They had often met during the winter in the palaces of the Lucchese nobles, and sometimes at her own castle; he was ever gentle and deferential9 to her, and sometimes endeavoured to renew the courtship that had formerly10 subsisted11 between them. Euthanasia had not strength of purpose sufficient to avoid these meetings; but each of them was as the life-blood taken from her heart, and left her in a state of despair and grief that preyed12 like fever upon her vitals. To see him, to hear him, and yet not to be his, was as if to make her food of poison; it might assuage13 the pangs14 of hunger, but it destroyed the principle of life. She became pale, sleepless15, the shadow of what she had been; her friends perceived the change, and knew the cause; and they endeavoured to persuade her to go to Florence, or to take some journey, which might occupy her mind, and break the chain that now bound her to sorrow. She felt that she ought to comply with their suggestions; but even her spirit, strong and self-sustaining as it had been, sank beneath the influence of love, and she had no power to fly, though to remain were death. Tears and grief were her daily portion; yet she took it patiently, as that to which she was doomed16, and hardly prayed to have the bitter cup removed.
A circumstance that occurred just at this crisis, when she seemed to stand on the sharp edge which divides life from death, saved her from destruction, and led her back to taste for a few more years the food of sorrow and disappointment which was doled17 out to her.
The summer solstice had passed, and Castruccio had been absent during several months, carrying his conquests along the shore beyond the Magra, while every day brought the news of some fresh success he had obtained. This was the season of pilgrimages to Monte San Pelegrino, a wild and high Apennine in the neighbourhood of Valperga. It is said, that a king of Scotland, resigning his crown to his son, and exiling himself from his country, finished his days in penitence18 and prayer on this mountain. In Italy every unknown pilgrim was a king or prince: but this was a strange tradition; and it would seem as if the royal penitent19, disdaining20 the gladsome plains of Italy, sought for the image of his native country on this naked peak among the heaped masses of the Apennines.
His memory was there canonized, and many indulgences were the reward of three successive visits to his rocky tomb; every year numberless pilgrims flocked, and still continue to flock thither21. Straining up the rugged22 paths of the mountain, careless of the burning sun, they walk on, shadowed by their broad pilgrim’s hats, repeating their pater-nosters, and thus, by the toil23 of the body, buy indulgence for the soul’s idleness. Many on their return visited the castle of Valperga, and partook its hospitality. One party had just withdrawn24, as the Ave Maria sounded from the vale below; and they chaunted the evening hymn25, as they wound down the steep. Euthanasia listened from her tower, and heard the last song of the sleepy cicala among the olive woods, and the buzz of the numerous night insects, that filled the air with their slight but continual noise. It was the evening of a burning day; and the breeze that slightly waved the grass, and bended the ripe corn with its quick steps, was as a refreshing26 bath to the animals who panted under the stagnant27 air of the day. Amid the buzzing of the crickets and dragon flies, the agiolo’s monotonous28 and regular cry told of clear skies and sunny weather; the flowers were bending beneath the dew, and her acacia, now in bloom, crowning its fan-like foliage with a roseate crest29, sent forth a sweet scent30. A few of the latest fire-flies darted31 here and there, with bright green light; but it was July, and their season was well nigh past. Towards the sea, on the horizon, a faint lightning shewed the over — heated state of the atmosphere, and killed by its brightness the last glories of the orange sunset; the mountains were losing their various tints32 in darkness; and their vast amphitheatre looked like a ponderous33 unformed wall, closing in Lucca, whose lights glimmered34 afar off.
Euthanasia was awaked from the reverie, half painful, half pleasing, that engaged her as she sat at her window; for she was too true a child of nature, not to feel her sorrows alleviated35 by the sight of what is beautiful in the visible world; — she was roused, I say, by her servant who told her that a female pilgrim was at the gate, and desired to see the lady of the castle. “Receive her,” said Euthanasia, “and let her be led to the bath; I will see her when she is refreshed.”
“She will not enter,” replied the servant, “but desires earnestly, she says, to see you: she absolutely refuses to enter the castle.”
Euthanasia descended36 to the gate; her quick light steps trod the pavement of the hall, her long golden tresses waved upon the wind, and her blue eyes seemed to have drunk in the azure37 of departed day, they were in colour so deep, so clear. The pilgrim stood at the door leaning on her staff, a large hat covered her head, and was pulled down over her brows, and her coarse cloak fell in undistinguishing folds round her slim form; but Euthanasia, accustomed to see the peasantry alone resort to this mountain, was struck by the small white hand that held the staff, and the delicately moulded and snowy feet which, shod in the rudest sandals, seemed little used to labour or fatigue38.
“I intreat you,” she said, “to come into the castle to rest yourself; the Ave Maria is passed, and your toils39 for the day are ended; you will find a bath, food and rest; will you not enter?” Euthanasia held forth her hand.
“Lady, I must not. I intreat you only to bestow40 your alms on a pilgrim going to Rome, but who has turned aside to perform a vow41 among these mountains.”
“Most willingly; but I also have made a vow, which is, not to suffer a tired pilgrim to pass my gates without rest and food. Where can you go to-night? Lucca is six long miles off; you are weak and very weary: come; I ask you for alms; they are your prayers which must be told on the soft cushions of a pleasant bed amid your dreams this night. Come in; the heavy dews that fall from the clear sky after this burning day may hurt you: this is a dangerous hour in the plain; can you not be persuaded?”
Euthanasia saw quick drops fall from the flashing and black eyes of the poor pilgrim: she raised them to heaven, saying, “Thy will be done! I am now all humbleness42.”
As she threw up her head Euthanasia looked on her countenance43; it was beautiful, but sunburnt and wild; her finely carved eyes, her lips curved in the line of beauty, her pointed44 and dimpled chin still beamed loveliness, and her voice was low and silver-toned. She entered the castle, but would go no further than the outer hall. The eloquence45 of Euthanasia was wasted; and she was obliged to order cushions and food to be brought to the hall: they then sat down; the pilgrim took off her hat, and her black and silken ringlets fell around her face; she parted them with her small fingers, and then sat downcast and silent.
Euthanasia placed fruit, sweetmeats and wine before her; “Eat,” she said, “you are greatly fatigued46.”
The poor pilgrim tried; but her lips refused the fruit she would have tasted. She felt that she should weep; and, angry at her own weakness, she drank a little wine, which somewhat revived her; and then, sitting thus, overcome, bent47 and sorrowing, beside the clear loveliness of Euthanasia, these two ladies entered into conversation, soft and consoling on one part, on the other hesitating and interrupted. At first the pilgrim gazed for a moment on the golden hair and bluest eyes of Euthanasia, her heavenly smile, and clear brow; and then she said: “You are the lady of this castle? You are named Euthanasia?”
“Most true: and might I in return ask you who you are, who wander alone and unhappy? Believe me I should think myself very fortunate, if you would permit me to know your grief, and to undertake the task of consoling you. If you mourn for your faults, does not a moment of real repentance48 annihilate49 them all? Come, I will be your confessor; and impose on you the light penances50 of cheerfulness and hope. Do you mourn your friends? poor girl! weep not; that is a sorrow time alone can cure: but time can cure it, if with a patient heart you yield yourself to new affections and feelings of kindness. Sweet, hush51 the storm that agitates52 you: if you pray, let not your words be drops of agony, but as the morning dew of faith and hope. You are silent; you are angry that I speak; so truly do I prize the soft peace that was for years the inmate53 of my own heart, that I would bestow it on others with as earnest a labour, as for myself I would try to recall it to the nest from which it has fled.”
“How! and are you not happy?” The eyes of the pilgrim glanced a sudden fire, that was again quenched54 by her downcast lids.
“I have had my share of tranquillity55. For five-and-twenty years few sorrows, and those appeaseable by natural and quickly dried tears, visited me; now my cares rise thick, while, trust me, with eager endeavour, I try to dissipate them. But you are young, very young; you have quaffed56 the gall57, and will now come to the honey of your cup. Wherefore are you bound for Rome?”
“It were a long tale to tell, lady, and one I would not willingly disclose. Yet, methinks, you should be happy; your eyes are mild, and made for peace. I thought, — I heard, — that a thousand blessed circumstances conduced to render you fortunate beyond all others.”
“Circumstances change as fast as the fleeting58 clouds of an autumnal sky. If happiness depends upon occasion, how unstable59 is it! We can alone call that ours which lives in our own bosoms60. Yet those feelings also are bound to mutability; and, as the priests have doubtless long since taught you, there is no joy that endures upon earth.”
“How is this! He is not dead! — he must be — ” The pilgrim suddenly stopped, her cheek burning with blushes.
“Who dead? What do you mean?”
“Your father, your brother, any one you love. But, lady, I will intrude61 no longer; the dews are fallen, and I find the air of the castle close and suffocating62. I long for the free air.”
“You will not sleep here?”
“I must not; do not ask me again; you pain me much; I must pursue my journey!”
The pilgrim gathered up her raven63 locks, and put on her hat; then, leaning on her staff, she held forth her little hand, and said in a smothered64 voice, so low that the tone hardly struck the air, “Your alms, lady.”
Euthanasia took out gold; the pilgrim smiled sadly, saying, “My vow prevents my receiving more than three soldi; let that sum be the limit of your generous aid.”
Euthanasia found something so inexplicable65, reserved, and almost haughty66, in the manner of her guest, that she felt checked, and ill disposed to press her often rejected services; she gave the small sum asked, saying, “You are penurious67 in your courtesies; this will hardly buy for me one pater-noster.”
“It will buy the treasure of my heart in prayers for your welfare; prayers, which I once thought all powerful, may be as well worth perhaps as those of the beggar whom we fee on the road-side. Farewell!”
The pilgrim spoke68 earnestly and sweetly; and then drawing her cloak about her, she left the castle, winding69 slowly down the steep. After she had awhile departed, Euthanasia sent a servant to the nunnery of St. Ursula, which was on the road the pilgrim was to follow, with a loaded basket of fruits, wine and other food, and a message to the nuns70 to watch for and receive the unhappy stranger. All passed as she desired. The pilgrim entered the convent; and, after praying in the chapel71, and silently partaking a frugal72 meal of fruit and bread, she went to rest in her lowly cell. The next morning the abbess had intended to question her, and to win her to some comfort; but, before the dawn of day, the pilgrim had left the convent; and, with slow steps and a sorrowing heart, pursued her way towards Rome.
This occurrence had greatly struck Euthanasia. She felt, that there was something uncommon73 in the visit of the stranger, and that, although unknown to her, there must be some link between them, which she vainly strove to discover. It happened, that, about a fortnight after, she was at the Fondi palace in Lucca, where Castruccio was in company; and she related this incident, dwelling74 on the beauty of the pilgrim, her graceful75 manners, and deep sorrow. When she described her form and countenance, Castruccio, struck by some sudden recollection, advanced towards Euthanasia, and began to question her earnestly as to the very words and looks of the stranger; then, checking himself, he drew back, and entered into conversation with another person. When however Euthanasia rose to depart, he approached, and said in a low tone: “I am afraid that I can solve the riddle76 of this unfortunate girl; permit me to see you alone tomorrow; I must know every thing that passed.”
Euthanasia assented77, and waited with impatience78 for the visit.
He came; and at his request she related minutely all that had happened. Castruccio listened earnestly; and, when he heard what had been her last words, he cried, “It must be she! It is the poor Beatrice!”
“Beatrice! — Who is Beatrice?”
Castruccio endeavoured to evade79 the question, and afterwards to answer it by the relation of a few slight circumstances; but Euthanasia, struck by his manner, questioned him so seriously, that he ended by relating the whole story. Euthanasia was deeply moved; and earnest pity succeeded to her first astonishment80; astonishment for her powers and strange errors, and then compassion81 for her sorrows and mighty82 fall. Castruccio, led on by the memory of her enchantments83, spoke with ardour, scarcely knowing to whom he spoke; and, when he ended, Euthanasia cried, “She must be followed, brought back, consoled; her misery84 is great; but there is a cure for it.”
She then concerted with Castruccio the plan for tracing her steps, and inducing her to return. Messengers were sent on the road to Rome, who were promised high rewards if they succeeded in finding her; others were sent to Ferrara to learn if her friends there had any knowledge of her course. These researches occupied several weeks; but they were fruitless: the messengers from Ferrara brought word, that she had left that city early in the preceding spring in a pilgrimage to Rome, and that she had never since been heard of. The lady Marchesana, inconsolable for her departure, had since died; and the good bishop85 Marsilio, who had not returned from France, where he had been made a cardinal86, was at too great a distance to understand the circumstances of her departure, or to act upon them. Nor were the tidings brought from Rome more satisfactory; she was traced from Lucca to Pisa, Florence, Arezzo, Perugia, Foligno, Spoletto, and even to Terni; but there all trace was lost. It appeared certain that she had never arrived in Rome; none of the priests had heard of her; every church and convent was examined; but no trace of her could be found. Every exertion87 was vain: it appeared as if she had sunk into the bowels88 of the earth.
During the period occupied by these researches, a great change had taken place in the mind of Euthanasia. Before, though her atmosphere had been torn by storms, and blackened by the heaviest clouds, her love had ever borne her on towards one point with resistless force; and it seemed as if, body and soul, she would in the end be its victim. Now the tide ebbed89, and left her, as a poor wretch90 upon one point of rock, when the rising ocean suddenly subsides91, and restores him unexpectedly to life. She had loved Castruccio; and, as is ever the case with pure and exalted92 minds, she had separated the object of her love from all other beings, and, investing him with a glory, he was no longer to her as one among the common herd93, nor ever for a moment could she confound him and class him with his fellow men. It is this feeling that is the essence and life of love, and that, still subsisting94 even after esteem95 and sympathy had been destroyed, had caused the excessive grief in which she had been plunged96. She had separated herself from the rest as his chosen one; she had been selected from the whole world for him to love, and therefore was there a mighty barrier between her and all things else; no sentiment could pass through her mind unmingled with his image, no thought that did not bear his stamp to distinguish it from all other thoughts; as the moon in heaven shines bright, because the sun illumines her with his rays, so did she proceed on her high path in serene97 majesty98, protected through her love for him from all meaner cares or joys; her very person was sacred, since she had dedicated99 herself to him; but, the god undeified, the honours of the priestess fell to the dust. The story of Beatrice dissolved the charm; she looked on him now in the common light of day; the illusion and exaltation of love was dispelled100 for ever: and, although disappointment, and the bitterness of destroyed hope, robbed her of every sensation of enjoyment101, it was no longer that mad despair, that clinging to the very sword that cut her, which before had tainted102 her cheek with the hues103 of death. Her old feelings of duty, benevolence104, and friendship returned; all was not now, as before, referred to love alone; the trees, the streams, the mountains, and the stars, no longer told one never-varying tale of disappointed passion: before, they had oppressed her heart by reminding her, through every change and every form, of what she had once seen in joy; and they lay as so heavy and sad a burthen on her soul, that she would exclaim as a modern poet has since done:
Thou, thrush, that singest loud, and loud, and free. Into yon row of willows105 flit. Upon that alder106 sit. Or sing another song, or choose another tree! Roll back, sweet rill, back to thy mountain bounds. And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained. Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.
But now these feverish107 emotions ceased. Sorrow sat on her downcast eye, restrained her light step, and slept in the unmoved dimples of her fair cheek; but the wildness of grief had died, the fountain of selfish tears flowed no more, and she was restored from death to life. She considered Castruccio as bound to Beatrice; bound by the deep love and anguish108 of the fallen prophetess, by all her virtues109, even by her faults; bound by his falsehood to her who was then his betrothed110, and whom he carelessly wronged, and thus proved how little capable he was of participating in her own exalted feelings. She believed that he would be far happier in the passionate111 and unquestioning love of this enthusiast112, than with her, who had lived too long to be satisfied alone with the affection of him she loved, but required in him a conformity113 of tastes to those she had herself cultivated, which in Castruccio was entirely114 wanting. She felt half glad, half sorry, for the change she was aware had been operated in her heart; for the misery that she before endured was not without its momentary115 intervals116, which busy love filled with dreams and hopes, that caused a wild transport, which, although it destroyed her, was still joy, still delight. But now there was no change; one steady hopeless blank was before her; the very energies of her mind were palsied; her imagination furled its wings, and the owlet, reason, was the only dweller117 that found sustenance118 and a being in her benighted119 soul.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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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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8
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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10
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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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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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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51
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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agitates
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| 搅动( agitate的第三人称单数 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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54
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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55
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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57
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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59
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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60
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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61
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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63
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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66
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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68
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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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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82
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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100
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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102
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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103
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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104
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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105
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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107
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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108
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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109
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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112
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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113
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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114
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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115
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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116
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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117
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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118
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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119
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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