It was, as far as I can ascertain1, in September of the year 1811 that a post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart of Lincolnshire. The little boy who was the only passenger in the chaise, and who jumped out as soon as it had stopped, looked about him with the keenest curiosity during the short interval2 that elapsed between the ringing of the bell and the opening of the hall door. He saw a tall, square, red-brick house, built in the reign3 of Anne; a stone-pillared porch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes4 and thick white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the front. There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazed5 galleries, supported by colonnades6, with the central block. These wings plainly contained the stables and offices of the house. Each was surmounted7 by an ornamental8 cupola with a gilded9 vane.
An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panes glow like so many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flat park studded with oaks and fringed with firs, which stood out against the sky. The clock in the church-tower, buried in trees on the edge of the park, only its golden weather-cock catching10 the light, was striking six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It was altogether a pleasant impression, though tinged11 with the sort of melancholy12 appropriate to an evening in early autumn, that was conveyed to the mind of the boy who was standing13 in the porch waiting for the door to open to him.
The post-chaise had brought him from Warwickshire, where, some six months before, he had been left an orphan14. Now, owing to the generous offer of his elderly cousin, Mr Abney, he had come to live at Aswarby. The offer was unexpected, because all who knew anything of Mr Abney looked upon him as a somewhat austere15 recluse16, into whose steady-going household the advent17 of a small boy would import a new and, it seemed, incongruous element. The truth is that very little was known of Mr Abney’s pursuits or temper. The Professor of Greek at Cambridge had been heard to say that no one knew more of the religious beliefs of the later pagans than did the owner of Aswarby. Certainly his library contained all the then available books bearing on the Mysteries, the Orphic poems, the worship of Mithras, and the Neo–Platonists. In the marble-paved hall stood a fine group of Mithras slaying18 a bull, which had been imported from the Levant at great expense by the owner. He had contributed a description of it to the Gentleman’s Magazine, and he had written a remarkable19 series of articles in the Critical Museum on the superstitions20 of the Romans of the Lower Empire. He was looked upon, in fine, as a man wrapped up in his books, and it was a matter of great surprise among his neighbours that he should ever have heard of his orphan cousin, Stephen Elliott, much more that he should have volunteered to make him an inmate21 of Aswarby Hall.
Whatever may have been expected by his neighbours, it is certain that Mr Abney — the tall, the thin, the austere — seemed inclined to give his young cousin a kindly22 reception. The moment the front-door was opened he darted23 out of his study, rubbing his hands with delight.
‘How are you, my boy?— how are you? How old are you?’ said he —‘that is, you are not too much tired, I hope, by your journey to eat your supper?’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Master Elliott; ‘I am pretty well.’
‘That’s a good lad,’ said Mr Abney. ‘And how old are you, my boy?’
It seemed a little odd that he should have asked the question twice in the first two minutes of their acquaintance.
‘I’m twelve years old next birthday, sir,’ said Stephen.
‘And when is your birthday, my dear boy? Eleventh of September, eh? That’s well — that’s very well. Nearly a year hence, isn’t it? I like — ha, ha!— I like to get these things down in my book. Sure it’s twelve? Certain?’
‘Yes, quite sure, sir.’
‘Well, well! Take him to Mrs Bunch’s room, Parkes, and let him have his tea — supper — whatever it is.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the staid Mr Parkes; and conducted Stephen to the lower regions.
Mrs Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen had as yet met at Aswarby. She made him completely at home; they were great friends in a quarter of an hour: and great friends they remained. Mrs Bunch had been born in the neighbourhood some fifty-five years before the date of Stephen’s arrival, and her residence at the Hall was of twenty years’ standing. Consequently, if anyone knew the ins and outs of the house and the district, Mrs Bunch knew them; and she was by no means disinclined to communicate her information.
Certainly there were plenty of things about the Hall and the Hall gardens which Stephen, who was of an adventurous25 and inquiring turn, was anxious to have explained to him. ‘Who built the temple at the end of the laurel walk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on the staircase, sitting at a table, with a skull26 under his hand?’ These and many similar points were cleared up by the resources of Mrs Bunch’s powerful intellect. There were others, however, of which the explanations furnished were less satisfactory.
One November evening Stephen was sitting by the fire in the housekeeper27’s room reflecting on his surroundings.
‘Is Mr Abney a good man, and will he go to heaven?’ he suddenly asked, with the peculiar28 confidence which children possess in the ability of their elders to settle these questions, the decision of which is believed to be reserved for other tribunals.
‘Good?— bless the child!’ said Mrs Bunch. ‘Master’s as kind a soul as ever I see! Didn’t I never tell you of the little boy as he took in out of the street, as you may say, this seven years back? and the little girl, two years after I first come here?’
‘No. Do tell me all about them, Mrs Bunch — now, this minute!’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bunch, ‘the little girl I don’t seem to recollect29 so much about. I know master brought her back with him from his walk one day, and give orders to Mrs Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as she should be took every care with. And the pore child hadn’t no one belonging to her — she telled me so her own self — and here she lived with us a matter of three weeks it might be; and then, whether she were somethink of a gipsy in her blood or what not, but one morning she out of her bed afore any of us had opened a eye, and neither track nor yet trace of her have I set eyes on since. Master was wonderful put about, and had all the ponds dragged; but it’s my belief she was had away by them gipsies, for there was singing round the house for as much as an hour the night she went, and Parkes, he declare as he heard them a-calling in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear! a hodd child she was, so silent in her ways and all, but I was wonderful taken up with her, so domesticated32 she was — surprising.’
‘And what about the little boy?’ said Stephen.
‘Ah, that pore boy!’ sighed Mrs Bunch. ‘He were a foreigner — Jevanny he called hisself — and he come a-tweaking his ‘urdy-gurdy round and about the drive one winter day, and master ‘ad him in that minute, and ast all about where he came from, and how old he was, and how he made his way, and where was his relatives, and all as kind as heart could wish. But it went the same way with him. They’re a hunruly lot, them foreign nations, I do suppose, and he was off one fine morning just the same as the girl. Why he went and what he done was our question for as much as a year after; for he never took his ‘urdy-gurdy, and there it lays on the shelf.’
The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen in miscellaneous cross-examination of Mrs Bunch and in efforts to extract a tune33 from the hurdy-gurdy.
That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the top of the house, in which his bedroom was situated34, there was an old disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed, and, since the muslin curtains which used to hang there had long been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed35 to the wall on the right hand, with its head towards the window.
On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself, as he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shining through the window, and he was gazing at a figure which lay in the bath.
His description of what he saw reminds me of what I once beheld36 myself in the famous vaults37 of St Michan’s Church in Dublin, which possesses the horrid38 property of preserving corpses39 from decay for centuries. A figure inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour, enveloped40 in a shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked41 into a faint and dreadful smile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of the heart.
As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issue from its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sight forced Stephen backwards42 and he awoke to the fact that he was indeed standing on the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of the moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among boys of his age, he went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the figure of his dreams were really there. It was not, and he went back to bed.
Mrs Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and went so far as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom. Mr Abney, moreover, to whom he confided43 his experiences at breakfast, was greatly interested and made notes of the matter in what he called ‘his book’.
The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequently reminded his cousin, adding that this had been always considered by the ancients to be a critical time for the young: that Stephen would do well to take care of himself, and to shut his bedroom window at night; and that Censorinus had some valuable remarks on the subject. Two incidents that occurred about this time made an impression upon Stephen’s mind.
The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that he had passed — though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had.
The following evening Mrs Bunch was occupying herself in mending his nightgown.
‘Gracious me, Master Stephen!’ she broke forth44 rather irritably45, ‘how do you manage to tear your nightdress all to flinders this way? Look here, sir, what trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darn and mend after you!’
There was indeed a most destructive and apparently46 wanton series of slits47 or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly48 require a skilful49 needle to make good. They were confined to the left side of the chest — long, parallel slits about six inches in length, some of them not quite piercing the texture50 of the linen51. Stephen could only express his entire ignorance of their origin: he was sure they were not there the night before.
‘But,’ he said, ‘Mrs Bunch, they are just the same as the scratches on the outside of my bedroom door: and I’m sure I never had anything to do with making them.’
Mrs Bunch gazed at him open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle, departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs. In a few minutes she came down.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘Master Stephen, it’s a funny thing to me how them marks and scratches can ‘a’ come there — too high up for any cat or dog to ‘ave made ’em, much less a rat: for all the world like a Chinaman’s finger-nails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of when we was girls together. I wouldn’t say nothing to master, not if I was you, Master Stephen, my dear; and just turn the key of the door when you go to your bed.’
‘I always do, Mrs Bunch, as soon as I’ve said my prayers.’
‘Ah, that’s a good child: always say your prayers, and then no one can’t hurt you.’
Herewith Mrs Bunch addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown, with intervals52 of meditation53, until bed-time. This was on a Friday night in March, 1812.
On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs Bunch was augmented54 by the sudden arrival of Mr Parkes, the butler, who as a rule kept himself rather to himself in his own pantry. He did not see that Stephen was there: he was, moreover, flustered55 and less slow of speech than was his wont56.
‘Master may get up his own wine, if he likes, of an evening,’ was his first remark. ‘Either I do it in the daytime or not at all, Mrs Bunch. I don’t know what it may be: very like it’s the rats, or the wind got into the cellars; but I’m not so young as I was, and I can’t go through with it as I have done.’
‘Well, Mr Parkes, you know it is a surprising place for the rats, is the Hall.’
‘I’m not denying that, Mrs Bunch; and, to be sure, many a time I’ve heard the tale from the men in the shipyards about the rat that could speak. I never laid no confidence in that before; but tonight, if I’d demeaned myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin24, I could pretty much have heard what they was saying.’
‘Oh, there, Mr Parkes, I’ve no patience with your fancies! Rats talking in the wine-cellar indeed!’
‘Well, Mrs Bunch, I’ve no wish to argue with you: all I say is, if you choose to go to the far bin, and lay your ear to the door, you may prove my words this minute.’
‘What nonsense you do talk, Mr Parkes — not fit for children to listen to! Why, you’ll be frightening Master Stephen there out of his wits.’
‘What! Master Stephen?’ said Parkes, awaking to the consciousness of the boy’s presence. ‘Master Stephen knows well enough when I’m a-playing a joke with you, Mrs Bunch.’
In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that Mr Parkes had in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, not altogether pleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions were unsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed57 account of his experiences in the wine-cellar.
* * * * *
We have now arrived at March 24, 1812. It was a day of curious experiences for Stephen: a windy, noisy day, which filled the house and the gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fence of the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping58 past him on the wind, borne on resistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contact with the living world of which they had formed a part. After luncheon59 that day Mr Abney said:
‘Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me tonight as late as eleven o’clock in my study? I shall be busy until that time, and I wish to show you something connected with your future life which it is most important that you should know. You are not to mention this matter to Mrs Bunch nor to anyone else in the house; and you had better go to your room at the usual time.’
Here was a new excitement added to life: Stephen eagerly grasped at the opportunity of sitting up till eleven o’clock. He looked in at the library door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier, which he had often noticed in the corner of the room, moved out before the fire; an old silver-gilt cup stood on the table, filled with red wine, and some written sheets of paper lay near it. Mr Abney was sprinkling some incense60 on the brazier from a round silver box as Stephen passed, but did not seem to notice his step.
The wind had fallen, and there was a still night and a full moon. At about ten o’clock Stephen was standing at the open window of his bedroom, looking out over the country. Still as the night was, the mysterious population of the distant moon-lit woods was not yet lulled61 to rest. From time to time strange cries as of lost and despairing wanderers sounded from across the mere62. They might be the notes of owls63 or water-birds, yet they did not quite resemble either sound. Were not they coming nearer? Now they sounded from the nearer side of the water, and in a few moments they seemed to be floating about among the shrubberies. Then they ceased; but just as Stephen was thinking of shutting the window and resuming his reading of Robinson Crusoe, he caught sight of two figures standing on the gravelled terrace that ran along the garden side of the Hall — the figures of a boy and girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something in the form of the girl recalled irresistibly65 his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired him with more acute fear.
Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over her heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged31 clothing, raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and of unappeasable hunger and longing30. The moon shone upon his almost transparent66 hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully long and that the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms thus raised, he disclosed a terrifying spectacle. On the left side of his chest there opened a black and gaping67 rent; and there fell upon Stephen’s brain, rather than upon his ear, the impression of one of those hungry and desolate68 cries that he had heard resounding69 over the woods of Aswarby all that evening. In another moment this dreadful pair had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the dry gravel64, and he saw them no more.
Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined70 to take his candle and go down to Mr Abney’s study, for the hour appointed for their meeting was near at hand. The study or library opened out of the front-hall on one side, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not take long in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy. It was not locked, he felt sure, for the key was on the outside of the door as usual. His repeated knocks produced no answer. Mr Abney was engaged: he was speaking. What! why did he try to cry out? and why was the cry choked in his throat? Had he, too, seen the mysterious children? But now everything was quiet, and the door yielded to Stephen’s terrified and frantic71 pushing.
* * * * *
On the table in Mr Abney’s study certain papers were found which explained the situation to Stephen Elliott when he was of an age to understand them. The most important sentences were as follows:
‘It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients — of whose wisdom in these matters I have had such experience as induces me to place confidence in their assertions — that by enacting72 certain processes, which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion73, a very remarkable enlightenment of the spiritual faculties74 in man may be attained75: that, for example, by absorbing the personalities76 of a certain number of his fellow-creatures, an individual may gain a complete ascendancy77 over those orders of spiritual beings which control the elemental forces of our universe.
‘It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in the air, to become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency of the soul of a boy whom, to use the libellous phrase employed by the author of the Clementine Recognitions, he had “murdered”. I find it set down, moreover, with considerable detail in the writings of Hermes Trismegistus, that similar happy results may be produced by the absorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings below the age of twenty-one years. To the testing of the truth of this receipt I have devoted78 the greater part of the last twenty years, selecting as the corpora vilia of my experiment such persons as could conveniently be removed without occasioning a sensible gap in society. The first step I effected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, a girl of gipsy extraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, by the removal of a wandering Italian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on the night of March 23, 1805. The final “victim”— to employ a word repugnant in the highest degree to my feelings — must be my cousin, Stephen Elliott. His day must be this March 24, 1812.
‘The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove the heart from the living subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to mingle79 them with about a pint80 of some red wine, preferably port. The remains81 of the first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal82: a disused bathroom or wine-cellar will be found convenient for such a purpose. Some annoyance83 may be experienced from the psychic84 portion of the subjects, which popular language dignifies85 with the name of ghosts. But the man of philosophic86 temperament87 — to whom alone the experiment is appropriate — will be little prone88 to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beings to wreak89 their vengeance90 on him. I contemplate91 with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated92 existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer on me; not only placing me beyond the reach of human justice (so-called), but eliminating to a great extent the prospect93 of death itself.’
* * * * *
Mr Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stamped with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his left side was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly94 clean. A savage95 wild-cat might have inflicted96 the injuries. The window of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. But Stephen Elliott’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very different conclusion.
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1
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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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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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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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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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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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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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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dignifies
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| 使显得威严( dignify的第三人称单数 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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