THE icon1-painting workshop occupied two rooms in a large house partly built of stone. One room had three windows overlooking the yard and one overlooking the garden; the other room had one window overlooking the garden and another facing the street. These windows were small and square, and their panes2, irisated by age, unwillingly3 admitted the pale, diffused4 light of the winter days. Both rooms were closely packed with tables, and at every table sat the bent5 figures of icon-painters. From the ceilings were suspended glass balls full of water, which reflected the light from the lamps and threw it upon the square surfaces of the icons6 in white cold rays.
It was hot and stifling7 in the workshop. Here worked about twenty men, icon-painters, from Palekh, Kholia, and Mstir. They all sat down in cotton overalls8 with unfastened collars. They had drawers made of ticking, and were barefooted, or wore sandals. Over their heads stretched, like a blue veil, the smoke of cheap tobacco, and there was a thick smell of size, varnish9, and rotten eggs. The melancholy10 Vlandimirski song flowed slowly, like resin11:
How depraved the people have now become;
The boy ruined the girl, and cared not who knew.
They sang other melancholy songs, but this was the one they sang most often. Its long-drawn12-out movement did not hinder one from thinking, did not impede13 the movement of the fine brush, made of weasel hair, over the surface of the icons, as it painted in the lines of the figure, and laid upon the emaciated14 faces of the saints the fine lines of suffering. By the windows the chaser, Golovev, plied15 his small hammer. He was a drunken old man with an enormous blue nose. The lazy stream of song was punctuated16 by the ceaseless dry tap of the hammer; it was like a worm gnawing17 at a tree. Some evil genius had divided the work into a long series of actions, bereft18 of beauty and incapable19 of arousing any love for the business, or interest in it. The squinting20 joiner, Panphil, ill-natured and malicious21, brought the pieces of cypress22 and lilac — wood of different sizes, which he had planed and glued; the consumptive lad, Davidov, laid the colors on; his comrade, Sorokin, painted in the inscription23; Milyashin outlined the design from the original with a pencil; old Golovev gilded24 it, and embossed the pattern in gold; the finishers drew the land — scape, and the clothes of the figures; and then they were stood with faces or hands against the wall, waiting for the work of the face-painter.
It was very weird25 to see a large icon intended for an iconastasis, or the doors of the altar, standing26 against the wall without face, hands, or feet, — just the sacerdotal vestments, or the armor, and the short garments of archangels. These variously painted tablets suggested death. That which should have put life into them was absent, but it seemed as if it had been there, and had miraculously29 disappeared, leaving only its heavy vestments behind.
When the features had been painted in by the face-painter, the icon was handed to the workman, who filled in the design of the chaser. A different workman had to do the lettering, and the varnish was put on by the head workman himself Ivan Larionovich, a quiet man. He had a gray face; his beard, too, was gray, the hair fine and silky; his gray eyes were peculiarly deep and sad. He had a pleasant smile, but one could not smile at him. He made one feel awkward, somehow. He looked like the image of Simon Stolpnik, just as lean and emaciated, and his motionless eyes looked far away in the same abstracted man — ner, through people and walls.
Some days after I entered the workshop, the banner-worker, a Cossack of the Don, named Kapendiukhin, a handsome, mighty30 fellow, arrived in a state of intoxication31. With clenched32 teeth and his gentle, wom — anish eyes blinking, he began to smash up everything with his iron fist, without uttering a word. Of medium height and well built, he cast himself on the workroom like a cat chasing rats in a cellar. The others lost their presence of mind, and hid themselves away in the corners, calling out to one another:
“Knock him down!”
The face-painter, Evgen Sitanov, was successful in stunning33 the maddened creature by hitting him on the head with a small stool. The Cossack subsided34 on the floor, and was immediately held down and tied up with towels, which he began to bite and tear with the teeth of a wild beast. This infuriated Evgen. He jumped on the table, and with his hands pressed close to his sides, prepared to jump on the Cossack. Tall and stout35 as he was, he would have inevitably36 crushed the breast-bone of Kapendiukhin by his leap, but at that moment Larionovich appeared on the scene in cap and overcoat, shook his finger at Sitanov, and said to the workmen in a quiet and business-like tone:
“Carry him into the vestibule, and leave him there till he is sober.”
They dragged the Cossack out of the workshop, set the chairs and tables straight, and once again set to work, letting fall short remarks on the strength of their comrade, prophesying37 that he would one day be killed by some one in a quarrel.
“It would be a difficult matter to kill him,” said Sitanov very calmly, as if he were speaking of a business which he understood very well.
I looked at Larionovich, wondering perplexedly why these strong, pugilistic people were so easily ruled by him. He showed every one how he ought to work; even the best workmen listened willingly to his advice; he taught Kapendiukhin more, and with more words, than the others.
“ You, Kapendiukhin, are what is called a painter — that is, you ought to paint from life in the Italian manner. Painting in oils requires warm colors, and you have introduced too much white, and made Our Lady’s eyes as cold as winter. The cheeks are painted red, like apples, and the eyes do not seem to belong to them. And they are not put in right, either; one is looking over the bridge of the nose, and the other has moved to the temple; and the face has not come out pure and holy, but crafty38, wintry. You don’t think about your work, Kapendiukhin.”
The Cossack listened and made a wry39 face. Then smiling impudently40 with his womanish eyes, he said in his pleasant voice, which was rather hoarse41 with so much drinking:
“Ekh! I— va — a — n Larionovich, my father, that is not my trade. I was born to be a musician, and they put me among monks42.”
“With zeal43, any business may be mastered.”
“No; what do you take me for? I ought to have been a coachman with a team of gray horses, eh?”
And protruding44 his Adam’s apple, he drawled despairingly:
“Eh, i-akh, if I had a leash45 of grayhounds
And dark brown horses,
Och, when I am in torment46 on frosty nights
I would fly straight, straight to my love!”
Ivan Larionovich, smiling mildly, set his glasses straight on his gray, sad, melancholy nose, and went away. But a dozen voices took up the song in a friendly spirit, and there flowed forth47 a mighty stream of song which seemed to raise the whole workshop into the air and shake it with measured blows:
“By custom the horses know Where the little lady lives.”
The apprentice48, Pashka Odintzov, threw aside his work of pouring off the yolks of the eggs, and holding the shells in his hand, led the chorus in a masterly manner. Intoxicated49 by the sounds, they all forgot them — selves, they all breathed together as if they had but one bosom50, and were full of the same feelings, looking sideways at the Cossack. When he sang, the workshop acknowledged him as its master; they were all drawn to him, followed the brief movements of his hands; he spread his arms out as if he were about to fly. I believe that if he had suddenly broken off his song and cried, “Let us smash up everything,” even the most serious of the workmen would have smashed the workshop to pieces in a few moments.
He sang rarely, but the power of his tumultuous songs was always irresistible51 and all-conquering. It was as if these people were not very strongly made, and he could lift them up and set them on fire; as if everything was bent when it came within the warm influence of that mighty organ of his.
As for me, these songs aroused in me a hot feeling of envy of the singer, of his admirable power over people. A painful emotion flowed over my heart, making it feel as if it would burst. I wanted to weep and call out to the singers:
“I love you!”
Consumptive, yellow Davidov, who was covered with tufts of hair, also opened his mouth, strangely resembling a young jackdaw newly burst out of the
These happy, riotous52 songs were only sung when the Cossack started them. More often they sang the sad, drawn-out one about the depraved people, and another about the forests, and another about the death of Alexander I, “How our Alexander went to review his army.” Sometimes at the suggestion of our best face painter, Jikharev, they tried to sing some church melodies, but it was seldom a success. Jikharev always wanted one particular thing; he had only one idea of harmony, and he kept on stopping the song.
He was a man of forty-five, dry, bald, with black, curly, gipsy-like hair, and large black brows which looked like mustaches. His pointed53, thick beard was very ornamental54 to his fine, swarthy, unRussian face, but under his protuberant55 nose stuck out ferocious-looking mustaches, superfluous56 when one took his brows into consideration. His blue eyes did not match, the left being noticeably larger than the right.
“Pashka,” he cried in a tenor57 voice to my comrade, the apprentice, “come along now, start off: Traise — ‘ Now people, listen!”
Wiping his hands on his apron58, Pashka led off:
“Pr — a — a — ise — ”
“The Name of the Lord,” several voices caught it up, but Jikharev cried fussily59:
“Lower, Evgen! Let your voice come from the very depths of the soul.”
Sitanov, in a voice so deep that it sounded like the rattle60 of a drum, gave forth:
“R— rabi Gospoda (slaves of the Lord) — ”
“Not like that! That part should be taken in such a way that the earth should tremble and the doors and windows should open of themselves!”
Jikharev was in a state of incomprehensible excitement. His extraordinary brows went up and down on his forehead, his voice broke, his fingers played on an invisible dulcimer.
“Slaves of the Lord — do you understand?” he said importantly. “You have got to feel that right to the kernel61 of your being, right through the shell. Slaves, praise the Lord! How is it that you — living people — do not understand that?”
“We never seem to get it as you say it ought to be,” said Sitanov quietly.
“Well, let it alone then!”
Jikharev, offended, went on with his work. He was the best workman we had, for he could paint faces in the Byzantine manner, and artistically62, in the new Italian style. When he took orders for iconostasis, Larionovich took counsel with him. He had a fine knowledge of all original image-paintings; all the costly63 copies of miraculous28 icons, Theodorovski, Kazanski, and others, passed through his hands. But when he lighted upon the originals, he growled64 loudly:
“These originals tie us down; there is no getting away from that fact.”
In spite of his superior position in the workshop, he was less conceited65 than the others, and was kind to the apprentices66 — Pavl and me. He wanted to teach us the work, since no one else ever bothered about us.
He was difficult to understand; he was not usually cheerful, and sometimes he would work for a whole week in silence, like a dumb man. He looked on every one as at strangers who amazed him, as if it were the first time he had come across such people. And although he was very fond of singing, at such times he did not sing, nor did he even listen to the songs. All the others watched him, winking67 at one another. He would bend over the icon which stood sideways, his tablet on his knees, the middle resting on the edge of the table, while his fine brush diligently68 painted the dark, foreign face. He was dark and foreign-looking himself. Suddenly he would say in a clear, offended tone:
“Forerunner69 — what does that mean? Tech means in ancient language ‘to go.’ A forerunner is one who goes before, — and that is all.”
The workshop was very quiet; every one was glancing askance at Jikharev, laughing, and in the stillness rang out these strange words:
“He ought to be painted with a sheepskin and wings.”
“Whom are you talking to?” I asked.
He was silent, either not hearing my question or not caring to answer it. Then his words again fell into the expectant silence:
“The lives of the saints are what we ought to know! What do we know? We live without wings. Where is the soul? The soul — where is it? The originals are there — yes — but where are the souls?”
This thinking aloud caused even Sitanov to laugh derisively70, and almost always some one whispered with malicious joy:
“He will get drunk on Saturday.”
Tall, sinewy71 Sitanov, a youngster of twenty-two years, with a round face without whiskers or eye-brows, gazed sadly and seriously into the corner.
I remember when the copy of the Theodorovski Madonna, which I believe was Kungur, was finished. Jikharev placed the icon on the table and said loudly, excitedly:
“It is finished, Little Mother! Bright Chalice72, Thou! Thou, bottomless cup, in which are shed the bitter tears from the hearts of the world of creatures!”
And throwing an overcoat over his shoulders, he went out to the tavern73. The young men laughed and whistled, the elder ones looked after him with envious74 sighs, and Sitanov went to his work. Looking at it attentively75, he explained:
“Of course he will go and get drunk, because he is sorry to have to hand over his work. That sort of regret is not given to all.”
Jikharev’s drinking bouts76 always began on Saturday, and his, you must understand, was not the usual alcoholic77 fever of the workman. It began thus: In the morning he would write a note and sent Pavl somewhere with it, and before dinner he would say to Larionovich:
“1 am going to the bath today.”
“Will you be long?’
“Well, Lord —”
“Please don’t be gone over Tuesday!”
Jikharev bowed his bald cranium in assent78; his brows twitched79. When he returned from the baths, he attired80 himself fashionably in a false shirt-front and a cravat81, attached a long silver chain to his satin waistcoat, and went out without speaking, except to say to Pavl and me:
“Clean up the workshop before the evening; wash the large table and scrape it.”
Then a kind of holiday excitement showed itself in every one of them. They braced82 themselves up. cleaned themselves, ran to the bath, and had supper in a hurry. After supper Jikharev appeared with light refreshments83, beer, and wine, and following him came a woman so exaggerated in every respect that she was almost a monstrosity. She was six feet five inches in height. All our chairs and stools looked like toys when she was there, and even tall Sitanov looked undersized beside her. She was well formed, but her bosom rose like a hillock to her chin, and her movements were slow and awkward. She was about forty years of age, but her mobile face, with its great horse-like eyes, was fresh and smooth, and her small mouth looked as if it had been painted on, like that of a cheap doll. She smiled, held out her broad hand to every one, and spoke84 unnecessary words:
“How do you do? There is a hard frost today. What a stuffy85 smell there is here! It is the smell of paint. How do you do?”
To look at her, so calm and strong, like a large river at high tide, was pleasant, but her speech had a soporific influence, and was both superfluous and weari — some. Before she uttered a word, she used to puff86, making her almost livid cheeks rounder than ever. The young ones giggled87, and whispered among themselves:
“She is like an engine!”
“Like a steeple!”
Pursing her lips and folding her hands under her bosom, she sat at the cloth-covered table by the samovar, and looked at us all in turn with a kind expres — sion in her horse-like eyes.
Every one treated her with great respect, and the younger ones were even rather afraid of her. The youths looked at that great body with eager eyes, but when they met her all-embracing glance, they lowered their own eyes in confusion. Jikharev was also respectful to his guest, addressed her as “you,” called her “little comrade,” and pressed hospitality upon her, bowing low the while.
“Now don’t you put yourself out,” she drawled sweetly. “What a fuss you are making of me, really!”
As for herself, she lived without hurry; her arms moved only from the elbow to the wrist, while the elbows themselves were pressed against her sides. From her came an ardent88 smell, as of hot bread. Old Golovev, stammering89 in his enthusiasm, praised the beauty of the woman, like a deacon chanting the divine praises; She listened, smiling affably, and when he had become involved in his speech, said of herself:
“We were not a bit handsome when we were young; this has all come through living as a woman. By the time we were thirty, we had become so remarkable90 that even the nobility interested themselves in us, and one district commander actually promised a carriage with a pair of horses.”
Kapendiukhin, tipsy and dishevelled, looked at her with a glance of hatred91, and asked coarsely:
“What did he promise you that for?”
“In return for our love, of course,” explained the guest.
“Love,” muttered Kapendiukhin, “what sort of love?”
“Such a handsome young man as you are must know all about love,” answered the woman simply.
The workshop shook with laughter, and Sitanov growled to Kapendiukhin:
“A fool, if no worse, she is! People only love that way through a great passion, as every one knows.”
He was pale with the wine he had drunk; drops of sweat stood on his temples like pearls; his intelligent eyes burned alarmingly.
But old Golovev, twitching92 his monstrous93 nose, wiped the tears from his eyes with his fingers, and asked:
“How many children did you have?”
“Only one.”
Over the table hung a lamp; over the stove, another. They gave a feeble light; thick shadows gathered in the corners of the workshop, from which looked half-painted headless figures. The dull, gray patches in place of hands and heads look weird and large, and, as usual, it seemed to me that the bodies of the saints had secretly disappeared from the painted garments. The glass balls, raised right up to the ceiling, hung there on hooks in a cloud of smoke, and gleamed with a blue light.
Jikharev went restlessly round the table, pressing hospitality on every one. His broad, bald skull94 inclined first to one and then to another, his thin fingers always were on the rriove. He was very thin, and his nose, which was like that of a bird of prey95, seemed to have grown sharper; when he stood sideways to the light, the shadow of his nose lay on his cheek.
“Drink and eat, friends,” he said in his ringing tenor.
“Why do you worry yourself, comrade? They all have hands, and every one has his own hands and his own appetite; more than that no one can eat, however much they may want to!”
“Rest yourself, people,” cried Jikharev in a ringing voice. “My friends, we are all the slaves of God; let us sing, Traise His Name.’ ”
The chant was not a success; they were all enervated96 and stupefied by eating and vodka-drinking. In Kapendiukhin’s hands was a harmonica with a double keyboard; young Victor Salautin, dark and serious as a young crow, took up a drum, and let his fingers wander over the tightly stretched skin, which gave forth a deep sound; the tambourines97 tinkled98.
“The Russian dance!” commanded Jikharev, “little comrade, please.”
“Ach!” sighed the woman, rising, “what a worry you are!”
She v/ent to the space which had been cleared, and stood there solidly, like a sentry99. She wore a short brown skirt, a yellow batiste blouse, and a red handkerchief on her head.
The harmonica uttered passionate100 lamentations; its little bells rang; the tambourines tinkled; the skin of the drum gave forth a heavy, dull, sighing sound. This had an unpleasant effect, as if a man had gone mad and was groaning101, sobbing102, and knocking his head against the wall.
Jikharev could not dance. He simply moved his feet about, and setting down the heels of his brightly polished boots, jumped about like a goat, and that not in time with the clamorous103 music. His feet seemed to belong to some one else; his body writhed104 unbeautifully; he struggled like a wasp105 in a spider’s web, or a fish in a net. It was not at all a cheerful sight. But all of them, even the tipsy ones, seemed to be impressed by his convulsions; they all watched his face and arms in silence. The changing expressions of his face were amazing. Now he looked kind and rather shy, suddenly he became proud, and frowned harshly; now he seemed to be startled by something, sighed, closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, wore a sad expression. Clenching106 his fists he stole up to the woman, and suddenly stamping his feet, fell on his knees in front of her with arms outspread and raised brows, smiling ardently107. She looked down upon him with an affable smile, and said to him calmly:
“Stand up, comrade.”
She tried to close her eyes, but those eyes, which were in circumference108 like a three copeck piece, would not close, and her face wrinkled and assumed an unpleasant expression.
She could not dance either, and did nothing but move her enormous body from side to side, noiselessly transferring it from place to place. In her left hand was a handkerchief which she waved languidly; her right was placed on her hip109. This gave her the appearance of a large pitcher110.
And Jikharev moved round this massive woman with so many different changes of expression that he seemed to be ten different men dancing, instead of one. One was quiet and humble111, another proud and terrifying; in the third movement he was afraid, sighing gently,, as if he desired to slip away unnoticed from the large, unpleasant woman. But still another person appeared, gnashing his teeth and writhing112 convulsively like a wounded dog. This sad, ugly dance reminded me of the soldiers, the laundresses, and the cooks, and their vile113 behavior.
Sitanov’s quiet words stuck in my memory:
“In these affairs every one lies; that’s part of the business. Every one is ashamed; no one loves any one — but it is simply an amusement.”
I did not wish to believe that “every one lied in these affairs.” How about Queen Margot, then? And of course Jikharev was not lying. And I knew that Sitanov had loved a “street” girl, and she had deceived him. He had not beaten her for it, as his comrades advised him to do, but had been kind to her.
The large woman went on rocking, smiling like a corpse114, waving her handkerchief. Jikharev jumped convulsively about her, and I looked on and thought: “Could Eve, who was able to deceive God, have been anything like this horse?” I was seized by a feeling of dislike for her.
The faceless images looked from the dark walls; the dark night pressed against the window-panes. The lamps burned dimly in the stuffy workshop; if one listened, one could hear above the heavy trampling115 and the din27 of voices the quick dropping of water from the copper116 wash-basin into the tub.
How unlike this was to the life I read of in books! It was painfully unlike it. At length they all grew weary of this, and Kapendiukhin put the harmonica into Salautin’s hands, and cried:
“Go on! Fire away!”
He danced like Vanka Tzigan, just as if he was swimming in the air. Then Pavl Odintzov and Sorokhin danced passionately117 and lightly after him. The consumptive Davidov also moved his feet about the floor, and coughed from the dust, smoke, and the strong odor of vodka and smoked sausage, which always smells like tanned hide.
They danced, and sang, and shouted, but each remembered that they were making merry, and gave each other a sort of test — a test of agility118 and endurance.
Tipsy Sitanov asked first one and then another:
“Do you think any one could really love a woman like that?”
He looked as if he were on the verge119 of tears.
Larionovich, lifting the sharp bones of his shoulders, answered:
“A woman is a woman — what more do you want?”
The two of whom they spoke disappeared unnoticed. Jikharev reappeared in the workshop in two er three days, went to the bath, and worked for two weeks in his comer, without speaking, pompous120 and estranged121 from every one.
“Have they gone?” asked Sitanov of himself, looking round the workshop with sad blue-gray eyes. His face was not handsome, for there was something elderly about it, but his eyes were clear and good. Sit — anov was friendly to me — a fact which I owed to my thick note-book in which I had written poetry. He did not believe in God, but it was hard to understand who in the workshop, beside Larionovich, loved God and believed in Him. They all spoke of Him with levity122, derisively, just as they liked to speak of their mistresses. Yet when they dined, or supped, thev all crossed themselves, and when they went to bed, they said their prayers, and went to church on Sundays and feast days.
Sitanov did none of these things, and he was counted as an unbeliever.
“There is no God,” he said.
?“Where did we all come from, then?”
“I don’t know.”
When I asked him how God could possibly not be, he explained:
“Don’t you see that God is height!”
He raised his long arm above his head, then lowered it to an arshin from the floor, and said:
“And man is depth! Is that true? And it is written: Man was created in the image and likeness123 of God, — as you know! And what is Golovev like?”
This defeated me. The dirty and drunken old man, in spite of his years, was given to an unmentionable sin. I remembered the Viatski soldier, Ermokhin, and grandmother’s sister. Where was God’s likeness in them?
“Human creatures are swine — as you know,” said Sitanov, and then he tried to console me. “Never mind, Maxim124, there are good people; there are!”
He was easy to get on with; he was so simple. When he did not know anything, he said frankly125:
“I don’t know; I never thought about it!”
This was something unusual. Until I met him, I had only come across people who knew everything and talked about everything. It was strange to me to see in his note-book, side by side with good poetry which touched the soul, many obscene verses which aroused no feeling but that of shame. When I spoke to him about Pushkin, he showed me “Gavrialad,” which had been copied in his book.
“What is Pushkin? Nothing but a jester, but that Benediktov — he is worth paying attention to.”
And closing his eyes he repeated softly:
“Look at the bewitching bosom Of a beautiful woman.”
For some reason he was especially partial to the three lines which he quoted with joyful126 pride:
“Not even the orbs127 of an eagle Into that warm cloister128 can penetrate129 And read that heart.”
“Do you understand that?”
It was very uncomfortable to me to have to acknowledge that I did not understand what he was so pleased about.
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icon
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| n.偶像，崇拜的对象，画像 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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icons
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| n.偶像( icon的名词复数 )；（计算机屏幕上表示命令、程序的）符号，图像 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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22
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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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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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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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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30
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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31
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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32
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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36
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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37
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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38
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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39
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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40
impudently
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41
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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42
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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43
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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44
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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45
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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46
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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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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49
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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50
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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51
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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52
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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53
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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54
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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55
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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56
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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57
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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58
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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59
fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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60
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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61
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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63
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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67
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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69
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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71
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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72
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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73
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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74
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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75
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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76
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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77
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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78
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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79
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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80
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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83
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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84
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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85
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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86
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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87
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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89
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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90
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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91
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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92
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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93
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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94
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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95
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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96
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
tambourines
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 )；（鸣声似铃鼓的）白胸森鸠 | |
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98
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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99
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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100
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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101
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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102
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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103
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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104
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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105
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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106
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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107
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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108
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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109
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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110
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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111
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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112
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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113
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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114
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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115
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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116
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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117
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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118
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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119
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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120
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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121
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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122
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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123
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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124
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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125
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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126
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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127
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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128
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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129
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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