For several days the count remained assiduously beside his wife, showing her attentions to which self-interest imparted a sort of tenderness. The countess saw, however, that she alone was the object of these attentions. The hatred1 of the father for his son showed itself in every detail; he abstained2 from looking at him or touching3 him; he would rise abruptly5 and leave the room if the child cried; in short, he seemed to endure it living only through the hope of seeing it die. But even this self-restraint was galling6 to the count. The day on which he saw that the mother’s intelligent eye perceived, without fully8 comprehending, the danger that threatened her son, he announced his departure on the morning after the mass for her churching was solemnized, under pretext9 of rallying his forces to the support of the king.
Such were the circumstances which preceded and accompanied the birth of Etienne d’Herouville. If the count had no other reason for wishing the death of this disowned son poor Etienne would still have been the object of his aversion. In his eyes the misfortune of a rickety, sickly constitution was a flagrant offence to his self-love as a father. If he execrated10 handsome men, he also detested11 weakly ones, in whom mental capacity took the place of physical strength. To please him a man should be ugly in face, tall, robust12, and ignorant. Etienne, whose debility would bow him, as it were, to the sedentary occupations of knowledge, was certain to find in his father a natural enemy. His struggle with that colossus began therefore from his cradle, and his sole support against that cruel antagonist13 was the heart of his mother whose love increased, by a tender law of nature, as perils15 threatened him.
Buried in solitude16 after the abrupt4 departure of the count, Jeanne de Saint-Savin owed to her child the only semblance17 of happiness that consoled her life. She loved him as women love the child of an illicit18 love; obliged to suckle him, the duty never wearied her. She would not let her women care for the child. She dressed and undressed him, finding fresh pleasures in every little care that he required. Happiness glowed upon her face as she obeyed the needs of the little being. As Etienne had come into the world prematurely19, no clothes were ready for him, and those that were needed she made herself,—with what perfection, you know, ye mothers, who have worked in silence for a treasured child. The days had never hours long enough for these manifold occupations and the minute precautions of the nursing mother; those days fled by, laden20 with her secret content.
The counsel of the bonesetter still continued in the countess’s mind. She feared for her child, and would gladly not have slept in order to be sure that no one approached him during her sleep; and she kept his cradle beside her bed. In the absence of the count she ventured to send for the bonesetter, whose name she had caught and remembered. To her, Beauvouloir was a being to whom she owed an untold21 debt of gratitude22; and she desired of all things to question him on certain points relating to her son. If an attempt were made to poison him, how should she foil it? In what way ought she to manage his frail23 constitution? Was it well to nurse him long? If she died, would Beauvouloir undertake the care of the poor child’s health?
To the questions of the countess, Beauvouloir, deeply touched, replied that he feared, as much as she did, an attempt to poison Etienne; but there was, he assured her, no danger as long as she nursed the child; and in future, when obliged to feed him, she must taste the food herself.
“If Madame la comtesse,” he said, “feels anything strange upon her tongue, a prickly, bitter, strong salt taste, reject the food. Let the child’s clothes be washed under her own eye and let her keep the key of the chest which contains them. Should anything happen to the child send instantly to me.”
These instructions sank deep into Jeanne’s heart. She begged Beauvouloir to regard her always as one who would do him any service in her power. On that the poor man told her that she held his happiness in her hands.
Then he related briefly24 how the Comte d’Herouville had in his youth loved a courtesan, known by the name of La Belle25 Romaine, who had formerly26 belonged to the Cardinal27 of Lorraine. Abandoned by the count before very long, she had died miserably28, leaving a child named Gertrude, who had been rescued by the Sisters of the Convent of Poor Clares, the Mother Superior of which was Mademoiselle de Saint-Savin, the countess’s aunt. Having been called to treat Gertrude for an illness, he, Beauvouloir, had fallen in love with her, and if Madame la comtesse, he said, would undertake the affair, she should not only more than repay him for what she thought he had done for her, but she would make him grateful to her for life. The count might, sooner or later, be brought to take an interest in so beautiful a daughter, and might protect her indirectly29 by making him his physician.
The countess, compassionate31 to all true love, promised to do her best, and pursued the affair so warmly that at the birth of her second son she did obtain from her husband a “dot” for the young girl, who was married soon after to Beauvouloir. The “dot” and his savings33 enabled the bonesetter to buy a charming estate called Forcalier near the castle of Herouville, and to give his life the dignity of a student and man of learning.
Comforted by the kind physician, the countess felt that to her were given joys unknown to other mothers. Mother and child, two feeble beings, seemed united in one thought, they understood each other long before language could interpret between them. From the moment when Etienne first turned his eyes on things about him with the stupid eagerness of a little child, his glance had rested on the sombre hangings of the castle walls. When his young ear strove to listen and to distinguish sounds, he heard the monotonous34 ebb35 and flow of the sea upon the rocks, as regular as the swinging of a pendulum36. Thus places, sounds, and things, all that strikes the senses and forms the character, inclined him to melancholy37. His mother, too, was doomed39 to live and die in the clouds of melancholy; and to him, from his birth up, she was the only being that existed on the earth, and filled for him the desert. Like all frail children, Etienne’s attitude was passive, and in that he resembled his mother. The delicacy40 of his organs was such that a sudden noise, or the presence of a boisterous41 person gave him a sort of fever. He was like those little insects for whom God seems to temper the violence of the wind and the heat of the sun; incapable42, like them, of struggling against the slightest obstacle, he yielded, as they do, without resistance or complaint, to everything that seemed to him aggressive. This angelic patience inspired in the mother a sentiment which took away all fatigue43 from the incessant44 care required by so frail a being.
Soon his precocious45 perception of suffering revealed to him the power that he had upon his mother; often he tried to divert her with caresses46 and make her smile at his play; and never did his coaxing47 hands, his stammered48 words, his intelligent laugh fail to rouse her from her reverie. If he was tired, his care for her kept him from complaining.
“Poor, dear, little sensitive!” cried the countess as he fell asleep tired with some play which had driven the sad memories from her mind, “how can you live in this world? who will understand you? who will love you? who will see the treasures hidden in that frail body? No one! Like me, you are alone on earth.”
She sighed and wept. The graceful49 pose of her child lying on her knees made her smile sadly. She looked at him long, tasting one of those pleasures which are a secret between mothers and God. Etienne’s weakness was so great that until he was a year and a half old she had never dared to take him out of doors; but now the faint color which tinted50 the whiteness of his skin like the petals51 of a wild rose, showed that life and health were already there.
One morning the countess, giving herself up to the glad joy of all mothers when their first child walks for the first time, was playing with Etienne on the floor when suddenly she heard the heavy step of a man upon the boards. Hardly had she risen with a movement of involuntary surprise, when the count stood before her. She gave a cry, but endeavored instantly to undo52 that involuntary wrong by going up to him and offering her forehead for a kiss.
“Why not have sent me notice of your return?” she said.
“My reception would have been more cordial, but less frank,” he answered bitterly.
Suddenly he saw the child. The evident health in which he found it wrung53 from him a gesture of surprise mingled54 with fury. But he repressed his anger, and began to smile.
“I bring good news,” he said. “I have received the governorship of Champagne55 and the king’s promise to be made duke and peer. Moreover, we have inherited a princely fortune from your cousin; that cursed Huguenot, Georges de Chaverny is killed.”
The countess turned pale and dropped into a chair. She saw the secret of the devilish smile on her husband’s face.
“Monsieur,” she said in a voice of emotion, “you know well that I loved my cousin Chaverny. You will answer to God for the pain you inflict56 upon me.”
At these words the eye of the count glittered; his lips trembled, but he could not utter a word, so furious was he; he flung his dagger57 on the table with such violence that the metal resounded58 like a thunder-clap.
“Listen to me,” he said in his strongest voice, “and remember my words. I will never see or hear the little monster you hold in your arms. He is your child, and not mine; there is nothing of me in him. Hide him, I say, hide him from my sight, or—”
“Just God!” cried the countess, “protect us!”
“Silence!” said her husband. “If you do not wish me to throttle59 him, see that I never find him in my way.”
“Then,” said the countess gathering60 strength to oppose her tyrant61, “swear to me that if you never meet him you will do nothing to injure him. Can I trust your word as a nobleman for that?”
“What does all this mean?” said the count.
“If you will not swear, kill us now together!” cried the countess, falling on her knees and pressing her child to her breast.
“Rise, madame. I give you my word as a man of honor to do nothing against the life of that cursed child, provided he lives among the rocks between the sea and the house, and never crosses my path. I will give him that fisherman’s house down there for his dwelling62, and the beach for a domain63. But woe64 betide him if I ever find him beyond those limits.”
The countess began to weep.
“Look at him!” she said. “He is your son.”
“Madame!”
At that word, the frightened mother carried away the child whose heart was beating like that of a bird caught in its nest. Whether innocence65 has a power which the hardest men cannot escape, or whether the count regretted his violence and feared to plunge66 into despair a creature so necessary to his pleasures and also to his worldly prosperity, it is certain that his voice was as soft as it was possible to make it when his wife returned.
“Jeanne, my dear,” he said, “do not be angry with me; give me your hand. One never knows how to trust you women. I return, bringing you fresh honors and more wealth, and yet, tete-Dieu! you receive me like an enemy. My new government will oblige me to make long absences until I can exchange it for that of Lower Normandy; and I request, my dear, that you will show me a pleasant face while I am here.”
The countess understood the meaning of the words, the feigned67 softness of which could no longer deceive her.
“I know my duty,” she replied in a tone of sadness which the count mistook for tenderness.
The timid creature had too much purity and dignity to try, as some clever women would have done, to govern the count by putting calculation into her conduct,—a sort of prostitution by which noble souls feel degraded. Silently she turned away, to console her despair with Etienne.
“Tete-Dieu! shall I never be loved?” cried the count, seeing the tears in his wife’s eyes as she left the room.
Thus incessantly68 threatened, motherhood became to the poor woman a passion which assumed the intensity69 that women put into their guilty affections. By a species of occult communion, the secret of which is in the hearts of mothers, the child comprehended the peril14 that threatened him and dreaded70 the approach of his father. The terrible scene of which he had been a witness remained in his memory, and affected72 him like an illness; at the sound of the count’s step his features contracted, and the mother’s ear was not so alert as the instinct of her child. As he grew older this faculty73 created by terror increased, until, like the savages74 of America, Etienne could distinguish his father’s step and hear his voice at immense distances. To witness the terror with which the count inspired her thus shared by her child made Etienne the more precious to the countess; their union was so strengthened that like two flowers on one twig76 they bent77 to the same wind, and lifted their heads with the same hope. In short, they were one life.
When the count again left home Jeanne was pregnant. This time she gave birth in due season, and not without great suffering, to a stout78 boy, who soon became the living image of his father, so that the hatred of the count for his first-born was increased by this event. To save her cherished child the countess agreed to all the plans which her husband formed for the happiness and wealth of his second son, whom he named Maximilien. Etienne was to be made a priest, in order to leave the property and titles of the house of Herouville to his younger brother. At that cost the poor mother believed she ensured the safety of her hated child.
No two brothers were ever more unlike than Etienne and Maximilien. The younger’s taste was all for noise, violent exercises, and war, and the count felt for him the same excessive love that his wife felt for Etienne. By a tacit compact each parent took charge of the child of their heart. The duke (for about this time Henri IV. rewarded the services of the Seigneur d’Herouville with a dukedom), not wishing, he said, to fatigue his wife, gave the nursing of the youngest boy to a stout peasant-woman chosen by Beauvouloir, and announced his determination to bring up the child in his own manner. He gave him, as time went on, a holy horror of books and study; taught him the mechanical knowledge required by a military career, made him a good rider, a good shot with an arquebuse, and skilful79 with his dagger. When the boy was big enough he took him to hunt, and let him acquire the savage75 language, the rough manners, the bodily strength, and the vivacity80 of look and speech which to his mind were the attributes of an accomplished81 man. The boy became, by the time he was twelve years old, a lion-cub ill-trained, as formidable in his way as the father himself, having free rein82 to tyrannize over every one, and using the privilege.
Etienne lived in the little house, or lodge83, near the sea, given to him by his father, and fitted up by the duchess with some of the comforts and enjoyments84 to which he had a right. She herself spent the greater part of her time there. Together the mother and child roamed over the rocks and the shore, keeping strictly85 within the limits of the boy’s domain of beach and shells, of moss86 and pebbles87. The boy’s terror of his father was so great that, like the Lapp, who lives and dies in his snow, he made a native land of his rocks and his cottage, and was terrified and uneasy if he passed his frontier.
The duchess, knowing her child was not fitted to find happiness except in some humble88 and retired89 sphere, did not regret the fate that was thus imposed upon him; she used this enforced vocation90 to prepare him for a noble life of study and science, and she brought to the chateau91 Pierre de Sebonde as tutor to the future priest. Nevertheless, in spite of the tonsure92 imposed by the will of the father, she was determined93 that Etienne’s education should not be wholly ecclesiastical, and took pains to secularize94 it. She employed Beauvouloir to teach him the mysteries of natural science; she herself superintended his studies, regulating them according to her child’s strength, and enlivening them by teaching him Italian, and revealing to him little by little the poetic95 beauties of that language. While the duke rode off with Maximilien to the forest and the wild-boars at the risk of his life, Jeanne wandered with Etienne in the milky96 way of Petrarch’s sonnets97, or the mighty98 labyrinth99 of the Divina Comedia. Nature had endowed the youth, in compensation for his infirmities, with so melodious100 a voice that to hear him sing was a constant delight; his mother taught him music, and their tender, melancholy songs, accompanied by a mandolin, were the favorite recreation promised as a reward for some more arduous101 study required by the Abbe de Sebonde. Etienne listened to his mother with a passionate32 admiration102 she had never seen except in the eyes of Georges de Chaverny. The first time the poor woman found a memory of her girlhood in the long, slow look of her child, she covered him with kisses; and she blushed when Etienne asked her why she seemed to love him better at that moment than ever before. She answered that every hour made him dearer to her. She found in the training of his soul, and in the culture of his mind, pleasures akin30 to those she had tasted in feeding him with her milk. She put all her pride and self-love into making him superior to herself, and not in ruling him. Hearts without tenderness covet103 dominion104, but a true love treasures abnegation, that virtue105 of strength. When Etienne could not at first comprehend a demonstration106, a theme, a theory, the poor mother, who was present at the lessons, seemed to long to infuse knowledge, as formerly she had given nourishment107 at the child’s least cry. And then, what joy suffused108 her eyes when Etienne’s mind seized the true sense of things and appropriated it. She proved, as Pierre de Sebonde said, that a mother is a dual109 being whose sensations cover two existences.
“Ah, if some woman as loving as I could infuse into him hereafter the life of love, how happy he might be!” she often thought.
But the fatal interests which consigned110 Etienne to the priesthood returned to her mind, and she kissed the hair that the scissors of the Church were to shear111, leaving her tears upon them. Still, in spite of the unjust compact she had made with the duke, she could not see Etienne in her visions of the future as priest or cardinal; and the absolute forgetfulness of the father as to his first-born, enabled her to postpone112 the moment of putting him into Holy Orders.
“There is time enough,” she said to herself.
The day came when all her cares, inspired by a sentiment which seemed to enter into the flesh of her son and give it life, had their reward. Beauvouloir—that blessed man whose teachings had proved so precious to the child, and whose anxious glance at that frail idol113 had so often made the duchess tremble—declared that Etienne was now in a condition to live long years, provided no violent emotion came to convulse his delicate body. Etienne was then sixteen.
At that age he was just five feet, a height he never passed. His skin, as transparent114 and satiny as that of a little girl, showed a delicate tracery of blue veins115; its whiteness was that of porcelain116. His eyes, which were light blue and ineffably117 gentle, implored118 the protection of men and women; that beseeching119 look fascinated before the melody of his voice was heard to complete the charm. True modesty120 was in every feature. Long chestnut121 hair, smooth and very fine, was parted in the middle of his head into two bandeaus which curled at their extremity122. His pale and hollow cheeks, his pure brow, lined with a few furrows123, expressed a condition of suffering which was painful to witness. His mouth, always gracious, and adorned124 with very white teeth, wore the sort of fixed125 smile which we often see on the lips of the dying. His hands, white as those of a woman, were remarkably126 handsome. The habit of meditation127 had taught him to droop128 his head like a fragile flower, and the attitude was in keeping with his person; it was like the last grace that a great artist touches into a portrait to bring out its latent thought. Etienne’s head was that of a delicate girl placed upon the weakly and deformed129 body of a man.
Poesy, the rich meditations130 of which make us roam like botanists131 through the vast fields of thought, the fruitful comparison of human ideas, the enthusiasm given by a clear conception of works of genius, came to be the inexhaustible and tranquil132 joys of the young man’s solitary133 and dreamy life. Flowers, ravishing creatures whose destiny resembled his own, were his loves. Happy to see in her son the innocent passions which took the place of the rough contact with social life which he never could have borne, the duchess encouraged Etienne’s tastes; she brought him Spanish “romanceros,” Italian “motets,” books, sonnets, poems. The library of Cardinal d’Herouville came into Etienne’s possession, the use of which filled his life. These readings, which his fragile health forbade him to continue for many hours at a time, and his rambles134 among the rocks of his domain, were interspersed135 with naive136 meditations which kept him motionless for hours together before his smiling flowers—those sweet companions!—or crouching137 in a niche138 of the rocks before some species of algae139, a moss, a seaweed, studying their mysteries; seeking perhaps a rhythm in their fragrant140 depths, like a bee its honey. He often admired, without purpose, and without explaining his pleasure to himself, the slender lines on the petals of dark flowers, the delicacy of their rich tunics141 of gold or purple, green or azure142, the fringes, so profusely143 beautiful, of their calyxes or leaves, their ivory or velvet144 textures145. Later, a thinker as well as a poet, he would detect the reason of these innumerable differences in a single nature, by discovering the indication of unknown faculties146; for from day to day he made progress in the interpretation147 of the Divine Word writing upon all things here below.
These constant and secret researches into matters occult gave to Etienne’s life the apparent somnolence148 of meditative149 genius. He would spend long days lying upon the shore, happy, a poet, all-unconscious of the fact. The sudden irruption of a gilded150 insect, the shimmering151 of the sun upon the ocean, the tremulous motion of the vast and limpid153 mirror of the waters, a shell, a crab154, all was event and pleasure to that ingenuous155 young soul. And then to see his mother coming towards him, to hear from afar the rustle156 of her gown, to await her, to kiss her, to talk to her, to listen to her gave him such keen emotions that often a slight delay, a trifling157 fear would throw him into a violent fever. In him there was nought158 but soul, and in order that the weak, debilitated159 body should not be destroyed by the keen emotions of that soul, Etienne needed silence, caresses, peace in the landscape, and the love of a woman. For the time being, his mother gave him the love and the caresses; flowers and books entranced his solitude; his little kingdom of sand and shells, algae and verdure seemed to him a universe, ever fresh and new.
Etienne imbibed160 all the benefits of this physical and absolutely innocent life, this mental and moral life so poetically161 extended. A child by form, a man in mind, he was equally angelic under either aspect. By his mother’s influence his studies had removed his emotions to the region of ideas. The action of his life took place, therefore, in the moral world, far from the social world which would either have killed him or made him suffer. He lived by his soul and by his intellect. Laying hold of human thought by reading, he rose to thoughts that stirred in matter; he felt the thoughts of the air, he read the thoughts on the skies. Early he mounted that ethereal summit where alone he found the delicate nourishment that his soul needed; intoxicating162 food! which predestined him to sorrow whenever to these accumulated treasures should be added the riches of a passion rising suddenly in his heart.
If, at times, Jeanne de Saint-Savin dreaded that coming storm, he consoled herself with a thought which the otherwise sad vocation of her son put into her mind,—for the poor mother found no remedy for his sorrows except some lesser163 sorrow.
“He will be a cardinal,” she thought; “he will live in the sentiment of Art, of which he will make himself the protector. He will love Art instead of loving a woman, and Art will not betray him.”
The pleasures of this tender motherhood were incessantly held in check by sad reflections, born of the strange position in which Etienne was placed. The brothers had passed the adolescent age without knowing each other, without so much as even suspecting their rival existence. The duchess had long hoped for an opportunity, during the absence of her husband, to bind164 the two brothers to each other in some solemn scene by which she might enfold them both in her love. This hope, long cherished, had now faded. Far from wishing to bring about an intercourse165 between the brothers, she feared an encounter between them, even more than between the father and son. Maximilien, who believed in evil only, might have feared that Etienne would some day claim his rights, and, so fearing, might have flung him into the sea with a stone around his neck. No son had ever less respect for a mother than he. As soon as he could reason he had seen the low esteem166 in which the duke held his wife. If the old man still retained some forms of decency167 in his manners to the duchess, Maximilien, unrestrained by his father, caused his mother many a grief.
Consequently, Bertrand was incessantly on the watch to prevent Maximilien from seeing Etienne, whose existence was carefully concealed168. All the attendants of the castle cordially hated the Marquis de Saint-Sever (the name and title borne by the younger brother), and those who knew of the existence of the elder looked upon him as an avenger169 whom God was holding in reserve.
Etienne’s future was therefore doubtful; he might even be persecuted170 by his own brother! The poor duchess had no relations to whom she could confide171 the life and interests of her cherished child. Would he not blame her when in his violet robes he longed to be a father as she had been a mother? These thoughts, and her melancholy life so full of secret sorrows were like a mortal illness kept at bay for a time by remedies. Her heart needed the wisest management, and those about her were cruelly inexpert in gentleness. What mother’s heart would not have been torn at the sight of her eldest172 son, a man of mind and soul in whom a noble genius made itself felt, deprived of his rights, while the younger, hard and brutal173, without talent, even military talent, was chosen to wear the ducal coronet and perpetuate174 the family? The house of Herouville was discarding its own glory. Incapable of anger the gentle Jeanne de Saint-Savin could only bless and weep, but often she raised her eyes to heaven, asking it to account for this singular doom38. Those eyes filled with tears when she thought that at her death her cherished child would be wholly orphaned175 and left exposed to the brutalities of a brother without faith or conscience.
Such emotions repressed, a first love unforgotten, so many sorrows ignored and hidden within her,—for she kept her keenest sufferings from her cherished child,—her joys embittered176, her griefs unrelieved, all these shocks had weakened the springs of life and were developing in her system a slow consumption which day by day was gathering greater force. A last blow hastened it. She tried to warn the duke as to the results of Maximilien’s education, and was repulsed177; she saw that she could give no remedy to the shocking seeds which were germinating178 in the soul of her second child. From this moment began a period of decline which soon became so visible as to bring about the appointment of Beauvouloir to the post of physician to the house of Herouville and the government of Normandy.
The former bonesetter came to live at the castle. In those days such posts belonged to learned men, who thus gained a living and the leisure necessary for a studious life and the accomplishment179 of scientific work. Beauvouloir had for some time desired the situation, because his knowledge and his fortune had won him numerous bitter enemies. In spite of the protection of a great family to whom he had done great services, he had recently been implicated180 in a criminal case, and the intervention181 of the Governor of Normandy, obtained by the duchess, had alone saved him from being brought to trial. The duke had no reason to repent182 this protection given to the old bonesetter. Beauvouloir saved the life of the Marquis de Saint-Sever in so dangerous an illness that any other physician would have failed in doing so. But the wounds of the duchess were too deep-seated and dated too far back to be cured, especially as they were constantly kept open in her home. When her sufferings warned this angel of many sorrows that her end was approaching, death was hastened by the gloomy apprehensions183 that filled her mind as to the future.
“What will become of my poor child without me?” was a thought renewed every hour like a bitter tide.
Obliged at last to keep her bed, the duchess failed rapidly, for she was then unable to see her son, forbidden as he was by her compact with his father to approach the house. The sorrow of the youth was equal to that of the mother. Inspired by the genius of repressed feeling, Etienne created a mystical language by which to communicate with his mother. He studied the resources of his voice like an opera-singer, and often he came beneath her windows to let her hear his melodiously184 melancholy voice, when Beauvouloir by a sign informed him she was alone. Formerly, as a babe, he had consoled his mother with his smiles, now, become a poet, he caressed185 her with his melodies.
“Those songs give me life,” said the duchess to Beauvouloir, inhaling186 the air that Etienne’s voice made living.
At length the day came when the poor son’s mourning began. Already he had felt the mysterious correspondences between his emotions and the movements of the ocean. The divining of the thoughts of matter, a power with which his occult knowledge had invested him, made this phenomenon more eloquent187 to him than to all others. During the fatal night when he was taken to see his mother for the last time, the ocean was agitated188 by movements that to him were full of meaning. The heaving waters seemed to show that the sea was working intestinally; the swelling189 waves rolled in and spent themselves with lugubrious190 noises like the howling of a dog in distress191. Unconsciously, Etienne found himself saying:—
“What does it want of me? It quivers and moans like a living creature. My mother has often told me that the ocean was in horrible convulsions on the night when I was born. Something is about to happen to me.”
This thought kept him standing192 before his window with his eyes sometimes on his mother’s windows where a faint light trembled, sometimes on the ocean which continued to moan. Suddenly Beauvouloir knocked on the door of his room, opened it, and showed on his saddened face the reflection of some new misfortune.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “Madame la duchesse is in so sad a state that she wishes to see you. All precautions are taken that no harm shall happen to you in the castle; but we must be prudent193; to see her you will have to pass through the room of Monseigneur the duke, the room where you were born.”
These words brought the tears to Etienne’s eyes, and he said:—
“The Ocean did speak to me!”
Mechanically he allowed himself to be led towards the door of the tower which gave entrance to the private way leading to the duchess’s room. Bertrand was awaiting him, lantern in hand. Etienne reached the library of the Cardinal d’Herouville, and there he was made to wait with Beauvouloir while Bertrand went on to unlock the other doors, and make sure that the hated son could pass through his father’s house without danger. The duke did not awake. Advancing with light steps, Etienne and Beauvouloir heard in that immense chateau no sound but the plaintive194 groans195 of the dying woman. Thus the very circumstances attending the birth of Etienne were renewed at the death of his mother. The same tempest, same agony, same dread71 of awaking the pitiless giant, who, on this occasion at least, slept soundly. Bertrand, as a further precaution, took Etienne in his arms and carried him through the duke’s room, intending to give some excuse as to the state of the duchess if the duke awoke and detected him. Etienne’s heart was horribly wrung by the same fears which filled the minds of these faithful servants; but this emotion prepared him, in a measure, for the sight that met his eyes in that signorial room, which he had never re-entered since the fatal day when, as a child, the paternal196 curse had driven him from it.
On the great bed, where happiness never came, he looked for his beloved, and scarcely found her, so emaciated197 was she. White as her own laces, with scarcely a breath left, she gathered up all her strength to clasp Etienne’s hand, and to give him her whole soul, as heretofore, in a look. Chaverny had bequeathed to her all his life in a last farewell. Beauvouloir and Bertrand, the mother and the sleeping duke were all once more assembled. Same place, same scene, same actors! but this was funereal198 grief in place of the joys of motherhood; the night of death instead of the dawn of life. At that moment the storm, threatened by the melancholy moaning of the sea since sundown, suddenly burst forth199.
“Dear flower of my life!” said the mother, kissing her son. “You were taken from my bosom200 in the midst of a tempest, and in a tempest I am taken from you. Between these storms all life has been stormy to me, except the hours I have spent with you. This is my last joy, mingled with my last pangs201. Adieu, my only love! adieu, dear image of two souls that will soon be reunited! Adieu, my only joy—pure joy! adieu, my own beloved!”
“Let me follow thee!” cried Etienne.
“It would be your better fate!” she said, two tears rolling down her livid cheeks; for, as in former days, her eyes seemed to read the future. “Did any one see him?” she asked of the two men.
At this instant the duke turned in his bed; they all trembled.
“Even my last joy is mingled with pain,” murmured the duchess. “Take him away! take him away!”
“Mother, I would rather see you a moment longer and die!” said the poor lad, as he fainted by her side.
At a sign from the duchess, Bertrand took Etienne in his arms, and, showing him for the last time to his mother, who kissed him with a last look, he turned to carry him away, awaiting the final order of the dying mother.
“Love him well!” she said to the physician and Bertrand; “he has no protectors but you and Heaven.”
Prompted by an instinct which never misleads a mother, she had felt the pity of the old retainer for the eldest son of a house, for which his veneration202 was only comparable to that of the Jews for their Holy City, Jerusalem. As for Beauvouloir, the compact between himself and the duchess had long been signed. The two servitors, deeply moved to see their mistress forced to bequeath her noble child to none but themselves, promised by a solemn gesture to be the providence203 of their young master, and the mother had faith in that gesture.
The duchess died towards morning, mourned by the servants of the household, who, for all comment, were heard to say beside her grave, “She was a comely204 woman, sent from Paradise.”
Etienne’s sorrow was the most intense, the most lasting205 of sorrows, and wholly silent. He wandered no more among his rocks; he felt no strength to read or sing. He spent whole days crouched206 in the crevice207 of a rock, caring nought for the inclemency208 of the weather, motionless, fastened to the granite209 like the lichen210 that grew upon it; weeping seldom, lost in one sole thought, immense, infinite as the ocean, and, like that ocean, taking a thousand forms,—terrible, tempestuous211, tender, calm. It was more than sorrow; it was a new existence, an irrevocable destiny, dooming212 this innocent creature to smile no more. There are pangs which, like a drop of blood cast into flowing water, stain the whole current instantly. The stream, renewed from its source, restores the purity of its surface; but with Etienne the source itself was polluted, and each new current brought its own gall7.
Bertrand, in his old age, had retained the superintendence of the stables, so as not to lose the habit of authority in the household. His house was not far from that of Etienne, so that he was ever at hand to watch over the youth with the persistent213 affection and simple wiliness characteristic of old soldiers. He checked his roughness when speaking to the poor lad; softly he walked in rainy weather to fetch him from his reverie in his crevice to the house. He put his pride into filling the mother’s place, so that her child might find, if not her love, at least the same attentions. This pity resembled tenderness. Etienne bore, without complaint or resistance, these attentions of the old retainer, but too many links were now broken between the hated child and other creatures to admit of any keen affection at present in his heart. Mechanically he allowed himself to be protected; he became, as it were, an intermediary creature between man and plant, or, perhaps one might say, between man and God. To what shall we compare a being to whom all social laws, all the false sentiments of the world were unknown, and who kept his ravishing innocence by obeying nought but the instincts of his heart?
Nevertheless, in spite of his sombre melancholy, he came to feel the need of loving, of finding another mother, another soul for his soul. But, separated from civilization by an iron wall, it was well-nigh impossible to meet with a being who had flowered like himself. Instinctively214 seeking another self to whom to confide his thoughts and whose life might blend with his life, he ended in sympathizing with his Ocean. The sea became to him a living, thinking being. Always in presence of that vast creation, the hidden marvels215 of which contrast so grandly with those of earth, he discovered the meaning of many mysteries. Familiar from his cradle with the infinitude of those liquid fields, the sea and the sky taught him many poems. To him, all was variety in that vast picture so monotonous to some. Like other men whose souls dominate their bodies, he had a piercing sight which could reach to enormous distances and seize, with admirable ease and without fatigue, the fleeting216 tints217 of the clouds, the passing shimmer152 of the waters. On days of perfect stillness his eyes could see the manifold tints of the ocean, which to him, like the face of a woman, had its physiognomy, its smiles, ideas, caprices; there green and sombre; here smiling and azure; sometimes uniting its brilliant lines with the hazy218 gleams of the horizon, or again, softly swaying beneath the orange-tinted heavens. For him all-glorious fetes were celebrated219 at sundown when the star of day poured its red colors on the waves in a crimson220 flood. For him the sea was gay and sparkling and spirited when it quivered in repeating the noonday light from a thousand dazzling facets221; to him it revealed its wondrous222 melancholy; it made him weep whenever, calm or sad, it reflected the dun-gray sky surcharged with clouds. He had learned the mute language of that vast creation. The flux223 and reflux of its waters were to him a melodious breathing which uttered in his ear a sentiment; he felt and comprehended its inward meaning. No mariner224, no man of science, could have predicted better than he the slightest wrath225 of the ocean, the faintest change on that vast face. By the manner of the waves as they rose and died away upon the shore, he could foresee tempests, surges, squalls, the height of tides, or calms. When night had spread its veil upon the sky, he still could see the sea in its twilight226 mystery, and talk with it. At all times he shared its fecund227 life, feeling in his soul the tempest when it was angry; breathing its rage in its hissing228 breath; running with its waves as they broke in a thousand liquid fringes upon the rocks. He felt himself intrepid229, free, and terrible as the sea itself; like it, he bounded and fell back; he kept its solemn silence; he copied its sudden pause. In short, he had wedded230 the sea; it was now his confidant, his friend. In the morning when he crossed the glowing sands of the beach and came upon his rocks, he divined the temper of the ocean from a single glance; he could see landscapes on its surface; he hovered231 above the face of the waters, like an angel coming down from heaven. When the joyous232, mischievous233 white mists cast their gossamer234 before him, like a veil before the face of a bride, he followed their undulations and caprices with the joy of a lover. His thought, married with that grand expression of the divine thought, consoled him in his solitude, and the thousand outlooks of his soul peopled its desert with glorious fantasies. He ended at last by divining in the motions of the sea its close communion with the celestial235 system; he perceived nature in its harmonious236 whole, from the blade of grass to the wandering stars which seek, like seeds driven by the wind, to plant themselves in ether.
Pure as an angel, virgin237 of those ideas which degrade mankind, naive as a child, he lived like a sea-bird, a gull238, or a flower, prodigal239 of the treasures of poetic imagination, and possessed240 of a divine knowledge, the fruitful extent of which he contemplated241 in solitude. Incredible mingling242 of two creations! sometimes he rose to God in prayer; sometimes he descended243, humble and resigned, to the quiet happiness of animals. To him the stars were the flowers of night, the birds his friends, the sun was a father. Everywhere he found the soul of his mother; often he saw her in the clouds; he spoke244 to her; they communicated, veritably, by celestial visions; on certain days he could hear her voice and see her smile; in short, there were days when he had not lost her. God seemed to have given him the power of the hermits245 of old, to have endowed him with some perfected inner senses which penetrated246 to the spirit of all things. Unknown moral forces enabled him to go farther than other men into the secrets of the Immortal247 labor248. His yearnings, his sorrows were the links that united him to the unseen world; he went there, armed with his love, to seek his mother; realizing thus, with the sublime249 harmonies of ecstasy250, the symbolic251 enterprise of Orpheus.
Often, when crouching in the crevice of some rock, capriciously curled up in his granite grotto252, the entrance to which was as narrow as that of a charcoal253 kiln254, he would sink into involuntary sleep, his figure softly lighted by the warm rays of the sun which crept through the fissures255 and fell upon the dainty seaweeds that adorned his retreat, the veritable nest of a sea-bird. The sun, his sovereign lord, alone told him that he had slept, by measuring the time he had been absent from his watery256 landscapes, his golden sands, his shells and pebbles. Across a light as brilliant as that from heaven he saw the cities of which he read; he looked with amazement257, but without envy, at courts and kings, battles, men, and buildings. These daylight dreams made dearer to him his precious flowers, his clouds, his sun, his granite rocks. To attach him the more to his solitary existence, an angel seemed to reveal to him the abysses of the moral world and the terrible shocks of civilization. He felt that his soul, if torn by the throng258 of men, would perish like a pearl dropped from the crown of a princess into mud.
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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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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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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belle
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formerly
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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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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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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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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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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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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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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secularize
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| vt.使凡俗化，使还俗，改作俗用 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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97
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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98
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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99
labyrinth
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|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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100
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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101
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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102
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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103
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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104
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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105
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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106
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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107
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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108
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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110
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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111
shear
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|
| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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112
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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113
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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114
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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115
veins
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|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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116
porcelain
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|
| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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117
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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118
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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120
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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121
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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122
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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123
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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125
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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126
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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127
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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128
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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129
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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130
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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131
botanists
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| n.植物学家，研究植物的人( botanist的名词复数 ) | |
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132
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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133
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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134
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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135
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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136
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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137
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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138
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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139
algae
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| n.水藻，海藻 | |
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140
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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141
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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142
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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143
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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144
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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145
textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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146
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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147
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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148
somnolence
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| n.想睡，梦幻；欲寐；嗜睡；嗜眠 | |
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149
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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150
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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151
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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152
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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153
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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154
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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155
ingenuous
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|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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156
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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157
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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158
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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159
debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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161
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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162
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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163
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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164
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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165
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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166
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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167
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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168
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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169
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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170
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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171
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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172
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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173
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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174
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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175
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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176
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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178
germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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179
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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180
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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181
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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182
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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183
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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184
melodiously
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185
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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187
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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188
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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189
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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190
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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191
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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192
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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193
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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194
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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195
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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196
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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197
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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198
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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199
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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200
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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201
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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202
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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203
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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204
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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205
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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206
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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208
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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209
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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210
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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211
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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212
dooming
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| v.注定( doom的现在分词 )；判定；使…的失败（或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局）成为必然；宣判 | |
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213
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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214
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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215
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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216
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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217
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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218
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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219
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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220
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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221
facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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222
wondrous
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|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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223
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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224
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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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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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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253
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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256
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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257
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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