To get back to Baltazar and his story. In the first place it may be said that he was a man of fits and starts; a description which does not imply irresponsible mobility6 of purpose and spasmodic achievement. The phrase must be taken in the literal significance of the two terms. A man of fits—of mental, moral and emotional paroxysms; of starts—of swift courses of action which these paroxysms irresistibly7 determined8. Which same causes of action, in each case, he doggedly9 and ruthlessly pursued. One, an intimate teacher of Baltazar, one who, possessed10 of the knowledge of the scholar and the wisdom of the man of the world, might be qualified11 to judge, called him a Fool of Genius. Now the genius is steadfast12; the fool erratic13. In this apparent irreconcilability14 of attributes lies the difficulty of presenting the story of Baltazar.
But for the war, the story would scarcely be worth the telling, however interesting might be his sheer personality and his calculated waywardness. It would have led no whither, save to a stage or two further on his journey to the grave. But there is scarcely a human being alive with whose apparently17 predestined lot the war has not played the very devil. It knocked Baltazar’s world to bits—as soon as the realization18 of it burst on his astonished senses; yet it seemed to bring finality or continuity into his hitherto disconnected life.
It was during the war that his name was mentioned and his character discussed for the first time for many years, by two persons not without interest in his fate.
Marcelle Baring, a professional nurse of long standing19, arrived late one night at Churton Towers, to take up the duties of sister in charge. The place was the country seat of a great family who, like many others, had given it over to the Government as a convalescent home for officers; a place of stately lawns and terraces and fountains; of picture-hung galleries guarded by grim emptinesses in armour20; of noble halls heterogeneously21 furnished—for generosity23 seldom goes so far as to leave the edges of a priceless marquetry table at the mercy of a feather-headed subaltern’s forgotten cigarette; of tapestried24 rooms, once filled with the treasures of centuries, now empty save for the rows of little standard War Office bedsteads and the little deal regulation tables at their heads.
Somewhat confused by the vastness of her new home, and by the contrast of its gracious splendour with the utilitarian25 ugliness and mathematical uniformity of the General Hospital which she had just left, Marcelle Baring went downstairs the next morning to begin her new duties. Once in the wards26 she felt at home; for a ward16 of sick men is the same all the world over. The Matron went round with her, performing introductions; but that first morning she only caught a third of the names. It would take a few days to learn them, to learn also the history of the cases. Besides, they were convalescents, dressings28 were few, and her work was more administrative29 than personal. Her first impression was that of a high spirited crowd of almost indistinguishable young men, some to all intents and purposes sound of wind and limb, who in a short time would be sent back to the tempest of shell whence they were driven; others maimed and crippled, armless, legless, with drooping30 wrists, with unserving ankles. In the daytime nearly all were out of the wards; most in the open air playing tennis or lounging about the terraces, or playing billiards31 in the open-sided pavilion that looked over the Japanese garden. It was no easy matter to keep track of them all.
It was only on the second day that the name of a young officer who had lost his foot caught her eye: “Mr. G. Baltazar.” He was very young, fair, blue-eyed, with a little blond moustache. His tunic32, laid ready with the rest of his clothes, bore the white and purple ribbon of the Military Cross. The stump33 had practically healed, but it still needed attention.
“It’s rotten luck, isn’t it, Sister?” he said while she was tending him. “I thought I had got through all right—the show at Ypres early in June. I all but saw it out, but a bit of high explosive got me and here I am. Anyhow, they say they’re going to wangle me an artificial foot, so that I’ll never know the difference. One of those pukka things, you know, that’ll pick up pins with the toes. I hope it’ll come soon, for I’m fed up with crutches34. I always feel as if I ought to hold out my hat for pennies.”
“Poor chap!” said Marcelle, absently.
“That’s kind of you, but it’s just what I’m hating. I don’t want to go through life as a ‘poor chap.’?” He paused, then ran on: “I wonder how you dear people can look at the beastly thing. Whenever I cock my leg down and try to have a sight of it, it nearly makes me sick. I like to be neat and tidy and not repulsive37 to my fellow-creatures, but that crimpled-crumpled38 end of me is just slovenly39 and disgusting.”
Marcelle Baring scarcely heeded40 his debonair41 talk. His name had awakened42 far-off memories. She worked in silence, pinned the bandage and, smiling, with a “You’ll do all right, Mr. Baltazar,” left him.
The shock came the next afternoon. As she passed through the great entrance hall, fitted up as a lounge with the heterogeneous22 furniture, she came across him, the solitary44 occupant, sitting at a table, busy with pencil and writing pad and a thick volume propped45 up in front of him. Her eye caught arresting symbols on the paper, then the page-heading of the book: “Rigid46 Dynamics47.”
She paused. He looked up with a laugh.
“Hello, Sister!”
She said, with a catch in her breath, “You’re a mathematician48?”
He laughed. “More or less. If they kick me out of the Army, I must go back to Cambridge and begin again where I left off.”
“You must have left off rather high, if you’re reading Rigid.”
He started, for no one in this wide world but a mathematical student could have used the phrase.
“What the—what do you know about Rigid?”
“I was at Newnham, in my young days,” she replied, “and I read mathematics. And, oddly enough, my private tutor was”—she hesitated for a second—“someone of your name.”
He pushed his chair away from the table.
“That must have been my father.”
“John Baltazar.”
“Yes, John Baltazar. One of the greatest mathematical geniuses Cambridge has produced. Good Lord! did you know my father?”
“He and I were great friends.”
She looked him through and through with curiously49 burning eyes; of which the boy was unconscious, for he said:
“Fancy your reading with my father! It’s a funny old world.” Then suddenly he reflected and glanced at her critically. “But how could you? He disappeared nearly twenty years ago.”
“I’m thirty-eight,” she said.
“Lord! you don’t look it—nothing like it,” he cried boyishly.
Nor did she. She carried a graceful50 air of youth, from the wave of brown hair that escaped from beneath her Sister’s cap to the supple51 and delicately curved figure. And her face, if you peered not too closely, was young, very pure in feature, still with a bloom on the complexion52 in spite of confinement53 in hospital wards. Her voice, too, was soft and youthful. Perhaps her eyes were a little weary—they had seen many terrible things.
At the young man’s tribute she flushed slightly and smiled. But the smile died away when he added:
“What was he like? I’ve often wondered, and there has been no one to tell me—no one I could have listened to. The dons of his generation are too shy to refer to him and I’m too shy to ask ’em. Do you know, I’ve never seen a picture of him even.”
“He was not unlike you,” she replied, looking not at him, but wistfully down the years. “Of heavier build. He was a man of tremendous vitality—and swift brain. The most marvellous teacher I have ever met. He seemed to hold your intellect in his hands like a physical thing, sweep it clear of cobwebs and compel it to assimilate whatever he chose. A born teacher and a wonderful man.”
“But was he human? I know his work, though I haven’t read enough to tackle it yet—most of it’s away and beyond Part II of the Tripos even. I went up with an Open Mathematical Scholarship just before the war, and only did my first year’s reading. I’m beginning this”—he tapped his Treatise54 on Rigid Dynamics—“on my own. What I mean is,” he went on, after a pause, “my father has been always an abstraction to me. I shouldn’t have worried about him if he had just been a nonentity—it wasn’t playing the game to vanish as he did into space and leave my mother to fend55 for herself.”
“But I heard,” said the Sister, “that your mother had her own private fortune.”
“I wasn’t alluding56 to that side of it,” he admitted. “But he did vanish, didn’t he? Well, as I say, if he had been just a nobody, I shouldn’t have been particularly interested; but he wasn’t. He was the most brilliant man of his generation at Cambridge. For instance, he took up Chinese as a sort of relaxation57. They say his is the only really scientific handbook on the study of the language. You see, Sister”—he swerved58 impatiently on his chair and brought his hand down on the table, whereat she drew a swift inward breath, for the gesture of the son was that of the father—“I’ve always wanted to know whether I’m the son of an inhuman59 intellect or of a man of flesh and blood. Was he human? That’s what I want to know.”
“He was human all right,” she replied quietly. “Too human. Of course he was essentially60 the scholar—or savant—whatever you like to call it. His work was always to him an intellectual orgy. But he loved the world too. He was a fascinating companion. He seemed to want to get everything possible out of life.”
“Why didn’t he get it?”
“He was a man,” she said, “of sensitive honour.”
Captain Baltazar threw away the flaming match wherewith he was about to light a cigarette.
“That licks me,” said he.
“How?”
“His bolting. Did you know my father very well?”
“I’ve told you we were great friends.”
“Did you know my mother?”
“No. I was only a student and your father was my private tutor. But I heard—from other people—a great deal about your mother. I believe she died many years ago, didn’t she?”
“Yes. When I was five. I barely remember her. I was brought up by my uncle and aunt—her people. They scarcely knew my father and haven’t a good word to say about him. It was only when I grew up and developed a sort of taste for mathematics, that I realized what a swell64 he was. And I can’t help being fascinated by the mystery of it. There he was, as far as I can gather, full of money, his own (which he walked off with) and of mother’s, beginning to enjoy at thirty a world-wide reputation—and suddenly he disappears off the face of the earth. It wasn’t a question of suicide. For the man who buys a ticket for the next world doesn’t go to peculiar65 trouble to take all his worldly estate with him. It isn’t reasonable, is it?”
“Your father was too much in love with life to go out of it voluntarily,” said Sister Baring.
“Then what the blazes did he do, and why did he do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Is he alive or dead?”
“How should I know, Mr. Baltazar?”
“He never wrote to you—after——?”
“Why should he have written to me?” she interrupted.
“Naturally not. You must forgive me, Sister; but, as I’ve told you, I’ve never met a pal67 of that mysterious father of mine before. I want to get all the information I can.”
She drew a chair and sat by him. The great hall was very still and, in contrast with the vivid sunshine perceived through the eastern windows, very dark. Through the open door came the scents27 of the summer gardens. The air was a little heavy. She felt her cap hot around her temples, and lassitude enfeebling her limbs. The strain of the war years began to tell. She had regarded this appointment as a rest from the intolerable toil68 of the General Hospital in a large town which she had just quitted. Before then she had served in France. And before that—for many years—she had followed the selfless career of the nurse. Now, suddenly, her splendid nerve showed signs of giving. If she had not sat down, her legs would have crumpled up beneath her. So she thought. . . .
She looked at the young man, so eager, so proven, so like his father in gesture and glance, yet in speech and outlook—she was yet to get to that—but she knew the revolutionary influences of the war, the real war, on those who have faced its terrors and become saturated69 with its abiding70 philosophies—so different from the fervid71 creature, John Baltazar, of the late nineties, who had never dreamed of the possibility of this world convulsion. He had much the same frank charm of manner, the direct simplicity72 of utterance73; but the mouth was weaker; the eyes were blue, the eyes of a shrewish blonde—not the compelling, laughing, steel-grey eyes with a queer sparkle in the iris74 of John Baltazar. All in the young face that was not John Baltazar’s was the mother’s. She hated the mother dead, as she had loathed75 her living. Only once had she seen her, a blonde shrew-mouse of a woman. Just a passing by on the Newnham road, when a companion had pointed76 her out as Mrs. Baltazar. The little bitter mouth had bitten into her memory: the hard little blue eyes had haunted her for eighteen years. The mouth and eyes were there, before her, now. The rest, all that was noble in the boy, was John Baltazar.
“Who has told you the little you do know about him?” she asked.
“My uncle. My mother’s brother. I don’t think I have any relations living on my father’s side. At any rate, I’ve not heard of them. We’re of old Huguenot stock—Revocation of Edict of Nantes refugees—God knows what we were before. Long ago I happened upon a copy somewhere of the Annuaire Militaire de l’Armée Fran?aise—and I found a Baltazar in the list. I had an idea of writing him; but I didn’t, of course. Now I suppose the poor devil’s killed. Anyhow, that’s nothing to do with your question. My uncle—Sir Richard Woodcott—they knighted him for manufacturing easily broken hardware round about Birmingham, or for going to chapel78, or something—you know the type——”
“On my mother’s fortune—he was my guardian80 and trustee. But he never let me forget that I was the son of John Baltazar. There was no question of affection from either of them—himself or his wife. Anything I did wrong—it was my scoundrel of a father coming out in me. After passing through a childish phase of looking on him as a kind of devil who had blasted my young life, I began to have a sneaking81 regard for him. You see, don’t you? If he was the antithesis82 of Uncle Richard, he must be somebody I could sympathize with, perhaps rather somebody who could sympathize with me. They drew me into the arms of his memory, so to speak. Odd, isn’t it?”
“What specifically did they accuse him of?”
“Oh, everything,” he replied, with a careless laugh. “Every depravity under the sun. Colossal83 egotism and heartlessness the mildest. And of course he drank——”
A sudden red spot flamed in the Sister’s cheek and her tired eyes flashed. “That’s a lie! And so is the other. How dare they?”
“Oh, a pacifist Knight77 who is making his fortune out of the war will dare anything. Then, of course, there’s what they say about any man who runs away from his wife——”
“To be explicit——?” She leaned an elbow on the table, a cheek on hand, and looked at him steadily.
“Well——” he paused, somewhat embarrassed. “Immorality—you know—other women.”
“That’s not true either. At least, not in that sense. There was another woman. Yes. But only one. And God knows that there could be nothing purer and cleaner and sweeter on this earth than that which was between them.”
“I’m more than ready to believe it,” said John Baltazar’s son. “But—how do you know?”
“It’s the story of a dear friend of mine,” she replied. “Nothing was hidden from me. The girl couldn’t help worshipping him. He was a man to be worshipped. I don’t want to speak evil of your mother—there may have been misunderstandings on both sides—but I knew—my friend and I knew—through acquaintances in Cambridge—never from himself—that his married life was very unhappy.”
“Look here, Sister,” said young Baltazar, putting up an arresting hand. “As we seem to be talking pretty intimately about my affairs, I’ll tell you something I’ve never breathed to a human being. I’ve no childish memories of being tucked up in bed and kissed to sleep by an angel in woman’s form, like children in picture books. Now I come to think of it, I used to envy them. The only vivid thing I remember is being nearly beaten to death with a belt—it was one of those patent leather things women used to wear round their waists—and then being stuffed away in the coal hole.”
“Oh, you poor mite84!” Marcelle straightened herself in her chair, and the tears sprang. “Before you were five! Oh, how damnable! What a childhood you must have had! How did you manage to come through?”
He laughed. “I suppose I’m tough. As soon as I went to school—they sent me at eight years old—I was all right. But never mind about me. Go on with your friend’s story. It’s getting interesting. I quite see now that my father may have had a hell of a time.”
“If you quite see,” she said, “there’s little more to tell.”
She leaned forward again on her elbow and, staring across the great hall, through the wide-open doorway85 to the lawns and trees drenched86 in the afternoon sunshine, forgot him and lost herself in the sunshine, the most wonderful that ever was, of the years ago. Godfrey Baltazar looked at her keenly yet kindly87, and his stern young lips softened88 into a smile; and after a bit he stretched out a hand and touched her wrist very gently.
“Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “It’s good for me, and may be good for you.”
She came back to the present with a little sigh.
“It’s such a very old story, you see. He was unhappy. His wife’s ungovernable temper drove him from the house. He had to lead his intellectual as well as his physical life. He lived most of his time in college. Went home for week-ends—vainly seeking reconciliation89. Then the girl threw herself into his life. She worshipped him. She seemed to give him something sweet and beautiful which he had been looking for. And he fell in love with her. And when she knew it, she was taken up into the Seventh Heaven and she didn’t care for God or woman—only for him. It lasted just a month—the end of the summer term. Oh, it was very innocent, as far as that goes—they only met alone in the open air—stolen hours in the afternoon. Only one kiss ever passed between them. And then he said: ‘I am a brute90 and a fool. This can’t go on.’ She had given herself to him in spirit and was ready to go on and on whithersoever he chose, so long as she was with him; but she was too shy and tongue-bound to say so. And he stamped along the road, and she by his side, all her heart and soul a-flutter, and he cried: ‘My God, I never thought it would have come to this! My child, forgive me. If ever I hurt a hair of your dear head, may God damn me to all eternity91!’ And they walked on in silence and she was frightened—till they came to the turn of the road—this way to Newnham, that to Cambridge. And he gripped her two hands and said: ‘If I withered92 this flower that has blossomed in my path I should be a damnable villain93.’ He turned and walked to Cambridge. And the girl, not understanding anything save her love for him, wept bitterly all the way to Newnham. She neither saw him nor heard of him after that. And a week afterwards he disappeared, leaving no trace behind. And whether he’s alive or dead she doesn’t know till this day. And that is the real story of your father.”
He had turned and put both elbows on the intervening table and, head in hand, listened to her words. When she ended, he said:
“Yes. There is no other.”
“And if he had been less—what shall we say—Quixotic—less scrupulous95 on the point of a woman’s honour—you would have followed him to the end of the world——”
“I?” She started back from the table. “I? What do you mean?”
“Why the friend, Sister? Why the camouflage96?” He reached out his hand and grasped hers. “Confess.”
“I suppose it was rather thin. Yes. Of course I would have thrown everything to the winds for him. It was on my account that he went away—but, as God hears me, I never sent him.”
A long silence stole on them. There was so much that struggled to be said, so little that could be said. At last the young man gripped his crutches and wriggled98 from his chair. She rose swiftly to aid him.
“Let us have a turn in the sun. It will be good for us.”
So they went out and she helped him, against his will—for he loved his triumph over difficulties—down the majestic99 marble stairs, and they passed the happy tennis courts and the chairs of the cheery invalids100 looking on at the game, and on through the Japanese garden with its pond of great water-lilies and fairy bridge across, and out of the gate into the little beech101 wood that screened the house from the home farm. On a rough seat amid the sun-flecked greenery they sat down.
He said: “I may be a sentimental102 ass43, but you seem to be nearer to me than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”
She made a little helpless gesture. He laughed his pleasant laugh, which robbed his lips of their hardness.
“You supply a long-felt want, you know.”
“That sounds rather nice, but I don’t quite understand, Mr. Baltazar.”
“Oh, Mr. Baltazar be blowed!” he cried. “My name’s Godfrey. For God’s sake let me hear somebody call me by it! You of all people. Why, you knew me before I was born.”
He said it unthinking—a boyish epigram. Her sudden flush brought consciousness of blunder in elemental truth and taste. He sat stiff, horrified103; gasped104 out:
“Forgive me. I didn’t realize what I was saying.”
She glanced covertly105 at his young and consternation-stricken face, and her heart went out to him who, after all, on so small a point of delicacy106 found himself so grievously to blame.
“Perhaps, my dear boy,” she said, “it is well that you have touched on this. You and I are grown up and can speak of things frankly—and certain things that people don’t usually discuss are often of supreme107 importance in their own and other people’s lives. I didn’t know you before you were born, nor did your father. It’s he that counts. If he had known, he would never have left your mother to. . . . No, no! He would have found some other way. He couldn’t have left her. It’s incredible. I know it. I know all the strength and the beauty and the wonder of him.”
“My God,” said the young man, “how you must have loved him!”
“Without loving him, any fool could have looked through his transparent108 honesty. He was that kind of man.”
“Tell me,” he said, “all the little silly things you can remember about him.”
He re-explained his eagerness. He had been such a lonely sort of fellow, with no kith or kin36 with whom he could be in sympathy: an intellectual Ishmaelite—if an inexplicable109 passion for mathematics and a general sort of craving110 for the solution of all sorts of problems, human and divine, could be called intellectual—banned by the material, dogmatic, money-obsessed Woodcotts; referred back, as he had mentioned, for all his darling idiosyncrasies to his unmentionable father. Small wonder that he had built up a sort of cult15 of the only being who might have taken for him a sympathetic responsibility. And now—this was the greatest day of his life. All his dreams had come true. He was not a sentimental ass, he reasserted. If there was one idiot fallacy that the modern world was exploding, it was the fallacy of the debt due by children for the privilege they owed their parents for bringing them into this damned fool of a world. The only decent attitude of parents towards their children was one of profound apology. It was up to the children to accept it according to the measure of its fulfilment. But, after all, an uncared-for human atom, with intelligence and emotions, could not go through life without stretching out tentacles111 for some sort of sympathy and understanding. He must owe something of Himself—himself with a capital H—to those who begot112 and bore him. Mustn’t he? So when they impressed on his young mind, by way almost of an hereditary113 curse, the identity of his spiritual (or, to their way of thinking, anti-spiritual) outlook with that of his father, he, naturally, stretched out to his unknown father the aforesaid tentacles: especially when he learned later what a great man his father was. Yes, really, he considered it the most miraculous114 day of his life. He would have given another foot to have it.
“There’s another thing,” he said. “Once I found in an old book some odds115 and ends of his manuscript. I fell to copying his writing, especially his signature. The idiotic116 thing a boy would do. I got into the trick of it, and I suppose I’ve never got out. Look.”
He scrawled117 a few words with his signature on the pad. She started. It was like a message from the dead. He laughed and went on with the parable118 of his father.
“You see,” he concluded, “it is gorgeous to know, for a certainty at last, that the Family were vilely119 wrong, and my own instinct right, all the time.”
He had spoken with a touch of the vehemence120 she so well remembered. And she had let him speak on, for the sake of the memories; also in the hope that he might forget his demand for a revelation of them. But he returned to it.
“Another day,” she replied. “These things can’t all be dragged at once out of the past. We’ll have many opportunities of talking—till your new foot comes.”
“You will have another talk—many others, won’t you?” he asked eagerly.
“Why should you doubt it?”
“I don’t know. Forgive me for saying it—I don’t want to be rude, but women are funny sometimes.”
She smiled from the wisdom of her superior age—his frankness had the disarming121 quality of a child. “What do you know of women, Godfrey Baltazar?”
He wrinkled his brow whimsically and rubbed his hair.
“Not much. What man does? Do you know,” he asked with the air of a pioneer of thought, “you are all damnably perplexing?”
“She—who—oh, yes. How did you guess?”
“The way of Nature varies very little. What about her?”
“She would be all right, if it weren’t for my brother——”
“Your brother? Oh, of course——” She had to reach back into unimportant memories. “Your mother was a widow when she married—with an only son.”
“That’s it. Seven or eight years older than I am. Name of Doon. Christened Leopold. We never hit it off. I’ve loathed the beggar all my life; but he’s a damn fine soldier. Major. D.S.O. Doing splendid work. But the brute has the whole of himself left and isn’t a dot and carry one, like me.”
“And the lady?”
“I’ll tell you another time—in one of our many talks. At present it doesn’t seem to amount to a row of pins compared with my meeting you. My hat!” he exclaimed after a pause. “It’s a funny little world.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets and stretched out his legs, the end of the maimed one supported on the crutch35. The afternoon peace of the beech wood enfolded them in their contemplation of the funny little world. She looked at him, young, strong, full of the delight of physical and intellectual life, reckoning as of no account the sacrifice to his country of much that made that physical existence full of precious meaning; hiding deep in his English soul all the significance of his familiar contempt for death; a son whom any mother might be proud to have brought into the world. And tears were very near her eyes when she thought of what might have been. And all her heart went out to him suddenly in a great gush123 of emotion, as though she had found her own son, and the tears started. She laid rather a timid hand on his shoulder.
“My dear,” she said, “let us be great friends for the sake of the bond between us.”
He started at her touch, and plucking both hands from his pockets, imprisoned124 hers in them.
“Friends! You’re a dear. The dearest thing in the world. You’re going to be the only woman I’ve ever loved. Why, you’re crying!”
“You’re not. Not a little bit.” He kissed her hand and let it go. “You’re straight and adorable. But what can I call you?”
“Call me?” The question was a little shock. “You can call me by my name, if you like—when we are alone—Marcelle.”
“Splendid!” he cried. “The long-felt want. I’ve had as many Sisters as my young life can stand.”
She rose, helped him to rise.
“I hope,” she said, “you will remain the boy that you are for a very long time.”
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unities
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| n.统一体( unity的名词复数 )；（艺术等） 完整；（文学、戏剧） （情节、时间和地点的）统一性；团结一致 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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mobility
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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determined
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doggedly
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possessed
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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erratic
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irreconcilability
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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17
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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18
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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19
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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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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21
heterogeneously
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| adj.多种多样的，混杂的；不均匀；非均匀；错杂 | |
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22
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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23
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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24
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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26
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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27
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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28
dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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29
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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30
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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31
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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32
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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33
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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34
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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35
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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36
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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37
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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38
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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40
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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42
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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43
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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44
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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45
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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47
dynamics
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| n.力学，动力学，动力，原动力；动态 | |
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48
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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49
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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50
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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51
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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52
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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53
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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54
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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55
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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56
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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57
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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58
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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60
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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61
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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62
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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64
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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65
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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66
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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67
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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68
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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69
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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70
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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71
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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72
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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73
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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74
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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75
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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76
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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77
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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78
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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79
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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81
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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82
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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83
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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84
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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85
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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86
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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87
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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88
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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89
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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90
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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91
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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92
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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93
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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94
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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95
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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96
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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97
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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99
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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100
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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101
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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102
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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103
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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104
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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105
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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106
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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107
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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108
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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109
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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110
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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111
tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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112
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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113
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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114
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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115
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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116
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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117
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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119
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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120
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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121
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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122
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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123
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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124
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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