How am I to withstand the family urgency now? In vain I argue that I am still weak. They all persist in extolling2 the advantage to be derived3 from a change of air. And then the tickets have been taken and our rooms engaged at Cannes in one of the only hotels not transformed into hospitals. I gain a week more. Here is Christmas, and the New Year's Day, so many All Souls' Days! Oh well, I shall have to give in.
A palace on the Antibes road; a park with luxuriant palms; a far-reaching view over the turquoise-coloured sea. Very few people—a diminished staff; war prices; besides, my father is making us a present of this holiday.
[Pg 520]
My sister-in-law at once makes inquiries4 about less pretentious5 quarters, where we may end the winter. Getting wind of this project, I hasten to remonstrate6. She is surprised; what's the matter? Do I no longer like this part? Didn't I choose it myself? I admit that I have changed my mind—a convalescent's weak nerves—that I dream of less well-known neighbourhoods, Corsica or the Morocco coast.
It is quite true: I burn to escape from all that oppresses me on this coast. I avoid letting my eyes rest upon the headland of La Croisette. I can picture, too vividly8, the bay behind it with its silver slopes, the Cape7 d'Antibes stretching out into the sea, with the white lighthouse at La Groupe, and, facing towards us amid the tangled9 mass of verdure, that dwelling10 so often described to me.
These associations overwhelm me. Be still, my heart, be still! This is the sun which warms her, these are the waves whose murmur11 lulls12 her to sleep, the air which quickens her. I cannot breath here!
My people, who enjoy being at Cannes, give way to my express wish: we are to leave again.
To-morrow will be our last day here. I am seated on the promenade13. Where are the luxurious14 cars with their insolent15 footmen? Where are the dandies in white flannel16, the fair pedestrians17 in toilettes fit for a queen? The patrons of the Riviera, this year, are those poor soldiers in faded uniforms.
I find myself near the place where the sea-gulls used, formerly18, to whirl, catching19 in their flight the scraps20 which little girls threw to them. They have deserted21 the shore. They are playing together in the distance, skimming the gleaming surface of the waves.
[Pg 521]
I am waiting for Madeleine and my small nephew and niece. Here they come—she with her long veil. The passers-by think, as they meet her, of their losses of yesterday and to-morrow.
"A letter for you, Michel."
"Thanks."
I take it nonchalantly. Where is the news, to-day, with any power to stir me?
It is from Madame Landry!
She writes that she has just seen my name in the Journal des étrangers (so it still appears?). We were expected here. She and her grand-daughter would be delighted if I would go to see them, delighted, too, if my family would accompany me. She proposed a day, the day after to-morrow.
I don't know where I am. My hand tightens23 on the letter. Jeannine has taken care not to add a word. My heart swells24 with bitterness. But why this proceeding25?
I shall not go! I cannot go!
Oh, my sister, the only friend left to me, why did I feel a longing26 to confide27 in someone, at the sight of your sweet melancholy28? I began by joking:
"Halloa, an invitation!"
Drawing a quadrant in the sand with the end of my stick, in a toneless voice, which I force myself to render frivolous30, I have told Madeleine this story. But by some subtle feeling of bashfulness, I have not made myself out as ingenuous31—I should have blushed for it[Pg 522]—as I was. I have told her that directly I saw I had been damaged I had ceased to indulge in a hope grown fond. Our continued correspondence had been a consolation32 prize. Then when she had tired even of this game I lost interest in it too.
Madeleine has said to me, in her calm voice:
"It seems to me that nothing is lost."
I have protested.
"I shan't go!"
"You must go."
"What's the use?"
"Who can read in another's heart?" she murmured.
And she confides33 in me that on the day when Victor had asked for her hand in marriage, her mother had sent for her to consult her, as was seemly. And she, who loved him—and how she loved her young, intrepid34 soldier! This union was her one wish—she began to sob35, stammering36 "No," amid her tears. They were unfathomable creatures, certainly!
Why have I obeyed her? Why have I got into this train alone? She would come next time, she assured me prettily40. The rear carriage without a top races along, raising clouds of white dust. I catch frequent glimpses of the radiant stretch of water. Here is the Juan Vallauris Gulf41. Now we are skirting the edges of the coast, the pearly foam42 frolicking almost at our feet on the pale strand43.
I force myself to think of nothing. That would be best. I come to grief over it, and my thoughts are torture. Why am I going there? Out of cowardice44? Or else is it a remnant of hope? No! We'll dismiss[Pg 523] that idea! Rather, I think, in order to prove to myself that I am not afraid to suffer.
I stiffen45 myself. I will be correct and cold. Cold, poor wretch46! Just now my tears welled up at the sight of the sunlit road where there might some day have gambolled47 lovely children, born to us.
I have got out, and have slowly traversed the deserted village, and rounded the tall pine-wood. My footsteps sink into the earth—an inconvenience shared by everyone. My jointed49 leg flexes50 at the difficulties in the ground, and does not call attention to my drawback. I just seem tired by my walk.
I have forbidden myself to think, to procrastinate51, or to hesitate, or I should not have got as far as this threshold. Just as well, since I am embarked52 on this fantastic adventure. No backing out of it! For a soldier!
There it is. I recognise the gates, overhung with ivy53, from the description they gave me. Here it is! I ring, with wonderful, unexpected calmness. My heart has stopped beating quickly, since my fate is sealed.
The sound of footsteps. Is it she? No, the maid coming to open the gate to me. Was I expected as early as this?
A short and fairly steep pathway brings us to the flight of steps leading up to the villa48. No one at the windows—luckily! As a matter of fact, my careless carriage cloaks my lameness54.
I have been taken into the drawing-room, and the maid has gone to tell—A prettily furnished room, unobtrusively luxurious, and smacking55 of the old bourgeoisie, of matured and refined taste. Old furniture—flowers in modern vases. I go up to a[Pg 524] table with photographs standing56 on it. Here is, or, rather, are hers. This one dates back to two years ago. She seems a child, with her hair down her back Thus it was that she entered upon life.
I am struck by a pastel on the wall—a gracious portrait of a young woman. That resemblance—Her mother, no doubt; her mother, who had died when she was twenty-four.
A door opens. It is Madame Landry, as slim and sprightly57 as ever, in her dark gown, but she has a tired expression, it is true. Is she still an invalid58? She denies it, in a few disconnected sentences, and seems even more perturbed59 than I am.
"Jeannine is just coming down," she says.
I ask: "How is she? Quite fit?"
"Very."
Then, recovering herself:
"I've been annoyed—with her."
But here is Jeannine herself.
I admire my self-control, for I get up and go towards her. There is nothing constrained60 in my gait; I hardly drag my leg. Dazzled, and yet at the same time clear-sighted, I look at her with a prejudiced eye. I do not think her as lovely as she was.
I have bowed and pressed her hand; a commonplace greeting has been exchanged. The little brother has already appeared, and is deafening61 me with a crowd of questions which I answer good-naturedly. How easily it passes, this moment, which I had dreaded62 so much. We might be back at Ballaigues: the tone of courtesy and irony—and of indifference—recovered.
A strange hour. The conversation does not flag. Mention is made of my family, whose regrets I am supposed to have brought. Then I plunge63 into praise[Pg 525] of this heaven-blest country where they pass each winter. The grandmother interrupts me. This season is the last they will spend here.
"Really?"
Jeannine changes the subject.
The conversation, having wavered, naturally returns to the War. When will it end? In the spring? Yes, after the Big Push! We return to the first weeks. They ply64 me with questions. What have I seen? At first, I decline to be drawn65 out. They insist—I let myself go. They listen, and ask for details. Here is the perfect audience, interested and impassioned. Even technical details do not repel66 them, this sister and this daughter of soldiers, who have been staking out the maps with little flags; they, too.
I question them in my turn. It pleased me to hear them describing Paris' proud bearing at the time of our reverses. They have a right to speak of it, as they live there. When I mention our meeting with the two young Red Cross members at Rosny——
"It might have been me," says Jeannine. "I was at St. Denis that morning."
Heavens! I do not know what I had feared or desired. I become expansive. My mind is set at ease. What, is that Jeannine, who is listening to me, leaning her chin in her hand? Is it her pure, pensive67 gaze which mine meets without embarrassment68?
And the grandmother is standing up. In the most natural tone in the world, she asks her grand-daughter to show me round the garden.
Jeannine hesitates, and looks at her. I wonder, at this moment, if Madame Landry has ever heard of our letters, if she sees the tragic69 undercurrents to this frivolous scene which is being enacted70.
[Pg 526]
Jeannine is still considering. Is she afraid that the walk may tire me? I get up, and reassure71 her in advance. She blushes. The grandmother apologises for not accompanying us—the doctor forbids it.
The child jumps down the steps. I walk down gingerly, holding on to the rail; Jeannine, with her usual tact73, more slowly still.
This garden is more like a park. Trees of twenty species meet here, mingled74 in a medley75, with the luxuriance of primeval forests—palms, maples76, and olives; and I am made to guess the name of magnolias and mastic trees. I admire the tangles77 of lichens78 and aloes and the "mimosa alley," running between two hedges of gold.
How sad and exquisitely79 sweet this loitering is. Our futile80 topics lend it a melancholy charm. I should like to be able to detain the fleeting81 moments. We are going up to the house again. I am going away—and I shall never come back.
"I don't like our garden any more," Jeannine suddenly declared. "I've not been down into it three times since we got there."
"Why not?"
"It doesn't belong to us now. The villa is sold."
"An accomplished82 fact?"
"Yes, with everything belonging to it. To some Americans, from the first of February."
This astonishes me:
"As soon as that?"
"We had to."
"Where are you going to spend the rest of the winter then?"
[Pg 527]
"We shall have to go back to Paris."
André seems bored by our pace, which is not lively enough for him. He outstrips83 us, comes back to fetch us, and covers twice the distance we do.
"I am sure he's dying to show me his playground."
"Probably," Jeannine acquiesced84.
We reach a lawn. Here is a piece of ground which has been dug up, and a chalked line.
"How far can you jump now, André?"
"More than four yards," he exclaims.
He leaves his straw hat in our care, goes off to get room, takes a run, and jumps; and immediately turns round, triumphant85, the four yards cleared.
"Bravo! You are getting on."
"Oh, it'll be a long time before I can jump like you."
He stops short, biting his lip. Too late. We all three redden, and recall that summer's day when, in compliance86 with a request from Jeannine, I had taken off my coat, and jumped nearly five yards on the sand. To-day? Alas87, to-day!
Jeannine points out the croquet lawn to me, in passing.
"And what about tennis?"
"We've given up playing."
I begin to feel slightly tired. Jeannine, who suspects it, slackens her speed again, gracefully88 and unaffectedly. But it is heart-breaking for me—I who have such a vivid recollection of the rhythm of her usual pace. And had I not seen her at Ballaigues, challenging her brother to race with her, and beating him with ease?
The round is finished. We are going in. André proposes:
"Suppose we take Mr. Dreher to the Observatory89?"
[Pg 528]
"Just what I meant to do," she says. "We'll have a rest—I'm worn out."
Is she putting it on, to make me forget my fatigue90, or is she really tired out? Her rosy91 colour has certainly paled very suddenly. Her pure face is troubled, like limpid92 water which has been agitated93.
Mounting some steps, we gain a shady retreat, bordering on and overlooking the road. A parasol, three chairs, a seat, an iron railing.
Jeannine has dropped into a chair. I have seated myself beside her. Our eyes roam over the stretch of country in front of us.
The short January afternoon is already drawing to a close. The sun is sinking behind the islands, which look like deep-sea monsters, with purple scales. The West is bathed in a luminous94 pallor, even the tracery of the Estérel is hardly discernible out yonder.
At the bottom of the orange bay, there lie white houses with red roofs and blazing windows, flaming as if the darkness were not near at hand. And that is the way of my destiny. The last moment of radiance, on the threshold of the eternal night!
Jeannine is still silent. André chatters95, and I am glad of it, and keep him up to it. I profess96 an interest in the hairy cactus97 creeping along the wall. I ask him the names of certain plants, and pretend to get muddled98 in order to make him laugh.
Is it I who am talking and joking, I, who smile? There is another desperate I, coiled up at the centre of my being.
"I bet it's Maurice!"
I mechanically ask: "Who's Maurice?"
[Pg 529]
"A little neighbour," Jeannine replies.
"Yes, that's him all right."
The child bounds down the steps and leaves us alone. How awkward! Just the very thing which should have been avoided. I try to fill up the silence with a commonplace remark—Good God! This moment of tête-à-tête, for which my whole being longed in desperation in the hours of Death!
André's voice makes itself heard. He comes running back.
"I say, Jeannine, he wants to know if I may go and play with him."
I hardly listen to the reply. Turning away, I contemplate100 the violet crest101 of the Estérel, which has just revealed itself in the gloaming so boldly that it might be taken for the outline of a cloud.
One would almost say that Jeannine was hesitating. I listen, in spite of myself, for the words that will fall from her lips—I know she will recall her brother. The child is too useful here.
But, no; she says nothing. And now the little fellow begins again:
"May I, Jeannine? May I?"
That colourless voice, changed and dejected.
"Very well, run along," Jeannine has said.
The boy makes her repeat it:
"I may go?"
"Yes—yes."
A deep chord vibrates within me.
A trifling103 incident, and yet—of infinite import. Jeannine sending her brother away. Jeannine in favour of our being alone together.
[Pg 530]
The sea glitters in the west. Elsewhere it borrows vermilion and wine-coloured reflections from the conflict of sun and shade.
I consider Jeannine, her heaving bosom104, her quivering eyelashes—and her hand, her adorable child's hand, lying on the rail, hypnotises me.
I am dreaming—I no longer recognise myself; with my leg stretched out and relaxed, I dream that I am like others—a man, young and impassioned; and this girl, pale and tender, the promised creature.
Then I say:
"Our letters—were delightful105."
Jeannine does not answer, but her hand contracts convulsively. I dare everything. I dare to stretch out towards it my man's hand, big and strong. I seize it, limp and warm.
"Do you remember Le Suchet? That sunrise on the Alps."
She turns round and looks into my eyes. The dear, tormented106 face—I would give the world to banish107 even the shadow of a grief from it.
"Michel——"
She breaks off.
"Michel, have you something to say to me?"
Her gaze puts me to confusion. I bend down and kiss her fingers; then, I find nothing to say to her, but this:
"Shake hands, Jeannine."
"Are we agreed?"
She answers: "Yes."
The tone of her voice is no longer veiled. I gaze on her. The suffering has suddenly vanished from her[Pg 531] eyes. All the brilliance109 has returned to her complexion110, just as it has to her glance. Again, the expression of which I had kept such a delightful recollection, Youth smiling at Happiness.
Am I not assisting at a like transformation111 in myself? I, too, with eyes re-opened, and heart illuminated112 and revived. All hail to the life of light.
"But, Jeannine," I ask her, at once, the past anguish113 throttling114 me again, "why have you made me suffer so much?"
"Your last letter was so cold. You never came—there."
"I understood that you would rather we did not see you till you were—quite cured."
"An argument which I cannot refute. It's true—I did prefer that."
"And then—" She lowers her voice. "There was that other matter——"
"What matter?"
"Which I mentioned to you."
I do not understand. She continues in a more assured tone:
"Well, we're ruined. We must sell everything. We don't even know if that will be enough. Grandmother has had no luck. All her interests are in the North. She is most dreadfully unhappy about it."
So this was the reason. I am astounded116, and stirred to the depths of my being. I hardly dare believe—I smile:
"Really! There really was nothing but that?"
"I got it into my head," she says. "I wanted to[Pg 532] put you to the proof. You never answered me on that point."
"All the same," she continues, sighing as if she had been pulled out of a fathomless118 abyss, "if Grandmother had not been determined—that there should be an explanation——"
I cannot prevent myself saying:
"I dreaded your grandmother."
"Why?"
"I was so much afraid she might put you off."
"But why?" Jeannine repeats.
Oh, that ingenuous tone. Oh, that clear gaze and pure forehead, behind which no mental reservations could revolve119.
Her fresh voice in my ear is like a bell ringing in the days of joy. I could weep—I could go down upon my knees.
"You see," she says, gravely, "those of you who come back like this, you have so great a right to choose."
THE END
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1
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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2
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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9
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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18
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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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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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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35
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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44
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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45
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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49
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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flexes
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| v.屈曲( flex的第三人称单数 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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51
procrastinate
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| v.耽搁，拖延 | |
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52
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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53
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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54
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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55
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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56
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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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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61
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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62
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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63
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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65
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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72
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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74
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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76
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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82
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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outstrips
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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87
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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89
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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chatters
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的第三人称单数 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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98
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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99
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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100
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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101
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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102
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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103
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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104
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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105
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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106
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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107
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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108
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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109
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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110
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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111
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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112
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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113
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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114
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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115
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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116
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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117
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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118
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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119
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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