"Evening falls much later among the high mountains," suggested Lucio Sabini.
The great vault1 of the sky was ascending2, as they were ascending, from the level of the Val Bregaglia; it passed over their heads and kept rising, as their eyes contemplated4 it quietly, amongst the steep mountain peaks, now quite green with trees and bushes, now bare and rugged5; rising so immensely towards the horizon, as if they should not perceive its descending6 curve. It was the sky of an uncertain summer day that during the afternoon had been softly blue, veiled by transparent7 clouds, but now had become a very light grey, of great purity and clearness.
"It is eight o'clock," exclaimed Don Vittorio Lante, pursuing his quiet thoughts.
"Eight o'clock," affirmed Lucio Sabini slowly.
The bells of their horses tinkled8 faintly in their tranquil9 ascent10; the torrent11 on their right, at times violent and covered with the foam12 whitening on its rocks, at times clear and narrow like a brook13 amidst green meadows, rumbled14 noisily and softly as it descended15 from the white and cold summits whither they were ascending, on its way to the warm and monotonous16 plains whence they had come.
"We shall not arrive before half-past eleven," said Vittorio Lante, in a low voice.
"Not before," affirmed Lucio Sabini, in the same tone. Both were smoking cigarettes: fine smoke shadows, not clouds, scarcely floated round their faces, as their carriage continued to ascend3, to the calm and regular paces of the horses, along the accustomed road, the long road that climbs, amidst a continual renewing of small and large valleys, of narrow gorges17, and vast stretches, between the two mountain sides on right and left. At Chiavenna they found that the diligence had left, owing to a change in the time-table from the previous year, and for five hours a hired carriage had been conveying them towards the austere18 Grissons, whose outposts were not yet distinguishable.
"What does it matter?" said Vittorio Lante, still continuing his thought aloud. "It is better to arrive late at St. Moritz than lose a night at Chiavenna."
"Or at Vicosoprano," concluded Lucio Sabini, throwing away the end of his cigarette.
Both gentlemen settled themselves better in their places, and drew the large English travelling-rug over their limbs, with the quiet gestures of those who are used to long journeys. Just an hour ago they had halted at Vicosoprano to rest their horses, since they could not obtain a change: they arrived at six and left at seven. After giving a glance at the new, white, and melancholy19 H?tel Helvetia, where, in a small meadow in front of the hotel, and around its peristyle, male and female figures moved about aimlessly, dressed indifferently, with the insignificant20 and bored faces of those who are used to sojourning at solitary21 pensions on seven francs a day, and while the annoying bell of the round table of the "Helvetia" was dinning22 in their ears, they descended at the old rustic23 inn, "The Crown." Round the arch of the low and broad Swiss doorway24 ran a motto in Gothic characters, and the small central balcony had four or five little bright geranium plants and purple gentians: a resounding25 and black wooden staircase led to the first floor. The innkeeper's blond and florid daughter, with heightened colour, had served them rapidly and silently with a simple and characteristic dinner: to wit, a thick and steaming vegetable soup, trout26 in butter, roast fowl27, and lastly, English sponge cake, with acid and fresh gooseberry jam. At the door, as they were getting into their carriage to set out again, a very blond Swiss maiden28 offered them little bunches of cyclamen, which they still wore, although they were already slightly faded.
"Three or four weeks, no longer; and you, Lucio?"
"I don't know; the same I think; I don't know exactly." And a slight smile, mingled30 with doubt, annoyance31, and bitterness, appeared and disappeared about his lips. Even the face of his travelling companion became thoughtful.
Don Vittorio Lante was fair with thick and shining chestnut32 hair, chestnut eyes, now soft and now proud, but always expressive33, and fair, curled moustaches. His features were fine and he seemed much younger than his thirty years; the complexion34 was delicate but vivacious35. On the other hand, Lucio Sabini at thirty-five was distinctly dark, with black eyes, calm and thoughtful, pale complexion, very black hair and moustaches, while he was tall and thin of figure. Vittorio Lante was of medium height, but well made and agile36. Both were wrapped in thought, and they no longer smoked. Some time passed; suddenly something far on high gleamed whitely amidst the increasing shadows.
"It is the glacier37," said Lucio Sabini; "the Forno Glacier." And as if that whiteness, already expanding in the night at the edge of the Val Bregaglia, had sent them an icy blast, they wrapped the rug closer round them, and hid their gloved hands under its covering.
"Do you expect to amuse yourself in the Engadine, Lucio?" asked Vittorio.
"Of course, I am sure to amuse myself very much, as I do every year."
"Leading a fashionable life?"
"No, making love."
"Have you come to the Engadine to love and to be loved, Lucio?"
"Oh, no," exclaimed the other, with a gentle movement of impatience38 and an ironical39 little smile. "I never said that: I said that I go to St. Moritz, as I do every year, to make love."
"Exactly: you say the English word, I the Italian."
Suddenly the whiteness that crowned Monte Forno seemed as if it had been extended to the sky, rendering41 it more vast; it was a great white cloud, soft and clear, since it preceded the moon. All the country changed its aspect. Before them stood out the great, green wall of trees, with almost the appearance of a peak, which separates the Engadine from the Val Bregaglia. Beneath the appearing and disappearing lunar brightness, behind the white cloud, a sinuous42 spiral disclosed itself amidst the wood like a soft ribbon that came and went, but ever climbed—the road which leads to the hill of the Maloja. Meanwhile, the carriage, reducing its pace, entered the first bend of the winding43 way; the clouds continued to increase, and there was a continuous alternating of light and shade, according as they conquered the moon or were conquered by her.
"Very much," replied the other, with an intense smile; "and this is an ideal country for love-making, Vittorio."
"I know it is. And do you sometimes grow fond of each other?"
"Sometimes I grow fond of them."
"And, perhaps, sometimes you fall in love?"
"One is always a little in love with the person to whom one makes love," said Lucio Sabini, in a low voice.
"But do you fall in love?" insisted Vittorio.
"Yes, I fall in love, too," Lucio confessed.
"And then? What do you do to cure yourself?" asked Vittorio Lante, with affectionate curiosity; "because you do cure yourself, don't you?"
"I keep on curing myself," replied the other sadly, regarding the clouds that were heaping above, as they became less white, obscuring and hiding all the light of the moon. "I cure myself of myself. And if I do not there is somebody who sees to curing me."
Suddenly it seemed as if a boundless45 sadness was emanating46 from what Lucio Sabini was saying and thinking, from what he was not saying and thinking. His head was slightly bowed, and his lowered lashes47 hid his glance.
"Then you are allowed to come to St. Moritz?" Vittorio asked in a low voice, as if he were afraid of being indiscreet.
"I am allowed to come," Lucio replied rather bitterly. "We can't travel together in summer; some family convenances must be obeyed, certain canons have to be observed—there are so many things, Vittorio! Well, I have two months of liberty, two beautiful months you understand, two long months; sixty times twenty-four hours in which I am free, in which I delude48 myself and believe I am free—I am free!"
At first his words came sadly, then with increasing violence, while the last words sounded like a cry of revolt from a heart oppressed by its slavery.
"Yes, she loves me," admitted Lucio quietly.
"For some time, I think."
Lucio Sabini in the gloaming looked fixedly51 at his companion; then without bitterness, without joy, he added in an expressionless voice:
"I love her."
Very slowly, to the soft and gentle tinkling52 of the horses' bells, the carriage traversed the tortuous53 road, through the wood and past some majestic54 walls, and, like a vision, the small castle of Renesse appeared on high, now to the right and now to the left. The air continued to grow colder. The coachman on the box seemed to be asleep or dreaming, as he drove his horses, with bent55 shoulders and bowed head; even the two horses seemed to be asleep or dreaming of the ascent to the Maloja, as they tinkled their bells. And in a dream firmament56 the clouds galloped57 bizarrely, as they were scattered58 by the wind, which up above must be blowing strongly.
"There is nothing more delightful59 or pleasing than to make love to these foreigners," resumed Lucio, in a light tone, but with a slight shade of emotion; "there are some adorable little women, and girls especially. Some of them are very fashionable and complex, others are simple and frank; but some are very inquisitive60 and quite distrustful of all Italians."
"How's that?" asked Vittorio Lante, not without anxiety.
"We Italians have a very bad reputation," Lucio replied calmly, as he lit a cigarette. "They obstinately61 believe us to be liars62 and inconstant in love affairs. Actors is the defensive63 word of these foreign women. But all the same they allow themselves to be attracted equally by our charm—because the men of their races do not trouble themselves to be charming—and by our ardour, assumed or real—because they never see their men ardent—and also by a certain invincible64 poetry that surrounds our country and ourselves."
"And conquer seriously?" again added Vittorio.
"Seriously, no," answered Lucio. "We must not deceive ourselves; our attractions are for the most part of brief duration. When August is over at St. Moritz, to pass the first long week of September together at Lucerne, afterwards a few days in Paris—that suffices!"
"They forget?"
"They forget; our fascination68 comes from our presence. At a distance the lover dwindles69: their English and Austrians, their Americans and Russians take them back—and all is over. A post card or two with a poetical70 motto; then nothing more."
"But if they don't forget?"
"That is seldom," murmured Lucio thoughtfully; "but it does happen. A Viennese, fair, slim, and most sympathetic ... two years ago ... she still remembers me."
"She hoped? She hopes?"
"She hoped; she hopes," replied Lucio thoughtfully.
"She didn't know...?"
"She knew nothing: the dear creatures never know anything: I try to make them know nothing."
"They think you free?"
"Most free."
"You deceive them?"
"I do not deceive them; I am silent"—and he smiled slowly.
"And what if one of them, more passionate71, were to fall in love with you, and you seriously with her, Lucio?"
"That would be very serious indeed," murmured Lucio sadly.
"In fact, you are bound for ever, Lucio?" asked Vittorio, with melancholy.
"Yes; for ever," he affirmed, with that inexpressive voice of his, as if declaring an irrefutable fact.
A great gust67 of icy wind caught them, causing them to shudder72 and tremble with the cold. The great wall was passed, still a few minutes more and they would find themselves at the hill of the Maloja. The sky was quite white with little white clouds on one side, because the moon was passing behind them, while about the Margna—the great mountain with twin peaks nearly always covered with snow—the clouds had become black and threatening with rain and storm.
"Vittorio, Vittorio," exclaimed Lucio Sabini, in an altered voice; "adultery is a land of madness, of slavery and death. Don't give your youth and life to it as I have given mine, even to my last day. Beatrice and I have been intoxicated73 with happiness, but we are two unfortunates. I was twenty-five then, Vittorio, and she was three years older; but we never thought that we should throw away our every good, that is the one, the great, the only good—liberty! We are lost, Beatrice and I, in every way, both in our social life and in our consciences, not through remorse74 for our sin—no, for that was dear to us—but because of the ashes and poison it contains."
"Haven't you tried to free yourselves?" asked Vittorio timidly.
"I tried, but I was unsuccessful. Beatrice is older than I am," said Lucio gloomily, "and the idea of being left horrifies75 her."
"But she loves you, doesn't she? How can she see you unhappy?"
"Because she loved me, even she tried, the poor dear, to free me," Lucio Sabini resumed, with a voice almost oppressed with tears; "last year she wanted me to marry Bertha Meyer, the beautiful Viennese—an exquisite76 creature—but then she never succeeded. Poor, dear Beatrice! She suffered a thousand deaths. We suffered together. I love her tenderly, you understand; and, above all, I cannot see her suffer."
A sad and heavy silence fell upon the twain. Their teeth almost chattered77 from the severe cold which had surprised them, at that advanced hour of the evening on the high plain of the Maloja.
"Still," continued Lucio Sabini, "every now and then I feel my body, senses, and spirit weakened in this terrible slavery. Then, during these horrible crises, here and there I meet with other women, another woman—Bertha Meyer, who was so exquisite, or someone else—young, beautiful, free, with heart intact and fresh soul. In her come from afar, from countries which I know not, from a race that is foreign to me, I feel mysteriously the secret of my peace and repose78, of the life that remains79 for me to live. Ah! what deep, what pungent80 nostalgia81 wounds me, Vittorio, through this fresh soul which has come to me from afar with all the gifts of existence in her white hands. I must let the white hands open, which I sadly repel82, and allow the precious treasures they contain to fall—and all is lost."
"You make the renunciation?" asked Vittorio sadly.
"I make the renunciation," replied Lucio simply.
The immense and gloomy amphitheatre of the Maloja disclosed itself, stretched and prolonged itself in almost incalculable distances before their eyes, through the singular light that came from the immense sky, traversed by thick clouds, now white, now grey, now black, through the whiteness that came from the snows gathered amidst the twin peaks of the colossal83 Margna, and through the snows of Monte Lunghino. The mountains hemmed84 in the amphitheatre in an embrace bristling85 with peaks, bare, sharp, and black, without the shade of trees or vegetation; and on the rocks were tracks, yellowish and whitish tracks, not of paths but of rocky veins86. All was rock from foot to summit; rocks with angry, desperate, tragic87 profiles. Here and there on the level, browner shadows in the obscurity of the night, appeared three or four uninhabited chalets, without sound and without light; but below, where the amphitheatre seemed to continue interminably, flickering88 lights in a row indicated a house, or rather a large edifice89, where living beings were.
The deep and most extraordinary silence of the high land was uninterrupted by human sound or voice, only the violent gusts90 of wind produced a giant sigh and a dull rumbling91. Suddenly the moon freed herself from the clouds and a spreading brightness was diffused92 on all the scene, rendering it less tragic, but not less sad. Even the wind and bare mountains, wrapped in cold and silvery light, preserved their disdainful and hopeless aspect, the aspect of rocks that have seen the ages without ever a blade of grass or a flower. Yet whiter seemed the snows of the Margna and the Lunghino; and below, behind the glimmering93 light of the moon, scintillated94 like a great metal shield the lake of Sils. Now and then the night wind screeched95 in fury.
"Shall we close the carriage?" Vittorio Lante asked. "Are you cold?"
"I am cold; but unless you insist on it, I prefer not to close it. In a closed carriage time becomes eternal."
"Eternal; that's true! This is a long night."
"And the country is so desolate96!" said Lucio Sabini. "But it doesn't matter; you will have delightful evenings where you are going."
"And you will as well," murmured Vittorio Lante, with a smile.
"Are you going to flirt too?"
"If there is nothing better to do," replied the other ambiguously.
"Better to do?"
"Yes."
Now they had passed the Maloja Kursaal, that hotel of four hundred rooms, so isolated97 amidst the black and bare mountains, on a desert spot before a deserted98 and motionless lake. Some of the windows of the caravanserai were illuminated99, but no sound reached from them. They skirted the lake, where all the high shadows and the brightness of the sky were curiously100 reflected, as their tints101 changed from moment to moment.
"Do you want to get married, then?" asked Lucio Sabini, scrutinising his friend's face, but with a kindly102 glance.
"You must?"
"Ay," affirmed the other, shaking his shoulders and head, with the double gesture of one who is resigned to his destiny.
"And why rid yourself of that most precious benefit—liberty?" murmured Lucio Sabini, seriously but benevolently104.
"Because, dear Lucio," he replied, with a motion of familiarity and confidence, "I can do nothing with my liberty. What use would it be to me?"
The other listened very intently, chewing his cigarette.
"Ah, what a weight—a great past, a great name!" exclaimed Vittorio, as if he were speaking to himself, looking at the quiet, brown waters of the lake of Sils. "I am a Lante, but of the branch of La Scala; for three generations now the Lante della Scala have been ever declining as to fortune, power, and relationship, while the cousins, the Lante della Rovere, have not only kept, but have increased their fortunes, always allying themselves for the better with the most powerful, noblest, and richest families of Europe. My father was already poor when he had me, and I am thirty and very poor. I am not ashamed to tell you about it, who have known me for such a time and wish me well, and certainly sympathise with me."
A frank and almost ingenuous105 sorrow emanated106 from every word of the young man, and nothing base escaped from such a distressing107 acknowledgment as his own poverty.
"My mother, who loves and adores me and suffers from our decadence109, wishes it. She desires, dreams of, and invokes110 millions and millions for her Vittorio, for the house of Lante della Scala, to restore the great palace at Terni, so as not to sell the park where they want to found a factory."
"St. Moritz is not lacking in youths who are on the look-out for a large dowry," said Lucio, thoughtfully and doubtfully.
"I know that," exclaimed Vittorio mournfully. "I know quite well that St. Moritz is a meeting-place of big and little dowry-hunters, from him who seeks two hundred thousand francs to him who seeks ten million. And I know that people recognise them and that very often they are adventurers. Nothing makes me shudder more, Lucio, than to be mistaken for them. I am not an adventurer. I am an unfortunate gentleman, whose lot it is to bear a great name without the means to sustain it and who has not been taught how to work. I am a loving son, upon whom an adorable mother has imposed the duty of setting forth111 to try a conjugal112 adventure up there or somewhere, in homage113 to the lustre114 and claims of the Lante della Scala."
"If you dislike it so much, why attempt it? Why don't you convince your mother how much there is that is deplorable, and perhaps humiliating, in these adventures?"
"Because I would have to convince myself first," confessed Vittorio Lante sadly. "I, too, suffer from poverty; I, too, endure our slow agony; I, too, envy and almost hate my proud cousins—the others; I, too, keenly desire luxury and power. How is it to be helped? We have inherited souls, we have inherited nerves and feelings! Every now and then, through a feeling of personal dignity, I rebel against this dowry-hunting which I have been doing for two or three years; but directly afterwards obscurity and want inspire me with genuine horror. What a greedy man I must seem to you, Lucio! Still, I am a chivalrous115 man: I am a gentleman."
"I know others like you honourable116 and gentle and good, like you constrained117 by their destiny," observed Lucio Sabini, with tender sympathy.
Silently grateful, Vittorio Lante pressed his hand. As they proceeded the scene changed, and the views became more attractive. The big clouds had grown denser118 above their shoulders, towards the hill of the Maloja, which they had left some time, and the Val Bregaglia.
Denser they grew and gloomier, laden119 with the whirlwind of approaching night. The moon on high hung over the gentle bends of the lake of Sils.
Along the lake, full of deep nocturnal greens, which a band of light cut in the middle, ran banks quite green with large and small pines, and even on the travellers' left, along the high mountain wall they were skirting, little meadows appeared and disappeared. Amidst the rocks, trees and shrubs120 reared themselves, and often the carriage-wheels beat down flowers from fragrant121 hedges.
"Ah, if I had another name and another soul," said Vittorio Lante, after a brief silence.
"What would you do?"
"I would be content with what I have. My mother and I between us have fifteen hundred lire a month: this will be left us after we have sold everything and paid our creditors122. Fifteen hundred lire! With another name and another soul one could, to all appearance, live comfortably on this sum; and I could marry Livia Lante della Scala."
"A relation?"
"Poor?"
"Even poorer than I am: not a penny—a great name, a great past, and not a pennyworth of dowry!"
"Does she love you?"
"She loves me quietly, in silence, without any hope. Ah, what a dear creature!"
He sighed deeply as he gazed below at the white, modest houses of Sils Maria amidst tall trees.
"Do you love her, Vittorio?"
"I am very fond of Livia, nothing more."
"Would you be happy with her?"
"Yes, if I were another man."
For a long stretch of road they said nothing more. By one of those very rapid changes, that in the high mountains astonish by their violence or their intense sweetness, the night sky had become as clear as crystal: the air had become so limpid124 that great distances could be clearly distinguished125 by the moon's rays. A rustling126, cold, refreshing127 breeze came from afar, ruffling128 the waters of the lake; but behind them, very far-away, there was a mass of black clouds which they did not turn round to look at. On that summer night the noble, solitary mountains pencilled themselves in great precise lines, whose virgin129 snows threw a whiteness upon the lakes and the large woods and spinneys which skirted their waters, forming beneath the light of the moon many peninsulas and little promontories130, and upon the immense meadows, where amidst the soft green grass coursed brooks131 and little torrents132 with gentle singing; also upon the villages seized by slumber134, with little barred windows upon whose sills tiny rose plants, geraniums, and gentians slept in floral slumber.
On high, amidst the dark green of the last spinney, the bright turrets135 of the Villa133 Storey pointed136 to the accomplishment137 of their journey. The two gentlemen, who had almost reached the end of their long drive, tired and bruised138 of limb, exalted139 by their deep, mutual140 striving, and by having confessed, almost unconsciously, how great was the pitiable and fatal essence of their lot, and exalted by a singular increase of their life, by the solemnity of the solitary night, the immense, austere, yet persuasive141 silence that surrounded them, by that pacifying142 light, and by the presence of a beauty—the simplicity143 and purity of which they perceived, almost without thinking about it—desired, yes, desired a new heart, a new soul, and another destiny. They desired that nothing of what had happened to them should happen again, that all the past should vanish, that everything should change—persons, sentiments, deeds. For an instant strongly did they desire this—for an instant!
The rocky banks of the Inn were in front of them, and their carriage bumped up and down on the small wooden bridge that spans the noisy little river at the entrance of St. Moritz Bad. Around them were little white houses; on the banks amidst the trees the church spires144 dominating the heights, and the imposing145 hotels upon which fluttered to the cold mountain breeze the red flag with white cross. Up above on a small hill was the village of St. Moritz Dorf, all white beneath the moon.
Every pure, fine, pious146 desire vanished in a trice. They remembered them no more and became the men of old, of always. Their nerves and senses were anxiously stretched out to pleasure, to luxury, to caprice; and they were bitten by a pungent curiosity for new joys, new loves, new fantasies—to last an hour, a day, a month, then afterwards suddenly to be forgotten.
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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descended
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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melancholy
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insignificant
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solitary
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dinning
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rustic
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doorway
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resounding
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trout
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fowl
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maiden
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discreet
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mingled
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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32
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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33
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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34
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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35
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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36
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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37
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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38
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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39
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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40
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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41
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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42
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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43
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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44
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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45
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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46
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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47
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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48
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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49
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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51
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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52
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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53
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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54
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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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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57
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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60
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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61
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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62
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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63
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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64
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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65
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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66
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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67
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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68
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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69
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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71
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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72
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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73
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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74
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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75
horrifies
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| v.使震惊，使感到恐怖( horrify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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77
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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78
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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79
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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80
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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81
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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82
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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83
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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84
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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85
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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86
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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87
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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88
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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89
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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90
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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91
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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92
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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93
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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94
scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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95
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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96
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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97
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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98
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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99
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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100
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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101
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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102
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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103
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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104
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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105
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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106
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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107
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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108
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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109
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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110
invokes
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| v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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113
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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114
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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115
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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116
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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117
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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118
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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119
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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120
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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121
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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122
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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123
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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124
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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125
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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126
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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127
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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128
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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129
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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130
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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131
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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132
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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133
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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134
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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135
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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136
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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137
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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138
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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139
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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140
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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141
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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142
pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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143
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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144
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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145
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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146
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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