She is in the best of humors, gives me soup with her spoon, feeds me with her fork, and places her head on the table like a playful kitten and flirts1 with me. I have the misfortune of looking at Haydee, who serves in my place, perhaps a little longer than is necessary. It is only now that I noticed her noble, almost European cast of countenance2 and her magnificent statuesque bust3, which is as if hewn out of black marble. The black devil observes that she pleases me, and, grinning, shows her teeth. She has hardly left the room, before Wanda leaps up in a rage.
"What, you dare to look at another woman besides me! Perhaps you like her even better than you do me, she is even more demonic!"
I am frightened; I have never seen her like this before; she is suddenly pale even to the lips and her whole body trembles. Venus in Furs is jealous of her slave. She snatches the whip from its hook and strikes me in the face; then she calls her black servants, who bind5 me, and carry me down into the cellar, where they throw me into a dark, dank, subterranean6 compartment7, a veritable prison-cell.
Then the lock of the door clicks, the bolts are drawn8, a key sings in the lock. I am a prisoner, buried.
I have been lying here for I don't know how long, bound like a calf9 about to be hauled to the slaughter10, on a bundle of damp straw, without any light, without food, without drink, without sleep. It would be like her to let me starve to death, if I don't freeze to death before then. I am shaking with cold. Or is it fever? I believe I am beginning to hate this woman.
* * * * *
A red streak11, like blood, floods across the floor; it is a light falling through the door which is now thrust open.
"Are you still alive?" she asks.
With two rapid strides Wanda reaches my side, she kneels down beside me, and places my head in her lap. "Are you ill? Your eyes glow so, do you love me? I want you to love me."
She draws forth15 a short dagger16. I start with fright when its blade gleams in front of my eyes. I actually believe that she is about to kill me. She laughs, and cuts the ropes that bind me.
* * * * *
Every evening after dinner she now has me called. I have to read to her, and she discusses with me all sorts of interesting problems and subjects. She seems entirely17 transformed; it is as if she were ashamed of the savagery18 which she betrayed to me and of the cruelty with which she treated me. A touching19 gentleness transfigures her entire being, and when at the good-night she gives me her hand, a superhuman power of goodness and love lies in her eyes, of the kind which calls forth tears in us and causes us to forget all the miseries20 of existence and all the terrors of death.
* * * * *
I am reading Manon l'Escault to her. She feels the association, she doesn't say a word, but she smiles from time to time, and finally she shuts up the little book.
"Don't you want to go on reading?"
"Not to-day. We will ourselves act Manon l'Escault to-day. I have a rendezvous21 in the Cascine, and you, my dear Chevalier, will accompany me; I know, you will do it, won't you?"
"You command it."
"I do not command it, I beg it of you," she says with irresistible22 charm. She then rises, puts her hands on my shoulders, and looks at me.
"Your eyes!" she exclaims. "I love you, Severin, you have no idea how I love you!"
"Yes, I have!" I replied bitterly, "so much so that you have arranged for a rendezvous with some one else."
"I do this only to allure23 you the more," she replied vivaciously24. "I must have admirers, so as not to lose you. I don't ever want to lose you, never, do you hear, for I love only you, you alone."
She clung passionately25 to my lips.
"Oh, if I only could, as I would, give you all of my soul in a kiss— thus—but now come."
She slipped into a simple black velvet26 coat, and put a dark bashlyk [Footnote: A kind of Russian cap.] on her head. Then she rapidly went through the gallery, and entered the carriage.
"Gregor will drive," she called out to the coachman who withdrew in surprise.
In the Cascine where the main roadway turns into a leafy path, Wanda got out. It was night, only occasional stars shone through the gray clouds that fled across the sky. By the bank of the Arno stood a man in a dark cloak, with a brigand's hat, and looked at the yellow waves. Wanda rapidly walked through the shrubbery, and tapped him on the shoulder. I saw him turn and seize her hand, and then they disappeared behind the green wall.
An hour full of torments28. Finally there was a rustling30 in the bushes to one side, and they returned.
The man accompanied her to the carriage. The light of the lamp fell full and glaringly upon an infinitely31 young, soft and dreamy face which I had never before seen, and played in his long, blond curls.
She held out her hand which he kissed with deep respect, then she signaled to me, and immediately the carriage flew along the leafy wall which follows the river like a long green screen.
* * * * *
The bell at the garden-gate rings. It is a familiar face. The man from the Cascine.
"Whom shall I announce?" I ask him in French. He timidly shakes his head.
"Do you, perhaps, understand some German?" he asks shyly.
"Yes. Your name, please."
"Oh! I haven't any yet," he replies, embarrassed—"Tell your mistress the German painter from the Cascine is here and would like— but there she is herself."
Wanda had stepped out on the balcony, and nodded toward the stranger.
"Gregor, show the gentleman in!" she called to me.
I showed the painter the stairs.
"Thanks, I'll find her now, thanks, thanks very much." He ran up the steps. I remained standing32 below, and looked with deep pity on the poor German.
* * * * *
It is a sunny winter's day. Something that looks like gold trembles on the leaves of the clusters of trees down below in the green level of the meadow. The camelias at the foot of the gallery are glorious in their abundant buds. Wanda is sitting in the loggia; she is drawing. The German painter stands opposite her with his hands folded as in adoration34, and looks at her. No, he rather looks at her face, and is entirely absorbed in it, enraptured35.
But she does not see him, neither does she see me, who with the spade in my hand am turning over the flower-bed, solely37 that I may see her and feel her nearness, which produces an effect on me like poetry, like music.
* * * * *
The painter has gone. It is a hazardous38 thing to do, but I risk it. I go up to the gallery, quite close, and ask Wanda "Do you love the painter, mistress?"
She looks at me without getting angry, shakes her head, and finally even smiles.
"I feel sorry for him," she replies, "but I do not love him. I love no one. I used to love you, as ardently39, as passionately, as deeply as it was possible for me to love, but now I don't love even you any more; my heart is a void, dead, and this makes me sad."
"Wanda!" I exclaimed, deeply moved.
"Soon, you too will no longer love me," she continued, "tell me when you have reached that point, and I will give back to you your freedom."
"Then I shall remain your slave, all my life long, for I adore you and shall always adore you," I cried, seized by that fanaticism40 of love which has repeatedly been so fatal to me.
Wanda looked at me with a curious pleasure. "Consider well what you do," she said. "I have loved you infinitely and have been despotic towards you so that I might fulfil your dream. Something of my old feeling, a sort of real sympathy for you, still trembles in my breast. When that too has gone who knows whether then I shall give you your liberty; whether I shall not then become really cruel, merciless, even brutal41 toward; whether I shall not take a diabolical42 pleasure in tormenting43 and putting on the rack the man who worships me idolatrously, the while I remain indifferent or love someone else; perhaps, I shall enjoy seeing him die of his love for me. Consider this well."
"I have long since considered all that," I replied as in a glow of fever. "I cannot exist, cannot live without you; I shall die if you set me at liberty; let me remain your slave, kill me, but do not drive me away."
"Very well then, be my slave," she replied, "but don't forget that I no longer love you, and your love doesn't mean any more to me than a dog's, and dogs are kicked."
* * * * *
To-day I visited the Venus of Medici.
It was still early, and the little octagonal room in the Tribuna was filled with half-lights like a sanctuary45; I stood with folded hands in deep adoration before the silent image of the divinity.
But I did not stand for long.
Not a human soul was in the gallery, not even an Englishman, and I fell down on my knees. I looked up at the lovely slender body, the budding breasts, the virginal and yet voluptuous46 face, the fragrant47 curls which seemed to conceal48 tiny horns on each side of the forehead.
* * * * *
My mistress's bell.
It is noonday. She, however, is still abed with her arms intertwined behind her neck.
"I want to bathe," she says, "and you will attend me. Lock the door!"
I obey.
"Now go downstairs and make sure the door below is also locked."
I descended49 the winding50 stairs that lead from her bedroom to the bath; my feet gave way beneath me, and I had to support myself against the iron banister. After having ascertained51 that the door leading to the Loggia and the garden was locked, I returned. Wanda was now sitting on the bed with loosened hair, wrapped in her green velvet furs. When she made a rapid movement, I noticed that the furs were her only covering. It made me start terribly, I don't know why? I was like one condemned52 to death, who knows he is on the way to the scaffold, and yet begins to tremble when he sees it.
"Come, Gregor, take me on your arms."
"You mean, mistress?"
"You are to carry me, don't you understand?"
I lifted her up, so that she rested in my arms, while she twined hers around my neck. Slowly, step by step, I went down the stairs with her and her hair beat from time to time against my cheek and her foot sought support against my knee. I trembled under the beautiful burden I was carrying, and every moment it seemed as if I had to break down beneath it.
The bath consisted of a wide, high rotunda53, which received a soft quiet light from a red glass cupola above. Two palms extended their broad leaves like a roof over a couch of velvet cushions. From here steps covered with Turkish rugs led to the white marble basin which occupied the center.
"There is a green ribbon on my toilet-table upstairs," said Wanda, as I let her down on the couch, "go get it, and also bring the whip."
I flew upstairs and back again, and kneeling put both in my mistress's hands. She then had me twist her heavy electric hair into a large knot which I fastened with the green ribbon. Then I prepared the bath. I did this very awkwardly because my hands and feet refused to obey me. Again and again I had to look at the beautiful woman lying on the red velvet cushions, and from time to time her wonderful body gleamed here and there beneath the furs. Some magnetic power stronger than my will compelled me to look. I felt that all sensuality and lustfulness54 lies in that which is half-concealed or intentionally55 disclosed; and the truth of this I recognized even more acutely, when the basin at last was full, and Wanda threw off the fur-cloak with a single gesture, and stood before me like the goddess in the Tribuna.
At that moment she seemed as sacred and chaste56 to me in her unveiled beauty, as did the divinity of long ago. I sank down on my knees before her, and devoutly57 pressed my lips on her foot.
My soul which had been storm-tossed only a little while earlier, suddenly was perfectly58 calm, and I now felt no element of cruelty in Wanda.
She slowly descended the stairs, and I could watch her with a calmness in which not a single atom of torment29 or desire was intermingled. I could see her plunge60 into and rise out of the crystalline water, and the wavelets which she herself raised played about her like tender lovers.
Our nihilistic aesthetician is right when he says: a real apple is more beautiful than a painted one, and a living woman is more beautiful than a Venus of stone.
And when she left the bath, and the silvery drops and the roseate light rippled61 down her body, I was seized with silent rapture36. I wrapped the linen62 sheets about her, drying her glorious body. The calm bliss63 remained with me, even now when one foot upon me as upon a footstool, she rested on the cushions in her large velvet cloak. The lithe64 sables nestled desirously against her cold marble-like body. Her left arm on which she supported herself lay like a sleeping swan in the dark fur of the sleeve, while her left hand played carelessly with the whip.
By chance my look fell on the massive mirror on the wall opposite, and I cried out, for I saw the two of us in its golden frame as in a picture. The picture was so marvellously beautiful, so strange, so imaginative, that I was filled with deep sorrow at the thought that its lines and colors would have to dissolve like mist.
"What is the matter?" asked Wanda.
"Ah, that is really beautiful," she exclaimed, "too bad one can't capture the moment and make it permanent."
"And why not?" I asked. "Would not any artist, even the most famous, be proud if you gave him leave to paint you and make you immortal67 by means of his brush.
"The very thought that this extra-ordinary beauty is to be lost to the world," I continued still watching her enthusiastically, "is horrible—all this glorious facial expression, this mysterious eye with its green fires, this demonic hair, this magnificence of body. The idea fills me with a horror of death, of annihilation. But the hand of an artist shall snatch you from this. You shall not like the rest of us disappear absolutely and forever, without leaving a trace of your having been. Your picture must live, even when you yourself have long fallen to dust; your beauty must triumph beyond death!"
Wanda smiled.
"Too bad, that present-day Italy hasn't a Titian or Raphael," she said, "but, perhaps, love will make amends68 for genius, who knows; our little German might do?" She pondered.
"Yes, he shall paint you, and I will see to it that the god of love mixes his colors."
* * * * *
The young painter has established his studio in her villa69; he is completely in her net. He has just begun a Madonna, a Madonna with red hair and green eyes! Only the idealism of a German would attempt to use this thorough-bred woman as a model for a picture of virginity. The poor fellow really is an almost bigger donkey than I am. Our misfortune is that our Titania has discovered our ass's ears too soon.
* * * * *
Now she laughs derisively70 at us, and how she laughs! I hear her insolent71 melodious72 laughter in his studio, under the open window of which I stand, jealously listening.
* * * * *
"Are you mad, me—ah, it is unbelievable, me as the Mother of God!" she exclaimed and laughed again. "Wait a moment, I will show you another picture of myself, one that I myself have painted, and you shall copy it."
"Gregor!"
I hurried up the stairs, through the gallery, into the studio.
"Lead him to the bath," Wanda commanded, while she herself hurried away.
A few moments passed and Wanda arrived; dressed in nothing but the sable12 fur, with the whip in her hand; she descended the stairs and stretched out on the velvet cushions as on the former occasion. I lay at her feet and she placed one of her feet upon me; her right hand played with the whip. "Look at me," she said, "with your deep, fanatical look, that's it."
The painter had turned terribly pale. He devoured74 the scene with his beautiful dreamy blue eyes; his lips opened, but he remained dumb.
"Well, how do you like the picture?"
"Yes, that is how I want to paint you," said the German, but it was really not a spoken language; it was the eloquent75 moaning, the weeping of a sick soul, a soul sick unto death.
* * * * *
The charcoal76 outline of the painting is done; the heads and flesh parts are painted in. Her diabolical face is already becoming visible under a few bold strokes, life flashes in her green eyes.
Wanda stands in front of the canvas with her arms crossed over her breast.
"This picture, like many of those of the Venetian school, is simultaneously78 to represent a portrait and to tell a story," explained the painter, who again had become pale as death.
"And what will you call it?" she asked, "but what is the matter with you, are you ill?"
"I am afraid—" he answered with a consuming look fixed79 on the beautiful woman in furs, "but let us talk of the picture."
"Yes, let us talk about the picture."
"I imagine the goddess of love as having descended from Mount Olympus for the sake of some mortal man. And always cold in this modern world of ours, she seeks to keep her sublime80 body warm in a large heavy fur and her feet in the lap of her lover. I imagine the favorite of a beautiful despot, who whips her slave, when she is tired of kissing him, and the more she treads him underfoot, the more insanely he loves her. And so I shall call the picture: Venus in Furs."
* * * * *
The painter paints slowly, but his passion grows more and more rapidly. I am afraid he will end up by committing suicide. She plays with him and propounds81 riddles82 to him which he cannot solve, and he feels his blood congealing83 in the process, but it amuses her.
During the sitting she nibbles84 at candies, and rolls the paper-wrappers into little pellets with which she bombards him.
"I am glad you are in such good humor," said the painter, "but your face has lost the expression which I need for my picture."
"The expression which you need for your picture," she replied, smiling. "Wait a moment."
She rose, and dealt me a blow with the whip. The painter looked at her with stupefaction, and a child-like surprise showed on his face, mingled59 with disgust and admiration85.
While whipping me, Wanda's face acquired more and more of the cruel, contemptuous character, which so haunts and intoxicates86 me.
"Is this the expression you need for your picture?" she exclaimed. The painter lowered his look in confusion before the cold ray of her eye.
"What?" said Wanda, scornfully, "perhaps I can help you?"
"Yes—" cried the German, as if taken with madness, "whip me too."
"Oh! With pleasure," she replied, shrugging her shoulders, "but if
I am to whip you I want to do it in sober earnest."
"Whip me to death," cried the painter.
"Will you let me tie you?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes—" he moaned—
Wanda left the room for a moment, and returned with ropes.
"Well—are you still brave enough to put yourself into the power of Venus in Furs, the beautiful despot, for better or worse?" she began ironically.
"Yes, tie me," the painter replied dully. Wanda tied his hands on his back and drew a rope through his arms and a second one around his body, and fettered88 him to the cross-bars of the window. Then she rolled back the fur, seized the whip, and stepped in front of him.
The scene had a grim attraction for me, which I cannot describe. I felt my heart beat, when, with a smile, she drew back her arm for the first blow, and the whip hissed89 through the air. He winced90 slightly under the blow. Then she let blow after blow rain upon him, with her mouth half-opened and her teeth flashing between her red lips, until he finally seemed to ask for mercy with his piteous, blue eyes. It was indescribable.
* * * * *
She is sitting for him now, alone. He is working on her head.
She has posted me in the adjoining room behind a heavy curtain, where I can't be seen, but can see everything.
What does she intend now?
Is she afraid of him? She has driven him insane enough to be sure, or is she hatching a new torment for me? My knees tremble.
They are talking. He has lowered his voice so that I cannot understand a word, and she replies in the same way. What is the meaning of this? Is there an understanding between them?
He kneels down before her, embraces her, and presses his head against her breast, and she—in her heartlessness—laughs—and now I hear her saying aloud:
"Ah! You need another application of the whip."
"Woman! Goddess! Are you without a heart—can't you love," exclaimed the German, "don't you even know, what it means to love, to be consumed with desire and passion, can't you even imagine what I suffer? Have you no pity for me?"
"No!" she replied proudly and mockingly, "but I have the whip."
She drew it quickly from the pocket of her fur-coat, and struck him in the face with the handle. He rose, and drew back a couple of paces.
"Now, are you ready to paint again?" she asked indifferently. He did not reply, but again went to the easel and took up his brush and palette.
The painting is marvellously successful. It is a portrait which as far as the likeness92 goes couldn't be better, and at the same time it seems to have an ideal quality. The colors glow, are supernatural; almost diabolical, I would call them.
The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his execration93 into the picture.
* * * * *
Now he is painting me; we are alone together for several hours every day. To-day he suddenly turned to me with his vibrant94 voice and said:
"You love this woman?"
"Yes."
"I also love her." His eyes were bathed in tears. He remained silent for a while, and continued painting.
"We have a mountain at home in Germany within which she dwells," he murmured to himself. "She is a demon4."
* * * * *
The picture is finished. She insisted on paying him for it, munificently95, in the manner of queens.
Before he left, he secretly opened his portfolio97, and let me look inside. I was startled. Her head looked at me as if out of a mirror and seemed actually to be alive.
"I shall take it along," he said, "it is mine; she can't take it away from me. I have earned it with my heart's blood."
* * * * *
"I am really rather sorry for the poor painter," she said to me to-day, "it is absurd to be as virtuous98 as I am. Don't you think so too?"
I did not dare to reply to her.
"Oh, I forgot that I am talking with a slave; I need some fresh air,
I want to be diverted, I want to forget.
"The carriage, quick!"
Her new dress is extravagant99: Russian half-boots of violet-blue velvet trimmed with ermine, and a skirt of the same material, decorated with narrow stripes and rosettes of furs. Above it is an appropriate, close-fitting jacket, also richly trimmed and lined with ermine. The headdress is a tall cap of ermine of the style of Catherine the Second, with a small aigrette, held in place by a diamond-agraffe; her red hair falls loose down her back. She ascends100 on the driver's seat, and holds the reins101 herself; I take my seat behind. How she lashes77 on the horses! The carriage flies along like mad.
Apparently102 it is her intention to attract attention to-day, to make conquests, and she succeeds completely. She is the lioness of the Cascine. People nod to her from carriages; on the footpath103 people gather in groups to discuss her. She pays no attention to anyone, except now and then acknowledging the greetings of elderly gentlemen with a slight nod.
Suddenly a young man on a lithe black horse dashes up at full speed. As soon as he sees Wanda, he stops his horse and makes it walk. When he is quite close, he stops entirely and lets her pass. And she too sees him—the lioness, the lion. Their eyes meet. She madly drives past him, but she cannot tear herself free from the magic power of his look, and she turns her head after him.
My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with which she devours104 him, but he is worthy105 of it.
For he is, indeed, a magnificent specimen106 of man, No, rather, he is a man whose like I have never yet seen among the living. He is in the Belvedere, graven in marble, with the same slender, yet steely musculature, with the same face and the same waving curls. What makes him particularly beautiful is that he is beardless. If his hips44 were less narrow, one might take him for a woman in disguise. The curious expression about the mouth, the lion's lip which slightly discloses the teeth beneath, lends a flashing tinge107 of cruelty to the beautiful face—
He wears high black boots, closely fitting breeches of white leather, short fur coat of black cloth, of the kind worn by Italian cavalry109 officers, trimmed with astrakhan and many rich loops; on his black locks is a red fez.
I now understand the masculine Eros, and I marvel65 at Socrates for having remained virtuous in view of an Alcibiades like this.
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1
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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savagery
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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vivaciously
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passionately
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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38
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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41
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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42
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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43
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
rotunda
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| n.圆形建筑物；圆厅 | |
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54
lustfulness
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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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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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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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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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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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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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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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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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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propounds
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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nibbles
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| vt.& vi.啃，一点一点地咬（nibble的第三人称单数形式） | |
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85
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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86
intoxicates
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| 使喝醉（intoxicate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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87
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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92
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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93
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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munificently
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96
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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97
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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98
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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99
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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100
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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104
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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106
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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108
flaying
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| v.痛打( flay的现在分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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109
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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