A new creed3 became mine — a belief in happiness.
It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed4 in that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters enough — pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, “by feeling touched, but not subdued5.” Time, dear reader, mellowed6 them to a beverage7 of this mild quality; but when I first tasted their elixir8, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juice of a divine vintage: a draught9 which Hebe might fill, and the very gods approve.
Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care to ask how I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stinting10 check of Reason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?
To speak truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters: I bowed down in the houses of Rimmon, and lifted the heart at another shrine12. I wrote to these letters two answers — one for my own relief, the other for Graham’s perusal13.
To begin with: Feeling and I turned Reason out of doors, drew against her bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread our paper, dipped in the ink an eager pen, and, with deep enjoyment14, poured out our sincere heart. When we had done — when two sheets were covered with the language of a strongly-adherent affection, a rooted and active gratitude15 —(once, for all, in this parenthesis16, I disclaim17, with the utmost scorn, every sneaking18 suspicion of what are called “warmer feelings:” women do not entertain these “warmer feelings” where, from the commencement, through the whole progress of an acquaintance, they have never once been cheated of the conviction that, to do so would be to commit a mortal absurdity20: nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or dreamed the rising of Hope’s star over Love’s troubled waters)— when, then, I had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring attachment21 — an attachment that wanted to attract to itself and take to its own lot all that was painful in the destiny of its object; that would, if it could, have absorbed and conducted away all storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of solicitude23 — then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt and bar would yield, Reason would leap in vigorous and revengeful, snatch the full sheets, read, sneer24, erase25, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and send a terse26, curt27 missive of a page. She did right.
I did not live on letters only: I was visited, I was looked after; once a week I was taken out to La Terrasse; always I was made much of. Dr. Bretton failed not to tell me why he was so kind: “To keep away the nun28,” he said; “he was determined29 to dispute with her her prey30. He had taken,” he declared, “a thorough dislike to her, chiefly on account of that white face-cloth, and those cold grey eyes: the moment he heard of those odious31 particulars,” he affirmed, “consummate disgust had incited32 him to oppose her; he was determined to try whether he or she was the cleverest, and he only wished she would once more look in upon me when he was present:” but that she never did. In short, he regarded me scientifically in the light of a patient, and at once exercised his professional skill, and gratified his natural benevolence33, by a course of cordial and attentive34 treatment.
One evening, the first in December, I was walking by myself in the carré; it was six o’clock; the classe-doors were closed; but within, the pupils, rampant35 in the licence of evening recreation, were counterfeiting36 a miniature chaos37. The carré was quite dark, except a red light shining under and about the stove; the wide glass-doors and the long windows were frosted over; a crystal sparkle of starlight, here and there spangling this blanched38 winter veil, and breaking with scattered39 brilliance40 the paleness of its embroidery41, proved it a clear night, though moonless. That I should dare to remain thus alone in darkness, showed that my nerves were regaining42 a healthy tone: I thought of the nun, but hardly feared her; though the staircase was behind me, leading up, through blind, black night, from landing to landing, to the haunted grenier. Yet I own my heart quaked, my pulse leaped, when I suddenly heard breathing and rustling43, and turning, saw in the deep shadow of the steps a deeper shadow still — a shape that moved and descended44. It paused a while at the classe-door, and then it glided46 before me. Simultaneously47 came a clangor of the distant door-bell. Life-like sounds bring life-like feelings: this shape was too round and low for my gaunt nun: it was only Madame Beck on duty.
“Mademoiselle Lucy!” cried Rosine, bursting in, lamp in hand, from the corridor, “on est là pour vous au salon48.”
Madame saw me, I saw Madame, Rosine saw us both: there was no mutual49 recognition. I made straight for the salon. There I found what I own I anticipated I should find — Dr. Bretton; but he was in evening-dress.
“The carriage is at the door,” said he; “my mother has sent it to take you to the theatre; she was going herself, but an arrival has prevented her: she immediately said, ‘Take Lucy in my place.’ Will you go?”
“Just now? I am not dressed,” cried I, glancing despairingly at my dark merino.
“You have half an hour to dress. I should have given you notice, but I only determined on going since five o’clock, when I heard there was to be a genuine regale50 in the presence of a great actress.”
And he mentioned a name that thrilled me — a name that, in those days, could thrill Europe. It is hushed now: its once restless echoes are all still; she who bore it went years ago to her rest: night and oblivion long since closed above her; but then her day — a day of Sirius — stood at its full height, light and fervour.
“I’ll go; I will be ready in ten minutes,” I vowed51. And away I flew, never once checked, reader, by the thought which perhaps at this moment checks you: namely, that to go anywhere with Graham and without Mrs. Bretton could be objectionable. I could not have conceived, much less have expressed to Graham, such thought — such scruple52 — without risk of exciting a tyrannous self-contempt: of kindling53 an inward fire of shame so quenchless54, and so devouring55, that I think it would soon have licked up the very life in my veins56. Besides, my godmother, knowing her son, and knowing me, would as soon have thought of chaperoning a sister with a brother, as of keeping anxious guard over our incomings and outgoings.
The present was no occasion for showy array; my dun mist crape would suffice, and I sought the same in the great oak-wardrobe in the dormitory, where hung no less than forty dresses. But there had been changes and reforms, and some innovating58 hand had pruned59 this same crowded wardrobe, and carried divers60 garments to the grenier — my crape amongst the rest. I must fetch it. I got the key, and went aloft fearless, almost thoughtless. I unlocked the door, I plunged61 in. The reader may believe it or not, but when I thus suddenly entered, that garret was not wholly dark as it should have been: from one point there shone a solemn light, like a star, but broader. So plainly it shone, that it revealed the deep alcove62 with a portion of the tarnished63 scarlet64 curtain drawn65 over it. Instantly, silently, before my eyes, it vanished; so did the curtain and alcove: all that end of the garret became black as night. I ventured no research; I had not time nor will; snatching my dress, which hung on the wall, happily near the door, I rushed out, relocked the door with convulsed haste, and darted66 downwards67 to the dormitory.
But I trembled too much to dress myself: impossible to arrange hair or fasten hooks-and-eyes with such fingers, so I called Rosine and bribed68 her to help me. Rosine liked a bribe69, so she did her best, smoothed and plaited my hair as well as a coiffeur would have done, placed the lace collar mathematically straight, tied the neck-ribbon accurately70 — in short, did her work like the neat-handed Phillis she could be when she those. Having given me my handkerchief and gloves, she took the candle and lighted me down-stairs. After all, I had forgotten my shawl; she ran back to fetch it; and I stood with Dr. John in the vestibule, waiting.
“What is this, Lucy?” said he, looking down at me narrowly. “Here is the old excitement. Ha! the nun again?”
But I utterly71 denied the charge: I was vexed72 to be suspected of a second illusion. He was sceptical.
“She has been, as sure as I live,” said he; “her figure crossing your eyes leaves on them a peculiar73 gleam and expression not to be mistaken.”
“She has not been,” I persisted: for, indeed, I could deny her apparition74 with truth.
“The old symptoms are there,” he affirmed: “a particular pale, and what the Scotch75 call a ‘raised’ look.”
He was so obstinate76, I thought it better to tell him what I really had seen. Of course with him it was held to be another effect of the same cause: it was all optical illusion — nervous malady77, and so on. Not one bit did I believe him; but I dared not contradict: doctors are so self-opinionated, so immovable in their dry, materialist78 views.
Rosine brought the shawl, and I was bundled into the carriage.
The theatre was full — crammed79 to its roof: royal and noble were there: palace and hotel had emptied their inmates80 into those tiers so thronged82 and so hushed. Deeply did I feel myself privileged in having a place before that stage; I longed to see a being of whose powers I had heard reports which made me conceive peculiar anticipations83. I wondered if she would justify84 her renown85: with strange curiosity, with feelings severe and austere86, yet of riveted87 interest, I waited. She was a study of such nature as had not encountered my eyes yet: a great and new planet she was: but in what shape? I waited her rising.
She rose at nine that December night: above the horizon I saw her come. She could shine yet with pale grandeur88 and steady might; but that star verged89 already on its judgment90-day. Seen near, it was a chaos — hollow, half-consumed: an orb22 perished or perishing — half lava91, half glow.
I had heard this woman termed “plain,” and I expected bony harshness and grimness — something large, angular, sallow. What I saw was the shadow of a royal Vashti: a queen, fair as the day once, turned pale now like twilight92, and wasted like wax in flame.
For awhile — a long while — I thought it was only a woman, though an unique woman, Who moved in might and grace before this multitude. By-and-by I recognised my mistake. Behold93! I found upon her something neither of woman nor of man: in each of her eyes sat a devil. These evil forces bore her through the tragedy, kept up her feeble strength — for she was but a frail94 creature; and as the action rose and the stir deepened, how wildly they shook her with their passions of the pit! They wrote hell on her straight, haughty95 brow. They tuned96 her voice to the note of torment97. They writhed98 her regal face to a demoniac mask. Hate and Murder and Madness incarnate99 she stood.
It was a marvellous sight: a mighty100 revelation.
It was a spectacle low, horrible, immoral102.
Swordsmen thrust through, and dying in their blood on the arena103 sand; bulls goring104 horses disembowelled, made a meeker105 vision for the public — a milder condiment106 for a people’s palate — than Vashti torn by seven devils: devils which cried sore and rent the tenement107 they haunted, but still refused to be exorcised.
Suffering had struck that stage empress; and she stood before her audience neither yielding to, nor enduring, nor, in finite measure, resenting it: she stood locked in struggle, rigid108 in resistance. She stood, not dressed, but draped in pale antique folds, long and regular like sculpture. A background and entourage and flooring of deepest crimson109 threw her out, white like alabaster110 — like silver: rather, be it said, like Death.
Where was the artist of the Cleopatra? Let him come and sit down and study this different vision. Let him seek here the mighty brawn111, the muscle, the abounding112 blood, the full-fed flesh he worshipped: let all materialists draw nigh and look on.
I have said that she does not resent her grief. No; the weakness of that word would make it a lie. To her, what hurts becomes immediately embodied113: she looks on it as a thing that can be attacked, worried down, torn in shreds114. Scarcely a substance herself, she grapples to conflict with abstractions. Before calamity115 she is a tigress; she rends116 her woes117, shivers them in convulsed abhorrence118. Pain, for her, has no result in good: tears water no harvest of wisdom: on sickness, on death itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel. Wicked, perhaps, she is, but also she is strong; and her strength has conquered Beauty, has overcome Grace, and bound both at her side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile119 as fair. Even in the uttermost frenzy120 of energy is each maenad movement royally, imperially, incedingly upborne. Her hair, flying loose in revel101 or war, is still an angel’s hair, and glorious under a halo. Fallen, insurgent121, banished122, she remembers the heaven where she rebelled. Heaven’s light, following her exile, pierces its confines, and discloses their forlorn remoteness.
Place now the Cleopatra, or any other slug, before her as an obstacle, and see her cut through the pulpy123 mass as the scimitar of Saladin clove124 the down cushion. Let Paul Peter Rubens wake from the dead, let him rise out of his cerements, and bring into this presence all the army of his fat women; the magian power or prophet-virtue gifting that slight rod of Moses, could, at one waft125, release and re-mingle a sea spell-parted, whelming the heavy host with the down-rush of overthrown126 sea-ramparts.
Vashti was not good, I was told; and I have said she did not look good: though a spirit, she was a spirit out of Tophet. Well, if so much of unholy force can arise from below, may not an equal efflux of sacred essence descend45 one day from above?
What thought Dr. Graham of this being?
For long intervals127 I forgot to look how he demeaned himself, or to question what he thought. The strong magnetism128 of genius drew my heart out of its wonted orbit; the sunflower turned from the south to a fierce light, not solar — a rushing, red, cometary light — hot on vision and to sensation. I had seen acting129 before, but never anything like this: never anything which astonished Hope and hushed Desire; which outstripped130 Impulse and paled Conception; which, instead of merely irritating imagination with the thought of what might be done, at the same time fevering the nerves because it was not done, disclosed power like a deep, swollen132 winter river, thundering in cataract133, and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on the steep and steelly sweep of its descent.
Miss Fanshawe, with her usual ripeness of judgment, pronounced Dr. Bretton a serious, impassioned man, too grave and too impressible. Not in such light did I ever see him: no such faults could I lay to his charge. His natural attitude was not the meditative134, nor his natural mood the sentimental135; impressionable he was as dimpling water, but, almost as water, unimpressible: the breeze, the sun, moved him — metal could not grave, nor fire brand.
Dr. John could think and think well, but he was rather a man of action than of thought; he could feel, and feel vividly136 in his way, but his heart had no chord for enthusiasm: to bright, soft, sweet influences his eyes and lips gave bright, soft, sweet welcome, beautiful to see as dyes of rose and silver, pearl and purple, imbuing137 summer clouds; for what belonged to storm, what was wild and intense, dangerous, sudden, and flaming, he had no sympathy, and held with it no communion. When I took time and regained138 inclination139 to glance at him, it amused and enlightened me to discover that he was watching that sinister140 and sovereign Vashti, not with wonder, nor worship, nor yet dismay, but simply with intense curiosity. Her agony did not pain him, her wild moan — worse than a shriek141 — did not much move him; her fury revolted him somewhat, but not to the point of horror. Cool young Briton! The pale cliffs of his own England do not look down on the tides of the Channel more calmly than he watched the Pythian inspiration of that night.
Looking at his face, I longed to know his exact opinions, and at last I put a question tending to elicit142 them. At the sound of my voice he awoke as if out of a dream; for he had been thinking, and very intently thinking, his own thoughts, after his own manner. “How did he like Vashti?” I wished to know.
“Hm-m-m,” was the first scarce articulate but expressive143 answer; and then such a strange smile went wandering round his lips, a smile so critical, so almost callous144! I suppose that for natures of that order his sympathies were callous. In a few terse phrases he told me his opinion of, and feeling towards, the actress: he judged her as a woman, not an artist: it was a branding judgment.
That night was already marked in my book of life, not with white, but with a deep-red cross. But I had not done with it yet; and other memoranda145 were destined146 to be set down in characters of tint11 indelible.
Towards midnight, when the deepening tragedy blackened to the death-scene, and all held their breath, and even Graham bit his under-lip, and knit his brow, and sat still and struck — when the whole theatre was hushed, when the vision of all eyes centred in one point, when all ears listened towards one quarter — nothing being seen but the white form sunk on a seat, quivering in conflict with her last, her worst-hated, her visibly-conquering foe147 — nothing heard but her throes, her gaspings, breathing yet of mutiny, panting still defiance148; when, as it seemed, an inordinate149 will, convulsing a perishing mortal frame, bent150 it to battle with doom151 and death, fought every inch of ground, sold every drop of blood, resisted to the latest the rape57 of every faculty152, would see, would hear, would breathe, would live, up to, within, well-nigh beyond the moment when death says to all sense and all being —“Thus far and no farther!”—
Just then a stir, pregnant with omen19, rustled153 behind the scenes — feet ran, voices spoke154. What was it? demanded the whole house. A flame, a smell of smoke replied.
“Fire!” rang through the gallery. “Fire!” was repeated, re-echoed, yelled forth155: and then, and faster than pen can set it down, came panic, rushing, crushing — a blind, selfish, cruel chaos.
And Dr. John? Reader, I see him yet, with his look of comely157 courage and cordial calm.
“Lucy will sit still, I know,” said he, glancing down at me with the same serene158 goodness, the same repose159 of firmness that I have seen in him when sitting at his side amid the secure peace of his mother’s hearth160. Yes, thus adjured161, I think I would have sat still under a rocking crag: but, indeed, to sit still in actual circumstances was my instinct; and at the price of my very life, I would not have moved to give him trouble, thwart162 his will, or make demands on his attention. We were in the stalls, and for a few minutes there was a most terrible, ruthless pressure about us.
“How terrified are the women!” said he; “but if the men were not almost equally so, order might be maintained. This is a sorry scene: I see fifty selfish brutes163 at this moment, each of whom, if I were near, I could conscientiously164 knock down. I see some women braver than some men. There is one yonder — Good God!”
While Graham was speaking, a young girl who had been very quietly and steadily165 clinging to a gentleman before us, was suddenly struck from her protector’s arms by a big, butcherly intruder, and hurled166 under the feet of the crowd. Scarce two seconds lasted her disappearance167. Graham rushed forwards; he and the gentleman, a powerful man though grey-haired, united their strength to thrust back the throng81; her head and long hair fell back over his shoulder: she seemed unconscious.
“Trust her with me; I am a medical man,” said Dr. John.
“If you have no lady with you, be it so,” was the answer. “Hold her, and I will force a passage: we must get her to the air.”
“I have a lady,” said Graham; “but she will be neither hindrance168 nor incumbrance.”
He summoned me with his eye: we were separated. Resolute169, however, to rejoin him, I penetrated170 the living barrier, creeping under where I could not get between or over.
“Fasten on me, and don’t leave go,” he said; and I obeyed him.
Our pioneer proved strong and adroit171; he opened the dense172 mass like a wedge; with patience and toil173 he at last bored through the flesh-and-blood rock — so solid, hot, and suffocating174 — and brought us to the fresh, freezing night.
“You are an Englishman!” said he, turning shortly on Dr. Bretton, when we got into the street.
“An Englishman. And I speak to a countryman?” was the reply.
“Right. Be good enough to stand here two minutes, whilst I find my carriage.”
“Papa, I am not hurt,” said a girlish voice; “am I with papa?”
“You are with a friend, and your father is close at hand.”
“Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder. Oh, my shoulder! They trod just here.”
“Dislocation, perhaps!” muttered the Doctor: “let us hope there is no worse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant.”
And I assisted while he made some arrangement of drapery and position for the ease of his suffering burden. She suppressed a moan, and lay in his arms quietly and patiently.
“She is very light,” said Graham, “like a child!” and he asked in my ear, “Is she a child, Lucy? Did you notice her age?”
“I am not a child — I am a person of seventeen,” responded the patient, demurely175 and with dignity. Then, directly after: “Tell papa to come; I get anxious.”
The carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but in the exchange from one bearer to another she was hurt, and moaned again.
“My darling!” said the father, tenderly; then turning to Graham, “You said, sir, you are a medical man?”
“I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse.”
“Good. Will you step into my carriage?”
“My own carriage is here: I will seek it, and accompany you.”
“Be pleased, then, to follow us.” And he named his address: “The H?tel Crécy, in the Rue156 Crécy.”
We followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Graham were silent. This seemed like an adventure.
Some little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we reached the hotel perhaps about ten minutes after these strangers. It was an hotel in the foreign sense: a collection of dwelling-houses, not an inn — a vast, lofty pile, with a huge arch to its street-door, leading through a vaulted176 covered way, into a square all built round.
We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stopped at Numéro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising the abode177 of I know not what “prince Russe,” as Graham informed me. On ringing the bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suite178 of very handsome apartments. Announced by a servant in livery, we entered a drawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, and whose walls gleamed with foreign mirrors. Near the hearth appeared a little group: a slight form sunk in a deep arm-chair, one or two women busy about it, the iron-grey gentleman anxiously looking on.
“Where is Harriet? I wish Harriet would come to me,” said the girlish voice, faintly.
“Where is Mrs. Hurst?” demanded the gentleman impatiently and somewhat sternly of the man-servant who had admitted us.
“I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young lady gave her leave till to-morrow.”
“Yes — I did — I did. She is gone to see her sister; I said she might go: I remember now,” interposed the young lady; “but I am so sorry, for Manon and Louison cannot understand a word I say, and they hurt me without meaning to do so.”
Dr. John and the gentleman now interchanged greetings; and while they passed a few minutes in consultation179, I approached the easy-chair, and seeing what the faint and sinking girl wished to have done, I did it for her.
I was still occupied in the arrangement, when Graham drew near; he was no less skilled in surgery than medicine, and, on examination, found that no further advice than his own was necessary to the treatment of the present case. He ordered her to be carried to her chamber180, and whispered to me:—“Go with the women, Lucy; they seem but dull; you can at least direct their movements, and thus spare her some pain. She must be touched very tenderly.”
The chamber was a room shadowy with pale-blue hangings, vaporous with curtainings and veilings of muslin; the bed seemed to me like snow-drift and mist — spotless, soft, and gauzy. Making the women stand apart, I undressed their mistress, without their well-meaning but clumsy aid. I was not in a sufficiently181 collected mood to note with separate distinctness every detail of the attire182 I removed, but I received a general impression of refinement183, delicacy184, and perfect personal cultivation185; which, in a period of after-thought, offered in my reflections a singular contrast to notes retained of Miss Ginevra Fanshawe’s appointments.
The girl was herself a small, delicate creature, but made like a model. As I folded back her plentiful186 yet fine hair, so shining and soft, and so exquisitely187 tended, I had under my observation a young, pale, weary, but high-bred face. The brow was smooth and clear; the eyebrows188 were distinct, but soft, and melting to a mere131 trace at the temples; the eyes were a rich gift of nature — fine and full, large, deep, seeming to hold dominion189 over the slighter subordinate features — capable, probably, of much significance at another hour and under other circumstances than the present, but now languid and suffering. Her skin was perfectly190 fair, the neck and hands veined finely like the petals191 of a flower; a thin glazing192 of the ice of pride polished this delicate exterior193, and her lip wore a curl — I doubt not inherent and unconscious, but which, if I had seen it first with the accompaniments of health and state, would have struck me as unwarranted, and proving in the little lady a quite mistaken view of life and her own consequence.
Her demeanour under the Doctor’s hands at first excited a smile; it was not puerile194 — rather, on the whole, patient and firm — but yet, once or twice she addressed him with suddenness and sharpness, saying that he hurt her, and must contrive195 to give her less pain; I saw her large eyes, too, settle on his face like the solemn eyes of some pretty, wondering child. I know not whether Graham felt this examination: if be did, he was cautious not to check or discomfort196 it by any retaliatory197 look. I think he performed his work with extreme care and gentleness, sparing her what pain he could; and she acknowledged as much, when he had done, by the words:—“Thank you, Doctor, and good-night,” very gratefully pronounced as she uttered them, however, it was with a repetition of the serious, direct gaze, I thought, peculiar in its gravity and intentness.
The injuries, it seems, were not dangerous: an assurance which her father received with a smile that almost made one his friend — it was so glad and gratified. He now expressed his obligations to Graham with as much earnestness as was befitting an Englishman addressing one who has served him, but is yet a stranger; he also begged him to call the next day.
“Papa,” said a voice from the veiled couch, “thank the lady, too; is she there?”
I opened the curtain with a smile, and looked in at her. She lay now at comparative ease; she looked pretty, though pale; her face was delicately designed, and if at first sight it appeared proud, I believe custom might prove it to be soft.
“I thank the lady very sincerely,” said her father: “I fancy she has been very good to my child. I think we scarcely dare tell Mrs. Hurst who has been her substitute and done her work; she will feel at once ashamed and jealous.”
And thus, in the most friendly spirit, parting greetings were interchanged; and refreshment198 having been hospitably199 offered, but by us, as it was late, refused, we withdrew from the H?tel Crécy.
On our way back we repassed the theatre. All was silence and darkness: the roaring, rushing crowd all vanished and gone — the damps, as well as the incipient200 fire, extinct and forgotten. Next morning’s papers explained that it was but some loose drapery on which a spark had fallen, and which had blazed up and been quenched201 in a moment.
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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elixir
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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enjoyment
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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18
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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19
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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28
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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29
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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30
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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34
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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37
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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38
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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40
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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41
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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42
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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43
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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44
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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45
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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46
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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47
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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48
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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49
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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50
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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51
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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53
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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54
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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55
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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56
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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57
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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58
innovating
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| v.改革，创新( innovate的现在分词 )；引入（新事物、思想或方法）， | |
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59
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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60
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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61
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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62
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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63
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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64
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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66
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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67
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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68
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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69
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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70
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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71
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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72
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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73
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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74
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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75
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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76
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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77
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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78
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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79
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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80
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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81
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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82
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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84
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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85
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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86
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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87
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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88
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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89
verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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91
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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95
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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96
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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97
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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98
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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100
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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101
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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102
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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103
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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104
goring
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| v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破( gore的现在分词 ) | |
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105
meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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106
condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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107
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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108
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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109
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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110
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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111
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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112
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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113
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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114
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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115
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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116
rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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117
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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118
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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119
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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120
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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121
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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122
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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124
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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125
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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126
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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127
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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128
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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129
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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130
outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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132
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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133
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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134
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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135
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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136
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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137
imbuing
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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138
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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139
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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140
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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141
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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142
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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143
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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144
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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145
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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146
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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147
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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148
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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149
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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150
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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151
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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152
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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153
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
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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155
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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158
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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160
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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162
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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166
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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170
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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172
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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173
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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175
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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177
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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178
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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182
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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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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185
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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186
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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187
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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188
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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189
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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190
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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191
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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192
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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193
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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194
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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195
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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196
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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197
retaliatory
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| adj.报复的 | |
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198
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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199
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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200
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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201
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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