The sun was sinking. Under the sky was stretched a network of white threads, a network fine and close-meshed, where here and there were caught thicker white vapours of globular shape; and to the eastward5, above the ragged6 barrier of the forests, surged the summits of a chain of great clouds, growing bigger slowly, in imperceptible motion, as if careful not to disturb the glowing stillness of the earth and of the sky. Abreast7 of the house the river was empty but for the motionless schooner. Higher up, a solitary8 log came out from the bend above and went on drifting slowly down the straight reach: a dead and wandering tree going out to its grave in the sea, between two ranks of trees motionless and living.
And Almayer sat, his face in his hands, looking on and hating all this: the muddy river; the faded blue of the sky; the black log passing by on its first and last voyage; the green sea of leaves — the sea that glowed shimmered9, and stirred above the uniform and impenetrable gloom of the forests — the joyous11 sea of living green powdered with the brilliant dust of oblique12 sunrays.
He hated all this; he begrudged13 every day — every minute — of his life spent amongst all these things; he begrudged it bitterly, angrily, with enraged14 and immense regret, like a miser16 compelled to give up some of his treasure to a near relation. And yet all this was very precious to him. It was the present sign of a splendid future.
He pushed the table away impatiently, got up, made a few steps aimlessly, then stood by the balustrade and again looked at the river — at that river which would have been the instrument for the making of his fortune if . . . if . . .
“What an abominable17 brute18!” he said.
He was alone, but he spoke19 aloud, as one is apt to do under the impulse of a strong, of an overmastering thought.
“What a brute!” he muttered again.
The river was dark now, and the schooner lay on it, a black, a lonely, and a graceful20 form, with the slender masts darting21 upwards22 from it in two frail23 and raking lines. The shadows of the evening crept up the trees, crept up from bough24 to bough, till at last the long sunbeams coursing from the western horizon skimmed lightly over the topmost branches, then flew upwards amongst the piled-up clouds, giving them a sombre and fiery25 aspect in the last flush of light. And suddenly the light disappeared as if lost in the immensity of the great, blue, and empty hollow overhead. The sun had set: and the forests became a straight wall of formless blackness. Above them, on the edge of lingering clouds, a single star glimmered26 fitfully, obscured now and then by the rapid flight of high and invisible vapours.
Almayer fought with the uneasiness within his breast. He heard Ali, who moved behind him preparing his evening meal, and he listened with strange attention to the sounds the man made — to the short, dry bang of the plate put upon the table, to the clink of glass and the metallic27 rattle28 of knife and fork. The man went away. Now he was coming back. He would speak directly; and Almayer, notwithstanding the absorbing gravity of his thoughts, listened for the sound of expected words. He heard them, spoken in English with painstaking30 distinctness.
“Ready, sir!”
“All right,” said Almayer, curtly31. He did not move. He remained pensive32, with his back to the table upon which stood the lighted lamp brought by Ali. He was thinking: Where was Lingard now? Halfway33 down the river probably, in Abdulla’s ship. He would be back in about three days — perhaps less. And then? Then the schooner would have to be got out of the river, and when that craft was gone they — he and Lingard — would remain here; alone with the constant thought of that other man, that other man living near them! What an extraordinary idea to keep him there for ever. For ever! What did that mean — for ever? Perhaps a year, perhaps ten years. Preposterous34! Keep him there ten years — or may be twenty! The fellow was capable of living more than twenty years. And for all that time he would have to be watched, fed, looked after. There was nobody but Lingard to have such notions. Twenty years! Why, no! In less than ten years their fortune would be made and they would leave this place, first for Batavia — yes, Batavia — and then for Europe. England, no doubt. Lingard would want to go to England. And would they leave that man here? How would that fellow look in ten years? Very old probably. Well, devil take him. Nina would be fifteen. She would be rich and very pretty and he himself would not be so old then . . . .”
Almayer smiled into the night.
. . . Yes, rich! Why! Of course! Captain Lingard was a resourceful man, and he had plenty of money even now. They were rich already; but not enough. Decidedly not enough. Money brings money. That gold business was good. Famous! Captain Lingard was a remarkable35 man. He said the gold was there — and it was there. Lingard knew what he was talking about. But he had queer ideas. For instance, about Willems. Now what did he want to keep him alive for? Why?
“That scoundrel,” muttered Almayer again.
“Makan Tuan!” ejaculated Ali suddenly, very loud in a pressing tone.
Almayer walked to the table, sat down, and his anxious visage dropped from above into the light thrown down by the lamp-shade. He helped himself absently, and began to eat in great mouthfuls.
. . . Undoubtedly36, Lingard was the man to stick to! The man undismayed, masterful and ready. How quickly he had planned a new future when Willems’ treachery destroyed their established position in Sambir! And the position even now was not so bad. What an immense prestige that Lingard had with all those people — Arabs, Malays and all. Ah, it was good to be able to call a man like that father. Fine! Wonder how much money really the old fellow had. People talked — they exaggerated surely, but if he had only half of what they said . . .
He drank, throwing his head up, and fell to again.
. . . Now, if that Willems had known how to play his cards well, had he stuck to the old fellow he would have been in his position, he would be now married to Lingard’s adopted daughter with his future assured — splendid. . .
“The beast!” growled37 Almayer, between two mouthfuls.
Ali stood rigidly38 straight with an uninterested face, his gaze lost in the night which pressed round the small circle of light that shone on the table, on the glass, on the bottle, and on Almayer’s head as he leaned over his plate moving his jaws40.
. . . A famous man Lingard — yet you never knew what he would do next. It was notorious that he had shot a white man once for less than Willems had done. For less? . . . Why, for nothing, so to speak! It was not even his own quarrel. It was about some Malay returning from pilgrimage with wife and children. Kidnapped, or robbed, or something. A stupid story — an old story. And now he goes to see that Willems and — nothing. Comes back talking big about his prisoner; but after all he said very little. What did that Willems tell him? What passed between them? The old fellow must have had something in his mind when he let that scoundrel off. And Joanna! She would get round the old fellow. Sure. Then he would forgive perhaps. Impossible. But at any rate he would waste a lot of money on them. The old man was tenacious41 in his hates, but also in his affections. He had known that beast Willems from a boy. They would make it up in a year or so. Everything is possible: why did he not rush off at first and kill the brute? That would have been more like Lingard . . .
Almayer laid down his spoon suddenly, and pushing his plate away, threw himself back in the chair.
. . . Unsafe. Decidedly unsafe. He had no mind to share Lingard’s money with anybody. Lingard’s money was Nina’s money in a sense. And if Willems managed to become friendly with the old man it would be dangerous for him — Almayer. Such an unscrupulous scoundrel! He would oust42 him from his position. He would lie and slander43. Everything would be lost. Lost. Poor Nina. What would become of her? Poor child. For her sake he must remove that Willems. Must. But how? Lingard wanted to be obeyed. Impossible to kill Willems. Lingard might be angry. Incredible, but so it was. He might . . .
A wave of heat passed through Almayer’s body, flushed his face, and broke out of him in copious44 perspiration45. He wriggled46 in his chair, and pressed his hands together under the table. What an awful prospect47! He fancied he could see Lingard and Willems reconciled and going away arm-in-arm, leaving him alone in this God-forsaken hole — in Sambir — in this deadly swamp! And all his sacrifices, the sacrifice of his independence, of his best years, his surrender to Lingard’s fancies and caprices, would go for nothing! Horrible! Then he thought of his little daughter — his daughter! — and the ghastliness of his supposition overpowered him. He had a deep emotion, a sudden emotion that made him feel quite faint at the idea of that young life spoiled before it had fairly begun. His dear child’s life! Lying back in his chair he covered his face with both his hands.
Ali glanced down at him and said, unconcernedly —“Master finish?”
Almayer was lost in the immensity of his commiseration48 for himself, for his daughter, who was — perhaps — not going to be the richest woman in the world — notwithstanding Lingard’s promises. He did not understand the other’s question, and muttered through his fingers in a doleful tone —
“What did you say? What? Finish what?”
“Clear up meza,” explained Ali.
“Clear up!” burst out Almayer, with incomprehensible exasperation49. “Devil take you and the table. Stupid! Chatterer! Chelakka! Get out!”
He leaned forward, glaring at his head man, then sank back in his seat with his arms hanging straight down on each side of the chair. And he sat motionless in a meditation50 so concentrated and so absorbing, with all his power of thought so deep within himself, that all expression disappeared from his face in an aspect of staring vacancy51.
Ali was clearing the table. He dropped negligently52 the tumbler into the greasy53 dish, flung there the spoon and fork, then slipped in the plate with a push amongst the remnants of food. He took up the dish, tucked up the bottle under his armpit, and went off.
“My hammock!” shouted Almayer after him.
“Ada! I come soon,” answered Ali from the doorway54 in an offended tone, looking back over his shoulder. . . . How could he clear the table and hang the hammock at the same time. Ya-wa! Those white men were all alike. Wanted everything done at once. Like children . . .
The indistinct murmur55 of his criticism went away, faded and died out together with the soft footfall of his bare feet in the dark passage.
For some time Almayer did not move. His thoughts were busy at work shaping a momentous56 resolution, and in the perfect silence of the house he believed that he could hear the noise of the operation as if the work had been done with a hammer. He certainly felt a thumping57 of strokes, faint, profound, and startling, somewhere low down in his breast; and he was aware of a sound of dull knocking, abrupt58 and rapid, in his ears. Now and then he held his breath, unconsciously, too long, and had to relieve himself by a deep expiration59 that whistled dully through his pursed lips. The lamp standing29 on the far side of the table threw a section of a lighted circle on the floor, where his out-stretched legs stuck out from under the table with feet rigid39 and turned up like the feet of a corpse60; and his set face with fixed61 eyes would have been also like the face of the dead, but for its vacant yet conscious aspect; the hard, the stupid, the stony62 aspect of one not dead, but only buried under the dust, ashes, and corruption63 of personal thoughts, of base fears, of selfish desires.
“I will do it!”
Not till he heard his own voice did he know that he had spoken. It startled him. He stood up. The knuckles64 of his hand, somewhat behind him, were resting on the edge of the table as he remained still with one foot advanced, his lips a little open, and thought: It would not do to fool about with Lingard. But I must risk it. It’s the only way I can see. I must tell her. She has some little sense. I wish they were a thousand miles off already. A hundred thousand miles. I do. And if it fails. And she blabs out then to Lingard? She seemed a fool. No; probably they will get away. And if they did, would Lingard believe me? Yes. I never lied to him. He would believe. I don’t know . . . Perhaps he won’t. . . . “I must do it. Must!” he argued aloud to himself.
For a long time he stood still, looking before him with an intense gaze, a gaze rapt and immobile, that seemed to watch the minute quivering of a delicate balance, coming to a rest.
To the left of him, in the whitewashed65 wall of the house that formed the back of the verandah, there was a closed door. Black letters were painted on it proclaiming the fact that behind that door there was the office of Lingard & Co. The interior had been furnished by Lingard when he had built the house for his adopted daughter and her husband, and it had been furnished with reckless prodigality66. There was an office desk, a revolving67 chair, bookshelves, a safe: all to humour the weakness of Almayer, who thought all those paraphernalia68 necessary to successful trading. Lingard had laughed, but had taken immense trouble to get the things. It pleased him to make his protege, his adopted son-in-law, happy. It had been the sensation of Sambir some five years ago. While the things were being landed, the whole settlement literally69 lived on the river bank in front of the Rajah Laut’s house, to look, to wonder, to admire. . . . What a big meza, with many boxes fitted all over it and under it! What did the white man do with such a table? And look, look, O Brothers! There is a green square box, with a gold plate on it, a box so heavy that those twenty men cannot drag it up the bank. Let us go, brothers, and help pull at the ropes, and perchance we may see what’s inside. Treasure, no doubt. Gold is heavy and hard to hold, O Brothers! Let us go and earn a recompense from the fierce Rajah of the Sea who shouts over there, with a red face. See! There is a man carrying a pile of books from the boat! What a number of books. What were they for? . . . And an old invalided70 jurumudi, who had travelled over many seas and had heard holy men speak in far-off countries, explained to a small knot of unsophisticated citizens of Sambir that those books were books of magic — of magic that guides the white men’s ships over the seas, that gives them their wicked wisdom and their strength; of magic that makes them great, powerful, and irresistible71 while they live, and — praise be to Allah! — the victims of Satan, the slaves of Jehannum when they die.
And when he saw the room furnished, Almayer had felt proud. In his exultation72 of an empty-headed quill-driver, he thought himself, by the virtue73 of that furniture, at the head of a serious business. He had sold himself to Lingard for these things — married the Malay girl of his adoption74 for the reward of these things and of the great wealth that must necessarily follow upon conscientious75 book-keeping. He found out very soon that trade in Sambir meant something entirely76 different. He could not guide Patalolo, control the irrepressible old Sahamin, or restrain the youthful vagaries77 of the fierce Bahassoen with pen, ink, and paper. He found no successful magic in the blank pages of his ledgers78; and gradually he lost his old point of view in the saner79 appreciation80 of his situation. The room known as the office became neglected then like a temple of an exploded superstition81. At first, when his wife reverted82 to her original savagery83, Almayer, now and again, had sought refuge from her there; but after their child began to speak, to know him, he became braver, for he found courage and consolation84 in his unreasoning and fierce affection for his daughter — in the impenetrable mantle85 of selfishness he wrapped round both their lives: round himself, and that young life that was also his.
When Lingard ordered him to receive Joanna into his house, he had a truckle bed put into the office — the only room he could spare. The big office desk was pushed on one side, and Joanna came with her little shabby trunk and with her child and took possession in her dreamy, slack, half-asleep way; took possession of the dust, dirt, and squalor, where she appeared naturally at home, where she dragged a melancholy86 and dull existence; an existence made up of sad remorse87 and frightened hope, amongst the hopeless disorder88 — the senseless and vain decay of all these emblems89 of civilized90 commerce. Bits of white stuff; rags yellow, pink, blue: rags limp, brilliant and soiled, trailed on the floor, lay on the desk amongst the sombre covers of books soiled, grimy, but stiff-backed, in virtue, perhaps, of their European origin. The biggest set of bookshelves was partly hidden by a petticoat, the waistband of which was caught upon the back of a slender book pulled a little out of the row so as to make an improvised91 clothespeg. The folding canvas bedstead stood nearly in the middle of the room, stood anyhow, parallel to no wall, as if it had been, in the process of transportation to some remote place, dropped casually92 there by tired bearers. And on the tumbled blankets that lay in a disordered heap on its edge, Joanna sat almost all day with her stockingless feet upon one of the bed pillows that were somehow always kicking about the floor. She sat there, vaguely93 tormented94 at times by the thought of her absent husband, but most of the time thinking tearfully of nothing at all, looking with swimming eyes at her little son — at the big-headed, pasty-faced, and sickly Louis Willems — who rolled a glass inkstand, solid with dried ink, about the floor, and tottered95 after it with the portentous96 gravity of demeanour and absolute absorption by the business in hand that characterize the pursuits of early childhood. Through the half-open shutter97 a ray of sunlight, a ray merciless and crude, came into the room, beat in the early morning upon the safe in the far-off corner, then, travelling against the sun, cut at midday the big desk in two with its solid and clean-edged brilliance98; with its hot brilliance in which a swarm99 of flies hovered100 in dancing flight over some dirty plate forgotten there amongst yellow papers for many a day. And towards the evening the cynical101 ray seemed to cling to the ragged petticoat, lingered on it with wicked enjoyment102 of that misery103 it had exposed all day; lingered on the corner of the dusty bookshelf, in a red glow intense and mocking, till it was suddenly snatched by the setting sun out of the way of the coming night. And the night entered the room. The night abrupt, impenetrable and all-filling with its flood of darkness; the night cool and merciful; the blind night that saw nothing, but could hear the fretful whimpering of the child, the creak of the bedstead, Joanna’s deep sighs as she turned over, sleepless104, in the confused conviction of her wickedness, thinking of that man masterful, fair-headed, and strong — a man hard perhaps, but her husband; her clever and handsome husband to whom she had acted so cruelly on the advice of bad people, if her own people; and of her poor, dear, deceived mother.
To Almayer, Joanna’s presence was a constant worry, a worry unobtrusive yet intolerable; a constant, but mostly mute, warning of possible danger. In view of the absurd softness of Lingard’s heart, every one in whom Lingard manifested the slightest interest was to Almayer a natural enemy. He was quite alive to that feeling, and in the intimacy105 of the secret intercourse106 with his inner self had often congratulated himself upon his own wide-awake comprehension of his position. In that way, and impelled107 by that motive108, Almayer had hated many and various persons at various times. But he never had hated and feared anybody so much as he did hate and fear Willems. Even after Willems’ treachery, which seemed to remove him beyond the pale of all human sympathy, Almayer mistrusted the situation and groaned109 in spirit every time he caught sight of Joanna.
He saw her very seldom in the daytime. But in the short and opal-tinted twilights, or in the azure110 dusk of starry111 evenings, he often saw, before he slept, the slender and tall figure trailing to and fro the ragged tail of its white gown over the dried mud of the riverside in front of the house. Once or twice when he sat late on the verandah, with his feet upon the deal table on a level with the lamp, reading the seven months’ old copy of the North China Herald112, brought by Lingard, he heard the stairs creak, and, looking round the paper, he saw her frail and meagre form rise step by step and toil113 across the verandah, carrying with difficulty the big, fat child, whose head, lying on the mother’s bony shoulder, seemed of the same size as Joanna’s own. Several times she had assailed114 him with tearful clamour or mad entreaties115: asking about her husband, wanting to know where he was, when he would be back; and ending every such outburst with despairing and incoherent self-reproaches that were absolutely incomprehensible to Almayer. On one or two occasions she had overwhelmed her host with vituperative116 abuse, making him responsible for her husband’s absence. Those scenes, begun without any warning, ended abruptly117 in a sobbing118 flight and a bang of the door; stirred the house with a sudden, a fierce, and an evanescent disturbance120; like those inexplicable121 whirlwinds that rise, run, and vanish without apparent cause upon the sun-scorched dead level of arid122 and lamentable123 plains.
But to-night the house was quiet, deadly quiet, while Almayer stood still, watching that delicate balance where he was weighing all his chances: Joanna’s intelligence, Lingard’s credulity, Willems’ reckless audacity124, desire to escape, readiness to seize an unexpected opportunity. He weighed, anxious and attentive125, his fears and his desires against the tremendous risk of a quarrel with Lingard. . . . Yes. Lingard would be angry. Lingard might suspect him of some connivance126 in his prisoner’s escape — but surely he would not quarrel with him — Almayer — about those people once they were gone — gone to the devil in their own way. And then he had hold of Lingard through the little girl. Good. What an annoyance127! A prisoner! As if one could keep him in there. He was bound to get away some time or other. Of course. A situation like that can’t last. vAnybody could see that. Lingard’s eccentricity128 passed all bounds. You may kill a man, but you mustn’t torture him. It was almost criminal. It caused worry, trouble, and unpleasantness. . . . Almayer for a moment felt very angry with Lingard. He made him responsible for the anguish129 he suffered from, for the anguish of doubt and fear; for compelling him — the practical and innocent Almayer — to such painful efforts of mind in order to find out some issue for absurd situations created by the unreasonable130 sentimentality of Lingard’s unpractical impulses.
“Now if the fellow were dead it would be all right,” said Almayer to the verandah.
He stirred a little, and scratching his nose thoughtfully, revelled131 in a short flight of fancy, showing him his own image crouching132 in a big boat, that floated arrested — say fifty yards off — abreast of Willems’ landing-place. In the bottom of the boat there was a gun. A loaded gun. One of the boatmen would shout, and Willems would answer — from the bushes.c The rascal133 would be suspicious. Of course. Then the man would wave a piece of paper urging Willems to come to the landing-place and receive an important message. “From the Rajah Laut” the man would yell as the boat edged in-shore, and that would fetch Willems out. Wouldn’t it? Rather! And Almayer saw himself jumping up at the right moment, taking aim, pulling the trigger — and Willems tumbling over, his head in the water — the swine!
He seemed to hear the report of the shot. It made him thrill from head to foot where he stood. . . . How simple! . . . Unfortunate . . . Lingard . . . He sighed, shook his head. Pity. Couldn’t be done. And couldn’t leave him there either! Suppose the Arabs were to get hold of him again — for instance to lead an expedition up the river! Goodness only knows what harm would come of it . . . .
The balance was at rest now and inclining to the side of immediate134 action. Almayer walked to the door, walked up very close to it, knocked loudly, and turned his head away, looking frightened for a moment at what he had done. After waiting for a while he put his ear against the panel and listened. Nothing. He composed his features into an agreeable expression while he stood listening and thinking to himself: I hear her. Crying. Eh? I believe she has lost the little wits she had and is crying night and day since I began to prepare her for the news of her husband’s death — as Lingard told me. I wonder what she thinks. It’s just like father to make me invent all these stories for nothing at all. Out of kindness. Kindness! Damn! . . . She isn’t deaf, surely.
He knocked again, then said in a friendly tone, grinning benevolently135 at the closed door —
“It’s me, Mrs. Willems. I want to speak to you. I have . . . have . . . important news . . . .”
“What is it?”
“News,” repeated Almayer, distinctly. “News about your husband. Your husband! . . . Damn him!” he added, under his breath.
He heard a stumbling rush inside. Things were overturned. Joanna’s agitated136 voice cried —
“News! What? What? I am coming out.”
“No,” shouted Almayer. “Put on some clothes, Mrs. Willems, and let me in. It’s . . . very confidential137. You have a candle, haven’t you?”
She was knocking herself about blindly amongst the furniture in that room. The candlestick was upset. Matches were struck ineffectually. The matchbox fell. He heard her drop on her knees and grope over the floor while she kept on moaning in maddened distraction138.
“Oh, my God! News! Yes . . . yes. . . . Ah! where . . . where . . . candle. Oh, my God! . . . I can’t find . . . Don’t go away, for the love of Heaven . . . ”
“I don’t want to go away,” said Almayer, impatiently, through the keyhole; “but look sharp. It’s coni . . . it’s pressing.”
He stamped his foot lightly, waiting with his hand on the door-handle. He thought anxiously: The woman’s a perfect idiot. Why should I go away? She will be off her head. She will never catch my meaning. She’s too stupid.
She was moving now inside the room hurriedly and in silence. He waited. There was a moment of perfect stillness in there, and then she spoke in an exhausted139 voice, in words that were shaped out of an expiring sigh — out of a sigh light and profound, like words breathed out by a woman before going off into a dead faint —
“Come in.”
He pushed the door. Ali, coming through the passage with an armful of pillows and blankets pressed to his breast high up under his chin, caught sight of his master before the door closed behind him. He was so astonished that he dropped his bundle and stood staring at the door for a long time. He heard the voice of his master talking. Talking to that Sirani woman! Who was she? He had never thought about that really. He speculated for a while hazily140 upon things in general. She was a Sirani woman — and ugly. He made a disdainful grimace141, picked up the bedding, and went about his work, slinging143 the hammock between two uprights of the verandah. . . . Those things did not concern him. She was ugly, and brought here by the Rajah Laut, and his master spoke to her in the night. Very well. He, Ali, had his work to do. Sling142 the hammock — go round and see that the watchmen were awake — take a look at the moorings of the boats, at the padlock of the big storehouse — then go to sleep. To sleep! He shivered pleasantly. He leaned with both arms over his master’s hammock and fell into a light doze144.
A scream, unexpected, piercing — a scream beginning at once in the highest pitch of a woman’s voice and then cut short, so short that it suggested the swift work of death — caused Ali to jump on one side away from the hammock, and the silence that succeeded seemed to him as startling as the awful shriek145. He was thunderstruck with surprise. Almayer came out of the office, leaving the door ajar, passed close to his servant without taking any notice, and made straight for the water-chatty hung on a nail in a draughty place. He took it down and came back, missing the petrified146 Ali by an inch. He moved with long strides, yet, notwithstanding his haste, stopped short before the door, and, throwing his head back, poured a thin stream of water down his throat. While he came and went, while he stopped to drink, while he did all this, there came steadily147 from the dark room the sound of feeble and persistent148 crying, the crying of a sleepy and frightened child. After he had drunk, Almayer went in, closing the door carefully.
Ali did not budge149. That Sirani woman shrieked150! He felt an immense curiosity very unusual to his stolid151 disposition152. He could not take his eyes off the door. Was she dead in there? How interesting and funny! He stood with open mouth till he heard again the rattle of the door-handle. Master coming out. He pivoted153 on his heels with great rapidity and made believe to be absorbed in the contemplation of the night outside. He heard Almayer moving about behind his back. Chairs were displaced. His master sat down.
“Ali,” said Almayer.
His face was gloomy and thoughtful. He looked at his head man, who had approached the table, then he pulled out his watch. It was going. Whenever Lingard was in Sambir Almayer’s watch was going. He would set it by the cabin clock, telling himself every time that he must really keep that watch going for the future. And every time, when Lingard went away, he would let it run down and would measure his weariness by sunrises and sunsets in an apathetic154 indifference155 to mere10 hours; to hours only; to hours that had no importance in Sambir life, in the tired stagnation156 of empty days; when nothing mattered to him but the quality of guttah and the size of rattans; where there were no small hopes to be watched for; where to him there was nothing interesting, nothing supportable, nothing desirable to expect; nothing bitter but the slowness of the passing days; nothing sweet but the hope, the distant and glorious hope — the hope wearying, aching and precious, of getting away.
He looked at the watch. Half-past eight. Ali waited stolidly157.
“Go to the settlement,” said Almayer, “and tell Mahmat Banjer to come and speak to me to-night.”
Ali went off muttering. He did not like his errand. Banjer and his two brothers were Bajow vagabonds who had appeared lately in Sambir and had been allowed to take possession of a tumbledown abandoned hut, on three posts, belonging to Lingard & Co., and standing just outside their fence. Ali disapproved158 of the favour shown to those strangers. Any kind of dwelling159 was valuable in Sambir at that time, and if master did not want that old rotten house he might have given it to him, Ali, who was his servant, instead of bestowing160 it upon those bad men. Everybody knew they were bad. It was well known that they had stolen a boat from Hinopari, who was very aged15 and feeble and had no sons; and that afterwards, by the truculent161 recklessness of their demeanour, they had frightened the poor old man into holding his tongue about it. Yet everybody knew of it. It was one of the tolerated scandals of Sambir, disapproved and accepted, a manifestation162 of that base acquiescence163 in success, of that inexpressed and cowardly toleration of strength, that exists, infamous164 and irremediable, at the bottom of all hearts, in all societies; whenever men congregate165; in bigger and more virtuous166 places than Sambir, and in Sambir also, where, as in other places, one man could steal a boat with impunity167 while another would have no right to look at a paddle.
Almayer, leaning back in his chair, meditated168. The more he thought, the more he felt convinced that Banjer and his brothers were exactly the men he wanted. Those fellows were sea gipsies, and could disappear without attracting notice; and if they returned, nobody — and Lingard least of all — would dream of seeking information from them. Moreover, they had no personal interest of any kind in Sambir affairs — had taken no sides — would know nothing anyway.
He called in a strong voice: “Mrs. Willems!”
She came out quickly, almost startling him, so much did she appear as though she had surged up through the floor, on the other side of the table. The lamp was between them, and Almayer moved it aside, looking up at her from his chair. She was crying. She was crying gently, silently, in a ceaseless welling up of tears that did not fall in drops, but seemed to overflow169 in a clear sheet from under her eyelids170 — seemed to flow at once all over her face, her cheeks, and over her chin that glistened171 with moisture in the light. Her breast and her shoulders were shaken repeatedly by a convulsive and noiseless catching172 in her breath, and after every spasmodic sob119 her sorrowful little head, tied up in a red kerchief, trembled on her long neck, round which her bony hand gathered and clasped the disarranged dress.
“Compose yourself, Mrs. Willems,” said Almayer.
She emitted an inarticulate sound that seemed to be a faint, a very far off, a hardly audible cry of mortal distress173. Then the tears went on flowing in profound stillness.
“You must understand that I have told you all this because I am your friend — real friend,” said Almayer, after looking at her for some time with visible dissatisfaction. “You, his wife, ought to know the danger he is in. Captain Lingard is a terrible man, you know.”
She blubbered out, sniffing174 and sobbing together.
“Do you . . . you . . . speak . . . the . . . the truth now?”
“Upon my word of honour. On the head of my child,” protested Almayer. “I had to deceive you till now because of Captain Lingard. But I couldn’t bear it. Think only what a risk I run in telling you — if ever Lingard was to know! Why should I do it? Pure friendship. Dear Peter was my colleague in Macassar for years, you know.”
“What shall I do . . . what shall I do!” she exclaimed, faintly, looking around on every side as if she could not make up her mind which way to rush off.
“You must help him to clear out, now Lingard is away. He offended Lingard, and that’s no joke. Lingard said he would kill him. He will do it, too,” said Almayer, earnestly.
She wrung175 her hands. “Oh! the wicked man. The wicked, wicked man!” she moaned, swaying her body from side to side.
“Yes. Yes! He is terrible,” assented176 Almayer. “You must not lose any time. I say! Do you understand me, Mrs. Willems? Think of your husband. Of your poor husband. How happy he will be. You will bring him his life — actually his life. Think of him.”
She ceased her swaying movement, and now, with her head sunk between her shoulders, she hugged herself with both her arms; and she stared at Almayer with wild eyes, while her teeth chattered177, rattling178 violently and uninterruptedly, with a very loud sound, in the deep peace of the house.
“Oh! Mother of God!” she wailed179. “I am a miserable180 woman. Will he forgive me? The poor, innocent man. Will he forgive me? Oh, Mr. Almayer, he is so severe. Oh! help me. . . . I dare not. . . . You don’t know what I’ve done to him. . . . I daren’t! . . . I can’t! . . . God help me!”
The last words came in a despairing cry. Had she been flayed181 alive she could not have sent to heaven a more terrible, a more heartrending and anguished182 plaint.
“Sh! Sh!” hissed183 Almayer, jumping up. “You will wake up everybody with your shouting.”
She kept on sobbing then without any noise, and Almayer stared at her in boundless184 astonishment185. The idea that, maybe, he had done wrong by confiding186 in her, upset him so much that for a moment he could not find a connected thought in his head.
At last he said: “I swear to you that your husband is in such a position that he would welcome the devil . . . listen well to me . . . the devil himself if the devil came to him in a canoe. Unless I am much mistaken,’’ he added, under his breath. Then again, loudly: “If you have any little difference to make up with him, I assure you — I swear to you — this is your time!”
The ardently187 persuasive188 tone of his words — he thought — would have carried irresistible conviction to a graven image. He noticed with satisfaction that Joanna seemed to have got some inkling of his meaning. He continued, speaking slowly —
“Look here, Mrs. Willems. I can’t do anything. Daren’t. But I will tell you what I will do. There will come here in about ten minutes a Bugis man — you know the language; you are from Macassar. He has a large canoe; he can take you there. To the new Rajah’s clearing, tell him. They are three brothers, ready for anything if you pay them . . . you have some money. Haven’t you?”
She stood — perhaps listening — but giving no sign of intelligence, and stared at the floor in sudden immobility, as if the horror of the situation, the overwhelming sense of her own wickedness and of her husband’s great danger, had stunned189 her brain, her heart, her will — had left her no faculty190 but that of breathing and of keeping on her feet. Almayer swore to himself with much mental profanity that he had never seen a more useless, a more stupid being.
“D’ye hear me?” he said, raising his voice. “Do try to understand. Have you any money? Money. Dollars. Guilders. Money! What’s the matter with you?”
Without raising her eyes she said, in a voice that sounded weak and undecided as if she had been making a desperate effort of memory —
“The house has been sold. Mr. Hudig was angry.”
Almayer gripped the edge of the table with all his strength. He resisted manfully an almost uncontrollable impulse to fly at her and box her ears.
“It was sold for money, I suppose,” he said with studied and incisive191 calmness. “Have you got it? Who has got it?”
She looked up at him, raising her swollen192 eyelids with a great effort, in a sorrowful expression of her drooping193 mouth, of her whole besmudged and tear-stained face. She whispered resignedly —
“Leonard had some. He wanted to get married. And uncle Antonio; he sat at the door and would not go away. And Aghostina — she is so poor . . . and so many, many children — little children. And Luiz the engineer. He never said a word against my husband. Also our cousin Maria. She came and shouted, and my head was so bad, and my heart was worse. Then cousin Salvator and old Daniel da Souza, who . . . ”
Almayer had listened to her speechless with rage. He thought: I must give money now to that idiot. Must! Must get her out of the way now before Lingard is back. He made two attempts to speak before he managed to burst out —
“I don’t want to know their blasted names! Tell me, did all those infernal people leave you anything? To you! That’s what I want to know!”
“I have two hundred and fifteen dollars,” said Joanna, in a frightened tone.
Almayer breathed freely. He spoke with great friendliness194 —
“That will do. It isn’t much, but it will do. Now when the man comes I will be out of the way. You speak to him. Give him some money; only a little, mind! And promise more. Then when you get there you will be guided by your husband, of course. And don’t forget to tell him that Captain Lingard is at the mouth of the river — the northern entrance. You will remember. Won’t you? The northern branch. Lingard is — death.”
Joanna shivered. Almayer went on rapidly —
“I would have given you money if you had wanted it. ‘Pon my word! Tell your husband I’ve sent you to him. And tell him not to lose any time. And also say to him from me that we shall meet — some day. That I could not die happy unless I met him once more. Only once. I love him, you know. I prove it. Tremendous risk to me — this business is!”
Joanna snatched his hand and before he knew what she would be at, pressed it to her lips.
“Mrs. Willems! Don’t. What are you . . . ” cried the abashed195 Almayer, tearing his hand away.
“Oh, you are good!” she cried, with sudden exaltation, “You are noble . . . I shall pray every day . . . to all the saints . . . I shall . . . ”
“Never mind . . . never mind!” stammered196 out Almayer, confusedly, without knowing very well what he was saying. “Only look out for Lingard. . . . I am happy to be able . . . in your sad situation . . . believe me. . . . ”
They stood with the table between them, Joanna looking down, and her face, in the half-light above the lamp, appeared like a soiled carving197 of old ivory — a carving, with accentuated198 anxious hollows, of old, very old ivory. Almayer looked at her, mistrustful, hopeful. He was saying to himself: How frail she is! I could upset her by blowing at her. She seems to have got some idea of what must be done, but will she have the strength to carry it through? I must trust to luck now!
Somewhere far in the back courtyard Ali’s voice rang suddenly in angry remonstrance199 —
“Why did you shut the gate, O father of all mischief200? You a watchman! You are only a wild man. Did I not tell you I was coming back? You . . . ”
“I am off, Mrs. Willems,” exclaimed Almayer. “That man is here — with my servant. Be calm. Try to . . . ”
He heard the footsteps of the two men in the passage, and without finishing his sentence ran rapidly down the steps towards the riverside.
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收听单词发音
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1
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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3
aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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4
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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6
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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7
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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11
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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13
begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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14
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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15
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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16
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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17
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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18
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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19
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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20
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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21
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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22
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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23
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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24
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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25
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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26
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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28
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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29
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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30
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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31
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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32
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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33
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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34
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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35
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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36
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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37
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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38
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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39
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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40
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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41
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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42
oust
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| vt.剥夺，取代，驱逐 | |
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43
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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44
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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45
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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46
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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47
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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48
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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49
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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50
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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51
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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52
negligently
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53
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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55
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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56
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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57
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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58
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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59
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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60
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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61
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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62
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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63
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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64
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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65
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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67
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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68
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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69
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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70
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
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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72
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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73
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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74
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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75
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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78
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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79
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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80
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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81
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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82
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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83
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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84
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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85
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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86
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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87
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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88
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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89
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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90
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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91
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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92
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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93
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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94
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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95
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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96
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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97
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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98
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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99
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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100
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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101
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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102
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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103
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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104
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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105
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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106
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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107
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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109
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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110
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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111
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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112
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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113
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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114
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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115
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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116
vituperative
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| adj.谩骂的；斥责的 | |
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117
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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118
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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119
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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120
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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121
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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122
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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123
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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124
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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125
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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126
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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127
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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128
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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129
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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130
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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131
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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132
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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133
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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134
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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135
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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136
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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137
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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138
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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139
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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140
hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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141
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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142
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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143
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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144
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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145
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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146
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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147
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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148
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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149
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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150
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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152
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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153
pivoted
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| adj.转动的，回转的，装在枢轴上的v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的过去式和过去分词 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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154
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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155
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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156
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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157
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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158
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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160
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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161
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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162
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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163
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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164
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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165
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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166
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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167
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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168
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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169
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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170
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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171
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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173
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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174
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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175
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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176
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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178
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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179
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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181
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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182
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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183
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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184
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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185
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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186
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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187
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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188
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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189
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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190
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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191
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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192
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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193
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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194
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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195
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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198
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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199
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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200
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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