Five couriers, sitting on a bench outside the convent on the summit of the Great St. Bernard in Switzerland, looking at the remote heights, stained by the setting sun as if a mighty1 quantity of red wine had been broached2 upon the mountain top, and had not yet had time to sink into the snow.
This is not my simile3. It was made for the occasion by the stoutest4 courier, who was a German. None of the others took any more notice of it than they took of me, sitting on another bench on the other side of the convent door, smoking my cigar, like them, and—also like them—looking at the reddened snow, and at the lonely shed hard by, where the bodies of belated travellers, dug out of it, slowly wither5 away, knowing no corruption6 in that cold region.
The wine upon the mountain top soaked in as we looked; the mountain became white; the sky, a very dark blue; the wind rose; and the air turned piercing cold. The five couriers buttoned their rough coats. There being no safer man to imitate in all such proceedings7 than a courier, I buttoned mine.
The mountain in the sunset had stopped the five couriers in a conversation. It is a sublime8 sight, likely to stop conversation. The mountain being now out of the sunset, they resumed. Not that I had heard any part of their previous discourse9; for indeed, I had not then broken away from the American gentleman, in the travellers’ parlour of the convent, who, sitting with his face to the fire, had undertaken to realise to me the whole progress of events which had led to the accumulation by the Honourable10 Ananias Dodger11 of one of the largest acquisitions of dollars ever made in our country.
‘My God!’ said the Swiss courier, speaking in French, which I do not hold (as some authors appear to do) to be such an all-sufficient excuse for a naughty word, that I have only to write it in that language to make it innocent; ‘if you talk of ghosts—’
‘But I don’t talk of ghosts,’ said the German.
‘Of what then?’ asked the Swiss.
‘If I knew of what then,’ said the German, ‘I should probably know a great deal more.’
It was a good answer, I thought, and it made me curious. So, I moved my position to that corner of my bench which was nearest to them, and leaning my back against the convent wall, heard perfectly12, without appearing to attend.
‘Thunder and lightning!’ said the German, warming, ‘when a certain man is coming to see you, unexpectedly; and, without his own knowledge, sends some invisible messenger, to put the idea of him into your head all day, what do you call that? When you walk along a crowded street—at Frankfort, Milan, London, Paris—and think that a passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and then that another passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and so begin to have a strange foreknowledge that presently you’ll meet your friend Heinrich—which you do, though you believed him at Trieste—what do you call that?’
‘Uncommon!’ said the German. ‘It’s as common as cherries in the Black Forest. It’s as common as maccaroni at Naples. And Naples reminds me! When the old Marchesa Senzanima shrieks14 at a card-party on the Chiaja—as I heard and saw her, for it happened in a Bavarian family of mine, and I was overlooking the service that evening—I say, when the old Marchesa starts up at the card-table, white through her rouge15, and cries, “My sister in Spain is dead! I felt her cold touch on my back!”—and when that sister is dead at the moment—what do you call that?’
‘Or when the blood of San Gennaro liquefies at the request of the clergy—as all the world knows that it does regularly once a-year, in my native city,’ said the Neapolitan courier after a pause, with a comical look, ‘what do you call that?’
‘That!’ cried the German. ‘Well, I think I know a name for that.’
‘Miracle?’ said the Neapolitan, with the same sly face.
The German merely smoked and laughed; and they all smoked and laughed.
‘Bah!’ said the German, presently. ‘I speak of things that really do happen. When I want to see the conjurer, I pay to see a professed16 one, and have my money’s worth. Very strange things do happen without ghosts. Ghosts! Giovanni Baptista, tell your story of the English bride. There’s no ghost in that, but something full as strange. Will any man tell me what?’
As there was a silence among them, I glanced around. He whom I took to be Baptista was lighting17 a fresh cigar. He presently went on to speak. He was a Genoese, as I judged.
‘The story of the English bride?’ said he. ‘Basta! one ought not to call so slight a thing a story. Well, it’s all one. But it’s true. Observe me well, gentlemen, it’s true. That which glitters is not always gold; but what I am going to tell, is true.’
He repeated this more than once.
Ten years ago, I took my credentials18 to an English gentleman at Long’s Hotel, in Bond Street, London, who was about to travel—it might be for one year, it might be for two. He approved of them; likewise of me. He was pleased to make inquiry19. The testimony20 that he received was favourable21. He engaged me by the six months, and my entertainment was generous.
He was young, handsome, very happy. He was enamoured of a fair young English lady, with a sufficient fortune, and they were going to be married. It was the wedding-trip, in short, that we were going to take. For three months’ rest in the hot weather (it was early summer then) he had hired an old place on the Riviera, at an easy distance from my city, Genoa, on the road to Nice. Did I know that place? Yes; I told him I knew it well. It was an old palace with great gardens. It was a little bare, and it was a little dark and gloomy, being close surrounded by trees; but it was spacious23, ancient, grand, and on the seashore. He said it had been so described to him exactly, and he was well pleased that I knew it. For its being a little bare of furniture, all such places were. For its being a little gloomy, he had hired it principally for the gardens, and he and my mistress would pass the summer weather in their shade.
‘So all goes well, Baptista?’ said he.
‘Indubitably, signore; very well.’
We had a travelling chariot for our journey, newly built for us, and in all respects complete. All we had was complete; we wanted for nothing. The marriage took place. They were happy. I was happy, seeing all so bright, being so well situated24, going to my own city, teaching my language in the rumble25 to the maid, la bella Carolina, whose heart was gay with laughter: who was young and rosy26.
The time flew. But I observed—listen to this, I pray! (and here the courier dropped his voice)—I observed my mistress sometimes brooding in a manner very strange; in a frightened manner; in an unhappy manner; with a cloudy, uncertain alarm upon her. I think that I began to notice this when I was walking up hills by the carriage side, and master had gone on in front. At any rate, I remember that it impressed itself upon my mind one evening in the South of France, when she called to me to call master back; and when he came back, and walked for a long way, talking encouragingly and affectionately to her, with his hand upon the open window, and hers in it. Now and then, he laughed in a merry way, as if he were bantering27 her out of something. By-and-by, she laughed, and then all went well again.
It was curious. I asked la bella Carolina, the pretty little one, Was mistress unwell?—No.—Out of spirits?—No.—Fearful of bad roads, or brigands28?—No. And what made it more mysterious was, the pretty little one would not look at me in giving answer, but would look at the view.
But, one day she told me the secret.
‘If you must know,’ said Carolina, ‘I find, from what I have overheard, that mistress is haunted.’
‘How haunted?’
‘By a dream.’
‘What dream?’
‘By a dream of a face. For three nights before her marriage, she saw a face in a dream—always the same face, and only One.’
‘A terrible face?’
‘No. The face of a dark, remarkable-looking man, in black, with black hair and a grey moustache—a handsome man except for a reserved and secret air. Not a face she ever saw, or at all like a face she ever saw. Doing nothing in the dream but looking at her fixedly29, out of darkness.’
‘Does the dream come back?’
‘Never. The recollection of it is all her trouble.’
‘And why does it trouble her?’
Carolina shook her head.
‘That’s master’s question,’ said la bella. ‘She don’t know. She wonders why, herself. But I heard her tell him, only last night, that if she was to find a picture of that face in our Italian house (which she is afraid she will) she did not know how she could ever bear it.’
Upon my word I was fearful after this (said the Genoese courier) of our coming to the old palazzo, lest some such ill-starred picture should happen to be there. I knew there were many there; and, as we got nearer and nearer to the place, I wished the whole gallery in the crater30 of Vesuvius. To mend the matter, it was a stormy dismal31 evening when we, at last, approached that part of the Riviera. It thundered; and the thunder of my city and its environs, rolling among the high hills, is very loud. The lizards32 ran in and out of the chinks in the broken stone wall of the garden, as if they were frightened; the frogs bubbled and croaked33 their loudest; the sea-wind moaned, and the wet trees dripped; and the lightning—body of San Lorenzo, how it lightened!
We all know what an old palace in or near Genoa is—how time and the sea air have blotted34 it—how the drapery painted on the outer walls has peeled off in great flakes35 of plaster—how the lower windows are darkened with rusty36 bars of iron—how the courtyard is overgrown with grass—how the outer buildings are dilapidated—how the whole pile seems devoted37 to ruin. Our palazzo was one of the true kind. It had been shut up close for months. Months?—years!—it had an earthy smell, like a tomb. The scent38 of the orange trees on the broad back terrace, and of the lemons ripening39 on the wall, and of some shrubs40 that grew around a broken fountain, had got into the house somehow, and had never been able to get out again. There was, in every room, an aged22 smell, grown faint with confinement41. It pined in all the cupboards and drawers. In the little rooms of communication between great rooms, it was stifling42. If you turned a picture—to come back to the pictures—there it still was, clinging to the wall behind the frame, like a sort of bat.
The lattice-blinds were close shut, all over the house. There were two ugly, grey old women in the house, to take care of it; one of them with a spindle, who stood winding44 and mumbling45 in the doorway46, and who would as soon have let in the devil as the air. Master, mistress, la bella Carolina, and I, went all through the palazzo. I went first, though I have named myself last, opening the windows and the lattice-blinds, and shaking down on myself splashes of rain, and scraps47 of mortar48, and now and then a dozing49 mosquito, or a monstrous50, fat, blotchy51, Genoese spider.
When I had let the evening light into a room, master, mistress, and la bella Carolina, entered. Then, we looked round at all the pictures, and I went forward again into another room. Mistress secretly had great fear of meeting with the likeness52 of that face—we all had; but there was no such thing. The Madonna and Bambino, San Francisco, San Sebastiano, Venus, Santa Caterina, Angels, Brigands, Friars, Temples at Sunset, Battles, White Horses, Forests, Apostles, Doges, all my old acquaintances many times repeated?—yes. Dark, handsome man in black, reserved and secret, with black hair and grey moustache, looking fixedly at mistress out of darkness?—no.
At last we got through all the rooms and all the pictures, and came out into the gardens. They were pretty well kept, being rented by a gardener, and were large and shady. In one place there was a rustic53 theatre, open to the sky; the stage a green slope; the coulisses, three entrances upon a side, sweet-smelling leafy screens. Mistress moved her bright eyes, even there, as if she looked to see the face come in upon the scene; but all was well.
‘Now, Clara,’ master said, in a low voice, ‘you see that it is nothing? You are happy.’
Mistress was much encouraged. She soon accustomed herself to that grim palazzo, and would sing, and play the harp54, and copy the old pictures, and stroll with master under the green trees and vines all day. She was beautiful. He was happy. He would laugh and say to me, mounting his horse for his morning ride before the heat:
‘All goes well, Baptista!’
‘Yes, signore, thank God, very well.’
We kept no company. I took la bella to the Duomo and Annunciata, to the Café, to the Opera, to the village Festa, to the Public Garden, to the Day Theatre, to the Marionetti. The pretty little one was charmed with all she saw. She learnt Italian—heavens! miraculously55! Was mistress quite forgetful of that dream? I asked Carolina sometimes. Nearly, said la bella—almost. It was wearing out.
One day master received a letter, and called me.
‘Baptista!’
‘Signore!’
‘A gentleman who is presented to me will dine here to-day. He is called the Signor Dellombra. Let me dine like a prince.’
It was an odd name. I did not know that name. But, there had been many noblemen and gentlemen pursued by Austria on political suspicions, lately, and some names had changed. Perhaps this was one. Altro! Dellombra was as good a name to me as another.
When the Signor Dellombra came to dinner (said the Genoese courier in the low voice, into which he had subsided56 once before), I showed him into the reception-room, the great sala of the old palazzo. Master received him with cordiality, and presented him to mistress. As she rose, her face changed, she gave a cry, and fell upon the marble floor.
Then, I turned my head to the Signor Dellombra, and saw that he was dressed in black, and had a reserved and secret air, and was a dark, remarkable-looking man, with black hair and a grey moustache.
Master raised mistress in his arms, and carried her to her own room, where I sent la bella Carolina straight. La bella told me afterwards that mistress was nearly terrified to death, and that she wandered in her mind about her dream, all night.
Master was vexed57 and anxious—almost angry, and yet full of solicitude58. The Signor Dellombra was a courtly gentleman, and spoke59 with great respect and sympathy of mistress’s being so ill. The African wind had been blowing for some days (they had told him at his hotel of the Maltese Cross), and he knew that it was often hurtful. He hoped the beautiful lady would recover soon. He begged permission to retire, and to renew his visit when he should have the happiness of hearing that she was better. Master would not allow of this, and they dined alone.
He withdrew early. Next day he called at the gate, on horseback, to inquire for mistress. He did so two or three times in that week.
What I observed myself, and what la bella Carolina told me, united to explain to me that master had now set his mind on curing mistress of her fanciful terror. He was all kindness, but he was sensible and firm. He reasoned with her, that to encourage such fancies was to invite melancholy60, if not madness. That it rested with herself to be herself. That if she once resisted her strange weakness, so successfully as to receive the Signor Dellombra as an English lady would receive any other guest, it was for ever conquered. To make an end, the signore came again, and mistress received him without marked distress61 (though with constraint62 and apprehension63 still), and the evening passed serenely64. Master was so delighted with this change, and so anxious to confirm it, that the Signor Dellombra became a constant guest. He was accomplished65 in pictures, books, and music; and his society, in any grim palazzo, would have been welcome.
I used to notice, many times, that mistress was not quite recovered. She would cast down her eyes and droop66 her head, before the Signor Dellombra, or would look at him with a terrified and fascinated glance, as if his presence had some evil influence or power upon her. Turning from her to him, I used to see him in the shaded gardens, or the large half-lighted sala, looking, as I might say, ‘fixedly upon her out of darkness.’ But, truly, I had not forgotten la bella Carolina’s words describing the face in the dream.
After his second visit I heard master say:
‘Now, see, my dear Clara, it’s over! Dellombra has come and gone, and your apprehension is broken like glass.’
‘Will he—will he ever come again?’ asked mistress.
‘Again? Why, surely, over and over again! Are you cold?’ (she shivered).
‘No, dear—but—he terrifies me: are you sure that he need come again?’
‘The surer for the question, Clara!’ replied master, cheerfully.
But, he was very hopeful of her complete recovery now, and grew more and more so every day. She was beautiful. He was happy.
‘All goes well, Baptista?’ he would say to me again.
‘Yes, signore, thank God; very well.’
We were all (said the Genoese courier, constraining67 himself to speak a little louder), we were all at Rome for the Carnival68. I had been out, all day, with a Sicilian, a friend of mine, and a courier, who was there with an English family. As I returned at night to our hotel, I met the little Carolina, who never stirred from home alone, running distractedly along the Corso.
‘Carolina! What’s the matter?’
‘O Baptista! O, for the Lord’s sake! where is my mistress?’
‘Mistress, Carolina?’
‘Gone since morning—told me, when master went out on his day’s journey, not to call her, for she was tired with not resting in the night (having been in pain), and would lie in bed until the evening; then get up refreshed. She is gone!—she is gone! Master has come back, broken down the door, and she is gone! My beautiful, my good, my innocent mistress!’
The pretty little one so cried, and raved69, and tore herself that I could not have held her, but for her swooning on my arm as if she had been shot. Master came up—in manner, face, or voice, no more the master that I knew, than I was he. He took me (I laid the little one upon her bed in the hotel, and left her with the chamber-women), in a carriage, furiously through the darkness, across the desolate70 Campagna. When it was day, and we stopped at a miserable71 post-house, all the horses had been hired twelve hours ago, and sent away in different directions. Mark me! by the Signor Dellombra, who had passed there in a carriage, with a frightened English lady crouching72 in one corner.
I never heard (said the Genoese courier, drawing a long breath) that she was ever traced beyond that spot. All I know is, that she vanished into infamous73 oblivion, with the dreaded74 face beside her that she had seen in her dream.
‘What do you call that?’ said the German courier, triumphantly75. ‘Ghosts! There are no ghosts there! What do you call this, that I am going to tell you? Ghosts! There are no ghosts here!’
I took an engagement once (pursued the German courier) with an English gentleman, elderly and a bachelor, to travel through my country, my Fatherland. He was a merchant who traded with my country and knew the language, but who had never been there since he was a boy—as I judge, some sixty years before.
His name was James, and he had a twin-brother John, also a bachelor. Between these brothers there was a great affection. They were in business together, at Goodman’s Fields, but they did not live together. Mr. James dwelt in Poland Street, turning out of Oxford76 Street, London; Mr. John resided by Epping Forest.
Mr. James and I were to start for Germany in about a week. The exact day depended on business. Mr. John came to Poland Street (where I was staying in the house), to pass that week with Mr. James. But, he said to his brother on the second day, ‘I don’t feel very well, James. There’s not much the matter with me; but I think I am a little gouty. I’ll go home and put myself under the care of my old housekeeper77, who understands my ways. If I get quite better, I’ll come back and see you before you go. If I don’t feel well enough to resume my visit where I leave it off, why you will come and see me before you go.’ Mr. James, of course, said he would, and they shook hands—both hands, as they always did—and Mr. John ordered out his old-fashioned chariot and rumbled78 home.
It was on the second night after that—that is to say, the fourth in the week—when I was awoke out of my sound sleep by Mr. James coming into my bedroom in his flannel-gown, with a lighted candle. He sat upon the side of my bed, and looking at me, said:
‘Wilhelm, I have reason to think I have got some strange illness upon me.’
I then perceived that there was a very unusual expression in his face.
‘Wilhelm,’ said he, ‘I am not afraid or ashamed to tell you what I might be afraid or ashamed to tell another man. You come from a sensible country, where mysterious things are inquired into and are not settled to have been weighed and measured—or to have been unweighable and unmeasurable—or in either case to have been completely disposed of, for all time—ever so many years ago. I have just now seen the phantom79 of my brother.’
‘I have just now seen,’ Mr. James repeated, looking full at me, that I might see how collected he was, ‘the phantom of my brother John. I was sitting up in bed, unable to sleep, when it came into my room, in a white dress, and regarding me earnestly, passed up to the end of the room, glanced at some papers on my writing-desk, turned, and, still looking earnestly at me as it passed the bed, went out at the door. Now, I am not in the least mad, and am not in the least disposed to invest that phantom with any external existence out of myself. I think it is a warning to me that I am ill; and I think I had better be bled.’
I got out of bed directly (said the German courier) and began to get on my clothes, begging him not to be alarmed, and telling him that I would go myself to the doctor. I was just ready, when we heard a loud knocking and ringing at the street door. My room being an attic43 at the back, and Mr. James’s being the second-floor room in the front, we went down to his room, and put up the window, to see what was the matter.
‘Is that Mr. James?’ said a man below, falling back to the opposite side of the way to look up.
‘It is,’ said Mr. James, ‘and you are my brother’s man, Robert.’
‘Yes, Sir. I am sorry to say, Sir, that Mr. John is ill. He is very bad, Sir. It is even feared that he may be lying at the point of death. He wants to see you, Sir. I have a chaise here. Pray come to him. Pray lose no time.’
Mr. James and I looked at one another. ‘Wilhelm,’ said he, ‘this is strange. I wish you to come with me!’ I helped him to dress, partly there and partly in the chaise; and no grass grew under the horses’ iron shoes between Poland Street and the Forest.
Now, mind! (said the German courier) I went with Mr. James into his brother’s room, and I saw and heard myself what follows.
His brother lay upon his bed, at the upper end of a long bed-chamber. His old housekeeper was there, and others were there: I think three others were there, if not four, and they had been with him since early in the afternoon. He was in white, like the figure—necessarily so, because he had his night-dress on. He looked like the figure—necessarily so, because he looked earnestly at his brother when he saw him come into the room.
But, when his brother reached the bed-side, he slowly raised himself in bed, and looking full upon him, said these words:
‘James, you have seen me before, to-night—and you know it!’
And so died!
I waited, when the German courier ceased, to hear something said of this strange story. The silence was unbroken. I looked round, and the five couriers were gone: so noiselessly that the ghostly mountain might have absorbed them into its eternal snows. By this time, I was by no means in a mood to sit alone in that awful scene, with the chill air coming solemnly upon me—or, if I may tell the truth, to sit alone anywhere. So I went back into the convent-parlour, and, finding the American gentleman still disposed to relate the biography of the Honourable Ananias Dodger, heard it all out.
该作者的其它作品
A Tale of Two Cities双城记
David Copperfield大卫·科波菲尔
Oliver Twist雾都孤儿
炉边的蟋蟀 The Cricket on the Hearth
荒凉的小屋 Bleak House
董贝父子 Dombey and Son
匹克威克外传 Pickwick Papers
该作者的其它作品
A Tale of Two Cities双城记
David Copperfield大卫·科波菲尔
Oliver Twist雾都孤儿
炉边的蟋蟀 The Cricket on the Hearth
荒凉的小屋 Bleak House
董贝父子 Dombey and Son
匹克威克外传 Pickwick Papers
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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dodger
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| n.躲避者；躲闪者；广告单 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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aged
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spacious
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situated
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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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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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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constraining
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| 强迫( constrain的现在分词 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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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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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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