I scarcely noted9 how the other teachers went to work; I had my own business to mind; and my task was not the least onerous10, being to imbue11 some ninety sets of brains with a due tincture of what they considered a most complicated and difficult science, that of the English language; and to drill ninety tongues in what, for them, was an almost impossible pronunciation — the lisping and hissing12 dentals of the Isles13.
The examination-day arrived. Awful day! Prepared for with anxious care, dressed for with silent despatch14 — nothing vaporous or fluttering now — no white gauze or azure15 streamers; the grave, close, compact was the order of the toilette. It seemed to me that I was this day, especially doomed16 — the main burden and trial falling on me alone of all the female teachers. The others were not expected to examine in the studies they taught; the professor of literature, M. Paul, taking upon himself this duty. He, this school autocrat17, gathered all and sundry18 reins19 into the hollow of his one hand; he irefully rejected any colleague; he would not have help. Madame herself, who evidently rather wished to undertake the examination in geography — her favourite study, which she taught well — was forced to succumb21, and be subordinate to her despotic kinsman’s direction. The whole staff of instructors22, male and female, he set aside, and stood on the examiner’s estrade alone. It irked him that he was forced to make one exception to this rule. He could not manage English: he was obliged to leave that branch of education in the English teacher’s hands; which he did, not without a flash of na?ve jealousy23.
A constant crusade against the “amour-propre” of every human being but himself, was the crotchet of this able, but fiery25 and grasping little man. He had a strong relish26 for public representation in his own person, but an extreme abhorrence27 of the like display in any other. He quelled28, he kept down when he could; and when he could not, he fumed29 like a bottled storm.
On the evening preceding the examination-day, I was walking in the garden, as were the other teachers and all the boarders. M. Emanuel joined me in the “allée défendue;” his cigar was at his lips; his palet?t — a most characteristic garment of no particular shape — hung dark and menacing; the tassel30 of his bonnet31 grec sternly shadowed his left temple; his black whiskers curled like those of a wrathful cat; his blue eye had a cloud in its glitter.
“Ainsi,” he began, abruptly32 fronting and arresting me, “vous allez tr?ner comme une reine; demain — tr?ner à mes c?tés? Sans doute vous savourez d’avance les délices de l’autorité. Je crois voir en je ne sais quoi de rayonnante, petite ambitieuse!”
Now the fact was, he happened to be entirely33 mistaken. I did not — could not — estimate the admiration34 or the good opinion of tomorrow’s audience at the same rate he did. Had that audience numbered as many personal friends and acquaintance for me as for him, I know not how it might have been: I speak of the case as it stood. On me school-triumphs shed but a cold lustre35. I had wondered — and I wondered now — how it was that for him they seemed to shine as with hearth-warmth and hearth-glow. He cared for them perhaps too much; I, probably, too little. However, I had my own fancies as well as he. I liked, for instance, to see M. Emanuel jealous; it lit up his nature, and woke his spirit; it threw all sorts of queer lights and shadows over his dun face, and into his violet-azure eyes (he used to say that his black hair and blue eyes were “une de ses beautés”). There was a relish in his anger; it was artless, earnest, quite unreasonable36, but never hypocritical. I uttered no disclaimer then of the complacency he attributed to me; I merely asked where the English examination came in — whether at the commencement or close of the day?
“I hesitate,” said he, “whether at the very beginning, before many persons are come, and when your aspiring38 nature will not be gratified by a large audience, or quite at the close, when everybody is tired, and only a jaded39 and worn-out attention will be at your service.”
“Que vous êtes dur, Monsieur!” I said, affecting dejection.
“One ought to be ‘dur’ with you. You are one of those beings who must be kept down. I know you! I know you! Other people in this house see you pass, and think that a colourless shadow has gone by. As for me, I scrutinized40 your face once, and it sufficed.”
“You are satisfied that you understand me?”
Without answering directly, he went on, “Were you not gratified when you succeeded in that vaudeville41? I watched you and saw a passionate42 ardour for triumph in your physiognomy. What fire shot into the glance! Not mere37 light, but flame: je me tiens pour averti.”
“What feeling I had on that occasion, Monsieur — and pardon me, if I say, you immensely exaggerate both its quality and quantity — was quite abstract. I did not care for the vaudeville. I hated the part you assigned me. I had not the slightest sympathy with the audience below the stage. They are good people, doubtless, but do I know them? Are they anything to me? Can I care for being brought before their view again to-morrow? Will the examination be anything but a task to me — a task I wish well over?”
“Shall I take it out of your hands?”
“With all my heart; if you do not fear failure.”
“But I should fail. I only know three phrases of English, and a few words: par5 exemple, de sonn, de mone, de stares — est-ce bien dit? My opinion is that it would be better to give up the thing altogether: to have no English examination, eh?”
“If Madame consents, I consent.”
“Heartily43?”
“Very heartily.”
He smoked his cigar in silence. He turned suddenly.
“Donnez-moi la main,” said he, and the spite and jealousy melted out of his face, and a generous kindliness44 shone there instead.
“Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends,” he pursued. “The examination shall take place, and I will choose a good moment; and instead of vexing45 and hindering, as I felt half-inclined ten minutes ago — for I have my malevolent46 moods: I always had from childhood — I will aid you sincerely. After all, you are solitary47 and a stranger, and have your way to make and your bread to earn; it may be well that you should become known. We will be friends: do you agree?”
“Out of my heart, Monsieur. I am glad of a friend. I like that better than a triumph.”
“Pauvrette?” said he, and turned away and left the alley48.
The examination passed over well; M. Paul was as good as his word, and did his best to make my part easy. The next day came the distribution of prizes; that also passed; the school broke up; the pupils went home, and now began the long vacation.
That vacation! Shall I ever forget it? I think not. Madame Beck went, the first day of the holidays, to join her children at the sea-side; all the three teachers had parents or friends with whom they took refuge; every professor quitted the city; some went to Paris, some to Boue-Marine; M. Paul set forth49 on a pilgrimage to Rome; the house was left quite empty, but for me, a servant, and a poor deformed50 and imbecile pupil, a sort of crétin, whom her stepmother in a distant province would not allow to return home.
My heart almost died within me; miserable51 longings53 strained its chords. How long were the September days! How silent, how lifeless! How vast and void seemed the desolate54 premises55! How gloomy the forsaken56 garden — grey now with the dust of a town summer departed. Looking forward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardly knew how I was to live to the end. My spirits had long been gradually sinking; now that the prop24 of employment was withdrawn57, they went down fast. Even to look forward was not to hope: the dumb future spoke59 no comfort, offered no promise, gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance on future good. A sorrowful indifference60 to existence often pressed on me — a despairing resignation to reach betimes the end of all things earthly. Alas61! When I had full leisure to look on life as life must be looked on by such as me, I found it but a hopeless desert: tawny62 sands, with no green fields, no palm-tree, no well in view. The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared not know. If they knocked at my heart sometimes, an inhospitable bar to admission must be inwardly drawn58. When they turned away thus rejected, tears sad enough sometimes flowed: but it could not be helped: I dared not give such guests lodging63. So mortally did I fear the sin and weakness of presumption64.
Religious reader, you will preach to me a long sermon about what I have just written, and so will you, moralist: and you, stern sage65: you, stoic66, will frown; you, cynic, sneer67; you, epicure68, laugh. Well, each and all, take it your own way. I accept the sermon, frown, sneer, and laugh; perhaps you are all right: and perhaps, circumstanced like me, you would have been, like me, wrong. The first month was, indeed, a long, black, heavy month to me.
The crétin did not seem unhappy. I did my best to feed her well and keep her warm, and she only asked food and sunshine, or when that lacked, fire. Her weak faculties69 approved of inertion: her brain, her eyes, her ears, her heart slept content; they could not wake to work, so lethargy was their Paradise.
Three weeks of that vacation were hot, fair, and dry, but the fourth and fifth were tempestuous70 and wet. I do not know why that change in the atmosphere made a cruel impression on me, why the raging storm and beating rain crushed me with a deadlier paralysis72 than I had experienced while the air had remained serene73; but so it was; and my nervous system could hardly support what it had for many days and nights to undergo in that huge empty house. How I used to pray to Heaven for consolation74 and support! With what dread75 force the conviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent foe76, never to be conciliated. I did not, in my heart, arraign77 the mercy or justice of God for this; I concluded it to be a part of his great plan that some must deeply suffer while they live, and I thrilled in the certainty that of this number, I was one.
It was some relief when an aunt of the crétin, a kind old woman, came one day, and took away my strange, deformed companion. The hapless creature had been at times a heavy charge; I could not take her out beyond the garden, and I could not leave her a minute alone: for her poor mind, like her body, was warped78: its propensity79 was to evil. A vague bent80 to mischief81, an aimless malevolence82, made constant vigilance indispensable. As she very rarely spoke, and would sit for hours together moping and mowing83, and distorting her features with indescribable grimaces84, it was more like being prisoned with some strange tameless animal, than associating with a human being. Then there were personal attentions to be rendered which required the nerve of a hospital nurse; my resolution was so tried, it sometimes fell dead-sick. These duties should not have fallen on me; a servant, now absent, had rendered them hitherto, and in the hurry of holiday departure, no substitute to fill this office had been provided. This tax and trial were by no means the least I have known in life. Still, menial and distasteful as they were, my mental pain was far more wasting and wearing. Attendance on the crétin deprived me often of the power and inclination85 to swallow a meal, and sent me faint to the fresh air, and the well or fountain in the court; but this duty never wrung86 my heart, or brimmed my eyes, or scalded my cheek with tears hot as molten metal.
The crétin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I lacked courage to venture very far from the Rue71 Fossette, but by degrees I sought the city gates, and passed them, and then went wandering away far along chaussées, through fields, beyond cemeteries87, Catholic and Protestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I know not where. A goad88 thrust me on, a fever forbade me to rest; a want of companionship maintained in my soul the cravings of a most deadly famine. I often walked all day, through the burning noon and the arid89 afternoon, and the dusk evening, and came back with moonrise.
While wandering in solitude90, I would sometimes picture the present probable position of others, my acquaintance. There was Madame Beck at a cheerful watering-place with her children, her mother, and a whole troop of friends who had sought the same scene of relaxation. Zélie St. Pierre was at Paris, with her relatives; the other teachers were at their homes. There was Ginevra Fanshawe, whom certain of her connections had carried on a pleasant tour southward. Ginevra seemed to me the happiest. She was on the route of beautiful scenery; these September suns shone for her on fertile plains, where harvest and vintage matured under their mellow92 beam. These gold and crystal moons rose on her vision over blue horizons waved in mounted lines.
But all this was nothing; I too felt those autumn suns and saw those harvest moons, and I almost wished to be covered in with earth and turf, deep out of their influence; for I could not live in their light, nor make them comrades, nor yield them affection. But Ginevra had a kind of spirit with her, empowered to give constant strength and comfort, to gladden daylight and embalm93 darkness; the best of the good genii that guard humanity curtained her with his wings, and canopied94 her head with his bending form. By True Love was Ginevra followed: never could she be alone. Was she insensible to this presence? It seemed to me impossible: I could not realize such deadness. I imagined her grateful in secret, loving now with reserve; but purposing one day to show how much she loved: I pictured her faithful hero half conscious of her coy fondness, and comforted by that consciousness: I conceived an electric chord of sympathy between them, a fine chain of mutual95 understanding, sustaining union through a separation of a hundred leagues — carrying, across mound96 and hollow, communication by prayer and wish. Ginevra gradually became with me a sort of heroine. One day, perceiving this growing illusion, I said, “I really believe my nerves are getting overstretched: my mind has suffered somewhat too much a malady97 is growing upon it — what shall I do? How shall I keep well?”
Indeed there was no way to keep well under the circumstances. At last a day and night of peculiarly agonizing98 depression were succeeded by physical illness, I took perforce to my bed. About this time the Indian summer closed and the equinoctial storms began; and for nine dark and wet days, of which the hours rushed on all turbulent, deaf, dishevelled — bewildered with sounding hurricane — I lay in a strange fever of the nerves and blood. Sleep went quite away. I used to rise in the night, look round for her, beseech99 her earnestly to return. A rattle100 of the window, a cry of the blast only replied —-Sleep never came!
I err91. She came once, but in anger. Impatient of my importunity101 she brought with her an avenging102 dream. By the clock of St. Jean Baptiste, that dream remained scarce fifteen minutes — a brief space, but sufficing to wring103 my whole frame with unknown anguish104; to confer a nameless experience that had the hue105, the mien106, the terror, the very tone of a visitation from eternity107. Between twelve and one that night a cup was forced to my lips, black, strong, strange, drawn from no well, but filled up seething108 from a bottomless and boundless109 sea. Suffering, brewed110 in temporal or calculable measure, and mixed for mortal lips, tastes not as this suffering tasted. Having drank and woke, I thought all was over: the end come and past by. Trembling fearfully — as consciousness returned — ready to cry out on some fellow-creature to help me, only that I knew no fellow-creature was near enough to catch the wild summons — Goton in her far distant attic111 could not hear — I rose on my knees in bed. Some fearful hours went over me: indescribably was I torn, racked and oppressed in mind. Amidst the horrors of that dream I think the worst lay here. Methought the well-loved dead, who had loved me well in life, met me elsewhere, alienated112: galled113 was my inmost spirit with an unutterable sense of despair about the future. Motive114 there was none why I should try to recover or wish to live; and yet quite unendurable was the pitiless and haughty115 voice in which Death challenged me to engage his unknown terrors. When I tried to pray I could only utter these words: “From my youth up Thy terrors have I suffered with a troubled mind.”
Most true was it.
On bringing me my tea next morning Goton urged me to call in a doctor. I would not: I thought no doctor could cure me.
One evening — and I was not delirious116: I was in my sane117 mind, I got up — I dressed myself, weak and shaking. The solitude and the stillness of the long dormitory could not be borne any longer; the ghastly white beds were turning into spectres — the coronal of each became a death’s-head, huge and sun-bleached — dead dreams of an elder world and mightier118 race lay frozen in their wide gaping119 eyeholes. That evening more firmly than ever fastened into my soul the conviction that Fate was of stone, and Hope a false idol120 — blind, bloodless, and of granite121 core. I felt, too, that the trial God had appointed me was gaining its climax122, and must now be turned by my own hands, hot, feeble, trembling as they were. It rained still, and blew; but with more clemency123, I thought, than it had poured and raged all day. Twilight124 was falling, and I deemed its influence pitiful; from the lattice I saw coming night-clouds trailing low like banners drooping125. It seemed to me that at this hour there was affection and sorrow in Heaven above for all pain suffered on earth beneath; the weight of my dreadful dream became alleviated126 — that insufferable thought of being no more loved — no more owned, half-yielded to hope of the contrary — I was sure this hope would shine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof, which was crushing as the slab127 of a tomb, and went outside the city to a certain quiet hill, a long way distant in the fields. Covered with a cloak (I could not be delirious, for I had sense and recollection to put on warm clothing), forth I set. The bells of a church arrested me in passing; they seemed to call me in to the salut, and I went in. Any solemn rite20, any spectacle of sincere worship, any opening for appeal to God was as welcome to me then as bread to one in extremity128 of want. I knelt down with others on the stone pavement. It was an old solemn church, its pervading129 gloom not gilded130 but purpled by light shed through stained glass.
Few worshippers were assembled, and, the salut over, half of them departed. I discovered soon that those left remained to confess. I did not stir. Carefully every door of the church was shut; a holy quiet sank upon, and a solemn shade gathered about us. After a space, breathless and spent in prayer, a penitent131 approached the confessional. I watched. She whispered her avowal133; her shrift was whispered back; she returned consoled. Another went, and another. A pale lady, kneeling near me, said in a low, kind voice:—“Go you now, I am not quite prepared.”
Mechanically obedient, I rose and went. I knew what I was about; my mind had run over the intent with lightning-speed. To take this step could not make me more wretched than I was; it might soothe134 me.
The priest within the confessional never turned his eyes to regard me; he only quietly inclined his ear to my lips. He might be a good man, but this duty had become to him a sort of form: he went through it with the phlegm of custom. I hesitated; of the formula of confession132 I was ignorant: instead of commencing, then, with the prelude135 usual, I said:—“Mon père, je suis Protestante.”
He directly turned. He was not a native priest: of that class, the cast of physiognomy is, almost invariably, grovelling136: I saw by his profile and brow he was a Frenchman; though grey and advanced in years, he did not, I think, lack feeling or intelligence. He inquired, not unkindly, why, being a Protestant, I came to him?
I said I was perishing for a word of advice or an accent of comfort. I had been living for some weeks quite alone; I had been ill; I had a pressure of affliction on my mind of which it would hardly any longer endure the weight.
“Was it a sin, a crime?” he inquired, somewhat startled. I reassured138 him on this point, and, as well as I could, I showed him the mere outline of my experience.
He looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled. “You take me unawares,” said he. “I have not had such a case as yours before: ordinarily we know our routine, and are prepared; but this makes a great break in the common course of confession. I am hardly furnished with counsel fitting the circumstances.”
Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief of communication in an ear which was human and sentient139, yet consecrated140 — the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating, long pent-up pain into a vessel141 whence it could not be again diffused142 — had done me good. I was already solaced143.
“Must I go, father?” I asked of him as he sat silent.
“My daughter,” he said kindly137 — and I am sure he was a kind man: he had a compassionate144 eye —“for the present you had better go: but I assure you your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is apt to become formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured your heart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, and take it with me to my oratory145. Were you of our faith I should know what to say — a mind so tossed can find repose146 but in the bosom147 of retreat, and the punctual practice of piety148. The world, it is well known, has no satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents149 like you to hasten their path upward by penance150, self-denial, and difficult good works. Tears are given them here for meat and drink — bread of affliction and waters of affliction — their recompence comes hereafter. It is my own conviction that these impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the true Church. You were made for our faith: depend upon it our faith alone could heal and help you — Protestantism is altogether too dry, cold, prosaic151 for you. The further I look into this matter, the more plainly I see it is entirely out of the common order of things. On no account would I lose sight of you. Go, my daughter, for the present; but return to me again.”
I rose and thanked him. I was withdrawing when he signed me to return.
“You must not come to this church,” said he: “I see you are ill, and this church is too cold; you must come to my house: I live ——” (and he gave me his address). “Be there to-morrow morning at ten.”
In reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil, and gathering152 round me my cloak, I glided153 away.
Did I, do you suppose, reader, contemplate154 venturing again within that worthy155 priest’s reach? As soon should I have thought of walking into a Babylonish furnace. That priest had arms which could influence me: he was naturally kind, with a sentimental156 French kindness, to whose softness I knew myself not wholly impervious157. Without respecting some sorts of affection, there was hardly any sort having a fibre of root in reality, which I could rely on my force wholly to withstand. Had I gone to him, he would have shown me all that was tender, and comforting, and gentle, in the honest Popish superstition158. Then he would have tried to kindle159, blow and stir up in me the zeal160 of good works. I know not how it would all have ended. We all think ourselves strong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many; the probabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative161, be counting my beads162 in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Crécy, in Villette. There was something of Fénélon about that benign163 old priest; and whatever most of his brethren may be, and whatever I may think of his Church and creed164 (and I like neither), of himself I must ever retain a grateful recollection. He was kind when I needed kindness; he did me good. May Heaven bless him!
Twilight had passed into night, and the lamps were lit in the streets ere I issued from that sombre church. To turn back was now become possible to me; the wild longing52 to breathe this October wind on the little hill far without the city walls had ceased to be an imperative165 impulse, and was softened166 into a wish with which Reason could cope: she put it down, and I turned, as I thought, to the Rue Fossette. But I had become involved in a part of the city with which I was not familiar; it was the old part, and full of narrow streets of picturesque167, ancient, and mouldering168 houses. I was much too weak to be very collected, and I was still too careless of my own welfare and safety to be cautious; I grew embarrassed; I got immeshed in a network of turns unknown. I was lost and had no resolution to ask guidance of any passenger.
If the storm had lulled169 a little at sunset, it made up now for lost time. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind from north-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes a sharp hail, like shot: it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. I bent my head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail at all in this conflict; I only wished that I had wings and could ascend170 the gale171, spread and repose my pinions172 on its strength, career in its course, sweep where it swept. While wishing this, I suddenly felt colder where before I was cold, and more powerless where before I was weak. I tried to reach the porch of a great building near, but the mass of frontage and the giant spire173 turned black and vanished from my eyes. Instead of sinking on the steps as I intended, I seemed to pitch headlong down an abyss. I remember no more.
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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procrastinated
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| 拖延，耽搁( procrastinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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onerous
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imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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instructors
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jealousy
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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fiery
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relish
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abhorrence
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quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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30
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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31
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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32
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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33
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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34
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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35
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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36
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
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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39
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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40
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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42
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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43
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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44
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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45
vexing
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|
| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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46
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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47
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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48
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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49
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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50
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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51
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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52
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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53
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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54
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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55
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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56
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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57
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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59
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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60
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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61
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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62
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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63
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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64
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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65
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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66
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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67
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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68
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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69
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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70
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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71
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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72
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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73
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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74
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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75
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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76
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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77
arraign
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| v.提讯；控告 | |
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78
warped
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|
| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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79
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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80
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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81
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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82
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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83
mowing
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|
| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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84
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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86
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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87
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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88
goad
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|
| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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89
arid
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|
| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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90
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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91
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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92
mellow
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|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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93
embalm
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐 | |
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94
canopied
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|
| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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95
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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96
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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97
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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98
agonizing
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|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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99
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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100
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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101
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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102
avenging
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|
| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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103
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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104
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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105
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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106
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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107
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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108
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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109
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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110
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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111
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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112
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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113
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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114
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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115
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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116
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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117
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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118
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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119
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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120
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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121
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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122
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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123
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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124
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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125
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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126
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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127
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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128
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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129
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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130
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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131
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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132
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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133
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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134
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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135
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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136
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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137
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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138
reassured
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|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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139
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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140
consecrated
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|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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141
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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142
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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143
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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144
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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145
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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146
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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147
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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148
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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149
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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150
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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151
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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152
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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153
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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154
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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155
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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156
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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157
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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158
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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159
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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160
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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161
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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162
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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163
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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164
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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165
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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166
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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167
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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168
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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169
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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170
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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171
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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172
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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173
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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