It was in this winter after his coming to the grey street that Lucian first experienced the pains of desolation. He had all his life known the delights of solitude1, and had acquired that habit of mind which makes a man find rich company on the bare hillside and leads him into the heart of the wood to meditate2 by the dark waterpools. But now in the blank interval4 when he was forced to shut up his desk, the sense of loneliness overwhelmed him and filled him with unutterable melancholy5. On such days he carried about with him an unceasing gnawing6 torment7 in his breast; the anguish8 of the empty page awaiting him in his bureau, and the knowledge that it was worse than useless to attempt the work. He had fallen into the habit of always using this phrase “the work” to denote the adventure of literature; it had grown in his mind to all the austere10 and grave significance of “the great work” on the lips of the alchemists; it included every trifling11 and laborious12 page and the vague magnificent fancies that sometimes hovered14 below him. All else had become mere15 by-play, unimportant, trivial; the work was the end, and the means and the food of his life — it raised him up in the morning to renew the struggle, it was the symbol which charmed him as he lay down at night. All through the hours of toil16 at the bureau he was enchanted17, and when he went out and explored the unknown coasts, the one thought allured18 him, and was the colored glass between his eyes and the world. Then as he drew nearer home his steps would quicken, and the more weary and grey the walk, the more he rejoiced as he thought of his hermitage and of the curious difficulties that awaited him there. But when, suddenly and without warning, the faculty20 disappeared, when his mind seemed a hopeless waste from which nothing could arise, then he became subject to a misery21 so piteous that the barbarians22 themselves would have been sorry for him. He had known some foretaste of these bitter and inexpressible griefs in the old country days, but then he had immediately taken refuge in the hills, he had rushed to the dark woods as to an anodyne24, letting his heart drink in all the wonder and magic of the wild land. Now in these days of January, in the suburban25 street, there was no such refuge.
He had been working steadily26 for some weeks, well enough satisfied on the whole with the daily progress, glad to awake in the morning, and to read over what he had written on the night before. The new year opened with faint and heavy weather and a breathless silence in the air, but in a few days the great frost set in. Soon the streets began to suggest the appearance of a beleaguered27 city, the silence that had preceded the frost deepened, and the mist hung over the earth like a dense28 white smoke. Night after night the cold increased, and people seemed unwilling29 to go abroad, till even the main thoroughfares were empty and deserted30, as if the inhabitants were lying close in hiding. It was at this dismal31 time that Lucian found himself reduced to impotence. There was a sudden break in his thought, and when he wrote on valiantly32, hoping against hope, he only grew more aghast on the discovery of the imbecilities he had committed to paper. He ground his teeth together and persevered33, sick at heart, feeling as if all the world were fallen from under his feet, driving his pen on mechanically, till he was overwhelmed. He saw the stuff he had done without veil or possible concealment34, a lamentable35 and wretched sheaf of verbiage36, worse, it seemed, than the efforts of his boyhood. He was not longer tautological37, he avoided tautology38 with the infernal art of a leader-writer, filling his wind bags and mincing40 words as if he had been a trained journalist on the staff of the Daily Post. There seemed all the matter of an insufferable tragedy in these thoughts; that his patient and enduring toil was in vain, that practice went for nothing, and that he had wasted the labor13 of Milton to accomplish the tenth-rate. Unhappily he could not “give in”; the longing41, the fury for the work burnt within him like a burning fire; he lifted up his eyes in despair.
It was then, while he knew that no one could help him, that he languished42 for help, and then, though he was aware that no comfort was possible, he fervently44 wished to be comforted. The only friend he had was his father, and he knew that his father would not even understand his distress46. For him, always, the printed book was the beginning and end of literature; the agony of the maker47, his despair and sickness, were as accursed as the pains of labor. He was ready to read and admire the work of the great Smith, but he did not wish to hear of the period when the great Smith had writhed48 and twisted like a scotched49 worm, only hoping to be put out of his misery, to go mad or die, to escape somehow from the bitter pains. And Lucian knew no one else. Now and then he read in the paper the fame of the great littérateurs; the Gypsies were entertaining the Prince of Wales, the Jolly Beggars were dining with the Lord Mayor, the Old Mumpers were mingling50 amicably51 and gorgeously with the leading members of the Stock Exchange. He was so unfortunate as to know none of these gentlemen, but it hardly seemed likely that they could have done much for him in any case. Indeed, in his heart, he was certain that help and comfort from without were in the nature of things utterly52 impossible, his ruin and grief were within, and only his own assistance could avail. He tried to reassure53 himself, to believe that his torments54 were a proof of his vocation55, that the facility of the novelist who stood six years deep in contracts to produce romances was a thing wholly undesirable57, but all the while he longed for but a drop of that inexhaustible fluency58 which he professed59 to despise.
He drove himself out from that dreary60 contemplation of the white paper and the idle pen. He went into the frozen and deserted streets, hoping that he might pluck the burning coal from his heart, but the fire was not quenched61. As he walked furiously along the grim iron roads he fancied that those persons who passed him cheerfully on their way to friends and friendly hearths63 shrank from him into the mists as they went by. Lucian imagined that the fire of his torment and anguish must in some way glow visibly about him; he moved, perhaps, in a nimbus that proclaimed the blackness and the flames within. He knew, of course, that in misery he had grown delirious64, that the well-coated, smooth-hatted personages who loomed65 out of the fog upon him were in reality shuddering67 only with cold, but in spite of common sense he still conceived that he saw on their faces an evident horror and disgust, and something of the repugnance68 that one feels at the sight of a venomous snake, half-killed, trailing its bleeding vileness69 out of sight. By design Lucian tried to make for remote and desolate70 places, and yet when he had succeeded in touching71 on the open country, and knew that the icy shadow hovering72 through the mist was a field, he longed for some sound and murmur73 of life, and turned again to roads where pale lamps were glimmering75, and the dancing flame of firelight shone across the frozen shrubs77. And the sight of these homely78 fires, the thought of affection and consolation79 waiting by them, stung him the more sharply perhaps because of the contrast with his own chills and weariness and helpless sickness, and chiefly because he knew that he had long closed an everlasting80 door between his heart and such felicities. If those within had come out and had called him by his name to enter and be comforted, it would have been quite unavailing, since between them and him there was a great gulf81 fixed82. Perhaps for the first time he realized that he had lost the art of humanity for ever. He had thought when he closed his ears to the wood whisper and changed the fauns’ singing for the murmur of the streets, the black pools for the shadows and amber83 light of London, that he had put off the old life, and had turned his soul to healthy activities, but the truth was that he had merely exchanged one drug for another. He could not be human, and he wondered whether there were some drop of the fairy blood in his body that made him foreign and a stranger in the world.
He did not surrender to desolation without repeated struggles. He strove to allure19 himself to his desk by the promise of some easy task; he would not attempt invention, but he had memoranda84 and rough jottings of ideas in his note-books, and he would merely amplify85 the suggestions ready to his hand. But it was hopeless, again and again it was hopeless. As he read over his notes, trusting that he would find some hint that might light up the dead fires, and kindle86 again that pure flame of enthusiasm, he found how desperately87 his fortune had fallen. He could see no light, no color in the lines he had scribbled89 with eager trembling fingers; he remembered how splendid all these things had been when he wrote them down, but now they were meaningless, faded into grey. The few words he had dashed on to the paper, enraptured90 at the thought of the happy hours they promised, had become mere jargon92, and when he understood the idea it seemed foolish, dull, unoriginal. He discovered something at last that appeared to have a grain of promise, and determined93 to do his best to put it into shape, but the first paragraph appalled94 him; it might have been written by an unintelligent schoolboy. He tore the paper in pieces, and shut and locked his desk, heavy despair sinking like lead into his heart. For the rest of that day he lay motionless on the bed, smoking pipe after pipe in the hope of stupefying himself with tobacco fumes95. The air in the room became blue and thick with smoke; it was bitterly cold, and he wrapped himself up in his great-coat and drew the counterpane over him. The night came on and the window darkened, and at last he fell asleep.
He renewed the effort at intervals96, only to plunge97 deeper into misery. He felt the approaches of madness, and knew that his only hope was to walk till he was physically98 exhausted99, so that he might come home almost fainting with fatigue100, but ready to fall asleep the moment he got into bed. He passed the mornings in a kind of torpor101, endeavoring to avoid thought, to occupy his mind with the pattern of the paper, with the advertisements at the end of a book, with the curious greyness of the light that glimmered102 through the mist into his room, with the muffled103 voices that rumbled104 now and then from the street. He tried to make out the design that had once colored the faded carpet on the floor, and wondered about the dead artist in Japan, the adorner105 of his bureau. He speculated as to what his thoughts had been as he inserted the rainbow mother-of-pearl and made that great flight of shining birds, dipping their wings as they rose from the reeds, or how he had conceived the lacquer dragons in red gold, and the fantastic houses in the garden of peach-trees. But sooner or later the oppression of his grief returned, the loud shriek106 and clang of the garden-gate, the warning bell of some passing bicyclist steering107 through the fog, the noise of his pipe falling to the floor, would suddenly awaken108 him to the sense of misery. He knew that it was time to go out; he could not bear to sit still and suffer. Sometimes she cut a slice of bread and put it in his pocket, sometimes he trusted to the chance of finding a public-house, where he could have a sandwich and a glass of beer. He turned always from the main streets and lost himself in the intricate suburban byways, willing to be engulfed109 in the infinite whiteness of the mist.
The roads had stiffened110 into iron ridges111, the fences and trees were glittering with frost crystals, everything was of strange and altered aspect. Lucian walked on and on through the maze112, now in a circle of shadowy villas113, awful as the buried streets of Herculaneum, now in lanes dipping onto open country, that led him past great elm-trees whose white boughs114 were all still, and past the bitter lonely fields where the mist seemed to fade away into grey darkness. As he wandered along these unfamiliar115 and ghastly paths he became the more convinced of his utter remoteness from all humanity, he allowed that grotesque116 suggestion of there being something visibly amiss in his outward appearance to grow upon him, and often he looked with a horrible expectation into the faces of those who passed by, afraid lest his own senses gave him false intelligence, and that he had really assumed some frightful117 and revolting shape. It was curious that, partly by his own fault, and largely, no doubt, through the operation of mere coincidence, he was once or twice strongly confirmed in this fantastic delusion118. He came one day into a lonely and unfrequented byway, a country lane falling into ruin, but still fringed with elms that had formed an avenue leading to the old manor119-house. It was now the road of communication between two far outlying suburbs, and on these winter nights lay as black, dreary, and desolate as a mountain track. Soon after the frost began, a gentleman had been set upon in this lane as he picked his way between the corner where the bus had set him down, and his home where the fire was blazing, and his wife watched the clock. He was stumbling uncertainly through the gloom, growing a little nervous because the walk seemed so long, and peering anxiously for the lamp at the end of his street, when the two footpads rushed at him out of the fog. One caught him from behind, the other struck him with a heavy bludgeon, and as he lay senseless they robbed him of his watch and money, and vanished across the fields. The next morning all the suburb rang with the story; the unfortunate merchant had been grievously hurt, and wives watched their husbands go out in the morning with sickening apprehension120, not knowing what might happen at night. Lucian of course was ignorant of all these rumors121, and struck into the gloomy by-road without caring where he was or whither the way would lead him.
He had been driven out that day as with whips, another hopeless attempt to return to the work had agonised him, and existence seemed an intolerable pain. As he entered the deeper gloom, where the fog hung heavily, he began, half consciously, to gesticulate; he felt convulsed with torment and shame, and it was a sorry relief to clench123 his nails into his palm and strike the air as he stumbled heavily along, bruising124 his feet against the frozen ruts and ridges. His impotence was hideous125, he said to himself, and he cursed himself and his life, breaking out into a loud oath, and stamping on the ground. Suddenly he was shocked at a scream of terror, it seemed in his very ear, and looking up he saw for a moment a woman gazing at him out of the mist, her features distorted and stiff with fear. A momentary126 convulsion twitched127 her arms into the ugly mimicry128 of a beckoning129 gesture, and she turned and ran for dear life, howling like a beast.
Lucian stood still in the road while the woman’s cries grew faint and died away. His heart was chilled within him as the significance of this strange incident became clear. He remembered nothing of his violent gestures; he had not known at the time that he had sworn out loud, or that he was grinding his teeth with impotent rage. He only thought of that ringing scream, of the horrible fear on the white face that had looked upon him, of the woman’s headlong flight from his presence. He stood trembling and shuddering, and in a little while he was feeling his face, searching for some loathsome130 mark, for the stigmata of evil branding his forehead. He staggered homewards like a drunken man, and when he came into the Uxbridge Road some children saw him and called after him as he swayed and caught at the lamp-post. When he got to his room he sat down at first in the dark. He did not dare to light the gas. Everything in the room was indistinct, but he shut his eyes as he passed the dressing-table, and sat in a corner, his face turned to the wall. And when at last he gathered courage and the flame leapt hissing131 from the jet, he crept piteously towards the glass, and ducked his head, crouching132 miserably133, and struggling with his terrors before he could look at his own image.
To the best of his power he tried to deliver himself from these more grotesque fantasies; he assured himself that there was nothing terrific in his countenance134 but sadness, that his face was like the face of other men. Yet he could not forget that reflection he had seen in the woman’s eyes, how the surest mirrors had shown him a horrible dread135, her soul itself quailing136 and shuddering at an awful sight. Her scream rang and rang in his ears; she had fled away from him as if he offered some fate darker than death.
He looked again and again into the glass, tortured by a hideous uncertainty137. His senses told him there was nothing amiss, yet he had had a proof, and yet, as he peered most earnestly, there was, it seemed, something strange and not altogether usual in the expression of the eyes. Perhaps it might be the unsteady flare138 of the gas, or perhaps a flaw in the cheap looking-glass, that gave some slight distortion to the image. He walked briskly up and down the room and tried to gaze steadily, indifferently, into his own face. He would not allow himself to be misguided by a word. When he had pronounced himself incapable139 of humanity, he had only meant that he could not enjoy the simple things of common life. A man was not necessarily monstrous140, merely because he did not appreciate high tea, a quiet chat about the neighbors, and a happy noisy evening with the children. But with what message, then, did he appear charged that the woman’s mouth grew so stark141? Her hands had jerked up as if they had been pulled with frantic142 wires; she seemed for the instant like a horrible puppet. Her scream was a thing from the nocturnal Sabbath.
He lit a candle and held it close up to the glass so that his own face glared white at him, and the reflection of the room became an indistinct darkness. He saw nothing but the candle flame and his own shining eyes, and surely they were not as the eyes of common men. As he put down the light, a sudden suggestion entered his mind, and he drew a quick breath, amazed at the thought. He hardly knew whether to rejoice or to shudder66. For the thought he conceived was this: that he had mistaken all the circumstances of the adventure, and had perhaps repulsed144 a sister who would have welcomed him to the Sabbath.
He lay awake all night, turning from one dreary and frightful thought to the other, scarcely dozing145 for a few hours when the dawn came. He tried for a moment to argue with himself when he got up; knowing that his true life was locked up in the bureau, he made a desperate attempt to drive the phantoms147 and hideous shapes from his mind. He was assured that his salvation148 was in the work, and he drew the key from his pocket, and made as if he would have opened the desk. But the nausea149, the remembrances of repeated and utter failure, were too powerful. For many days he hung about the Manor Lane, half dreading150, half desiring another meeting, and he swore he would not again mistake the cry of rapture91, nor repulse143 the arms extended in a frenzy151 of delight. In those days he dreamed of some dark place where they might celebrate and make the marriage of the Sabbath, with such rites152 as he had dared to imagine.
It was perhaps only the shock of a letter from his father that rescued him from these evident approaches to madness. Mr. Taylor wrote how they had missed him at Christmas, how the farmers had inquired after him, of the homely familiar things that recalled his boyhood, his mother’s voice, the friendly fireside, and the good old fashions that had nurtured153 him. He remembered that he had once been a boy, loving the cake and puddings and the radiant holly56, and all the seventeenth-century mirth that lingered on in the ancient farmhouses154. And there came to him the more holy memory of Mass on Christmas morning. How sweet the dark and frosty earth had smelt155 as he walked beside his mother down the winding156 lane, and from the stile near the church they had seen the world glimmering to the dawn, and the wandering lanthorns advancing across the fields. Then he had come into the church and seen it shining with candles and holly, and his father in pure vestments of white linen157 sang the longing music of the liturgy158 at the altar, and the people answered him, till the sun rose with the grave notes of the Paternoster, and a red beam stole through the chancel window.
The worst horror left him as he recalled the memory of these dear and holy things. He cast away the frightful fancy that the scream he had heard was a shriek of joy, that the arms, rigidly159 jerked out, invited him to an embrace. Indeed, the thought that he had longed for such an obscene illusion, that he had gloated over the recollection of that stark mouth, filled him with disgust. He resolved that his senses were deceived, that he had neither seen nor heard, but had for a moment externalized his own slumbering160 and morbid161 dreams. It was perhaps necessary that he should be wretched, that his efforts should be discouraged, but he would not yield utterly to madness.
Yet when he went abroad with such good resolutions, it was hard to resist an influence that seemed to come from without and within. He did not know it, but people were everywhere talking of the great frost, of the fog that lay heavy on London, making the streets dark and terrible, of strange birds that came fluttering about the windows in the silent squares. The Thames rolled out duskily, bearing down the jarring ice-blocks, and as one looked on the black water from the bridges it was like a river in a northern tale. To Lucian it all seemed mythical162, of the same substance as his own fantastic thoughts. He rarely saw a newspaper, and did not follow from day to day the systematic163 readings of the thermometer, the reports of ice-fairs, of coaches driven across the river at Hampton, of the skating on the fens164; and hence the iron roads, the beleaguered silence and the heavy folds of mist appeared as amazing as a picture, significant, appalling165. He could not look out and see a common suburban street foggy and dull, nor think of the inhabitants as at work or sitting cheerfully eating nuts about their fires; he saw a vision of a grey road vanishing, of dim houses all empty and deserted, and the silence seemed eternal. And when he went out and passed through street after street, all void, by the vague shapes of houses that appeared for a moment and were then instantly swallowed up, it seemed to him as if he had strayed into a city that had suffered some inconceivable doom166, that he alone wandered where myriads167 had once dwelt. It was a town as great as Babylon, terrible as Rome, marvelous as Lost Atlantis, set in the midst of a white wilderness168 surrounded by waste places. It was impossible to escape from it; if he skulked169 between hedges, and crept away beyond the frozen pools, presently the serried170 stony171 lines confronted him like an army, and far and far they swept away into the night, as some fabled172 wall that guards an empire in the vast dim East. Or in that distorting medium of the mist, changing all things, he imagined that he trod an infinite desolate plain, abandoned from ages, but circled and encircled with dolmen and menhir that loomed out at him, gigantic, terrible. All London was one grey temple of an awful rite39, ring within ring of wizard stones circled about some central place, every circle was an initiation173, every initiation eternal loss. Or perhaps he was astray for ever in a land of grey rocks. He had seen the light of home, the flicker174 of the fire on the walls; close at hand, it seemed, was the open door, and he had heard dear voices calling to him across the gloom, but he had just missed the path. The lamps vanished, the voices sounded thin and died away, and yet he knew that those within were waiting, that they could not bear to close the door, but waited, calling his name, while he had missed the way, and wandered in the pathless desert of the grey rocks. Fantastic, hideous, they beset175 him wherever he turned, piled up into strange shapes, pricked176 with sharp peaks, assuming the appearance of goblin towers, swelling177 into a vague dome178 like a fairy rath, huge and terrible. And as one dream faded into another, so these last fancies were perhaps the most tormenting179 and persistent180; the rocky avenues became the camp and fortalice of some half-human, malignant181 race who swarmed183 in hiding, ready to bear him away into the heart of their horrible hills. It was awful to think that all his goings were surrounded, that in the darkness he was watched and surveyed, that every step but led him deeper and deeper into the labyrinth184.
When, of an evening, he was secure in his room, the blind drawn185 down and the gas flaring186, he made vigorous efforts toward sanity187. It was not of his free will that he allowed terror to overmaster him, and he desired nothing better than a placid188 and harmless life, full of work and clear thinking. He knew that he deluded189 himself with imagination, that he had been walking through London suburbs and not through Pandemonium190, and that if he could but unlock his bureau all those ugly forms would be resolved into the mist. But it was hard to say if he consoled himself effectually with such reflections, for the return to common sense meant also the return to the sharp pangs191 of defeat. It recalled him to the bitter theme of his own inefficiency192, to the thought that he only desired one thing of life, and that this was denied him. He was willing to endure the austerities of a monk193 in a severe cloister194, to suffer cold, to be hungry, to be lonely and friendless, to forbear all the consolation of friendly speech, and to be glad of all these things, if only he might be allowed to illuminate195 the manuscript in quietness. It seemed a hideous insufferable cruelty, that he should so fervently desire that which he could never gain.
He was led back to the old conclusion; he had lost the sense of humanity, he was wretched because he was an alien and a stranger amongst citizens. It seemed probable that the enthusiasm of literature, as he understood it, the fervent45 desire for the fine art, had in it something of the inhuman196, and dissevered the enthusiast197 from his fellow-creatures. It was possible that the barbarian23 suspected as much, that by some slow process of rumination198 he had arrived at his fixed and inveterate199 impression, by no means a clear reasoned conviction; the average Philistine200, if pressed for the reasons of his dislike, would either become inarticulate, ejaculating “faugh” and “pah” like an old-fashioned Scots Magazine, or else he would give some imaginary and absurd reason, alleging201 that all “littery men” were poor, that composers never cut their hair, that painters were rarely public-school men, that sculptors202 couldn’t ride straight to hounds to save their lives, but clearly these imbecilities were mere afterthoughts; the average man hated the artist from a deep instinctive203 dread of all that was strange, uncanny, alien to his nature; he gibbered, uttered his harsh, semi-bestial “faugh,” and dismissed Keats to his gallipots from much the same motives205 as usually impelled206 the black savages207 to dismiss the white man on an even longer journey.
Lucian was not especially interested in this hatred208 of the barbarian for the maker, except from this point, that it confirmed him in his belief that the love of art dissociated the man from the race. One touch of art made the whole world alien, but surely miseries209 of the civilized210 man cast amongst savages were not so much caused by dread of their ferocity as by the terror of his own thoughts; he would perhaps in his last despair leave his retreat and go forth211 to perish at their hands, so that he might at least die in company, and hear the sound of speech before death. And Lucian felt most keenly that in his case there was a double curse; he was as isolated212 as Keats, and as inarticulate as his reviewers. The consolation of the work had failed him, and he was suspended in the void between two worlds.
It was no doubt the composite effect of his failures, his loneliness of soul, and solitude of life, that had made him invest those common streets with such grim and persistent terrors. He had perhaps yielded to a temptation without knowing that he had been tempted213, and, in the manner of De Quincey, had chosen the subtle in exchange for the more tangible214 pains. Unconsciously, but still of free will, he had preferred the splendor215 and the gloom of a malignant vision before his corporal pains, before the hard reality of his own impotence. It was better to dwell in vague melancholy, to stray in the forsaken216 streets of a city doomed217 from ages, to wander amidst forlorn and desperate rocks than to awake to a gnawing and ignoble218 torment, to confess that a house of business would have been more suitable and more practical, that he had promised what he could never perform. Even as he struggled to beat back the phantasmagoria of the mist, and resolved that he would no longer make all the streets a stage of apparitions219, he hardly realized what he had done, or that the ghosts he had called might depart and return again.
He continued his long walks, always with the object of producing a physical weariness and exhaustion221 that would enable him to sleep of nights. But even when he saw the foggy and deserted avenues in their proper shape, and allowed his eyes to catch the pale glimmer74 of the lamps, and the dancing flame of the firelight, he could not rid himself of the impression that he stood afar off, that between those hearths and himself there was a great gulf fixed. As he paced down the footpath222 he could often see plainly across the frozen shrubs into the homely and cheerful rooms. Sometimes, late in the evening, he caught a passing glimpse of the family at tea, father, mother, and children laughing and talking together, well pleased with each other’s company. Sometimes a wife or a child was standing224 by the garden gate peering anxiously through the fog, and the sight of it all, all the little details, the hideous but comfortable armchairs turned ready to the fire, maroon-red curtains being drawn close to shut out the ugly night, the sudden blaze and illumination as the fire was poked225 up so that it might be cheerful for father; these trivial and common things were acutely significant. They brought back to him the image of a dead boy — himself. They recalled the shabby old “parlor226” in the country, with its shabby old furniture and fading carpet, and renewed a whole atmosphere of affection and homely comfort. His mother would walk to the end of the drive and look out for him when he was late (wandering then about the dark woodlands); on winter evenings she would make the fire blaze, and have his slippers227 warming by the hearth62, and there was probably buttered toast “as a treat.” He dwelt on all these insignificant228 petty circumstances, on the genial229 glow and light after the muddy winter lanes, on the relish230 of the buttered toast and the smell of the hot tea, on the two old cats curled fast asleep before the fender, and made them instruments of exquisite231 pain and regret. Each of these strange houses that he passed was identified in his mind with his own vanished home; all was prepared and ready as in the old days, but he was shut out, judged and condemned232 to wander in the frozen mist, with weary feet, anguished43 and forlorn, and they that would pass from within to help him could not, neither could he pass to them. Again, for the hundredth time, he came back to the sentence: he could not gain the art of letters and he had lost the art of humanity. He saw the vanity of all his thoughts; he was an ascetic233 caring nothing for warmth and cheerfulness and the small comforts of life, and yet he allowed his mind to dwell on such things. If one of those passers-by, who walked briskly, eager for home, should have pitied him by some miracle and asked him to come in, it would have been worse than useless, yet he longed for pleasures that he could not have enjoyed. It was as if he were come to a place of torment, where they who could not drink longed for water, where they who could feel no warmth shuddered234 in the eternal cold. He was oppressed by the grim conceit235 that he himself still slept within the matted thicket236, imprisoned237 by the green bastions of the Roman fort. He had never come out, but a changeling had gone down the hill, and now stirred about the earth.
Beset by such ingenious terrors, it was not wonderful that outward events and common incidents should abet238 his fancies. He had succeeded one day in escaping from the mesh239 of the streets, and fell on a rough and narrow lane that stole into a little valley. For the moment he was in a somewhat happier mood; the afternoon sun glowed through the rolling mist, and the air grew clearer. He saw quiet and peaceful fields, and a wood descending240 in a gentle slope from an old farmstead of warm red brick. The farmer was driving the slow cattle home from the hill, and his loud halloo to his dog came across the land a cheerful mellow241 note. From another side a cart was approaching the clustered barns, hesitating, pausing while the great horses rested, and then starting again into lazy motion. In the well of the valley a wandering line of bushes showed where a brook243 crept in and out amongst the meadows, and, as Lucian stood, lingering, on the bridge, a soft and idle breath ruffled244 through the boughs of a great elm. He felt soothed245, as by calm music, and wondered whether it would not be better for him to live in some such quiet place, within reach of the streets and yet remote from them. It seemed a refuge for still thoughts; he could imagine himself sitting at rest beneath the black yew246 tree in the farm garden, at the close of a summer day. He had almost determined that he would knock at the door and ask if they would take him as a lodger247, when he saw a child running towards him down the lane. It was a little girl, with bright curls tossing about her head, and, as she came on, the sunlight glowed upon her, illuminating248 her brick-red frock and the yellow king-cups in her hat. She had run with her eyes on the ground, chirping249 and laughing to herself, and did not see Lucian till she was quite near him. She started and glanced into his eyes for a moment, and began to cry; he stretched out his hand, and she ran from him screaming, frightened no doubt by what was to her a sudden and strange apparition220. He turned back towards London, and the mist folded him in its thick darkness, for on that evening it was tinged250 with black. It was only by the intensest strain of resolution that he did not yield utterly to the poisonous anodyne which was always at hand. It had been a difficult struggle to escape from the mesh of the hills, from the music of the fauns, and even now he was drawn by the memory of these old allurements251. But he felt that here, in his loneliness, he was in greater danger, and beset by a blacker magic. Horrible fancies rushed wantonly into his mind; he was not only ready to believe that something in his soul sent a shudder through all that was simple and innocent, but he came trembling home one Saturday night, believing, or half-believing, that he was in communion with evil. He had passed through the clamorous252 and blatant253 crowd of the “high street,” where, as one climbed the hill, the shops seemed all aflame, and the black night air glowed with the flaring gas-jets and the naphtha-lamps, hissing and wavering before the February wind. Voices, raucous254, clamant, abominable255, were belched256 out of the blazing public-houses as the doors swung to and fro, and above these doors were hideous brassy lamps, very slowly swinging in a violent blast of air, so that they might have been infernal thuribles, censing the people. Some man was calling his wares257 in one long continuous shriek that never stopped or paused, and, as a respond, a deeper, louder voice roared to him from across the road. An Italian whirled the handle of his piano-organ in a fury, and a ring of imps223 danced mad figures around him, danced and flung up their legs till the rags dropped from some of them, and they still danced on. A flare of naphtha, burning with a rushing noise, threw a light on one point of the circle, and Lucian watched a lank3 girl of fifteen as she came round and round to the flash. She was quite drunk, and had kicked her petticoats away, and the crowd howled laughter and applause at her. Her black hair poured down and leapt on her scarlet258 bodice; she sprang and leapt round the ring, laughing in Bacchic frenzy, and led the orgy to triumph. People were crossing to and fro, jostling against each other, swarming259 about certain shops and stalls in a dense dark mass that quivered and sent out feelers as if it were one writhing260 organism. A little farther a group of young men, arm in arm, were marching down the roadway chanting some music-hall verse in full chorus, so that it sounded like plainsong. An impossible hubbub261, a hum of voices angry as swarming bees, the squeals262 of five or six girls who ran in and out, and dived up dark passages and darted263 back into the crowd; all these mingled264 together till his ears quivered. A young fellow was playing the concertina, and he touched the keys with such slow fingers that the tune88 wailed265 solemn into a dirge267; but there was nothing so strange as the burst of sound that swelled268 out when the public-house doors were opened.
He walked amongst these people, looked at their faces, and looked at the children amongst them. He had come out thinking that he would see the English working class, “the best-behaved and the best-tempered crowd in the world,” enjoying the simple pleasure of the Saturday night’s shopping. Mother bought the joint269 for Sunday’s dinner, and perhaps a pair of boots for father; father had an honest glass of beer, and the children were given bags of sweets, and then all these worthy270 people went decently home to their well-earned rest. De Quincey had enjoyed the sight in his day, and had studied the rise and fall of onions and potatoes. Lucian, indeed, had desired to take these simple emotions as an opiate, to forget the fine fret271 and fantastic trouble of his own existence in plain things and the palpable joy of rest after labor. He was only afraid lest he should be too sharply reproached by the sight of these men who fought bravely year after year against starvation, who knew nothing of intricate and imagined grief, but only the weariness of relentless272 labor, of the long battle for their wives and children. It would be pathetic, he thought, to see them content with so little, brightened by the expectation of a day’s rest and a good dinner, forced, even then, to reckon every penny, and to make their children laugh with halfpence. Either he would be ashamed before so much content, or else he would be again touched by the sense of his inhumanity which could take no interest in the common things of life. But still he went to be at least taken out of himself, to be forced to look at another side of the world, so that he might perhaps forget a little while his own sorrows.
He was fascinated by what he saw and heard. He wondered whether De Quincey also had seen the same spectacle, and had concealed273 his impressions out of reverence274 for the average reader. Here there were no simple joys of honest toilers, but wonderful orgies, that drew out his heart to horrible music. At first the violence of sound and sight had overwhelmed him; the lights flaring in the night wind, the array of naphtha lamps, the black shadows, the roar of voices. The dance about the piano-organ had been the first sign of an inner meaning, and the face of the dark girl as she came round and round to the flame had been amazing in its utter furious abandon. And what songs they were singing all around him, and what terrible words rang out, only to excite peals275 of laughter. In the public-houses the workmen’s wives, the wives of small tradesmen, decently dressed in black, were drinking their faces to a flaming red, and urging their husbands to drink more. Beautiful young women, flushed and laughing, put their arms round the men’s necks and kissed them, and then held up the glass to their lips. In the dark corners, at the openings of side streets, the children were talking together, instructing each other, whispering what they had seen; a boy of fifteen was plying276 a girl of twelve with whisky, and presently they crept away. Lucian passed them as they turned to go, and both looked at him. The boy laughed, and the girl smiled quietly. It was above all in the faces around him that he saw the most astounding277 things, the Bacchic fury unveiled and unashamed. To his eyes it seemed as if these revelers recognized him as a fellow, and smiled up in his face, aware that he was in the secret. Every instinct of religion, of civilization even, was swept away; they gazed at one another and at him, absolved278 of all scruples279, children of the earth and nothing more. Now and then a couple detached themselves from the swarm182, and went away into the darkness, answering the jeers280 and laughter of their friends as they vanished.
On the edge of the pavement, not far from where he was standing, Lucian noticed a tall and lovely young woman who seemed to be alone. She was in the full light of a naphtha flame, and her bronze hair and flushed cheeks shone illuminate as she viewed the orgy. She had dark brown eyes, and a strange look as of an old picture in her face; and her eyes brightened with an urgent gleam. He saw the revelers nudging each other and glancing at her, and two or three young men went up and asked her to come for a walk. She shook her head and said “No thank you” again and again, and seemed as if she were looking for somebody in the crowd.
“I’m expecting a friend,” she said at last to a man who proposed a drink and a walk afterwards; and Lucian wondered what kind of friend would ultimately appear. Suddenly she turned to him as he was about to pass on, and said in a low voice:
“I’ll go for a walk with you if you like; you just go on, and I’ll follow in a minute.”
For a moment he looked steadily at her. He saw that the first glance has misled him; her face was not flushed with drink as he had supposed, but it was radiant with the most exquisite color, a red flame glowed and died on her cheek, and seemed to palpitate as she spoke281. The head was set on the neck nobly, as in a statue, and about the ears the bronze hair strayed into little curls. She was smiling and waiting for his answer.
He muttered something about being very sorry, and fled down the hill out of the orgy, from the noise of roaring voices and the glitter of the great lamps very slowly swinging in the blast of wind. He knew that he had touched the brink282 of utter desolation; there was death in the woman’s face, and she had indeed summoned him to the Sabbath. Somehow he had been able to refuse on the instant, but if he had delayed he knew he would have abandoned himself to her, body and soul. He locked himself in his room and lay trembling on the bed, wondering if some subtle sympathy had shown the woman her perfect companion. He looked in the glass, not expecting now to see certain visible and outward signs, but searching for the meaning of that strange glance that lit up his eyes. He had grown even thinner than before in the last few months, and his cheeks were wasted with hunger and sorrow, but there were still about his features the suggestion of a curious classic grace, and the look as of a faun who has strayed from the vineyards and olive gardens. He had broken away, but now he felt the mesh of her net about him, a desire for her that was a madness, as if she held every nerve in his body and drew him to her, to her mystic world, to the rosebush where every flower was a flame.
He dreamed all night of the perilous283 things he had refused, and it was loss to awake in the morning, pain to return to the world. The frost had broken and the fog had rolled away, and the grey street was filled with a clear grey light. Again he looked out on the long dull sweep of the monotonous284 houses, hidden for the past weeks by a curtain of mist. Heavy rain had fallen in the night, and the garden rails were still dripping, the roofs still dark with wet, all down the line the dingy285 white blinds were drawn in the upper windows. Not a soul walked the street; every one was asleep after the exertions286 of the night before; even on the main road it was only at intervals that some straggler paddled by. Presently a woman in a brown Ulster shuffled287 off on some errand, then a man in shirt-sleeves poked out his head, holding the door half-open, and stared up at a window opposite. After a few minutes he slunk in again, and three loafers came slouching down the street, eager for mischief288 or beastliness of some sort. They chose a house that seemed rather smarter than the rest, and, irritated by the neat curtains, the little grass plot with its dwarf289 shrub76, one of the ruffians drew out a piece of chalk and wrote some words on the front door. His friends kept watch for him, and the adventure achieved, all three bolted, bellowing290 yahoo laughter. Then a bell began, tang, tang, tang, and here and there children appeared on their way to Sunday-school, and the chapel291 “teachers” went by with verjuice eyes and lips, scowling292 at the little boy who cried “Piper, piper!” On the main road many respectable people, the men shining and ill-fitted, the women hideously293 bedizened, passed in the direction of the Independent nightmare, the stuccoed thing with Doric columns, but on the whole life was stagnant294. Presently Lucian smelt the horrid295 fumes of roast beef and cabbage; the early risers were preparing the one-o’clock meal, but many lay in bed and put off dinner till three, with the effect of prolonging the cabbage atmosphere into the late afternoon. A drizzly296 rain began as the people were coming out of church, and the mothers of little boys in velvet297 and little girls in foolishness of every kind were impelled to slap their offspring, and to threaten them with father. Then the torpor of beef and beer and cabbage settled down on the street; in some houses they snorted and read the Parish Magazine, in some they snored and read the murders and collected filth298 of the week; but the only movement of the afternoon was a second procession of children, now bloated and distended299 with food, again answering the summons of tang, tang, tang. On the main road the trams, laden300 with impossible people, went humming to and fro, and young men who wore bright blue ties cheerfully haw-hawed and smoked penny cigars. They annoyed the shiny and respectable and verjuice-lipped, not by the frightful stench of the cigars, but because they were cheerful on Sunday. By and by the children, having heard about Moses in the Bulrushes and Daniel in the Lion’s Den9, came straggling home in an evil humor. And all the day it was as if on a grey sheet grey shadows flickered301, passing by.
And in the rose-garden every flower was a flame! He thought in symbols, using the Persian imagery of a dusky court, surrounded by white cloisters302, gilded303 by gates of bronze. The stars came out, the sky glowed a darker violet, but the cloistered304 wall, the fantastic trellises in stone, shone whiter. It was like a hedge of may-blossom, like a lily within a cup of lapis-lazuli, like sea-foam tossed on the heaving sea at dawn. Always those white cloisters trembled with the lute305 music, always the garden sang with the clear fountain, rising and falling in the mysterious dusk. And there was a singing voice stealing through the white lattices and the bronze gates, a soft voice chanting of the Lover and the Beloved, of the Vineyard, of the Gate and the Way. Oh! the language was unknown; but the music of the refrain returned again and again, swelling and trembling through the white nets of the latticed cloisters. And every rose in the dusky air was a flame.
He had seen the life which he expressed by these symbols offered to him, and he had refused it; and he was alone in the grey street, with its lamps just twinkling through the dreary twilight306, the blast of a ribald chorus sounding from the main road, a doggerel307 hymn308 whining309 from some parlor, to the accompaniment of the harmonium. He wondered why he had turned away from that woman who knew all secrets, in whose eyes were all the mysteries. He opened the desk of his bureau, and was confronted by the heap and litter of papers, lying in confusion as he had left them. He knew that there was the motive204 of his refusal; he had been unwilling to abandon all hope of the work. The glory and the torment of his ambition glowed upon him as he looked at the manuscript; it seemed so pitiful that such a single desire should be thwarted310. He was aware that if he chose to sit down now before the desk he could, in a manner, write easily enough — he could produce a tale which would be formally well constructed and certain of favorable reception. And it would not be the utterly commonplace, entirely311 hopeless favorite of the circulating library; it would stand in those ranks where the real thing is skillfully counterfeited312, amongst the books which give the reader his orgy of emotions, and yet contrive313 to be superior, and “art,” in his opinion. Lucian had often observed this species of triumph, and had noted314 the acclamation that never failed the clever sham122. Romola, for example, had made the great host of the serious, the portentous315, shout for joy, while the real book, The Cloister and the Hearth, was a comparative failure.
He knew that he could write a Romola; but he thought the art of counterfeiting316 half-crowns less detestable than this shabby trick of imitating literature. He had refused definitely to enter the atelier of the gentleman who pleased his clients by ingeniously simulating the grain of walnut317; and though he had seen the old oaken ambry kicked out contemptuously into the farmyard, serving perhaps the necessities of hens or pigs, he would not apprentice318 himself to the masters of veneer319. He paced up and down the room, glancing now and again at his papers, and wondering if there were not hope for him. A great thing he could never do, but he had longed to do a true thing, to imagine sincere and genuine pages.
He was stirred again to this fury for the work by the event of the evening before, by all that had passed through his mind since the melancholy dawn. The lurid320 picture of that fiery321 street, the flaming shops and flaming glances, all its wonders and horrors, lit by the naphtha flares322 and by the burning souls, had possessed323 him; and the noises, the shriek and the whisper, the jangling rattle324 of the piano-organ, the long-continued scream of the butcher as he dabbled325 in the blood, the lewd326 litany of the singers, these seemed to be resolved into an infernal overture327, loud with the expectation of lust242 and death. And how the spectacle was set in the cloud of dark night, a phantom146 play acted on that fiery stage, beneath those hideous brassy lamps, very slowly swinging in a violent blast. As all the medley328 of outrageous329 sights and sounds now fused themselves within his brain into one clear impression, it seemed that he had indeed witnessed and acted in a drama, that all the scene had been prepared and vested for him, and that the choric songs he had heard were but preludes330 to a greater act. For in that woman was the consummation and catastrophe331 of it all, and the whole stage waited for their meeting. He fancied that after this the voices and the lights died away, that the crowd sank swiftly into the darkness, and that the street was at once denuded332 of the great lamps and of all its awful scenic333 apparatus334.
Again, he thought, the same mystery would be represented before him; suddenly on some dark and gloomy night, as he wandered lonely on a deserted road, the wind hurrying before him, suddenly a turn would bring him again upon the fiery stage, and the antique drama would be re-enacted. He would be drawn to the same place, to find that woman still standing there; again he would watch the rose radiant and palpitating upon her cheek, the argent gleam in her brown eyes, the bronze curls gilding335 the white splendor of her neck. And for the second time she would freely offer herself. He could hear the wail266 of the singers swelling to a shriek, and see the dusky dancers whirling round in a faster frenzy, and the naphtha flares tinged with red, as the woman and he went away into the dark, into the cloistered court where every flower was a flame, whence he would never come out.
His only escape was in the desk; he might find salvation if he could again hide his heart in the heap and litter of papers, and again be rapt by the cadence336 of a phrase. He threw open his window and looked out on the dim world and the glimmering amber lights. He resolved that he would rise early in the morning, and seek once more for his true life in the work.
But there was a strange thing. There was a little bottle on the mantelpiece, a bottle of dark blue glass, and he trembled and shuddered before it, as if it were a fetish.
收听单词发音 |
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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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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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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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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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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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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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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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tautological
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| adj.重复的；累赘的 | |
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tautology
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| n.无谓的重复；恒真命题 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scotched
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| v.阻止( scotch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止（车轮）转动；弄伤；镇压 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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55
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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56
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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57
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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58
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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59
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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60
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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61
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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62
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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63
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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64
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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65
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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66
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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67
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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68
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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69
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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70
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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71
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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72
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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73
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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74
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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75
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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76
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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77
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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78
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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79
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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80
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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81
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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82
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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83
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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84
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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85
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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86
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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87
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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88
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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89
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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90
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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92
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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95
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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96
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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97
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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98
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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99
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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100
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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101
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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102
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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104
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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105
adorner
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| 装饰器（电脑工具软件名称） | |
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106
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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107
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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108
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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109
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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111
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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112
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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113
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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114
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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115
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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116
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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117
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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118
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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119
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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120
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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121
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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122
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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123
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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124
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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125
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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126
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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127
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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129
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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130
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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131
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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132
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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133
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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134
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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135
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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136
quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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137
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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138
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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139
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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140
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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141
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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142
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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143
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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144
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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145
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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146
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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147
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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148
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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149
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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150
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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151
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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152
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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153
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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154
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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155
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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156
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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157
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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158
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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159
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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160
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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161
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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162
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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163
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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164
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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165
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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166
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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167
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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168
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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169
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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171
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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172
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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173
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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174
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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175
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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176
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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177
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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178
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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179
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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180
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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181
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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182
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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183
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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184
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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185
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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186
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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187
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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188
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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189
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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191
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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192
inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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193
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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194
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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195
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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196
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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197
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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198
rumination
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| n.反刍，沉思 | |
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199
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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200
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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201
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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202
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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203
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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204
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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205
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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206
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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208
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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209
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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210
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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211
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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212
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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213
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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214
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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215
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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216
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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217
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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218
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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219
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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220
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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221
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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222
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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223
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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224
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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225
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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226
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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227
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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228
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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229
genial
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|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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230
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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231
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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232
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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233
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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234
shuddered
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|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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235
conceit
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|
| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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236
thicket
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|
| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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237
imprisoned
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|
| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238
abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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239
mesh
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|
| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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240
descending
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|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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241
mellow
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|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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242
lust
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|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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243
brook
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|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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244
ruffled
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|
| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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245
soothed
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|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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246
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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247
lodger
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|
| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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248
illuminating
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|
| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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249
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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250
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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251
allurements
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|
| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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252
clamorous
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|
| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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253
blatant
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|
| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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254
raucous
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|
| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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255
abominable
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|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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256
belched
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|
| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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257
wares
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|
| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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258
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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259
swarming
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|
| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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260
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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261
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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262
squeals
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|
| n.长而尖锐的叫声( squeal的名词复数 )v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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263
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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264
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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265
wailed
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|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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267
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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268
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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269
joint
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|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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270
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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271
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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272
relentless
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|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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273
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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274
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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275
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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276
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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277
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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278
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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279
scruples
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|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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280
jeers
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|
| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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281
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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282
brink
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|
| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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283
perilous
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|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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284
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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285
dingy
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|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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286
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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287
shuffled
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|
| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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288
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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289
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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290
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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291
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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292
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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293
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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294
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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295
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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296
drizzly
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| a.毛毛雨的(a drizzly day) | |
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297
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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298
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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303
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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304
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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305
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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306
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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307
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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308
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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309
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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311
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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312
counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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313
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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316
counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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317
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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318
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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319
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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320
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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321
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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322
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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324
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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325
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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326
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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327
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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328
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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329
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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330
preludes
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| n.开端( prelude的名词复数 )；序幕；序曲；短篇作品 | |
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331
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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332
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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333
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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334
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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335
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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336
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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