A DAY or two after the arrival of Lucy, when she had quite recovered from any possible ill-effects of recent events,—events conveying such a shock to both Pierre and Isabel,—though to each in a quite different way,—but not, apparently1, at least, moving Lucy so intensely—as they were all three sitting at coffee, Lucy expressed her intention to practice her crayon art professionally. It would be so pleasant an employment for her, besides contributing to their common fund. Pierre well knew her expertness in catching2 likenesses, and judiciously3 and truthfully beautifying them; not by altering the features so much, as by steeping them in a beautifying atmosphere. For even so, said Lucy, thrown into the Lagoon6, and there beheld7—as I have heard—the roughest stones, without transformation8, put on the softest aspects. If Pierre would only take a little trouble to bring sitters to her room, she doubted not a fine harvest of heads might easily be secured. Certainly, among the numerous inmates9 of the old Church, Pierre must know many who would have no objections to being sketched10. Moreover, though as yet she had had small opportunity to see them; yet among such a remarkable11 company of poets, philosophers, and mystics of all sorts, there must be some striking heads. In conclusion, she expressed her satisfaction at the chamber12 prepared for her, inasmuch as having been formerly13 the studio of an artist, one window had been considerably14 elevated, while by a singular arrangement of the interior shutters15, the light could in any direction be thrown about at will.
Already Pierre had anticipated something of this sort; the first sight of the easel having suggested it to him. His reply was therefore not wholly unconsidered. He said, that so far as she herself was concerned, the systematic16 practice of her art at present would certainly be a great advantage in supplying her with a very delightful17 occupation. But since she could hardly hope for any patronage18 from her mother's fashionable and wealthy associates; indeed, as such a thing must be very far from her own desires; and as it was only from the Apostles she could—for some time to come, at least—reasonably anticipate sitters; and as those Apostles were almost universally a very forlorn and penniless set—though in truth there were some wonderfully rich-looking heads among them—therefore, Lucy must not look for much immediate19 pecuniary20 emolument21. Ere long she might indeed do something very handsome; but at the outset, it was well to be moderate in her expectations. This admonishment22 came, modifiedly, from that certain stoic23, dogged mood of Pierre, born of his recent life, which taught him never to expect any good from any thing; but always to anticipate ill; however not in unreadiness to meet the contrary; and then, if good came, so much the better. He added that he would that very morning go among the rooms and corridors of the Apostles, familiarly announcing that his cousin, a lady-artist in crayons, occupied a room adjoining his, where she would be very happy to receive any sitters.
"And now, Lucy, what shall be the terms? That is a very important point, thou knowest."
"I suppose, Pierre, they must be very low," said Lucy, looking at him meditatively25.
"Very low, Lucy; very low, indeed."
"Well, ten dollars, then."
"Ten Banks of England, Lucy!" exclaimed Pierre. "Why, Lucy, that were almost a quarter's income for some of the Apostles!"
"Four dollars, Pierre."
"I will tell thee now, Lucy—but first, how long does it take to complete one portrait?"
"Two sittings; and two mornings' work by myself, Pierre."
"And let me see; what are thy materials? They are not very costly26, I believe. 'Tis not like cutting glass,—thy tools must not be pointed28 with diamonds, Lucy?"
"See, Pierre!" said Lucy, holding out her little palm, "see; this handful of charcoal29, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a square of paper:—that is all."
"Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a portrait."
"Only one-seventy-five, Pierre?"
"I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy. Thou must not be extravagant30. Look: if thy terms were ten dollars, and thou didst crayon on trust; then thou wouldst have plenty of sitters, but small returns. But if thou puttest thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou must have thy cash right-down too—don't start so at that cash—then not so many sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest."
"It shall be just as thou say'st, Pierre."
"Well, then, I will write a card for thee, stating thy terms; and put it up conspicuously31 in thy room, so that every Apostle may know what he has to expect."
"Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre," said Lucy, rising. "I rejoice at thy pleasant and not entirely32 unhopeful view of my poor little plan. But I must be doing something; I must be earning money. See, I have eaten ever so much bread this morning, but have not earned one penny."
With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remainder of the one only piece she had touched, and then would have spoken banteringly to her; but she had slid away into her own room.
He was presently roused from the strange revery into which the conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of Isabel's hand upon his knee, and her large expressive34 glance upon his face. During all the foregoing colloquy35, she had remained entirely silent; but an unoccupied observer would perhaps have noticed, that some new and very strong emotions were restrainedly stirring within her.
"Pierre!" she said, intently bending over toward him.
"Well, well, Isabel," stammeringly36 replied Pierre; while a mysterious color suffused38 itself over his whole face, neck, and brow; and involuntarily he started a little back from her self-proffering form.
Arrested by this movement Isabel eyed him fixedly40; then slowly rose, and with immense mournful stateliness, drew herself up, and said: "If thy sister can ever come too nigh to thee, Pierre, tell thy sister so, beforehand; for the September sun draws not up the valley-vapor more jealously from the disdainful earth, than my secret god shall draw me up from thee, if ever I can come too nigh to thee."
Thus speaking, one hand was on her bosom42, as if resolutely43 feeling of something deadly there concealed44; but, riveted45 by her general manner more than by her particular gesture, Pierre, at the instant, did not so particularly note the all-significant movement of the hand upon her bosom, though afterward46 he recalled it, and darkly and thoroughly47 comprehended its meaning.
"Too nigh to me, Isabel? Sun or dew, thou fertilizest me! Can sunbeams or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they warm and water? Then sit down by me, Isabel, and sit close; wind in within my ribs48,—if so thou canst,—that my one frame may be the continent of two."
"Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard," said Isabel, most bitterly—"but do fine sayings always make fine deeds? Pierre, thou didst but just now draw away from me!"
"When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back our arms, Isabel; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer to thee."
"Well; all words are arrant49 skirmishers; deeds are the army's self! be it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee.—Pierre."
"My breath waits thine; what is it, Isabel?"
"I have been more blockish than a block; I am mad to think of it! More mad, that her great sweetness should first remind me of mine own stupidity. But she shall not get the start of me! Pierre, some way I must work for thee! See, I will sell this hair; have these teeth pulled out; but some way I will earn money for thee!"
Pierre now eyed her startledly. Touches of a determinate meaning shone in her; some hidden thing was deeply wounded in her. An affectionate soothing50 syllable51 was on his tongue; his arm was out; when shifting his expression, he whisperingly and alarmedly exclaimed—"Hark! she is coming.—Be still."
But rising boldly, Isabel threw open the connecting door, exclaiming half-hysterically—"Look, Lucy; here is the strangest husband; fearful of being caught speaking to his wife!"
With an artist's little box before her—whose rattling52, perhaps, had startled Pierre—Lucy was sitting midway in her room, opposite the opened door; so that at that moment, both Pierre and Isabel were plainly visible to her. The singular tone of Isabel's voice instantly caused her to look up intently. At once, a sudden irradiation of some subtile intelligence—but whether welcome to her, or otherwise, could not be determined—shot over her whole aspect. She murmured some vague random54 reply; and then bent55 low over her box, saying she was very busy.
Isabel closed the door, and sat down again by Pierre. Her countenance56 wore a mixed and writhing57, impatient look. She seemed as one in whom the most powerful emotion of life is caught in inextricable toils58 of circumstances, and while longing60 to disengage itself, still knows that all struggles will prove worse than vain; and so, for the moment, grows madly reckless and defiant61 of all obstacles. Pierre trembled as he gazed upon her. But soon the mood passed from her; her old, sweet mournfulness returned; again the clear unfathomableness was in her mystic eye.
"Pierre, ere now,—ere I ever knew thee—I have done mad things, which I have never been conscious of, but in the dim recalling. I hold such things no things of mine. What I now remember, as just now done, was one of them."
"Thou hast done nothing but shown thy strength, while I have shown my weakness, Isabel;—yes, to the whole world thou art my wife—to her, too, thou art my wife. Have I not told her so, myself? I was weaker than a kitten, Isabel; and thou, strong as those high things angelical, from which utmost beauty takes not strength."
"Pierre, once such syllables62 from thee, were all refreshing63, and bedewing to me; now, though they drop as warmly and as fluidly from thee, yet falling through another and an intercepting64 zone, they freeze on the way, and clatter65 on my heart like hail, Pierre.—— Thou didst not speak thus to her!"
"She is not Isabel."
The girl gazed at him with a quick and piercing scrutiny66; then looked quite calm, and spoke33. "My guitar, Pierre: thou know'st how complete a mistress I am of it; now, before thou gettest sitters for the portrait-sketcher, thou shalt get pupils for the music-teacher. Wilt67 thou?" and she looked at him with a persuasiveness68 and touchingness70, which to Pierre, seemed more than mortal.
"My poor poor, Isabel!" cried Pierre; "thou art the mistress of the natural sweetness of the guitar, not of its invented regulated artifices71; and these are all that the silly pupil will pay for learning. And what thou hast can not be taught. Ah, thy sweet ignorance is all transporting to me! my sweet, my sweet!—dear, divine girl!" And impulsively72 he caught her in his arms.
While the first fire of his feeling plainly glowed upon him, but ere he had yet caught her to him, Isabel had backward glided74 close to the connecting door; which, at the instant of his embrace, suddenly opened, as by its own volition75.
Before the eyes of seated Lucy, Pierre and Isabel stood locked; Pierre's lips upon her cheek.
II.
NOTWITHSTANDING the maternal77 visit of Mrs. Tartan, and the peremptoriness78 with which it had been closed by her declared departure never to return, and her vow79 to teach all Lucy's relatives and friends, and Lucy's own brothers, and her suitor, to disown her, and forget her; yet Pierre fancied that he knew too much in general of the human heart, and too much in particular of the character of both Glen and Frederic, to remain entirely untouched by disquietude, concerning what those two fiery80 youths might now be plotting against him, as the imagined monster, by whose infernal tricks Lucy Tartan was supposed to have been seduced81 from every earthly seemliness. Not happily, but only so much the more gloomily, did he augur82 from the fact, that Mrs. Tartan had come to Lucy unattended; and that Glen and Frederic had let eight-and-forty hours and more go by, without giving the slightest hostile or neutral sign. At first he thought, that bridling83 their impulsive73 fierceness, they were resolved to take the slower, but perhaps the surer method, to wrest84 Lucy back to them, by instituting some legal process. But this idea was repulsed85 by more than one consideration.
Not only was Frederic of that sort of temper, peculiar86 to military men, which would prompt him, in so closely personal and intensely private and family a matter, to scorn the hireling publicity87 of the law's lingering arm; and impel88 him, as by the furiousness of fire, to be his own righter and avenger89; for, in him, it was perhaps quite as much the feeling of an outrageous90 family affront91 to himself, through Lucy, as her own presumed separate wrong, however black, which stung him to the quick: not only were these things so respecting Frederic; but concerning Glen, Pierre well knew, that be Glen heartless as he might, to do a deed of love, Glen was not heartless to do a deed of hate; that though, on that memorable92 night of his arrival in the city, Glen had heartlessly closed his door upon him, yet now Glen might heartfully burst Pierre's open, if by that he at all believed, that permanent success would crown the fray93.
Besides, Pierre knew this;—that so invincible94 is the natural, untamable, latent spirit of a courageous95 manliness96 in man, that though now socially educated for thousands of years in an arbitrary homage97 to the Law, as the one only appointed redress98 for every injured person; yet immemorially and universally, among all gentlemen of spirit, once to have uttered independent personal threats of personal vengeance99 against your foe100, and then, after that, to fall back slinking into a court, and hire with sops101 a pack of yelping102 pettifoggers to fight the battle so valiantly103 proclaimed; this, on the surface, is ever deemed very decorous, and very prudent—a most wise second thought; but, at bottom, a miserably104 ignoble105 thing. Frederic was not the watery106 man for that,—Glen had more grapey blood in him.
Moreover, it seemed quite clear to Pierre, that only by making out Lucy absolutely mad, and striving to prove it by a thousand despicable little particulars, could the law succeed in tearing her from the refuge she had voluntarily sought; a course equally abhorrent107 to all the parties possibly to be concerned on either side.
What then would those two boiling bloods do? Perhaps they would patrol the streets; and at the first glimpse of lonely Lucy, kidnap her home. Or if Pierre were with her, then, smite108 him down by hook or crook109, fair play or foul110; and then, away with Lucy! Or if Lucy systematically111 kept her room, then fall on Pierre in the most public way, fell him, and cover him from all decent recognition beneath heaps on heaps of hate and insult; so that broken on the wheel of such dishonor, Pierre might feel himself unstrung, and basely yield the prize.
Not the gibbering of ghosts in any old haunted house; no sulphurous and portentous112 sign at night beheld in heaven, will so make the hair to stand, as when a proud and honorable man is revolving113 in his soul the possibilities of some gross public and corporeal114 disgrace. It is not fear; it is a pride-horror, which is more terrible than any fear. Then, by tremendous imagery, the murderer's mark of Cain is felt burning on the brow, and the already acquitted115 knife blood-rusts in the clutch of the anticipating hand.
Certain that those two youths must be plotting something furious against him; with the echoes of their scorning curses on the stairs still ringing in his ears—curses, whose swift responses from himself, he, at the time, had had much ado to check;—thoroughly alive to the supernaturalism of that mad frothing hate which a spirited brother forks forth116 at the insulter of a sister's honor—beyond doubt the most uncompromising of all the social passions known to man—and not blind to the anomalous117 fact, that if such a brother stab his foe at his own mother's table, all people and all juries would bear him out, accounting118 every thing allowable to a noble soul made mad by a sweet sister's shame caused by a damned seducer;—imagining to himself his own feelings, if he were actually in the position which Frederic so vividly119 fancied to be his; remembering that in love matters jealousy120 is as an adder121, and that the jealousy of Glen was double-addered by the extraordinary malice122 of the apparent circumstances under which Lucy had spurned123 Glen's arms, and fled to his always successful and now married rival, as if wantonly and shamelessly to nestle there;—remembering all these intense incitements of both those foes124 of his, Pierre could not but look forward to wild work very soon to come. Nor was the storm of passion in his soul unratified by the decision of his coolest possible hour. Storm and calm both said to him,—Look to thyself, oh Pierre!
Murders are done by maniacs125; but the earnest thoughts of murder, these are the collected desperadoes. Pierre was such; fate, or what you will, had made him such. But such he was. And when these things now swam before him; when he thought of all the ambiguities126 which hemmed127 him in; the stony128 walls all round that he could not overleap; the million aggravations of his most malicious129 lot; the last lingering hope of happiness licked up from him as by flames of fire, and his one only prospect130 a black, bottomless gulf131 of guilt132, upon whose verge133 he imminently134 teetered every hour;—then the utmost hate of Glen and Frederic were jubilantly welcome to him; and murder, done in the act of warding135 off their ignominious136 public blow, seemed the one only congenial sequel to such a desperate career.
III.
AS a statue, planted on a revolving pedestal, shows now this limb, now that; now front, now back, now side; continually changing, too, its general profile; so does the pivoted137, statued soul of man, when turned by the hand of Truth. Lies only never vary; look for no invariableness in Pierre. Nor does any canting showman here stand by to announce his phases as he revolves138. Catch his phases as your insight may.
Another day passed on; Glen and Frederic still absenting themselves, and Pierre and Isabel and Lucy all dwelling139 together. The domestic presence of Lucy had begun to produce a remarkable effect upon Pierre. Sometimes, to the covertly140 watchful141 eye of Isabel, he would seem to look upon Lucy with an expression illy befitting their singular and so-supposed merely cousinly relation; and yet again, with another expression still more unaccountable to her,—one of fear and awe143, not unmixed with impatience144. But his general detailed145 manner toward Lucy was that of the most delicate and affectionate considerateness—nothing more. He was never alone with her; though, as before, at times alone with Isabel.
Lucy seemed entirely undesirous of usurping146 any place about him; manifested no slightest unwelcome curiosity as to Pierre, and no painful embarrassment147 as to Isabel. Nevertheless, more and more did she seem, hour by hour, to be somehow inexplicably148 sliding between them, without touching69 them. Pierre felt that some strange heavenly influence was near him, to keep him from some uttermost harm; Isabel was alive to some untraceable displacing agency. Though when all three were together, the marvelous serenity149, and sweetness, and utter unsuspectingness of Lucy obviated150 any thing like a common embarrassment: yet if there was any embarrassment at all beneath that roof, it was sometimes when Pierre was alone with Isabel, after Lucy would innocently quit them.
Meantime Pierre was still going on with his book; every moment becoming still the more sensible of the intensely inauspicious circumstances of all sorts under which that labor151 was proceeding152. And as the now advancing and concentring enterprise demanded more and more compacted vigor153 from him, he felt that he was having less and less to bring to it. For not only was it the signal misery154 of Pierre, to be invisibly—though but accidentally—goaded155, in the hour of mental immaturity156, to the attempt at a mature work,—a circumstance sufficiently157 lamentable158 in itself; but also, in the hour of his clamorous159 pennilessness, he was additionally goaded into an enterprise long and protracted160 in the execution, and of all things least calculated for pecuniary profit in the end. How these things were so, whence they originated, might be thoroughly and very beneficially explained; but space and time here forbid.
At length, domestic matters—rent and bread—had come to such a pass with him, that whether or no, the first pages must go to the printer; and thus was added still another tribulation161; because the printed pages now dictated162 to the following manuscript, and said to all subsequent thoughts and inventions of Pierre—Thus and thus; so and so; else an ill match. Therefore, was his book already limited, bound over, and committed to imperfection, even before it had come to any confirmed form or conclusion at all. Oh, who shall reveal the horrors of poverty in authorship that is high? While the silly Millthorpe was railing against his delay of a few weeks and months; how bitterly did unreplying Pierre feel in his heart, that to most of the great works of humanity, their authors had given, not weeks and months, not years and years, but their wholly surrendered and dedicated163 lives. On either hand clung to by a girl who would have laid down her life for him; Pierre, nevertheless, in his deepest, highest part, was utterly164 without sympathy from any thing divine, human, brute165, or vegetable. One in a city of hundreds of thousands of human beings, Pierre was solitary166 as at the Pole.
And the great woe167 of all was this: that all these things were unsuspected without, and undivulgible from within; the very daggers168 that stabbed him were joked at by Imbecility, Ignorance, Blockheadedness, Self-Complacency, and the universal Blearedness and Besottedness around him. Now he began to feel that in him, the thews of a Titan were forestallingly cut by the scissors of Fate. He felt as a moose, hamstrung. All things that think, or move, or lie still, seemed as created to mock and torment169 him. He seemed gifted with loftiness, merely that it might be dragged down to the mud. Still, the profound willfulness in him would not give up. Against the breaking heart, and the bursting head; against all the dismal170 lassitude, and deathful faintness and sleeplessness171, and whirlingness, and craziness, still he like a demigod bore up. His soul's ship foresaw the inevitable172 rocks, but resolved to sail on, and make a courageous wreck173. Now he gave jeer174 for jeer, and taunted175 the apes that jibed176 him. With the soul of an Atheist177, he wrote down the godliest things; with the feeling of misery and death in him, he created forms of gladness and life. For the pangs178 in his heart, he put down hoots179 on the paper. And every thing else he disguised under the so conveniently adjustable180 drapery of all-stretchable Philosophy. For the more and the more that he wrote, and the deeper and the deeper that he dived, Pierre saw the everlasting181 elusiveness182 of Truth; the universal lurking183 insincerity of even the greatest and purest written thoughts. Like knavish184 cards, the leaves of all great books were covertly packed. He was but packing one set the more; and that a very poor jaded185 set and pack indeed. So that there was nothing he more spurned, than his own aspirations186; nothing he more abhorred187 than the loftiest part of himself. The brightest success, now seemed intolerable to him, since he so plainly saw, that the brightest success could not be the sole offspring of Merit; but of Merit for the one thousandth part, and nine hundred and ninety-nine combining and dove-tailing accidents for the rest. So beforehand he despised those laurels188 which in the very nature of things, can never be impartially189 bestowed190. But while thus all the earth was depopulated of ambition for him; still circumstances had put him in the attitude of an eager contender for renown191. So beforehand he felt the unrevealable sting of receiving either plaudits or censures192, equally unsought for, and equally loathed193 ere given. So, beforehand he felt the pyramidical scorn of the genuine loftiness for the whole infinite company of infinitesimal critics. His was the scorn which thinks it not worth the while to be scornful. Those he most scorned, never knew it. In that lonely little closet of his, Pierre foretasted all that this world hath either of praise or dispraise; and thus foretasting both goblets194, anticipatingly hurled195 them both in its teeth. All panegyric196, all denunciation, all criticism of any sort, would come too late for Pierre.
But man does never give himself up thus, a doorless and shutterless197 house for the four loosened winds of heaven to howl through, without still additional dilapidations. Much oftener than before, Pierre laid back in his chair with the deadly feeling of faintness. Much oftener than before, came staggering home from his evening walk, and from sheer bodily exhaustion198 economized199 the breath that answered the anxious inquiries200 as to what might be done for him. And as if all the leagued spiritual inveteracies and malices, combined with his general bodily exhaustion, were not enough, a special corporeal affliction now descended201 like a sky-hawk upon him. His incessant202 application told upon his eyes. They became so affected203, that some days he wrote with the lids nearly closed, fearful of opening them wide to the light. Through the lashes204 he peered upon the paper, which so seemed fretted205 with wires. Sometimes he blindly wrote with his eyes turned away from the paper;—thus unconsciously symbolizing206 the hostile necessity and distaste, the former whereof made of him this most unwilling207 states-prisoner of letters.
As every evening, after his day's writing was done, the proofs of the beginning of his work came home for correction, Isabel would read them to him. They were replete208 with errors; but preoccupied209 by the thronging210, and undiluted, pure imaginings of things, he became impatient of such minute, gnat-like torments211; he randomly212 corrected the worst, and let the rest go; jeering213 with himself at the rich harvest thus furnished to the entomological critics.
But at last he received a tremendous interior intimation, to hold off—to be still from his unnatural214 struggle.
In the earlier progress of his book, he had found some relief in making his regular evening walk through the greatest thoroughfare of the city; that so, the utter isolation215 of his soul, might feel itself the more intensely from the incessant jogglings of his body against the bodies of the hurrying thousands. Then he began to be sensible of more fancying stormy nights, than pleasant ones; for then, the great thoroughfares were less thronged216, and the innumerable shop-awnings flapped and beat like schooners217' broad sails in a gale218, and the shutters banged like lashed219 bulwarks220; and the slates221 fell hurtling like displaced ship's blocks from aloft. Stemming such tempests through the deserted222 streets, Pierre felt a dark, triumphant223 joy; that while others had crawled in fear to their kennels224, he alone defied the storm-admiral, whose most vindictive225 peltings of hail-stones,—striking his iron-framed fiery furnace of a body,—melted into soft dew, and so, harmlessly trickled227 from off him.
By-and-by, of such howling, pelting226 nights, he began to bend his steps down the dark, narrow side-streets, in quest of the more secluded228 and mysterious tap-rooms. There he would feel a singular satisfaction, in sitting down all dripping in a chair, ordering his half-pint of ale before him, and drawing over his cap to protect his eyes from the light, eye the varied229 faces of the social castaways, who here had their haunts from the bitterest midnights.
But at last he began to feel a distaste for even these; and now nothing but the utter night-desolation of the obscurest warehousing lanes would content him, or be at all sufferable to him. Among these he had now been accustomed to wind in and out every evening; till one night as he paused a moment previous to turning about for home, a sudden, unwonted, and all-pervading230 sensation seized him. He knew not where he was; he did not have any ordinary life-feeling at all. He could not see; though instinctively231 putting his hand to his eyes, he seemed to feel that the lids were open. Then he was sensible of a combined blindness, and vertigo232, and staggering; before his eyes a million green meteors danced; he felt his foot tottering233 upon the curb234, he put out his hands, and knew no more for the time. When he came to himself he found that he was lying crosswise in the gutter235, dabbled236 with mud and slime. He raised himself to try if he could stand; but the fit was entirely gone. Immediately he quickened his steps homeward, forbearing to rest or pause at all on the way, lest that rush of blood to his head, consequent upon his sudden cessation from walking, should again smite him down. This circumstance warned him away from those desolate237 streets, lest the repetition of the fit should leave him there to perish by night in unknown and unsuspected loneliness. But if that terrible vertigo had been also intended for another and deeper warning, he regarded such added warning not at all; but again plied37 heart and brain as before.
But now at last since the very blood in his body had in vain rebelled against his Titanic238 soul; now the only visible outward symbols of that soul—his eyes—did also turn downright traitors239 to him, and with more success than the rebellious240 blood. He had abused them so recklessly, that now they absolutely refused to look on paper. He turned them on paper, and they blinked and shut. The pupils of his eyes rolled away from him in their own orbits. He put his hand up to them, and sat back in his seat. Then, without saying one word, he continued there for his usual term, suspended, motionless, blank.
But next morning—it was some few days after the arrival of Lucy—still feeling that a certain downright infatuation, and no less, is both unavoidable and indispensable in the composition of any great, deep book, or even any wholly unsuccessful attempt at any great, deep book; next morning he returned to the charge. But again the pupils of his eyes rolled away from him in their orbits: and now a general and nameless torpor—some horrible foretaste of death itself—seemed stealing upon him.
IV.
DURING this state of semi-unconsciousness, or rather trance, a remarkable dream or vision came to him. The actual artificial objects around him slid from him, and were replaced by a baseless yet most imposing241 spectacle of natural scenery. But though a baseless vision in itself, this airy spectacle assumed very familiar features to Pierre. It was the phantasmagoria of the Mount of the Titans, a singular height standing76 quite detached in a wide solitude242 not far from the grand range of dark blue hills encircling his ancestral manor243.
Say what some poets will, Nature is not so much her own ever-sweet interpreter, as the mere142 supplier of that cunning alphabet, whereby selecting and combining as he pleases, each man reads his own peculiar lesson according to his own peculiar mind and mood. Thus a high-aspiring244, but most moody245, disappointed bard246, chancing once to visit the Meadows and beholding247 that fine eminence248, christened it by the name it ever after bore; completely extinguishing its former title—The Delectable249 Mountain—one long ago bestowed by an old Baptist farmer, an hereditary250 admirer of Bunyan and his most marvelous book. From the spell of that name the mountain never afterward escaped; for now, gazing upon it by the light of those suggestive syllables, no poetical251 observer could resist the apparent felicity of the title. For as if indeed the immemorial mount would fain adapt itself to its so recent name, some people said that it had insensibly changed its pervading aspect within a score or two of winters. Nor was this strange conceit252 entirely without foundation, seeing that the annual displacements253 of huge rocks and gigantic trees were continually modifying its whole front and general contour.
On the north side, where it fronted the old Manor-house, some fifteen miles distant, the height, viewed from the piazza254 of a soft haze-canopied summer's noon, presented a long and beautiful, but not entirely inaccessible-looking purple precipice255, some two thousand feet in air, and on each hand sideways sloping down to lofty terraces of pastures.
Those hill-side pastures, be it said, were thickly sown with a small white amaranthine flower, which, being irreconcilably256 distasteful to the cattle, and wholly rejected by them, and yet, continually multiplying on every hand, did by no means contribute to the agricultural value of those elevated lands. Insomuch, that for this cause, the disheartened dairy tenants257 of that part of the Manor, had petitioned their lady-landlord for some abatement259 in their annual tribute of upland grasses, in the Juny-load; rolls of butter in the October crock; and steers260 and heifers on the October hoof261; with turkeys in the Christmas sleigh.
"The small white flower, it is our bane!" the imploring262 tenants cried. "The aspiring amaranth, every year it climbs and adds new terraces to its sway! The immortal263 amaranth, it will not die, but last year's flowers survive to this! The terraced pastures grow glittering white, and in warm June still show like banks of snow:—fit token of the sterileness the amaranth begets265! Then free us from the amaranth, good lady, or be pleased to abate258 our rent!"
Now, on a somewhat nearer approach, the precipice did not belie27 its purple promise from the manorial266 piazza—that sweet imposing purple promise, which seemed fully5 to vindicate267 the Bunyanish old title originally bestowed;—but showed the profuse268 aerial foliage269 of a hanging forest. Nevertheless, coming still more nigh, long and frequent rents among the mass of leaves revealed horrible glimpses of dark-dripping rocks, and mysterious mouths of wolfish caves. Struck by this most unanticipated view, the tourist now quickened his impulsive steps to verify the change by coming into direct contact with so chameleon270 a height. As he would now speed on, the lower ground, which from the manor-house piazza seemed all a grassy271 level, suddenly merged272 into a very long and weary acclivity, slowly rising close up to the precipice's base; so that the efflorescent grasses rippled274 against it, as the efflorescent waves of some great swell275 or long rolling billow ripple273 against the water-line of a steep gigantic war-ship on the sea. And, as among the rolling sea-like sands of Egypt, disordered rows of broken Sphinxes lead to the Cheopian pyramid itself; so this long acclivity was thickly strewn with enormous rocky masses, grotesque276 in shape, and with wonderful features on them, which seemed to express that slumbering277 intelligence visible in some recumbent beasts—beasts whose intelligence seems struck dumb in them by some sorrowful and inexplicable278 spell. Nevertheless, round and round those still enchanted279 rocks, hard by their utmost rims280, and in among their cunning crevices281, the misanthropic282 hill-scaling goat nibbled283 his sweetest food; for the rocks, so barren in themselves, distilled284 a subtile moisture, which fed with greenness all things that grew about their igneous285 marge.
Quitting those recumbent rocks, you still ascended286 toward the hanging forest, and piercing within its lowermost fringe, then suddenly you stood transfixed, as a marching soldier confounded at the sight of an impregnable redoubt, where he had fancied it a practicable vault287 to his courageous thews. Cunningly masked hitherto, by the green tapestry288 of the interlacing leaves, a terrific towering palisade of dark mossy massiness confronted you; and, trickling290 with unevaporable moisture, distilled upon you from its beetling291 brow slow thunder-showers of water-drops, chill as the last dews of death. Now you stood and shivered in that twilight292, though it were high noon and burning August down the meads. All round and round, the grim scarred rocks rallied and re-rallied themselves; shot up, protruded293, stretched, swelled294, and eagerly reached forth; on every side bristlingly radiating with a hideous295 repellingness. Tossed, and piled, and indiscriminate among these, like bridging rifts296 of logs up-jammed in alluvial-rushing streams of far Arkansas: or, like great masts and yards of overwhelmed fleets hurled high and dashed amain, all splintering together, on hovering297 ridges298 of the Atlantic sea,—you saw the melancholy299 trophies300 which the North Wind, championing the unquenchable quarrel of the Winter, had wrested302 from the forests, and dismembered them on their own chosen battle-ground, in barbarous disdain41. 'Mid53 this spectacle of wide and wanton spoil, insular303 noises of falling rocks would boomingly explode upon the silence and fright all the echoes, which ran shrieking304 in and out among the caves, as wailing305 women and children in some assaulted town.
Stark306 desolation; ruin, merciless and ceaseless; chills and gloom,—all here lived a hidden life, curtained by that cunning purpleness, which, from the piazza of the manor house, so beautifully invested the mountain once called Delectable, but now styled Titanic.
Beaten off by such undreamed-of glooms and steeps, you now sadly retraced307 your steps, and, mayhap, went skirting the inferior sideway terraces of pastures; where the multiple and most sterile264 inodorous immortalness of the small, white flower furnished no aliment for the mild cow's meditative24 cud. But here and there you still might smell from far the sweet aromaticness of clumps308 of catnip, that dear farm-house herb. Soon you would see the modest verdure of the plant itself; and wheresoever you saw that sight, old foundation stones and rotting timbers of log-houses long extinct would also meet your eye; their desolation illy hid by the green solicitudes309 of the unemigrating herb. Most fitly named the catnip; since, like the unrunagate cat, though all that's human forsake310 the place, that plant will long abide311, long bask312 and bloom on the abandoned hearth313. Illy hid; for every spring the amaranthine and celestial314 flower gained on the mortal household herb; for every autumn the catnip died, but never an autumn made the amaranth to wane315. The catnip and the amaranth!—man's earthly household peace, and the ever-encroaching appetite for God.
No more now you sideways followed the sad pasture's skirt, but took your way adown the long declivity316, fronting the mystic height. In mid field again you paused among the recumbent sphinx-like shapes thrown off from the rocky steep. You paused; fixed39 by a form defiant, a form of awfulness. You saw Enceladus the Titan, the most potent317 of all the giants, writhing from out the imprisoning318 earth;—turbaned with upborn moss289 he writhed319; still, though armless, resisting with his whole striving trunk, the Pelion and the Ossa hurled back at him;—turbaned with upborn moss he writhed; still turning his unconquerable front toward that majestic320 mount eternally in vain assailed321 by him, and which, when it had stormed him off, had heaved his undoffable incubus323 upon him, and deridingly left him there to bay out his ineffectual howl.
To Pierre this wondrous324 shape had always been a thing of interest, though hitherto all its latent significance had never fully and intelligibly325 smitten326 him. In his earlier boyhood a strolling company of young collegian pedestrians327 had chanced to light upon the rock; and, struck with its remarkableness328, had brought a score of picks and spades, and dug round it to unearth329 it, and find whether indeed it were a demoniac freak of nature, or some stern thing of antediluvian330 art. Accompanying this eager party, Pierre first beheld that deathless son of Terra. At that time, in its untouched natural state, the statue presented nothing but the turbaned head of igneous rock rising from out the soil, with its unabasable face turned upward toward the mountain, and the bull-like neck clearly defined. With distorted features, scarred and broken, and a black brow mocked by the upborn moss, Enceladus there subterraneously331 stood, fast frozen into the earth at the junction332 of the neck. Spades and picks soon heaved part of his Ossa from him, till at last a circular well was opened round him to the depth of some thirteen feet. At that point the wearied young collegians gave over their enterprise in despair. With all their toil59, they had not yet come to the girdle of Enceladus. But they had bared good part of his mighty333 chest, and exposed his mutilated shoulders, and the stumps334 of his once audacious arms. Thus far uncovering his shame, in that cruel plight335 they had abandoned him, leaving stark naked his in vain indignant chest to the defilements of the birds, which for untold336 ages had cast their foulness337 on his vanquished338 crest339.
Not unworthy to be compared with that leaden Titan, wherewith the art of Marsy and the broad-flung pride of Bourbon enriched the enchanted gardens of Versailles;—and from whose still twisted mouth for sixty feet the waters yet upgush, in elemental rivalry340 with those Etna flames, of old asserted to be the malicious breath of the borne-down giant;—not unworthy to be compared with that leaden demi-god—piled with costly rocks, and with one bent wrenching341 knee protruding342 from the broken bronze;—not unworthy to be compared with that bold trophy343 of high art, this American Enceladus, wrought344 by the vigorous hand of Nature's self, it did go further than compare;—it did far surpass that fine figure molded by the inferior skill of man. Marsy gave arms to the eternally defenseless; but Nature, more truthful4, performed an amputation345, and left the impotent Titan without one serviceable ball-and-socket above the thigh346.
Such was the wild scenery—the Mount of Titans, and the repulsed group of heaven-assaulters, with Enceladus in their midst shamefully347 recumbent at its base;—such was the wild scenery, which now to Pierre, in his strange vision, displaced the four blank walls, the desk, and camp-bed, and domineered upon his trance. But no longer petrified348 in all their ignominious attitudes, the herded349 Titans now sprung to their feet; flung themselves up the slope; and anew battered350 at the precipice's unresounding wall. Foremost among them all, he saw a moss-turbaned, armless giant, who despairing of any other mode of wreaking351 his immitigable hate, turned his vast trunk into a battering-ram, and hurled his own arched-out ribs again and yet again against the invulnerable steep.
"Enceladus! it is Enceladus!"—Pierre cried out in his sleep. That moment the phantom352 faced him; and Pierre saw Enceladus no more; but on the Titan's armless trunk, his own duplicate face and features magnifiedly gleamed upon him with prophetic discomfiture353 and woe. With trembling frame he started from his chair, and woke from that ideal horror to all his actual grief.
V.
NOR did Pierre's random knowledge of the ancient fables354 fail still further to elucidate355 the vision which so strangely had supplied a tongue to muteness. But that elucidation356 was most repulsively357 fateful and foreboding; possibly because Pierre did not leap the final barrier of gloom; possibly because Pierre did not willfully wrest some final comfort from the fable322; did not flog this stubborn rock as Moses his, and force even aridity358 itself to quench301 his painful thirst.
Thus smitten, the Mount of Titans seems to yield this following stream:—
Old Titan's self was the son of incestuous C?lus and Terra, the son of incestuous Heaven and Earth. And Titan married his mother Terra, another and accumulatively incestuous match. And thereof Enceladus was one issue. So Enceladus was both the son and grandson of an incest; and even thus, there had been born from the organic blended heavenliness and earthliness of Pierre, another mixed, uncertain, heaven-aspiring, but still not wholly earth-emancipated mood; which again, by its terrestrial taint359 held down to its terrestrial mother, generated there the present doubly incestuous Enceladus within him; so that the present mood of Pierre—that reckless sky-assaulting mood of his, was nevertheless on one side the grandson of the sky. For it is according to eternal fitness, that the precipitated360 Titan should still seek to regain361 his paternal362 birthright even by fierce escalade. Wherefore whoso storms the sky gives best proof he came from thither363! But whatso crawls contented364 in the moat before that crystal fort, shows it was born within that slime, and there forever will abide.
Recovered somewhat from the after-spell of this wild vision folded in his trance, Pierre composed his front as best he might, and straightway left his fatal closet. Concentrating all the remaining stuff in him, he resolved by an entire and violent change, and by a willful act against his own most habitual365 inclinations366, to wrestle367 with the strange malady368 of his eyes, this new death-fiend of the trance, and this Inferno369 of his Titanic vision.
And now, just as he crossed the threshold of the closet, he writhingly strove to assume an expression intended to be not uncheerful—though how indeed his countenance at all looked, he could not tell; for dreading370 some insupportably dark revealments in his glass, he had of late wholly abstained371 from appealing to it—and in his mind he rapidly conned372 over, what indifferent, disguising, or light-hearted gamesome things he should say, when proposing to his companions the little design he cherished.
And even so, to grim Enceladus, the world the gods had chained for a ball to drag at his o'erfreighted feet;—even so that globe put forth a thousand flowers, whose fragile smiles disguised his ponderous373 load.
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1
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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2
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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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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6
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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7
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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8
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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10
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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11
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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13
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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19
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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20
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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admonishment
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| n.警告 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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24
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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27
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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30
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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32
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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33
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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34
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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36
stammeringly
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| adv.stammering（口吃的）的变形 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
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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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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43
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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44
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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45
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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46
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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47
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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48
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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49
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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50
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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51
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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52
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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53
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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54
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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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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57
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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58
toils
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| 网 | |
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59
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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60
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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61
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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62
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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63
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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64
intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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65
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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66
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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67
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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68
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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69
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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70
touchingness
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| 易动气，过分敏感 | |
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71
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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72
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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73
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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74
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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75
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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78
peremptoriness
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| n.专横，强制，武断 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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80
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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81
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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82
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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83
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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84
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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85
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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86
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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88
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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89
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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90
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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91
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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92
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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93
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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94
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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95
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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96
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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97
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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98
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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99
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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100
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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101
sops
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| n.用以慰藉或讨好某人的事物( sop的名词复数 )；泡湿的面包片等v.将（面包等）在液体中蘸或浸泡( sop的第三人称单数 )；用海绵、布等吸起（液体等） | |
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102
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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103
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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104
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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105
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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106
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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107
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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108
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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109
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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110
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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111
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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112
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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113
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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114
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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115
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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116
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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117
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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118
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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119
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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120
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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121
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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122
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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123
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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125
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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126
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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127
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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128
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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129
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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130
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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131
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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132
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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133
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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134
imminently
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| 迫切地，紧急地 | |
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135
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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136
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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137
pivoted
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| adj.转动的，回转的，装在枢轴上的v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的过去式和过去分词 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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138
revolves
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
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139
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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140
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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141
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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142
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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143
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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144
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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145
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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146
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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147
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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148
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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149
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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150
obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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152
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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153
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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154
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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155
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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156
immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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157
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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158
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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159
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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160
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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161
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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162
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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163
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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164
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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165
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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166
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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167
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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168
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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169
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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170
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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171
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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172
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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173
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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174
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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175
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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176
jibed
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| v.与…一致( jibe的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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177
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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178
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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179
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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180
adjustable
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| adj.可调整的，可校准的 | |
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181
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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182
elusiveness
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| 狡诈 | |
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183
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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184
knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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185
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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186
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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187
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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188
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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189
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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190
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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192
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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193
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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194
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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195
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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196
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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197
shutterless
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| 快门不 | |
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198
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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199
economized
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| v.节省，减少开支( economize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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201
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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202
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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203
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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204
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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205
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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206
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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207
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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208
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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209
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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210
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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211
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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212
randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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213
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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214
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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215
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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216
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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218
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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219
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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220
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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221
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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222
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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223
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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224
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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225
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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226
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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227
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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228
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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229
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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230
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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231
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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232
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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233
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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234
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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235
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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236
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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237
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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238
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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239
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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240
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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241
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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242
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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243
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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244
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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245
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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246
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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247
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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248
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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249
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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250
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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251
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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252
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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253
displacements
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| n.取代( displacement的名词复数 )；替代；移位；免职 | |
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254
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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255
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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256
irreconcilably
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| （观点、目标或争议）不可调和的，不相容的 | |
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257
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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258
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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259
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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260
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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261
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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262
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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263
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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264
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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265
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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266
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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267
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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268
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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269
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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270
chameleon
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| n.变色龙，蜥蜴；善变之人 | |
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271
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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272
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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273
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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274
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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275
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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276
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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277
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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278
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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279
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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280
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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281
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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282
misanthropic
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|
| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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283
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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284
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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285
igneous
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| adj.火的，火绒的 | |
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286
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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288
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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289
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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290
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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291
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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292
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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293
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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295
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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296
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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297
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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298
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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299
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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300
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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301
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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302
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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303
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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304
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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305
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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306
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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307
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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308
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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309
solicitudes
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| n.关心，挂念，渴望( solicitude的名词复数 ) | |
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310
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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311
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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312
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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313
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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314
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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315
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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316
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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317
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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318
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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319
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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320
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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321
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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322
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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323
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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324
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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325
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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326
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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327
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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328
remarkableness
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| 异常 | |
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329
unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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330
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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331
subterraneously
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| adj.地下的，隐匿的 | |
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332
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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333
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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334
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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335
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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336
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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337
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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338
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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339
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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340
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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341
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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342
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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343
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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344
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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345
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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346
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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347
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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348
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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349
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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350
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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351
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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352
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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353
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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354
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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355
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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356
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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357
repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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358
aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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359
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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360
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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361
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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362
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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363
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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364
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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365
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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366
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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367
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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368
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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369
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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370
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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371
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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372
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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373
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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