Isabel as their center; and back to her they came again from every excursion; and again derived232 some new, small germs for wonderment.
The question of Time occurred to Pierre. How old was Isabel? According to all reasonable inferences from the presumed circumstances of her life, she was his elder, certainly, though by uncertain years; yet her whole aspect was that of more than childlikeness; nevertheless, not only did he feel his muscular superiority to her, so to speak, which made him spontaneously alive to a feeling of elderly protectingness over her; not only did he experience the thoughts of superior world-acquaintance, and general cultured knowledge; but spite of reason's self, and irrespective of all mere computings, he was conscious of a feeling which independently pronounced him her senior in point of Time, and Isabel a child of everlasting233 youngness. This strange, though strong conceit of his mysterious persuasion, doubtless, had its untraced, and but little-suspected origin in his mind, from ideas born of his devout234 meditations235 upon the artless infantileness of her face; which, though profoundly mournful in the general expression, yet did not, by any means, for that cause, lose one whit92 in its singular infantileness; as the faces of real infants, in their earliest visibleness, do oft-times wear a look of deep and endless sadness. But it was not the sadness, nor indeed, strictly236 speaking, the infantileness of the face of Isabel which so singularly impressed him with the idea of her original and changeless youthfulness. It was something else; yet something which entirely eluded237 him.
Imaginatively exalted238 by the willing suffrages239 of all mankind into higher and purer realms than men themselves inhabit; beautiful women—those of them at least who are beautiful in soul as well as body—do, notwithstanding the relentless240 law of earthly fleetingness, still seem, for a long interval, mysteriously exempt241 from the incantations of decay; for as the outward loveliness touch by touch departs, the interior beauty touch by touch replaces that departing bloom, with charms, which, underivable from earth, possess the ineffaceableness of stars. Else, why at the age of sixty, have some women held in the strongest bonds of love and fealty242, men young enough to be their grandsons? And why did all-seducing Ninon unintendingly break scores of hearts at seventy? It is because of the perennialness of womanly sweetness.
Out from the infantile, yet eternal mournfulness of the face of Isabel, there looked on Pierre that angelic childlikeness, which our Savior hints is the one only investiture of translated souls; for of such—even of little children—is the other world.
Now, unending as the wonderful rivers, which once bathed the feet of the primeval generations, and still remain to flow fast by the graves of all succeeding men, and by the beds of all now living; unending, ever-flowing, ran through the soul of Pierre, fresh and fresher, further and still further, thoughts of Isabel. But the more his thoughtful river ran, the more mysteriousness it floated to him; and yet the more certainty that the mysteriousness was unchangeable. In her life there was an unraveled plot; and he felt that unraveled it would eternally remain to him. No slightest hope or dream had he, that what was dark and mournful in her would ever be cleared up into some coming atmosphere of light and mirth. Like all youths, Pierre had conned244 his novel-lessons; had read more novels than most persons of his years; but their false, inverted245 attempts at systematizing eternally unsystemizable elements; their audacious, intermeddling impotency, in trying to unravel243, and spread out, and classify, the more thin than gossamer246 threads which make up the complex web of life; these things over Pierre had no power now. Straight through their helpless miserableness247 he pierced; the one sensational248 truth in him transfixed like beetles249 all the speculative250 lies in them. He saw that human life doth truly come from that, which all men are agreed to call by the name of God; and that it partakes of the unravelable inscrutableness of God. By infallible presentiment251 he saw, that not always doth life's beginning gloom conclude in gladness; that wedding-bells peal13 not ever in the last scene of life's fifth act; that while the countless252 tribes of common novels laboriously253 spin veils of mystery, only to complacently254 clear them up at last; and while the countless tribe of common dramas do but repeat the same; yet the profounder emanations of the human mind, intended to illustrate255 all that can be humanly known of human life; these never unravel their own intricacies, and have no proper endings; but in imperfect, unanticipated, and disappointing sequels (as mutilated stumps), hurry to abrupt intermergings with the eternal tides of time and fate.
So Pierre renounced256 all thought of ever having Isabel's dark lantern illuminated257 to him. Her light was lidded, and the lid was locked. Nor did he feel a pang at this. By posting hither and thither258 among the reminiscences of his family, and craftily259 interrogating260 his remaining relatives on his father's side, he might possibly rake forth some few small grains of dubious and most unsatisfying things, which, were he that way strongly bent, would only serve the more hopelessly to cripple him in his practical resolves. He determined261 to pry262 not at all into this sacred problem. For him now the mystery of Isabel possessed263 all the bewitchingness of the mysterious vault264 of night, whose very darkness evokes265 the witchery.
The thoughtful river still ran on in him, and now it floated still another thing to him.
Though the letter of Isabel gushed266 with all a sister's sacred longings267 to embrace her brother, and in the most abandoned terms painted the anguish268 of her life-long estrangement269 from him; and though, in effect, it took vows270 to this,—that without his continual love and sympathy, further life for her was only fit to be thrown into the nearest unfathomed pool, or rushing stream; yet when the brother and the sister had encountered, according to the set appointment, none of these impassionedments had been repeated. She had more than thrice thanked God, and most earnestly blessed himself, that now he had come near to her in her loneliness; but no gesture of common and customary sisterly affection. Nay271, from his embrace had she not struggled? nor kissed him once; nor had he kissed her, except when the salute27 was solely272 sought by him.
Now Pierre began to see mysteries interpierced with mysteries, and mysteries eluding273 mysteries; and began to seem to see the mere imaginariness of the so supposed solidest principle of human association. Fate had done this thing for them. Fate had separated the brother and the sister, till to each other they somehow seemed so not at all. Sisters shrink not from their brother's kisses. And Pierre felt that never, never would he be able to embrace Isabel with the mere brotherly embrace; while the thought of any other caress274, which took hold of any domesticness, was entirely vacant from his uncontaminated soul, for it had never consciously intruded275 there.
Therefore, forever unsistered for him by the stroke of Fate, and apparently forever, and twice removed from the remotest possibility of that love which had drawn him to his Lucy; yet still the object of the ardentest and deepest emotions of his soul; therefore, to him, Isabel wholly soared out of the realms of mortalness, and for him became transfigured in the highest heaven of uncorrupted Love.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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6
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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miraculousness
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| 神” | |
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prosaicness
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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15
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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19
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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29
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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30
apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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32
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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33
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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34
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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imposingly
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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38
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
intrepidly
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| adv.无畏地，勇猛地 | |
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43
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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44
impends
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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46
belying
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| v.掩饰，与…不符，使…失望；掩饰( belie的现在分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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47
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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50
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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53
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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54
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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55
varnishing
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| 在（某物）上涂清漆( varnish的现在分词 ) | |
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56
invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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57
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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58
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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59
abase
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| v.降低，贬抑 | |
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60
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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61
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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62
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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sweepingly
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| adv.扫荡地 | |
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64
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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67
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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69
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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71
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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72
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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73
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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74
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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78
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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79
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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80
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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81
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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82
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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83
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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84
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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85
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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86
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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87
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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88
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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91
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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92
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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94
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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95
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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96
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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97
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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98
cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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101
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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102
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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104
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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105
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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106
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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107
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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108
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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109
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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110
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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111
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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112
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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113
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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114
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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115
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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116
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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117
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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118
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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119
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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122
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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123
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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124
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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125
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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126
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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127
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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128
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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129
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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130
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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131
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
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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133
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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134
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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135
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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136
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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137
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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138
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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139
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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140
bereaved
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|
| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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141
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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143
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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144
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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145
modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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146
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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147
melodiously
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148
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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149
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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150
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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151
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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152
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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153
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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154
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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155
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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156
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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157
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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158
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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159
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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160
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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161
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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162
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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163
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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164
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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165
pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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166
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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167
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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168
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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169
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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170
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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171
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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172
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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173
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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174
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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175
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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176
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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177
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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178
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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179
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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180
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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181
distill
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| vt.蒸馏，用蒸馏法提取，吸取，提炼 | |
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182
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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183
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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184
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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185
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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186
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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187
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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188
substantiating
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的现在分词 ) | |
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189
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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190
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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191
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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192
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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193
wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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194
immurement
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| n.监禁，禁闭 | |
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195
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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196
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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197
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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198
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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199
exonerating
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的现在分词 ) | |
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200
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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201
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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202
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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203
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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204
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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205
digressive
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| adj.枝节的，离题的 | |
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206
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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207
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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208
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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209
pecuniarily
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| adv.在金钱上，在金钱方面 | |
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210
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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211
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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212
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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213
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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214
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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215
garbs
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| vt.装扮（garb的第三人称单数形式） | |
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216
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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217
seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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218
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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219
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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220
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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221
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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222
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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223
dubiousness
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| n.dubious（令人怀疑的）的变形 | |
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224
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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225
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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226
vouchers
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| n.凭证( voucher的名词复数 )；证人；证件；收据 | |
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227
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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228
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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229
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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230
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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231
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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232
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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233
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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234
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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235
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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236
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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238
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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239
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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240
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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241
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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242
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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243
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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244
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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246
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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247
miserableness
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| 痛苦，悲惨，可怜 | |
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248
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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249
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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250
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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251
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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252
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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253
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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254
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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255
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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256
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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257
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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258
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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259
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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260
interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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261
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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262
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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263
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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264
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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265
evokes
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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266
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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267
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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268
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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269
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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270
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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271
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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272
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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273
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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274
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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275
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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