Thou gavest to-day to me;
And thou to me art ever wed1,
As I am wed to thee!
LITTLE’S POEMS
‘The remainder of that dreadful night when Isidora disappeared, had been passed almost in despair by Donna Clara, who, amid all her rigour and chilling mediocrity, had still the feelings of a mother — and by Fra Jose, who, with all his selfish luxury and love of domination, had a heart where distress2 never knocked for admittance, that she did not find pity ready to open the door.
‘The distress of Donna Clara was aggravated3 by her fear of her husband, of whom she stood in great awe4, and who, she dreaded5, might reproach her with unpardonable negligence6 of her maternal7 authority.
‘In this night of distress, she was often tempted8 to call on her son for advice and assistance; but the recollection of his violent passions deterred9 her, and she sat in passive despair till day. Then, with an unaccountable impulse, she rose from her seat, and hurried to her daughter’s apartment, as if she imagined that the events of the preceding night were only a fearful and false illusion that would be dispersed10 by the approach of day.
‘It seemed, indeed, as if they were, for on the bed lay Isidora in a profound sleep, with the same pure and placid11 smile as when she was lulled12 into slumber13 by the melodies of nature, and the sound was prolonged in her dream by the whispered songs of the spirits of the Indian Ocean. Donna Clara uttered a shriek14 of surprise, that had the singular effect of rousing Fra Jose from a deep sleep into which he had fallen at the approach of day. Starting at the sound, the good-natured, pampered15 priest, tottered16 into the room, and saw, with incredulity that slowly yielded to frequent application to his obstinate17 and adhesive18 eye-lids, the form of Isidora extended in profound slumber.
‘Oh what an exquisite19 enjoyment20!’ said the yawning priest, as he looked on the sleeping beauty without another emotion than that of the delight of an uninterrupted repose21. — ‘Pray, don’t disturb her,’ he said, yawning himself out of the room — ‘after such a night as we all have had, sleep must be a very refreshing22 and laudable exercise; and so I commend you to the protection of the holy saints!’ — ‘Oh reverend Father! — Oh holy Father!’ cried Donna Clara clinging to him, ‘desert me not in this extremity23 — this has been the work of magic — of infernal spirits. See how profoundly she sleeps, though we are speaking, and it is now day-light.’ — ‘Daughter, you are much mistaken,’ answered the drowsy24 priest; ‘people can sleep soundly even in the day-time; and for proof send me, as I am now retiring to rest, a bottle of Foncarral or Valdepenas — not that I value the richest vintage of Spain from the Chacoli of Biscay to the Mataro of Catalonia,1 but I would never have it said that I slept in the day-time, but for sufficient reason.’ — ‘Holy Father!’ answered Donna Clara, ‘do you not think my daughter’s disappearance25 and intense slumber are the result of preternatural causes?’ — ‘Daughter,’ answered the priest, contracting his brows, ‘let me have some wine to slake26 the intolerable thirst caused by my anxiety for the welfare of your family, and let me meditate27 some hours afterwards on the measures best to be adopted, and then — when I awake, I will give you my opinion.’ — ‘Holy Father, you shall judge for me in every thing.’ — ‘It were not amiss, daughter,’ said the priest retiring, ‘if a few slices of ham, or some poignant28 sausages, accompanied the wine — it might, as it were, abate29 the deleterious effects of that abominable30 liquor, which I never drink but on emergencies like these.’ — ‘Holy Father, they shall be ordered,’ said the anxious mother — ‘but do you not think my daughter’s sleep is supernatural?’ — ‘Follow me to mine apartment, daughter,’ answered the priest, exchanging his cowl for a night-cap, which one of the numerous household obsequiously31 presented him, ‘and you will soon see that sleep is a natural effect of a natural cause. Your daughter has doubtless passed a very fatiguing32 night, and so have you, and so have I, though perhaps from very different causes; but all those causes dispose us to a profound repose. — I have no doubt of mine — fetch up the wine and sausages — I am very weary — Oh I am weak and worn with fasts and watching, and the labours of exhortation33. My tongue cleaves34 to the roof of my mouth, and my jaws35 cling together, — perhaps a draught36 or two might dissolve their parching37 adhesion. But I do so hate wine — why the devil don’t you fetch up the bottle?’
1 Vide Dillon’s travels through Spain.
‘The attendant domestic, terrified by the tone of wrath38 in which the last words were uttered, hurried on with submissive expedition, and Fra Jose sat down at length in his apartment to ruminate39 on the calamities40 and perplexities of the family, till he was actually overcome by the subject, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, ‘Both bottles empty! Then it is useless to meditate further on this subject.’
‘He was roused at an earlier hour than he wished, by a message from Donna Clara, who, in the distress of a weak mind, accustomed always to factitious and external support, now felt as if every step she took without it, must lead to actual and instant perdition. Her fear of her husband, next to her superstitious41 fears, held the strongest power over her mind, and that morning she called Fra Jose to an early consultation42 of terror and inquietude. — Her great object was to conceal43, if possible, the absence of her daughter on that eventful night; and finding that none of the domestics appeared conscious of it, and that amid the numerous household, only one aged44 servant was absent, of whose absence no one took notice amid the superfluous45 multitude of a Spanish establishment, her courage began to revive. It was raised still higher by a letter from Aliaga, announcing the necessity of his visiting a distant part of Spain, and of the marriage of his daughter with Montilla being deferred46 for some months — this sounded like reprieve47 in the ears of Donna Clara — she consulted with the priest, who answered in words of comfort, that if Donna Isidora’s short absence were known, it was but a slight evil, and if it were not known, it was none at all, — and he recommended to her, to ensure the secresy of the servants by means that he swore by his habit were infallible, as he had known them operate effectively among the servants of a far more powerful and extensive establishment. ‘Reverend Father,’ said Donna Clara, ‘I know of no establishment among the grandees48 of Spain more splendid than ours.’ — ‘But I do, daughter,’ said the priest, ‘and the head of that establishment is — the Pope; — but go now, and awake your daughter, who deserves to sleep till doomsday, as she seems totally to have forgotten the hour of breakfast. It is not for myself I speak, daughter, but I cannot bear to see the regularity49 of a magnificent household thus interrupted; for myself, a basin of chocolate, and a cluster of grapes, will be sufficient; and to allay50 the crudity51 of the grapes, a glass of Malaga. — Your glasses, by the bye, are the shallowest I ever drank out of — could you not find some means to get from Ildefonso1 glasses of the right make, with short shanks and ample bodies? Yours resemble those of Quichotte, all limbs and no trunk. I like one that resembles his squire52, a spacious53 body and a shank that may be measured by my little finger.’ — ‘I will send to St Ildefonso this day,’ answered Donna Clara. — ‘Go and awake your daughter first,’ said the priest.
1 The celebrated54 manufactory for glass in Spain.
‘As he spoke55, Isidora entered the room — the mother and the priest both stood amazed. Her countenance56 was as serene57, her step as equal, and her mein as composed, as if she were totally unconscious of the terror and distress her disappearance the preceding night had caused. To the first short silence of amazement58, succeeded a storm of interrogations from Donna Clara and Fra Jose in concert — why — where — wherefore — and what, and with whom and how — that was all they could articulate. They might as well have spared themselves the trouble, for neither that day nor many following, could the remonstrances59, intreaties, or menaces of her mother, aided by the spiritual authority and more powerful anxiety of the priest, extort60 from her a word of explanation on the cause of her absence that awful night. When closely and sternly pressed, Isidora’s mind seemed to assume something of the wild but potent61 spirit of independence, which her early habits and feelings might have communicated to her. She had been her own teacher and mistress for seventeen years, and though naturally gentle and tractable62, when imperious mediocrity attempted to tyrannize over her, she felt a sense of disdain63 which she expressed only by profound silence.
‘Fra Jose, incensed64 at her obstinacy65, and trembling for the loss of his power over the family, threatened to exclude her from confession66, unless she disclosed to him the secret of that night — ‘Then I will confess to God!’ said Isidora. Her mother’s importunity67 she found it more difficult to resist, for her feminine heart loved all that was feminine even in its most unattractive shape, and the persecution68 from that quarter was alike monotonous69 and unremitting.
‘There was a weak but harassing70 tenacity71 about Donna Clara, that is the general adjunct to the female character when it combines intellectual mediocrity with rigid72 principle. When she laid siege to a secret, the garrison73 might as well capitulate at once. — What she wanted in vigour74 and ability, she supplied by a minute and gnawing75 assiduity. She never ventured to carry the fort by storm, but her obstinacy blockaded it till it was forced to surrender. But here even her importunity failed. — Isidora remained respectfully, but resolutely76 silent; finding matters thus desperate, Donna Clara, who had a fine talent for keeping as well as discovering a secret, agreed with Fra Jose not to utter a syllable78 of the business to her father and brother. — ‘We will show,’ said Donna Clara, with a sagacious and self-approving nod, ‘that we can keep a secret as well as she.’ — ‘Right, daughter,’ said Fra Jose, ‘imitate her in the only point in which you can flatter yourself with the hope of resemblance.’
‘The secret was, however, soon disclosed. Some months had elapsed, and the visits of her husband began to give an habitual79 calm and confidence to the mind of Isidora. He imperceptibly was exchanging his ferocious80 misanthropy for a kind of pensive81 gloom. — It was like the dark, cold, but unterrific and comparatively soothing82 night, that succeeds to a day of storm and earthquake. The sufferers remember the terrors of the day, and the still darkness of the night feels to them like a shelter. Isidora gazed on her espoused83 with delight, when she saw no longer his withering84 frown, or more withering smile; and she felt the hope that the calm purity of female hearts always suggests, that its influence will one day float over the formless and the void, like the spirit that moved upon the face of the waters; and that the unbelieving husband may yet be saved by the believing wife.
‘These thoughts were her comfort, and it was well she had thoughts to comfort her, for facts are miserable85 allies when imagination fights its battle with despair. On one of those nights that she expected Melmoth, he found her employed in her usual hymn86 to the Virgin87, which she accompanied on her lute77. ‘Is it not rather late to sing your vesper hymn to the Virgin after midnight?’ said Melmoth with a ghastly smile. ‘Her ear is open at all times, I have been told,’ answered Isidora. — ‘If it is, then, love,’ said Melmoth, vaulting88 as usual through the casement89, ‘add a stanza90 to your hymn in favour of me.’ — ‘Alas91!’ said Isidora, dropping her lute, ‘you do not believe, love, in what the Holy Church requires.’ — ‘Yes, I do believe, when I listen to you.’ — ‘And only then?’ — ‘Sing again your hymn to the Virgin.’
‘Isidora complied, and watched the effect on the listener. He seemed affected92 — he motioned to her to repeat it. ‘My love,’ said Isidora, ‘is not this more like the repetition of a theatrical93 song called for by an audience, than a hymn which he who listens to loves his wife better for, because she loves her God.’ — ‘It is a shrewd question,’ said Melmoth, ‘but why am I in your imagination excluded from the love of God?’ — ‘Do you ever visit the church,’ answered the anxious Isidora. A profound silence. — ‘Do you ever receive the Holy Sacrament?’ — Melmoth did not utter a word. — ‘Have you ever, at my earnest solicitation94, enabled me to announce to my anxious family the tie that united us?’ — No answer. — ‘And now — that — perhaps — I dare not utter what I feel! Oh! how shall I appear before eyes that watch me even now so closely? — what shall I say? — a wife without a husband — a mother without a father for her child, or one whom a fearful oath has bound her never to declare! Oh! Melmoth, pity me, — deliver me from this life of constraint95, falsehood, and dissimulation96. Claim me as your wedded97 wife in the face of my family, and in the face of ruin your wedded wife will follow — will cling to — will perish with you!’ Her arms clung round him, her cold but heart-wrung tears fell fast on his cheek, and the imploring98 arms of woman supplicating99 for deliverance in her hour of shame and terror, seldom are twined round us in vain. Melmoth felt the appeal — it was but for a moment. He caught the white arms extended towards him — he fixed100 an eager and fearful look of inquiry101 on his victim-consort, as he asked — ‘And is it so?’ The pale and shuddering102 wife shrunk from his arms at the question — her silence answered him. The agonies of nature throbbed103 audibly in his heart. He said to himself — it is mine — the fruit of affection — the first-born of the heart and of nature — mine — mine, — and whatever becomes of me, there shall yet be a human being on earth who traces me in its external form, and who will be taught to pray for its father, even when its prayer falls parched104 and hissing105 on the fires that burn for ever, like a wandering drop of dew on the burning sands of the desert!
‘From the period of this communication, Melmoth’s tenderness for his wife visibly increased.
‘Heaven only knows the source of that wild fondness with which he contemplated106 her, and in which was still mingled107 something of ferocity. His warm look seemed like the glow of a sultry summer day, whose heat announces a storm, and compels us by its burning oppression, to look to the storm almost for relief.
‘It is not impossible that he looked to some future object of his fearful experiment — and a being so perfectly108 in his power as his own child, might have appeared to him fatally fitted for his purpose — the quantum of misery109, too, necessary to qualify the probationer, it was always in his own power to inflict110. Whatever was his motive111, he assumed as much tenderness as it was possible for him to assume, and spoke of the approaching event with the anxious interest of a human father.
‘Soothed112 by his altered manner, Isidora bore with silent sufferance the burden of her situation, with all its painful accompaniments of indisposition and dejection, aggravated by hourly fear and mysterious secresy. She hoped he would at length reward her by an open and honourable113 declaration, but this hope was expressed only in her patient smiles. The hour approached fast, and fearful and indefinite apprehensions114 began to overshadow her mind, relative to the fate of the infant about to be born under circumstances so mysterious.
‘At his next nightly visit, Melmoth found her in tears.
‘Alas!’ said she in answer to his abrupt115 inquiry, and brief attempt at consolation116, ‘How many causes have I for tears — and how few have I shed? If you would have them wiped away, be assured it is only your hand can do it. I feel,’ she added, ‘that this event will be fatal to me — I know I shall not live to see my child — I demand from you the only promise that can support me even under this conviction’ — Melmoth interrupted her by the assurance, that these apprehensions were the inseparable concomitants of her situation, and that many mothers, surrounded by a numerous offspring, smiled as they recollected117 their fears that the birth of each would be fatal to them.
‘Isidora shook her head. ‘The presages118,’ said she, ‘that visit me, are such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us, and grief and pain are very eloquent119 interpreters between us and eternity120 — quite distinct from all corporeal121 suffering, even from all mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike incommunicable and ineffaceable — it is as if heaven spoke to us alone, and told us to keep its secret, or divulge122 it on the condition of never being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak of heaven — soon I may be your only intercessor there.’ ‘My dear saint,’ said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, ‘let me make early interest for your mediation123 — how many ducats will it cost me to get you canonized? — you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic124 account of legitimate125 miracles — one is ashamed of the nonsense that is sent monthly to the Vatican.’ ‘Let your conversion126 be the first miracle on the list,’ said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth tremble — it was dark — but she felt that he trembled — she pursued her imagined triumph — ‘Melmoth,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have a right to demand one promise from you — for you I have sacrificed every thing — never was woman more devoted127 — never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering, the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible struggle of nature — terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a mother — who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy of exulting128 noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before I have even kissed it, — and the chrism-mantle will be one of that mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one thing — one thing!’ continued the suppliant129, growing earnest in her prayer even to agony; ‘swear to me that my child shall be baptised according to the forms of the Catholic church, — that it shall be a Christian130 as far as those forms can make it, — and I shall feel that, if all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise me, — swear to me,’ she added, in intenser agony, ‘that my child shall be a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy131 to be heard in heaven, that of a cherub132 may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while on earth, and will he repel133 them in heaven? — Oh! no, — no! he will not repel yours!’
‘Melmoth listened to her with feelings that it is better to suppress than explain or expatiate134 on. Thus solemnly adjured135, however, he promised that the child should be baptised; and added, with an expression which Isidora’s delight at this concession136 did not give her time to understand, that it should be a Christian as far as the rites137 and ceremonies of the Catholic church could make it one. While he added many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of any external rites — and the impotentiality of any hierarchy138 — and of the deadly and desperate impositions of priests under every dispensation — and exposed them with a spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic, — a spirit that mingled ridicule139 with horror, and seemed like a Harlequin in the infernal regions, flirting140 with the furies, Isidora still repeated her solemn request that her child, if it survived her, should be baptised. To this he assented141; and added, with a sarcastic142 and appalling143 levity144, — ‘And a Mahometan, if you should change your mind, — or any other mythology145 you please to adopt; — only send me word, — priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies cheaply purchased! Only let me know your future intentions, — when you know them yourself.’ — ‘I shall not be here to tell you,’ said Isidora, replying with profound conviction to this withering levity, like a cold winter day to the glow of a capricious summer one, that blends the sunshine and the lightning; — ‘Melmoth, I shall not be here then!’ And this energy of despair in a creature so young, so inexperienced, except in the vicissitudes146 of the heart, formed a strong contrast to the stony147 apathy148 of one who had traversed life from Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren, or — made it so.
‘At this moment, while Isidora wept the cold tears of despair, without daring to ask the hand of him she loved to dry them, the bells of a neighbouring convent, where they were performing a mass for the soul of a departed brother, suddenly rung out. Isidora seized that moment, when the very air was eloquent with the voice of religion, to impress its power on that mysterious being whose presence inspired her equally with terror and with love. ‘Listen, — listen!’ she cried. The sounds came slowly and stilly on, as if it was an involuntary expression of that profound sentiment that night always inspires, — the reverberating149 watch-word from sentinel to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting minds have become the ‘watchers of the night.’1 The effect of these sounds was increased, by their catching150 from time to time the deep and thrilling chorus of the voices, — these voices more than harmonized, they were coincident with the toll151 of the bell, and seemed like them set in involuntary motion, — music played by invisible hands.
1 He called unto me out of Seir, Watchman, what of the night? — Watchman, what of the night? — ISAIAH.
‘Listen,’ repeated Isidora, ‘is there no truth in the voice that speaks to you in tones like these? Alas! if there be no truth in religion, there is none on earth! Passion itself evanishes into an illusion, unless it is hallowed by the consciousness of a God and of futurity. That sterility152 of the heart that forbids the growth of divine feeling, must be hostile also to every tender and generous sentiment. He who is without a God must be without a heart! Oh, my love, will you not, as you bend over my grave, wish my last slumbers153 to have been soothed by sounds like these, — wish that they may whisper peace to your own? Promise me, at least, that you will lead your child to my tomb-stone, — that you will suffer it to read the inscription154 that tells I died in the faith of Christ, and the hope of immortality155. Its tears will be powerful pleaders to you not to deny it the consolation that faith has given me in hours of suffering, and the hopes with which it will illuminate156 my parting hour. Oh promise me this at least, that you will suffer your child to visit my grave — that is all. Do not interrupt or distract the impression by sophistry157 or levity, or by that wild and withering eloquence158 that flashes from your lips, not to enlighten but to blast. You will not weep, but you will be silent, — leave Heaven and nature free to their work. The voice of God will speak to its heart, and my spirit, as it witnesses the conflict, will tremble though in paradise, — and, even in heaven, will feel an added joy, when it beholds159 the victory won. Promise me, then, — swear to me!’ she added, with agonizing160 energy of tone and gesture. ‘Your child shall be a Christian!’ said Melmoth.
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收听单词发音
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1
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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obsequiously
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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cleaves
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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ruminate
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| v.反刍；沉思 | |
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40
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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41
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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42
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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43
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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44
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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45
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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46
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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47
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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48
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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49
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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50
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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51
crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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52
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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53
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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54
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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55
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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56
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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57
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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58
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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59
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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60
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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61
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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62
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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63
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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64
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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65
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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66
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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67
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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68
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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69
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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70
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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71
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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72
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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73
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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74
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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75
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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76
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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77
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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78
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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79
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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80
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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81
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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82
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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83
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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85
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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86
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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87
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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88
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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89
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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90
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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91
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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92
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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94
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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95
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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96
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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97
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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99
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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102
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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103
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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104
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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105
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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106
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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107
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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108
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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109
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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110
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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111
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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112
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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113
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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114
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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115
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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116
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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117
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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118
presages
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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120
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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121
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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122
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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123
mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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124
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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125
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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126
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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127
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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128
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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129
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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132
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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133
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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134
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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135
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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136
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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137
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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138
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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139
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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140
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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141
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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143
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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144
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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145
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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146
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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147
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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148
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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149
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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150
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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151
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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152
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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153
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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154
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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155
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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156
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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157
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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158
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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159
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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160
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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