He lay back in his chair, wondering whether it were late; his eyes were half closed, and he did not make the effort and rouse himself. He could hear the stormy noise of the wind, and the sound reminded him of the half-forgotten days. He thought of his boyhood, and the old rectory, and the great elms that surrounded it. There was something pleasant in the consciousness that he was still half dreaming; he knew he could wake up whenever he pleased, but for the moment he amused himself by the pretence4 that he was a little boy again, tired with his rambles5 and the keen air of the hills. He remembered how he would sometimes wake up in the dark at midnight, and listen sleepily for a moment to the rush of the wind straining and crying amongst the trees, and hear it beat upon the walls, and then he would fall to dreams again, happy in his warm, snug6 bed.
The wind grew louder, and the windows rattled7. He half opened his eyes and shut them again, determined8 to cherish that sensation of long ago. He felt tired and heavy with sleep; he imagined that he was exhausted9 by some effort; he had, perhaps, been writing furiously without rest. He could not recollect10 at the instant what the work had been; it would be delightful11 to read the pages when he had made up his mind to bestir himself.
Surely that was the noise of boughs13, swaying and grinding in the wind. He remembered one night at home when such a sound had roused him suddenly from a deep sweet sleep. There was a rushing and beating as of wings upon the air, and a heavy dreary15 noise, like thunder far away upon the mountain. He had got out of bed and looked from behind the blind to see what was abroad. He remembered the strange sight he had seen, and he pretended it would be just the same if he cared to look out now. There were clouds flying awfully16 from before the moon, and a pale light that made the familiar land look strange and terrible. The blast of wind came with a great shriek17, and the trees tossed and bowed and quivered; the wood was scourged18 and horrible, and the night air was ghastly with a confused tumult19, and voices as of a host. A huge black cloud rolled across the heaven from the west and covered up the moon, and there came a torrent20 of bitter hissing21 rain.
It was all a vivid picture to him as he sat in his chair, unwilling22 to wake. Even as he let his mind stray back to that night of the past years, the rain beat sharply on the window-panes23, and though there were no trees in the grey suburban24 street, he heard distinctly the crash of boughs. He wandered vaguely26 from thought to thought, groping indistinctly amongst memories, like a man trying to cross from door to door in a darkened unfamiliar27 room. But, no doubt, if he were to look out, by some magic the whole scene would be displayed before him. He would not see the curve of monotonous28 two-storied houses, with here and there a white blind, a patch of light, and shadows appearing and vanishing, not the rain plashing in the muddy road, not the amber30 of the gas-lamp opposite, but the wild moonlight poured on the dearly loved country; far away the dim circle of the hills and woods, and beneath him the tossing trees about the lawn, and the wood heaving under the fury of the wind.
He smiled to himself, amidst his lazy meditations31, to think how real it seemed, and yet it was all far away, the scenery of an old play long ended and forgotten. It was strange that after all these years of trouble and work and change he should be in any sense the same person as that little boy peeping out, half frightened, from the rectory window. It was as if looking in the glass one should see a stranger, and yet know that the image was a true reflection.
The memory of the old home recalled his father and mother to him, and he wondered whether his mother would come if he were to cry out suddenly. One night, on just such a night as this, when a great storm blew from the mountain, a tree had fallen with a crash and a bough12 had struck the roof, and he awoke in a fright, calling for his mother. She had come and had comforted him, soothing32 him to sleep, and now he shut his eyes, seeing her face shining in the uncertain flickering34 candle light, as she bent35 over his bed. He could not think she had died; the memory was but a part of the evil dreams that had come afterwards.
He said to himself that he had fallen asleep and dreamed sorrow and agony, and he wished to forget all the things of trouble. He would return to happy days, to the beloved land, to the dear and friendly paths across the fields. There was the paper, white before him, and when he chose to stir, he would have the pleasure of reading his work. He could not quite recollect what he had been about, but he was somehow conscious that the had been successful and had brought some long labor36 to a worthy37 ending. Presently he would light the gas, and enjoy the satisfaction that only the work could give him, but for the time he preferred to linger in the darkness, and to think of himself as straying from stile to stile through the scented38 meadows, and listening to the bright brook40 that sang to the alders41.
It was winter now, for he heard the rain and the wind, and the swaying of the trees, but in those old days how sweet the summer had been. The great hawthorn42 bush in blossom, like a white cloud upon the earth, had appeared to him in twilight43, he had lingered in the enclosed valley to hear the nightingale, a voice swelling45 out from the rich gloom, from the trees that grew around the well. The scent39 of the meadowsweet was blown to him across the bridge of years, and with it came the dream and the hope and the longing47, and the afterglow red in the sky, and the marvel48 of the earth. There was a quiet walk that he knew so well; one went up from a little green byroad, following an unnamed brooklet49 scarce a foot wide, but yet wandering like a river, gurgling over its pebbles50, with its dwarf51 bushes shading the pouring water. One went through the meadow grass, and came to the larch52 wood that grew from hill to hill across the stream, and shone a brilliant tender green, and sent vague sweet spires53 to the flushing sky. Through the wood the path wound, turning and dipping, and beneath, the brown fallen needles of last year were soft and thick, and the resinous54 cones55 gave out their odor as the warm night advanced, and the shadows darkened. It was quite still; but he stayed, and the faint song of the brooklet sounded like the echo of a river beyond the mountains. How strange it was to look into the wood, to see the tall straight stems rising, pillar-like, and then the dusk, uncertain, and then the blackness. So he came out from the larch wood, from the green cloud and the vague shadow, into the dearest of all hollows, shut in on one side by the larches56 and before him by high violent walls of turf, like the slopes of a fort, with a clear line dark against the twilight sky, and a weird57 thorn bush that grew large, mysterious, on the summit, beneath the gleam of the evening star.
And he retraced58 his wanderings in those deep old lanes that began from the common road and went away towards the unknown, climbing steep hills, and piercing the woods of shadows, and dipping down into valleys that seemed virgin60, unexplored, secret for the foot of man. He entered such a lane not knowing where it might bring him, hoping he had found the way to fairyland, to the woods beyond the world, to that vague territory that haunts all the dreams of a boy. He could not tell where he might be, for the high banks rose steep, and the great hedges made a green vault61 above. Marvelous ferns grew rich and thick in the dark red earth, fastening their roots about the roots of hazel and beech62 and maple63, clustering like the carven capitals of a cathedral pillar. Down, like a dark shaft64, the lane dipped to the well of the hills, and came amongst the limestone65 rocks. He climbed the bank at last, and looked out into a country that seemed for a moment the land he sought, a mysterious realm with unfamiliar hills and valleys and fair plains all golden, and white houses radiant in the sunset light.
And he thought of the steep hillsides where the bracken was like a wood, and of bare places where the west wind sang over the golden gorse, of still circles in mid-lake, of the poisonous yew-tree in the middle of the wood, shedding its crimson66 cups on the dank earth. How he lingered by certain black waterpools hedged on every side by drooping67 wych-elms and black-stemmed alders, watching the faint waves widening to the banks as a leaf or a twig68 dropped from the trees.
And the whole air and wonder of the ancient forest came back to him. He had found his way to the river valley, to the long lovely hollow between the hills, and went up and up beneath the leaves in the warm hush69 of midsummer, glancing back now and again through the green alleys59, to the river winding70 in mystic esses beneath, passing hidden glens receiving the streams that rushed down the hillside, ice-cold from the rock, passing the immemorial tumulus, the graves where the legionaries waited for the trumpet71, the grey farmhouses73 sending the blue wreaths of wood smoke into the still air. He went higher and higher, till at last he entered the long passage of the Roman road, and from this, the ridge46 and summit of the wood, he saw the waves of green swell44 and dip and sink towards the marshy74 level and the gleaming yellow sea. He looked on the surging forest, and thought of the strange deserted75 city moldering into a petty village on its verge77, of its encircling walls melting into the turf, of vestiges78 of an older temple which the earth had buried utterly79.
It was winter now, for he heard the wail80 of the wind, and a sudden gust2 drove the rain against the panes, but he thought of the bee’s song in the clover, of the foxgloves in full blossom, of the wild roses, delicate, enchanting81, swaying on a long stem above the hedge. He had been in strange places, he had known sorrow and desolation, and had grown grey and weary in the work of letters, but he lived again in the sweetness, in the clear bright air of early morning, when the sky was blue in June, and the mist rolled like a white sea in the valley. He laughed when he recollected82 that he had sometimes fancied himself unhappy in those days; in those days when he could be glad because the sun shone, because the wind blew fresh on the mountain. On those bright days he had been glad, looking at the fleeting83 and passing of the clouds upon the hills, and had gone up higher to the broad dome84 of the mountain, feeling that joy went up before him.
He remembered how, a boy, he had dreamed of love, of an adorable and ineffable85 mystery which transcended86 all longing and desire. The time had come when all the wonder of the earth seemed to prefigure this alone, when he found the symbol of the Beloved in hill and wood and stream, and every flower and every dark pool discoursed88 a pure ecstasy89. It was the longing for longing, the love of love, that had come to him when he awoke one morning just before the dawn, and for the first time felt the sharp thrill of passion.
He tried in vain to express to himself the exquisite90 joys of innocent desire. Even now, after troubled years, in spite of some dark cloud that overshadowed the background of his thought, the sweetness of the boy’s imagined pleasure came like a perfume into his reverie. It was no love of a woman but the desire of womanhood, the Eros of the unknown, that made the heart tremble. He hardly dreamed that such a love could ever be satisfied, that the thirst of beauty could be slaked92. He shrank from all contact of actuality, not venturing so much as to imagine the inner place and sanctuary93 of the mysteries. It was enough for him to adore in the outer court, to know that within, in the sweet gloom, were the vision and the rapture94, the altar and the sacrifice.
He remembered, dimly, the passage of many heavy years since that time of hope and passion, but, perhaps, the vague shadow would pass away, and he could renew the boy’s thoughts, the unformed fancies that were part of the bright day, of the wild roses in the hedgerow. All other things should be laid aside, he would let them trouble him no more after this winter night. He saw now that from the first he had allowed his imagination to bewilder him, to create a fantastic world in which he suffered, molding innocent forms into terror and dismay. Vividly95, he saw again the black circle of oaks, growing in a haggard ring upon the bastions of the Roman fort. The noise of the storm without grew louder, and he thought how the wind had come up the valley with the sound of a scream, how a great tree had ground its boughs together, shuddering96 before the violent blast. Clear and distinct, as if he were standing98 now in the lane, he saw the steep slopes surging from the valley, and the black crown of the oaks set against the flaming sky, against a blaze and glow of light as if great furnace doors were opened. He saw the fire, as it were, smitten99 about the bastions, about the heaped mounds100 that guarded the fort, and the crooked102 evil boughs seemed to writhe103 in the blast of flame that beat from heaven. Strangely with the sight of the burning fort mingled104 the impression of a dim white shape floating up the dusk of the lane towards him, and he saw across the valley of years a girl’s face, a momentary105 apparition106 that shone and vanished away.
Then there was a memory of another day, of violent summer, of white farmhouse72 walls blazing in the sun, and a far call from the reapers107 in the cornfields. He had climbed the steep slope and penetrated108 the matted thicket109 and lay in the heat, alone on the soft short grass that grew within the fort. There was a cloud of madness, and confusion of broken dreams that had no meaning or clue but only an indefinable horror and defilement110. He had fallen asleep as he gazed at the knotted fantastic boughs of the stunted111 brake about him, and when he woke he was ashamed, and fled away fearing that “they” would pursue him. He did not know who “they” were, but it seemed as if a woman’s face watched him from between the matted boughs, and that she summoned to her side awful companions who had never grown old through all the ages.
He looked up, it seemed, at a smiling face that bent over him, as he sat in the cool dark kitchen of the old farmhouse, and wondered why the sweetness of those red lips and the kindness of the eyes mingled with the nightmare in the fort, with the horrible Sabbath he had imagined as he lay sleeping on the hot soft turf. He had allowed these disturbed fancies, all this mad wreck112 of terror and shame that he had gathered in his mind, to trouble him for too long a time; presently he would light up the room, and leave all the old darkness of his life behind him, and from henceforth he would walk in the day.
He could still distinguish, though very vaguely, the pile of papers beside him, and he remembered, now, that he had finished a long task that afternoon, before he fell asleep. He could not trouble himself to recollect the exact nature of the work, but he was sure that he had done well; in a few minutes, perhaps, he would strike a match, and read the title, and amuse himself with his own forgetfulness. But the sight of the papers lying there in order made him think of his beginnings, of those first unhappy efforts which were so impossible and so hopeless. He saw himself bending over the table in the old familiar room, desperately114 scribbling115, and then laying down his pen dismayed at the sad results on the page. It was late at night, his father had been long in bed, and the house was still. The fire was almost out, with only a dim glow here and there amongst the cinders116, and the room was growing chilly117. He rose at last from his work and looked out on a dim earth and a dark and cloudy sky.
Night after night he had labored118 on, persevering119 in his effort, even through the cold sickness of despair, when every line was doomed120 as it was made. Now, with the consciousness that he knew at least the conditions of literature, and that many years of thought and practice had given him some sense of language, he found these early struggles both pathetic and astonishing. He could not understand how he had persevered122 so stubbornly, how he had had the heart to begin a fresh page when so many folios of blotted124, painful effort lay torn, derided125, impossible in their utter failure. It seemed to him that it must have been a miracle or an infernal possession, a species of madness, that had driven him on, every day disappointed, and every day hopeful.
And yet there was a joyous126 side to the illusion. In these dry days that he lived in, when he had bought, by a long experience and by countless127 hours of misery128, a knowledge of his limitations, of the vast gulf129 that yawned between the conception and the work, it was pleasant to think of a time when all things were possible, when the most splendid design seemed an affair of a few weeks. Now he had come to a frank acknowledgment; so far as he was concerned, he judged every book wholly impossible till the last line of it was written, and he had learnt patience, the art of sighing and putting the fine scheme away in the pigeon-hole of what could never be. But to think of those days! Then one could plot out a book that should be more curious than Rabelais, and jot130 down the outlines of a romance to surpass Cervantes, and design renaissance131 tragedies and volumes of contes, and comedies of the Restoration; everything was to be done, and the masterpiece was always the rainbow cup, a little way before him.
He touched the manuscript on the desk, and the feeling of the pages seemed to restore all the papers that had been torn so long ago. It was the atmosphere of the silent room that returned, the light of the shaded candle falling on the abandoned leaves. This had been painfully excogitated while the snowstorm whirled about the lawn and filled the lanes, this was of the summer night, this of the harvest moon rising like a fire from the tithebarn on the hill. How well he remembered those half-dozen pages of which he had once been so proud; he had thought out the sentences one evening, while he leaned on the foot-bridge and watched the brook swim across the road. Every word smelt132 of the meadowsweet that grew thick upon the banks; now, as he recalled the cadence133 and the phrase that had seemed so charming, he saw again the ferns beneath the vaulted134 roots of the beech, and the green light of the glowworm in the hedge.
And in the west the mountains swelled135 to a great dome, and on the dome was a mound101, the memorial of some forgotten race, that grew dark and large against the red sky, when the sun set. He had lingered below it in the solitude136, amongst the winds, at evening, far away from home; and oh, the labor and the vain efforts to make the form of it and the awe137 of it in prose, to write the hush of the vast hill, and the sadness of the world below sinking into the night, and the mystery, the suggestion of the rounded hillock, huge against the magic sky.
He had tried to sing in words the music that the brook sang, and the sound of the October wind rustling139 through the brown bracken on the hill. How many pages he had covered in the effort to show a white winter world, a sun without warmth in a grey-blue sky, all the fields, all the land white and shining, and one high summit where the dark pines towered, still in the still afternoon, in the pale violet air.
To win the secret of words, to make a phrase that would murmur140 of summer and the bee, to summon the wind into a sentence, to conjure141 the odor of the night into the surge and fall and harmony of a line; this was the tale of the long evenings, of the candle flame white upon the paper and the eager pen.
He remembered that in some fantastic book he had seen a bar or two of music, and, beneath, the inscription142 that here was the musical expression of Westminster Abbey. His boyish effort seemed hardly less ambitious, and he no longer believed that language could present the melody and the awe and the loveliness of the earth. He had long known that he, at all events, would have to be content with a far approach, with a few broken notes that might suggest, perhaps, the magistral everlasting143 song of the hill and the streams.
But in those far days the impossible was but a part of wonderland that lay before him, of the world beyond the wood and the mountain. All was to be conquered, all was to be achieved; he had but to make the journey and he would find the golden world and the golden word, and hear those songs that the sirens sang. He touched the manuscript; whatever it was, it was the result of painful labor and disappointment, not of the old flush of hope, but it came of weary days, of correction and re-correction. It might be good in its measure; but afterwards he would write no more for a time. He would go back again to the happy world of masterpieces, to the dreams of great and perfect books, written in an ecstasy.
Like a dark cloud from the sea came the memory of the attempt he had made, of the poor piteous history that had once embittered144 his life. He sighed and said alas145, thinking of his folly146, of the hours when he was shaken with futile147, miserable148 rage. Some silly person in London had made his manuscript more saleable and had sold it without rendering149 an account of the profits, and for that he had been ready to curse humanity. Black, horrible, as the memory of a stormy day, the rage of his heart returned to his mind, and he covered his eyes, endeavoring to darken the picture of terror and hate that shone before him. He tried to drive it all out of his thought, it vexed151 him to remember these foolish trifles; the trick of a publisher, the small pomposities and malignancies of the country folk, the cruelty of a village boy, had inflamed152 him almost to the pitch of madness. His heart had burnt with fury, and when he looked up the sky was blotched, and scarlet153 as if it rained blood.
Indeed he had almost believed that blood had rained upon him, and cold blood from a sacrifice in heaven; his face was wet and chill and dripping, and he had passed his hand across his forehead and looked at it. A red cloud had seemed to swell over the hill, and grow great, and come near to him; he was but an ace33 removed from raging madness.
It had almost come to that; the drift and the breath of the scarlet cloud had well-nigh touched him. It was strange that he had been so deeply troubled by such little things, and strange how after all the years he could still recall the anguish154 and rage and hate that shook his soul as with a spiritual tempest.
The memory of all that evening was wild and troubled; he resolved that it should vex150 him no more, that now, for the last time, he would let himself be tormented155 by the past. In a few minutes he would rise to a new life, and forget all the storms that had gone over him.
Curiously157, every detail was distinct and clear in his brain. The figure of the doctor driving home, and the sound of the few words he had spoken came to him in the darkness, through the noise of the storm and the pattering of the rain. Then he stood upon the ridge of the hill and saw the smoke drifting up from the ragged159 roofs of Caermaen, in the evening calm; he listened to the voices mounting thin and clear, in a weird tone, as if some outland folk were speaking in an unknown tongue of awful things.
He saw the gathering160 darkness, the mystery of twilight changing the huddled161 squalid village into an unearthly city, into some dreadful Atlantis, inhabited by a ruined race. The mist falling fast, the gloom that seemed to issue from the black depths of the forest, to advance palpably towards the walls, were shaped before him; and beneath, the river wound, snake-like, about the town, swimming to the flood and glowing in its still pools like molten brass163. And as the water mirrored the afterglow and sent ripples164 and gouts of blood against the shuddering reeds, there came suddenly the piercing trumpet-call, the loud reiterated165 summons that rose and fell, that called and recalled, echoing through all the valley, crying to the dead as the last note rang. It summoned the legion from the river and the graves and the battlefield, the host floated up from the sea, the centuries swarmed166 about the eagles, the array was set for the last great battle, behind the leaguer of the mist.
He could imagine himself still wandering through the dim unknown, terrible country, gazing affrighted at the hills and woods that seemed to have put on an unearthly shape, stumbling amongst the briars that caught his feet. He lost his way in a wild country, and the red light that blazed up from the furnace on the mountains only showed him a mysterious land, in which he strayed aghast, with the sense of doom121 weighing upon him. The dry mutter of the trees, the sound of an unseen brook, made him afraid as if the earth spoke158 of his sin, and presently he was fleeing through a desolate167 shadowy wood, where a pale light flowed from the moldering stumps168, a dream of light that shed a ghostly radiance.
And then again the dark summit of the Roman fort, the black sheer height rising above the valley, and the moonfire streaming around the ring of oaks, glowing about the green bastions that guarded the thicket and the inner place.
The room in which he sat appeared the vision, the trouble of the wind and rain without was but illusion, the noise of the waves in the seashell. Passion and tears and adoration169 and the glories of the summer night returned, and the calm sweet face of the woman appeared, and he thrilled at the soft touch of her hand on his flesh.
She shone as if she had floated down into the lane from the moon that swam between films of cloud above the black circle of the oaks. She led him away from all terror and despair and hate, and gave herself to him with rapture, showing him love, kissing his tears away, pillowing his cheek upon her breast.
His lips dwelt on her lips, his mouth upon the breath of her mouth, her arms were strained about him, and oh! she charmed him with her voice, with sweet kind words, as she offered her sacrifice. How her scented hair fell down, and floated over his eyes, and there was a marvelous fire called the moon, and her lips were aflame, and her eyes shone like a light on the hills.
All beautiful womanhood had come to him in the lane. Love had touched him in the dusk and had flown away, but he had seen the splendor170 and the glory, and his eyes had seen the enchanted171 light.
AVE ATQUE VALE
The old words sounded in his ears like the ending of a chant, and he heard the music’s close. Once only in his weary hapless life, once the world had passed away, and he had known her, the dear, dear Annie, the symbol of all mystic womanhood.
The heaviness of languor172 still oppressed him, holding him back amongst these old memories, so that he could not stir from his place. Oddly, there seemed something unaccustomed about the darkness of the room, as if the shadows he had summoned had changed the aspect of the walls. He was conscious that on this night he was not altogether himself; fatigue173, and the weariness of sleep, and the waking vision had perplexed174 him. He remembered how once or twice when he was a little boy startled by an uneasy dream, and had stared with a frightened gaze into nothingness, not knowing where he was, all trembling, and breathing quick, till he touched the rail of his bed, and the familiar outlines of the looking-glass and the chiffonier began to glimmer175 out of the gloom. So now he touched the pile of manuscript and the desk at which he had worked so many hours, and felt reassured176, though he smiled at himself, and he felt the old childish dread162, the longing to cry out for some one to bring a candle, and show him that he really was in his own room. He glanced up for an instant, expecting to see perhaps the glitter of the brass gas jet that was fixed177 on the wall, just beside his bureau, but it was too dark, and he could not rouse himself and make the effort that would drive the cloud and the muttering thoughts away.
He leant back again, picturing the wet street without, the rain driving like fountain spray about the gas lamp, the shrilling179 of the wind on those waste places to the north. It was strange how in the brick and stucco desert where no trees were, he all the time imagined the noise of tossing boughs, the grinding of the boughs together. There was a great storm and tumult in this wilderness180 of London, and for the sound of the rain and the wind he could not hear the hum and jangle of the trams, and the jar and shriek of the garden gates as they opened and shut. But he could imagine his street, the rain-swept desolate curve of it, as it turned northward181, and beyond the empty suburban roads, the twinkling villa76 windows, the ruined field, the broken lane, and then yet another suburb rising, a solitary182 gas-lamp glimmering183 at a corner, and the plane tree lashing29 its boughs, and driving great showers against the glass.
It was wonderful to think of. For when these remote roads were ended one dipped down the hill into the open country, into the dim world beyond the glint of friendly fires. Tonight, how waste they were, these wet roads, edged with the red-brick houses, with shrubs184 whipped by the wind against one another, against the paling and the wall. There the wind swayed the great elms scattered186 on the sidewalk, the remnants of the old stately fields, and beneath each tree was a pool of wet, and a torment156 of raindrops fell with every gust. And one passed through the red avenues, perhaps by a little settlement of flickering shops, and passed the last sentinel wavering lamp, and the road became a ragged lane, and the storm screamed from hedge to hedge across the open fields. And then, beyond, one touched again upon a still remoter avant-garde of London, an island amidst the darkness, surrounded by its pale of twinkling, starry187 lights.
He remembered his wanderings amongst these outposts of the town, and thought how desolate all their ways must be tonight. They were solitary in wet and wind, and only at long intervals188 some one pattered and hurried along them, bending his eyes down to escape the drift of rain. Within the villas190, behind the close-drawn191 curtains, they drew about the fire, and wondered at the violence of the storm, listening for each great gust as it gathered far away, and rocked the trees, and at last rushed with a huge shock against their walls as if it were the coming of the sea. He thought of himself walking, as he had often walked, from lamp to lamp on such a night, treasuring his lonely thoughts, and weighing the hard task awaiting him in his room. Often in the evening, after a long day’s labor, he had thrown down his pen in utter listlessness, feeling that he could struggle no more with ideas and words, and he had gone out into driving rain and darkness, seeking the word of the enigma192 as he tramped on and on beneath these outer battlements of London.
Or on some grey afternoon in March or November he had sickened of the dull monotony and the stagnant193 life that he saw from his window, and had taken his design with him to the lonely places, halting now and again by a gate, and pausing in the shelter of a hedge through which the austere194 wind shivered, while, perhaps, he dreamed of Sicily, or of sunlight on the Proven?al olives. Often as he strayed solitary from street to field, and passed the Syrian fig87 tree imprisoned195 in Britain, nailed to an ungenial wall, the solution of the puzzle became evident, and he laughed and hurried home eager to make the page speak, to note the song he had heard on his way.
Sometimes he had spent many hours treading this edge and brim of London, now lost amidst the dun fields, watching the bushes shaken by the wind, and now looking down from a height whence he could see the dim waves of the town, and a barbaric water tower rising from a hill, and the snuff-colored cloud of smoke that seemed blown up from the streets into the sky.
There were certain ways and places that he had cherished; he loved a great old common that stood on high ground, curtained about with ancient spacious196 houses of red brick, and their cedarn197 gardens. And there was on the road that led to this common a space of ragged uneven198 ground with a pool and a twisted oak, and here he had often stayed in autumn and looked across the mist and the valley at the great theatre of the sunset, where a red cloud like a charging knight199 shone and conquered a purple dragon shape, and golden lances glittered in a field of faerie green.
Or sometimes, when the unending prospect200 of trim, monotonous, modern streets had wearied him, he had found an immense refreshment201 in the discovery of a forgotten hamlet, left in a hollow, while all new London pressed and surged on every side, threatening the rest of the red roofs with its vulgar growth. These little peaceful houses, huddled together beneath the shelter of trees, with their bulging202 leaded windows and uneven roofs, somehow brought back to him the sense of the country, and soothed203 him with the thought of the old farm-houses, white or grey, the homes of quiet lives, harbors where, perhaps, no tormenting204 thoughts ever broke in.
For he had instinctively205 determined that there was neither rest nor health in all the arid206 waste of streets about him. It seemed as if in those dull rows of dwellings207, in the prim208 new villas, red and white and staring, there must be a leaven209 working which transformed all to base vulgarity. Beneath the dull sad slates210, behind the blistered212 doors, love turned to squalid intrigue213, mirth to drunken clamor, and the mystery of life became a common thing; religion was sought for in the greasy214 piety215 and flatulent oratory216 of the Independent chapel217, the stuccoed nightmare of the Doric columns. Nothing fine, nothing rare, nothing exquisite, it seemed, could exist in the weltering suburban sea, in the habitations which had risen from the stench and slime of the brickfields. It was as if the sickening fumes218 that steamed from the burning bricks had been sublimed219 into the shape of houses, and those who lived in these grey places could also claim kinship with the putrid220 mud.
Hence he had delighted in the few remains221 of the past that he could find still surviving on the suburb’s edge, in the grave old houses that stood apart from the road, in the moldering taverns222 of the eighteenth century, in the huddled hamlets that had preserved only the glow and the sunlight of all the years that had passed over them. It appeared to him that vulgarity and greasiness223 and squalor had come with a flood, that not only the good but also the evil in man’s heart had been made common and ugly, that a sordid224 scum was mingled with all the springs, of death as of life. It would be alike futile to search amongst these mean two-storied houses for a splendid sinner as for a splendid saint; the very vices225 of these people smelt of cabbage water and a pothouse vomit226.
And so he had often fled away from the serried227 maze228 that encircled him, seeking for the old and worn and significant as an antiquary looks for the fragments of the Roman temple amidst the modern shops. In some way the gusts229 of wind and the beating rain of the night reminded him of an old house that had often attracted him with a strange indefinable curiosity. He had found it on a grim grey day in March, when he had gone out under a leaden-molded sky, cowering230 from a dry freezing wind that brought with it the gloom and the doom of far unhappy Siberian plains. More than ever that day the suburb had oppressed him; insignificant231, detestable, repulsive232 to body and mind, it was the only hell that a vulgar age could conceive or make, an inferno233 created not by Dante but by the jerry-builder. He had gone out to the north, and when he lifted up his eyes again he found that he had chanced to turn up by one of the little lanes that still strayed across the broken fields. He had never chosen this path before because the lane at its outlet234 was so wholly degraded and offensive, littered with rusty235 tins and broken crockery, and hedged in with a paling fashioned out of scraps236 of wire, rotting timber, and bending worn-out rails. But on this day, by happy chance, he had fled from the high road by the first opening that offered, and he no longer groped his way amongst obscene refuse, sickened by the bloated bodies of dead dogs, and fetid odors from unclean decay, but the malpassage had become a peaceful winding lane, with warm shelter beneath its banks from the dismal237 wind. For a mile he had walked quietly, and then a turn in the road showed him a little glen or hollow, watered by such a tiny rushing brooklet as his own woods knew, and beyond, alas, the glaring foreguard of a “new neighborhood”; raw red villas, semi-detached, and then a row of lamentable238 shops.
But as he was about to turn back, in the hope of finding some other outlet, his attention was charmed by a small house that stood back a little from the road on his right hand. There had been a white gate, but the paint had long faded to grey and black, and the wood crumbled239 under the touch, and only moss240 marked out the lines of the drive. The iron railing round the lawn had fallen, and the poor flower-beds were choked with grass and a faded growth of weeds. But here and there a rosebush lingered amidst suckers that had sprung grossly from the root, and on each side of the hall door were box trees, untrimmed, ragged, but still green. The slate211 roof was all stained and livid, blotched with the drippings of a great elm that stood at one corner of the neglected lawn, and marks of damp and decay were thick on the uneven walls, which had been washed yellow many years before. There was a porch of trellis work before the door, and Lucian had seen it rock in the wind, swaying as if every gust must drive it down. There were two windows on the ground floor, one on each side of the door, and two above, with a blind space where a central window had been blocked up.
This poor and desolate house had fascinated him. Ancient and poor and fallen, disfigured by the slate roof and the yellow wash that had replaced the old mellow241 dipping tiles and the warm red walls, and disfigured again by spots and patches of decay; it seemed as if its happy days were for ever ended. To Lucian it appealed with a sense of doom and horror; the black streaks242 that crept upon the walls, and the green drift upon the roof, appeared not so much the work of foul243 weather and dripping boughs, as the outward signs of evil working and creeping in the lives of those within.
The stage seemed to him decked for doom, painted with the symbols of tragedy; and he wondered as he looked whether any one were so unhappy as to live there still. There were torn blinds in the windows, but he had asked himself who could be so brave as to sit in that room, darkened by the dreary box, and listen of winter nights to the rain upon the window, and the moaning of wind amongst the tossing boughs that beat against the roof.
He could not imagine that any chamber244 in such a house was habitable. Here the dead had lain, through the white blind the thin light had filtered on the rigid245 mouth, and still the floor must be wet with tears and still that great rocking elm echoed the groaning246 and the sobs247 of those who watched. No doubt, the damp was rising, and the odor of the earth filled the house, and made such as entered draw back, foreseeing the hour of death.
Often the thought of this strange old house had haunted him; he had imagined the empty rooms where a heavy paper peeled from the walls and hung in dark strips; and he could not believe that a light ever shone from those windows that stared black and glittering on the neglected lawn. But tonight the wet and the storm seemed curiously to bring the image of the place before him, and as the wind sounded he thought how unhappy those must be, if any there were, who sat in the musty chambers248 by a flickering light, and listened to the elm-tree moaning and beating and weeping on the walls.
And tonight was Saturday night; and there was about that phrase something that muttered of the condemned249 cell, of the agony of a doomed man. Ghastly to his eyes was the conception of any one sitting in that room to the right of the door behind the larger box tree, where the wall was cracked above the window and smeared250 with a black stain in an ugly shape.
He knew how foolish it had been in the first place to trouble his mind with such conceits251 of a dreary cottage on the outskirts252 of London. And it was more foolish now to meditate253 these things, fantasies, feigned254 forms, the issue of a sad mood and a bleak255 day of spring. For soon, in a few moments, he was to rise to a new life. He was but reckoning up the account of his past, and when the light came he was to think no more of sorrow and heaviness, of real or imagined terrors. He had stayed too long in London, and he would once more taste the breath of the hills, and see the river winding in the long lovely valley; ah! he would go home.
Something like a thrill, the thrill of fear, passed over him as he remembered that there was no home. It was in the winter, a year and a half after his arrival in town, that he had suffered the loss of his father. He lay for many days prostrate256, overwhelmed with sorrow and with the thought that now indeed he was utterly alone in the world. Miss Deacon was to live with another cousin in Yorkshire; the old home was at last ended and done. He felt sorry that he had not written more frequently to his father: there were things in his cousin’s letters that had made his heart sore. “Your poor father was always looking for your letters,” she wrote, “they used to cheer him so much. He nearly broke down when you sent him that money last Christmas; he got it into his head that you were starving yourself to send it him. He was hoping so much that you would have come down this Christmas, and kept asking me about the plum-puddings months ago.”
It was not only his father that had died, but with him the last strong link was broken, and the past life, the days of his boyhood, grew faint as a dream. With his father his mother died again, and the long years died, the time of his innocence257, the memory of affection. He was sorry that his letters had gone home so rarely; it hurt him to imagine his father looking out when the post came in the morning, and forced to be sad because there was nothing. But he had never thought that his father valued the few lines that he wrote, and indeed it was often difficult to know what to say. It would have been useless to write of those agonizing258 nights when the pen seemed an awkward and outlandish instrument, when every effort ended in shameful259 defeat, or of the happier hours when at last wonder appeared and the line glowed, crowned and exalted260. To poor Mr. Taylor such tales would have seemed but trivial histories of some Oriental game, like an odd story from a land where men have time for the infinitely261 little, and can seriously make a science of arranging blossoms in a jar, and discuss perfumes instead of politics. It would have been useless to write to the rectory of his only interest, and so he wrote seldom.
And then he had been sorry because he could never write again and never see his home. He had wondered whether he would have gone down to the old place at Christmas, if his father had lived. It was curious how common things evoked262 the bitterest griefs, but his father’s anxiety that the plum-pudding should be good, and ready for him, had brought the tears into his eyes. He could hear him saying in a nervous voice that attempted to be cheerful: “I suppose you will be thinking of the Christmas puddings soon, Jane; you remember how fond Lucian used to be of plum-pudding. I hope we shall see him this December.” No doubt poor Miss Deacon paled with rage at the suggestion that she should make Christmas pudding in July; and returned a sharp answer; but it was pathetic. The wind wailed263, and the rain dashed and beat again and again upon the window. He imagined that all his thoughts of home, of the old rectory amongst the elms, had conjured264 into his mind the sound of the storm upon the trees, for, tonight, very clearly he heard the creaking of the boughs, the noise of boughs moaning and beating and weeping on the walls, and even a pattering of wet, on wet earth, as if there were a shrub185 near the window that shook off the raindrops, before the gust.
That thrill, as it were a shudder97 of fear, passed over him again, and he knew not what had made him afraid. There were some dark shadow on his mind that saddened him; it seemed as if a vague memory of terrible days hung like a cloud over his thought, but it was all indefinite, perhaps the last grim and ragged edge of the melancholy265 wrack266 that had swelled over his life and the bygone years. He shivered and tried to rouse himself and drive away the sense of dread and shame that seemed so real and so awful, and yet he could not grasp it. But the torpor of sleep, the burden of the work that he had ended a few hours before, still weighed down his limb and bound his thoughts. He could scarcely believe that he had been busy at his desk a little while ago, and that just before the winter day closed it and the rain began to fall he had laid down the pen with a sigh of relief, and had slept in his chair. It was rather as if he had slumbered267 deeply through a long and weary night, as if an awful vision of flame and darkness and the worm that dieth not had come to him sleeping. But he would dwell no more on the darkness; he went back to the early days in London when he had said farewell to the hills and to the waterpools, and had set to work in this little room in the dingy268 street.
How he had toiled269 and labored at the desk before him! He had put away the old wild hopes of the masterpiece conceived and executed in a fury of inspiration, wrought270 out in one white heat of creative joy; it was enough if by dint271 of long perseverance272 and singleness of desire he could at last, in pain and agony and despair, after failure and disappointment and effort constantly renewed, fashion something of which he need not be ashamed. He had put himself to school again, and had, with what patience he could command, ground his teeth into the rudiments273, resolved that at last he would test out the heart of the mystery. They were good nights to remember, these; he was glad to think of the little ugly room, with its silly wall-paper and its “bird’s-eye” furniture, lighted up, while he sat at the bureau and wrote on into the cold stillness of the London morning, when the flickering lamplight and the daystar shone together. It was an interminable labor, and he had always known it to be as hopeless as alchemy. The gold, the great and glowing masterpiece, would never shine amongst the dead ashes and smoking efforts of the crucible274, but in the course of the life, in the interval189 between the failures, he might possibly discover curious things.
These were the good nights that he could look back on without any fear or shame, when he had been happy and content on a diet of bread and tea and tobacco, and could hear of some imbecility passing into its hundredth thousand, and laugh cheerfully — if only that last page had been imagined aright, if the phrases noted275 in the still hours rang out their music when he read them in the morning. He remembered the drolleries and fantasies that the worthy Miss Deacon used to write to him, and how he had grinned at her words of reproof276, admonition, and advice. She had once instigated277 Dolly fils to pay him a visit, and that young prop278 of respectability had talked about the extraordinary running of Bolter at the Scurragh meeting in Ireland; and then, glancing at Lucian’s books, had inquired whether any of them had “warm bits.” He had been kind though patronizing, and seemed to have moved freely in the most brilliant society of Stoke Newington. He had not been able to give any information as to the present condition of Edgar Allan Poe’s old school. It appeared eventually that his report at home had not been a very favorable one, for no invitation to high tea had followed, as Miss Deacon had hoped. The Dollys knew many nice people, who were well off, and Lucian’s cousin, as she afterwards said, had done her best to introduce him to the beau monde of those northern suburbs.
But after the visit of the young Dolly, with what joy he had returned to the treasures which he had concealed279 from profane280 eyes. He had looked out and seen his visitor on board the tram at the street corner, and he laughed out loud, and locked his door. There had been moments when he was lonely, and wished to hear again the sound of friendly speech, but, after such an irruption of suburban futility281, it was a keen delight, to feel that he was secure on his tower, that he could absorb himself in his wonderful task as safe and silent as if he were in mid-desert.
But there was one period that he dared not revive; he could no bear to think of those weeks of desolation and terror in the winter after his coming to London. His mind was sluggish282, and he could not quite remember how many years had passed since that dismal experience; it sounded all an old story, but yet it was still vivid, a flaming scroll283 of terror from which he turned his eyes away. One awful scene glowed into his memory, and he could not shut out the sight of an orgy, of dusky figures whirling in a ring, of lurid284 naphtha flares285 blazing in the darkness, of great glittering lamps, like infernal thuribles, very slowly swaying in a violent blast of air. And there was something else, something which he could not remember, but it filled him with terror, but it slunk in the dark places of his soul, as a wild beast crouches286 in the depths of a cave.
Again, and without reason, he began to image to himself that old moldering house in the field. With what a loud incessant287 noise the wind must be clamoring about on this fearful night, how the great elm swayed and cried in the storm, and the rain dashed and pattered on the windows, and dripped on the sodden288 earth from the shaking shrubs beside the door. He moved uneasily on his chair, and struggled to put the picture out of his thoughts; but in spite of himself he saw the stained uneven walls, that ugly blot123 of mildew289 above the window, and perhaps a feeble gleam of light filtered through the blind, and some one, unhappy above all and for ever lost, sat within the dismal room. Or rather, every window was black, without a glimmer of hope, and he who was shut in thick darkness heard the wind and the rain, and the noise of the elm-tree moaning and beating and weeping on the walls.
For all his effort the impression would not leave him, and as he sat before his desk looking into the vague darkness he could almost see that chamber which he had so often imagined; the low whitewashed290 ceiling held up by a heavy beam, the smears291 of smoke and long usage, the cracks and fissures292 of the plaster. Old furniture, shabby, deplorable, battered293, stood about the room; there was a horsehair sofa worn and tottering294, and a dismal paper, patterned in a livid red, blackened and moldered near the floor, and peeled off and hung in strips from the dank walls. And there was that odor of decay, of the rank soil steaming, of rotting wood, a vapor295 that choked the breath and made the heart full of fear and heaviness.
Lucian again shivered with a thrill of dread; he was afraid that he had overworked himself and that he was suffering from the first symptoms of grave illness. His mind dwelt on confused and terrible recollections, and with a mad ingenuity296 gave form and substance to phantoms297; and even now he drew a long breath, almost imagining that the air in his room was heavy and noisome299, that it entered his nostrils300 with some taint301 of the crypt. And his body was still languid, and though he made a half motion to rise he could not find enough energy for the effort, and he sank again into the chair. At all events, he would think no more of that sad house in the field; he would return to those long struggles with letters, to the happy nights when he had gained victories.
He remembered something of his escape from the desolation and the worse than desolation that had obsessed302 him during that first winter in London. He had gone free one bleak morning in February, and after those dreary terrible weeks the desk and the heap and litter of papers had once more engulfed303 and absorbed him. And in the succeeding summer, of a night when he lay awake and listened to the birds, shining images came wantonly to him. For an hour, while the dawn brightened, he had felt the presence of an age, the resurrection of the life that the green fields had hidden, and his heart stirred for joy when he knew that he held and possessed304 all the loveliness that had so long moldered. He could scarcely fall asleep for eager and leaping thoughts, and as soon as his breakfast was over he went out and bought paper and pens of a certain celestial305 stationer in Notting Hill. The street was not changed as he passed to and fro on his errand. The rattling306 wagons307 jostled by at intervals, a rare hansom came spinning down from London, there sounded the same hum and jangle of the gliding308 trams. The languid life of the pavement was unaltered; a few people, un-classed, without salience or possible description, lounged and walked from east to west, and from west to east, or slowly dropped into the byways to wander in the black waste to the north, or perhaps go astray in the systems that stretched towards the river. He glanced down these by-roads as he passed, and was astonished, as always, at their mysterious and desert aspect. Some were utterly empty; lines of neat, appalling309 residences, trim and garnished310 as if for occupation, edging the white glaring road; and not a soul was abroad, and not a sound broke their stillness. It was a picture of the desolation of midnight lighted up, but empty and waste as the most profound and solemn hours before the day. Other of these by-roads, of older settlement, were furnished with more important houses, standing far back from the pavement, each in a little wood of greenery, and thus one might look down as through a forest vista311, and see a way smooth and guarded with low walls and yet untrodden, and all a leafy silence. Here and there in some of these echoing roads a figure seemed lazily advancing in the distance, hesitating and delaying, as if lost in the labyrinth312. It was difficult to say which were the more dismal, these deserted streets that wandered away to right and left, or the great main thoroughfare with its narcotic313 and shadowy life. For the latter appeared vast, interminable, grey, and those who traveled by it were scarcely real, the bodies of the living, but rather the uncertain and misty314 shapes that come and go across the desert in an Eastern tale, when men look up from the sand and see a caravan315 pass them, all in silence, without a cry or a greeting. So they passed and repassed each other on those pavements, appearing and vanishing, each intent on his own secret, and wrapped in obscurity. One might have sworn that not a man saw his neighbor who met him or jostled him, that here every one was a phantom298 for the other, though the lines of their paths crossed and recrossed, and their eyes stared like the eyes of live men. When two went by together, they mumbled316 and cast distrustful glances behind them as though afraid all the world was an enemy, and the pattering of feet was like the noise of a shower of rain. Curious appearances and simulations of life gathered at points in the road, for at intervals the villas ended and shops began in a dismal row, and looked so hopeless that one wondered who could buy. There were women fluttering uneasily about the greengrocers, and shabby things in rusty black touched and retouched the red lumps that an unshaven butcher offered, and already in the corner public there was a confused noise, with a tossing of voices that rose and fell like a Jewish chant, with the senseless stir of marionettes jerked into an imitation of gaiety. Then, in crossing a side street that seemed like grey mid-winter in stone, he trespassed317 from one world to another, for an old decayed house amidst its garden held the opposite corner. The laurels318 had grown into black skeletons, patched with green drift, the ilex gloomed over the porch, the deodar had blighted319 the flower-beds. Dark ivies320 swarmed over an elm-tree, and a brown clustering fungus321 sprang in gross masses on the lawn, showing where the roots of dead trees moldered. The blue verandah, the blue balcony over the door, had faded to grey, and the stucco was blotched with ugly marks of weather, and a dank smell of decay, that vapor of black rotten earth in old town gardens, hung heavy about the gates. And then a row of musty villas had pushed out in shops to the pavement, and the things in faded black buzzed and stirred about the limp cabbages, and the red lumps of meat.
It was the same terrible street, whose pavements he had trodden so often, where sunshine seemed but a gaudy322 light, where the fume91 of burning bricks always drifted. On black winter nights he had seen the sparse323 lights glimmering through the rain and drawing close together, as the dreary road vanished in long perspective. Perhaps this was its most appropriate moment, when nothing of its smug villas and skeleton shops remained but the bright patches of their windows, when the old house amongst its moldering shrubs was but a dark cloud, and the streets to the north and south seemed like starry wastes, beyond them the blackness of infinity324. Always in the daylight it had been to him abhorred325 and abominable326, and its grey houses and purlieus had been fungus-like sproutings, an efflorescence of horrible decay.
But on that bright morning neither the dreadful street nor those who moved about it appalled327 him. He returned joyously328 to his den14, and reverently329 laid out the paper on his desk. The world about him was but a grey shadow hovering330 on a shining wall; its noises were faint as the rustling of trees in a distant wood. The lovely and exquisite forms of those who served the Amber Venus were his distinct, clear, and manifest visions, and for one amongst them who came to him in a fire of bronze hair his heart stirred with the adoration of love. She it was who stood forth113 from all the rest and fell down prostrate before the radiant form in amber, drawing out her pins in curious gold, her glowing brooches of enamel331, and pouring from a silver box all her treasures of jewels and precious stones, chrysoberyl and sardonyx, opal and diamond, topaz and pearl. And then she stripped from her body her precious robes and stood before the goddess in the glowing mist of her hair, praying that to her who had given all and came naked to the shrine332, love might be given, and the grace of Venus. And when at last, after strange adventures, her prayer was granted, then when the sweet light came from the sea, and her lover turned at dawn to that bronze glory, he saw beside him a little statuette of amber. And in the shrine, far in Britain where the black rains stained the marble, they found the splendid and sumptuous333 statue of the Golden Venus, the last fine robe of silk that the lady had dedicated334 falling from her fingers, and the jewels lying at her feet. And her face was like the lady’s face when the sun had brightened it on that day of her devotion.
The bronze mist glimmered335 before Lucian’s eyes; he felt as though the soft floating hair touched his forehead and his lips and his hands. The fume of burning bricks, the reek336 of cabbage water, never reached his nostrils that were filled with the perfume of rare unguents, with the breath of the violet sea in Italy. His pleasure was an inebriation337, an ecstasy of joy that destroyed all the vile338 Hottentot kraals and mud avenues as with one white lightning flash, and through the hours of that day he sat enthralled339, not contriving340 a story with patient art, but rapt into another time, and entranced by the urgent gleam in the lady’s eyes.
The little tale of The Amber Statuette had at last issued from a humble341 office in the spring after his father’s death. The author was utterly unknown; the author’s Murray was a wholesale342 stationer and printer in process of development, so that Lucian was astonished when the book became a moderate success. The reviewers had been sadly irritated, and even now he recollected with cheerfulness an article in an influential343 daily paper, an article pleasantly headed: “Where are the disinfectants?”
And then — but all the months afterwards seemed doubtful, there were only broken revelations of the laborious344 hours renewed, and the white nights when he had seen the moonlight fade and the gaslight grow wan25 at the approach of dawn.
He listened. Surely that was the sound of rain falling on sodden ground, the heavy sound of great swollen345 drops driven down from wet leaves by the gust of wind, and then again the strain of boughs sang above the tumult of the air; there was a doleful noise as if the storm shook the masts of a ship. He had only to get up and look out of the window and he would see the treeless empty street, and the rain starring the puddles346 under the gas-lamp, but he would wait a little while.
He tried to think why, in spite of all his resolutions, a dark horror seemed to brood more and more over all his mind. How often he had sat and worked on just such nights as this, contented347 if the words were in accord though the wind might wail, though the air were black with rain. Even about the little book that he had made there seemed some taint, some shuddering memory that came to him across the gulf of forgetfulness. Somehow the remembrance of the offering to Venus, of the phrases that he had so lovingly invented, brought back again the dusky figures that danced in the orgy, beneath the brassy glittering lamps; and again the naphtha flares showed the way to the sad house in the fields, and the red glare lit up the mildewed348 walls and the black hopeless windows. He gasped349 for breath, he seemed to inhale350 a heavy air that reeked351 of decay and rottenness, and the odor of the clay was in his nostrils.
That unknown cloud that had darkened his thoughts grew blacker and engulfed him, despair was heavy upon him, his heart fainted with a horrible dread. In a moment, it seemed, a veil would be drawn away and certain awful things would appear.
He strove to rise from his chair, to cry out, but he could not. Deep, deep the darkness closed upon him, and the storm sounded far away. The Roman fort surged up, terrific, and he saw the writhing352 boughs in a ring, and behind them a glow and heat of fire. There were hideous353 shapes that swarmed in the thicket of the oaks; they called and beckoned354 to him, and rose into the air, into the flame that was smitten from heaven about the walls. And amongst them was the form of the beloved, but jets of flame issued from her breasts, and beside her was a horrible old woman, naked; and they, too, summoned him to mount the hill.
He heard Dr. Burrows355 whispering of the strange things that had been found in old Mrs. Gibbon’s cottage, obscene figures, and unknown contrivances. She was a witch, he said, and the mistress of witches.
He fought against the nightmare, against the illusion that bewildered him. All his life, he thought, had been an evil dream, and for the common world he had fashioned an unreal red garment, that burned in his eyes. Truth and the dream were so mingled that now he could not divide one from the other. He had let Annie drink his soul beneath the hill, on the night when the moonfire shone, but he had not surely seen her exalted in the flame, the Queen of the Sabbath. Dimly he remembered Dr. Burrows coming to see him in London, but had he not imagined all the rest?
Again he found himself in the dusky lane, and Annie floated down to him from the moon above the hill. His head sank upon her breast again, but, alas, it was aflame. And he looked down, and he saw that his own flesh was aflame, and he knew that the fire could never be quenched356.
There was a heavy weight upon his head, his feet were nailed to the floor, and his arms bound tight beside him. He seemed to himself to rage and struggle with the strength of a madman; but his hand only stirred and quivered a little as it lay upon the desk.
Again he was astray in the mist; wandering through the waste avenues of a city that had been ruined from ages. It had been splendid as Rome, terrible as Babylon, and for ever the darkness had covered it, and it lay desolate for ever in the accursed plain. And far and far the grey passages stretched into the night, into the icy fields, into the place of eternal gloom.
Ring within ring the awful temple closed around him; unending circles of vast stones, circle within circle, and every circle less throughout all ages. In the center was the sanctuary of the infernal rite138, and he was borne thither357 as in the eddies358 of a whirlpool, to consummate359 his ruin, to celebrate the wedding of the Sabbath. He flung up his arms and beat the air, resisting with all his strength, with muscles that could throw down mountains; and this time his little finger stirred for an instant, and his foot twitched360 upon the floor.
Then suddenly a flaring361 street shone before him. There was darkness round about him, but it flamed with hissing jets of light and naphtha fires, and great glittering lamps swayed very slowly in a violent blast of air. A horrible music, and the exultation362 of discordant363 voices, swelled in his ears, and he saw an uncertain tossing crowd of dusky figures that circled and leapt before him. There was a noise like the chant of the lost, and then there appeared in the midst of the orgy, beneath a red flame, the figure of a woman. Her bronze hair and flushed cheeks were illuminate364, and an argent light shone from her eyes, and with a smile that froze his heart her lips opened to speak to him. The tossing crowd faded away, falling into a gulf of darkness, and then she drew out from her hair pins of curious gold, and glowing brooches in enamel, and poured out jewels before him from a silver box, and then she stripped from her body her precious robes, and stood in the glowing mist of her hair, and held out her arms to him. But he raised his eyes and saw the mould and decay gaining on the walls of a dismal room, and a gloomy paper was dropping to the rotting floor. A vapor of the grave entered his nostrils, and he cried out with a loud scream; but there was only an indistinct guttural murmur in his throat.
And presently the woman fled away from him, and he pursued her. She fled away before him through midnight country, and he followed after her, chasing her from thicket to thicket, from valley to valley. And at last he captured her and won her with horrible caresses365, and they went up to celebrate and make the marriage of the Sabbath. They were within the matted thicket, and they writhed366 in the flames, insatiable, for ever. They were tortured, and tortured one another, in the sight of thousands who gathered thick about them; and their desire rose up like a black smoke.
Without, the storm swelled to the roaring of an awful sea, the wind grew to a shrill178 long scream, the elm-tree was riven and split with the crash of a thunderclap. To Lucian the tumult and the shock came as a gentle murmur, as if a brake stirred before a sudden breeze in summer. And then a vast silence overwhelmed him.
A few minutes later there was a shuffling367 of feet in the passage, and the door was softly opened. A woman came in, holding a light, and she peered curiously at the figure sitting quite still in the chair before the desk. The woman was half dressed, and she had let her splendid bronze hair flow down, her cheeks were flushed, and as she advanced into the shabby room, the lamp she carried cast quaking shadows on the moldering paper, patched with marks of rising damp, and hanging in strips from the wet, dripping wall. The blind had not been drawn, but no light or glimmer of light filtered through the window, for a great straggling box tree that beat the rain upon the panes shut out even the night. The woman came softly, and as she bent down over Lucian an argent gleam shone from her brown eyes, and the little curls upon her neck were like golden work upon marble. She put her hand to his heart, and looked up, and beckoned to some one who was waiting by the door.
“Come in, Joe,” she said. “It’s just as I thought it would be: ‘Death by misadventure’”; and she held up a little empty bottle of dark blue glass that was standing on the desk. “He would take it, and I always knew he would take a drop too much one of these days.”
“What’s all those papers that he’s got there?”
“Didn’t I tell you? It was crool to see him. He got it into ‘is ‘ead he could write a book; he’s been at it for the last six months. Look ’ere.”
She spread the neat pile of manuscript broadcast over the desk, and took a sheet at haphazard368. It was all covered with illegible369 hopeless scribblings; only here and there it was possible to recognize a word.
“Why, nobody could read it, if they wanted to.”
“It’s all like that. He thought it was beautiful. I used to ‘ear him jabbering370 to himself about it, dreadful nonsense it was he used to talk. I did my best to tongue him out of it, but it wasn’t any good.”
“He must have been a bit dotty. He’s left you everything.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to see about the funeral.”
“There’ll be the inquest and all that first.”
“You’ve got evidence to show he took the stuff.”
“Yes, to be sure I have. The doctor told him he would be certain to do for himself, and he was found two or three times quite silly in the streets. They had to drag him away from a house in Halden Road. He was carrying on dreadful, shaking at the gaite, and calling out it was ‘is ‘ome and they wouldn’t let him in. I heard Dr. Manning myself tell ’im in this very room that he’d kill ‘imself one of these days. Joe! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself. I declare you’re quite rude, and it’s almost Sunday too. Bring the light over here, can’t you?”
The man took up the blazing paraffin lamp, and set it on the desk, beside the scattered heap of that terrible manuscript. The flaring light shone through the dead eyes into the dying brain, and there was a glow within, as if great furnace doors were opened.
The End
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1
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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3
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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4
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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6
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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10
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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11
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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12
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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13
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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14
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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15
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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17
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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18
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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19
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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20
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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21
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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22
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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24
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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25
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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26
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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27
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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28
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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29
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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30
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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31
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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32
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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33
ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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34
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
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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37
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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38
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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39
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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40
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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41
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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42
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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43
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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44
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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45
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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46
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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47
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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48
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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49
brooklet
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| n. 细流, 小河 | |
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50
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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51
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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52
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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53
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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54
resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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55
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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56
larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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57
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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58
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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59
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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60
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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61
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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62
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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63
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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64
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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65
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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66
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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67
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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68
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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69
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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70
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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71
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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72
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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73
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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74
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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75
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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76
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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77
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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78
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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79
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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80
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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81
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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82
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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84
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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85
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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86
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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87
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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88
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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90
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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91
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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92
slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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94
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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95
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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96
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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97
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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98
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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99
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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100
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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101
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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102
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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103
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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104
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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105
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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106
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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107
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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108
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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109
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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110
defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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111
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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112
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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115
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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116
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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117
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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118
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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119
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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120
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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121
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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122
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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124
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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125
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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127
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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128
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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129
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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130
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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131
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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132
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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133
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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134
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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135
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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136
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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137
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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138
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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139
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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140
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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141
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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142
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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143
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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144
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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146
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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147
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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148
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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149
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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150
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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151
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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152
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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154
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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155
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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156
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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157
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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158
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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159
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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160
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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161
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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162
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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163
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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164
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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165
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
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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167
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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168
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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169
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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170
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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171
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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172
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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173
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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174
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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175
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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176
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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177
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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178
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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179
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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180
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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181
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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182
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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183
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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184
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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185
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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186
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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187
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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188
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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189
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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190
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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191
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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192
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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193
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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194
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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195
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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197
cedarn
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| 杉的，杉木制的 | |
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198
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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199
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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200
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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201
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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202
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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203
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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204
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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205
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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206
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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207
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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208
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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209
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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210
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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211
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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212
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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213
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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214
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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215
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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216
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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217
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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218
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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219
sublimed
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| 伟大的( sublime的过去式和过去分词 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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220
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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221
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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222
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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223
greasiness
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| n.多脂，油腻，阿谀 | |
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224
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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225
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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226
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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227
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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228
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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229
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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230
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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231
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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232
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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233
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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234
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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235
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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236
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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237
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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238
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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239
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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240
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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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
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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243
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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244
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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245
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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246
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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247
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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248
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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249
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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250
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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251
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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252
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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253
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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254
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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255
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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256
prostrate
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|
| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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257
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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258
agonizing
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|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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259
shameful
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|
| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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260
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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261
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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262
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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263
wailed
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|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
conjured
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|
| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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265
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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266
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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267
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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268
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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269
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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270
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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271
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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272
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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273
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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274
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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275
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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276
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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277
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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279
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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280
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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281
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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282
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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283
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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284
lurid
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|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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285
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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286
crouches
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|
| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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287
incessant
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|
| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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288
sodden
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|
| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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289
mildew
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|
| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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290
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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291
smears
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|
| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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292
fissures
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|
| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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293
battered
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|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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294
tottering
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|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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295
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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296
ingenuity
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|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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297
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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298
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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299
noisome
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|
| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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300
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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301
taint
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|
| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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302
obsessed
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|
| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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303
engulfed
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|
| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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304
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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305
celestial
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|
| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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306
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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307
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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308
gliding
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|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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309
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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310
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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311
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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312
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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313
narcotic
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|
| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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314
misty
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|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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315
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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316
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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318
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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319
blighted
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|
| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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320
ivies
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| 常春藤( ivy的名词复数 ) | |
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321
fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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322
gaudy
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|
| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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323
sparse
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|
| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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324
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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325
abhorred
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|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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326
abominable
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|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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327
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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328
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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329
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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330
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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331
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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332
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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333
sumptuous
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|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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334
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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335
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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336
reek
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|
| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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337
inebriation
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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338
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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339
enthralled
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|
| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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340
contriving
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|
| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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341
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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342
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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343
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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344
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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345
swollen
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|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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346
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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347
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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348
mildewed
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|
| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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349
gasped
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|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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350
inhale
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|
| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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351
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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352
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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353
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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354
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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355
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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356
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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357
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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358
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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359
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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360
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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361
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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362
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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363
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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364
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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365
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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366
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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367
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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368
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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369
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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370
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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