The footman alighted, and went to the occupant of the carriage, a lady about eight — or nine-and-twenty. She was looking through the opening afforded by a field-gate at the undulating stretch of country beyond. In pursuance of some remark from her the servant looked in the same direction.
The central feature of the middle distance, as they beheld4 it, was a circular isolated5 hill, of no great elevation6, which placed itself in strong chromatic7 contrast with a wide acreage of surrounding arable8 by being covered with fir-trees. The trees were all of one size and age, so that their tips assumed the precise curve of the hill they grew upon. This pine-clad protuberance was yet further marked out from the general landscape by having on its summit a tower in the form of a classical column, which, though partly immersed in the plantation9, rose above the tree-tops to a considerable height. Upon this object the eyes of lady and servant were bent10.
‘Then there is no road leading near it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing nearer than where we are now, my lady.’
‘Then drive home,’ she said after a moment. And the carriage rolled on its way.
A few days later, the same lady, in the same carriage, passed that spot again. Her eyes, as before, turned to the distant tower.
‘Nobbs,’ she said to the coachman, ‘could you find your way home through that field, so as to get near the outskirts11 of the plantation where the column is?’
The coachman regarded the field. ‘Well, my lady,’ he observed, ‘in dry weather we might drive in there by inching and pinching, and so get across by Five-and-Twenty Acres, all being well. But the ground is so heavy after these rains that perhaps it would hardly be safe to try it now.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she assented12 indifferently. ‘Remember it, will you, at a drier time?’
And again the carriage sped along the road, the lady’s eyes resting on the segmental hill, the blue trees that muffled13 it, and the column that formed its apex14, till they were out of sight.
A long time elapsed before that lady drove over the hill again. It was February; the soil was now unquestionably dry, the weather and scene being in other respects much as they had been before. The familiar shape of the column seemed to remind her that at last an opportunity for a close inspection15 had arrived. Giving her directions she saw the gate opened, and after a little manoeuvring the carriage swayed slowly into the uneven16 field.
Although the pillar stood upon the hereditary17 estate of her husband the lady had never visited it, owing to its insulation18 by this well-nigh impracticable ground. The drive to the base of the hill was tedious and jerky, and on reaching it she alighted, directing that the carriage should be driven back empty over the clods, to wait for her on the nearest edge of the field. She then ascended20 beneath the trees on foot.
The column now showed itself as a much more important erection than it had appeared from the road, or the park, or the windows of Welland House, her residence hard by, whence she had surveyed it hundreds of times without ever feeling a sufficient interest in its details to investigate them. The column had been erected21 in the last century, as a substantial memorial of her husband’s great-grandfather, a respectable officer who had fallen in the American war, and the reason of her lack of interest was partly owing to her relations with this husband, of which more anon. It was little beyond the sheer desire for something to do — the chronic22 desire of her curiously23 lonely life — that had brought her here now. She was in a mood to welcome anything that would in some measure disperse24 an almost killing25 ennui26. She would have welcomed even a misfortune. She had heard that from the summit of the pillar four counties could be seen. Whatever pleasurable effect was to be derived27 from looking into four counties she resolved to enjoy today.
The fir-shrouded hill-top was (according to some antiquaries) an old Roman camp — if it were not (as others insisted) an old British castle, or (as the rest swore) an old Saxon field of Witenagemote — with remains28 of an outer and an inner vallum, a winding29 path leading up between their overlapping30 ends by an easy ascent31. The spikelets from the trees formed a soft carpet over the route, and occasionally a brake of brambles barred the interspaces of the trunks. Soon she stood immediately at the foot of the column.
It had been built in the Tuscan order of classic architecture, and was really a tower, being hollow with steps inside. The gloom and solitude32 which prevailed round the base were remarkable33. The sob34 of the environing trees was here expressively35 manifest; and moved by the light breeze their thin straight stems rocked in seconds, like inverted36 pendulums37; while some boughs38 and twigs39 rubbed the pillar’s sides, or occasionally clicked in catching40 each other. Below the level of their summits the masonry41 was lichen42-stained and mildewed43, for the sun never pierced that moaning cloud of blue-black vegetation. Pads of moss44 grew in the joints45 of the stone-work, and here and there shade-loving insects had engraved46 on the mortar47 patterns of no human style or meaning; but curious and suggestive. Above the trees the case was different: the pillar rose into the sky a bright and cheerful thing, unimpeded, clean, and flushed with the sunlight.
The spot was seldom visited by a pedestrian, except perhaps in the shooting season. The rarity of human intrusion was evidenced by the mazes48 of rabbit-runs, the feathers of shy birds, the exuviae of reptiles49; as also by the well-worn paths of squirrels down the sides of trunks, and thence horizontally away. The fact of the plantation being an island in the midst of an arable plain sufficiently50 accounted for this lack of visitors. Few unaccustomed to such places can be aware of the insulating effect of ploughed ground, when no necessity compels people to traverse it. This rotund hill of trees and brambles, standing51 in the centre of a ploughed field of some ninety or a hundred acres, was probably visited less frequently than a rock would have been visited in a lake of equal extent.
She walked round the column to the other side, where she found the door through which the interior was reached. The paint, if it had ever had any, was all washed from the wood, and down the decaying surface of the boards liquid rust52 from the nails and hinges had run in red stains. Over the door was a stone tablet, bearing, apparently53, letters or words; but the inscription54, whatever it was, had been smoothed over with a plaster of lichen.
Here stood this aspiring55 piece of masonry, erected as the most conspicuous56 and ineffaceable reminder57 of a man that could be thought of; and yet the whole aspect of the memorial betokened58 forgetfulness. Probably not a dozen people within the district knew the name of the person commemorated59, while perhaps not a soul remembered whether the column were hollow or solid, whether with or without a tablet explaining its date and purpose. She herself had lived within a mile of it for the last five years, and had never come near it till now.
She hesitated to ascend19 alone, but finding that the door was not fastened she pushed it open with her foot, and entered. A scrap60 of writing-paper lay within, and arrested her attention by its freshness. Some human being, then, knew the spot, despite her surmises61. But as the paper had nothing on it no clue was afforded; yet feeling herself the proprietor62 of the column and of all around it her self-assertiveness was sufficient to lead her on. The staircase was lighted by slits63 in the wall, and there was no difficulty in reaching the top, the steps being quite unworn. The trap-door leading on to the roof was open, and on looking through it an interesting spectacle met her eye.
A youth was sitting on a stool in the centre of the lead flat which formed the summit of the column, his eye being applied64 to the end of a large telescope that stood before him on a tripod. This sort of presence was unexpected, and the lady started back into the shade of the opening. The only effect produced upon him by her footfall was an impatient wave of the hand, which he did without removing his eye from the instrument, as if to forbid her to interrupt him.
Pausing where she stood the lady examined the aspect of the individual who thus made himself so completely at home on a building which she deemed her unquestioned property. He was a youth who might properly have been characterized by a word the judicious65 chronicler would not readily use in such a connexion, preferring to reserve it for raising images of the opposite sex. Whether because no deep felicity is likely to arise from the condition, or from any other reason, to say in these days that a youth is beautiful is not to award him that amount of credit which the expression would have carried with it if he had lived in the times of the Classical Dictionary. So much, indeed, is the reverse the case that the assertion creates an awkwardness in saying anything more about him. The beautiful youth usually verges66 so perilously67 on the incipient68 coxcomb69, who is about to become the Lothario or Juan among the neighbouring maidens70, that, for the due understanding of our present young man, his sublime71 innocence72 of any thought concerning his own material aspect, or that of others, is most fervently73 asserted, and must be as fervently believed.
Such as he was, there the lad sat. The sun shone full in his face, and on his head he wore a black velvet74 skull-cap, leaving to view below it a curly margin75 of very light shining hair, which accorded well with the flush upon his cheek.
He had such a complexion76 as that with which Raffaelle enriches the countenance77 of the youthful son of Zacharias — a complexion which, though clear, is far enough removed from virgin78 delicacy79, and suggests plenty of sun and wind as its accompaniment. His features were sufficiently straight in the contours to correct the beholder’s first impression that the head was the head of a girl. Beside him stood a little oak table, and in front was the telescope.
His visitor had ample time to make these observations; and she may have done so all the more keenly through being herself of a totally opposite type. Her hair was black as midnight, her eyes had no less deep a shade, and her complexion showed the richness demanded as a support to these decided80 features. As she continued to look at the pretty fellow before her, apparently so far abstracted into some speculative81 world as scarcely to know a real one, a warmer wave of her warm temperament82 glowed visibly through her, and a qualified83 observer might from this have hazarded a guess that there was Romance blood in her veins84.
But even the interest attaching to the youth could not arrest her attention for ever, and as he made no further signs of moving his eye from the instrument she broke the silence with —
‘What do you see? — something happening somewhere?’
‘Yes, quite a catastrophe85!’ he automatically murmured, without moving round.
‘What?’
‘A cyclone86 in the sun.’
The lady paused, as if to consider the weight of that event in the scale of terrene life.
‘Will it make any difference to us here?’ she asked.
The young man by this time seemed to be awakened87 to the consciousness that somebody unusual was talking to him; he turned, and started.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I thought it was my relative come to look after me! She often comes about this time.’
He continued to look at her and forget the sun, just such a reciprocity of influence as might have been expected between a dark lady and a flaxen-haired youth making itself apparent in the faces of each.
‘Don’t let me interrupt your observations,’ said she.
‘Ah, no,’ said he, again applying his eye; whereupon his face lost the animation88 which her presence had lent it, and became immutable89 as that of a bust90, though superadding to the serenity91 of repose92 the sensitiveness of life. The expression that settled on him was one of awe93. Not unaptly might it have been said that he was worshipping the sun. Among the various intensities94 of that worship which have prevailed since the first intelligent being saw the luminary95 decline westward96, as the young man now beheld it doing, his was not the weakest. He was engaged in what may be called a very chastened or schooled form of that first and most natural of adorations.
‘But would you like to see it?’ he recommenced. ‘It is an event that is witnessed only about once in two or three years, though it may occur often enough.’
She assented, and looked through the shaded eyepiece, and saw a whirling mass, in the centre of which the blazing globe seemed to be laid bare to its core. It was a peep into a maelstrom97 of fire, taking place where nobody had ever been or ever would be.
‘It is the strangest thing I ever beheld,’ she said. Then he looked again; till wondering who her companion could be she asked, ‘Are you often here?’
‘Every night when it is not cloudy, and often in the day.’
‘Ah, night, of course. The heavens must be beautiful from this point.’
‘They are rather more than that.’
‘Indeed! Have you entirely98 taken possession of this column?’
‘Entirely.’
‘But it is my column,’ she said, with smiling asperity99.
‘Then are you Lady Constantine, wife of the absent Sir Blount Constantine?’
‘I am Lady Constantine.’
‘Ah, then I agree that it is your ladyship’s. But will you allow me to rent it of you for a time, Lady Constantine?’
‘You have taken it, whether I allow it or not. However, in the interests of science it is advisable that you continue your tenancy. Nobody knows you are here, I suppose?’
‘Hardly anybody.’
He then took her down a few steps into the interior, and showed her some ingenious contrivances for stowing articles away.
‘Nobody ever comes near the column — or, as it’s called here, Rings-Hill Speer,’ he continued; ‘and when I first came up it nobody had been here for thirty or forty years. The staircase was choked with daws’ nests and feathers, but I cleared them out.’
‘I understood the column was always kept locked?’
‘Yes, it has been so. When it was built, in 1782, the key was given to my great-grandfather, to keep by him in case visitors should happen to want it. He lived just down there where I live now.’
He denoted by a nod a little dell lying immediately beyond the ploughed land which environed them.
‘He kept it in his bureau, and as the bureau descended101 to my grandfather, my mother, and myself, the key descended with it. After the first thirty or forty years, nobody ever asked for it. One day I saw it, lying rusty102 in its niche103, and, finding that it belonged to this column, I took it and came up. I stayed here till it was dark, and the stars came out, and that night I resolved to be an astronomer104. I came back here from school several months ago, and I mean to be an astronomer still.’
He lowered his voice, and added:
‘I aim at nothing less than the dignity and office of Astronomer Royal, if I live. Perhaps I shall not live.’
‘I don’t see why you should suppose that,’ said she. ‘How long are you going to make this your observatory105?’
‘About a year longer — till I have obtained a practical familiarity with the heavens. Ah, if I only had a good equatorial!’
‘What is that?’
‘A proper instrument for my pursuit. But time is short, and science is infinite — how infinite only those who study astronomy fully106 realize — and perhaps I shall be worn out before I make my mark.’
She seemed to be greatly struck by the odd mixture in him of scientific earnestness and melancholy107 mistrust of all things human. Perhaps it was owing to the nature of his studies.
‘You are often on this tower alone at night?’ she said.
‘Yes; at this time of the year particularly, and while there is no moon. I observe from seven or eight till about two in the morning, with a view to my great work on variable stars. But with such a telescope as this — well, I must put up with it!’
‘Can you see Saturn’s ring and Jupiter’s moons?’
He said drily that he could manage to do that, not without some contempt for the state of her knowledge.
‘I have never seen any planet or star through a telescope.’
‘If you will come the first clear night, Lady Constantine, I will show you any number. I mean, at your express wish; not otherwise.’
‘I should like to come, and possibly may at some time. These stars that vary so much — sometimes evening stars, sometimes morning stars, sometimes in the east, and sometimes in the west — have always interested me.’
‘Ah — now there is a reason for your not coming. Your ignorance of the realities of astronomy is so satisfactory that I will not disturb it except at your serious request.’
‘But I wish to be enlightened.’
‘Let me caution you against it.’
‘Is enlightenment on the subject, then, so terrible?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
She laughingly declared that nothing could have so piqued108 her curiosity as his statement, and turned to descend100. He helped her down the stairs and through the briers. He would have gone further and crossed the open corn-land with her, but she preferred to go alone. He then retraced109 his way to the top of the column, but, instead of looking longer at the sun, watched her diminishing towards the distant fence, behind which waited the carriage. When in the midst of the field, a dark spot on an area of brown, there crossed her path a moving figure, whom it was as difficult to distinguish from the earth he trod as the caterpillar110 from its leaf, by reason of the excellent match between his clothes and the clods. He was one of a dying-out generation who retained the principle, nearly unlearnt now, that a man’s habiliments should be in harmony with his environment. Lady Constantine and this figure halted beside each other for some minutes; then they went on their several ways.
The brown person was a labouring man known to the world of Welland as Haymoss (the encrusted form of the word Amos, to adopt the phrase of philologists). The reason of the halt had been some inquiries111 addressed to him by Lady Constantine.
‘Who is that — Amos Fry, I think?’ she had asked.
‘Yes my lady,’ said Haymoss; ‘a homely112 barley113 driller, born under the eaves of your ladyship’s outbuildings, in a manner of speaking,- -though your ladyship was neither born nor ‘tempted at that time.’
‘Who lives in the old house behind the plantation?’
‘Old Gammer Martin, my lady, and her grandson.’
‘He has neither father nor mother, then?’
‘Not a single one, my lady.’
‘Where was he educated?’
‘At Warborne — a place where they draw up young gam’sters’ brains like rhubarb under a ninepenny pan, my lady, excusing my common way. They hit so much larning into en that ‘a could talk like the day of Pentecost; which is a wonderful thing for a simple boy, and his mother only the plainest ciphering woman in the world. Warborne Grammar School — that’s where ’twas ‘a went to. His father, the reverent114 Pa’son St. Cleeve, made a terrible bruckle hit in ‘s marrying, in the sight of the high. He were the curate here, my lady, for a length o’ time.’
‘Oh, curate,’ said Lady Constantine. ‘It was before I knew the village.’
‘Ay, long and merry ago! And he married Farmer Martin’s daughter — Giles Martin, a limberish man, who used to go rather bad upon his lags, if you can mind. I knowed the man well enough; who should know en better! The maid was a poor windling thing, and, though a playward piece o’ flesh when he married her, ‘a socked and sighed, and went out like a snoff! Yes, my lady. Well, when Pa’son St. Cleeve married this homespun woman the toppermost folk wouldn’t speak to his wife. Then he dropped a cuss or two, and said he’d no longer get his living by curing their twopenny souls o’ such d —— nonsense as that (excusing my common way), and he took to farming straightway, and then ‘a dropped down dead in a nor’-west thunderstorm; it being said — hee-hee! — that Master God was in tantrums wi’en for leaving his service — hee-hee! I give the story as I heard it, my lady, but be dazed if I believe in such trumpery115 about folks in the sky, nor anything else that’s said on ’em, good or bad. Well, Swithin, the boy, was sent to the grammar school, as I say for; but what with having two stations of life in his blood he’s good for nothing, my lady. He mopes about — sometimes here, and sometimes there; nobody troubles about en.’
Lady Constantine thanked her informant, and proceeded onward116. To her, as a woman, the most curious feature in the afternoon’s incident was that this lad, of striking beauty, scientific attainments117, and cultivated bearing, should be linked, on the maternal118 side, with a local agricultural family through his father’s matrimonial eccentricity119. A more attractive feature in the case was that the same youth, so capable of being ruined by flattery, blandishment, pleasure, even gross prosperity, should be at present living on in a primitive120 Eden of unconsciousness, with aims towards whose accomplishment121 a Caliban shape would have been as effective as his own.
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1
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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2
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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3
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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4
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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5
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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6
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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7
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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8
arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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10
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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12
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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19
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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23
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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24
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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31
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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32
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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33
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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35
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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36
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
pendulums
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| n.摆，钟摆( pendulum的名词复数 )；摇摆不定的事态（或局面） | |
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38
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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39
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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40
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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41
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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42
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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43
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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45
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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46
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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47
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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48
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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49
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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50
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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51
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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52
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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53
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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54
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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55
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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56
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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57
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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58
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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61
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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62
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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63
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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64
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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65
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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66
verges
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| 边，边缘，界线( verge的名词复数 ) | |
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67
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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68
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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69
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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70
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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71
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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72
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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76
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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78
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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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81
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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82
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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83
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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84
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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85
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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86
cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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87
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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88
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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89
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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90
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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91
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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92
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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93
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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96
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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97
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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98
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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99
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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100
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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101
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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102
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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103
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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104
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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105
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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106
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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107
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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108
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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109
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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110
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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111
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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112
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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113
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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114
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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115
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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116
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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117
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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118
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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119
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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120
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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121
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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