Experienced eyes, which were raised to the sky in the morning, curiously7 and anxiously, perhaps hoped for, and believed in, one of those sudden and surprising passages of storm clouds which rise from the Val Bregaglia, the Italian clouds which traverse for an hour or two the immense plain of the upper Engadine, then descend behind the Valley of Samaden, towards the lower Engadine, and disappear, leaving the sky pure and clear, as if their passage had cleansed8 it. Experienced eyes had hoped and believed this, relying chiefly on the great wind that pursued the clouds, that caused the surfaces of the lakes to be covered with a thousand ripples9, that almost formed these little waves with white crests10 like a sea; relying on this wind that caused the dust to whirl on the road from the Maloja to Samaden and all the trees with their lofty green plumes11 to rustle12 lamentingly; trusting that this terrible wind, which filled with its crashing the whole Engadine, would at last chase away the Italian clouds, and precipitate15 them into the lower Engadine.
But for hours and hours the clouds continued to ascend16 from Bregaglia. For hours they substituted themselves for those which already had vanished afar, precipitated17 towards Scanfs and Tarasp; for hours they came and joined themselves to the clouds not already dispersed18, and added and heaped themselves upon them, more thickly, closely, and gigantically. Experienced eyes then understood that not even the imperious and boisterous19 wind which was rising incessantly20 from the Val Bregaglia and spreading them victoriously21 over all the Engadine, that was pressing and pursuing them with fury behind the horizon of the Val di Samaden; they understood sorrowfully that not even that wind would conquer and overcome the clouds, to free the blue sky and bright sun. Moreover, suddenly the exhausted22 and vanquished23 wind fell. The conquering clouds ceased to gallop5, and spread themselves, at first quietly and then without movement, like an immense deep pavement, now white, now pearl-grey, now leaden-grey, over all the Upper Engadine. Everything became the colour of the clouds: the air, the waters of the lakes, the colouring of the little rustic24 houses, lordly villas25, towns and districts; the larches26 became darker and more gloomy in their brown verdure.
It was two in the afternoon. But beneath the deep veil of clouds, beneath that great canopy27 which hid the lofty summits, which fringed the lower peaks and almost razed28 the more modest hills, in that atmosphere tinted29 with a monotonous30 colour, now white, now grey, but always pale and lifeless, time seemed not to exist, and it seemed as if it were a long, equal day, half dead, without dawn, afternoon, or evening. The furious wind that irritates and excites, exalts32 and exasperates33, had vanished, and instead the calm sadness, broad and motionless, of an afternoon without end had spread itself everywhere.
Even sadder in its imposing34 lines was the great Valley of Samaden, shut out and divided from that of St. Moritz by the hill of Charnadüras, peculiarly cut in two, covered to the right by a pretty little wood of shady trees, aromatic36 plants, and Alpine37 flowers, so austere38 and dominated here by the Corvatsch and Rosatch, which are girded and hemmed39 in by the Muottas Muraigl, while in the middle, where it is broadest, the valley opens, showing in the background, over the Roseg glacier40, the very lofty, white, virginal beauty of the tremendous Bernina. This great valley lacks the grace and fascination41 of the delightful42 lakes of Sils, Silvaplana, and St. Moritz, while through its immense green meadows flow, foaming43 white like milk, the Flatzbach, which comes from the Bernina singing its subdued44 song, and the little brook45 Schlattenbeich. But these foaming, fleeting46 waters do not succeed in enlivening and vivifying the countryside—the great valley where little Cresta and tiny Celerina seem lost, and even Samaden seems lost in the remote corner of the plain; the great valley that seems inanimate, although the railway crosses it, and equipages, carriages, and pedestrians47 of all kinds traverse it, going and coming from St. Moritz and Pontresina. The isolated48 villas gleam white against the green of the meadows; the hotels of Cresta and Celerina show their verandahs shaded by awnings49 and straw or canvas protections for those who like the open air but fear wind and sun. The Cresta Palace raises its four storeys with its hundred rooms, carved balconies, and Swiss banner. Carriages come and go rapidly and slowly from every part, but the Valley of Samaden preserves its solitary50 austerity, and this close veil of clouds which extends from St. Moritz to the extreme horizon seems as if made to cover it completely, and it seems as if that colourless, pale air belonged to the Valley of Samaden, and that this dead afternoon was its afternoon, which better suited its vastness, solitude51, and immense melancholy52.
The villa2 of Karl Ehbehard rises isolated in a broad meadow, that gradually slopes from a fa?ade with two storeys to the opposite fa?ade with three. It is situated53 between Cresta and Celerina; the principal fa?ade, that with two storeys, is almost on the side of the high road which goes from Cresta to Celerina. Round the villa, which is very new in the bright colouring of its stones, in the light wood and carving54 of its verandahs, runs a strip of land which forms a little garden enclosed by a wooden fence, and in front, at the edge of the road, by a trellis. This tiny garden which surrounds and embraces the Villa Ehbehard is planted with shrubs55 and bright Swiss flowers, red, yellow, purple, and white; but still all these little plants and flowers have not had much time in which to grow. The wooden windows and the central verandah, with their carved balustrades and little roofs, are also adorned56 with vases of flowers, mountain carnations57, Alpine geraniums, and winter roses. On the grey, almost white stones and bright wood these flowers, miraculously58 cultivated at such an altitude, smile brightly. At the rear fa?ade of Villa Ehbehard, which is the taller, looking towards the meadows that billow peculiarly in little mounds59 and ditches, on the first floor there is a large covered, yet open terrace, supported by pillars—an Italian terrace. In the centre is a large table covered with books and newspapers; there are a few chairs and arm-chairs, and on the stone parapet are placed vases with plants. And if from the windows and verandah of the chief fa?ade of Villa Ehbehard there is a continuous spectacle of people passing in carriages, on bicycles and on foot, and the train is to be seen passing from Albula to disappear in the tunnel beneath the hill of Charnadüras, and opposite there is the Cresta Palace with all its movement of a caravanserai, and further on the little H?tel Frizzoni with its confectionery shop and tea garden, full of tables at which to take tea at five, and full of people, from the terrace in the rear of Villa Ehbehard the whole scene changes completely. Here in front a broad landscape spreads in every direction. To the right, below, is the gloomy gorge60 of the Inn, whence it issues like a ribbon of shining metal amidst the tumultuous billows of the meadows, and near the river is the brown, almost black wood that jealously hides the sad, little, deserted61 lake of Statz; then there is the great canopy of larches that follows, from the estuary62 of the Meierei, the road that leads to Pontresina. To the left in the lifeless air is the little church and campanile of San Gian di Celerina, where nowadays only the office for the dead is said, and for the departed who have been buried and have slept for so many years in the little cemetery63; the broad green stretch towards Samaden, and on high the white peaks of Languard and Albris, and very far-off the Roseg glacier, and the lady of the mountains, of snow and ice—the white and fearsome Bernina. It is a landscape of silence and peace, a landscape of thought and dream.
On that day, as usual at that hour, Doctor Karl Ehbehard was seated alone in an arm-chair, reading and yet not reading, as he contemplated65 the landscape thoughtfully. Of tall stature66, thin and muscular, Karl Fritz Ehbehard presented an aspect of strength, and his face one of energy. On the large white forehead, his black hair, which was quite streaked67 with white at the temples, formed a thick, untidy tuft, mixed with white hairs, a rebellious68 tuft that was displaced by every movement of the head. Above the mouth a large thick moustache sprinkled with white hid the expression of the lips and the smile. The profile was fine and strong, the complexion69 a rather pale tan. But the piercing, very piercing, grey eyes were peculiar35 and impregnated with a sadness that could also be pride and harshness; peculiar eyes that pierced the face of whomsoever was present, and spoke70 with such a flow of penetration71 that the timid were frightened and the proud offended. His neck in the high white collar was rather thin, and so were his hands. He is in the prime of life, since he has not yet reached fifty, every act and gesture of his and every change of expression always indicating a complete fusion72 of physical force and moral energy. His eyes hurt with their cutting glance; but still in their depths escape the sadness which humanly tempers everything and humanly assuages73.
A servant entered with a visiting-card on a tray. With a fastidious air Karl Ehbehard interrupted his reading and threw a glance at the name on the card. After a moment of hesitation74 he said to the man in German:
"Here."
Ehbehard put down his books and got up, advancing towards the door of the terrace which gave on to the apartment. A lady appeared and stopped at the threshold as if doubtful of coming out. Just bowing slightly Doctor Karl Ehbehard said to her, pointing to a chair:
"It is better here, Your Highness."
Enveloped75 in a large coat of marten fur, over which she had placed a fur tippet, with a veil of the finest white lace, the Grand Duchess of Gotha advanced to the chair, into which she let herself fall, as if tired by the stairs she had been forced to climb, and after taking breath for a while, she raised her white veil and carried her fur muff to her mouth, so as not to breathe suddenly and directly the fresh air. And Karl Ehbehard saw again the woman's face with its Teutonic ugliness, spreading features, forehead too high, mouth too broad, eyes with lashes76 too bright, eyebrows77 too light, temples hollowed, and in addition the traces of disease—a complexion rendered yellow everywhere, and pinkish on the cheek-bones, the ears very white, the lips bloodless, and the neck very thin. There was an expression of fear, oppression, and loss in the almost white eyes. The yellowish hair was precociously78 whitened, and drawn79 back without grace and tightened80 into a bunch. All that was feminine was a great richness of apparel, of lace, and furs over a long, thin, bony body. The Grand Duchess, as she breathed, opened her lips with a certain effort, showing her large, yellowish teeth. But in spite of all this she preserved a sovereign air.
"Still the same, Herr Doctor," she said, in a rather rough voice.
"Your Highness has slept?" asked the great doctor, indifferently.
"Slept, yes; five or six hours."
"That is sufficient. Did you cough on waking?"
"As every day."
"Not more?"
"No."
"Fever?"
"A degree or two yesterday evening; four or five degrees."
"A little—as usual."
"Then, Your Highness, there is nothing fresh."
"Nothing fresh indeed!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, like a little cry, and coughing immediately afterwards.
Very coldly and quietly, the great phthisis doctor waited for the Grand Duchess to begin all the daily grievances82, which she came every day to explain to him, at least to get consolation83.
"I get no better, Herr Doctor."
"But Your Highness gets no worse."
"How long can all this last?"
"A long time, a long time yet."
She looked at him, with her light eyes more troubled than ever: she looked at him, half consoled and uncertain.
"Do you believe that this can last, mein Herr?"
"I believe so," he said, still coldly but firmly.
"Shall I not die within a month or a year, mein Herr? Tell me."
Coldly, icily, he looked at her with his terribly penetrating84 eyes, which, however, were sad and even pitiful. Without hesitation he answered her.
"Neither within a month nor a year."
She bowed her head and sighed deeply: and an expression of comfort spread itself on the face worn with disease, which had neither beauty nor grace, but yet inspired interest and pity.
"May I not leave for Gotha?" she murmured anxiously.
"Certainly not, Your Highness."
"The Grand Duke complains of my long absence."
"Does that matter?"
"My children are alone; why may I not see them?"
"Your presence, Your Highness, would do them more harm than good."
"I am bored here."
"But you live, Your Highness."
"Yes, I live, it is true; but I don't care either for the country or the people," she said, with an accent of disgust.
"And why?"
"Because I am ill; because I can no longer do what the others do. I only like you here, Herr Doctor."
"But why?" he asked, without showing surprise.
"Because you, mein Herr, know the secret of my life and death. Won't you come to Gotha?"
"No, Your Highness."
"Not even for me?"
"Not even for you, Your Highness."
"Are you so fond of this country? Why do you like it so much?" she asked weakly, still a little discouraged.
"Because it has a secret of life and not of death, Your Highness," added Doctor Karl Ehbehard mysteriously, with a slight bow.
She understood and rose. She came towards him, took his two hands in hers, and pressing them said:
"Do you really believe that I ought to remain in this country?"
"I believe so, Your Highness."
"When shall I be able to go away?"
"I don't know. Certainly not now. Perhaps after a long time."
She bowed her head and added nothing further.
"Thanks, mein Herr, good-bye till to-morrow."
"Till to-morrow, Your Highness."
Without undue86 hurry, correctly but silently, he led her within the apartment and let the servant accompany her below to the carriage, to which were attached two spirited, dapple-grey horses. The Grand Duchess of Gotha wrapped her marten mantle87 better around her, pressed to her neck the fur tippet, closed her mouth firmly behind the close veil, drew over her knees the soft carriage-rug, and alone and silently, looking at no one, wrapped in herself, but preserving a regal air, she vanished to the rapid trotting88 of her horses towards St. Moritz and Campfer, where she dwelt in the solitary Villa Sorretta.
Afterwards the servant ushered89 in to the doctor on the terrace two other patients, the brothers Freytag, the great bankers of Vienna, who only came once or twice a week, the sons and nephews of the great Freytags, bankers of Frankfort, Hamburg, and London, bankers and shippers as well.
Since the winter, which they had passed at the H?tel Kulm at the Dorf, save for a break of two months, April and May, when the one had returned to Vienna and the other to Frankfort, they had repaired to Doctor Karl Ehbehard twice a week. Of the two Freytag brothers one only seemed to be ill, because in spite of his thirty-five years his tall figure was bent90, his slender shoulders beneath his navy-blue coat formed a curve, his breast beneath the white woollen waistcoat with the gold buttons seemed as narrow as that of a bird. Already his black hair was scanty91 and always seemed to be moist; beneath the eyebrows the eyes were hollow. But underlying92 all this was a fineness of feature, a sweetness of expression, and a lordliness of manner that made Max Freytag even more interesting. The other brother, younger by four or five years, seemed most healthy. Of middle stature, fat, with a rather thick throat and neck, very fair with heavy moustaches and bright hair, Ludwig Freytag had a good-natured, healthy, middle-class appearance.
Max first began to relate in German all that had happened to him during the three days that he had not been to Villa Ehbehard. He spoke slowly with a rather suave93 voice, saying that every degree of fever had vanished, that the cough was less, but that he was not sleeping and eating, that he was not digesting and could not contrive94 to conquer the insomnia95. The doctor listened, with his hands on the arms of his chair, motionless and indifferent.
"Is Frau Freytag still with you?" he suddenly asked.
"She is still with me."
"It is a grave imprudence and great sacrifice."
"I know it is," murmured Max Freytag; "but I can't prevent her. I have tried, and I cannot."
"She loves you, and you love her?" asked the doctor harshly.
"Yes," murmured the other, in an even lower voice.
"Why did you marry her when you were ill?"
"I did not wish to marry her because I knew I was ill. She wished to marry me because I was ill."
"Frau Freytag is an angel," said the doctor icily.
"An angel," agreed the other, and became silent.
After a moment's silence Max Freytag resumed:
"Do you believe, doctor, that her presence and propinquity does me harm physically96?"
"But she could die," declared Karl Ehbehard, fixing Max Freytag with his sharp eyes, and piercing his soul.
The doctor said nothing more. Then Ludwig Freytag opened his thick, florid lips and slowly told the doctor the progress of his malady101. It was graver than that of his brother, and while nothing revealed it externally, while nothing but the expert eye of Karl Ehbehard could have discovered its creeping, it was making a constant, destructive, almost invincible102 progress. While he spoke of the long fits of coughing that suffocated104 him, morning, evening, and night, of his agitated105 slumbers106, of his profuse107 nocturnal sweating, of the fever that assailed108 him at every dawn; fat, gross, rosy109, with a bull neck, and his round, limpidly-blue eyes, almost obese110 on his short legs, Ludwig Freytag seemed the picture of health. Seized by the fixed111 idea of the disease that was consuming them, Max Freytag, who seemed the more ill, and Ludwig Freytag, actually the more ill although he did not recognise it, began to lament14, now the one, then the other, of the horrible existence they were living—Max for ten years, Ludwig for five, the one thirty-five, the other thirty—an existence consisting only of medical cures, of a rigorous régime, of obligatory112 sojournings and obligatory journeys. Ah, how above everything the two brothers complained of having to live far-away from Vienna, from Frankfort, from Hamburg, from London; far from their banking-houses, from the colossal113 port whence their ships departed, far from their powerful businesses and their vast interests, and so losing their great chances of gaining millions with their stagnating114 fortune.
"To be rich does not matter, it is to live that matters," interrupted Doctor Ehbehard, with a cutting glance.
"Yes, that was too true," groaned the two brothers, Max with his soft, sweet voice and perfect distinction, Ludwig fretting115, fuming116, always seeming to suffocate103. After all living mattered, but that life apart from every festivity, from every distraction117, like two paupers118 separated from the world and its pleasures, condemned119 to measure even what they ate, to analyse what they drank, destined120 to live in the great centres of joy and luxury, like two wandering shadows, avoiding rooms too warm, verandahs too cold, and smoking-rooms—what a life of renunciation!
"One must make renunciations to live," declared Doctor Karl, slightly pale, with lowered eyes.
"Yes, renunciations," they said, Max Freytag in an almost weeping voice, and Ludwig with one of grotesque121 anger; but what a destiny for both to be struck down by this cruel disease, which no one in their family had ever had—both sons of the head of the House of Freytag, the only sons of the House of Freytag—as if stricken to death by a curse, although they could live perhaps and drag out their life, yet they must implacably die of it.
Suddenly both became silent, in consternation122, Max pale and as if convulsed, Ludwig heated and asthmatical. They became silent, gazing with eyes full of tears at Doctor Ehbehard, with an expression of great sorrow and supplication123. He from his seat looked at the two ailing124 brothers, vowed125 to infirmity and death; he looked at them and his eyes lost all indifference126 and harshness. Perhaps beneath his thick, sprinkled moustache his lips trembled; for he was slow to answer them. Before and around the two men the great Alpine landscape, even more lifeless, beneath the weight of its motionless clouds, spread itself. And not a noise nor a breath of wind came to give them the living sense of life.
Slowly, meaning every word, with a sagacity which did not only come from science, Doctor Ehbehard began to discuss, one by one, all the complaints of the brothers, and if there was no promise in his just words, if there was no false hope in his phrases, at any rate they inspired patience, and calm hope; they restored equilibrium127, tranquillity129, and peace to those agitated spirits. Like two children, fixing and holding his eyes with their imploring130 eyes, noting every word and impressing them on their memory, making no gesture so as to lose nothing of what he was saying, so as not to lose a fleeting expression, like children who wished for succour, protection, and strength, Max and Ludwig Freytag regained131 courage and moral vigour132 in the presence of Karl Ehbehard. He did not speak entirely133 to Max, who was the less ill of the two and who might be cured, but he told them both that their life was still tenacious134, and that their youth could not be conquered either easily or soon. He did not promise them perfect health, but he promised them the superior energy that supports disease and ends by obeying it. Karl Ehbehard did not pity their cruel destiny, which in them was destroying their fortune and their house, but he invited them to pity so many other invalids135, thousands and hundreds of thousands who were languishing136 and perishing for want of care and medicine, sick and languishing of gloomy misery138, who had no more means of supporting their families, and dying, would leave them in extreme poverty. And all the human sorrow of disease that finds no obstacles or contrasts, of the disease that ruins, that tortures, that whips, that slays139, since its companion is misery, all the human sorrow of hundreds of thousands of sufferers who were perishing without succour, medicine and food, in narrow death-dealing houses, on hard beds of cold and want—all this inconsolable, disconsolate140 human suffering was reviewed in the calm, firm words of Karl Ehbehard, shone from his glance, and flowed from his voice. The two brothers felt calmed and soothed141, as if their little insignificant142 sorrow were dissolved in their mind.
When they had left, Doctor Ehbehard remained for some time quite alone on his terrace, where he was wont143 to pass the afternoon, and where, to the surprise of all his new clients, he preferred to receive the visits of the sick instead of in his large consulting-room, furnished like the other rooms, and which looked out on the principal fa?ade at the back. Again his reading absorbed him, but it was more a concentration of spirit, a recollection of his thoughts, since he seldom turned over the pages. Twice while he was thus taken and conquered by his interior life, his faithful servant appeared at the doorway144 to tell his master something, but knowing him quite well and seeing him thus immersed in silence, and motionless, he had not dared to call him. At last, at the third time, he ventured to disturb a chair to attract Doctor Karl's attention, who, raising his head, as if aroused from a lethargy, looked at him as in a dream. He read the visiting-card that the servant offered him twice.
"La Vicomtesse de Bagdad," he read in French, and then added to the servant in German:
"New?"
"New."
She whom Doctor Karl Fritz Ehbehard covered with a most rapid scrutinising glance, hardly had she appeared on the terrace hesitating to advance, was a woman of forty-five, very dark and pale, with a thick mass of black hair without a thread of white, with a face of perfect features without a wrinkle, of a complete beauty, already mature, and which, perhaps, would still last for years before declining. Cunningly this mature beauty was supported by dominant145, but not offensive, traces of cosmetics146 and bistre—a light shade of pink on the cheeks a little too pale, a slight trace of rouge147 on the well-designed lips. There was an even more cunning taste in the dressing148 of the hair, in her clothes and hat, an intense but discreet149 luxury, an exquisite150 but yet prudent151 elegance152. But over all this beauty, which must have been invincible twenty years ago, and dazzling ten years ago, there was a proud and scornful expression. At some moments this mature beauty became rather austere or even gloomy, in the blackness of the eyes, in the soft and knotted eyebrows, in the closed mouth, as if hermetically sealed. At a nod from the doctor, who, without showing interest, continued to scrutinise her, she sat down.
"Madame has come to consult a doctor?" he asked in French, with a German accent, but as if he attached no importance to the reply.
"Yes, Doctor. But do we have to discuss here?" she observed, with a slight gesture of wonder and perhaps of impatience153.
"Here, Madame," he replied tranquilly154.
"Can we not retire into a room? Will it not be better?"
"No," he declared, "it is better to remain in the open air in the Engadine."
"For sick people?"
"For sick and healthy," he added, "nothing is of greater value than air in this country."
And he threw a glance around at the landscape. The lady bowed, perhaps not convinced but mollified.
"Are you ill, Madame?"
"No, Herr Doctor," she replied.
And a sudden pallor caused her dark face to become livid.
"Someone who is most dear to me," she added with lowered eyes, "my son—my only son—I fear consumption."
Again a rush of pallor passed over her features.
"Why did you not bring him with you, Madame?"
She raised her magnificent black eyes, where an immense pride was apparent, and looked at the doctor.
"Through fear, through fear," she stammered.
"Fear, Madame?"
"For fear that you might have something serious to tell my son. He is twenty-five, Doctor."
"I should have said nothing before him," said the great consumption doctor slowly. "I should have told you afterwards."
"Ah, he would have understood everything!" exclaimed the woman sorrowfully.
"Is he so ill, then?"
"Very, very ill, Herr Doctor."
"For how long?"
"For a year."
"And how old is he?"
"Twenty-five, Herr Doctor; I was twenty when I had him," she declared, without circumlocution155.
"Have you ever suffered from what he is suffering, Madame?" asked the doctor coldly.
"No; never, never," she replied at once.
"And the father?" asked the doctor.
"The father of my son was not my husband. I have never been married."
She said this without timidity and without boldness, with a calm certainty, as if Doctor Ehbehard ought to know or guess at once who she was.
"And was he ill, Madame? Try to remember."
"Not ill, but very delicate."
"This illness, then, comes from the father," concluded the doctor.
"But you will cure him, won't you, Herr Doctor?" she exclaimed anxiously. "I am come first to tell you all. Doctor, I have only this son. You must cure him. You must tell me everything, and I will do everything you tell me. I am very rich, Herr Doctor. My friends have been very generous to me. I am the Vicomtesse de Bagdad; have you never heard my name? A false name, Herr Doctor. I am not called so. My real name doesn't matter, nor would my money matter if it were not of use to cure my son Robert."
Now she seemed another woman. The disdain156 and pride which rendered her beauty austere, and at times gloomy, had disappeared. Anguish137 was transforming the womanly face that had lived so many years solely157 for pleasure, the senses, and voluptuousness158. Each feature revealed simple, bare, maternal159 suffering—the suffering of every mother.
"Doctor, they are sending us away from the hotel where we are! In fact, all the women tremble for their husbands and sons on my account. They do not know that I see them not, and know them not. I do not wish to see or know their men. But in a way it is right. Think, Doctor—the Vicomtesse de Bagdad!"
Two long tears of anger, shame, and sorrow descended160 the pallid161 cheeks and fell on her bosom162. She wiped her face at once, feverishly164.
"Do not disturb yourself," he said in a firm tone, in that tone which was wont to raise the mind of whomsoever listened to him. "If they send you away from the hotel, go into a villa; you will find one."
"Yes, I will find one," she exclaimed, consoled at once. "And you will come there, Doctor? You will come? You are a virtuous165 and great man; if you come to the villa you will have no scandal: you will only find Robert and me, ourselves alone, the poor mamma with her poor son. You will come, won't you?"
"As soon as you have found the villa I will come."
"And you will cure Robert, Doctor?"
"I do not know: I don't know at all."
"But you will try, won't you? You will try?" seizing his hands, with a mother's cry.
"I promise to try my best," he replied.
A short sigh broke the voice of the woman who had lived only for pleasure and vice166, and who now was a mother grieved to the heart. She choked in her cambric handkerchief, fragrant167 with a delicate perfume. She bowed her head a minute to compose herself before leaving, and then left followed by the silken rustling168 of her train.
When Karl Ehbehard was again alone on the terrace, that projected into the solitary and imposing landscape in the declining day, he did not resume his reading, nor did he contemplate64 thoughtfully the austere lines of the mountains and the great curtain of trees which hid the road, and the waters running and leaping amidst the thick grass of the meadows. As if tired, he let his head fall on his breast, and all that he had seen and heard on that day was weighing on his mind.
All the morning he had visited in his carriage sick people who could not leave their houses, from those isolated in far-off villas to those isolated in the dépendances of hotels, since in the summer-time, especially, no hotel-keeper wished to have consumptives in his own hotel, so as not to put to flight other travellers who came to the Engadine, travellers who came there through love of gaiety, of pleasure, of luxury, who came to the high mountains through a refinement169 of the senses, wishing to unite the spectacle of the beauty of things to an ardent170, febrile, worldly life.
All the morning, to the trotting of his horses, he had gone to the Dorf, to the Bad, even to Campfer, awaited everywhere with anxiety. He had touched fleshless hands still feverish163 from the night; he had stooped to gather, with acute ear, at the naked breast of the sick, the hoarse171, interior breathing; he had heard the dry attacks of coughing following each other precipitously, leaving the sick without breath; and he had listened to the long, lamenting13 conversation of those who felt that they were not growing better, who felt that they were growing worse and declining to a fatal solution. Indeed, the whole morning, with persuasive172 glance, with cold and calm words, with whatever there was in him of moral force and energy, he had striven to console all those who were tormented173 by the fear of death; he had striven to comfort them without lying to them, without promising175 them anything, lest on the morrow they should be bitterly deluded176. He had striven to excite patience in them and tranquil128 courage, telling them that when one wishes to grow better and wishes it intensely, one does grow better, and that a secret of escaping death is to wish not to die with all the mysterious vigour of will-power. And once again, morning and afternoon, before the hundred sadnesses more incurable177 than phthisis itself, before the hundred woes178 of poor beings devoured179 by disease, he had seen the singular, amazing miracle performed; he had seen the sick grow calm and serene180, resume vigour, and smile, yes, smile, with vague, indefinite, infinite hope. Through his presence and will-power for good, through his firm serenity181, he had seen the miracle renewed, however brief and fleeting. The sick felt themselves better without taking drugs, and felt themselves first tranquillised and then excited to joy, yes, almost to joy! He knew these miracles of these strange diseases; pious182 miracles that make of the consumptive a being apart, capable of smiling, of hoping, even to the last breath of his destroyed lungs. He knew these miracles because with his will-power for good and the fascination of his eyes and words, he understood how to dominate, conquer, and exalt31 the changeful, light minds of the poor sufferers from phthisis. But the effort put forth183 by him on that morning and afternoon, more than any other day, had exhausted him. An immense weariness oppressed his physiognomy and his limbs in the large arm-chair of black leather, upon the arms of which his rather thin hands were abandoning themselves, as if they, too, had been struck by a profound weariness. When after a short time he raised his head, Else von Landau was before him.
She had not been announced. Like the Grand Duchess of Gotha, she came every day, when she felt bad, to the Villa Ehbehard; sometimes, when she felt better, she came there two or three times a week, like the brothers Freytag. She knew where to find the doctor and how to enter discreetly184, so as not to disturb him if he were reading, studying, or if he were thinking and resting. She had entered cautiously without warning him of her presence, and had sat down at some distance from him, opening her mantle of otter-skin with sweet, silvery revers of chinchilla, beneath which she was dressed in brown cloth. She had untied185 the large veil which surrounded face and neck, and all the hat and head. Her delicate, white face, with the clearest complexion, appeared even whiter beneath the shining, soft chestnut186 hair. On the white temples, beneath the grey eyes, a network of little blue veins187 was delineated. With hands that clasped a large bunch of Alpine flowers abandoned on her lap, now and then biting her lips to make them redder, and coughing very slightly so as not to be heard, she waited patiently till Karl Ehbehard was aware of her. Seeing her the doctor started; but he restrained a movement of impatient weariness.
"How are you, then, Fr?ulein Landau?" he asked her monotonously188 in German, speaking as if in a dream.
"I am rather bad, Doctor," she replied, with a fleeting smile on her lips.
Her voice was soft but hoarse; the veil, however, increased its penetrating softness.
"Why? Tell me everything."
She settled herself better in her chair, crossed her exquisitely189 booted little feet, which peeped out from the skirt, put down her chinchilla muff, smelt190 her Alpine flowers, and said:
"The pain up here has tormented me all the evening and night. This morning, too, when coughing there were some streaks191 of blood."
"Have you kept them, Fr?ulein Landau?" he asked, perfectly192 returned to himself, and again become the doctor.
"It was not useless."
"Another time I will not fail," she murmured, in a slightly ironical194 tone; "I seem to have had fever again for two or three days."
"Did you use the thermometer?"
"No," she replied, "I did not use it. I have thrown away my thermometer; it tortured me too much. It is an odious195 instrument. When I have fever I recognise it from the palms of my hands."
"Still, it should have been necessary to know the degree."
"What does it matter, Doctor?" she said, a little more lively. "To sadden my mother? She has too much sorrow, the poor dear!"
"But did you follow out my instructions?" the doctor asked her patiently.
"I take all your medicines, Doctor, because my mother makes me take them: I eat what you tell me because she makes me eat it," she declared, again smiling a little sarcastically196.
"What about the rest?"
"The rest?"
"Do you go to bed early?"
"No, Doctor, I go to bed very late every night."
"And what do you do?"
"I dance nearly every evening, or chat with my friends, or play bridge."
"Do you dance in a décolleté dress?"
"Certainly; every evening I am in a décolleté dress, even if there is no dancing."
"Yes, Doctor; I adore champagne."
"And what do you do in the morning and afternoon?"
"I go out on foot or in a carriage. We make excursions. I walk a great deal when I can. I went on foot to the Roseg glacier."
"Always in company?"
"Always: I have various flirts199, Doctor. One of them especially is more than a flirt198. He loves me. I am fond of him and torment174 him with jealousy200 of my other flirts."
The conversation developed, calmly and coldly on the Doctor's side, brightly and mockingly, with a touch of impertinent bitterness, on Else's side. He said to her:
"Why are you doing all this? To kill yourself?"
"To die the sooner," she declared suddenly, becoming serious.
"Don't you care to live?"
"I don't care about living, sick, half alive, dying," she declared, still very serious.
"You are making your poor mother despair."
"That is true; but it is better for her to get used to despair for the time when she will lose me."
"She will die of grief."
"After me: I shall not see it, it will be all over," concluded Else von Landau gloomily. Then suddenly she began to laugh.
"Dear Doctor, you have not told me, but I know that I am doomed201. Certainly I could drag on my life for years by busying myself only with my drugs, my régime, the heat of my room; by watching myself from morn till night, not speaking for fear of tiring my lungs, like Maria Goertz, who has lived two years here with a closed mouth; by fleeing from balls, festivities, theatres, engagements, only wearing the thickest furs, unable to go in décolleté or transparent202 dresses, unable to have either flirt or lover, forced to live summer and winter at St. Moritz Dorf or Davos, or failing that in a sanatorium. Oh, no, Doctor! I don't wish to live thus! That is no life; I prefer to end it—to end it at once."
Her large, grey, velvety203 eyes, with almost blue pupils, flashed with a desire of life and death, her complexion was flushed, and the little blue veins of the temples were almost swollen204. A funereal205 beauty was in her countenance206.
"Doctor, Doctor," she resumed, in a higher but rougher voice, "I don't want to exile myself, to cloister207 myself; I don't want to renounce208 anything life should give me or place within my reach. I don't want to renounce being beautiful, being loved, smiling, and becoming exhilarated with air, and sun, and love. I wish to resign nothing and prefer to live less, live a very short time, sooner than renounce things. I am thirty and a widow. I have no sons and am rich. After my death there is nothing but silence, Doctor. I don't want to renounce things."
He looked at her, recognising in her the subtle delirium209 of consumptives. He looked at her, so beautiful, so charming and fragile, made to live, yet so desirous of life and death, and at last his heart, after the long day of fatigue210 and suffering for others, so closed and granite-like, opened and welled with an immense pity for her who was invoking211 death, who was ready to meet it, and who was embracing it, because she would renounce nothing.
Else von Landau resumed deliriously212:
"Doctor, would you renounce them? Would you renounce every good and joy and triumph, every excitement. Would you renounce them?"
He looked at her, with a glance laden213 with mystery and strength, and answered her in a clear voice:
"I did so: I made the renunciation."
Else was profoundly surprised and trembled all over, questioning him with her beautiful, supplicating214 eyes.
"Do you know how old I was when I was seized by the chest affection you have?" he asked her, in a cutting voice.
"You? You?"
"At twenty-three I was seized and overthrown215 by your malady," he continued. "I am from Basle, an old, grey, cold place; but I went to study medicine in Germany, at Heidelberg, and lived there four years in great ardour for study and science, in a dream that absorbed and devoured me. My masters conceived for me the highest hopes. I myself was impetuous, but restrained myself with waiting for some profound scientific mystery that might be revealed to my desire and my tireless discipline of work. One winter evening I was caught on the road by a heavy shower. Next day I had inflammation of the lungs. I spat216 blood for several days and was dying. With difficulty I was rescued from death, and six months afterwards, at twenty-three, Fr?ulein von Landau, I had tuberculosis217 of both lungs. Those who were tending me tried to deceive me; but I was a doctor and knew I must die. Someone told me to come here for six months or a year. Full of fever, still spitting blood, no longer sleeping or taking nourishment218, and despairing of everything, I came here. I am forty-eight; for twenty-five years I have been here and I have never left."
"Never at all? Never at all?" she cried, surprised, moved to the depths of her soul.
"Never. Twenty-five years ago the Engadine was an almost deserted region, wild and very sad in some places; fearful and tragic219 in others. Some modest little inn in the height of summer gave hospitality to a few simple lovers of the mountains, to some invalid or convalescent. There were no conveniences or pleasures or luxury or elegance. Vast solitary horizons, immense meadows whose flowers very few human feet disturbed; mountains unharmed from people's contact, a country with an austere, solitary, and powerful beauty. I lived, so poor was I, in a little rustic cottage belonging to some Engadine peasants. I fed on milk, vegetables, and herbs. I had no one with whom to exchange a word, since even then the healthy and robust220 fled from those stricken with my terrible disease. I wandered along difficult and rugged221 paths that no one had tracked; I drank at the icy waters of the springs beneath the glaciers222; I gathered the mountain flowers which filled with perfume my little room, and I read a little. In winter my confinement223 became fearful amidst the snow and ice, shut up at first in my room; then mad with weariness, boredom224, and gloom I sallied forth, in the cruel cold, every day on the snow and ice. After a year my malady was conquered. The pure, cold air, the pure water, a life of simplicity225 and purity, an isolation226 that pacifies227 and soothes228, an interior life profound and free, the treasures that the high mountains jealously preserve, that are spread out only to humble229 and devout230 seekers after health, silence and peace—those treasures were granted me and I was saved. I never left the Engadine again: I made the renunciation."
She listened to him, silent and moved, her eyes clouded with tears.
"I renounced231 every joy and delight, every triumph. I might have discovered an immense secret of science to reveal it to a stupid world. I might have signed with my name a truth still unknown and benefited with noble gifts the human race; I might have been illustrious and celebrated—but I renounced everything. I might have been loved, I might have loved and founded a family, had sons, and surrounded myself with beings who might have been blood of my blood—I renounced all that. I might have lived in a metropolis232, run through the world, visited unknown countries, known far-off peoples. I renounced them; everything I renounced. What am I, forsooth? A doctor, a wretched doctor, a doctor of rich consumptives in a summer and winter station. I am paid handsomely, but I am nothing but a poor doctor who strives to prolong a life here and there as well as he can—nothing more. For twenty-five years I have not moved from here: I am alone, no one loves me, I love no one; I have neither glory nor love, no sons, no pleasures."
"And why all this, why?" cried Else von Landau, anxious and agitated.
"Because one must live as long as possible: because one must die as late as possible; because one must, you understand, combat death," he said solemnly.
"Did you not suffer from the renunciation? Did you not suffer from what you missed? Do you not suffer from what you are missing?" she asked, still discouraged, but already conquered.
"I suffered then," replied Karl Ehbehard. "I suffered greatly. These woods and rocks, once so solitary, have seen my tears. Afterwards I suffered no more. And now some sweetness comes into my life in this exercise of my art: if I manage to snatch some infirm creature from death—a rare sweetness. But nothing more. So even renunciation offers at last its compensations. Renounce, dear lady,"—and his voice grew a little tender—"these joys which are precipitating233 you towards death. Seek other things up here for a year or two amidst natural and pure beauties. Live here in peaceful contemplation of sky and clouds and air, of proud mountains and terrible glaciers; of slender streams, deep woods, and fragrant flowers. Live here with yourself, creating a more intense interior life. Do you not see? This land has been invaded by a horde234 of pleasure-seekers and vicious people, whereby the sick and ailing and lovers of the mountains are being overturned and disappear. The land has been far too much sown with villas, immense hotels and little hotels, and has been defiled235 by railways, electric trams, and funiculars; in every way the attempt has been made to destroy her beauty and secret of life. But they will never destroy them! Her beauty and purity are eternal and immortal236. Ah, renounce the world, dear lady; later let the pleasure-seekers depart, and remain alone in the presence of all that is lofty, sincere, and vivifying. Seek no more the crowd that takes you and consumes your strength; mix no more with them, fly from their ardent, sterile237 pleasures, refuse their vain and dangerous gifts—renounce them, renounce them! If you want to live and be cured, renounce them. Here by yourself in solitude and silence, in contact with lofty things, now gentle, now terrible, the great treasure of health that the mountains guard and concede only to fervent238 worshippers will be granted to you. Make the renunciation or die. I am the apostle of life."
"I will obey you," she said, subdued.
He rose; and with a simple, friendly action took her hand.
"Your hard sacrifice will later have its reward," murmured Karl Ehbehard, in a subdued voice.
She questioned him with her beautiful, velvety eyes.
"If he who loves you and whom you love knows how to wait, he will have you," added Karl Ehbehard.
An intense smile of happiness appeared on Else von Landau's lips.
"So much was not granted to me," he ended by saying, sadly.
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1
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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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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10
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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12
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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13
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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14
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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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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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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18
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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31
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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38
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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39
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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40
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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41
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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42
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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43
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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44
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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45
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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46
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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47
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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48
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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49
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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50
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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51
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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52
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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53
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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54
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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55
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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56
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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58
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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59
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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60
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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61
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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62
estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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63
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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64
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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65
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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66
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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67
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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68
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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69
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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70
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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71
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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72
fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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73
assuages
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| v.减轻( assuage的第三人称单数 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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74
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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75
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
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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77
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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78
precociously
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| Precociously | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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81
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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82
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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83
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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84
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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85
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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86
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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87
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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88
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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89
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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91
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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92
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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93
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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94
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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95
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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96
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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97
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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98
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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99
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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100
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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101
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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102
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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103
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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104
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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105
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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106
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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107
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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108
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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109
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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110
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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111
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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112
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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113
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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114
stagnating
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的现在分词 ) | |
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115
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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116
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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117
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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118
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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119
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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120
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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121
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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122
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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123
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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124
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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125
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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126
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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127
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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128
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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129
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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130
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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131
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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132
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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133
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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134
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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135
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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136
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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137
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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138
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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139
slays
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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141
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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142
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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143
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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144
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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145
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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146
cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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147
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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148
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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149
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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150
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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151
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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152
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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153
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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154
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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155
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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156
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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157
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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158
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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159
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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160
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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161
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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162
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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163
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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164
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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165
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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166
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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167
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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168
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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169
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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170
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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171
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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172
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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173
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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174
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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175
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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176
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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178
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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179
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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180
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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181
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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182
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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183
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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184
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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185
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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186
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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187
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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188
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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189
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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190
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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191
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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192
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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193
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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194
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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195
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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196
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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197
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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198
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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200
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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201
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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202
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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203
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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204
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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206
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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207
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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208
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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209
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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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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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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218
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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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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222
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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223
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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224
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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225
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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226
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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227
pacifies
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的第三人称单数 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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228
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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229
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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230
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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231
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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232
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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233
precipitating
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| adj.急落的，猛冲的v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的现在分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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234
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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235
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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236
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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237
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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238
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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