I.
WE are now to behold2 Pierre permanently3 lodged4 in three lofty adjoining chambers5 of the Apostles. And passing on a little further in time, and overlooking the hundred and one domestic details, of how their internal arrangements were finally put into steady working order; how poor Delly, now giving over the sharper pangs9 of her grief, found in the lighter10 occupations of a handmaid and familiar companion to Isabel, the only practical relief from the memories of her miserable11 past; how Isabel herself in the otherwise occupied hours of Pierre, passed some of her time in mastering the chirographical incoherencies of his manuscripts, with a view to eventually copying them out in a legible hand for the printer; or went below stairs to the rooms of the Millthorpes, and in the modest and amiable12 society of the three young ladies and their excellent mother, found some little solace13 for the absence of Pierre; or, when his day's work was done, sat by him in the twilight14, and played her mystic guitar till Pierre felt chapter after chapter born of its wondrous15 suggestiveness; but alas16! eternally incapable17 of being translated into words; for where the deepest words end, there music begins with its supersensuous and all-confounding intimations.
Disowning now all previous exertions18 of his mind, and burning in scorn even those fine fruits of a care-free fancy, which, written at Saddle Meadows in the sweet legendary19 time of Lucy and her love, he had jealously kept from the publishers, as too true and good to be published; renouncing20 all his foregone self, Pierre was now engaged in a comprehensive compacted work, to whose speedy completion two tremendous motives21 unitedly impelled;—the burning desire to deliver what he thought to be new, or at least miserably22 neglected Truth to the world; and the prospective23 menace of being absolutely penniless, unless by the sale of his book, he could realize money. Swayed to universality of thought by the widely-explosive mental tendencies of the profound events which had lately befallen him, and the unprecedented24 situation in which he now found himself; and perceiving, by presentiment25, that most grand productions of the best human intellects ever are built round a circle, as atolls (i. e. the primitive26 coral islets which, raising themselves in the depths of profoundest seas, rise funnel-like to the surface, and present there a hoop27 of white rock, which though on the outside everywhere lashed28 by the ocean, yet excludes all tempests from the quiet lagoon29 within), digestively including the whole range of all that can be known or dreamed; Pierre was resolved to give the world a book, which the world should hail with surprise and delight. A varied30 scope of reading, little suspected by his friends, and randomly31 acquired by a random32 but lynx-eyed mind, in the course of the multifarious, incidental, bibliographic33 encounterings of almost any civilized34 young inquirer after Truth; this poured one considerable contributary stream into that bottomless spring of original thought which the occasion and time had caused to burst out in himself. Now he congratulated himself upon all his cursory35 acquisitions of this sort; ignorant that in reality to a mind bent36 on producing some thoughtful thing of absolute Truth, all mere37 reading is apt to prove but an obstacle hard to overcome; and not an accelerator helpingly pushing him along.
While Pierre was thinking that he was entirely38 transplanted into a new and wonderful element of Beauty and Power, he was, in fact, but in one of the stages of the transition. That ultimate element once fairly gained, then books no more are needed for buoys39 to our souls; our own strong limbs support us, and we float over all bottomlessnesses with a jeering40 impunity41. He did not see,—or if he did, he could not yet name the true cause for it,—that already, in the incipiency42 of his work, the heavy unmalleable element of mere book-knowledge would not congenially weld with the wide fluidness and ethereal airiness of spontaneous creative thought. He would climb Parnassus with a pile of folios on his back. He did not see, that it was nothing at all to him, what other men had written; that though Plato was indeed a transcendently great man in himself, yet Plato must not be transcendently great to him (Pierre), so long as he (Pierre himself) would also do something transcendently great. He did not see that there is no such thing as a standard for the creative spirit; that no one great book must ever be separately regarded, and permitted to domineer with its own uniqueness upon the creative mind; but that all existing great works must be federated in the fancy; and so regarded as a miscellaneous and Pantheistic whole; and then,—without at all dictating43 to his own mind, or unduly44 biasing45 it any way,—thus combined, they would prove simply an exhilarative and provocative46 to him. He did not see, that even when thus combined, all was but one small mite47, compared to the latent infiniteness and inexhaustibility in himself; that all the great books in the world are but the mutilated shadowings-forth of invisible and eternally unembodied images in the soul; so that they are but the mirrors, distortedly reflecting to us our own things; and never mind what the mirror may be, if we would see the object, we must look at the object itself, and not at its reflection.
But, as to the resolute48 traveler in Switzerland, the Alps do never in one wide and comprehensive sweep, instantaneously reveal their full awfulness of amplitude—their overawing extent of peak crowded on peak, and spur sloping on spur, and chain jammed behind chain, and all their wonderful battalionings of might; so hath heaven wisely ordained49, that on first entering into the Switzerland of his soul, man shall not at once perceive its tremendous immensity; lest illy prepared for such an encounter, his spirit should sink and perish in the lowermost snows. Only by judicious50 degrees, appointed of God, does man come at last to gain his Mont Blanc and take an overtopping view of these Alps; and even then, the tithe51 is not shown; and far over the invisible Atlantic, the Rocky Mountains and the Andes are yet unbeheld. Appalling53 is the soul of a man! Better might one be pushed off into the material spaces beyond the uttermost orbit of our sun, than once feel himself fairly afloat in himself!
But not now to consider these ulterior things, Pierre, though strangely and very newly alive to many before unregarded wonders in the general world; still, had he not as yet procured54 for himself that enchanter's wand of the soul, which but touching56 the humblest experiences in one's life, straightway it starts up all eyes, in every one of which are endless significancies. Not yet had he dropped his angle into the well of his childhood, to find what fish might be there; for who dreams to find fish in a well? the running stream of the outer world, there doubtless swim the golden perch57 and the pickerel! Ten million things were as yet uncovered to Pierre. The old mummy lies buried in cloth on cloth; it takes time to unwrap this Egyptian king. Yet now, forsooth, because Pierre began to see through the first superficiality of the world, he fondly weens he has come to the unlayered substance. But, far as any geologist58 has yet gone down into the world, it is found to consist of nothing but surface stratified on surface. To its axis59, the world being nothing but superinduced superficies. By vast pains we mine into the pyramid; by horrible gropings we come to the central room; with joy we espy60 the sarcophagus; but we lift the lid—and no body is there!—appallingly vacant as vast is the soul of a man!
II.
HE had been engaged some weeks upon his book—in pursuance of his settled plan avoiding all contact with any of his city-connections or friends, even as in his social downfall they sedulously61 avoided seeking him out—nor ever once going or sending to the post-office, though it was but a little round the corner from where he was, since having dispatched no letters himself, he expected none; thus isolated62 from the world, and intent upon his literary enterprise, Pierre had passed some weeks, when verbal tidings came to him, of three most momentous63 events.
First: his mother was dead.
Second: all Saddle Meadows was become Glen Stanly's.
Third: Glen Stanly was believed to be the suitor of Lucy; who, convalescent from an almost mortal illness, was now dwelling64 at her mother's house in town.
It was chiefly the first-mentioned of these events which darted65 a sharp natural anguish66 into Pierre. No letter had come to him; no smallest ring or memorial been sent him; no slightest mention made of him in the will; and yet it was reported that an inconsolable grief had induced his mother's mortal malady67, and driven her at length into insanity68, which suddenly terminated in death; and when he first heard of that event, she had been cold in the ground for twenty-five days.
How plainly did all this speak of the equally immense pride and grief of his once magnificent mother; and how agonizedly now did it hint of her mortally-wounded love for her only and best-beloved Pierre! In vain he reasoned with himself; in vain remonstrated69 with himself; in vain sought to parade all his stoic70 arguments to drive off the onslaught of natural passion. Nature prevailed; and with tears that like acid burned and scorched71 as they flowed, he wept, he raved72, at the bitter loss of his parent; whose eyes had been closed by unrelated hands that were hired; but whose heart had been broken, and whose very reason been ruined, by the related hands of her son.
For some interval73 it almost seemed as if his own heart would snap; his own reason go down. Unendurable grief of a man, when Death itself gives the stab, and then snatches all availments to solacement away. For in the grave is no help, no prayer thither74 may go, no forgiveness thence come; so that the penitent75 whose sad victim lies in the ground, for that useless penitent his doom76 is eternal, and though it be Christmas-day with all Christendom, with him it is Hell-day and an eaten liver forever.
With what marvelous precision and exactitude he now went over in his mind all the minutest details of his old joyous77 life with his mother at Saddle Meadows. He began with his own toilet in the morning; then his mild stroll into the fields; then his cheerful return to call his mother in her chamber6; then the gay breakfast—and so on, and on, all through the sweet day, till mother and son kissed, and with light, loving hearts separated to their beds, to prepare themselves for still another day of affectionate delight. This recalling of innocence78 and joy in the hour of remorsefulness and woe79; this is as heating red-hot the pincers that tear us. But in this delirium80 of his soul, Pierre could not define where that line was, which separated the natural grief for the loss of a parent from that other one which was born of compunction. He strove hard to define it, but could not. He tried to cozen81 himself into believing that all his grief was but natural, or if there existed any other, that must spring—not from the consciousness of having done any possible wrong—but from the pang8 at what terrible cost the more exalted82 virtues83 are gained. Nor did he wholly fail in this endeavor. At last he dismissed his mother's memory into that same profound vault84 where hitherto had reposed86 the swooned form of his Lucy. But, as sometimes men are coffined87 in a trance, being thereby88 mistaken for dead; so it is possible to bury a tranced grief in the soul, erroneously supposing that it hath no more vitality89 of suffering. Now, immortal90 things only can beget91 immortality92. It would almost seem one presumptive argument for the endless duration of the human soul, that it is impossible in time and space to kill any compunction arising from having cruelly injured a departed fellow-being.
Ere he finally committed his mother to the profoundest vault of his soul, fain would he have drawn93 one poor alleviation94 from a circumstance, which nevertheless, impartially95 viewed, seemed equally capable either of soothing96 or intensifying97 his grief. His mother's will, which without the least mention of his own name, bequeathed several legacies98 to her friends, and concluded by leaving all Saddle Meadows and its rent-rolls to Glendinning Stanly; this will bore the date of the day immediately succeeding his fatal announcement on the landing of the stairs, of his assumed nuptials100 with Isabel. It plausibly101 pressed upon him, that as all the evidences of his mother's dying unrelentingness toward him were negative; and the only positive evidence—so to speak—of even that negativeness, was the will which omitted all mention of Pierre; therefore, as that will bore so significant a date, it must needs be most reasonable to conclude, that it was dictated102 in the not yet subsided103 transports of his mother's first indignation. But small consolation104 was this, when he considered the final insanity of his mother; for whence that insanity but from a hate-grief unrelenting, even as his father must have become insane from a sin-grief irreparable? Nor did this remarkable105 double-doom of his parents wholly fail to impress his mind with presentiments106 concerning his own fate—his own hereditary107 liability to madness. Presentiment, I say; but what is a presentiment? how shall you coherently define a presentiment, or how make any thing out of it which is at all lucid108, unless you say that a presentiment is but a judgment109 in disguise? And if a judgment in disguise, and yet possessing this preternaturalness of prophecy, how then shall you escape the fateful conclusion, that you are helplessly held in the six hands of the Sisters? For while still dreading111 your doom, you foreknow it. Yet how foreknow and dread110 in one breath, unless with this divine seeming power of prescience, you blend the actual slimy powerlessness of defense112?
That his cousin, Glen Stanly, had been chosen by his mother to inherit the domain113 of the Meadows, was not entirely surprising to Pierre. Not only had Glen always been a favorite with his mother by reason of his superb person and his congeniality of worldly views with herself, but excepting only Pierre, he was her nearest surviving blood relation; and moreover, in his christian114 name, bore the hereditary syllables115, Glendinning. So that if to any one but Pierre the Meadows must descend116, Glen, on these general grounds, seemed the appropriate heir.
But it is not natural for a man, never mind who he may be, to see a noble patrimony117, rightfully his, go over to a soul-alien, and that alien once his rival in love, and now his heartless, sneering118 foe119; for so Pierre could not but now argue of Glen; it is not natural for a man to see this without singular emotions of discomfort120 and hate. Nor in Pierre were these feelings at all soothed121 by the report of Glen's renewed attentions to Lucy. For there is something in the breast of almost every man, which at bottom takes offense122 at the attentions of any other man offered to a woman, the hope of whose nuptial99 love he himself may have discarded. Fain would a man selfishly appropriate all the hearts which have ever in any way confessed themselves his. Besides, in Pierre's case, this resentment123 was heightened by Glen's previous hypocritical demeanor124. For now all his suspicions seemed abundantly verified; and comparing all dates, he inferred that Glen's visit to Europe had only been undertaken to wear off the pang of his rejection125 by Lucy, a rejection tacitly consequent upon her not denying her affianced relation to Pierre.
But now, under the mask of profound sympathy—in time, ripening126 into love—for a most beautiful girl, ruffianly deserted127 by her betrothed128, Glen could afford to be entirely open in his new suit, without at all exposing his old scar to the world. So at least it now seemed to Pierre. Moreover, Glen could now approach Lucy under the most favorable possible auspices129. He could approach her as a deeply sympathizing friend, all wishful to assuage130 her sorrow, but hinting nothing, at present, of any selfish matrimonial intent; by enacting131 this prudent132 and unclamorous part, the mere sight of such tranquil133, disinterested134, but indestructible devotedness135, could not but suggest in Lucy's mind, very natural comparisons between Glen and Pierre, most deplorably abasing136 to the latter. Then, no woman—as it would sometimes seem—no woman is utterly137 free from the influence of a princely social position in her suitor, especially if he be handsome and young. And Glen would come to her now the master of two immense fortunes, and the heir, by voluntary election, no less than by blood propinquity, to the ancestral bannered hall, and the broad manorial138 meadows of the Glendinnings. And thus, too, the spirit of Pierre's own mother would seem to press Glen's suit. Indeed, situated139 now as he was Glen would seem all the finest part of Pierre, without any of Pierre's shame; would almost seem Pierre himself—what Pierre had once been to Lucy. And as in the case of a man who has lost a sweet wife, and who long refuses the least consolation; as this man at last finds a singular solace in the companionship of his wife's sister, who happens to bear a peculiar140 family resemblance to the dead; and as he, in the end, proposes marriage to this sister, merely from the force of such magical associative influences; so it did not seem wholly out of reason to suppose, that the great manly142 beauty of Glen, possessing a strong related similitude to Pierre's, might raise in Lucy's heart associations, which would lead her at least to seek—if she could not find—solace for one now regarded as dead and gone to her forever, in the devotedness of another, who would notwithstanding almost seem as that dead one brought back to life.
Deep, deep, and still deep and deeper must we go, if we would find out the heart of a man; descending143 into which is as descending a spiral stair in a shaft144, without any end, and where that endlessness is only concealed145 by the spiralness of the stair, and the blackness of the shaft.
As Pierre conjured146 up this phantom147 of Glen transformed into the seeming semblance141 of himself; as he figured it advancing toward Lucy and raising her hand in devotion; an infinite quenchless148 rage and malice149 possessed150 him. Many commingled151 emotions combined to provoke this storm. But chief of all was something strangely akin152 to that indefinable detestation which one feels for any impostor who has dared to assume one's own name and aspect in any equivocal or dishonorable affair; an emotion greatly intensified153 if this impostor be known for a mean villain154 at bottom, and also, by the freak of nature to be almost the personal duplicate of the man whose identity he assumes. All these and a host of other distressful155 and resentful fancies now ran through the breast of Pierre. All his Faith-born, enthusiastic, high-wrought, stoic, and philosophic156 defenses, were now beaten down by this sudden storm of nature in his soul. For there is no faith, and no stoicism, and no philosophy, that a mortal man can possibly evoke157, which will stand the final test of a real impassioned onset158 of Life and Passion upon him. Then all the fair philosophic or Faith-phantoms that he raised from the mist, slide away and disappear as ghosts at cock-crow. For Faith and philosophy are air, but events are brass159. Amidst his gray philosophizings, Life breaks upon a man like a morning.
While this mood was on him, Pierre cursed himself for a heartless villain and an idiot fool;—heartless villain, as the murderer of his mother—idiot fool, because he had thrown away all his felicity; because he had himself, as it were, resigned his noble birthright to a cunning kinsman160 for a mess of pottage, which now proved all but ashes in his mouth.
Resolved to hide these new, and—as it latently seemed to him—unworthy pangs, from Isabel, as also their cause, he quitted his chamber, intending a long vagabond stroll in the suburbs of the town, to wear off his sharper grief, ere he should again return into her sight.
III.
AS Pierre, now hurrying from his chamber, was rapidly passing through one of the higher brick colonnades161 connecting the ancient building with the modern, there advanced toward him from the direction of the latter, a very plain, composed, manly figure, with a countenance162 rather pale if any thing, but quite clear and without wrinkle. Though the brow and the beard, and the steadiness of the head and settledness of the step indicated mature age, yet the blue, bright, but still quiescent163 eye offered a very striking contrast. In that eye, the gay immortal youth Apollo, seemed enshrined; while on that ivory-throned brow, old Saturn164 cross-legged sat. The whole countenance of this man, the whole air and look of this man, expressed a cheerful content. Cheerful is the adjective, for it was the contrary of gloom; content—perhaps acquiescence—is the substantive165, for it was not Happiness or Delight. But while the personal look and air of this man were thus winning, there was still something latently visible in him which repelled166. That something may best be characterized as non-Benevolence. Non-Benevolence seems the best word, for it was neither Malice nor Ill-will; but something passive. To crown all, a certain floating atmosphere seemed to invest and go along with this man. That atmosphere seems only renderable in words by the term Inscrutableness. Though the clothes worn by this man were strictly167 in accordance with the general style of any unobtrusive gentleman's dress, yet his clothes seemed to disguise this man. One would almost have said, his very face, the apparently168 natural glance of his very eye disguised this man.
Now, as this person deliberately169 passed by Pierre, he lifted his hat, gracefully170 bowed, smiled gently, and passed on. But Pierre was all confusion; he flushed, looked askance, stammered171 with his hand at his hat to return the courtesy of the other; he seemed thoroughly172 upset by the mere sight of this hat-lifting, gracefully bowing, gently-smiling, and most miraculously173 self-possessed, non-benevolent man.
Now who was this man? This man was Plotinus Plinlimmon. Pierre had read a treatise174 of his in a stage-coach coming to the city, and had heard him often spoken of by Millthorpe and others as the Grand Master of a certain mystic Society among the Apostles. Whence he came, no one could tell. His surname was Welsh, but he was a Tennesseean by birth. He seemed to have no family or blood ties of any sort. He never was known to work with his hands; never to write with his hands (he would not even write a letter); he never was known to open a book. There were no books in his chamber. Nevertheless, some day or other he must have read books, but that time seemed gone now; as for the sleazy works that went under his name, they were nothing more than his verbal things, taken down at random, and bunglingly methodized by his young disciples175.
Finding Plinlimmon thus unfurnished either with books or pen and paper, and imputing176 it to something like indigence177, a foreign scholar, a rich nobleman, who chanced to meet him once, sent him a fine supply of stationery178, with a very fine set of volumes,—Cardan, Epictetus, the Book of Mormon, Abraham Tucker, Condorcet and the Zenda-Vesta. But this noble foreign scholar calling next day—perhaps in expectation of some compliment for his great kindness—started aghast at his own package deposited just without the door of Plinlimmon, and with all fastenings untouched.
"Missent," said Plotinus Plinlimmon placidly179: "if any thing, I looked for some choice Cura?oa from a nobleman like you. I should be very happy, my dear Count, to accept a few jugs180 of choice Cura?oa."
"I thought that the society of which you are the head, excluded all things of that sort"—replied the Count.
"Dear Count, so they do; but Mohammed hath his own dispensation."
"Ah! I see," said the noble scholar archly.
"I am afraid you do not see, dear Count"—said Plinlimmon; and instantly before the eyes of the Count, the inscrutable atmosphere eddied181 and eddied roundabout this Plotinus Plinlimmon.
His chance brushing encounter in the corridor was the first time that ever Pierre had without medium beheld52 the form or the face of Plinlimmon. Very early after taking chambers at the Apostles', he had been struck by a steady observant blue-eyed countenance at one of the loftiest windows of the old gray tower, which on the opposite side of the quadrangular space, rose prominently before his own chamber. Only through two panes182 of glass—his own and the stranger's—had Pierre hitherto beheld that remarkable face of repose85,—repose neither divine nor human, nor any thing made up of either or both—but a repose separate and apart—a repose of a face by itself. One adequate look at that face conveyed to most philosophical183 observers a notion of something not before included in their scheme of the Universe.
Now as to the mild sun, glass is no hindrance184 at all, but he transmits his light and life through the glass; even so through Pierre's panes did the tower face transmit its strange mystery.
Becoming more and more interested in this face, he had questioned Millthorpe concerning it "Bless your soul"—replied Millthorpe—"that is Plotinus Plinlimmon! our Grand Master, Plotinus Plinlimmon! By gad185, you must know Plotinus thoroughly, as I have long done. Come away with me, now, and let me introduce you instanter to Plotinus Plinlimmon."
But Pierre declined; and could not help thinking, that though in all human probability Plotinus well understood Millthorpe, yet Millthorpe could hardly yet have wound himself into Plotinus;—though indeed Plotinus—who at times was capable of assuming a very off-hand, confidential186, and simple, sophomorean air—might, for reasons best known to himself, have tacitly pretended to Millthorpe, that he (Millthorpe) had thoroughly wriggled187 himself into his (Plotinus') innermost soul.
A man will be given a book, and when the donor's back is turned, will carelessly drop it in the first corner; he is not over-anxious to be bothered with the book. But now personally point out to him the author, and ten to one he goes back to the corner, picks up the book, dusts the cover, and very carefully reads that invaluable188 work. One does not vitally believe in a man till one's own two eyes have beheld him. If then, by the force of peculiar circumstances, Pierre while in the stage, had formerly189 been drawn into an attentive190 perusal191 of the work on "Chronometricals and Horologicals;" how then was his original interest heightened by catching192 a subsequent glimpse of the author. But at the first reading, not being able—as he thought—to master the pivot-idea of the pamphlet; and as every incomprehended idea is not only a perplexity but a taunting193 reproach to one's mind, Pierre had at last ceased studying it altogether; nor consciously troubled himself further about it during the remainder of the journey. But still thinking now it might possibly have been mechanically retained by him, he searched all the pockets of his clothes, but without success. He begged Millthorpe to do his best toward procuring194 him another copy; but it proved impossible to find one. Plotinus himself could not furnish it.
Among other efforts, Pierre in person had accosted195 a limping half-deaf old book-stall man, not very far from the Apostles'. "Have you the 'Chronometrics,' my friend?" forgetting the exact title.
"Very bad, very bad!" said the old man, rubbing his back;—"has had the chronic-rheumatics ever so long; what's good for 'em?"
Perceiving his mistake, Pierre replied that he did not know what was the infallible remedy.
"Whist! let me tell ye, then, young 'un," said the old cripple, limping close up to him, and putting his mouth in Pierre's ear—"Never catch 'em!—now's the time, while you're young:—never catch 'em!"
By-and-by the blue-eyed, mystic-mild face in the upper window of the old gray tower began to domineer in a very remarkable manner upon Pierre. When in his moods of peculiar depression and despair; when dark thoughts of his miserable condition would steal over him; and black doubts as to the integrity of his unprecedented course in life would most malignantly196 suggest themselves; when a thought of the vanity of his deep book would glidingly intrude197; if glancing at his closet-window that mystic-mild face met Pierre's; under any of these influences the effect was surprising, and not to be adequately detailed198 in any possible words.
Vain! vain! vain! said the face to him. Fool! fool! fool! said the face to him. Quit! quit! quit! said the face to him. But when he mentally interrogated199 the face as to why it thrice said Vain! Fool! Quit! to him; here there was no response. For that face did not respond to any thing. Did I not say before that that face was something separate, and apart; a face by itself? Now, any thing which is thus a thing by itself never responds to any other thing. If to affirm, be to expand one's isolated self; and if to deny, be to contract one's isolated self; then to respond is a suspension of all isolation200. Though this face in the tower was so clear and so mild; though the gay youth Apollo was enshrined in that eye, and paternal201 old Saturn sat cross-legged on that ivory brow; yet somehow to Pierre the face at last wore a sort of malicious202 leer to him. But the Kantists might say, that this was a subjective203 sort of leer in Pierre. Any way, the face seemed to leer upon Pierre. And now it said to him—Ass7! ass! ass! This expression was insufferable. He procured some muslin for his closet-window; and the face became curtained like any portrait. But this did not mend the leer. Pierre knew that still the face leered behind the muslin. What was most terrible was the idea that by some magical means or other the face had got hold of his secret. "Ay," shuddered204 Pierre, "the face knows that Isabel is not my wife! And that seems the reason it leers."
Then would all manner of wild fancyings float through his soul, and detached sentences of the "Chronometrics" would vividly205 recur206 to him—sentences before but imperfectly comprehended, but now shedding a strange, baleful light upon his peculiar condition, and emphatically denouncing it. Again he tried his best to procure55 the pamphlet, to read it now by the commentary of the mystic-mild face; again he searched through the pockets of his clothes for the stage-coach copy, but in vain.
And when—at the critical moment of quitting his chambers that morning of the receipt of the fatal tidings—the face itself—the man himself—this inscrutable Plotinus Plinlimmon himself—did visibly brush by him in the brick corridor, and all the trepidation207 he had ever before felt at the mild-mystic aspect in the tower window, now redoubled upon him, so that, as before said, he flushed, looked askance, and stammered with his saluting208 hand to his hat;—then anew did there burn in him the desire of procuring the pamphlet. "Cursed fate that I should have lost it"—he cried;—"more cursed, that when I did have it, and did read it, I was such a ninny as not to comprehend; and now it is all too late!"
Yet—to anticipate here—when years after, an old Jew Clothesman rummaged209 over a surtout of Pierre's—which by some means had come into his hands—his lynx-like fingers happened to feel something foreign between the cloth and the heavy quilted bombazine lining210. He ripped open the skirt, and found several old pamphlet pages, soft and worn almost to tissue, but still legible enough to reveal the title—"Chronometricals and Horologicals." Pierre must have ignorantly thrust it into his pocket, in the stage, and it had worked through a rent there, and worked its way clean down into the skirt, and there helped pad the padding. So that all the time he was hunting for this pamphlet, he himself was wearing the pamphlet. When he brushed past Plinlimmon in the brick corridor, and felt that renewed intense longing211 for the pamphlet, then his right hand was not two inches from the pamphlet.
Possibly this curious circumstance may in some sort illustrate212 his self-supposed non-understanding of the pamphlet, as first read by him in the stage. Could he likewise have carried about with him in his mind the thorough understanding of the book, and yet not be aware that he so understood it? I think that—regarded in one light—the final career of Pierre will seem to show, that he did understand it. And here it may be randomly suggested, by way of bagatelle213, whether some things that men think they do not know, are not for all that thoroughly comprehended by them; and yet, so to speak, though contained in themselves, are kept a secret from themselves? The idea of Death seems such a thing.
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immaturely
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behold
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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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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chambers
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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9
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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13
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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14
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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15
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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16
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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17
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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18
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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19
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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20
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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21
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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22
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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23
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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24
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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25
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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26
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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27
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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28
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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29
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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30
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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31
randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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32
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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33
bibliographic
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| 书籍解题的，著书目录的 | |
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34
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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35
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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40
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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41
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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42
incipiency
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| n.起初，发端 | |
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43
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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44
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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45
biasing
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| 使倾向于( bias的现在分词 )； 偏压 | |
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46
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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47
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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48
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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49
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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50
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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51
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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52
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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53
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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54
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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55
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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58
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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59
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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60
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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61
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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62
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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63
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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64
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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65
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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66
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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67
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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68
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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69
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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70
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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71
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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72
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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73
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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74
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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75
penitent
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|
| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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76
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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77
joyous
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|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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78
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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79
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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80
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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81
cozen
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| v.欺骗，哄骗 | |
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82
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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83
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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84
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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85
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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86
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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89
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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90
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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91
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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92
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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93
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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94
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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95
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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96
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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97
intensifying
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的现在分词 )；增辉 | |
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98
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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99
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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100
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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101
plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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102
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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103
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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104
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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105
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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106
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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107
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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108
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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109
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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110
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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111
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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112
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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113
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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114
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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115
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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116
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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117
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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118
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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119
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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120
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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121
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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122
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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123
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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124
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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125
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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126
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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127
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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128
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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130
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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131
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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132
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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133
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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134
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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135
devotedness
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136
abasing
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| 使谦卑( abase的现在分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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137
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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138
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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139
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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140
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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141
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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142
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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143
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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144
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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145
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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146
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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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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148
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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149
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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150
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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151
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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153
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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155
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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156
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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157
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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158
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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159
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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160
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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161
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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162
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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163
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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166
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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167
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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168
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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169
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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170
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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171
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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173
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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174
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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175
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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177
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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178
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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179
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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180
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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181
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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183
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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184
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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185
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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186
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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187
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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188
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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189
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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190
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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192
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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193
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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194
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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195
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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196
malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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197
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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198
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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199
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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200
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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201
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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202
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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203
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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204
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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205
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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206
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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207
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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208
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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209
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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210
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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211
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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212
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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213
bagatelle
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| n.琐事；小曲儿 | |
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