St Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnères-deLuchon. It was the site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at this old-world place — I can hardly dignify2 it with the name of city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who had come specially3 from Toulouse to see St Bertrand’s Church, and had left two friends, who were less keen archaeologists than himself, in their hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him on the following morning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy them, and all three could then pursue their journey in the direction of Auch. But our Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed to himself to fill a note-book and to use several dozens of plates in the process of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderful church that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry out this design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize5 the verger of the church for the day. The verger or sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation6, inaccurate7 as it may be) was accordingly sent for by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge8; and when he came, the Englishman found him an unexpectedly interesting object of study. It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizened9 old man that the interest lay, for he was precisely10 like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curious furtive11 or rather hunted and oppressed air which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him; the muscles of his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched12 in a continual nervous contraction13, as if he were expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a man haunted by a fixed14 delusion15, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an unbearably16 henpecked husband. The probabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed17 to the last idea; but, still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor18 even than a termagant wife.
However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deep in his note-book and too busy with his camera to give more than an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he found him at no great distance, either huddling19 himself back against the wall or crouching20 in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became rather fidgety after a time. Mingled21 suspicions that he was keeping the old man from his déjeuner, that he was regarded as likely to make away with St Bertrand’s ivory crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font, began to torment22 him.
‘Won’t you go home?’ he said at last; ‘I’m quite well able to finish my notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at least two hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn’t it?’
‘Good heavens!’ said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to throw into a state of unaccountable terror, ‘such a thing cannot be thought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no; two hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I am not at all cold, with many thanks to monsieur.’
‘Very well, my little man,’ quoth Dennistoun to himself: ‘you have been warned, and you must take the consequences.’
Before the expiration23 of the two hours, the stalls, the enormous dilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop1 John de Mauléon, the remnants of glass and tapestry24, and the objects in the treasure-chamber25 had been well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping at Dennistoun’s heels, and every now and then whipping round as if he had been stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were, sometimes.
‘Once,’ Dennistoun said to me, ‘I could have sworn I heard a thin metallic26 voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted27 an inquiring glance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. “It is he — that is — it is no one; the door is locked,” was all he said, and we looked at each other for a full minute.’
Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was examining a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a series illustrating28 the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of the picture is well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below, which runs thus:
Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat strangulare.
(How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the Devil long sought to strangle.)
Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular remark of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the old man on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant29 in agony, his hands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but the question would not go away from him,‘Why should a daub of this kind affect anyone so strongly?’ He seemed to himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been puzzling him all the day: the man must be a monomaniac; but what was his monomania?
It was nearly five o’clock; the short day was drawing in, and the church began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises — the muffled30 footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all day — seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and the consequently quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent and insistent31.
The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry and impatience32. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and note-book were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned33 Dennistoun to the western door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pines and down to the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellers34 on those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun and the sacristan went out of the church.
On the doorstep they fell into conversation.
‘Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in the sacristy.’
‘Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in the town.’
‘No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to the Chapter, but it is now such a small place —’ Here came a strange pause of irresolution35, as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge36, he went on: ‘But if monsieur is amateur des vieux livres, I have at home something that might interest him. It is not a hundred yards.’
At once all Dennistoun’s cherished dreams of finding priceless manuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to die down again the next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin’s printing, about 1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so near Toulouse would not have been ransacked37 long ago by collectors? However, it would be foolish not to go; he would reproach himself for ever after if he refused. So they set off. On the way the curious irresolution and sudden determination of the sacristan recurred38 to Dennistoun, and he wondered in a shamefaced way whether he was being decoyed into some purlieu to be made away with as a supposed rich Englishman. He contrived39, therefore, to begin talking with his guide, and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact that he expected two friends to join him early the next morning. To his surprise, the announcement seemed to relieve the sacristan at once of some of the anxiety that oppressed him.
‘That is well,’ he said quite brightly —‘that is very well. Monsieur will travel in company with his friends: they will be always near him. It is a good thing to travel thus in company — sometimes.’
The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought and to bring with it a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.
They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than its neighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, the shield of Alberic de Mauléon, a collateral40 descendant, Dennistoun tells me, of Bishop John de Mauléon. This Alberic was a Canon of Comminges from 1680 to 1701. The upper windows of the mansion41 were boarded up, and the whole place bore, as does the rest of Comminges, the aspect of decaying age.
Arrived on his doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘perhaps, after all, monsieur has not the time?’
‘Not at all — lots of time — nothing to do till tomorrow. Let us see what it is you have got.’
The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face far younger than the sacristan’s, but bearing something of the same distressing42 look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much of fear for personal safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly the owner of the face was the sacristan’s daughter; and, but for the expression I have described, she was a handsome girl enough. She brightened up considerably43 on seeing her father accompanied by an able-bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father and daughter of which Dennistoun only caught these words, said by the sacristan: ‘He was laughing in the church,’ words which were answered only by a look of terror from the girl.
But in another minute they were in the sitting-room44 of the house, a small, high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows cast by a wood-fire that flickered45 on a great hearth46. Something of the character of an oratory47 was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which reached almost to the ceiling on one side; the figure was painted of the natural colours, the cross was black. Under this stood a chest of some age and solidity, and when a lamp had been brought, and chairs set, the sacristan went to this chest, and produced therefrom, with growing excitement and nervousness, as Dennistoun thought, a large book, wrapped in a white cloth, on which cloth a cross was rudely embroidered48 in red thread. Even before the wrapping had been removed, Dennistoun began to be interested by the size and shape of the volume. ‘Too large for a missal,’ he thought, ‘and not the shape of an antiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all.’ The next moment the book was open, and Dennistoun felt that he had at last lit upon something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound, perhaps, late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of Canon Alberic de Mauléon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every one of them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated49 manuscript. Such a collection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated50 with pictures, which could not be later than A.D. 700. Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there told him at once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise51. Could it possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias ‘On the Words of Our Lord’, which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth century at Nimes?1 In any case, his mind was made up; that book must return to Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole of his balance from the bank and stay at St. Bertrand till the money came. He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips were working.
1 We now know that these leaves did contain a considerable fragment of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.
‘If monsieur will turn on to the end,’ he said.
So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf; and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of much more recent date than anything he had seen yet, which puzzled him considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided52, with the unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered53 the Chapter library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On the first of the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn55 and instantly recognizable by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle56 and cloisters58 of St Bertrand’s. There were curious signs looking like planetary symbols, and a few Hebrew words in the corners; and in the north-west angle of the cloister57 was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:
Responsa 12(mi) Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne? Responsum est: Invenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo? Ita.
(Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. It was asked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall I become rich? Thou wilt59. Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt. Shall I die in my bed? Thou wilt.)
‘A good specimen60 of the treasure-hunter’s record — quite reminds one of Mr Minor–Canon Quatremain in Old St Paul’s,’ was Dennistoun’s comment, and he turned the leaf.
What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than he could have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing him. And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is a photograph of it (which I possess) which fully54 bears out that statement. The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end of the seventeenth century, representing, one would say at first sight, a Biblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented an interior) and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about them which the artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate to illustrations of the Bible. On the right was a king on his throne, the throne elevated on twelve steps, a canopy61 overhead, soldiers on either side — evidently King Solomon. He was bending forward with outstretched sceptre, in attitude of command; his face expressed horror and disgust, yet there was in it also the mark of imperious command and confident power. The left half of the picture was the strangest, however. The interest plainly centred there.
On the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers, surrounding a crouching figure which must be described in a moment. A fifth soldier lay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his eye-balls starting from his head. The four surrounding guards were looking at the King. In their faces, the sentiment of horror was intensified62; they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their implicit63 trust in their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the being that crouched64 in their midst.
I entirely65 despair of conveying by any words the impression which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollect66 once showing the photograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology — a person of, I was going to say, abnormally sane67 and unimaginative habits of mind. He absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, and he told me afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out his light before going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can at least indicate.
At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing68 out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously69 taloned71. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South America translated into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint conception of the terror inspired by the appalling72 effigy73. One remark is universally made by those to whom I have shown the picture: ‘It was drawn from the life.’
As soon as the first shock of his irresistible74 fright had subsided75, Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan’s hands were pressed upon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, was telling her beads76 feverishly77.
At last the question was asked: ‘Is this book for sale?’
There was the same hesitation78, the same plunge of determination that he had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer: ‘If monsieur pleases.’
‘How much do you ask for it?’
‘I will take two hundred and fifty francs.’
This was confounding. Even a collector’s conscience is sometimes stirred, and Dennistoun’s conscience was tenderer than a collector’s.
‘My good man!’ he said again and again, ‘your book is worth far more than two hundred and fifty francs. I assure you — far more.’
But the answer did not vary: ‘I will take two hundred and fifty francs — not more.’
There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money was paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright, he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.
‘I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?’ said the sacristan.
‘Oh, no, thanks! it isn’t a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly79, and there is a moon.’
The offer was pressed three or four times and refused as often.
‘Then, monsieur will summon me if — if he finds occasion; he will keep the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine his prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book under his arm.
Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do a little business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to ‘take somewhat’ from the foreigner whom her father had spared.
‘A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be good enough to accept it?’
Well, really, Dennistoun hadn’t much use for these things. What did mademoiselle want for it?
‘Nothing — nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it.’
The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably genuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse80 thanks, and submitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the door looking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.
Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone with his acquisition. The landlady81 had manifested a particular interest in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the salle à manger; some words to the effect that ‘Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping in the house’ had closed the conversation.
All this time a growing feeling of discomfort82 had been creeping over him — nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery. Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someone behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the wall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against the obvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I said, he was alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic’s treasures, in which every moment revealed something more charming.
‘Bless Canon Alberic!’ said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate83 habit of talking to himself. ‘I wonder where he is now? Dear me! I wish that landlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes one feel as if there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, did you say? I think perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is that the young woman insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose. Yes, probably. It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one’s neck — just too heavy. Most likely her father has been wearing it for years. I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away.’
He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when his attention was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by his left elbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through his brain with their own incalculable quickness.
A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, too black. A large spider? I trust to goodness not — no. Good God! a hand like the hand in that picture!
In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, dusky skin, covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarse black hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising from the ends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey, horny, and wrinkled.
He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutching at his heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, was rising to a standing posture84 behind his seat, its right hand crooked85 above his scalp. There was black and tattered86 drapery about it; the coarse hair covered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw87 was thin — what can I call it?— shallow, like a beast’s; teeth showed behind the black lips; there was no nose; the eyes, of a fiery88 yellow, against which the pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting89 hate and thirst to destroy life which shone there, were the most horrifying90 features in the whole vision. There was intelligence of a kind in them — intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that of a man.
The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were the intensest physical fear and the most profound mental loathing91. What did he do? What could he do? He has never been quite certain what words he said, but he knows that he spoke92, that he grasped blindly at the silver crucifix, that he was conscious of a movement towards him on the part of the demon93, and that he screamed with the voice of an animal in hideous70 pain.
Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in, saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passed out between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up with him that night, and his two friends were at St Bertrand by nine o’clock next morning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous, was almost himself by that time, and his story found credence94 with them, though not until they had seen the drawing and talked with the sacristan.
Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on some pretence95, and had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed96 by the landlady. He showed no surprise.
‘It is he — it is he! I have seen him myself,’ was his only comment; and to all questionings but one reply was vouchsafed97: ‘Deux fois je l’ai vu: mille fois je l’ai senti.’ He would tell them nothing of the provenance98 of the book, nor any details of his experiences. ‘I shall soon sleep, and my rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?’ he said.2
2 He died that summer; his daughter married, and settled at St Papoul. She never understood the circumstances of her father’s ‘obsession’.
We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de Mauléon suffered. At the back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which may be supposed to throw light on the situation:
Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio nocturno. Albericus de Mauléone delineavit. V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat.
Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede99 pro4 me miserrimo.
Primum uidi nocte 12(mi) Dec. 1694:
uidebo mox ultimum. Peccaui et passus
sum, plura adhuc passurus.
Dec. 29, 1701.3
3 i.e.,
The Dispute of Solomon with a demon of the night. Drawn by Alberic de Mauléon. Versicle. O Lord, make haste to help me. Psalm100. Whoso dwelleth xci.
Saint Bertrand, who puttest devils to flight, pray for me most unhappy.
I saw it first on the night of Dec. 12, 1694: soon I shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered, and have more to suffer yet.
Dec. 29, 1701.
The ‘Gallia Christiana’ gives the date of the Canon’s death as December 31, 1701, ‘in bed, of a sudden seizure’. Details of this kind are not common in the great work of the Sammarthani.
I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun’s view of the events I have narrated101. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus: ‘Some spirits there be that are created for vengeance102, and in their fury lay on sore strokes.’ On another occasion he said: ‘Isaiah was a very sensible man; doesn’t he say something about night monsters living in the ruins of Babylon? These things are rather beyond us at present.’
Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathized with it. We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic’s tomb. It is a great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a large wig103 and soutane, and an elaborate eulogy104 of his learning below. I saw Dennistoun talking for some time with the Vicar of St Bertrand’s, and as we drove away he said to me: ‘I hope it isn’t wrong: you know I am a Presbyterian — but I— I believe there will be “saying of Mass and singing of dirges” for Alberic de Mauléon’s rest.’ Then he added, with a touch of the Northern British in his tone, ‘I had no notion they came so dear.’
* * * * *
The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawing was photographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he left Comminges on the occasion of his first visit.
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bishop
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dignify
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specially
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pro
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monopolize
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appellation
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inaccurate
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rouge
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wizened
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precisely
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furtive
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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contraction
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fixed
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delusion
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unbearably
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pointed
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persecutor
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huddling
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crouching
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mingled
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torment
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expiration
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tapestry
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chamber
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metallic
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darted
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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taloned
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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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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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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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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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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provenance
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| n.出处；起源 | |
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intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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